“I don’t like that man.” Molly exhaled, feeling as though she had held her breath throughout the entire exchange between Clara and Rose. “What are we going to do?”
“I’m going to tell Charity. We’ve got to get into Tom’s hotel room and find his inventory book. If there are any documents we can use against Rose that would make this whole trip worthwhile for me. I’ve always hated that pompous son-of-a-bitch.” She tore her eyes off the chest.
“When Rose first started out, he was just another small-time dealer. Then, he inherited a bunch of money from a distant relative and reinvented himself. He changed his name from Hubie Rosenstein to Howard Rose and began to buy up a bunch of prime pieces in order to open his Fifth Avenue store.”
“Uh-oh. I’m sensing he outbid you on something,” Molly guessed.
“Ironically, it was a miniature painted blanket chest from Berks County, Pennsylvania. Not unlike this one, but with simpler designs that were only on the front. Rose arrived at the auction late—in a stretch limo, if you can believe that—and even though the bidding was over and everyone had heard the gavel fall, the lot was reopened.
Rose went home with my chest. I’ll never forgive him or that swindling auctioneer for depriving me of that wonderful piece. It was going to form the top tier on my stack of blanket chests in the back bedroom.”
“I like the North Carolina miniature in red paint you have there now,” Molly offered by way of comfort.
“Thank you, cupcake. Oh, here comes Darlene. You fill her in on that jackass Rose and I’ll go talk to Charity.
We’ve got to get inside Tom’s room, and pronto.” Molly provided Darlene with a succinct summary of Clara’s encounter with Howard Rose. Despite her efforts not to, she found herself yawning repeatedly.
“You poor thing.” Darlene looked at her with sympathy.
“You’ve had a long day with a really horrible start. And here I’ve been so worried about myself. How are you holding up?” Molly covered another yawn with her hand. “I think I’m in need of some caffeine. I’m going to go get a coffee for myself and my mother. Can I get you anything?” Darlene glanced at her watch. “Well . . . if I have coffee in the afternoon, I’ll be up all night. But I doubt I’ll be able to sleep anyway, so I’d love a cup. Black with lots of sugar, please.”
As Molly headed for the exit, she noticed that the crowds shopping Heart of Dixie had thinned. The show was only open for another hour and the dealers looked either bored or weary as stragglers of disinterested customers fingered their wares while talking on cell phones or attending to shrieking infants in strollers.
Only one more day and the show’s over, Molly thought.
And then someone will have gotten away with murder.
There was a short line at the hotel’s cafeteria-style restaurant called Rachel’s. Molly looked at the selection of pies and cakes on display with interest. How can I be hungry after such an enormous lunch, she wondered and silently fumed at the woman in front of her as she rearranged pieces of chocolate cake in order to get to the largest one.
“Gotta git the best bang for my buck,” the woman drawled to the man on her right.
Molly recognized the man’s awkward gait and the splint of his right hand. It was Dennis Frazier, the folk art dealer from Chapel Hill. He returned the woman’s smile but said nothing as he selected a bag of pretzels and a bottle of water and tucked both items into a bag slung over his left hip.
Using his cane for support, he limped over to the cashier and retrieved his wallet from the same bag. Molly was impressed with how well he managed his double handicap.
At last, the woman selected her piece of cake, thumped it down on her tray, and bustled off. Molly returned her attention to the row of white chocolate–raspberry cheesecake slices.
After paying for the three coffees and the cheesecake, Molly decided to eat her treat in the cafeteria for two reasons. The first was that she wanted a moment of peace and quiet in the midst of such a tumultuous day. The second was that she didn’t want to listen to Clara’s chiding for having such a filling (and fattening) snack when the cocktail and dinner hours were growing near. It only took Molly one bite of delectably creamy cheesecake for her to determine that it was worth it to be less hungry at dinner in order to satisfy her immediate food cravings.
