“You got a good deal on that.” Clara tapped on the paper-wrapped board in approval. “One more row to go and I haven’t fallen in love with anything.”
“I’m sure something will catch your eye.” Molly stopped to look at the price tag on a log cabin quilt hanging on the back wall of a textile booth named Geese in the Wind.
“Those are wonderful colors, aren’t they?” the dealer asked. She had light brown hair that hung well past her shoulders in a cascade of soft waves, a friendly, heart-shaped face, and a full figure. She looked to be in her mid-thirties and was almost as tall as Clara. Molly returned her warm smile. “Gorgeous. I’ve never seen all of these hues of green, brown, and red put together. It would be a great display piece for Christmas.”
Molly looked around at some of the other quilts. She recognized bear’s paw, wedding ring, and the bow tie pattern, and marveled at how each quilt was fanned out across the three walls. Various quilts and coverlets were also spread over miniature beds, side chairs, and a group of table runners covered the top of an oak trestle table. Vibrant hooked rugs were scattered around the floor and rag doll animals such as black cats, dogs, and bears were propped around the booth in order to provide whimsical touches. Sprays of dried lavender hung from colorful threads high above their heads.
Between the scents and the soft lighting, Molly longed to curl up in one of the miniature beds and take a nap. In addition to the charming atmosphere within the booth, Molly was awed by the Baltimore Album quilt that had been carved into a gargantuan pumpkin. The intricate work must have taken hours to complete.
“Your jack-o’-lantern is amazing!” Molly complimented the dealer. “In fact, your whole booth is so artistically arranged that I’m forgetting that I’m in a hotel’s convention center. Do you mind if I take some photos tonight and come back to interview you tomorrow about your booth design?
I’m covering the show for Collector’s Weekly and our readers would really enjoy seeing a creative display like this.”
“I’d love you to. I could always use some free publicity and everyone reads your paper. My name’s Becky Ross.” She paused. “I know, I know. It’s not Betsy, but close enough.” Becky grinned, though she had probably repeated the corny phrase hundreds of times.
The booth neighboring Geese in the Wind couldn’t have been more different. It had bright, halogen spotlights illuminating white walls covered with folk art paintings. Three tables with stark white cloths formed a U in the center of the booth. Folk art carvings and pieces of southern folk pottery were displayed in neat rows on each of the tables.
The typed and laminated labels describing each piece revealed rather high price tags: Nothing was marked at less than $600.
The dealer was busy speaking with another customer, so Molly and Clara were able to examine each piece of folk art at their leisure. Clara was particularly fond of a primitively carved alligator, but she wasn’t too crazy about the price marked on its label.
“It says here that this was carved in the mid-nineteenth century and was likely sold as a souvenir at one of Florida’s gator farms,” she said, reading the description typed on the label. “I guess people traveled down the East Coast to see the gators and in those days, that would have been a long and tough carriage ride. They wanted to return home with a unique souvenir of their travels. Sure beats a postcard.” Clara picked up the gator and examined its painted smile.
“Here’s a walking stick with a carved gator on the top, Ma.” Molly pointed out another souvenir item held within a display case. “I like him, too.”
Clara looked at the walking stick briefly, but she kept returning to the carved alligator, holding him in her hands as if he were a newborn infant. “No, if I buy anything at this show, it’s going to be this wonderful piece. I know just the place for him at home. He can sit right on top of the blanket chest in green paint in the TV room.” She smiled.
“Can you even imagine what the cats will make of him?” Molly shrugged. “If none of your seven cats have broken any of your pottery by now, then I think a wooden alligator should be perfectly safe.” She finished her survey of the paintings and then took a quick glance around the circumference of the booth again.
“Hey, there’s no pumpkin here,” she whispered to her mother, who was taking in the vibrant colors of a painting done by Bernice Sims, the Alabama folk artist who began painting when she was in her fifties. This piece showed a group of African-American children hanging laundry on the line in front of a one-story house built in the traditional southern shotgun style. The figures of the children were replete with energy as they took to their chore. One of them, however, had strayed off to the left-hand side in order to play with a white-spotted dog. The piece was charming and whimsical.
