A Deadly Dealer

by J. B. Stanley

  “YOUR EAR, COTTON!” a voice on the other end screamed. “PUT THE PHONE UP TO YOUR EAR!” Molly was positive that the entire bar could have heard and followed the shouted directions, but Cotton was not quick to react. He moved the phone toward his gigantic right ear in a sloth-like motion and then whispered, “Yes?

  Hello? Is that you Esther?”

  “OF COURSE! CAN YOU HEAR ME?”

  “Yes, dear. You know I haven’t got the hang of these mobile phones.” Cotton flicked his eyes toward Molly and then pivoted his shoulder slightly, as if indicating that he’d like some privacy. Molly turned away and took out her own cell phone from her purse. She made a big show of pretending to dial a number and then held it up to her ear and began to nod and grunt as if she were listening to an incredibly interesting anecdote. Her ruse seemed to work, but just as Cotton began to talk to Esther, who Molly assumed was his wife, the Irish performer began to sing

  “Danny Boy” and it seemed like everyone in Nashville was joining in.

  “I said I’m managing, but barely!” Cotton had to talk louder in order to hear his own voice over the music. “Yes, I’m in a bar! Well . . . it’s been a long day! Didn’t you get my message about Tom Barnett?”

  There was a long pause. Molly began to laugh as though she had just heard the best joke in the world. “You are too much, Kitty!” she squealed, using her best friend’s name out of habit.

  “No, I didn’t tell the police,” Cotton resumed speaking, but he lowered his voice so much that if Molly hadn’t had what she called ‘teacher hearing,’ his next sentence would have been lost to her. “Because I promised Tom to keep the book. And now he’s dead, Esther! Murdered! I could be next!” A pause. “It’s hidden in our favorite piece. . . . What do you mean you’re on your way? When? That’s not a good idea, sweetheart. . . . Yes, I’ll see you in the morning. Yes, dear, I’m wearing it right now. . . . Okay, I’m going back to my room now. See you soon.”

  Molly heard the phone click shut and turned back toward the bar. She pretended to continue with her conversation as Cotton placed a ten-dollar bill next to his empty mug and nodded stiffly to the bartender. It was then that Molly noticed that Cotton was wearing some kind of neck brace. It wasn’t visible above the turtleneck, but its rigid outlines could be seen through the shirt’s thin white fabric.

  What happened to him? Molly wondered as she watched Cotton leave the bar. The antique business seems to grow more dangerous every year!

  Back at their table, Grayson was paying the tab while Clara polished off the remnants of her second cocktail. Belinda was nowhere to be seen.

  “Where did Belinda go?” Molly asked as she rejoined the group.

  Clara gestured at the musician. “They’re going to have dinner during his break. She went to change into something more casual. Did you find out anything?” Molly sank down into a seat. “Cotton has the inventory book. I’m sure of it.”

  “Really?” Clara breathed. “You’ll have to wait to tell us during dinner. It’s too loud in here and I’m hungry enough to eat the biggest steak on the menu.” Grayson held out Clara’s chair. “Now that’s the kind of dining companion a man likes to have. Shall we?” Molly didn’t think she could remain vertical for another second. “You two go ahead without me. I’m going to order some potato soup and a salad and go lie down.” She held up a hand to stop her mother’s protests. “Really, Ma. I’ve had it. Mr. Montgomery, thank you for the invitation and for the lovely dress as well.”

  Clara touched Molly’s cheek with concern. “Are you sure, honey?”

  “I’m sure. Cotton is going back to his room, too. It sounds like his wife is coming here in the morning. I’ll get up early and pay him a visit before she arrives and simply ask to see the inventory book. If he won’t show me, he’ll show Detective Butler.” Molly rubbed at her tired eyes.

  “Whatever secret is in there can keep until then.”

  “I hope so.” Clara gave her daughter a quick hug and then strolled away with Grayson.

  Molly watched them go. She felt a pang of loneliness and regretted her attitude during her short conversation with Mark. She decided to call him and apologize, but after changing into pajamas and filling her stomach with warm and creamy potato soup, sprinkled with cheese, chives, and bacon bits, she fell asleep with the television and all of the lights on. She didn’t even hear her mother return from her date with Grayson.

