A Killing in Antiques

by Moody, Mary

  I found the right place to keep a fairly large stash hidden. By opening the skirt’s side seam, and inserting a small pocket about three inches above my knee, below the regular pocket, I’d solved the problem of getting at the cash easily.

  I grasp the key with the sharpest teeth, hold it in fingers that can hardly feel, and saw back and forth against the rope. Work at it. It’ll take a week this way. Keep working. The key drops, and I retrieve it. Doggedly work a rhythm into my sawing. Finally, I feel the rope begin to give.

  Joy! My right wrist is free, then my left. I flex my fingers and stretch my arms. I rub both hands back and forth on the denim, bringing feeling back to my fingers. In a minute I’ll have the rest of my bindings off.

  Stop. Stop. Oh, God, I hear something. Someone’s coming. Yes, it’s footsteps all right, coming closer. My killer. No doubt now. This is no social call. He means to finish me off. I have to act.

  I’m not going out of this life without a fight. My legs are still tied together. I grasp the keys in my hand, maneuver them until all three protrude from between my knuckles, making a weapon I’d heard of long ago and never needed.

  When he uncovers me, I’ll gouge his face off. Do what damage I can to get out of here. If I can’t get out, I’ll at least damage the swine. Here he comes. Here now, he’s moving the tarp overhead. Come on, you ugly rat snake. Anger bubbles up from deep inside me. With it comes strength.

  I’m ready, and as bright moonlight spills into the cart, my right arm shoots straight up. My fist full of keys heads straight toward his face, his head silhouetted above me. I jab at that face, waving my hand wildly at the same time. I feel it scrape against the devil, hard. I jab and twist. Oh, God, I should have spotted his face better but, but . . .

  A piercing scream splits the seconds into a thousand instants, all shattered, all interminable. The shrill shrieking is wrong, all wrong. Is that me? It can’t be me, my mouth is taped. I didn’t have time to get the tape off.

  Then I heard the voice.

  “Lucy? It’s me.”

  What? Leaning over the edge, overhead, was Monica. Monica? What in God’s name was Monica doing here?

  She was shaking, her voice unsteady. “My God, Lucy, I was sure you were dead.” Her hand gripped her chin, and in the bright moonlight a black shadow oozed through her fingers and dribbled down her arm.

  The keys. I’d gotten her with the keys. I couldn’t see how bad it was.

  “I’m alive,” I said, fumbling the tape away from my mouth. No need to tell her I’d been holding a wake for myself minutes earlier.

  “Get me out of here.”

  “Yes, I’ll get you to a hospital,” she said.

  We grappled awkwardly with the rest of my ropes. “I don’t need a hospital. I have to get to the old man,” I said. Then I noticed that her wound spurted each time she spoke, or moved. It looked lethal. Guilt embraced me.

  “I’m sorry, Monica, truly sorry. You need a hospital more than I do,” I said as my bindings finally came apart. I scrambled to stand up in Supercart, aware again that I had to get out of there in a hurry.

  “How in the world did you find me?” I asked. And, lurching to my feet unsteadily in Supercart, I lost my balance, and flung my arms around her. Monica, misunderstanding, hugged me tightly, patted my back, and whispered “there-theres.” The kid was comforting me.

  I was so startled to find myself being comforted that I burst, blubbering, into howling sobs. I clung to her, wallowing in her comfort. In a while, my wailing subsided, I ceased my sniveling, and with Monica’s help I climbed out of Supercart.

  Free again.

  28

  We came to our senses, and I asked for her cell phone.

  “I left it on the kitchen counter, still plugged into the charger,” she wailed.

  “Then let’s get out of here.”

  We drove away, each babbling over the other’s story, trying to make sense of what seemed a random hash of events. “But how did Supercart end up over here?” she asked.

  “I’m not sure. I think I was driven over in the van, and then dumped into Supercart.”

  She clutched her chin with one hand and steered the car with the other, trying to explain how she’d tracked me down.

  I didn’t quite understand yet. I tried to stop interrupting. “But how did you find me? Why aren’t you back at the Cape?”

