“You girlies come get us if you need bail money, ya hear?
We’re down the hall in 344. Just listen for the turkey call.” Guffawing, they moved away and Butler turned his attention back to Molly.
“So? You have some information for me?” His blue eyes were steely, his stance impatient and authoritative. Molly felt her resolve to uncover what brought Butler back to the hotel quickly evaporating.
Quietly, she described the claim made by Howard Rose regarding the dower chest and the likelihood that Cotton was in possession of Tom Barnett’s missing inventory book.
“You see,” Molly said, warming up to her tale, “the book must contain some clue as to who killed Tom. I suspect that Rose is a likely candidate. He could make a fortune selling that dower chest and it would only increase his reputation within the antique world.”
Butler rubbed the bristles on his scalp and consulted his copy of the Heart of Dixie show brochure. “Who is Cotton? If he’s a dealer, he isn’t listed in here.” Clara stepped forward. “She’s referring to Cornelius Leitts. His nickname is Cotton.” She pointed at the map of dealer booths. “Here’s his booth, in the front left corner of the room.” Something flashed in Butler’s eyes. “And you believe Cotton has Tom Barnett’s inventory book hidden somewhere in his booth.” Molly refused to divulge the last and most significant piece of information. “Yes. That’s the impression I got when I heard him talking to his wife.”
“Why not in his room or in his truck?” Butler persisted.
“What exactly did he say to give you that impression?” His eyes bored into her.
“Um . . .” Molly pretended as though she were trying to remember.
“He said it was hidden in a piece,” Clara answered and then immediately added, despite receiving sullen looks from her daughter, “as in a secret compartment. That could only refer to a piece in his booth.”
“Thank you,” Butler said to Clara as Molly longed to throttle her mother. “We’ll get right on that. As soon as I get a hold of Mrs. Leitts.”
“Mrs.?” Molly stared at Butler, momentarily forgetting that Clara had ruined their best chance of beating out all other parties to the inventory book. “Why not just ask Cotton?” Butler said nothing, but once again the two young officers exchanged worried glances.
“He is unable to communicate at this time,” Butler offered by way of reply.
“Is that code for he’s dead?” Molly was suddenly angry with herself. “Last night he was a frightened old man in a bar. Oh God; if I had only called you right after I heard him on the phone he might still be alive!” She turned toward her mother. “I was just so tired.” Her eyes filled with tears.
“I wanted to be the one to solve this murder. Look what my selfishness has caused.”
Butler clamped a hand on her arm. “Wait a minute here!
Cotton’s not dead!” He lowered his voice. “Someone tried to kill him. He was stabbed in the neck but managed to call for help in time. He’s in the hospital in stable condition.” Molly covered her mouth as she pictured a gaping wound in Cotton’s neck. She could imagine the blood gurgling from his jugular like water bubbling in a fast-flowing stream as he clutched his throat in an effort to staunch the life-ending flow. How did someone survive a dire wound like that? “The neck brace!” she exclaimed with relief. “Is that what saved him?”
Butler nodded.
“Thank the Lord!” Molly rubbed her forehead as she continued to grapple with the alarming news. “But that proves my theory! Someone is desperate for that inventory book. In fact, the killer may have already found it! You’d better check out Rose’s room. If the book’s not there, then it’s still safely hidden in Cotton’s booth.”
“We’ll get on it right away,” was Butler’s mocking reply.
“Now if you’ll both—” the detective began his dismissal of the Appleby women.
“How?” Clara interrupted forcefully. “You can’t just pull apart antique pieces of furniture with hammer and screwdriver. You’ll need someone who is an expert at finding which piece could house the book and how to operate the release mechanism, if there is one.” She paused. “Is Cotton able to communicate?”
Butler rubbed his head again. “He can’t speak due to the location of the wound and he’s heavily sedated as well. He’s suffering from shock, but when he wakes up we’ll have him write where he hid the book on a piece of paper . . . if we don’t find it ourselves first,” he added with confidence.
“Your department could get sued for damages, you know,” Clara pointed out. Molly was afraid that her mother had gone too far. “You could wait until Cotton wakes up or Mrs. Leitts arrives while the killer is hundreds of miles away, drinking cocktails on some beach. Or we could help you . . .” She raised her voice suggestively.
