A Deadly Dealer

by J. B. Stanley

  “If Tom’s been murdered,” she said, “it couldn’t have been Charity. She was in her hotel room all night and she wasn’t alone. She’s sharing it with an old college buddy—

  a dealer named Nell.”

  Butler raised his eyebrows. “So you’re collecting alibis for us, too? Mrs. Barnett’s friend could have lied or she could be a heavy sleeper. She might have no idea that Charity snuck out for a few minutes,” he argued. At the look of dismay on Molly’s face, he softened his tone. “We have to look at every angle. That’s why it’s important for us to gather complete statements.” Molly met his eyes and couldn’t help but like the young detective. “I understand and I’d like to offer my assistance.

  I’ve actually helped the police out before.” She plowed on before Butler could stop her. “Last year, in Richmond, I aided the police in apprehending the Hidden Treasures Killer. That’s what the papers dubbed him.” She continued self-importantly, “I’ve got an in with the antiques crowd. I speak their language. And because I’m a reporter, I can ask people questions and they’re usually more open with me than they are with the cops. No offense.”

  “None taken,” Butler replied with a hint of amusement.

  “And they’ll gossip to me, too. Sometimes what people say is nothing but entertaining exaggerations, but every now and then there’s a grain of truth in the stories floating around. I know your uncle is Geordie Alexis, but he’s a promoter, not a dealer. The dealers aren’t going to be as loose-tongued around him as they’d be with me ’cause I’m always on their side. I’ve proved that in print over and over again. Maybe the little details they’ll share with me can help you find your man.” She paused, worrying that she had come across as too cocksure. “And I don’t think that Charity Barnett is your man.” Butler flicked his icy blue gaze at the other officer.

  “That’s all I need from you, Hank, thanks. Can you check on how things are going with Mrs. Barnett?”

  “You got it, Bull,” Hank said and left the room.

  “Bull?” Molly queried.

  “They call me Bull Dog around here. Guess I kind of resemble one with this big, square head and wide shoulders.” He gave Molly a severe look. “Plus, I hang on to cases like a pit bull hangs on to a rabbit. My rate of solved cases is the highest in the state.” He rubbed his prickly scalp. “Of course, I usually have more time to bag the guilty party. Heart of Dixie closes on Sunday and unless I have a reason to do so, I can hardly ask dozens of dealers to hang out in Nashville so that I can rule them out as suspects one by one.”

  “Seriously, my mother and I can help you.” Molly tried not to make her voice sound too eager. “But first I’ll need to know how Tom died.”

  The detective removed the pencil from his jacket and renewed his agitated clicking. He seemed to be debating over whether to share information with Molly or march her straight to the nearest exit. Finally, he sighed. “This information won’t be easy to keep under wraps. Once Uncle Geordie gets wind of what happened, the whole city will find out.” More clicking. “My brother did a complete tox screen on Mr. Barnett. Let’s just say that a harmful drug was mixed into his margarita. And from what we’ve learned of his recent behavior, we have no reason to believe this was a suicide. We haven’t ruled that out as a possibility, but it’s unlikely at this juncture.”

  Molly immediately thought about the apothecary chests in Tom’s booth. Several of the larger chests as well as one or two of the traveling physician’s kits used during the Civil War contained dangerous drugs. She shared her thoughts with the detective. He listened closely and occasionally nodded, his eyes betraying a small measure of respect.

  “We’ve examined his inventory and yes, the harmful drug could have come from one of his items, but that doesn’t help us much. The questions are, who stole the drugs from one of those chests or canes or whatever, and why?” Detective Butler rose and opened the door. “I see your mama waiting down the hall.” He looked down at the case file in his hands.

  “Thank you for coming in, Miss Appleby. I’ve got your mobile number and you’ve got mine. I don’t mind you keeping your ears open for me, but be smart about how you handle yourself. Remember, someone inside that show may be a killer.”

  “I’ll be careful,” Molly promised and then hurried down the hall to where her mother waited, tapping her large, narrow foot with impatience.

