A Deadly Dealer

by J. B. Stanley

  “Yes! Now let go of the silk, you little minx.” He frowned as he scrutinized his shirt, which was the color of buttercups. “Oh, a wrinkle! I’ll have to change my whole outfit now before I meet Jayson for dinner at 411 West.” Molly grabbed his soft hands instead. “Listen to me, Clayton. What are the chances that Jayson is actually Dennis Frazer’s assistant? That would explain his work problems!”

  “Sweet Jesus in heaven!” Clayton shrieked, stood up, and then plunked back down into his seat, covering his mouth with his fingertips “Why wouldn’t he have told me?”

  “Because he probably thinks his boss is innocent. I certainly did! The man is an incredible actor and I’m sure Jayson feels very loyal to him.”

  Clayton calmed down slightly. “Well, he is a sensitive boy.” He gazed appreciatively at his own reflection in the café’s wall-length mirror. “And I hope he’s loyal. Oh, Miss Molly, do you think Jayson knows where Dennis is hiding?”

  “He might. Clayton.” Molly looked deep into his eyes.

  “You may be the key to my freedom! You might also be the one person who can see that justice is done for both Tom and Cotton.”

  “Don’t forget Juliette Frazier—even though she was a terrible snob.” Clayton’s eyes shone. “Leave it to me, darling. James Bond could learn a thing or two from yours truly!” He preened happily. “Let’s go. I’ve got to deliver you into the hands of your hunky future doctor so I can go home and primp. I’m going to have to bust out some serious couture for this mission!” Mark was still awake at one-thirty in the morning; an enormous tome spread open before him beneath the weak light cast by a single desk lamp. Molly tossed and turned in the loft above him, waking every hour or so to wonder what had transpired between Clayton and Jayson. When the phone rang, it sounded overly loud in the late-night stillness. Molly leapt out of bed and stumbled down the dark stairs.

  “Actually, she is awake,” she heard Mark tell the caller.

  He held the cordless phone out to her. “It’s Clayton,” he said, covering the mouthpiece with his hand. “He sounds upset.”

  “Clayton?” she whispered, both excited and concerned.

  “Honey, I think I’m single again,” Clayton stated lugubriously.

  “Uh-oh. What happened?”

  “Well, we started our evening off drinking Cosmos at my place. Then I ordered a ridiculously expensive but sublimely smooth pinot noir to accompany our entrées at 411, followed by Irish coffee. Over chocolate mousse, Jayson was finally drunk enough to admit that his boss was Dennis Frazier, but after that, he clammed up tighter than Swanson’s wallet on payday.”

  Molly was disappointed. “That’s all you found out?”

  “Hold your horses, sweetie. It is almost two in the morning and I’m already feeling a nasty hang over coming on!” Clayton paused, knowing that Molly was clinging to his every word. “Anyway, I started telling Jayson that the police were concerned for your safety and that as a dear friend of mine, I was naturally frantic with worry! He told me that Dennis would never hurt anyone and that the police must be wrong.”

  “I knew he’d think that! Dennis had everyone in the antique world convinced and they’re all experts at recognizing fakes, so Jayson didn’t stand a chance.” Clayton snorted. “He didn’t stand a chance keeping secrets from your truly, that’s for sure! I told that poor boy that you were having horrible nightmares and felt you were being watched every second. I told him that I was terribly concerned over your mental state, and that if Dennis was stalking you, I would never forgive Jayson for protecting his boss.”

  “You’re a real gem, do you know that?” Molly felt a rush of gratitude toward her friend.

  “I haven’t gotten to the best part, sugar. When I tell you this”—he waited for an infuriatingly long moment before continuing again—“you’ll insist that I’m more priceless than the crown jewels!”

  “Go on then!” she exclaimed and Mark shot her an irritated glance. He obviously hadn’t been able to read a sentence since Clayton called.

  “So I went on and on about Dennis stalking you and finally, Jayson blurted out, ‘He’s hundreds of miles away from here, so he couldn’t possibly be stalking your friend!”

  Molly released her pent-up breath. “Where is he?” She was so busy imagining her next article, in which she starred as the mastermind behind Dennis Frazier’s arrest, that she barely heard Clayton’s answer. “Sorry, I missed that last part.”

