A Deadly Dealer

by J. B. Stanley

  Clara stopped at the first restroom she saw. “Sorry, but the sound of that rain plus all of that coffee on the plane . . . be back in a bit.” But just as she was about to enter the ladies’ room, a maintenance worker placed a sign reading closed for service across the entrance.

  “Oh, bother!” Clara scowled.

  “You can use the one down at baggage claim.” The worker smiled helpfully. “It’s just been cleaned.” At least three dozen women were in line to use the bathroom by the baggage claim. “Can’t you wait until you get home?” Molly asked, longing to put an official end to the trip by sprawling out on her comfy couch with a throw blanket, a bag of Doritos, and her two cats purring contentedly beside her.

  “No, I can’t!” Clara snapped, her patience worn thin by the seemingly endless plane ride. “We don’t all have the bladders of a camel, you know. Giving birth to you was what weakened mine.” She stomped off toward the end of the line of fidgety women.

  Molly wheeled her carry-on over to baggage claim in order to wait for her physician’s cane and game board, both of which had been expertly packaged at the hotel for what proved to be a very bumpy ride from Nashville to Raleigh-Durham. After retrieving both boxes, Molly settled herself onto a cushioned bench facing the exit doors and watched as stressed and weary travelers prepared to make the final leg of their journeys home.

  As she observed people sprinting through the rain in order to reach taxis or the dry interiors of a family member’s car, she saw a dark gray town car glide through the rain like a shark swimming in the depths of the sea. The driver, wearing a professional black driver’s cap and black gloves, pulled up to within inches of the bumper belonging to the minivan in front of him, dashed out of the car, and opened an enormous black umbrella using such smooth, fluid movements that Molly doubted whether a single raindrop had managed to land on his wool cap.

  The driver popped open the trunk and began to load two suitcases inside with the help of one of the airport’s baggage porters. The driver then opened the rear passenger door and held the umbrella over the head of his passenger so that his own was no longer protected. Limping carefully to the car, Dennis Frazier paused to hand the porter a bill.

  The tip must have been generous as Molly could see the drenched porter mouth an exuberant Thank you from where she sat just inside the door.

  After Dennis was settled in his seat, he twisted his torso and reached his good arm across his body in order to accept a package from the porter. Jumping to assist, the driver and the porter grabbed a long and narrow cardboard box at the same time. The box was clearly saturated and the jarring motion made by the two strong men caused it to split open at the end closest to Dennis. Its contents, pressed forward due to the downward angle with which the porter now held the box, began to slide out on a collision course with a stream of brown water that rushed alongside the edge of the curb.

  As Molly stared, her lungs stuffed with unreleased breath, she saw Dennis’s right hand—his splinted and crippled hand—shoot out from the helpless position in which it normally rested in order to grab the bubble-wrapped object. Saved from the water, the object was pulled into the interior of the car as the porter and the driver shouted at one another. Neither man had seen Dennis use his damaged hand. Stunned, Molly looked down at her cardboard box. The shape of her own bubble-wrapped object was similar to Dennis’s. Something thin and about three feet long. A walking stick.

  Tom’s words to Cotton suddenly surged through her mind. Now I know how he got away with it, Tom had told his friend.

  Eerily, Dennis paused a moment before shutting his door. As if he sensed he was being watched, he looked directly at where Molly sat in frozen shock, the rest of the world moving busily around her. They stared at one another for what seemed like a long time. The only sounds that registered in Molly’s mind were the relentless rain and the drumming of distant thunder.

  And then Dennis Frazier, eyes smiling as if sharing a secret with a friend, put his hands to his lips and mouthed, Shhhhh. The town car eased into traffic and disappeared around a bend.

  “Can’t you wait until we get home to use the phone?” Clara complained when she had returned from the restroom. She put one hand on her hip and tapped her foot impatiently. “I thought you were in such a hurry.”

  “Detective Butler?” Molly spoke into her phone. “Dennis Frazier is the killer. What?” She blinked in surprise, her face pinched and ashen. “Yeah, I’ll hold.”

