The dealer was a woman in her seventies who used a walker to eagerly shuffle across the burgundy carpet in order to answer a customer’s question about a Royal Doulton mermaid figurine.
“She’s got a little chip to her tail, but she’s old,” the dealer said, pointing a finger at the figurine. “Saw one sell on eBay for just over four hundred bucks.”
“Any discount?” the customer inquired, turning the mermaid over in his hands.
“I’ll knock off twenty-five, but that’s it. I got to pay for this room for three nights and rates ain’t as cheap as last year.”
After receiving payment in cash, the dealer adeptly nestled the mermaid in a layer of bubble wrap followed by several sheets of newspaper. The customer left with his purchase and Molly spent a few moments interviewing the dealer about the ups and downs of setting up across the street from the main venue. She then wandered from hotel room to hotel room examining a range of goods so varied that she felt like she was at a yard sale in Room 212, her grandmother’s cluttered attic in Room 301, and a high-end Charleston antique shop in Room 368.
After interviewing several dealers and a handful of buyers, Molly made her way to the atrium. She was greatly surprised to discover her mother, comfortably seated in a Windsor armchair located on the edge of a booth called the American Charger. Enormous stepback cupboards were stuffed with pieces of antique American pewter. Clara was cradling an antique inkwell in her hands as she listened to a woman seated in a Windsor rocker. Molly couldn’t tell who the woman was as she could only see the back of her head of dark hair, but as she drew closer, the woman pivoted slightly and Molly thought she recognized the face of the former Mrs. Tom Barnett.
“There you are!” Clara called out to Molly as if scolding her. “I’ve been having a nice talk with Charity Barnett.
Charity, this is my daughter.”
Charity was wearing a very different expression than the scowl Molly had seen on her face the previous night.
Her eyes were shot with red and her long fingers trembled as she raised a delicate lace handkerchief to her ruddy nose.
“Excuse my appearance,” the woman apologized. “I’ve been wandering around this hotel like a zombie. Luckily, your mother came along and got me to sit down and get a grip.” She looked at Molly, her deep blue eyes filled with sadness. “I understand you were the one to discover Tom this morning. That must have been quite a shock, finding him in the garden like that. My Lord.” She shook her head wearily and stared unseeing at the parade of shoppers moving by. “As annoyed as I was with him last night, as on so many other nights, it’s not the kind of death he should have had.” After a stretch of silence, she added, “It was, well, pretty undignified.”
“When was the last time you had something to eat?” Clara gently asked.
Charity seemed startled by the question. “Last night, I guess. I was just having coffee in my room this morning when the police came to tell me about Tom.” She kept her gaze locked on the passersby. “After they left, I drove over here and just starting meandering.”
Clara nodded her understanding. “Let’s all get something to eat. I’m sure you could use the company right now and I heard there’s a terrific cheeseburger joint downtown.” Clara stood, rolling the pewter inkwell in tissue paper and placing it inside a paper bag. Waving to the booth dealer, whose nose was deep in a book, she put a hand on Charity’s arm. “Come on, I think you could use a break from this hustle and bustle.” Molly threw her mother a perplexed look. It was unlike Clara to display such concern for a stranger. Clara returned the look with a silent appeal and Molly began to wonder whether her mother’s kindness had an entrepreneurial motive. She sensed that Clara was sizing up Charity with the hope of winning the contract to sell Tom’s estate once the lawyers had finished up with its division. Molly knew that items belonging to well-known antique dealers or collectors tended to bring good prices at auction, so it was no wonder Clara wasted little time in sticking her long and narrow foot in the door.
“We don’t have a car, Ma,” Molly said, and then, in an attempt to dissuade her mother from circling the new widow like a turkey vulture that has spied fresh carrion, whispered, “Don’t you think you should at least wait for the funeral before you pounce on the widow.”
“Excuse me?” Charity said, turning around, blinking as if clearing cobwebs from her eyes. “Did you say something?”
