A Deadly Dealer

by J. B. Stanley

  The woman put a hand to her throat where blood was already flowing freely down her neck, onto her sweater, and onto the pine floor. It trickled down into the cracks between the boards and began to pool in one of the dark knots of pine beneath her silver sandals. She tried to speak, but only a series of shocked gurgles issued forth from her open mouth.

  Suddenly, the doorbell rang. The killer listened and then calmly pressed a hidden release on the back of the cobra’s head and a second, invisible lever on the front of the reptile’s neck. The deadly blade was once more exposed. Keeping a finger firmly pressed on the two buttons, the killer then carefully wiped the blade clean using a kitchen towel decorated with a parade of roosters, stepped over the woman’s prostrate body, replaced the cane in its display case, and left the house through the back door.

  The kettle began to scream.

  Chapter 12

  “ While animal, reptile, and insect denizens of the forest all appear on folk art walking sticks, the sinuous snake is most often featured. The long, lazy S shapes of many branches just beg to be transformed into snakes.” Jeffrey B. Snyder, Canes and Walking Sticks

  Molly was shocked to see that her mother had removed the copies of Tom’s inventory list from her purse and was leafing through them as Grayson and Belinda each chatted with a customer. Clara barely glanced up when Molly whispered angrily, “What are you doing? You couldn’t wait a few minutes for me?” She looked around to make sure no one could hear her. “Did you put the original back?” Clara nodded. “Luckily, Geordie was tied up with a local reporter. And speaking of hiding things . . .” She gestured at the game table, where Molly and Belinda had played backgammon the day before. The charming game set must have been sold earlier as a wooden chessboard and its hand-carved pieces featuring nautical themes had taken over the prime location on the table surface. “Not the chess set. Look under the table.”

  Molly carefully raised one of the dropped leaves of the game table and saw a blanketed shape squatting in the darkness below. “Is that the dower chest?”

  “Yes. But now we can deliver it back to Darlene as it was Tom’s to sell all along.” She shook the sheaf of papers.

  “Tom has copies of the McPhees’ divorce settlement. All household items belonged to Mrs. McPhee, regardless of who originally paid for them. She sold the chest and a dozen smalls to Tom for peanuts. I guess she just wanted the things out of her sight.” Clara’s eyes twinkled. “Wait until we tell Charity! If she sells that chest through Lex, she’ll make enough to save her house! Lex can put a nice chunk of change in his own bank account and I might even be given a nice little finder’s fee. I hope so, because that would pay for that gorgeous Auman pottery vase I bought last month. Isn’t that great news?”

  Molly frowned. “You know,” she whispered, “there’s a grim possibility that Charity knew about these documents all along. With Tom dead, she may get every cent of the profits from the sale of the chest and from the rest of Tom’s inventory as well. I bet she knows exactly how Tom’s will reads.”

  “She didn’t do it,” Clara said, standing.

  “How do we know?” Molly insisted. “This would be the perfect setting to bump off her ex. With all the dealers and customers coming and going, anyone could have stolen opium from Tom’s booth. It makes things awfully tough on the police. There would be no clear prints. Plus, she claims she was out walking when Cotton was stabbed and supposedly asleep when Tom was killed. Pretty weak alibis.” Clara waved goodbye to Grayson and Belinda and headed toward the All That Glitters booth. “It’s not her,” Clara said.

  “Why not? She’s obviously interested in money so she had the motive. She knew that Tom’s inventory included antique pieces that still contained their original poisons, and she knew that Tom was having heart problems. All she had to do was spike his margarita. We know that she and Tom argued early Friday night, so she was close enough to him to slip some opium in his drink.”

  “Molly!” Clara was exasperated.

  “Look, I know that you identify with Charity because you both share that irresponsible husband connection, but even if Charity killed Tom to protect the welfare of her children, it’s wrong.”

  Clara’s lip drew into a thin line. “This is not about me, Molly. This is about logic. Grayson overheard Tom talking to Cotton about a man. Cotton had said, ‘I’m afraid he saw me,’ so he wasn’t talking about Charity. I’m more certain than ever that Howard Rose is our bad guy.”