  “I almost didn’t find you, Lucy. I came back for the amber necklace. It was after three by the time I got here. The necklace had been sold, and I stopped at Coylie’s to ask if he’d seen you.

  “He hadn’t seen you, only your van. He said the van had been missing, then returned, but he wasn’t sure when,” she quavered on.

  “I waited for a while. Then I left a note on the windshield and looked around the fields. I didn’t yet realize anything was wrong, but later the note was still there, and I finally looked inside. Antiques were there, but Supercart was gone.

  “That’s when I knew that something wasn’t right. I drove out to Al’s to see if you’d landed there by some fluke. She hadn’t seen you all day. You hadn’t stored anything in her barn. She said that was unusual.

  “So I came back to Brimfield, where everything was the same. I needed time to think, so I went to the little restaurant in town, and after I lingered over a cup of tea, I felt better. The sun had gone down by then, so I called home.”

  Oh, no, bad move. “What did you tell them at home?”

  “Not much, Lucy. As a matter of fact, I didn’t quite lie to Philip, but I didn’t quite tell him the truth, either. When I’d determined that you weren’t at home on the Cape, I told him that I was thinking of staying the night with you in Boston.” She looked over at me, guilt in her eyes, blood dribbling from her chin.

  “Good work,” I assured her. “No need to get him all upset over nothing.”

  “This is nothing?” she asked.

  “No, but the worst is over. We can finish up and get out of here, and there’s no need to make things worse for ourselves with the family. But how did you find Supercart?”

  “When I came out of the restaurant it was dark,” she said. “I checked the van again. Nothing had changed, but in the dark everything looked different. I looked for Coylie, thinking he might have an idea. At the picnic yesterday he mentioned that it would be a nice spot for camping. So I drove over, parked, and sat here.

  “Coylie’s truck was nowhere to be seen, and I didn’t see much else in the dark. After a while my eyes adjusted, but by then I’d stopped looking, and I may have dozed. I was ready to give up. And then, right before my eyes, your big red exclamation point became visible. It took shape in the trees on the hill right in front of me, only it was black, not red, in the moonlight.”

  I held up a hand to stop her babbling. “What exclamation point?”

  “Supercart, Lucy. The big red exclamation point you painted on Supercart. It was there under the trees on the hill, right in front of my eyes, but it didn’t register with me as Supercart until it started rolling down the hillside.”

  Useless now to explain away that red paint as swatches for choosing the color of our shutters. Maybe it did look like an exclamation point.

  As Monica drove along the deserted road and told her story, I rubbed life back into my legs and checked my injuries. A couple of ribs in trouble, my left shoulder throbbing but functional, and my old hip injury competing for attention. The walnut-sized lump on my forehead had stopped oozing and was strangely numb, but it seemed to provoke a sort of flashbulb effect whenever I turned my head.

  I checked her wound covertly. It made me sick. It would leave a jagged scar where I’d split her skin. I’d hacked a cleft into that chin that I understood, profoundly, would haunt me.

  It was going to be hard, very hard, explaining all this to the family. Then, too, there’d be Monica’s reaction, when she finally got a good look at what I’d done to her. I’d need time to work out the story I’d tell them later, but right now I needed some simple co
operation from Monica.

  “What I’d like,” I said, “is for you to drop me off at Mr. Hogarth’s, then continue on down the road a few miles to do two things. The Jones-Toner Medical Center is there. It’s a walk-in place, and you can get your chin treated there.”

  Monica looked over at me. “And what will you be doing?” she asked.

  I told her I wanted to see Mr. Hogarth for a minute.

  “You’re going to drop in on him at midnight?” she asked, and paused a second before realizing that I didn’t intend to respond. “And what else?” she went on. “You said you wanted me to do two things.”

  I couldn’t think fast enough to give her a foxy explanation for asking her to send the police to Mr. Hogarth’s. I preferred keeping her in the dark, and out of further trouble. But she already suspected the game was afoot, so as we drove along the rural road closer to Mr. Hogarth’s, I offered her a quick answer. I worked it out as I spoke.

  “There’s trouble at Mr. Hogarth’s place.”