“You’re an expert when it comes to secrets, I’m sure,” Butler said flatly. “Thank you, but my team will handle this situation from here on out. If we are unsuccessful in Cotton’s booth I’ll enlist my uncle Geordie to aid us. Now please! I have many things to do and I’m running short on time.”
Butler abruptly shook their hands and then disappeared into the stairwell. Suddenly remembering the suspicious coffee carafe, Molly ducked in after him. She called his name, but Butler had either sprinted down to the lobby or made a decision to ignore her yelling. Fuming, Molly raced down the stairs after him, growing more irritated by the realization that going down stairs was becoming almost as exerting as going up.
“I’m starting a diet when this trip is over,” Molly vowed to herself.
The lobby was crowded with visitors checking out, reading newspapers while sipping coffee, or milling about near the automatic doors as they waited to be led to a tour bus. Molly spotted Butler leaning against a wall behind an enormous potted fern. He had a cell phone sandwiched between his ear and his shoulder and was scribbling notes on a small pad. Molly squatted on the other side of the fern.
“You know the cause of death for Barnett?” she heard him say. “Hm. Never heard of that. What exactly is it, bro?” He listened for almost a full minute as Molly shifted nervously on her cramping legs. “Opium, huh?” Butler rubbed his head and then flipped his notebook open and made a few quick notations. “Ipecac and what? Got it. I seem to remember a bunch of old drugs in Tom’s booth but I don’t know if all three of those were in those boxes or glass jars the docs used in the old days. I’ll check it out, thanks.”
Molly froze as Butler flipped his notebook closed. “I’d better run. I’ve got two booths to search before the show opens. Uncle Geordie is already throwing a fit over Cornelius Leitts’s accident.” He paused. “You know Geordie.
He’s going to man Leitts’s booth himself . . . at least until Mrs. Leitts appears.” He sighed. “Too many suspects for my taste. Anyone could have stolen drugs from Tom’s booth. Yeah, thanks. I need a little luck right now.” As Butler hung up and shoved the phone into his front pocket, Molly jumped into one of the oversized chairs whose back faced Butler and grabbed a stray magazine. Hiding her face, she felt like some inept spy. Seconds later, she peered over the copy of AARP magazine featuring a smirking William Shatner on the cover, and noticed Clara searching around the lobby for her. Molly got up and waved her over.
“Is it too early to start drinking?” she asked her mother.
Her mother shrugged. “For me it is, but I suppose you could get a mimosa from one of the restaurants. Why?”
“Tom was poisoned with opium. It probably came from his own booth.”
Clara’s gray eyes widened. “From one of the apothecary boxes!”
“Or my physician’s cane!” Molly hissed. “It had an unopened vial of morphine pills hidden inside.”
“Who would bother with a cane when there were little bottles of pills readily available in the apothecary boxes? It would have been much more obvious if someone stood around removing vials from that cane.” Clara placed her hands over her flat stomach. “Now that we don’t have to rush to Cotton’s room, let�
��s get something to eat.” Molly was about to lecture her mother on her callousness when her own stomach rumbled like distant thunder. Over plates of eggs Benedict loaded with Hollandaise sauce, buttered rye toast, and bowls of fresh fruit salad garnished with mint leaves, Clara suddenly began to snicker.
“What’s so funny?” Molly asked crabbily. Thus far, the morning had not progressed very pleasantly.
“Oh, I know you’re cross because that detective didn’t appreciate your contributions to his case, but I’m sure he’ll need our help before the morning is out.” She took a sip of fresh-squeezed orange juice. “Geordie is a show promoter.
He’s a salesman who happens to produce some very successful shows. What he is not, is an expert on antique furniture. By the time we go back to the room, brush our teeth, and return to the show, that detective will be begging for us to help him find that inventory book.” Molly frowned. “Begging? Somehow I doubt it.” Clara wiped her lips with her napkin and leaned forward on her elbows. “You seem abnormally irritable today.” She raised an elegant eyebrow. “Are you quarreling with Mark?”
Molly fidgeted with her water glass. “You are!” Clara looked disappointed. “You’d better be good to that boy.