  “I don’t know,” Molly countered. “I think Rose may have been busy with . . . ah . . . other activities Friday night.

  I don’t know about Saturday, but whoever killed Tom must have been the same person to stab Cotton.” She slowed as they approached All That Glitters. “Tell Charity quickly, Ma. We’ve got to meet Butler’s brother in our room so that he can check out that second pot of coffee.”

  “And take your cane away, no doubt.” Clara waved at Charity as they entered the booth. Charity was showing a customer an antique heart-shaped pendant encrusted with diamonds and rose-colored pearls. She excused herself, waited for Nell to help the entranced customer, and then linked arms with Clara. “You look like you’re going to make my day. I could use a bit of cheering up, so please tell me you’ve got some positive news.”

  “Do I ever!” Clara told Charity all about the divorce papers. “But don’t let on to that detective that I told you.

  We’re not supposed to have been snooping through that book.”

  “My lips are sealed,” Charity promised. “Or at least until that scumbag Rose makes an appearance. I’m going to have one of the porters bring the chest back to Tom’s booth. That ought to bring Rose running like my kids when they hear the ice cream truck.” She hugged both Molly and Clara. “Thank you so much. And Clara, you tell Lex that the sale of Tom’s inventory is his as soon as all the legalities are cleared up. I talked to my lawyer last night, who happens to be Tom’s lawyer, too—we live in a small town—and he told me that Tom left everything to Tom Jr.

  and Ashley, with me as the executor. But it looks like the estate will be frozen as long as the police are still investigating his death. When his assets have finally thawed, so to speak, I’ll sign a contract with Lex. I know you’ll do your best by me and my kids . . . and Tom’s memory. You’ve already proved to be a true friend.” Clara’s eyes glistened. “Lex and I will take care of you, don’t worry. Right now, though, we’d better run. We’ve got another date with the cops.”

  “Well, I hope you can help them figure out what happened to Tom!” Charity called out. “I need to make up two mortgage payments and fast!”

  “God, that woman has a one-track mind,” Molly huffed.

  “But I agree, she’s probably not the killer. It’s in her best interest financially for Tom to have died naturally. Who knows when she’ll get control of his estate now? The police may never solve this crime.” Clara looked surprised. “That isn’t like you, madam.

  You are always determined to see a mystery to its end. I know you’re upset about Mark, but I thought you wanted to write a one-of-a-kind piece on this show.” She absently stroked her chin as they walked, her forehead furrowed in thought. “So what about Rose?”

  “He may have a decent alibi for Friday night. I think he and Becky Ross are an item,” Molly said and then explained how she had seen the couple kissing and described the hickeys she had seen on Becky’s neck Saturday night at the Irish bar.

  “Oh dear.” Clara clucked in amusement. “I doubt Mrs.

  Rose would be happy to learn about her husband’s extracurricular activities at this show. However, we don’t know how long he was with Becky that night.” She smirked. “He could be one of those five-minute men.”

  “Ma!” Molly had to laugh. “Where do you get this stuff?” As they walked passed the Country Doctor, Darlene hailed them over, her eyes wide with fear.

  “You’ve got to help me!” she squawked. “That awful Howard Rose yelled at me so horribly when he saw that the chest was
n’t here in the booth. What am I supposed to tell him?” She looked down the aisle as if expecting to see an executioner, complete with black hood and sharp axe, marching toward her. “He’s going to bring Mr. Alexis and security back with him!”

  “He can bring a brass band for all the good it’ll do him,” Clara snorted. “Keep an eye on things, Molly. I’m going to take a walk with Darlene and get her up to speed. There are hardly any customers left in here, anyway. It’s almost wrap time.”

  As Clara meandered off with Darlene, Molly took the opportunity of being alone to leaf through Tom’s inventory pages. Just as she suspected, the details of her physician’s cane were listed in black-and-white.

  “Maybe some other antique is missing its opium vial,” she muttered to herself and began to glance through the pages until she found the listing for the apothecary boxes.