  Clara turned off the lights and pulled a blanket over Molly’s inert form. Her daughter was talking in her sleep; her lips moved rapidly and indiscernible words tumbled out. It was well after midnight before the room finally grew completely quiet, but neither woman slept soundly. Both of their dreams were plagued by images of orange notebooks, dower chests resting in the shadows, intimidating policemen, and a body nestled among a cluster of heady and exotic plants.

  Chapter 10

  “ European aristocracy of the seventeenth and eighteenth century, concerned that the common folk would rise against them or brigands would assault them, were among the first to order walking sticks with swords and daggers hidden within their shafts. Considering everyone was armed during this period, the fear seems reasonable.” Jeffrey B. Snyder, Canes and Walking Sticks

  Molly had been planning on sleeping late. On Sunday, Heart of Dixie didn’t open its doors until ten and most of the dealers expected a slow morning, being that the majority of the family-type shoppers who would frequent the show were likely to attend worship service first. Things wouldn’t pick up until after 1 p.m., when most of the customers had gone to church followed by the customary meal at one of the local buffet restaurants proudly serving piles of gravy-drenched roast, starchy vegetables, buttered rolls, and a bounty of desserts to its pious patrons.

  Molly attended church when she was home in Durham, but had no inclination to seek out the nearest Methodist church in Nashville. When she traveled, she preferred to spend Sunday mornings in a more hedonistic manner—drinking coffee, eating carb-loaded croissants or sugary pastries, and sleeping late. On this morning, however, there would be little opportunity for lounging in bed.

  “Is someone knocking?” Clara’s voice penetrated the stillness of the darkened room.

  Molly tried to swim to the surface of wakefulness and was helped along by the sound of polite, yet determined rapping on their hotel room door. Slipping her feet into her flip-flops, she shuffled to the door and peered out the keyhole. Wiley, the cute bellhop who looked prepared to ditch his job at any moment in order to hit the waves, stood on the opposite side, bearing a tray containing a carafe of coffee, two cups and saucers, and a silver-plated vase filled with a sprig of purple emperor sedum.

  “Good morning!” Wiley beamed. “I’m on dawn patrol today and I’ve got some fresh joe for ya. Compliments of the house. I hear your in-room coffeemaker went carrots yesterday. Bummer, huh?”

  Molly wondered if she were still asleep. Wiley wasn’t making any sense. “Carrots?” she asked. The tantalizing aroma emanating from the coffee tray convinced her she was not.

  “Oh, it’s surfer lingo. Means to get wiped out.” Wiley looked Molly up and down, smiling as he took in the sight of her pajamas, which were powder blue and covered with designs of perky, bright red cherries. “You know, like, by a wave?”

  “Gotcha.” Molly took the tray from Wiley’s hands, struggled to place the unwieldy item on the desk, and took the folded dollar bills Clara held out to her. She returned to the threshold and handed Wiley his tip. He flipped his white-blond hair out of his eyes as he accepted the money and then hesitated.

  “So . . .” he began.

  Molly looked at her watch. It was quarter after seven.

  Way too early to attempt any kind of civil conversation.

  “Okay, Wiley. Gotta run. Thanks again for the coffee,” she said, shutting the door on him.

  Clara had donned a tattered and well-loved cotton robe over her nightshirt and was already pouring the coffee.

  “ ‘We apologize for yesterd
ay’s inconvenience,’ ” she read from the typed note card propped upon the tray. “How nice. Let’s have our coffee out on the balcony.”

  “Hmm.” Molly closed her eyes and inhaled the heavenly scent. “It smells like hazelnut.” She poured herself a cup, added an artificial sweetener, mixed in liberal amounts of cream, and got comfortable on one of the chairs on the balcony. She listened to the soothing pulse of the waterfall and sighed as she sipped the fresh, hot brew. The coffee was delicious, but Molly felt as though she could easily return to bed and immediately fall back to sleep.

  “You were tossing and turning last night like a fish on the line.” Clara eyed her daughter over the rim of her cup.