“I love her work,” Clara stated and then suggested that they move along. “I’ll explain about the lack of pumpkin here later, but as we leave, take a good look at the dealer,” Clara muttered, her voice barely audible as the booth began to fill with a fresh group of shoppers.
Just as they were leaving, the customer who had been busy scribbling out a check for a Jimmy Lee Sudduth painting of a red barn done in mud and house paints on a piece of rough wood board, ripped his check out of his checkbook and handed it to the dealer. The dealer, a slight man with salt-and-pepper hair, small silver spectacles, and a splint on his right hand, thanked his customer deferentially and slid the check into the front pocket of his brown corduroy pants. He then limped over to the other side of his booth, and using a soft and dignified voice, greeted the group of browsers. Molly noticed that he used an unadorned brown walking stick with an ivory or bone knob to help support the weight of his left leg. In the brief moments in which she studied the man, she felt that there was something pitiable about him, but she couldn’t put her finger on what it was.
Safely inside the next booth, she plucked at her mother’s sleeve. “That poor man! What happened to him?”
“What didn’t happen to him is more like it.” Clara lowered her voice as she pretended to be interested in an antique shooting target made out of cast iron featuring a pig with worn peach paint. “You can see, from his injured hand, that Dennis Frazier could never carve a pumpkin. And since he works alone, he just doesn’t enter one in the contest.”
“That name sounds familiar,” Molly mused. “His sign says that he’s from Chapel Hill, but I’ve never been to his store.”
“His gallery is in his house, and only open by appointment. I think he has a small number of loyal and very rich clientele. His house is just darling. It’s right off Franklin Street, within walking distance to the university campus.
He moved into it soon after his wife was murdered in their Raleigh home.”
Molly’s eyes widened in recognition. “Now I remember! I read about that in the paper, back when I was still teaching middle school. Wasn’t he actually accused of the murder?”
Clara frowned. “He was a suspect. ’Course, the husband always is when the wife is murdered, though I can think of many more reasons for wives to be the ones committing violent crimes. . . .”
“Let’s not get off the subject,” Molly cautioned.
“No one who knew Dennis believed that he killed his wife. True, anyone could see that Dennis and Juliette didn’t really get along, but he just didn’t seem like the murdering type. The only passions stirring his blood were pieces of folk and outsider art. At auction, Dennis would have the same gleam in his eye as the rest of us, but otherwise, the guy was nice but pretty damned dull.” Clara moved away from the shooting target in order to run her fingers along the surface of a wooden candle box. “Besides, he had been in a car accident a few weeks before her murder and sustained some horrible injury to his hand or forearm. I can’t remember the specifics, but you can see for yourself that he’s rather handicapped. Anyway, there wasn’t enough evidence to bring him to trial. He spent a few unpleasant nights in jail before he was released.”
“And the murder?” Molly asked, completely absorbe
d.
“Was it ever solved?”
Clara stopped and furrowed her brows in thought. “No.
I guess it wasn’t.”
Mother and daughter made their way to the end of the row. “Did you know his wife?” Molly inquired.
“Remotely. Juliette was a dealer, too, and a miserable woman. Haughty, spoiled, coiffed. She was the type with the perfect manicure, wardrobe, and shoes that cost more than your weekly grocery bill, and a waist that Vivian Leigh would have coveted, but Juliette repelled most of the people I know because she was always putting down American antiques.” Clara sniffed, as if still offended by the very memory of the woman. “She was always going on about the superiority of French antiques. Called American things crude imitations and poor investments, if you can imagine such a travesty. And of course, primitives and folk art are Dennis’s forte, so you can see why her criticisms might have grated on him as the years went by.”
“How does a couple like that get together in the first place?” Molly turned toward an unattended tray fully stocked with mango margaritas. “They must have been aware of one another’s likes and dislikes before they tied the knot.”