  “Lucy, you don’t think the old fellow is the killer, do you?”

  “I’m not sure exactly what is going on, but he’s been acting funny lately. I just want to check up on him, and I’d like to keep you out of harm’s way.”

  She kept her eyes on the road, and said, “I’ll go to the hospital when you go to the hospital, but first let me tell you that I didn’t drive up here from the Cape to miss out on this part.”

  That girl is stubborn—I can see trouble ahead for Philip because of it. But there was no time for debate now; we were approaching Mr. Hogarth’s.

  We drove right past when we spotted two cars parked near the lamp shop entrance. At the sight of the second car, my stomach flip-flopped. Were we already too late? Monica pulled off the road at the curve beyond his house, and then she pulled up to the road’s edge, facing out. Good thinking.

  She wouldn’t wait in the car, and I couldn’t waste time arguing with her. The best I could do, to impress on her that I was leading this venture, was to command her not to slam the door as we slipped out of the car. She didn’t answer me, but she didn’t slam, either.

  The house was dark. In the lamp shop, at the front of the house, thin light seeped around the edges of the windows. The tiny flashlight on Monica’s key chain provided just enough light for us to make our way through the shrubbery and underbrush. When we reached the gravel path, we slowed, trying to mask the crunching underfoot. We stopped at the shop door and looked. In the dim light, the drawn shade, several inches away from the other side of the glass, did little to hide what was happening inside. It was terrible.

  Mr. Hogarth was alive, but it was bad. He was tied to a chair, his hands behind him, his face a bloody mess. Wilson, gripping a flashlight, smacked it against Mr. Hogarth’s head. The flashlight triggered a rush of understanding. It was that flashlight, not the shove into Supercart, that had caused the wound in my forehead.

  The intake of breath from Monica, next to me, brought me back. We heard Wilson. “You have five seconds to tell me where that candlestand is.”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Mr. Hogarth groaned.

  “You’ve hidden it. Monty said he was putting it in the safest place.”

  “It’s not here,” the old man said. “And neither is the pickle castor.”

  “I know where the pickle castor is. Monty called a month ago and said he’d found it. I didn’t even remember it, I’d taken it so long ago. No one’s even looking for it by now. But Monty recognized it from one of my early museums.

  “I went along with him, said I’d buy it back fair and square, then donate it back to the McGirr. I swore I never did it again, after that pickle castor. But when he came up with the candlestand a few days ago, he knew I was still at it, and I knew he could make big trouble.”

  “It was you all those years ago,” Mr. Hogarth said.

  “What does it matter? What’s done is done,” Wilson said, and he raised the flashlight over Mr. Hogarth’s head.

  “Someone will figure it out,” Mr. Hogarth said.

  “You lie, and what did you tell that busybody about the stolen artifacts?”

  “I didn’t know about them until now. It was the box of lace that finally made me realize I’ve been wrong.”

  The flashlight came down again on Mr. Hogarth. I had to do something. I knew I couldn’t overpower Wilson, and Monica and I together were not likely to be much better. But we might stall him long enough for the police to get here.

  I turned to her. “I’ll go in this door and try to divert Wilson from the old man. Do you think you can slip into the back door of the house without being heard, and call the police? Then come into the shop and help me hold things down?”

  “Sure,” she whispered. And without another word, she turned and disappeared into the dark along the side of the building.

  I had to move. It was time to enter the shop. I took a breath. I didn’t know if Monica had made it into the house, but I had to open the door in front of me. I hoped that I wouldn’t have to break the glass to open it, and I was lucky. The silly thing was unlocked, and it opened quietly. So far, so good. I stepped into the shop, looking around for a weapon. Nothing in sight.

  Wilson, his back toward me, hissed at the old man. His stance was rigid, his words strained.

  “Do you think I’m going to let a bunch of junk collectors put me in prison over a few misplaced baubles? The minute those idiots get wind of goods taken from my museums, they’ll start looking at my fund-raising. I am not a crook,” he screamed.