  Charity dropped the Applebys off in front of the hotel and drove off to park the car. Once they were inside the mammoth lobby, Clara dragged herself off to see how Darlene was faring while Molly called to check in with Carl.

  Digging her cell phone out of her leather tote bag, she decided to call Mark first and update him on the dramatic turn her Nashville assignment had taken. After being nearly swallowed whole by one of the plush armchairs in the lobby, Molly dialed his home number only to reach his answering machine. She then tried his cell, but also received only voice mail. Finally, she called the main number of the Collector’s Weekly offices.

  Though no receptionist would be on duty on a Saturday afternoon, several staff members were likely to be hard at work on the next edition’s layout or trying to make article deadlines. During the weekend, the unspoken rule the staff members lived by was to ignore the ringing phone, but if Clayton, the head of the ad department were around, he wouldn’t be able to resist answering. Clayton, the self-dubbed “Queen of Classifieds,” lived for gossip, and he was a master at gleaning the most intimate information from any number of hapless callers.

  Luckily for Molly, Clayton was working and after half a dozen rings, he picked up the main line. “Molly, my love!” he crooned into the mouthpiece. “How are things in Dolly Parton Land?”

  Knowing that she would make Clayton’s day, Molly gave him a quick rundown of how her trip had gone steadily downhill since salesman Al had sat down next to her on the plane on Friday.

  “Poor, poor Tom!” Clayton wailed after she told him about the tragic morning. “He was such a dear man. So gentle, so easygoing, and he always bought half-page ads.”

  “Maybe he should have stuck with the quarter-page size,” Molly commented and then told Clayton about Tom’s negligence in regards to giving his ex-wife money.

  “I never knew such excitement was to be found at Heart of Dixie.” Clayton sighed. “I never get to go anywhere.

  Here I slave, day after day, and am forced to live vicariously through you.”

  “Please, Clayton. You’re the epicenter, the very heart of Collector’s Weekly. The whole paper revolves around you.

  Why,” she teased, “I think it would simply shut down if you ever quit.”

  “Oh, stop! I can’t take the flattery!” he squealed happily. “Now, tell me all about the gay lords staying at Gaylord’s Opryland.”

  “I’m sure there are a few, but no one is good enough for you, Clayton.”

  “Thank you, precious, but not to worry! I met a real prince last night at the wine bar on Franklin Street.”

  “Oh?” Molly said, feeling groggy in the soft lap of the expansive chair.

  “Ye-es. I overhead him say that he worked for a folk art dealer and so I sashayed a little closer.” Clayton paused for effect. “And then I mentioned where I worked and he turned to look at me and sweet baby Jesus! He was so beautiful—a bronze, black-haired, thirtysomething Alexander the Great who is interested in art and antiques. You know,” he trilled,

  “I think his boss is actually at your show!” Molly glanced at her watch. It was time to wrap it up with Clayton. “That’s great. Are you two going to go out?”

  “I guess,” Clayton replied with a sulk in his voice. “If I can get past his preference for both guys and dolls.”

  “If anyone can sway the boy, it’s you. Now, if you don’t mind me changing the subject . . . have you seen Mark around there today?”

  “Indeed I have. He has some top secret meeting with Sinister Swanson.”

  This was news to Molly. “Be a dear and patch me through to his office, would you?�
��

  “Anything for you . . . as long as you promise to call me when there are juicy developments in your latest murder case. Toodles!”

  Clayton punched in a few numbers and successfully transferred her to Mark’s office line. Molly drummed her fingers against her thigh as it rang, once, twice, and then three times with no answered. She began to grow frustrated.

  At last, on the fifth ring, Mark picked up rather breathlessly.

  “What are you doing at the office today?” Molly asked with more abruptness than she had planned.

  “Well hello to you, too,” Mark responded huffily in lieu of his usual mixture of calm gentleness. “I was just on my way out the door.”