Clara reached out for a glass. “Juliette had no money, but she was beautiful. Dennis was a plain-looking, successful man in his mid-thirties. She saw an advantage and so did he. They got married and then discovered that they couldn’t stand one another.” Clara took a swallow of margarita and shivered. “Ugh! These are too sweet for me after all. At least they had no children,” she went on about the Fraziers. “I hate it when mismatched couples come to the brilliant conclusion that if they have a child, their marital problems will simply disappear, kind of like the margaritas sliding down Tom Barnett’s throat.”
Clara gestured toward a tray across the aisle. Tom Barnett drank down a margarita in three swallows and then quickly grabbed another. He seemed to be drinking more out of desperation than from a sense of enjoyment.
“Maybe we should see if he’s okay,” Molly suggested and Clara nodded in agreement.
As they approached Tom, they could easily see beads of perspiration dotting his forehead. Though the room was crowded, it was not unduly warm. No one else seemed uncomfortable or overheated. Tom’s eyes darted wildly about, like a rabbit cornered by a hungry fox. They watched as he wiped his palms repeatedly onto his pants in a frantic, compulsive gesture.
“Tom!” Clara called out in what Molly recognized was her phony so-glad-to-see-you tone. “Shouldn’t you be at your booth?”
“My assistant is there,” Tom replied with agitation in his voice. “And she’d better sell a hell of a lot. Charity cornered me earlier today. Says she’s takin’ me to court for more child support.” He took a deep gulp from a fresh margarita. “She’s a human leech. She gets plenty from me already.”
“Maybe you should concentrate on sales then,” Clara said bluntly, pointing at Tom’s drink, then softened her tone. “No one can sell your pieces like you, Tom.” She clearly hoped the compliment would get Tom back on track, but he kept right on drinking. “You tell such marvelous stories about your items. I bought that jelly cupboard from you based on a story. Remember you said it had been used to hold bandages and other medical supplies during the last two years of the Civil War?”
Tom sighed, his forehead creasing with worry. “Thank you, Clara, but it’s not just Charity. You see, I . . . I saw something today . . .” Tom looked about him as if he were being stalked. Molly was shocked at his fearful demeanor.
“I shouldn’t have seen, but I was in the wrong place at the wrong time and I did and now . . .” He quickly clamped his lips together.
“Tom?” Clara prompted, but the dealer merely drained his margarita and wiped at the sweat on his face with an orange napkin.
Before Clara could counsel Tom any further, a small man who looked exactly like the actor Nathan Lane but with a darker shade of brown hair and a neat goatee appeared beside their little group.
“Why, Clara Appleby. How divine!” He snatched Clara’s hand and planted a kiss on the palm with a graceful flourish that only gay men and buccaneers can get away with. Noting the man’s cantaloupe-colored silk shirt and creamy linen pants, Molly had to assume he was of the former category.
“Hello, Geordie.” Clara hugged the Nathan Lane lookalike. “The show’s wonderful! Molly, this is Geordie Alexis, the promoter.”
“Charmed,” Geordie said, blowing a quick kiss at Molly before turning his attention to Tom. The show promoter’s flirtation immediately dissipated and in a tone that belied disapproval he pointed toward the hallway and said, “A word, Tom?”
Molly saw Tom tense and then nod his head in resignation. It appeared as though he was in Geordie’s doghouse for some reason. As the two men stepped out into the hall through a set of closed fire doors, Clara dumped her unfinished cocktail into a nearby bin.
“Let’s finish this last row. Tom’s booth is here; you can see for yourself what wonderful items he has.” She looked in the direction of the hall solemnly. “Or at least I hope he has. I think I’ll ask Tom’s assistant what’s troubling him.
I’ve never seen him like this before. It’s unsettling.” Molly nodded mutely. As they approached the booth bearing the sign the country doctor she said, “Tom really didn’t look well physically. He was too sweaty and his hands were shaking. Do you think he’s sick?”
“He will be if he doesn’t sell some stuff tonight. All of these preview party people have their wallets stuffed full, just ready to buy,” Clara stated as they entered Tom’s booth. “Either way, that poor man is going to feel awful in the morning. I hope he’s got an antique hangover cure somewhere in his inventory!”