  “I said that our date was over at that point. Jayson stormed off in a huff and I doubt he’ll ever speak to me again.” Clayton sniffed. “I’ll leave it to you to contact the police. I break out in hives anytime I come in contact with that much polyester.”

  “You did the right thing, Clayton,” Molly assured her friend. “Now, give me Jayson’s address and phone number.

  I’m going to call Detective McDowell before he has a chance to get away.”

  “He was holed up in a cabin in Boone,” McDowell informed Molly over coffee two days later. “A real primitive place he would lend out to some of his folk artist friends when they faced tough times. The local boys did a stakeout until we could get out there.” Her eyes shone with the memory of the arrest. “Frazier never suspected we were onto him. He came out meek as a lamb. Had the snake cane with him, too. Our weapons specialist is having it X-rayed as we speak.”

  “Man, he was really attached to that thing,” Molly said in wonder.

  McDowell stirred a packet of sugar into her black coffee. “I don’t normally update civilians during ongoing investigations like this, but you’ve earned the right to know that we’re holding Frazier in Raleigh while we work something out with the boys in Nashville.” She smiled. “Bottom line is, you can go home now.”

  Molly nodded but didn’t reply. It had been a hard week living by Mark’s schedule, but once she returned home she would see him even less. Today was Saturday. Normally, this was the one night of the week Molly and Mark set aside to go on a date. They usually went to dinner and a movie, but Mark had informed her earlier that day that he would be on rounds and they’d have to postpone their date indefinitely.

  “You must miss those adorable cats of yours,” McDowell said, sensing that Molly’s mind was wandering.

  Feeling a twinge of guilt, Molly said, “I do! I’ve got six cans of tuna fish and a package of sliced chicken breast in the car to bribe them with.”

  McDowell rose and gave Molly a hearty handshake.

  “Thanks again for your help. I’m going to sleep a whole lot better knowing that I’ve got a chance to correct the mistake I made four years ago.” Her eyes twinkled. “I haven’t made another one since.” She began to walk away.

  “Detective?” Molly called after her. “Do you think I could see a copy of that X-ray?”

  McDowell paused. “Why?”

  “It would make a great graphic for my ‘Murder at Heart of Dixie’ article.”

  “Sorry. You’ll have to wait until after the case is closed.” McDowell shrugged. “I can’t let anything interfere with seeing Dennis Frazier brought to justice.” She hesitated.

  “But if we can conclude that the cane is the murder weapon, I’m willing to tell you how it operated. Off the record, of course.”

  “Of course,” Molly agreed.

  Several weeks later, as Molly was watching the eleven o’clock news and waiting for Mark to call, an anchorwoman began her broadcast by flatly reporting that Dennis Frazier had confessed to first-degree murder in the state of North Carolina.

  “Once the police obtained evidence that the medical records regarding Dennis Frazier’s hand injury had been falsified,” the anchorwoman reported, “the Chapel Hill folk art dealer confessed to killing his wife. He had badly bruised his wrist during the car accident, but it had healed sufficiently by the night of his wife’s murder and he was easily able to operate the unique cane weapon that ended Juliette Frazier’s life.”

  The camera switched to video feed of Dennis Frazier exiting a courthouse in Raleigh
. The anchorwoman continued speaking. “When questioned about his motive, Frazier chillingly replied, ‘Juliette was a nasty bitch who hated everything I loved. She constantly damaged my most priceless items or sold them behind my back. I could have divorced her, but something made me want to hurt her using one of my precious pieces of folk art, which she despised so much. So I chose the cane. It felt right in my hand when I held it and thought about how wonderful it would be to live alone again.’ ”

  The camera returned its focus to the anchorwoman.

  “The killer cane, as the weapon has been dubbed, is also responsible for wounding an antiques dealer in Nashville on October sixteenth. The cane had been missing since the Frazier murder four years ago. How did it resurface? Courtroom reporter Tina Jennings asked Dennis Frazier that very question.”