  “I didn’t sleep too well either.” She frowned. “Here we are, enjoying free coffee on our balcony while Tom is gone, Charity has to deal with funeral arrangements and bills and lawyers, Darlene is on the verge of mental collapse, and we haven’t found any proof to use in fending off Howard Rose.” She fiddled with her teaspoon, absently stirring it around and around in her half-filled cup. “We’re going to have to turn that dower chest over to him if we don’t get our hands on that inventory book.”

  “I’m going to visit Cotton’s room as soon as I get dressed,” Molly assured her mother. “He’s got the book and hopefully, answers to all the riddles are inside.”

  “Well, you’d better get going. Cotton’s no spring chicken and you know how old people are early risers. Just think of your grandmother. She’s probably eating lunch right about now.”

  Molly took a final swallow of coffee and headed for the bathroom. As she was about to turn the shower on, there was another knock on their door. This time, Clara opened it.

  “More coffee!” she exclaimed. Molly joined her by the doorway. Another tray had been placed outside their door, but the delivery person had already departed. Molly retrieved the heavy lacquer tray and brought it inside.

  “They must have filled our complimentary order twice,” Clara suggested, brandishing another note card. “Only difference is that this one’s handwritten.” Molly took the note from Clara’s hand. “And the paper’s not the same. It’s not as thick as the first card.” She held the two cards side by side and then opened the top drawer of their desk. A selection of stationary rested within, including several note cards. The note on their second tray of free coffee had been written using such a card, but the first had not.

  “I can’t drink more than two cups right now anyway.” Clara waved a dismissive hand at the tray. “Why are you making that face?”

  Molly realized she was chewing on her bottom lip as she glared at the two cards. “Well, this second note is on the same paper we all have in our rooms and just reads ‘Compliments of the house.’ It seems a little odd to me.” She unscrewed the lid to the carafe and gave the steaming liquid a good whiff.

  “Does it smell like almonds, Ms. Christie?” her mother teased. “A little cyanide first thing in the morning?”

  “Hazelnut,” Molly replied with a scowl. She then determinedly picked up the phone and dialed the extension for room service. She explained the mixup and asked who had delivered the second tray, as she had had no opportunity to give the speedy employee a tip.

  “We only brought one service to your room, ma’am,” the room service manager said. “Wiley took it upstairs at five after seven. There must be some mistake about the second delivery. I’m sorry to have disturbed your morning.

  Just leave it outside the door and I’ll send someone to collect it immediately.”

  “Oh, it’s not in our way at all!” Molly gushed. “We may even drink it since it’s here. Thank you for your time.” She hung up.

  “They didn’t send this tray?” Clara asked, her curiosity piqued.

  Molly shrugged. “They have no record of doing so.

  Don’t drink any of that, Ma. I’m serious. Someone might have guessed that we’re conducting our own little investigation into Tom’s murder and they might not approve.” Briskly, she examined the note card one more time and then dropped it onto the tray. “I’m hitting the shower.” Five minutes later, Clara was knocking on the closed bathroom door. “Hurry it up, madam. I just called Cotton’s room and there’s no answer. That means we’ve got to find him wherever he’s having breakfast. You can shave your legs when you’re back in Durham.”

  Molly looked down at the streak of exposed skin on her left leg. She had just finished slathering her entire limb with shaving cream. How had her mother known?

  Clara showered as Molly partially dried her thick hair.

  Forgoing any makeup except for mascara and lipstick, she was ready and waiting while her mother finished brushing her hair.

  In the elevator, Molly hummed along with “Green-sleeves.” She felt refreshed and hopeful. All they had to do was locate Cotton within one of the hotel’s eateries. Molly doubted he would leave the immediate vicinity considering his wife was on her way. The elevator paused on the third floor and two young police officers in neat blue uniforms stepped on. Their grim faces and muteness instantly raised the hairs on Molly’s neck.

