“And its provenance?” Boyd asked casually, his eyes riveted on the cane.
Carter grinned. The fish was hooked. “I bought it from the La Fleur family here in Atlanta. Dr. La Fleur had an impressive collection of French furniture that once belonged to his grandfather. He was a doc, too. Lived outside of Paris and bought only the finest stuff. I’m sellin’ the bulk of those pieces in my winter sale since all of them are Continental.” He gestured at the cane. “Even though this cane isn’t American, it seemed to fit in better with this sale than with all that gilt-covered furniture. You Early American dealers wouldn’t overlook a primitive piece like this today, but it might get lost in the middle of fifty lots of Sevres porcelain come January.”
Boyd flipped through his catalog until he found the description for Lot 119. Carter and his staff had dated the cane as being crafted during the first half of the nineteenth century. “What are the eyes made of?” he asked.
Carter shrugged. “Beats me. I think they’re just tiny stones. The wood is ash. A dealer friend of mine said that the black stripes in the bark would have come from a lightnin’ strike while the tree was still livin’. Wild, huh?”
“Yes,” Boyd agreed, fascinated by the hostility captured in the snake’s snarling fangs and lidless white orbs. He put a check mark next to the lot number in his catalog and thanked Carter. He then bought a coffee from the gallery’s snack bar and took his customary seat in the fifth row. A few minutes later, Carter stepped up to the podium, reviewed the terms and conditions of the sale, and began to sell the first lot.
By the time Lot 119 was carried to the front of the room by a comely brunette who pretended to be spooked by the cobra’s bared fangs, the rhythm of the auction had been firmly established. Carter paused in his singsong description of the cane long enough to cast an amused glance at his theatrical helper, and then he opened the bidding. Boyd left his number paddle in his lap until the last second, when the bidding seemed to have reached a pinnacle at $250.
Just as Carter hesitated before assigning the item as
“sold,” Boyd flipped his number into the air, catching Carter’s sharp eye. In the next few seconds, Boyd fought off a folk art dealer from Birmingham and was able to capture the cane for $325. Satisfied, he sat back in his chair and took a sip of tepid coffee. He had more than fifty lots to wait until the Sheraton secretary would come up for sale.
After asking to borrow the phone in Carter’s office, Boyd dialed his home number. When Ellie, his wife of twenty-four years, picked up, Boyd proudly announced that he had found the perfect birthday gift for their son.
“What a relief!” She sounded delighted. “You know, he was talking about becoming an antique dealer over breakfast this morning. I know he’s has always enjoyed going to sales with you, but I had no idea he wanted to pursue this as a career. He said that’s why he chose Cornell. He wants to get a degree in fine arts and apply for an internship at one of the auction galleries in Manhattan.” She paused. “And here I thought he just wanted to be close to that girlfriend of his.” Boyd couldn’t have been more pleased. “A dealer! Chip off the ol’ block, huh? Well, I’ll be home for supper, so pick up a ribbon to tie around the cane and we’ll be all set. You buy a cake?”
“Of course not. It’s his eighteenth birthday, Boyd. I baked one. A Black Forest with mounds of extra chocolate frosting. Just come on home and you’ll see how good it is.”
“Hmm, I can almost taste it. See you in a few hours.” After paying a hefty sum for the Sheraton piece on behalf of his clients, Boyd placed the cobra cane on the back seat of his Jaguar sedan and headed north on Interstate 85
toward home. He popped the latest Beatles’s album, Revolver, into his eight-track player and sang along with the band to “Tomorrow Never Knows” as he thought about his son.
Enveloped in rosy visions of offering his son a partnership upon his graduation, Boyd drifted lazily along in the right lane, dropping to a few miles below the posted speed limit. The truck driver behind him scowled. He needed to get his load of steel pipes to the construction site in Wilmington before six or he’d receive no bonus. Swerving around the gold Jag, he shot the middle-aged driver a dirty look, but the man behind the wheel was oblivious, his lips moving along with a song.