He’s a real catch.”
“Why are you assuming everything’s my fault?” Molly demanded angrily.
“Because I’ve met Mark. He’s easygoing and sensitive.
You are neither of those things.” Clara smiled at her daughter. “Now call him and make nice. I’ll meet you back in the room.”
Molly signed for their breakfast and then dialed Mark’s home number. She was put through to voicemail on both his home phone and cell. She dialed the main number at Collector’s Weekly. Even though she wasn’t expecting anyone to answer on a Sunday morning, she knew her mother was right: She couldn’t progress with her day until she had tried her best to reach Mark and reconcile with him. After only two rings, Molly was totally shocked when Carl Swanson answered the phone.
“Is that you, Carl?” Molly asked in disbelief.
“I only picked up ’cause I recognized your cell number, Appleby. Damned caller ID is good for something. You looking for your boyfriend, Mr. Marketing Director?” Molly gulped air. How did Swanson know she and Mark were involved romantically? She thought Clayton was the only person at Collector’s Weekly who knew that she and Mark were dating. “Um, no,” she lied and quickly told Swanson about Cotton nearly being killed. “I may have to stay an extra night. It looks like there are some developments in Tom’s case, but nothing definite.”
“So stay!” Swanson barked.
“It’ll cost us another night in the hotel room, meals, and the price of changing my plane ticket,” Molly explained, not wanting to be ranted at by Swanson upon her return for the extra expenses.
“I’ve got bigger problems than your hotel bill, girlie.” Swanson inhaled deeply and Molly could almost see the relief on his face as the nicotine filled his lungs. “You can stay in the presidential suite if you can get a hold of your boyfriend and talk him out of this ridiculous career change.”
“Career change?” Molly said, bewildered.
Swanson laughed until his laughter turned into a wet, hacking cough. “You don’t know, do you?” Molly clenched her fists with impatient indignation.
“Know what?”
“Your boyfriend quit. Seems like he’s got this crazy notion about going back to medical school.” Swanson gave a harsh chuckle. “Guess that’s the end of your fancy dinners out. He won’t have a penny to throw into a fountain paying med school tuition.”
“When did this happen?” she finally said.
“Friday.” Her boss sniffed. “Shoot, I can’t count on you to change Harrison’s mind if you didn’t even know. Guess he blindsided everyone. His office is already cleared out.
And after all I’ve done for him, he didn’t even give me two weeks’ notice.” Swanson paused. “You’d better rethink gettin’ too hot and heavy with someone who pulls a fast one like this.” He coughed. “Stay another night, Appleby, but make sure your sweet cheeks are in here first thing Tuesday morning. I’m saving the front page for your piece.” After her boss hung up, Molly listened to the dial tone until a recorded voice indicating that if she would like to make a call, she would need to hang up and try again, forced her back to reality.
Awash in a range of emotions that included hurt, anger, fear, and embarrassment, Molly headed back upstairs to her room. When she opened the door, she was more than ready to fall facedown on the bed and pour out her feelings of betrayal to her mother. But when she saw Clara seated at the desk with the physician’s cane on her lap and a pile of tissue paper and bubble wrap strewn about the floor, she found herself unable to speak.
Clara held one of the glass vials between her thumb and index finger so that it caught the light coming from a nearby table lamp. “It’s the vial of morphine pills.” Clara’s eyes flitted back and forth between the vial and her daughter’s ashen face. Then she stated the obvious. “They’re all gone, honey.”
Chapter 11
“ Some canes are thinner than a pencil. These are presumed to be ladies’ sword canes . . . When the wicked lady would withdraw it from her victim half his insides would come out with it. Isn’t that proof that the female is the more bloodthirsty of the species?” Francis H. Monek, Canes Through the Ages
“ Now I’ll be a suspect!” Molly wailed as she took the cane from her mother’s outstretched hand. “What an article me being arrested would make. I’m sure Swanson would promote me to senior staff writer then!”
“You always wanted to be a significant part of a big story.
Well, now here’s your chance,” Clara stated wryly. “By the way, the laudanum wasn’t touched—just the morphine.”