  This was not how Molly had intended for their conversation to begin, yet instead of apologizing, she acted like a petulant child. “Look, I’ve had a pretty tough morning. I could use a kind ear right now if you’re not too busy.” There was a pause on the other end as if Mark were trying to control his temper. “I never said I was too busy.” He expelled a loud breath. “What’s going on in Nashville?” Still pouting, Molly almost didn’t tell him about Tom, but she found it impossible to keep quiet. After all, Mark couldn’t fret over her well-being unless she provided him with a colorful tale about the discovery of the dealer’s body. Adding several embellishments, all of which were meant to paint her in a better light, Molly finished talking and awaited Mark’s reaction. She never heard it, for Carl Swanson suddenly burst into his office and started raging so loudly in the background that Molly felt as though she were actually in the room.

  “You’re now officially five minutes late for our meeting!” their boss howled at Mark. “Get off that phone and talk to me! I’m not through with you yet!”

  “Uh . . . I’ll call you back later,” Mark told Molly hastily and then hung up.

  The dial tone blared in her ear until Molly snapped her cell phone shut with annoyance. What was going on back in Durham? Carl didn’t usually lose his cool with Mark.

  Most of the personnel working below Swanson were the recipients of his foul temper, crass remarks, or belittling e-mails, but Carl was completely devoted to the paper and was an excellent editor. Most of his employees often compared him to a circus bear stuck in a cage. He had a fierce growl and could expose an impressive mouthful of fangs, but it was mostly show. At first, Swanson had intimidated Molly, but after two years of working under him, she had grown accustomed to his irascible nature.

  “Damn you, Swineson.” She grumbled one of his many monikers as she made her way back to the room where Heart of Dixie was being held. “What are you up to?”

  Chapter 7

  “ The President [Franklin Delano Roosevelt] needed a support. It was still an era when a fashionable man wore a cane, and presenting a disabled person with a walking stick was not considered any way a faux pas.”

  Catherine Dike, Canes in the United States

  If Molly thought her mood was sour, it was nothing compared to that of Howard Rose. He stood to the side of a group of shoppers browsing through the Country Doctor. The New York dealer was shaking his fist at Darlene as she cowered behind a mute and astonished Clara.

  “I am going to remove that chest from this booth!” Rose said forcefully as Molly grew close enough to overhear. “It will be on a truck heading to my shop in Manhattan by the time the sun goes down tonight. The piece is rightfully mine!”

  “Well, you can’t have it,” Darlene whimpered. “I heard Mr. Barnett tell you that he had all of the documents necessary to prove that it was his to sell.” Rose leaned his powerful body toward Darlene. “And where are these ‘so-called’ documents?” He briefly softened his tone and addressed Clara. She eyed the dealer with a mixture of curiosity and dislike. “Look, I’m sorry Tom is dead, but he couldn’t show any papers to me yesterday either.

  Time’s up. The chest comes home with me.” Clara patted Darlene gently on the arm. “Why don’t you take a break, dear? That’s why I came—to spot you for a bit.” She guided the flustered assistant a few feet away from Rose and said, “I’ll find out why Mr. Rose believes he has a claim to the chest. Don’t worry; I’ve had a lot of experience dealing with his breed of pompous buffoon. Go get some fresh air or a bite to eat and let me handle him.

  No man’s bullied me in decades.” Darlene nodded gratefully and departed, but not before shooting a look of disgust in Howard’s direction.

  Molly sat in Darlene’s folding chair in order to obtain a front row seat for what was undoubtedly going to become the equivalent of a gladiator match. Clara turned her attention back to the arrogant dealer and Rose sized up his opponent in return. He gave the impression that he viewed her as an easily vanquished foe.

  “And you are . . . ?” Rose glowered at Clara.

  Unruffled, Clara extended an elegant hand. “Clara Appleby. I’m also in the business, but I’m not involved with this show. I’m here solely as a buyer,” she added importantly. “However, I work for an auction company and have quite a bit of experience in the legalese of property ownership.” She eyed Rose critically. “I assume you have documents in your possession alleging that the chest is yours or belongs to one of your clients.”

  Rose paused, his eyes darting between the painted dower chest in its shadowy corner and his tall and slender female adversary. “This chest most recently belonged to Mr. and Mrs. Chandler McPhee of New Jersey. They bought the chest together, using funds from a joint checking account.