  There were three boxes altogether and despite the fact that Molly knew she should be heading upstairs to meet Berkley Butler in her room, she began to compare the contents of each box with those listed on the inventory sheets. The first two boxes matched perfectly and clearly nothing had been taken from either one, but the third was missing an item: a small glass bottle of Dover’s Powder.

  “Dover’s Powder?” Molly wondered aloud.

  “It’s a mixture of opium, syrup of ipecac, and potassium sulfate.” Detective Butler responded from behind her.

  Molly jumped, dropping the inventory sheets. They fluttered toward the floor and scattered on the slick cement as if swept by a broom. Butler followed their movement with his eyes. She wilted beneath his smoldering gaze.

  “Investigating murder is not a game, Miss Appleby.” He pointed at the strewn pages. “Why are you trying so hard to stay one step ahead of me? Don’t you realize that you’re playing with fire? One man’s dead, another’s barely escaped with his life, and for all we know, the killer’s now set his sights on you.”

  Molly anxiously tore at her fingernails. “I’m sorry. I was going to tell you if I found out anything crucial.”

  “When? After your article was published? Oh, you’re a clever one, finding the binder and then copying the pages, I’ll give you that, but I’ve got a few more resources and a hell of a lot more experience going after criminals than you do.” Butler examined the contents of the third apothecary box. He peered morosely at the empty space among the row of small glass bottles with their cork stoppers. “According to my brother, Dover’s Powder was used to induce sweating. It was invented by an English doc in the eighteenth century who believed that a person could sweat away an illness. It was like an antique cold remedy. I guess folks in our country still used the stuff throughout most of the next century.” He closed the lid to the box. “Unfortunately for Tom, opium in a powdered form has a long shelf life. And an entire bottle mixed into a drink could kill a man with a strong and healthy heart, which we both know Tom didn’t have.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” Molly asked with trepidation.

  “Did you kill Tom Barnett?” Butler demanded harshly.

  Molly felt as though she had been slapped. “Of course not! I—”

  Butler cut her off. “Did your mother kill Tom Barnett?”

  “No!”

  “Well, one of you antique people did.” He looked at his watch. “And I’ve only got a few hours left before this show ends and people start packing up and heading home.” He jabbed his finger at a page inside the orange binder. “Right now, there are two items missing from this booth: the bottle of Dover’s Powder and some kind of walking stick.” He stared hard at Molly. “You seem have an interest in these sticks. You bought one yesterday. Do you remember seeing a stick that fits this description, either in this booth or being carried around by someone?”

  Molly examined the typed paragraph describing the missing walking stick.

  Folk art walking stick featuring a carved cobra head with bared fangs. Eyes made of white stones. Exceptional carving detail all over handle, especially in regards to the many scales.

  Metal collar. Shaft is made of ash with evidence of burn marks most likely caused by lightning.

  Early 19th century. Mint condition. Continental.

  As with most folk art sticks, there is no ferrule.

  $695 firm

  (Purchased 6/10/04 from Mebane Auction, NC, for $440)

  “There’s a check mark next to the description, see?” Butler pointed out. “Barnett made the same mark next to all of the items he brought to this show. According to Darlene, the rest of this stuff is back at his shop in Virginia.

  Now, she’s got receipts for everything that’s been sold this weekend, but there’s no record of anyone buying this stick or cane.”

  “I don’t remember seeing it on Friday night, and I looked over all of the canes displayed in here.” Molly walked over to the umbrella stand. “But the booth was a mess that night. That snake stick could have been in a piece of furniture, in Tom’s van, or his room. Maybe he forgot to unpack it. I think I would have noticed it on Saturday if it were here. It sounds like an unusual piece. I’ve never seen a snake cane where there was an open mouth with fangs and such.”

  At that moment, Butler’s cell phone beeped. He read the incoming text message. “My brother got the coffeepot from your room and is headed back to the lab,” He typed in a speedy reply and then shoved his phone back into his pocket. “And no, the stick isn’t in Tom’s room or his van.

  It’s not in your room, either.”

  Molly blinked in surprise. “What?”