“Oh,” Molly stammered, “just that I’m on the verge of getting a blister on my left heel. I think we’d better head back to our hotel for lunch.”
Clara glanced dismissively at her daughter’s shoes.
“That’ll teach you to wear boots that haven’t even been broken in. You should be wearing sneakers.”
“I’ve got a car parked right outside,” Charity offered before the Appleby women could get their argument further off the ground. “And I could use some real food right about now. There’s only one place to go in Nashville for burgers and shakes, and that’s Ellison’s. There will probably be a line ’cause it’s Saturday, but the food is worth the wait.
Shall we give it a shot?”
The appeal in Charity’s voice was unmistakable. Molly nodded in acquiescence and Clara harrumphed triumphantly in her daughter’s ear.
Ten minutes later, Charity skillfully parallel parked her rental Lincoln across the street from the restaurant. There was a simple glass storefront covered by a red-and-whitestriped awning and black-and-white signs denoting the soda shop’s daily specials. Nothing about the exterior was an indication of the small establishment’s fame. However, at least a dozen people were lined up outside the front door, chatting in a relaxed fashion as if they were more than happy to wait twenty minutes in order to be seated. Molly and Charity joined the end of the line while Clara claimed she needed to use the rest room. Within moments, she reappeared outside the door and waved.
“Come on!” she beckoned. “They’ve got a table for us!” Trying to ignore the surprised and irritated looks cast by those still waiting in line, Molly lowered her head and followed her mother inside. They were quickly seated at a booth complete with vintage vinyl bench seats in a sea-foam hue and their own miniature jukebox. Molly took a quick glimpse at the fifties-style décor, which included nostalgic signs advertising malts and banana splits, a and-mustard laminate counter, and a floor covered by tiny black-and-white tiles, and then rounded on her mother.
“What on earth did you say to get us seated?” she demanded suspiciously.
Clara opened her menu and declared, “Baby back ribs!
Yum. That’s what I’m having.” She tossed the menu back on the table and flippantly replied to her daughter’s question, “Oh, I just told the charming hostess that you were a reporter and would include a write-up on this establishment in your next piece.”
“But this place is already famous. Why would they care if a writer for Collector’s Weekly wrote about them?” Clara fidgeted. “Well, I might have taken some liberties with the name of your publication.”
Molly was appalled. “You didn’t say that I wrote for Frommer’s again, did you?”
Before Clara could explain, a waitress came by to take their orders. Molly decided on a cheeseburger and a chocolate shake. Charity chose the fried chicken with mashed potatoes and gravy. “You just can’t worry about fat or cholesterol when you eat at Ellison’s.” She sighed. “The last time I was here, I was actually with Tom. We were still married and I wasn’t the uptight harpy he thinks . . . he came to think of me as.”
Molly thanked the waitress as she delivered a glass of water to her mother, a cherry Coke to Charity, and a frothy milk shake to her. “So your divorce was fairly recent?” Charity nodded. “Five years ago. I’m not in the antiques business. I’m only at Heart of Dixie as a favor to a friend.” She took a sip of soda and looked around. “My, that brings back memories. I love this place, because it’s not retro. It’s original. They’ve been running it the same way for something like sixty years and it still works. I
f only relationships were that permanent.” Her expression turned sullen.
“Sorry, but it’s hard not to be bitter. I never stopped loving Tom, but he was so flighty, so lost in the world of medical antiques, that he became a lousy husband and father. The bad husband part I could have handled, but my kids deserved more.”
“Your friend is a dealer showing at Heart of Dixie?” Clara inquired, trying to steer the conversation to a more positive topic.
“Yes. Nell’s got the only estate jewelry booth in the show: All That Glitters. I’m a jeweler by trade and Nell and I have been friends since our freshmen year in college, so when her husband got the flu right before they were supposed to leave, I volunteered to help out.” She laughed. “Yesterday, I felt like we were in college again. We stayed up last night drinking beer and then fell asleep in our room while talking about which male dealers were the best looking.” Molly smiled and then said, “So how did you find out about Tom?”