  The camera returned to the same clip of Dennis on the courthouse steps. “I stored the cane in my gallery after my wife’s death, but my assistant at the time sold it by mistake while I was out of town. I’ve been searching for it ever since. Tom Barnett had it for sale in his booth and he saw me releasing the blade before the preview party.” Frazier’s face crumpled before the camera. “I’m sorry about Tom.

  He was a good man, but I had to have that cane back.” The anchorwoman went on to speculate on the subject of whether Dennis was mentally imbalanced, but those in the antiques business had their own take on the matter.

  “I’d kill my wife if she ever sold my collection of toy soldiers,” Molly heard one dealer say to another as she attended Lex’s weekly auction.

  “And my husband wouldn’t last a second if he deliberately broke any of my Meissen figurines. Believe me, he’d like to, but he wouldn’t dare,” a lady in the crowd said heatedly.

  More people piped up in defense of Dennis’s actions, until an elderly lady rapped on the floor with her metal cane. “Y’all are plum forgettin’ about Tom Barnett! He didn’t deserve to die! Why, half of my house is filled with treasures I bought from that dear boy. Now hush up, before I use this cane as a weapon.” Molly grinned at the lady, who issued her a saucy wink in return. As the auction came to a close, she said goodbye to her friend Kitty, Lex, and to her mother, and headed back to the office to type up notes about the sale.

  As she plodded through the congestion on Interstate 40, which seemed as though it had been under construction for the past ten years, her mind wandered back to the photographs Detective McDowell had e-mailed her. They were of Dennis’s snake cane. One was a close-up of the snake’s head, showing its intricately carved scales, the bared fangs, and the haunting white eyes. The second showed the thin, sharp blade poking out through the top of the cobra’s head—

  a blade that had claimed the lives of two people and had temporarily maimed a third.

  “For your eyes only. Do not print!” McDowell had written in the e-mail, but the photos had enabled Molly to put the finishing touches on her article on Dennis Frazier and the Heart of Dixie murder.

  She felt as though it was her finest piece of journalism, but so far Swanson had yet to comment on it at all, though he ran it on the cover and included a special insert containing photographs Molly had taken at the show, of Dennis’s gallery in Chapel Hill, and of the Raleigh home he had once shared with Juliette.

  Growing cross as she reflected on her boss’s lack of enthusiasm for her work, Molly wondered if she should start looking for another job. Surely there were plenty of papers that would like to have someone with her talents on their staff. With Mark no longer working for Collector’s Weekly, maybe she should pursue finding a job with more appreciation and better pay. Still, she frowned as she entered the familiar office building. She loved writing about antiques, and the major rival antiques and collectibles paper was located in the Northeast and she certainly didn’t want to move.

  Molly was so wrapped up in her thoughts that she nearly walked right by her cubicle in order to get herself a cup of coffee. The sight of Mark turning circles in her swivel chair caused her to come to an abrupt halt.

  “Hello, beautiful!” He jumped up and kissed her on the cheek.

  “I thought you had to work!” she said, pleased. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m going to have to go back, but I couldn’t miss the celebration.”

  Molly looked around. There wasn’t another soul in sight. “Celebration?”

  “This way, milady,” Mark beckoned and led her down the hall in the direction of Swanson’s office.

  But Carl wasn’t in his office and Mark propelled her beyond Swanson’s door to one of the large corner offices down the hall. The door stood open and it was dark inside, but as Molly approached the threshold, the lights suddenly came on and several people yelled, “Surprise!”

  “What’s going on?” Molly asked when she could speak again.

  Clayton came forward carrying a paper plate bearing a cupcake. “Let the head honcho tell you himself.”

  All eyes turned to Swanson, who was leaning against a sleek metal desk in the otherwise stark office. He stood up, his face its usual mask of grumpiness, and cleared his throat.

  “You’ve done good work, Molly,” he grunted and then stepped aside.

  Molly’s eyes rounded with delight as she read the desk plaque, which had been hidden behind Swanson’s ample rump.

  It read, Molly Appleby, Senior Staff Writer.

  Her colleagues in her new office erupted in cheers.