  Mr. Hogarth was slumped in the chair facing me. I was plainly in his sight line, but he didn’t bat an eyelash, didn’t change expression, didn’t give me away. “John, I’m so disappointed in you,” he said. He closed his eyes, and lowered his head, chin to chest. “I was so wrong about Monty all these years.”

  Wilson raised his hand, the flashlight poised for another strike. “Where is that goddamned candlestand?”

  I had to act before the flashlight came down on Mr. Hogarth again. I had no weapon. I knew I needed one, but I also needed to be quick. My anger surged, overwhelmed me, and for reasons I’ll never figure out, I screamed at him.

  Did I think my scream would scare him to death, and that he’d stop this siege? Did I think he’d quit beating the old man, and then we could all sit down and discuss his hateful ways? In fact, I didn’t think at all. Furthermore, the instant I started screaming, he spun around and exploded at me. He struck out with the flashlight, with his feet, with his whole body.

  The man’s face was electrified with fury. I felt myself thrown back against a table, and cracked in the head. I wanted to run away but couldn’t. Wanted to stop and figure out how to get out of this. Wanted him to stop hitting me. I felt light-headed. The cut on my forehead reopened; I felt blood running down my face.

  But I kept screaming. I scratched, and screamed, and screamed, and screamed. I got him, too, with my fingernails. I could hardly see for the blood in my eyes, but I clawed out, and kept clawing, until I felt myself scratch across something terrible. Did I scratch his eye? My God, his eye. I think I got his eye.

  Now it was Wilson screaming. Dear Lord, don’t let it be his eye. My stomach twisted.

  He stepped backward and I jumped to my feet. With relief, I saw that Monica had slipped in from the house. She held an old metal lamp base, a perfect weapon. She held it like a baseball bat. Wilson swayed in front of me, and then he slid down on one knee, howling. I looked out through a bloody mist, and focused, just in time to see Monica swing the heavy metal lamp base into the space where Wilson had been, and into my face. Then I didn’t see anything.

  29

  I’m sure I heard her whack Wilson in the head, too. I was conscious. She claims I was not, and that she was sure she had killed me. But I know I heard the sound of that lamp base as it whumped against his head. Furthermore, when the police arrived a few minutes later, Monica and I were both on our feet, clutching each other. Doesn’t that prove I was consciou
s?

  We were both bleeding and hysterical. I, allegedly thanking her for breaking my nose, and she, just as allegedly thanking me for not being dead.

  After a moment or two of confusion with the police about who was who, Mr. Hogarth, still tied to the chair, satisfied them that it was Wilson, still on the floor, whimpering, who had caused the mayhem we all wallowed in.

  The whole business was extremely messy, and I’ve lost a tiny piece of my memory, but they say it should come back. I remember nothing of the ambulance ride to the hospital, or the celebration that everyone claims took place later in the emergency room, when Mr. Hogarth limped out of his cubicle, unaided, sporting a heavily bandaged head, and what was surely the beginning of a pair of black eyes.

  The hospital summoned Hamp and Philip to bring us home, and I avoided questions by faking sleep when they arrived, but before long I must have actually slept, because the next thing I remember is waking up in my bed at home. I didn’t feel too perky and would have drifted off again, but I heard sounds in the kitchen.

  It was still dark, not yet dawn, but I heard something out there. In fact, it got downright noisy, so I needed to see what was happening. I was surprised to find most of the family gathered.

  “Good morning,” I said, and they all turned and started speaking, but stopped, and gazed at me instead. I realized that I probably looked battered; I surely felt an assortment of aches and pains. I saw the sympathy in their faces, and knew I’d take advantage of it to stave off accusations that I’d rushed heedlessly into another mess.

  “I’d better get ready for Brimfield,” I said. “Today is the last day.”

  “Brimfield is over, Lucy,” Hamp said. He worked a piece of dough on the counter, folding and pressing it, and folding it again.

  Was he telling me not to go back there? I have to admit that I didn’t feel like it this morning, but if Hamp was suggesting what was best for me, maybe I should make a stand.

  As I realized what a dumb move that would be, Monica came toward me. “Lucy, I’m so sorry. I’m truly sorry.” She bit her lower lip, and winced as her stitched chin lifted. I could see that it hurt.