Boyd was so busy fantasizing about having to order new letterhead for his business to include his son’s name that he failed to notice the dangerous appearance of the jiggling pipes on the flatbed passing him. Looking straight ahead, he never saw that one of the heavy ties holding the stack of pipes in place had broken off and was flapping loosely above the right-side pair of rear wheels. The truck barreled ahead of Boyd in a puff of black smoke and a roar of angry acceleration, moving toward a group of orange construction signs warning drivers to expect uneven pavement ahead.
The trucker glanced at his watch and cursed. He barely slowed as he hit the gravelly strip of incomplete asphalt and smiled with pleasure as his front tire took out one of the plastic orange cones lining the shoulder. He turned up his radio and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel in time to “Good Vibrations” by the Beach Boys. He never even noticed the pipes rolling off the back of his flatbed.
Boyd didn’t see them either until it was too late. He slammed his brakes as a wave of glinting metal smashed into his windshield, flattening the entire hood, biting deep into the roof of the sedan, and hammering with a powerful force over the surface of the trunk. By the time the Jag skidded violently through a line of orange cones and smacked into the guardrail, it was barely recognizable as a car.
His wife was later informed that Boyd had died almost instantly when the first pipe had penetrated the windshield and struck him full force. She was assured that it was unlikely that her husband had experienced any pain.
Days later, a state trooper arrived at their home with Boyd’s personal effects and a long, thin object cocooned in layers of bubble wrap. “Don’t know what this is, ma’am,” the trooper stated, solemnly handing over the package. “It was on the floor in the back. It’s probably broken to bits, but we thought you might want it anyway.” Ellie nodded and accepted the cane. Their son would open it later that night, his eyes blurring with tears. He would fall asleep with the stick in his arms and it would never leave his side as he grew into manhood.
The cane had survived the accident without a scratch.
Chapter 9
“At one time every gentleman ‘wore’ a cane, just like until most recent days, every man wore a tie . . . And as with ties the more affluent the man, the more canes he had.” Francis H. Monek, Canes Through the Ages
When Clara and Molly entered Findley’s Irish Pub, a wood-paneled, Victorian-style bar located within the Magnolia area of the hotel, it seemed like the majority of the dealers from Heart of Dixie were already well into their second or third round of drinks.
Grayson and Belinda were seated at one of the wooden tables, protectively guarding two seats as they sipped their cocktails. If Clara was surprised or displeased to see that Belinda would be a part of their evening with Grayson, she gave no sign of either. Upon seeing Clara, Grayson rose gallantly and pulled out a chair for her. The second she was seated, a waiter seemed to appear of out thin air. Grayson ordered Clara’s usual, a double Crown Royal with water.
“And for you, miss?” The waiter looked expectantly at Molly.
“What are you having?” Molly asked Belinda.
“The lady’s drinking a Nutty Irishman,” the waiter answered. His eyes wandered over Belinda’s face and then locked on the pale flesh of her cleavage, which was only partially restrained by a gold halter-top. Grayson coughed subtly and the young man blinked and returned his attention to Molly. “It’s Bailey’s, Frangelico, and Kahlúa with cream. Very tasty, miss.”
Molly ordered a Nutty Irishman and then sank deeper into her chair. Across the room, an attractive man in his mid-forties settled himself on a low, three-legged stool and began strumming on his guitar. For a moment, the room grew silent.
“I’m going to sing a few ditties for your pleasure,” the entertainer said in a winsome Irish lilt. “If you’ve got any requests, just write ’em on a dollar bill and put ’em in my pitcher.”
He then proceeded to sing a beautifully bittersweet rendition of “I Once Loved A Lass (The False Bride).” Molly felt her eyes misting as she listened to the romantic and mournful lyrics. Looking around the room, most of the female patrons were silently sipping their glasses of beer as they tried to blink back tears, especially after the musician closed his eyes and sang:
The men in yon forest they are asking me How many wild strawberries grow in the salt-sea And I answer them back with a tear in my eye How many ships sail in the forest.
Go dig me a grave that is long, wide and deep And cover it over with flowers so sweet That I may lay down there and take a long sleep And that’s the best way to forget her.