  Chapter 14

  “ The long empty hours which make up a prisoner’s life have always enticed inmates of jails, prisons or concentration camps to do something with their hands. A large collection can be made up exclusively of canes made by prisoners of war from a multitude of campaigns.” Catherine Dike, Canes in the United States

  Hours later, Molly was sitting in her tiny living room, a steaming cup of lemon tea set on top of the vintage storage crate she used as a coffee table. Her cats, Merlin and Griffin, were recently fed and had been given a mountain of treats by way of apology for their mother’s three-day absence. Merlin had quickly forgiven her and was nestled against her thigh, exuding warmth as he slept. Griffin, her persnickety tabby, was still giving her the cold shoulder. He had retreated to one of his favorite perches, the top of her mammoth arts and crafts bookcase. From his vantage point, at which his restless tail practically brushed the ceiling, he was able to watch Molly repeat what she had seen at the airport to Detective Jane McDowell of the Raleigh Police Department.

  Detective McDowell was an attractive woman in her late thirties with shiny blond hair and vibrant blue eyes.

  She had a runner’s body and wore very little makeup. She had appeared on Molly’s doorstep within twenty minutes of Molly’s return from dropping Clara off at her house in Hillsborough, knocking purposefully and refusing any refreshment.

  “Detective Butler and I have been on the phone all morning,” she informed Molly after listening to her story. “He wanted details on the Juliette Frazier murder four years ago.

  That was my case. My first case as a lead detective.” She frowned. “We never found the murder weapon and had no solid evidence against the husband. All of a sudden, four years later, someone gets attacked in Nashville and ends up with the same kind of puncture wound to the throat. Only difference is, Mrs. Frazier wasn’t lucky enough to be wearing a neck brace. She died minutes after being stabbed.”

  “I don’t get it,” Molly admitted. “Juliette and Cotton were stabbed by the same weapon?”

  “Butler and I figure that the stolen snake cane is actually the murder weapon from the Frazier case.” Merlin jumped down from the sofa and leapt into McDowell’s lap. The pretty detective began stroking his black fur until rumbling purrs filled the room. “Of course, we’ve got no proof unless we can get our hands on Dennis Frazier or that cane.”

  “So you think that he’s been faking a handicap for four years?” Molly asked, astounded by the possibility.

  “Yes, I do!” McDowell exclaimed with fervor. “All along, I felt there was something wrong about Dennis. I looked up the accident report that caused his hand injury. His claim was that he had driven his car into a tree in order to avoid a deer. The leg injury was an old one—a motorcycle accident in college, but the hand injury supposedly occurred during that car accident two weeks prior to his wife’s death.” She sighed. “He had medical reports showing crushed bones in his wrist, a decent alibi—he had been doing some research at a local bookstore and several employees remember seeing him there—and he appeared remorseful. The case would never have made it to court, so we cut him loose.”

  “Still, you thought he killed her.”

  McDowell nodded. “Things were just lined up so nice and tidy for him. And when he talked about his wife, he was too neutral. He admitted that their relationship had been strained lately, but that he had loved Juliette deeply. I knew that was a lie by looking into his eyes. And if he told one lie, he was probably telling others.” Merlin stretched out and yawned and th
en began to bathe the detective’s hand with his scratchy, pink tongue.

  “Frazier claimed that a walking stick was taken from his home the night of the murder. He said it wasn’t worth more than a thousand bucks, but he believed Juliette’s killer must have stolen the stick. When Butler called me and mentioned the snake cane, I knew it was the same one missing from the Frazier home.”

  “I guess Dennis really wanted it back.” McDowell gazed at the rain outside Molly’s front window. It hadn’t abated in the slightest over the last hour.

  “This is what Butler and I figure: Somehow this poor Tom Barnett fellow got a hold of the cane. He bought it from a small auction company in Mebane two years ago. When it didn’t sell from his shop he brought it to this antique show to sell. Frazier saw the stick and decided to steal it. We figure Barnett witnessed this and maybe saw Dennis use his bad hand, so Tom was a threat and needed to be eliminated.

