When the Appleby women first stepped into the large booth space crowned by a wooden sign entitled the country doctor, Molly had trouble absorbing Tom’s disorganized displays. Antique surgery cases were scattered about on every available table surface among apothecary bottles and cases, leather-bound anatomy books, several yellowed casts of human skulls, and a full-sized skeleton wearing a Confederate officer’s uniform. Dozens of canes were gathered haphazardly and stuffed into three umbrella stands.
A cane with a carved skull handle and a carved snake winding its way up the shaft intrigued Molly. She read the attached label with interest:
Unusual Physician’s System Stick. Late nineteenth century. Malacca shaft with carved snake.
Skull handle made of bone, which unscrews to reveal hidden pomander jar so that the doctor could inhale a pleasant odor when faced with a noxious-smelling patient. Pomander jar lifts up to reveal two vials (both original with stoppers intact). The first contains laudanum (label missing) and the second, morphine pills. Beneath vials is glass flask that once contained whiskey.
Missing stopper. Slight crack to the base of the skull. Ferrule is missing. $750
Molly examined the cane with great interest. She twisted off the skull and carefully removed the pomander jar. It was empty and held no trace of scent. One of the vials beneath it still read Morphine Pills in neat black script. The unlabeled whiskey flask looked like a modern test tube. She examined the damage to the skull and admired the carving of the snake. She made a mental note to talk to Tom further about the cane. It would make a perfect Christmas gift for Mark. Picking up several of the other physician’s canes and walking sticks, Molly noticed that many of them had yet to be priced. As she made her way around the booth, it was clear that many of the smalls and several pieces of furniture had never been labeled or priced.
Molly paused to ogle a jar filled with glass prosthetic eyeballs marked at thirty dollars apiece, when a frumpy-looking woman with a round face and rosacea-reddened skin approached Clara and asked, “Can I help you?”
“We’re just browsing,” Clara replied, as her sharp gaze soaked in the scene of disarray. “It looks like Tom didn’t even finish setting up,” she stated bluntly. “And his booth has always been so well organized and easy to shop. What is going on with him these days?” She directed her question at the flustered woman, who must have been Tom’s assistant.
“Um . . .” The woman groped for a suitable answer. She placed a nervous hand to the messy knot of graying brown hair gathered loosely at the nape of her plump neck and readjusted several bobby pins. This gesture added to the strain already being placed upon the buttons of her plaid blazer, which looked at least two sizes too small. Noiselessly, one of the jacket’s brass buttons burst free of its tenuous thread, rolled the length of the booth, and settled beneath a blanket box nestled in the far corner.
Clara watched the trail of the wayward button with amused interest and then her eyes rounded as they met with the beautifully painted surface of the blanket chest. The front and side panels of the piece were a deep blue-green that had been decorated with soaring birds and bouquets of flowers in rich pigments of brick red, dark gold, and black.
The colors had faded some with time, but the delicate brushwork on the primitive piece would speak volumes to any collector of Americana, of which Clara was one.
Stepping alongside Tom’s assistant, who was headed in the same direction in order to retrieve her button, Clara tried to soothe the agitated woman. “I hate it when that happens. I don’t think manufacturers use enough thread these days. I think it rolled under the right foot there.” Clara pointed at the bottom of the chest helpfully.
“Thanks.” The woman smiled. “I’m Darlene. I’ve been working with Tom for about six months.” She examined Clara carefully. “It sounds like you know him well.”
“Oh, I’ve been seeing Tom at shows for years. He also buys from Lex Lewis’s Auction Gallery and I work there. I always call Tom when medical antiques are coming up for sale.”
“So you knew him when he was still doing shows with his wife?” Darlene’s face filled with curiosity as she got down on her hands and knees, displaying a pair of nude knee-highs with matching runs and an unattractive pair of brown orthopedic shoes. “He is such a sweet man. I don’t see how he stayed married to her for so long,” she practically hissed.
Clara was taken aback by Darlene’s lack of discretion.
Instead of commenting, she lifted the poplar lid of the chest and peered at the wood inside. “Pine,” she said to herself.