Charity’s grin dissipated. “The police came to our room this morning. They questioned me as to my movements last night as a matter of routine, or at least that’s what they said.” She offered a wry chuckle. “I hope there isn’t anything suspicious about his passing or everyone’s sure to blame me. The angry ex-wife always gets blamed.” She shrugged with resignation. “I know all of the dealers in the show circuit already think I’m a henpecking harpy, but Tom always owes me money. Right now, he owes for Ashley’s braces and for Tom Junior’s soccer league. Not to mention his half of the mortgage payment, which is two months behind.” She shook her head and sighed, her black tresses shimmering beneath the overhead lights. “Sorry to vent, ladies. I guess I had it good chasing after him with bills that needed paying while he was alive. Now that he’s dead, I may have to sell our house. If Tom didn’t provide for us in his will, I don’t know what’ll happen!” She gave Clara a meaningful look. “I would do anything to protect my kids’ future. I’m sure, as a mother, you understand.” Clara and Molly shifted uncomfortably in their seats as Charity began to weep, hiding her tears in one of the soda shop’s white paper napkins. At this awkward juncture, the waitress arrived with a food-laden tray. Molly’s cheeseburger could have fed two professional wrestlers and there were enough spare ribs on Clara’s platter to satisfy an entire Little League team. Charity gave one last brush to her eyes and with gusto, dug into her mountain of mashed potatoes drenched in brown gravy. “Now that’s comfort food,” she mumbled with her mouth full and then chuckled. “I know I shouldn’t be hungry at a time like this, but I am.” Molly was startled by the woman’s abrupt mood swing.
Clara, who was seated next to Charity, licked a bit of barbeque sauce from her finger and said, “I won’t hold it against you. At least you’re a woman who actually eats.” As they ate, Charity asked the Appleby women about themselves. The threesome made small talk in between bites of succulent food until strains of Elvis’s “A Little Less Conversation” rose from the booth next door. Molly examined the songs available on their own jukebox while Clara subtly tried to raise the issue of what would now become of the items in Tom’s shop back in Blacksburg, Virginia. But Molly kicked her mother’s shin under the table until Clara dropped the topic and focused on stripping the last morsels of meat from her ribs.
Eventually, the conversation between them faltered.
Clara cleaned off her hands with a moist toilette and signaled for the check. Glancing surreptitiously at Molly, Clara slid a business card next to Charity’s empty plate after she laid down the money to pay for their lunches.
“Thanks for introducing us to this delicious soda shop. If we ever come back to Nashville, we’ll eat here again. I’d like to try their banana split, but we’ve got to give formal statements to the police this afternoon,” she told Charity. “I hope it doesn’t take too long. I’d like to go through Heart of Dixie once more. The dealers always seem to discover brand-new inventories inside their vans and trucks come Saturday afternoon. It’s never the stellar stuff you see on Friday night, but I’ve bought some wonderful smalls during past shows during that time slot.” Charity glanced at her watch. “I need to make a statement, too. Why don’t we all go to the station together and get this over with?” But instead of making an attempt to move, Charity put her face in her hands. “I have to admit,” she muttered,
“I’m suddenly feeling exhausted. I don’t know if it’s just that I have a full stomach, but I think the shock is beginning to wear off and I’m realizing that Tom is really gone.”
“Let me ask the hostess how to find the station.” Molly jumped up, not wanting to witness another round of Charity’s weeping. However, the woman remained remarkably composed as they exited the restaurant and she pulled the Lincoln out into traffic and headed south on Twenty-first Avenue. The short drive was spent in silence.
“I appreciate your invitation to lunch,” she said as she parked the car a block away from the building housing the police department. “And for listening to me. Not many people would have approached a complete stranger and offered support. Thank you both.”
“Well, you’ve got my card. Call me anytime,” Clara replied warmly, grasping Charity’s hand.