  “Don’t worry, I’m not picking on you. My men are searching the hotel rooms and vehicles of everyone connected to this show for the two items missing from this booth. No one gets to pack up tonight without being supervised by a member of the Nashville PD.” The detective made this pronouncement with authority, but the worry in his eyes was evident.

  “Why are you even interested in the snake cane?” Molly wondered.

  “Because it’s a loose end, and in my experience, loose ends mean something.” He paused to pick up a cane with a carved ivory skull handle. “In murder investigations, one little detail can make or break the case.”

  “What about Cotton? Is he still asleep?” She shared in the detective’s frustration. “He must know something helpful.” Butler dropped the skull cane back into the umbrella rack. “He’s a bit groggy, but was coherent enough to write down answers to my questions. That poor guy isn’t going to be talking for a while. Such an unusual wound.” He sighed, exasperated. “He couldn’t help me, though. All he saw was a dark shape in his room and then felt the pain in his throat.”

  Molly frowned. “But why was Cotton attacked in the first place? Was it because of what Tom told him Friday night at the Jack Daniel’s Saloon? That Tom had been at the wrong place at the wrong time and had seen something dangerous?”

  Butler threw his hands up in the air. “There’s more information you’ve withheld from me! I ought to throw you in jail for obstruction, just to teach you a lesson! Lord,” he looked up to the ceiling in appeal, “spare me from amateurs!” Backing away from Butler’s growl, Molly said, “I didn’t say anything because all that conversation told me was that the killer was a man!” She panted, “Didn’t Tom tell Cotton the name of this guy he witnessed doing something . . .

  bad?”

  Butler kicked at the floor and muttered, “No. Tom told Cotton that it would be safer if he didn’t mention any names. He just gave Cotton the inventory book to hold until he could figure out what to do.” Molly grew silent. It was looking grim for the detective, and for her as well. The minutes were ticking away until the show would be over. “I think the most likely suspect is Howard Rose. He really wanted that dower chest.”

  “Rose was with the governor until very late Saturday night and spent Friday night with a lady friend. He and his lady were spotted in a restaurant downtown and then checked into a bed-and-breakfast for the evening. The owner saw them go up to their room at eleven and neither one reappeared until af
ter seven the next morning. Rose is clear.”

  “I’m sorry.” Molly looked down at her hands, feeling ashamed. “I was trying to figure this out for myself, but I promise that I don’t know anything else. I thought finding the inventory book would solve all of the riddles.” Her eye traveled around the booth. “I guess there’s no hope of finding a nice set of prints on this apothecary box or on the margarita glass Tom was poisoned with, is there?” Butler shook his head. “The only prints on the glass are yours. The glass had been wiped clean. God knows how many people have touched this box since the show started, but I’d bet my badge that the killer left no traces here either. No, prints won’t help. We need the bottle or the stick.”

  “Is there anything I can do to help?” Molly inquired meekly.

  “Yeah!” Butler shouted. “Go to your room and stay there!”

  A few hours later, Molly closed the lid to her laptop.

  She had e-mailed Carl the Heart of Dixie article, including the frightning conclusion that the killer who had attacked two dealers had yet to be apprehended. She would write the other Nashville piece featuring the tailgate show upon her return to Durham.

  Clara snapped shut the paperback she had been reading and sighed. “I like this Lord Ambrose fellow. He’s scarred, hermitlike, rich, and completely eccentric. It’s like having Mr. Rochester and Sherlock Holmes wrapped into one person. Have you got the second book in the series?” Molly shook her head. “Not yet; it’s on order. Speaking of orders, I wonder what happened with the coffeepot Detective Butler’s brother picked up.” Clara suddenly grew very interested in the blurb written on the back of her book.

  “Ma?”

  “I didn’t want to ruin your day any further, honey. I talked to the other Butler after my little stroll with Darlene.

  He found opium in that coffeepot. Enough to put us out of commission for a few days.” She fanned the books pages in her hand and mumbled, “Or maybe longer.” Molly jumped up. “So the killer is after us!” She checked the lock on the door and applied the chain with shaking fingers. “What are we going to do?”