Darlene finally closed her fingers around the button, sat back on her heels, and sighed. “Poor Tom. First his wife was harassing him and now that Geordie Alexis person is upset by how the booth looks. I’m worried about Tom’s stress levels. He’s had some heart trouble and is taking medication.”
“Can’t say that I blame Geordie for giving him a scolding,” Clara mumbled under her breath, giving Molly a look. She then eased the small chest away from the wall in order to scrutinize the rough, unpainted back. Satisfied, she replaced it and squatted down in order to run her long and nimble fingers over the bracket feet.
“Late nineteenth century?” Molly asked her mother.
Clara nodded, her eyes riveted on the chest. “Yes. I’d say around 1880. It’s Pennsylvania—definitely got a German influence. Most people would refer to it as a dower chest.” She turned to Darlene. “I don’t see a price tag. Can you look this piece up in Tom’s inventory book? I’m quite interested in it, and he always keeps such detailed records.” Darlene stroked the sides of her hair and once again replaced several bobby pins as she cast a wild look toward the aisle, “Ah . . . Tom tucked the book somewhere earlier.
He had some words with a man named Rose over that very piece of furniture and I haven’t seen the book or Tom since.” She sucked in a deep breath and plowed on. “But I’m sure he’ll be back any moment now. He knows that I’m still pretty new at this and he’s very kind to me.” Clara’s look of annoyance was quickly replaced by one of curiosity. “Was the man Howard Rose? Of Rose Antiques and Auctions in New York?” Darlene shrugged. “I don’t know. He sounded like he had a New York accent, but to tell you the truth, he was so rude I could barely stand to listen to him. Poor sweet Tom.
What a night he’s had so far!”
Molly and Clara exchanged bewildered glances. Darlene seemed quite distraught over her boss’s difficulties.
“We’ll check back in the morning,” Clara promised. “In the meantime, you could probably help Tom out by arranging things a little around here.”
“Do you think so?” Darlene’s face lit with hope. “I’d do anything for him. He is just such a gentleman.”
“She gushes more syrup than a Sno-Cone machine,” Molly commented as they headed out of the show.
“Yes, she’s clearly smitten with old Tom,” Clara agreed.
“Look! There he is now, and that is Howard Rose he’s talking to.” Molly recognized Tom’s profile as well as the prominent nose and dark, wavy hair belonging to one of the northeast’s most successful antiques dealers. Rose’s company was frequently highlighted in Collector’s Weekly as it was consistently breaking records for achieving million-dollar sales during its quarterly auctions. Rose sold only high-end items and staked his reputation on the quality of the pieces to be found within his stores and on the auction block. Molly had never seen Rose in person however, and the powerful build of his body surprised her. Though neither tall nor broad, Howard Rose seemed to possess a compact strength beneath his custom Armani suit.
Clara marched straight toward the two men just as Howard was turning away. “This isn’t over, Barnett,” Howard said forcefully, his face dark with anger. “I’m taking that chest back to New York!”
“Over my dead body,” Tom retorted and then walked off, looking rather unsteady on his feet as he disappeared around the corner of a booth.
A wicked grin sprouted on Howard’s face. “Fine by me, country
boy!”
Then, like some kind of magician, Howard vanished into the crowd.
Clara said, “My, my. I wonder what that was all about.
It sounds like Tom is refusing to sell Howard that blanket chest.”
Molly shrugged in bewilderment. “We can ask him later. Do you want to stop by Grayson Montgomery’s booth on our way out, or do you want to check your hair and makeup first?”
“Not tonight, I’m beat.” Clara sighed, ignoring her daughter’s teasing. “Let’s go upstairs and get into our pajamas. Maybe there’s some wonderful old mystery on TV.”
“That’s the whole story.” Molly concluded as she watched the detective’s face for any reaction. Receiving none, she turned to her mother. “Did I forget anything?”