  Then Frazier tried to get Tom’s inventory book from Cotton’s room so that he would possess the only current record about the snake cane. Unfortunately, Cotton came back to his room too soon and Frazier attacked him using some kind of stiletto-type blade hidden inside the cane.”

  “That doesn’t make sense,” Molly argued. “How would Dennis have known that Cotton had the inventory book in the first place?”

  “We don’t have all the answers yet, but I know now that my instincts about that man were dead on. He’s a killer, twice over.” She closed her notebook. “Our challenge now is to find him.”

  Molly’s hand shook violently as she was about to sip her tea. The hot, brown liquid slopped over the rim and onto her hand, scalding the skin of her wrist. “Ow!” She put her cup back down and sucked on her sore flesh. “What do you mean ‘find him’? I called from the airport! How far could he have gotten?”

  “Well, in the first place, he never went home,” McDowell said. “He’s a crafty guy and I’m sure he’s had an escape plan in place since he killed his wife. We’ll get him, but in the meantime, you’re an important eyewitness.” She rubbed Merlin behind the ears. “I’ll be frank with you, Ms.

  Appleby. You may also be in danger. I think Frazier will run, but there’s a slight chance that he will try to come after you.”

  “What should I do?” Molly felt her heart pounding in time with the rain.

  “Stay someplace else, for starters. You need to pack a bag and leave right now, while I’m still here. I’m going to make sure no one’s tailing you.” She handed Molly her card. “I wish I could offer to do more, but we don’t officially have a case yet, only suspicions.”

  “Can I stay with my mother?”

  McDowell shook her head. “Too risky. Butler told me that she’s in the antique business, too. Frazier could easily find her. We’ve already spoken with her, in fact. She says she’s going to stay with the Lewises and that you’re to go to . . .” She consulted her notebook. “A Mark Harrison’s apartment. Apparently, he’s at home waiting for you.”

  “Oh, he is, is he?” Molly felt anger swelling inside her.

  “I just got here. I want to stay home!” she complained, venting her frustration on one of her couch pillows. Feeling completely juvenile, she reached out and snatched Merlin from the detective’s lap. “All I want to do is eat a big plate of spaghetti and sleep in my own bed tonight,” she whined, nuzzling the squirming feline.

  McDowell was unmoved by the temperamental display.

  “How does five minutes sound? We’ll leave then.”

  “I’ve missed you so much!” Mark pronounced and wrapped his arms around Molly. She remained standing stiffly on his doorstep and made no move to return the embrace. Unperturbed, Mark took her suitcase and brought it inside his loft apartment. “I’ve ordered takeout from Sushi Yoshi. Salad with ginger dressing, dumplings, chicken teriyaki, and rice. And I’ve got java chip ice cream for dessert. I figured you’d need some comfort food.” He put her suitcase down in the living room, went into the kitchen, and poured two glasses of ice water. “This place is a fortress, you know.” He gestured at the brick walls and the double-paned windows. “Security door, peepholes, my nosy neighbor who reports everyone from the Domino’s guy to my other neighbor’s latest boyfriends to the super.

  I’m also going to drive you to work,” he babbled on most uncharacteristically. “Every single day, until things are safe again.” Mark chucked her gently on the chin. “Lady, I’m sticking to you like a piece of gum.”

  “How can you do that?” Molly finally found her voice.

  “Aren’t you supposed to start your residency?” she asked crossly.

  Mark sat down on one of the stools facing his kitchen counter. “If keeping you safe means not becoming a doctor right now, then so be it.”

  Molly looked down at her water glass and began tracing the ring of moisture it left on the counter with her index finger. She said nothing, punishing Mark with her silence.

  “Look,” he said gently. “I know you’re mad at me and you have every right to be. I should have included you in my decision because my decision was really influenced by you.”

  “Oh? How do you figure?” Molly asked sharply.

  “There was a clear limit to how far I could go working as a marketing director for Collector’s Weekly. The income was fine for a bachelor, but it’s not the kind of salary I’d need to be making as say, a husband, or . . . a father.” Mark covered her hand with his. Despite herself, Molly began to thaw as she saw the sincerity in his blue eyes. “You know I love you, Molly Appleby.”

