“But I’m not significant enough to be his confidante,” Molly said and shot her mother a cautionary look. “Let it go, Ma.”
“I know you don’t want my opinion,” Clara pushed on despite a withering glance from Molly, “but before you start looking around for an appropriately sinister suspect, maybe you’d better examine your own behavior. Because the way you handled that phone call was nothing short of criminal!”
The Appleby women only had twenty minutes to investigate Cotton’s booth before the show opened and possibly less time than that before Butler and his team arrived in order to search for the inventory book. Unfortunately, Geordie was already manning the booth when the Applebys arrived, his eyes worried and distracted as he dug around in a cardboard box for dustcloths. Extracting two mitts, he waved them in front of Clara.
“What did I do to deserve this kind of suffering?” he moaned and began absently stroking his perfectly-trimmed goatee. “First Tom, now Cotton. My show is going to have a reputation for being haunted! And this booth needs a complete makeover. Oh! I haven’t even had time to get my Café Americano this morning. How will I survive?” He clung to Clara’s shoulder.
“Let us help,” Clara responded, her voice filled with honey. “You go get your espresso or whatever and Molly and I will dust everything and rearrange the smalls before the show opens.” When Geordie hesitated, Clara added softly, “Plus, I think you’ve got a spot on your tie. Better get some club soda on that quick.”
“Where?” Geordie looked down, horrified.
Clara, who had rubbed some lipstick onto her index finger moments earlier, picked up Geordie’s butter-yellow tie mottled with fat brown polka dots in her hand. She deftly smeared the ruddy pigment over the silk fabric in the pretense of showing him where the stain was located.
“Ohmygod!” Geordie’s eyes zeroed in on the spot.
“You’re right!” He shoved the dusting mitts into Clara’s hands. “I’ll be back. Don’t . . .” He couldn’t take his eyes off his tie, which he held away from his chest as though it were contaminated by toxic waste. “Don’t sell anything big until I get back. I haven’t quite figured out why my nephew wants to look over the furniture, but even I can’t put him off when he’s caught the scent of some . . . some crazed murderer!” Molly watched Geordie hustle off. “That was a low blow, Ma.” She laughed, the black cloud above her head dissipating a trace.
“I know it.” Clara looked around the booth wildly.
“Come on, we don’t have much time. Put on one of these mitts. At least we won’t leave any fingerprints.” Molly began her search by examining the lines of a deep pine corner cupboard. Old tea tins, candle and butter molds, unusual stoneware crocks, and yellow ware salesman’s samples loaded the shelves. She looked over the joinery between the top case and the bottom cabinet, but couldn’t find any indication that there was an empty cavity hidden there.
She turned her attention to the rough back of the large piece, but the southern yellow pine slats didn’t appear to conceal a niche large enough to hide a binder either.
Clara was hastily pulling the small drawers out of a plantation desk whose surface was covered by a display of traveling inkwells. Shaking her head, her mother took out a penlight from her purse and ran the beam along the length of the desk’s belly.
“Hurry, Ma!” Molly said as she gave a cursory glance to a cherry chest of drawers before moving on to a stack of steamer trunks. She was momentarily distracted by the weathervanes skillfully mounted on the wall above the chests. There was a brass unicorn, a copper chicken, and a rotund sow made of iron. All of the animals glowed with a warm, metallic patina and bore the evidence of their lengthy exposure to the abuses of Mother Nature. There was also an arrangement of four old trade signs that Molly assumed must be rather expensive—especially the one made of two primitive planks bearing the name of williams
& sons fruits and essence importers in faded letters. The central motif of the sign showed a large pineapple in a woven basket along with a cluster of grapes and a bottle of essence of apricot. A pewter tankard and a loaf of bread were painted on the left side of the sign and a few strawberries on a bristly vine embellished the right.