  Nashville, Tennessee, a few years later

  Officer Pittman unlocked the door to the enormous storage space called the evidence locker by the Nashville P.D. and compared the number written on the index card with those posted on the ends of the tall metal shelves. Scowling, he moved deeper into the room, which seemed uninviting and cold with its gray cement floor and weak fluorescent track lighting. Housing thousands of implements used for the sole purpose of inflicting misery, pain, and even death, most of the officers of the police department felt an inexplicable sense of negativity within the locker, but not Officer Pittman. He experienced a surge of exhilaration as soon as he entered.

  “I’m no goddamn errand boy,” the young man grumbled, striking out at one of the shelves with a flat palm, enjoying how the assorted items suffocating within their clear plastic bags tottered back and forth. Pausing to investigate a folded towel spotted with what appeared to be dried blood, Pittman perked up. “Hey, maybe I got lucky getting sent down here. This place is loaded with cool crap.” He fingered a small bag containing a thick gold chain and a diamond-encrusted pendant shaped like a dollar sign.

  “Gang bullshit,” Pittman said dismissively, and then his eye was drawn by the gleam of metal.

  “Hell-o, my pretty.” Pittman picked up a bag containing a serrated boot knife. Alongside the boot knife was another bag holding a trio of butterfly knives, blades neatly tucked away out of sight. Pitman couldn’t help but wonder if there was any blood on the hidden blades.

  Pittman loved knives. He collected them, and he had even converted the spare room in his two-bedroom apartment into a display space for his treasures. The longest wall was covered with an incredible variety of knives, and the young cop had artfully arranged them into a arc, so when the lights were turned on, the wall glimmered and shone like some kind of deadly rainbow. He smiled just thinking of his precious Civil War bayonets, German daggers from World War II, the large grouping of Swiss Army knives, vintage Chinese throwing knives, aggressive-looking machetes, Bowie knives, switchblades, and hunting knives in worn leather cases.

  Visualizing his knife room, Pittman was also reminded that he needed to stop at the pet store on the way home to pick up more rats or even a baby rabbit for the Boston Strangler, his red-tailed boa. In addition to B.S., as Pittman lovingly referred to his forty-pound pet, he might buy a small garter snake as a special treat for Magnus, his beautiful king snake. Magnus was Pittman’s special favorite and he often took the reptile out of his tank so that the red-, black-, and yellow-banded constrictor would wrap himself around Pittman�
�s shoulders as the unusual young man watched TV.

  Pittman had forgotten all about his task. He was told to collect a kitchen chopping knife that had been used in a fatal stabbing more than ten years ago. The knife was believed to also be the weapon used on a decomposed body recently uncovered in the wooded area of one of the county parks.

  Pittman meandered down the rows of silent evidence and thought about his job. He was excited to be involved in a real case of murder, even if the victim had been dead for half as long as Pittman had been alive. Up to this point in his new career he had only been appointed menial and insulting jobs like dealing with car wrecks or responding to domestic violence complaints, which usually turned out to be a couple of drunks screaming at each other in the parking lot of their apartment building. Boring stuff. A bunch of idiot civilians. Pittman wanted to draw his gun, use his club on some deserving lowlife. Why else would he have become a cop?

  Pittman looked at his watch and paused, as always, to admire the rattlesnake tattoo poised to strike from the hairy flesh of his muscular forearm. It was almost lunchtime.

  Heading down the row that matched the numbers on his card, Pittman came to an abrupt halt before a long, slim object with a carved cobra’s head. A vague memory tickled Pittman’s brain.

  “No way. It’s the Killer Cane!” Pittman breathed reverently as he gently removed the cane from the shelf and cradled it in his arms. “I ’member you from the paper.” Looking around, Pittman paused and then removed the cane from its taped bag using the small folding knife he carried at all times.

  Releasing the snake cane from its plastic prison, Pittman traced the fangs with his finger and felt an overwhelming desire to possess the famous antique. He stared into the cobra’s sightless white eyes and hesitated, filled with indecision. The snake seemed to whisper to him: Take me, take me. Pittman stared at it in awe, recalling exactly how the weapon cane operated from the detailed description and large photographs published in the Tennessean after Dennis Frazier’s murder trial. After some searching, he located the release buttons and jumped in startled delight as the thin and lethal blade burst from within the cavity of wood.