Chapter 3
“ Doctors carried vials of medicine and surgical instruments hidden in their system sticks . . . and when the doctor failed, the mortician carried a measuring stick in his to determine the length of his newest customer.”
Jeffrey B. Snyder, Canes and Walking Sticks: A Stroll Through Time and Place
The next morning, Molly woke to the sound of muttering coming from the hotel room’s bathroom. Closing her eyes, she tried to ignore the throbbing around her temples, no doubt caused by too many mango margaritas the night before. If she had been by herself in the room, she could have slipped back into sleep. But she was not alone; Clara was awake and from the sounds she was making, attempting to work the room’s four-cup coffeemaker.
“Oh good, you’re up.” Molly heard her mother’s voice from across the room. She kept her eyes closed and her breathing regular, in the vain hope that Clara might leave her be to sleep a little longer. “Come on, I know you’re awake.” Her mother took a few steps closer to Molly’s bed, not even bothering to whisper. “I can’t get this stupid coffeemaker to work and it’s almost seven. I’ve got to have some coffee while I watch the Weather Channel.” Molly groaned and opened one eye. Keeping half of her face buried in the pillow, she cast a scornful glare in her A mother’s direction and asked, “What do you care what the weather’s going to be? We’ll be inside all day at the show.”
“Ha!” Clara pronounced triumphantly while settling herself at the foot of Molly’s bed. “I knew you were up.
And we’re not going to be inside all day because this is a show on top of a show.” Clara’s dark gray eyes twinkled with excitement. “You see, there’s a huge tailgate show attached to Heart of Dixie.”
“You make it sound like a party,” Molly said from beneath the covers.
“It is!” Clara swatted the mattress next to Molly’s leg.
“Every hotel room in the group of hotels across the street is full of dealers who didn’t want to pay the booth rent for Heart of Dixie. So, those dealers sell out of the hotel lobbies and conference rooms. Unlike most other tailgate shows, they even sell right out of their private hotel rooms and from open cargo vans or card tables set up in the parking lot. And they put their wares out early, so get out of bed and fix that coffee machine, would you?” Clara put a hand on M
olly’s foot, which was covered by a layer of sheets and blankets. “Please, my dumpling. You know your old mama can’t work complicated machinery.” Molly lifted her aching head and glanced at the clock.
She had to pull it across the nightstand right up to her nose in order to read the blurred red digits. “Can’t you wait ten more minutes? It’s still six something.” Clara frowned. “Only for two more minutes. Up, up! I’m sure senior staff writers don’t sleep late while on assignment, and it’s a buyer’s market out there. Do you want to miss the chance to discover some rare American treasure?”
“Of course not.” Molly sighed, put on her glasses as her eyes weren’t yet prepared to be invaded by contact lenses, and shuffled to the alcove outside the bathroom in order to examine the coffeepot. Her mother had correctly followed the directions, but the On/Off button seemed to be permanently stuck in the Off position. Molly checked to make sure that the pot was plugged in and then proceeded to reset the outlet. She tried switching outlet receptacles with the hair dryer, but nothing would coax the coffeemaker to life.
“The good news is that you’re not mechanically challenged,” she smugly informed Clara. “The bad news is that you’re not getting any coffee from this machine . . . ever.” Clara handed the TV remote to her daughter. “That’s unacceptable. You’ll just have to go down to one of the lobby areas where free coffee is served and get us some.
But first, be an apricot square and find the weather for your tired mother.”
“Enough of that I’m-so-old-and-tired song and dance, okay? I’m already up, so you don’t need to put on that act.” Molly was exasperated as she surfed for the Weather Channel. Once Nashville’s local forecast appeared on the screen, she went into the bathroom, wiped her face with a warm washcloth, and took three ibuprofen tablets. “Quick release, huh,” Molly muttered said as she examined the box. “They’d better be.”
A Deadly Dealer Page 4