Molly recognized Becky Ross, the textiles dealer. She shared a table with Geordie Alexis. Becky kept rubbing at two marks on her neck that looked suspiciously like hickeys. Having been a teacher, Molly had seen dozens of necks blemished in such a fashion and from the far-off expression in Becky’s eyes, Molly was certain that the young quilt dealer had spent an adventurous Friday night in the arms of a man. She was also quite sure that the man was not her tablemate. Geordie was gazing at the singer with utter rapture, his lower lip wobbling as he lost himself in the emotion of the song. Every now and then he would cover his breast with his hand, as if the beauty of the singer and the music were too overwhelming for his heart to withstand.
Charity was there as well, seated at a small table with a plump blonde Molly assumed was Nell, the proprietor of All That Glitters. Tom’s ex looked drawn and haggard, her black hair hanging limply over the hand holding her drink.
In the farthest corner from the bar, Dennis Frazier sat alone with a pint glass and a plate containing a scattering of French fries, a book open in front of him. Meeting Molly’s eyes, he issued a timid smile and raised his glass to her. She smiled back, nodded, and then turned back to the singer.
“Madam.” Clara poked Molly’s arm. “Write a song down on a five for the poor man. How is he supposed to survive on a few ones?”
“If you can think of a song you’d care to hear,” Grayson said, removing a slick leather wallet from an interior pocket of his pearl-gray suit, “I’ll write it down for you.
This man is a true bard and he deserves more than he’s asked us for.”
Clara beamed mutely at Grayson, but if the debonair dealer was aware he had scored a big point with the woman seated beside him, he didn’t show it.
“I don’t know any Irish songs,” Molly confessed.
“Oh, I do!” Belinda drained her drink. “Let’s have something more lively, or this whole place will be sobbing.”
“I agree.” Grayson put a hand on top of Clara’s. “After what you two ladies have been through today—yes, the grapevine was abuzz by nine a.m. with the news about Tom Barnett and the details of his demise—it is our duty to make certain that your day ends on a more positive note than it began.”
Belinda seemed to be thinking. “I know just the thing!
Write down ‘Whiskey in the Jar.’ ”
Grayson wrote down the title and Belinda took the c-note up to the singer’s pitcher. When the musician saw the bill’s denomination and the lovely vision delivering it, he practically snapped a guitar string. After reading the requested song title, the performer insisted Belinda sit in front of him so that he could properly serenade her.
As the song commenced, Clara leaned toward Grayson and began to fill him in on their lunch with Charity, the interviews at the police station, and their failure to find the inventory book. Grayson listened carefully and never interrupted. For once, Molly didn’t have the energy to chime in or correct small errors in Clara’s narrative. With Belinda’s disappearance, Molly was feeling a bit like the third wheel.
Finally, Clara came to the end of their tale when Grayson’s dark blue eyes suddenly flew open wide.
“Wait a moment!” he exclaimed though Molly could barely hear him over the crowd, who had begun to clap in time with the musician’s jovial song. It was apparently a popular ditty as half of the audience members, including Belinda, joined in to sing the chorus: With me ring dum a doodle um dah
Whack for the daddy
Whack for the daddy
There’s whiskey in the jar
Molly had to strain her ears over the shouting crooners, but Grayson seemed to be gathering his thoughts. Finally, he raised his voice slightly so that it carried across the table to where Molly sat. “I overheard a snippet of conversation between Tom and Cornelius Leitts on Friday night that might help solve the mystery of the missing book.”
“You wonderful man, you.” Clara gushed. Her upper body was so close to Grayson’s that she was practically sitting in his lap. As if suddenly aware of the eagerness she was illustrating, Clara sat back, ramrod straight in her chair, but gave Grayson’s hand a little squeeze of encouragement. “Tell us everything!” she ordered, sounding more like her old self. Molly wasn’t sure if she could grow accustomed to Clara ogling Grayson like an enamored teenager drooling over the lead singer from the latest boy band.
“You must know Cornelius, Clara. He’s been doing this show for years.” Grayson subtly lifted his index finger in the direction of the bar. “That’s the man, sitting on the bar stool closest to our Irish singer.”
Clara swiveled her head and then frowned in confusion.
“The man in the white turtleneck with the checked jacket?”
“Yes,” Grayson answered.
“I thought his name was Cotton.”
