“What was he looking for?”
“That I don’t know. I’ll ask Aunt Maggie if she’s got any ideas.” She picked that moment to drop a handful of broken crockery into a metal garbage can, and then kicked the can. “But I think I’ll wait a little while.”
“I take it that you and she discussed all these coincidences while I was talking to Bender.”
“Actually, no. Aunt Maggie has her own reason for thinking somebody here at the flea market killed Carney, something she isn’t telling us.”
“Like?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. I do know that she’s got some reason for wanting Carney’s murderer caught, and she isn’t telling us that, either. I don’t think it’s too much of a stretch to assume that the two reasons are connected somehow.”
I knew Aunt Maggie trusted us, or she wouldn’t have asked us to help in the first place, so why wouldn’t she tell us everything?
Once Richard and I got the books straightened out, we helped her arrange knickknacks. Breakage wasn’t as bad as we’d thought at first. It looked like enough pieces had been broken to make a mess, and the rest were just knocked over to make it look bad. Still, some expensive pieces had been ruined, and every time Aunt Maggie found another broken dish or a bowl that had been chipped, she got madder and madder. After a few attempts to cheer her up, Richard and I decided it would be better not to talk to her until she calmed down.
Though Aunt Maggie doesn’t sell toys, she did have a few old dolls with china heads. The problem was that when I set them up, I had four dolls and only three heads. We looked through the jumble on the table, and then Richard crawled under the table to check under there. A minute later, I heard him solemnly say, “Alas, poor Yorick, I knew him well.”
When he came out from under the table, doll head in hand, I cried, “Gotcha!” But instead of looking crestfallen or mad at himself, Richard was grinning like the cat who swallowed the canary. “That’s a quote!”
He shook his head.
“It is so! Hamlet.”
“Not quite.” He pulled out a paperback from his pocket, and naturally, it was a copy of Hamlet. “Check out Act V, Scene 1.”
I thumbed through until I found the place where Hamlet encounters the grave diggers, and read the line out loud. “ ‘Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio …’ ”
“The line I spoke appears nowhere in Shakespeare,” Richard said.
“That’s cheating,” I said indignantly. “Everybody thinks that’s the quote.”
“I can’t be held accountable for what people think.”
I gave him my sternest look, but he was right and he knew it. “Okay, you didn’t quote Shakespeare. But you can only get away with that once. The ‘alas, poor Yorick’ part is a quote.”
“I’ll be more careful next time,” he said, but he was still grinning, even after I bopped him on the rear end with his book.
Aunt Maggie was watching us with that look she gets when she thinks we’re being silly, and I figured that if she was paying attention to us, her temper must have cooled down and it might be safe to ask her some questions.
I turned to her. “Aunt Maggie, did it look like Carney’s booth was searched the day he was killed?”
“Like I said before, his booth was always so jumbled up that I don’t know that I would have noticed. Why?”
“Because we think the break-in was a cover for the killer to come back and look for something.”
“Something that would tell us who it was?” she asked.
I thought about it, but shook my head. “No, it’s been too long for that. If there’d been anything incriminating, the police would have found it nearly a week ago. Why would he risk coming to look for it now?”
“So what was he looking for?” Aunt Maggie wanted to know.
“Beats me. Did Carney have anything valuable?”
“I suppose one of his knives could have been worth more than he thought,” she said, “but if that’s so, Thatcher will figure it out. Besides, if Carney had something marked for less than it was worth, why not just buy it? Carney never would have known the difference.”
“Did he have anything that somebody really wanted, but couldn’t afford?” I asked.
“He did have that Elvis knife. Shaw Stevens said Carney had it marked twice what it was worth, but Carney wouldn’t come down on it. He figured Shaw wouldn’t be able to resist forever.”
Carney had probably been right. Shaw is a devoted follower of the presumably late King of Rock and Roll. I said, “Couldn’t Shaw have bought it if he’d really wanted it?”
“That wasn’t the point. He just didn’t want to get gypped.”