Clara shook her head and also fastened her eyes on Detective Butler as he compulsively rubbed his chin and stared down at his notes. Just as he was opening his mouth to speak, Berkley appeared from within the garden bed, zipped up what looked like a camera bag, and waved his brother over. The twins held a conference in hushed tones and then Berkley flipped a coin. He smiled smugly as he showed the result on his open palm; Detective Butler grimaced. Passing a meaty hand over the top of his spiky hair, he tapped his watch face and sighed. His brother issued an amused shrug and after offering a sympathetic glance, headed up the path.
“I’ll be back with the gurney,” he called over his shoulder as he marched off, Mr. Fallon dogging his heels.
“What do you think those two were trying to decide?” Clara whispered.
“I’d guess that the detective will have to tell Uncle Geordie that one of his dealers isn’t coming back to the show,” Molly replied somberly. “Ever.”
Paris, 1853
Pierre Avide slammed his fists upon the gleaming ivory keys of his piano and let loose a string of expletives.
“I specifically instructed that no one was to disturb me!” he yelled, hoping that the butler and footmen were cowering in fear.
The gilt-covered double doors leading to his music room opened and the powdered face of Pierre’s paramour appeared, smiling devilishly at her lover’s show of temper.
“Darling,” she purred, crossing the room in a swish of silk skirts. Her heady perfume reached Pierre before she stretched out a long and elegant arm with which to caress his wavy brown locks.
“Claudine. I am preoccupied.” Pierre said while rudely remaining at his seat before the piano. He turned away from her in vexation. “Both Liszt and Chopin will be coming to dine tonight and they have insisted that I perform for them. Master Liszt has finally conceded that he has never seen more gifted hands than these.” Pierre held out his beautiful white hands and fluttered his long, white fingers as if they were the feathers on a dove’s wing and not the mere flesh belonging to a bastard son of a nobleman.
“Yes, my sweet.” Claudine settled herself on a chair in front of the fire and daintily arranged her voluminous skirts. “You have told me of your ambitions more than once: that you shall be the only man of your tender years to perform solely for members of royalty.” Swiftly, Pierre took to his feet and strode across the room. Tight-lipped, he grabbed Claudine’s elbow and glared at her. “I have sixteen years and there is nothing tender about me. I was meant for greatness and I will not waste my talent on even the richest members of the nobility.” Claudine grinned and shook her elbow free. “You are surely destined for fame and glory and that is why I chose you for my lover, you silly boy.” She snapped her fingers in command and a maid carrying a paper-wrapped parcel rushed into the room, laid the package at the slippered feet of her mistress, bowed, and then scampered off again. “I have brought you a gift.”
Pierre sank into the chair opposite Claudine and began to sulk. “I have all the gifts I need,” he asserted flatly.
“Do you not wish to be known as the Musician to Kings?” Claudine leaned forward, her ample bosom straining against the tight confines of her gown. Pierre could not help but focus on the translucent skin that covered the round swells of his lover’s breasts. His lust rising, he turned to her. “And?” he asked, still petulant. “What of it?”
“Well, you already possess many symbols of kingship.
You have jewels fashioned with the images of lions, furniture carved with splendid suns, a coach emblazoned with your family crest . . .” She waved her hand as if these meant nothing. “But I have brought you the King of Snakes and he possesses a powerful secret.” At last, Claudine had managed to capture Pierre’s interest. He grabbed the wrapped parcel from where it lay on the woven rug and roughly tore off the paper. He stared at the wooden stick, his face reflecting his disappointment as he pivoted the carved cobra head to and fro before the firelight.
“ ’Tis simply a wooden stick. No jewels, no gold, not even ivory carvings. It’s nothing but a hunk of wood!” He tossed the cane to the floor. “Some King of Snakes! This isn’t even suitable for one of my servants to wear.” Claudine picked up the cane and began stroking the open-mouthed serpent on the handle. “Oh, it is more than a simple stick, my precious. It is a weapon as well. It has already caused the deaths of two people in Germany.” Pierre’s eyebrows rose. “Truly? But how? It is not even useful as a bludgeoning instrument.” Turning his back to her, he strode to the sideboard and poured himself a goblet of fine claret from a crystal decanter. Then, posing against the piano, he raised the glass to his lips without offering his guest a share of the refreshment. “I’m waiting to be enlightened.”