  Unwanted tears appeared in Molly’s eyes. “I know. I’m sorry I yelled at you. It’s just that . . . I got scared. Without seeing you at work, I’ll be with you so much less. With all of my traveling, it’s been hard enough to find time to be together.” Mark squeezed her fingers. “It’s going to get even harder. The hours I’m going to be spending at the hospital and at the library doing research . . . Molly, it’s going to be a real test of our relationship.”

  “Great.” she sighed. “That’s something to look forward to. First, I can be stalked by a murderer and then I can spend the next year watching Sex in the City reruns while eating frozen dinners with my cats.”

  “It’s only for a year,” Mark said soothingly. “Then I figure,” he drank a gulp of water as if his throat suddenly had grown dry, “we should get married.”

  Molly’s face lit up with a radiant smile. “Most people get engaged first, you know.”

  “I know.” He kissed her. “But some things have to be left a surprise. I’ve got my plans, but they’re a secret.” Just as Molly put her arms around Mark, her mind swimming with visions of a Christmas engagement, the buzzer by his apartment door sounded. “That’ll be our dinner. You stay here,” Mark warned. He picked up his wallet and a baseball bat and went out into the hall to meet the deliveryman at the outer door. Molly sat at the counter, staring at her empty ring finger and grinning like a fool.

  * * *

  A week later Molly was still trying to get used to Mark’s empty office at work. He dropped her off each day as promised, hours earlier than she wanted, and then Clayton would deliver her to the library at Duke University, where she would wait until long after dinner for Mark to arrive.

  The arrangement had its ups and downs. On one hand, Molly had gotten a great deal of writing accomplished—

  three lengthy articles about Heart of Dixie and a colorful piece on the tailgate show. The e-mails had already begun pouring in as a response to her memorial piece on Tom Barnett, and the cover story on his mysterious death combined with Cotton’s stabbing had the phones ringing off the hook. Ad sales had doubled for the following month and Swanson had even bought pizza for all the employees on Wednesday. Despite these successes, Molly was growing tired of living such a restricted schedule. After all, eating takeout at nine or ten every night was well past her customary dinner hour and her plans for beginning a diet had completely evaporated.

  “I’m worried about my cats,” Molly confided to Clayton as
he handed her an iced chai tea.

  “I don’t know how you can allow that stuff to pass your lips,” he grimaced. “Coconut milk? Ew!” Clayton examined the thick layer of foam on his vanilla soy latté. “Perfection.”

  “You should talk, Mr. Soy. Ew!” Molly mocked her friend. “Anyway, I was talking about my cats. . . .”

  “Oh please, your little furballs will be fine. And speaking of fur, did you get a load of our new marketing director? I’ve seen chimps with less back hair. I mean, it was creeping out of his shirt like the weeds growing in my vegetable garden.” Clayton inspected his manicured nails. “I was hoping for someone more like Mark and less like Swineson. Instead, we get an extra from Planet of the Apes. Why, the man can’t even speak except in monosyllables. How is he going to sell anything. Sales takes pizzazz and charisma, not grunts!”

  Molly laughed. “And what is the primate’s name?”

  “Hairy, with an i.” Clayton giggled. “Actually, it’s Troy something or other.”

  Slurping the dregs of her tea, Molly could feel the sugary concoction coursing through her system. “Speaking of new men in our lives, how is the divine young man you met at the wine bar last weekend? I’ve been so self-absorbed I forgot to ask. Sorry.”

  Clayton beamed, displayed a perfect row of stark-white choppers. “Jayson with a y is simply delicious! We are having such fun! The only thing is, he’s been acting so weird the last few days. He says it’s not anything I did—as if—

  and that it’s a work problem. But darling, how traumatizing can it be to work for a folk art dealer? He doesn’t have to deal with the likes of Swanson! His boss isn’t even there half the—”

  “Clayton!” Molly roughly seized his arm. “Didn’t you say that Jayson works for a folk art dealer in Chapel Hill?”