Just as Molly was about to lift the lid on the first trunk, her mother shouted, “I think I’ve got it!” Molly dropped the lid with a thunk and scurried over to Clara’s side. Her mother’s hands were busily rubbing the sides of the cherry chest of drawers Molly had quickly passed over. “Here! See?” Clara placed her daughter’s fingers along the base of the chest, where the apron joined the front of the carcass. “It’s normal to have a seam here, but I think this apron is actually a false drawer.” She reached her fist under the chest and knocked on the bottom. The sound echoed with more hollowness than Molly expected. “Stick your head under the chest and see if there actually is a drawer before I yank the apron right off and cause irreparable damage,” Clara ordered.
Molly complied and sank to her knees. She noted how dirty the floor was and wished she hadn’t decided to wear her biscuit-colored pants, which had just come back from the dry cleaners. Flattening herself as much as she could, she was appalled to hear Clara whisper, “Hurry, hurry! I see Geordie heading up the row!” Molly felt a kiss of cold as the skin of her stomach brushed against the cement floor.
“Ugh.” She shivered and then, forgetting all about her discomfort, she announced, “I see a drawer!”
“Quick! Out of the way!” Clara helped Molly to her knees and then yanked at the bottom of the apron. The entire length of wood pulled away from the case to reveal a skillfully crafted drawer. Inside, the inventory book glowed neon orange. Clara grabbed the book, shoved it inside Molly’s cavernous bag, and stood up just as Geordie returned, brandishing a silver thermos and a new tie the color of huckleberries.
“Oh!” Clara gushed. “What a fabulous tie! We’re all set with the dusting, but we didn’t have a chance to rearrange anything yet. Do you want us to stay and help?” Geordie’s eyes were locked on the dirty patches on the knees of Molly’s pants. “No, no.” He shooed them off.
“Thank you, but no. There’s nothing I enjoy better than futzing around someone else’s booth. Besides, Cotton’s wife is coming over in a jiffy. She said there’s nothing she can do to help Cotton while he’s under sedation so she might as well make a little money.” Geordie giggled. “Is that woman a prize or what?”
Molly and Clara agreed and then dashed away, hoping to examine the book before Butler and his crew discovered that it was missing.
“They’ll never think to look behind that apron!” Clara declared triumphantly.
Molly was just about to congratulate her mother for discovering the hidden drawer when she saw something that rendered her speechless. Passing by the Geese in the Wind booth containing antique quilts and other textiles, she was thunderstruck to see Becky Ross with her arms wrapped around the expensively clad figure of Howard Rose. As the couple had their eyes closed and were kissing passionately, they didn’t see Molly’s jaw drop open as she hustled her prattling mother past the booth. Once they reached the safety of the hallway, she considered mentioning the little display of public affection she had just witnessed, but an idea occurred to her that immediately displaced the image of the lip-locked dealers.
“What we need right now,” Molly looked around nervously, “is a copier. Then we can look over the pages without having to worry about Butler discovering we took the book. Let’s go to one of the lobbies and see if we can borrow one of the hotel’s machines.” The two women power-walked down the carpeted halls.
Clara seemed to be enjoying herself immensely, but the pain Molly felt over Mark was still raw. Now she was covered with dust and, once again, unhappily aware how out of shape she was. In fact, just as she decided to ask her mother to ease her frantic pace she spied the form of Detective Butler followed by two uniformed policemen coming down the hall straight for them. Looking around, Molly saw that there was only one set of doors she and Clara could enter if
they wanted to avoid being seen by Butler.
“Ma! In here!” She grabbed her mother’s elbow and pulled her through the first door on their right.
“What are you—?” Clara stopped as the two women practically fell into the arms of the three men they had seen on the third floor earlier that morning. Molly recognized their baseball caps and friendly, open faces immediately.
“Well, shucks!” the one wearing the Stihl hat bellowed.
“You little ladies here for the turkey hunter’s convention?
Just knock me down and steal my teeth. I’d never have taken y’all for members of the National Wild Turkey Federation.” He eyed Molly’s hands. “You wearing special huntin’ gloves or somethin’?”
“Um, actually we’re not exactly members.” Molly smiled. “But it sounds like a lot of fun.” She removed the mitts from her hands. “These are for dusting. I forgot to take them off.”