“Then he’s not likely to have killed Carney over it,” I said.
“I guess not. The only other person I can think of who wanted something Carney had was Thatcher. He started working as one of Carney’s point men a couple of years ago, and he was always wanting Carney to let him do more, maybe take some of Carney’s extra stock to one of the knife and gun shows. He even offered to buy in as a partner, but Carney wasn’t interested because he knew a good thing when he saw it. Thatcher always found the best knives, and Carney bought them dirt cheap. He knew Thatcher didn’t have enough money to start his own business, so he kept him dangling. Of course, now Thatcher gets it all.”
Was a flea market business worth killing for? Maybe it would be to Thatcher. Becoming a knife dealer didn’t excite me much, but then again, Thatcher probably wouldn’t be all that excited about computer programming. We all turned to look at him. He was skinny, but that didn’t mean that he wasn’t strong enough to have stabbed Carney.
I’ve heard that people can tell when they’re being watched, and maybe they can, because he looked up at us. Then he grinned, clearly happy to be in charge of his own business at last.
Wanting to be polite, we all grinned back, then looked away.
“He sure doesn’t act like he has anything on his conscience,” Aunt Maggie said. Richard didn’t say anything, but I could tell that he was resisting saying something Shakespearean.
I said, “So either he’s innocent, or he has no conscience.” With all those knives handy, I sure hoped it was the first choice.
Chapter 9
While we’d been straightening Aunt Maggie’s booth, Mark and Belva must have been finishing up their business. They walked by right then, heading for the door.
“Mark,” Aunt Maggie called out, “I’d like to talk to you.”
“I’m on my way out, Miz Burnette,” he said, speeding up. “Another call just came in.”
“That’s all right. Maybe Deputy Tucker would like to hear what I’ve got to say.”
Needless to say, Mark couldn’t stand the thought of Belva learning something he didn’t know, just like she couldn’t stand the thought of him learning something she didn’t know. Both deputies came over.
“Laurie Anne, Richard, and I have been talking this over—”
“Who’s Laurie Anne and Richard?” Belva interrupted.
“I’m Laura Fleming and this is my husband Richard,” I said. “Miz Burnette is my great-aunt.”
“They live in Boston,” Mark said, not quite sneering as he said it.
“Anyway,” Aunt Maggie said, “we were talking about Carney’s murder and this morning’s break-in, and we think you two are missing something.”
That was probably the least tactful way she could have put it, but Aunt Maggie’s never been known for her tact.
She went on. “It’s obvious that Carney’s murder was an inside job.”
“Meaning what, exactly?” Mark asked.
“Meaning that it was one of the dealers who killed him.” She explained the coincidences we’d come up with: Rusty being gone both times, the killer either knowing where Carney’s booth was or just happening to hide him in that booth, and Carney’s booth being the most damaged. “Do you see what I’m getting at?” she asked when she was finished.
“I can’t say that I do,”
Mark said.
“Pope, use your head for something other than a hat rack.” Belva remarked.
“I suppose this all fits in with your so-called theory,” Mark said.
“At least I’ve got a theory,” she said. “But all this fits in with is the fact that this lady here has a beef with one of the other dealers.”
“Excuse me?” Aunt Maggie said, not quite believing it.
“After the way those other two were fighting over the dead man’s booth, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Who’d have thought the flea market business could be so petty?” She shook her head ruefully, then asked, “Which dealer do you want to pin the murder on? Did the tattoo guy’s hand slip when he was working on you? Did you get a bad donut?”
I thought Aunt Maggie was going to explode, but somehow she managed to keep her voice under control. “You watch how you talk to me, little girl. I’m not about to put up with any nonsense from you just because you’re wearing that uniform. I’ve been a citizen and a taxpayer since before you quit making messes in your panties.”
Belva had the gall to grin at her the way you’d grin at a child having a tantrum. I don’t know about Aunt Maggie, but I was about to have a tantrum myself.