Licking the last dollop of raspberry topping from her fork, Molly stood and arranged the coffees in a takeout tray. She had eaten her cheesecake so quickly that there were still plumes of steam rising out of the cups. As Molly snapped lids onto the cups, she noticed Dennis Frazier seated at a nearby table. He was struggling to open his bag of pretzels. Trying not to stare, Molly watched the dealer hold the bag with his good hand while trying to yank the top open with his teeth. His right hand remained useless within its splint, its fingers curled into a claw. It was hard to observe the dignified man desperately ripping at the snack-sized bag. In the end, his attempts were unsuccessful and he tossed the bag onto the table in frustration.
“Can I give you a hand with that?” Molly asked and then clamped her fingers over her mouth. “Oops, I’m sorry.
I didn’t mean to word it that way,” she added in embarrassment.
Dennis Frazier smiled. “Don’t worry, I’m not that easily offended. I’d be glad for your help, but I think this bag has been sealed shut with Krazy Glue.” He handed her the pretzels.
Molly struggled to pull the seams apart but couldn’t.
Looking around, she grabbed a clean fork from a nearby table and jabbed the tines through the end of the bag. It tore raggedy, ejecting several pretzels onto the table surface in front of Dennis. He laughed. “I’ve never been assaulted by flying carbohydrates before. Thank you, Miss . . .”
“Molly Appleby.” Molly extended her right hand so that Dennis could shake it using his left one. “I was in your booth yesterday. The folk art you’ve got displayed is wonderful.” Dennis bit into a pretzel, pleased. “Thank you. It has been the passion of my life. I think I live a bit vicariously through those paintings.” He pointed at his cane. “Especially the ones that have kids running and playing in them.” Molly recalled seeing Dennis’s cane during her brief visit to his booth yesterday. She had believed that his beautiful walking aid had a plain knob for a handle, but she could now see that she had been mistaken in her first impression. What she took for an ivory knob was actually a carved, masculine-looking hand. “Is that a folk art cane?”
“You could say that.” Dennis lifted the cane onto the table so that she could have a closer look. “It’s a scrimshaw piece, made by a sailor on a whaling ship in the early 1800s.”
“Scrimshaw is made from whale bone, right?” Dennis nodded. “Yes. This cane has a shaft fashioned out of the whale’s jawbone. You can’t see any of the bone due to these brown strips wound around the entire shaft.
Any guess as to what the material is?” Molly took a seat and leaned over the cane. “I hope it’s not a bull’s penis.” She laughed. “Someone brought one of those canes into my friend’s auction gallery to sell a few months ago. Yours looks a little less petrified—more like a kind of wood.”
“It’s actually baleen—bones from the inside of a whale’s mouth. Sailors embellished scrimshaw canes with it, but to wrap every part but the handle in baleen is unusual.”
“May I?” Molly asked before running her hand along the smooth material. She examined the bone handle carved into a closed hand. An object resembling a bird’s head poked out from inside the tight fist. The eyes above the long, snoutlike beak seemed to be bulging, as if the force of the hand’s curled fingers was suffocating the hapless bird.
Dennis pointed at the bird. “That’s an albatross—the bird most feared by seaman in days gone by.”
“As in Rime of the Ancient Mariner?” Molly tried to remember the eighteenth-century poem. “I haven’t read that since freshman year in college, but I know that the mariner killed the albatross and was horribly punished for his deed.
The rest of the ship�
��s crew hated him and they all died by the end while he was doomed to live with his remorse.” She frowned, perplexed. “With that kind of harsh lesson about animal rights, why would another sailor, one who was almost a contemporary of Coleridge’s, carve an albatross being strangled?”
“The seamen also believed that albatrosses were the harbingers of fierce storms as well as the reincarnations of drowned mariners. It was thought most unlucky to kill such a bird.” Dennis touched the bone beak of the albatross lovingly.
“Then this cane is really unusual.” Molly stared at it in wonder. “What kind of man would tempt the fates like that? He might have made enemies among his crew just by carving this.”