“Y’all are here just in time, too,” the man whose name was Buddy seemed not to hear Molly as he clapped her on the back so heartily she thought her breakfast was in danger of coming back up her throat. “The owl-hootin’ competition is gettin’ started.” Buddy gestured toward the front of the room where a man stepped up to the microphone and began reviewing the rules of the competition. “We’ve only got three seats saved, but I’m sure the fellows would make room for such fine outdoor women as yourselves.”
“Too bad you can’t do an owl hoot, Buddy,” one of his companions said. “They’re givin’ out a mighty nice ring to the winners.” He turned to Molly and raised his furry eyebrows suggestively. “Might impress the ladies, winnin’ that ring.”
Buddy took a step closer to Molly and smiled. “I did purty good in the gobble contest yesterday. I was one of five winners and made me a nice pile of money. How about I take you two out for supper later?”
“Sorry,” Clara jumped in. “We’re catching a plane in an hour. Thanks, though. Gotta run!” And the two women made their exit as the first contestant began to exhibit his owl-hooting talents.
At the concierge desk, Clara swiftly sweet-talked her way into having the contents of the inventory book copied.
Within minutes, the tired women were once again inside the Heart of Dixie show. They furtively made their way back to Cotton’s booth hoping to avoid detection. As they rounded the corner leading to Cotton’s row, Molly ran smack into a man’s muscular chest and promptly ricocheted into her mother.
“In a hurry?” Detective Butler, owner of the steel torso, asked.
“Um . . .” Molly began, shoving the dusting mitts in her back pocket.
Butler gave her a perplexed look. “Mrs. Leitts told me where the book is stashed and I’m on my way to get it, so if you’ll excuse me.”
Molly took her bag off her shoulder and pushed it into Clara’s arms. “That’s great news, but I need to tell you something before you go. Please, it’s very important.” She put her hand on the small of her mother’s back and shoved.
“I’ll meet you later in Grayson’s booth to look at that book you were interested in buying.”
Clara understood that Molly meant to stall Butler so that she, Clara, could return Tom’s binder to its secret drawer.
Waving goodbye, she hurried off.
“Sorry, but I don’t want my mom to worry.” Molly smiled sheepishly while Butler bored holes through her skull with his eyes. “I wanted you to know that I bought a cane from Tom’s booth on Saturday. It was a physician’s cane and had two vials of drugs inside of it.” She took a deep breath and plowed ahead. “One was laudanum and the second, morphine pills. The vials were unopened.”
“Yes?” Butler shifted impatiently.
“The morphine pills are gone. Stolen.” Butler stared at her hard and then reached for his cell phone. “You still have that tray of coffee you told me about earlier?” he asked her.
Molly nodded. “Yes, unless room service cleaned it up, but I doubt they would have as I asked that the tray not be removed.”
“Bro?” Butler spoke into his cell phone. “I’m going to need another rush analysis. A pot of coffee.” He paused.
“Well, it’s possible that the killer put poison in the Applebys’ coffee. Yeah, she found the body.” He paused. “Yep, opium again, but don’t leap to any conclusions until you’ve done your thing.” He listened, glancing at Molly. “Sure, I’ll have her meet you up in room . . . ?” He hesitated until Molly provided her room number. He then passed the number on to his brother and snapped his phone shut.
“Can you wait there until my brother arrives?” he inquired less abruptly. “I’ll be up as soon as I’m done down here.”
Molly nodded again, feeling a numbness creep up her legs. Was she the killer’s next target?
Butler steadied her by clamping his hands on her shoulders. “I’ll join you after I’ve collected the book. If someone is after you, then it’s because you know something.
And if you know something vital to this case, then I need to know it, too.” His fingers squeezed slightly harder. “Go straight to your room. No detours. Understood?”
“Yes,” Molly whimpered beneath the force of his intent gaze and iron grip. Then she remembered the sheaf of papers folded inside her bag. She wanted a chance to look them over before Butler did. If someone had tried to poison her coffee, she damned well wanted to know who. “I’ll go up to my room,” she said, her voice gathering strength, as she stood up as tall and erect as possible, gaining a slight height advantage over the detective. “Really,” she said with false sweetness. “Promise.”