  Since that time, the McPhees divorced and Mrs. McPhee sold the chest without my client’s permission.” Rose continued, his tone laced with irritation, “Mr. McPhee is getting remarried and he wants the chest for his new home. And he will get it, since he has the legal right to it.”

  “So your client, Mr. McPhee, would like to acquire the chest and then have you sell it for a handsome profit, do I have this right?” Clara asked, clearly struggling between a desire to discover all of the facts and wanting to thumb her nose at Rose.

  “Your deductions are most astute,” Rose replied acidly.

  Clara remained unfazed by his unpleasant mannerisms.

  “Do you have a copy of the couple’s divorce settlement?” she asked.

  Rose was quickly losing patience with being cross-examined. “I have the bill of sale from when the McPhees purchased the chest. It was prior to the divorce. I also have a copy of the cancelled check from their joint account.

  Mrs. McPhee, who made no significant contributions to said account being that she was a homemaker, had no right to sell the chest.” His black eyes narrowed. “Much like you have no right to interfere in my business.” Clara bristled. “If Tom said he had documentation granting him permission to sell this piece of furniture, then he was telling the truth. Everyone knew what an honest man he was.” Clara put her hands on her hips. “I’m sure Mrs.

  Barnett will be most interested in making sure that the chest is sold through the Country Doctor. After all, I’m certain Tom will have bequeathed his business to Charity and their two children. You’ll have to take this matter up with her. Luckily,” Clara smiled acerbically, “you can find her working in the All That Glitters booth. It’s two rows back, near the set of fire doors.”

  Rose flushed and growled menacingly. “I hardly need another infuriating woman getting in my way! Antiques are truly a man’s business. We get things done without all of this useless chitchat. And speaking of men—though I use that term loosely in this case—Geordie is an old friend of mine.” Rose’s expression grew smug. “After the show closes, he’ll simply grant me access to this booth and I’ll have my way. In fact, I won’t be surprised if he hires porters to carry the chest to my van. That redneck fairy can’t afford to have me blackball his precious show.” Clara refused to allow herself to be baited any further.

  Instead, she examined her petal-pink nails in a bored fashion. “I made the acquaintance of a rather interesting man today. It so happens he is a detective with the Nashville police. I’m sure he’d be very interested in learni
ng of your heated conversation with Tom yesterday.” Rose barked a dismissive laugh. “Nice try, doll, but I told Butler all about our argument over the chest. He and I had a nice little chat this morning.” He laughed again. “I also dropped a few names at the time. See, Governor Robertson and I go way back. He’s one of my best clients. In fact, I’m having dinner at the mansion tonight, so Butler’s not going to give me any trouble. No trouble at all.”

  “But if you suddenly take off with the chest, you might become a more serious suspect. The police are having a difficult time coming up with a motive. Why would anyone want to kill Tom? Perhaps someone needed him out of the way in order to made a profit.” Clara walked over to the blanket chest and ran her palm slowly over its lovely surface. “If you steal this piece, which is effectively what you’d be doing, I bet you wouldn’t make it a mile down the road.”

  “No one will stop me.” Rose clenched his fists and then released them, smoothing aside a wave of blue-black hair from his perspiring forehead. “Not some hillbilly cop or a gaggle of nosy, insignificant, middle-aged women. Barnett, that no-name, hick dealer is dead and this chest is going to be sitting in the front window of my Fifth Avenue shop by Monday. I would caution you not to interfere.” To emphasize his point, Rose slapped a broad palm onto the surface of a nearby display glass. Spidery cracks sprang across the surface but the glass did not break. Both Molly and her mother jumped in alarm. “Tell the widow Barnett she can bill me for that.” Rose gestured at the damaged case and strode off.

  “I most certainly will!” Clara retorted lamely and then sank down onto a low stool to the left of the chest. “This piece must be worth more than I thought,” she said, staring intensely as the dower chest. “I was thinking somewhere in the neighborhood of fifty thousand dollars but if Howard Rose flew down here to get it, it’s got to be a six-figure item.”