I said, “Deputy Tucker, I suggest you call Chief Monroe and ask him if Laura Fleming knows what she’s talking about. I’m sure he remembers Tom Honeywell’s murder.” Then I turned to Mark. “And I can’t imagine that you’ve forgotten Leonard Cooper’s murder.”
“No, I haven’t forgotten,” Mark said. “It’s not often that citizens take it upon themselves to interfere in a criminal investigation.”
“Interfere?” I said. Richard and I had been the ones to figure out who killed Cooper, and Mark knew it.
Belva said, “In Rocky Shoals, we don’t put up with civilians sticking their noses in police business.”
“We don’t in Byerly, either,” Mark said firmly. “Now, if y’all have any actual evidence, I’d be glad to hear about it. But if not, I’d advise y’all to let us professionals take care of these matters.”
They both turned away, Mark looking solemn and Belva looking amused.
“I’d advise you to be expecting a call from my friend Big Bill Walters,” Aunt Maggie called after them.
Mark smirked. “If you were that close a friend, you’d know that he’s out of town for the rest of the month.” He left before Aunt Maggie could say anything else.
Chapter 10
“I’m so mad I could spit!” Aunt Maggie said.
“You’re not the only one,” I said. “I never thought Mark was smart; I never realized what a weasel he is. If he weren’t a cop—”
“If he’s a cop, then I’m the Queen of Sheba,” Aunt Maggie said. “I don’t care if he does have a badge. And that Belva Tucker is worse. Telling me that I’m trying to settle a feud!”
“She’s an idiot,” I said. “They’re both idiots!” I realized that Richard hadn’t spoken. “Don’t you think so, Richard?”
“Why did I take that bet?” he asked. “I have never wanted to quote Shakespeare so much in my life. Nobody else can insult the way he did—I’m not even going to try.”
I laughed, and even Aunt Maggie half smiled, which broke the mood. We were still angry, but at least we knew that we were on our own. If we were going to find Carney’s murderer, we were going to do it without police assistance.
We went back to arranging the booth until Aunt Maggie was satisfied, which took a while. Finally she said, “I guess that’ll do.”
Then she handed Richard a canvas change apron. “Tie that around your waist.” As he obeyed, she said, “Quarters go on the right, dimes in the middle, and nickels on the left. I don’t take pennies because I don’t want to mess with them—everything is priced to the nickel. Bills go in the middle with the dimes. There’s a rubber band in there to keep them together.”
She pulled out another apron and tied it around herself. “I’ve only got one spare apron, Laurie Anne, but we can buy you one from China.” Then she took a handful of change from the lock box she’d carried in from the car, and counted it out. “Here’s your quarters,” she said, putting a bunch into the correct pocket of Richard’s apron.
“Why do we need cash aprons?” I asked.
“How were you planning to make change? I tried using the lock box as a cash register, but I took my eyes off of it for a second one day, and somebody ran off with a twenty-dollar bill. The aprons are safer.”
“I mean, why do we need to make change to find out about Carney’s murder?”
She looked at me like I was a few bricks shy of a load. “You need a cover story, don’t you? What were y’all planning to tell people?”
“Aunt Maggie, we haven’t had time to figure out what we’re going to do,” I said.
“I thought y’all were making plans last night. I heard y’all moving around after you went in your room.”
I carefully did not look at Richard as I said, “No, we didn’t plan anything last night.” Before she could ask what we had been doing, I said, “Why don’t you tell us what you’ve got in mind?”
“It seems to me it wouldn’t be smart to tell people that you’re looking for Carney’s murderer. You don’t want to warn the murderer to watch out for you, and you don’t want him coming after you. I wouldn’t even have told the police if I’d realized how dumb they are. Anyway, if you waltz up to people and start asking questions, that’s as good as announcing what you’re doing over the loudspeaker. This place is bad for rumors, and all it would take is for one person to figure it out. Y’all have to have a cover story.”