“Unbelievable,” Molly mumbled to herself. Minutes later, the three women approached the receptionist at the front desk.
They had barely explained the purpose of their visit when Detective Butler came striding through a door to the left. Molly was instantly wary of the hard set of his jaw and the angry expression in his eyes. He barked out directions to two fellow officers to take the women to separate rooms.
Molly cast a look of fear at her mother as Clara was led away by a blank-faced policewoman. “Why are we being split up?” she asked the detective. “Has something happened since this morning?” The detective ignored her as he held open the door to a small conference room. Another officer waited inside, pressing the buttons on a tape recorder. “I’m not going in there without an answer. What’s happened?” Molly repeated her question, her body stiffening as Butler placed a strong palm against the middle of her back and propelled her forward. Reluctantly, she entered the room and took a seat in the chair he pulled out for her.
Seating himself across the table from her, the detective poured himself coffee from a nearby carafe and stirred three packets of sugar into a paper cup. He didn’t offer Molly or the second officer any. Instead, he took a deep sip and then, as he replaced the cup on the table, he met Molly’s anxious look with a frown. “Something has happened since this morning, Miss Appleby.” He took another sip of coffee. “A little something called murder.”
Chapter 6
“ Walking sticks are organic artifacts and must be handled with care. They are quite sensitive to changes in humidity and temperature. Rises in humidity and temperature may lead to swelling and cracking of walking stick shafts and handles.” Jeffrey B. Synder, Canes and Walking Sticks
“Murder?” Molly gasped. “Do you mean Tom . . . ?” The detective ran a meaty hand over the spikes that served as hair in a gesture of annoyance. Molly couldn’t tell whether he was irritated by her question or for volunteering such a vital piece of information before her official statement was given.
“State your full name and address please,” he commanded briskly after nodding to the second officer. Molly saw the uniformed cop press a button on the recorder before turning her full attention on Detective Butler. Over the next twenty minutes, she offered her account of her movements that morning for the second time. “I can’t believe all this happened a few hours ago.” She interrupted her narrative. “What a long day.” She looked at the clock mounted high on the wall and sighed. “And it’s only two.” Butler scowled and silently waved at her with his mechanical pencil to continue. When Molly had recounted all that she could remember, down to the smallest detail such as the names of the tropical plants she had noticed in the garden and the specific hues of Tom’s clothes, she leaned back in the uncomfortable metal chair and sighed again.
“And exactly how do you
know the deceased?” The detective had asked her the exact question that morning, but his tone was much sharper now. As she answered this and a series of other routine queries, Butler routinely clicked the lead up and down in the mechanical pencil until Molly thought she would certainly turn into a murderer if he persisted in repeating the irksome action.
“Can you please stop that?” she finally said in exasperation. “I don’t know whether that noise is some kind of interview technique of yours, but I have nothing to hide from you. Mental games are not necessary.” Butler glanced at the pencil as if surprised that it was in his hand and then stuck it inside his suit jacket. “Is there anything else you can add to your statement?” Molly shook her head. “I’m sorry, but no. I’ve told you everything I know. Twice. I wish I could be of more help.
Tom seemed like a very nice man. . . .” She trailed off, thinking of Charity’s claim that Tom wasn’t the most responsible parent.
The detective seemed to sit upright in his seat all of a sudden. “Has someone indicated that he wasn’t always such a nice guy?”
Molly was impressed by Butler’s shrewdness, but she didn’t want to get Charity into hot water. She hesitated and avoided making eye contact.
“We’ll find out sooner or later.” He glared at Molly.
“Let’s make it sooner, okay?”
After squirming in her seat for a few seconds, she reluctantly answered. “It was just a few comments that his ex-wife made over lunch. She said that Tom wasn’t so good about paying his half of the bills. I’m sure it’s a common enough gripe between divorced couples with kids.” Butler exchanged a pointed nod to the other officer and Molly groaned. She had just provided the Nashville Police Department with their first suspect.
A Deadly Dealer Page 8