Grayson chuckled. “That is his nickname, yes.” Molly observed the older man at the bar. He had a round, wrinkled face, wide and liquid-looking dark brown eyes, a thick neck, and the biggest ears Molly had ever seen. Tufts of white hair protruded from within the enormous external organs while feathers of silver and white hair stuck out at impossible angles on both sides of Cotton’s head.
“He looks like a koala bear,” Molly remarked unpleasantly as she reached for her glass, only to find it empty. Her stomach grumbled with hunger and the raucous Irish song was beginning to grate on her frayed nerves. She wished Grayson would make his point and then immediately regretted her negative feelings. It wasn’t Grayson’s fault that she was so tired.
“He does resemble that marsupial, as a matter of fact, but Cotton is one of Tom’s oldest friends. In fact, Tom used to work for Cotton when the older gentleman still had a shop in Blacksburg. He now operates solely from Charlottesville, I believe.”
“And his connection to the book?” Clara asked, raising a pair of impatient eyebrows.
“My apologies, fair lady. On Friday evening, I happened to be talking shop with Belinda in the Jack Daniel’s Saloon, the bar located in the Garden section of this luxurious compound. Being that most of the other dealers were on their way to the preview party, the bar was fairly empty.
I don’t particularly enjoy margaritas, so Belinda reluctantly agreed to keep me company so that I might enjoy a glass of Old No. 7.” He paused, grinned at Clara’s exasperated expression, and took a slow, satisfying sip of what Molly assumed was straight whiskey. “Tom and Cotton were talking at the bar. Actually, Tom was talking, in quite an agitated manner, and Cotton was listening. I don’t normally eavesdrop on conversations, but Belinda had gone off to powder her nose and I was just sitting there pondering over a business venture I will tell you about at a more appropriate time, so I heard a portion of what Tom said.” Clara had returned to the edge of her seat. Her glass was also empty. “Did he mention the inventory book?”
“The three phrases I heard Tom say to Cotton were ‘ Now I know how he got away with it, ’ and ‘ The proof is in this book, ’ and ‘ I’m afraid he saw me. ’ ” Grayson shrugged.
“None of that makes much sense to me, except for the mention of the book.”
“To
m must have given Cotton the book!” Clara exclaimed. “He obviously had it with him because he said
‘ this book.’ ”
“I think you’re right, Ma,” Molly agreed. “Tom was clearly scared of having the book fall into the wrong hands. The ‘he’ must be Howard Rose.”
Clara snorted. “Rose certainly seems capable of murder.” Grayson rubbed his neat, silver beard. “It is true that Howard is an impolite person and doesn’t seem to enjoy the success he has worked so hard to obtain, but I don’t think we can quickly conclude that he put an end to Tom’s life.”
“Let’s get back to the book,” Molly said. “I’d bet my collection of southern pottery that Cotton has it in his possession.” She stood.
“Where are you going?” Clara inquired.
“To talk to the human koala bear. I’m going to mention the book and see how he reacts.”
Clara shook her glass so that the melting ice rattled.
“Good idea. And while you’re up, gumdrop . . .”
“Yes, yes.” Molly sighed theatrically. “I’ll send a waiter back to the table.”
“Whiskey in a Jar” had finally come to a conclusion and Belinda rose, accepted a kiss on the cheek from the singer, and rejoined Clara and Grayson. Molly saw that a stool had opened up alongside Cotton and she hastily planted her bottom on it before anyone else had the chance. She ordered another Nutty Irishman and asked the bartender to send a server to where Clara sat looking forlornly at the ice in her glass. At that moment, Clara raised her eyes and looked at Molly expectantly. Molly wasn’t sure if her mother was more interested in her nip or in her daughter’s ability to extract personal and potentially dangerous information from a complete stranger.
Molly began with a polite hello, which Cotton returned.
Then, just as she was about to introduce herself, Cotton began patting the pocket of his suit jacket as if a large insect was trapped inside. Wearing a surprised expression, he withdrew a cell phone, which had clearly been set to vibrate. He looked at the phone as though he had no idea what to do with it and then awkwardly flipped it open and held it helplessly in his hand.
A Deadly Dealer Page 12