Her reasoning sounded good to me, and Richard was nodding, too. I did wonder if she wasn’t hedging her bets in case we didn’t find Carney’s killer. She had to work with these people, after all, and they might not be too friendly if they knew she suspected them of murder. “I take it you’ve got a cover story in mind.”
“Y’all can pretend that you’re here to learn about the business so you can start selling up North, but you’ll have to help me out so people will know you’re serious. Besides which, I can’t leave the booth alone to go showing you around. Somebody has to mind the store.”
I was both glad that Aunt Maggie had worked this out and embarrassed that Richard and I hadn’t. After all, we were supposed to be the experts. But that was no reason not to take advantage of Aunt Maggie’s idea.
“Okay, what do we need to know to get started?” Though I’d shopped there, I’d never been interested in the inner workings of Tight as a Tick.
“Not much,” she said. “The prices are marked, but if somebody wants to bargain you down a reasonable amount, that’s fine.”
I nodded like I understood, but fortunately Richard is more willing to admit that he doesn’t know everything. He asked, “How much is a reasonable amount?”
“It depends. If somebody has twenty-five, thirty dollars worth of stuff, it won’t hurt to come down a few dollars. But then there’s the ones who offer you a dollar for something that’s marked ten. Don’t come down so much as a nickel for people like that. They can pay full price or they can take a hike.”
“How do you know what prices to mark?” I asked. “Are they in those books?” I was talking about the stack of reference books that were back in place on her worktable. They had titles like Price Guide to Flea Market Treasures, The Official Lehner’s Encyclopedia of U.S. Marks on Pottery, Porcelain, and Clay, and Warman’s Glass.
“Those help me figure out what I’ve got and give me a price range,” Aunt Maggie said, “but I can’t find every piece in the books.”
“Then what do you do?”
“Just make a guess. If I mark it high and it doesn’t sell, eventually I’ll mark it lower. If I mark it low and it sells real quick, I know to mark the next one that comes along a little higher. You get a feel for it after a while.”
Then she showed us where she keeps bags, warning us to only give them out if people asked for them. “People who know flea ma
rkets carry their own shopping bags,” she said. She also had stacks of old newspapers to wrap breakables in.
“I think that’s all you need to know right now,” she finally said. “Richard, if you don’t mind being on your own for a little while, I thought I’d go introduce Laurie Anne around.”
“You’re sure you’re not just doing this to get free help?” he asked with mock suspicion.
“Richard, if I needed help with this booth, don’t you think I’d get somebody who knew what he was doing?”
“Point taken.”
She said, “I expect we’ll be back before Bender opens the doors, but if not, just do like I told you. Now remember—”
“I know. Everything’s marked. Let them bargain a little. If they break it, they buy it. And we don’t care if their grandmother had one just like it.”
She nodded at him. “You’ll do.”
Chapter 11
I started to follow Aunt Maggie, but she asked, “Don’t you need a notepad?”
Usually Richard takes notes because my handwriting is atrocious, but I didn’t want to tell her that, so I said, “I thought I’d better not, since I’m undercover. I don’t imagine I’ll forget anything important.” She seemed satisfied with that.
“This is China Upton’s booth.” There was a redwood sign propped in the middle of the table with the message “I Was Country When Country Wasn’t Cool” burnt onto it. Funny, I’d grown up in what most people consider the country, and I’d never seen so much gingham and so many ribbons in my life.
I’m afraid that China Upton’s country was the country people imagine when they live in the city. There were wire baskets filled with plastic eggs, each egg decorated with rickrack. There were gingham geese with deep pockets along the side to hold TV remotes and the latest issue of TV Guide, sofa cushions that were more ruffle than cushion, and wooden spoons with cross-stitched mottoes glued onto them.
China’s specialty was sachets, little pillows stuffed with sweet-smelling herbs. They came in gingham, of course, plus denim, velvet, and even a sensible seersucker. Probably all of them smelled good taken one at a time, but the combination was overpowering. My nose and eyes started to itch immediately.
Toni L.P. Kelner - Laura Fleming 05 - Tight as a Tick Page 6