  “Excuse me,” she said to the female officer, who looked as though she was fresh out of high school. “Has something happened? Is everything okay?” The officer, whose last name was Reed according to the shiny badge pinned to her breast pocket, kept her expression completely blank as she answered, “Nothing to worry about, ma’am.” She then tacked on a weak smile, which never reached her eyes. The second officer was boyish-looking and skinny. He cast his eyes to the ground and studied the elevator carpet with intense interest. Molly was now positive that Officer Reed was lying when she claimed that there was nothing to worry about.

  “Detective Butler wouldn’t be here in the hotel right now, would he?” Molly persisted.

  The two officers exchanged surprised looks. “Why do you ask?” Reed inquired brusquely, her hand shooting out in order to hold the elevators doors open.

  Molly drew herself up. “I have some information to share with him regarding the death of Tom Barnett,” she declared importantly.

  “You do?” Clara squeaked and was quickly elbowed in the ribs by her daughter.

  Officer Reed hesitated, then removed her walkie-talkie from her belt and called for the detective. She asked Molly who she was and what information she had to impart. Molly gave her name and then insisted that she needed to tell Butler the information in person. Reed looked disgusted but transmitted the message to Butler, indicating that Molly and Clara should step out of the elevator. She then jerked her thumb toward the third-floor stairwell door. “We’ll wait for him here.”

  “What did you do that for?” Clara hissed as the elevator doors closed and all four were awaiting the arrival of Detective Butler. “Now we can’t look for Cotton.”

  “We will, just not this second. What if someone else has been killed?” Molly whispered back a bit frantically. “If the killer had been caught, why would these two act so bothered?”

  Clara shook her head and cast a sidelong glance at the officers. Reed was biting the nail on her pinky finger and the young male officer was shining the surface of his watch using his shirtcuff. Clara’s voice was filled with doubt.

  “Why assume someone was hurt? Butler could be here interviewing dealers about Tom. These two could just be bored.”

  “At least three cops are here in the hotel at seven-thirty in the morning?” Molly shook her head. “No way is this an interview. The killer is still out there, and as soon as I saw the look on the faces of these two . . .” She dropped her voice and discreetly gestured at the two cops. “I’ve seen that look before, Ma. It’s how people act when they’ve seen something shocking. I saw it on a dozen faces in Richmond when those poor people got an eyeful of that woman appraiser hung with her own scarf. Officer Reed over there has seen something she’s never seen before. You can tell by watching her eyes.”

  “Harrumph,” Clara snorted. “I didn’t realize you were an expert in physiognomy.” She crossed her arms over
her chest and tapped her foot with impatience. “Uh-oh. Here comes Butler and he doesn’t look overjoyed to see us.” Detective Butler approached like a locomotive traveling at full steam. His eyes were narrowed and his neck was tucked into his massive shoulders as he strutted down the hall in an unfaltering gait that was both hurried and menacing. Molly flinched and Clara drew a deep breath as if preparing for impact.

  “No wonder they call him Bulldog,” Molly whimpered.

  “I feel like he’s about to tear out my throat and leave me for dead.”

  Butler came to a sudden halt inches from Molly’s face.

  “I hope you have a good reason for needing to speak to me,” he growled. “I’m rather busy at the moment.” Molly knew it was unwise to provoke the already agitated detective, but she couldn’t help herself. “What’s happened?” Ignoring her question, Butler waved at the Appleby women to move farther away from the elevators as they disgorged a loud group of men wearing camo jackets and baseball caps bearing name brands like Stihl, Columbia Sportswear, and the Tractor Supply Company.

  “I’m gonna win the Gobbling competition this year,” one of the men boasted happily as he tipped his cap at the Applebys. “Y’all can just congratulate me right now. I’ve been practicin’ every day since last year. Wanna hear?”

  “No!” the rest of his assembly answered in unison.

  “Save it for the stage, Buddy.” An unshaven man chewing on a straw eyed the two police officers. He stopped in front of Butler and said, “These two purty ladies aren’t in no kind of trouble, are they?”

  “Not at all, sir,” Butler replied woodenly. “We’re just having a friendly chat.”

  “Sure, sure.” The man nodded at his fellows. “We’ve all had a few ‘chats’ with the law, too.” The men laughed.