Raleigh, North Carolina, 2004
The woman sat in a leather wing chair with her feet propped up on a needlepoint footstool, leisurely reading in front of a gas log fire. The book, Decorating with French Country Antiques was so filled with scrap-paper bookmarks sticking out in every direction that it began to resemble a paper porcupine. A notebook filled with hurried, messy handwriting lay open on a nineteenth-century walnut candle stand and a saucer bearing a delicately flowered teacup rested without a coaster next to the notebook. The woman took a sip of lukewarm tea, scowled, and replaced the teacup roughly, so that tea slapped over the edge of the saucer onto the perfect patina of the candle stand’s surface.
“Oh damn,” the woman muttered, carelessly wiping at the stain with her sleeve. Her expensive blouse, made of hand-woven silk, was already dappled with minute splotches of ink, for the woman was unaware that her ballpoint pen had a small leak. Each time she raised it to her mouth to gnaw at the tip, a habit she had developed as a child and had never outgrown, small flecks of black mottled both sides of the lavender-colored silk neckline adjoining a costly necklace made of a triple strand of Mikimoto pearls secured by a diamond clasp in the shape of a fleur-de-lis.
Kicking off a pair of silver Prada sandals, the woman ran a hand through her immensely thick honey-brown hair and for the first time, noticed the ink stains on her blouse.
Shrugging in a bemused fashion at her own heedlessness, she got up and headed into the bedroom to change. She tugged off the blouse in distaste, threw it on a large mound of soiled clothing on the floor of her closet, and pulled on a pink cashmere sweater. She began to walk while the sweater was only partway on, obscuring her view so that she banged her knee roughly against one of her husband’s many cane racks fashioned of heavy Victorian oak.
“God, I hate these canes!” she seethed, aiming a direct but ineffectual kick at the cane rack. “What a ridiculously stupid collection. You’re all going!” she announced to the dozen canes protruding from the closest rack like an army of umbrellas awaiting rain. “All of you!” The woman chuckled to herself. “Yes indeed, Mrs. Frazier has come into some money and Mrs. Frazier is going to redecorate. And if Mr.
Frazier doesn’t like it, well that’s just too bad.” The woman lingered in the hall, running slender fingers over the ivory knob of a seventeenth-century walking stick.
“Ugly,” she whispered to it, and then picked up a folk art cane with a cu
rved handle depicting Jonah being swallowed by the whale. She ignored the fine carving, the shock and surprise registered on Jonah’s face; the hungry greed carved into the whale’s painted eyes. She replaced it in its slot with a bang. “Ugly,” she taunted. Finally, she moved on to the kitchen, where she put the kettle on to boil.
She passed right by her husband’s mounted display case where he stored his five favorite and most valuable gadget canes. His treasures rested beneath glass on a soft bed of crimson velvet. If she had paid those particular canes any notice, she would have seen that there was an empty space within one of the display cases; a depression in the velvet upon which a cane once rested. Instead, the woman stood over the stove waiting for the water to boil, a clean porcelain teacup waiting to be filled. She munched on a chocolate biscotti, her teeth biting forcefully into the cookie as crumbs tumbled lightly down her sweater and onto the floor.
She heard a floorboard creak somewhere in the house but paid no mind to the familiar sound. The house she shared with her husband was fifty years old and the floors were made of heart of pine salvaged from a nineteenth-century farmhouse, so they groaned and settled upon themselves from time to time. The woman bit into another biscotti.
Another board creaked, closer this time. She swung around and jumped, suddenly startled.
“What are you . . . ?” she began with a dismissive tone to her voice, and then her eyes grew round with surprise and a trace of fear. Before she could utter another word, a blade as thin as a paper’s edge darted out of the wooden cobra’s hood that formed the handle of her husband’s missing cane. The dagger punctured her jugular with a whispered hiss, and then withdrew once again into its secret recess.
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