“He would certainly have stood apart among the other crewmen.” Behind his wire-rimmed spectacles, Dennis’s gaze grew misty. “Imagine living on that whaling vessel day after day after day. No land in sight. No entertainment but sharing the same old stories or working on pieces of scrimshaw. Could you imagine the boredom, the isolation, the feeling of being trapped on the open water with the same people? People you might not even like, but you can’t escape from?”
Molly allowed herself to get caught up in the folk art dealer’s vision. “And then, finally, a whale is spotted on the horizon and the hunt begins.”
Dennis turned his eyes back to her and smiled warmly.
“Yes. Then the men would have felt the life run in their veins again. They would have believed that they had a purpose once more.”
“Yet this sailor,” Molly gestured at the cane, “must have been pretty unhappy with his chosen profession. This cane is the complete opposite of the lesson from Ancient Mariner.” She studied the bone bird sadly. “You can almost sense the life draining away from the albatross. Its eyes look . . . tortured.”
“I think you’re right,” Dennis murmured. “The sailor who made this was probably an angry fellow. Angry but patient. It takes a long time to do carving this intricate.” He took a drink of water and then remained silent. A glum look had appeared on his face.
Noting the change in Dennis’s demeanor, Molly suddenly remembered that the man she was talking to had once been accused of murder. Had she said anything to offend the folk art dealer with her references to the albatross being killed? She hoped not. He seemed like such a gentle, lonely person.
“Well, I’d better get these coffees back before they get any more tepid.” She stood. “It was nice talking to you.” Dennis met her eyes and nodded. “And you. It’s been a long time since a stranger—particularly such a lovely looking woman—struck up a conversation with me.” He grinned ruefully. “Between my rather infamous history and my physical disabilities, people tend to avoid me. If they do talk to me, they are so overpolite that there’s little sincerity in what they say. Mostly, I’m the guy everyone whispers about but no one talks to.” He looked down at the cane. “Shows are the worst. This is when I miss my wife the most.”
As Molly picked up her carryout tray she struggled to think of something appropriate to say. Then, she was struck with an idea. “I’d like to interview you for Collector’s Weekly sometime. I write for them, and our offices aren’t too far away from your gallery in Chapel Hill. Would you be up for it?”
Dennis hesitated. “My gallery is actually in my house. I have a part-time assistant who handles the minutia of my business. I’m usually on the road doing shows or visiting the artists I buy from. I have one room where I display sale pieces and almost all of my clients visit me by appointment only. So you see, I’m afraid it’s not a very interesting setting.”
“You could be selling that kind of art tacked onto pieces of cardboard and it would still be fascinating,” Molly countered good-humorously. “And I’ll bring pretzels.” Dennis issued a brief chuckle. “How can I resist such an offer? Here’s my card. I’d be delighted to enlighten anyone about our talented southern folk artists.” Molly slipped his card in her pant pocket and waved goodbye. She had a strong feeling that Dennis was watching her as she walked away. He’s probably thinking that no one else will talk to him for the rest of the show unless they’re interested in an item he has for sale. Poor man.
By the time she returned to the Country Doctor, she had no further opportunities to brood about the folk art dealer.
Clara and Charity were standing next to one another, their eyes sweeping the crowd as if looking for someone. Clara looked eager and excited, but the look on Charity’s face was darker. There was something hostile and a little bit desperate about the way her eyes raked the room. Molly became a bit flustered when she discovered that she was the person being sought.
“Good Lord, Molly! How long does it take to get coffee?” Clara demanded crossly as Molly placed the tray down in front of Darlene. She barely had time to hand off a cup to Tom’s assistant and retrieve the physician’s cane she had purchased earlier, now carefully padded in layers of tissue paper and bubble wrap, before Clara was yanking her backward by the arm.
“Come on! Charity’s gotten a hold of Tom’s room key and we’re going to find that inventory book.”