“There is a blade hidden within the stick.” Claudine spoke in an animated, husky whisper. “But the merchant I purchased the stick from was not wise enough to be able to discover its mysterious workings.” Her face glowed. “That is also how the murderer escaped punishment for his crime.
None could prove how this wood stick was able to slit the throats of his wife and her lover. Yet both were found with their own lifeblood pooling around their naked bodies, stab wounds visible upon their necks.” Pierre snatched the cane from her hands. “Surely a musical genius such as I can discern the primitive workings of a peasant’s carving. The murderer was a peasant, was he not? No person of consequence would create such an atrocious stick.”
“According to the merchant, he was a poor and uneducated smith. Still, he seems to have bested many men in terms of his little creation.” Claudine moved closer to Pierre and pressed her body against his. “Why don’t you put that stick aside for the time being?”
Pierre frowned. “Later, Claudine. I must . . . I would like to examine your gift, dear heart. Allow me to call upon you once I have solved its riddle.” He deftly kissed her hand and then led her to the door. “Until tonight. And thank you for the present. You are a most remarkable woman.”
Claudine smiled tenderly and allowed herself to be ungraciously dismissed. Once outside, a footman helped her into a black carriage pulled by a matching pair of gray mares. Within its plush interior awaited the famed composer, Franz Liszt. As soon as the carriage pulled away from the Avide estate, Liszt held out his arms to Claudine.
She moved into his embrace.
“So all is well?” he murmured into her perfumed hair.
“That fool will be too preoccupied with the snake cane to properly prepare for his concert tonight. You have naught to fear, love. You will retain your absolute genius in the eyes of Chopin and the rest of Paris. When you return to Weimar, you can continue to compose without worry.” Liszt’s handsome mouth curved into a smile. “And the tale behind the cane? Is it pure fallacy?” Claudine shrugged indifferently. “Who knows? The merchant insisted upon the story of the murders as truth.
Yet, my husband looked over the cobra’s head inch by inch and saw nothing. Usually, he has a keen eye for such mechanical devices. No matter. Pierre’s composure will be completely rattled when he fails to discover its secret. He does not play nearly as well when his attention is divided.”
“That is good news indeed. And as for your husband, if he can not see what goes on right under his nose .
. .” Franz teased as his deft fingers began to unlace Claudine’s gown.
“I am pleased to see that you are suitably grateful, maestro, for I do not think I could stand another moment pretending to be that horrible, spoiled boy’s mistress,” Claudine complained.
“No, my love. You are meant to be the mistress of a much more appreciative musician,” Franz murmured and then fell to kissing his lover’s neck and full mouth as the coach proceeded down the dirt track toward Claudine’s chateau.
Pierre had completely set aside all thoughts of Claudine and of the importance of the evening’s recital as he studied the snake-handled stick. Closing his eyes, he drummed his fingers lightly along the length of its shaft beginning with the top and moving carefully to its narrowed tip.
“There is a space within,” he breathed in excitement after hearing the slightest reverberation inside the upper part of the shaft.
Hastily retrieving a silver-handled magnifying glass from his father’s study, Pierre told his butler that he was not to be disturbed under any circumstances. “And if you disobey me in this order again, you will find yourself out in the streets!” he snapped as he slammed the doors to the music room closed.
Once he was comfortably reestablished in his chair before the fire, Pierre greedily gulped down the rest of his claret and poured himself another generous glass. Wiping his stained lips with his linen cuff, he began to examine the carved scales on the cobra’s body one by one.
After almost an hour of intricate perusal, Pierre saw nothing out of the ordinary. Cursing, he drank down another glass of claret and began to press down on each scale with his index finger. Again, he closed his eyes and brought the stick next to his ear as his fingertips moved with agonizing slowness along each scale. Pierre paid little attention to the advancing minute hand of the brass carriage clock on the mantel as he probed the surface of the wood.
A Deadly Dealer Page 6