“Great. Thanks for the sympathy, Ma. Tom was killed by an opium overdose, remember? Morphine pills are a form of opium.”
Clara reclaimed the cane and stashed it behind the ironing board in the closet. “You have no motive, cupcake, but still, if I were you, I’d keep mum about the empty vial. If that detective gets his meaty hands on it, you might not have it back in time for Easter, let alone Christmas.” She paused. “And speaking of gifts for certain boyfriends, how did your tête-à-tête with Mark go?”
“He didn’t answer my calls, but you won’t believe what he—” Molly stopped as her cell phone began chirping. It was Mark.
“Oh, hello, Doctor,” Molly gave him an acerbic greeting.
“Uh-oh, Swanson told you,” Mark replied mournfully.
“Damn that man! I asked him to keep quiet until I could reach you.”
“Yeah, what a jerk!” she said, sarcasm dripping from her tongue. “And it was such a nice way to find out that my so-called boyfriend quit his job!” Tears sprang into Molly’s eyes. “I feel like such an ass! I’m your girlfriend and I’m the last person to know!”
“Molly, please,” Mark pleaded. “I know you’re upset, but this all happened so suddenly and I thought telling Carl first was the right thing, the professional thing to do.”
“Oh, I’m so glad you didn’t let your personal relationship interfere!” Molly ignored Clara’s frantic hand gestures in which her mother raked the air with a pretend pair of claws and hissed, implying that her daughter was acting like a cornered cat. “I thought residencies began in July, anyway. How can you just waltz in now, in October?” Molly demanded icily.
“Um . . .” Mark hesitated and then cleared his throat three times, something he habitually did when he was nervous. “Actually, I’ve been moonlighting at the hospital for a couple of months now. I, ah, wanted to see if I still wanted to become a physician. And I do.” He inhaled as if to gather strength. “It was a decision I wanted to reach without anyone else’s influence. I wasn’t trying to deceive you.” Molly’s shoulders slumped. It all made sense now!
Mark’s fatigue, his long hours spent reviewing medical textbooks, the dozens of hushed phone conversations from both home and the
office—Mark had been planning this move for a long time. “Why didn’t you just tell me what was going on?” Molly yelled, anger and hurt surging through her in a wave, rendering her incapable of giving Mark a chance to explain his actions. “I would have encouraged you.” She wasn’t sure that this was an entirely honest statement so she barreled on. “I guess I don’t mean enough to you to deserve to know about a major, life-altering decision.”
“Honey, listen. Can we just talk like two adults?”
“No we can’t!” she shrieked. “You’ve had plenty of time to talk to me about this! Months, apparently. Now you can wait until I’m good and ready, which might be next year sometime!”
Clara shook her head violently and mouthed, “Stop.” Refusing to meet her eyes, Molly marched into the bathroom and slammed the door.
“I’m doing this for us, Molly,” Mark jumped in while he had the chance. He didn’t realize that his soothing tone only incensed her further. “I want to provide a good life for us.”
Normally, such a tender remark would have put Molly at ease, but the stress of the previous forty-eight hours was beginning to bubble up within her. Unable to control herself, she felt pressure rising in her chest like hot steam preparing to burst from a pipe. She longed to scream, but instead, she lowered her voice to a seething whisper. “A good life is built on openness and trust, Mark. I guess those are two things you can’t provide for me and I need those more than money. Good luck at Duke, Doctor.” Molly stabbed at the End button on her phone until its text window turned black.
Erupting from the bathroom, she immediately pointed a warning finger at her mother. “Not one word, Ma. I mean it.” Molly went over to the mirror, mindlessly fluffed her hair, tugged her ruby-colored turtleneck down over her round hips, and exhaled. “Come on. We’ve got to get that inventory book. I need to see whether Tom listed the contents of the vials inside my cane and that they were full and unopened. And it’s more important than ever that I help solve this case. Not just for Tom, but for me, too. I want that promotion! If Mark’s going to quit his job to become a doctor, then I’ll show him I can succeed at my career without his support.” Clara sadly gathered her purse and opened the hotel room door. “He already knows that you’re capable of success, sweetheart. He’s always made it clear that he’s proud of how smart and talented you are.”
A Deadly Dealer Page 14