“I’ve got to make sure that chest doesn’t go anywhere!” Charity said feverishly. “Your mother told me what it’s worth and if Tom owns it outright, then I’ll own it outright and its sale might just let me keep my house.” She rubbed her hands together and her eyes were lit with a spark of maniacal zeal. “I’ve got to have those documents! I’ve just got to!” Molly took a step away from her, sensing that she had misjudged Charity as being simply a harmless widow and protective parent. At that moment, Molly saw her in a completely different light. Charity stood like a black panther poised to strike, her face set with determination and anger. If her nails suddenly mutated into four-inch, razor-sharp claws, Molly wouldn’t be the least bit surprised.
“Madam! Get a move on,” Clara ordered.
Suddenly, Charity smiled, shirking off her darker persona as if she were stepping out of a costume. “Could you come up to Blacksburg and visit?” she teased Clara. “You could really help me get the kids to school on time in the morning.”
Clara harrumphed and marched onward.
* * *
Tom Barnett’s room did not have the balcony overlooking the lush gardens as Molly and Clara’s did. The interiors were identical, but his view was of the outside grounds and the soothing white noise of the waterfall did not permeate within.
As with most dealers, Tom had reserved the room for four nights: Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. By Monday morning, he had planned to be on the road, heading back to Blacksburg, Virginia. Glancing inside the closet, Molly noted two pairs of pants; one black and one khaki, and two button-downs. One was a crisp white and the second was a buttery yellow with narrow blue pinstripes. A pair of black loafers was lined up beneath the pants and a black belt hung from one of the hangers like a limp asp. In addition to the clothes, Tom had slung a navy windbreaker over one of the pant hangers.
“Do we know what the inventory book looks like?” Molly asked.
Charity, who was examining the zippered compartments of Tom’s suitcase, paused in her search. “It’s actually a three-ring pocket binder. It’s impossible to miss because it’s neon orange. Tom bought a few cases of them years ago. He chose that color so that he’d be able to find the book immediately if a client or one of his assistants had a question about one of his items.”
“What information did he keep on each item?” Molly queried, opening the small safe inside the closet. It was empty. There was no orange book hidden within the pile of extra pillows or stashed behind the ironing board either.
“Oh, let’s say he bought a table from your mom’s friend, Lex Lewis,” Charity answered. “Tom would keep the receipt from the auction as well as the item’s description from the auction catalog. He would mark down the new Country Doctor sale price, the discount he was willing to offer, and how much it eventually sold for. He would also write the date of sale and the method of payment.
Shoot, he practically kept a FBI profile on each
customer.
Basically, no detail about that table was too small to exclude.”
“Must’ve gone through a lot of orange binders,” Clara said, riffling through the drawers beneath the TV cabinet.
“He made a new one every quarter. The old ones are all in boxes at the shop.” Charity sighed. “Nothing in the suitcase. I’ll check the nightstands.” Molly moved over to the desk. Tom had put nothing personal inside its drawers. The only object that belonged to him was a hardback copy of John Updike’s latest novel, Terrorist. She headed into the bathroom as Clara and Charity began to peer under the mattresses of the two queen beds.
“Check the toilet tank,” Clara ordered.
“Are you serious?” Molly said in disbelief but one look from her mother had her easing back the porcelain lid. “No notebook, Ma, but I found a kilo of cocaine and a wad of hundred-dollar bills stashed inside a Ziploc.”
“Very funny,” Clara grumbled. “Where else could he have hidden it?”
The three women looked around the room. “We could take the cover off the air vent and look in there,” Clara suggested.
Clara frowned. “We’d need a screwdriver.”
“Nah. I’ll use Tom’s toenail clippers,” said Charity as she disappeared into the bathroom. When she came back, she was brandishing the grooming tool. “See? There’s a nail file on one end.”
But the space within the duct lacked any hidden objects.
The women exchanged crestfallen looks. “What about his van?” Molly asked.
Charity shook her head. “I’ve already checked. I have a spare key on my ring in case Tom locked himself out of the van, which he did at least twice a month and usually when he was supposed to be bringing one of the kids somewhere.”
“Maybe the police have the binder,” Clara wondered aloud. “After all, they interviewed both Howard Rose and Darlene. They must be aware that the inventory book might prove that Rose was willing to kill for that dower chest.”
A Deadly Dealer Page 10