A Fatal Appraisal

by J. B. Stanley

  "Sure. I love margaritas," Molly said, happy to be included as another member of the show instead of an outsider. She often felt alienated when she was interviewing the close-knit groups of dealers exhibiting at shows.

  Borris beamed. "Finally, a woman I can drink with! Jessica here is strictly a Perrier gal. I always feel like the poster child for A.A. when I eat out with her."

  "Not for A. A. You're the poster child for crotchety, old bibliophiles," Jessica teased.

  "Let's go." Borris ignored Jessica's jibe, though Molly could see the pair had a comfortable camaraderie that usually only developed between two people who have been friends for a long time.

  As Borris bent to retrieve a book from the floor, Jessica reached down at the same time to grab her purse. Their heads collided with a resounding thud.

  "Ow!" Jessica cried as she rubbed her temple.

  "Ow yourself." Borris smiled, touching his own forehead. "You'd better stop abusing me. You're treating me like Victoria treats Frank whenever he starts complaining about his allergies."

  "Those two really don't seem to get along," Molly observed.

  "Don't get along? That's a polite way of saying they'd like to strangle one another at least once a day," said Jessica laughingly.

  "Someday, one of them will figure out a way to bump the other one off," Borris jested, making a goofy slashing motion across his throat

  "But they're just coworkers," Molly mused. "How did they grow to dislike one another so much?"

  "As someone who's survived a horrible marriage and a very nasty betrayal which led to divorce, I'll give you a simple answer," Jessica said as she opened the front door leading outside and gestured for Molly to pass through. "Their dislike does not stem from the fact that they're coworkers. There's absolutely no competition between them as host and appraiser. They want to kill one another for the best reason of all.” She paused, breathing in the crisp evening air. "They're married. And marriage is no Disney fairy tale. Trust me, all married people fantasize about murder.”

  ~~~~~~~~~~

  Chapter 2

  Above all, keep a sharp look-out for signs of attack by fungi and woodworm. Train jour nose to differentiate between the dusty and the musty.

  —The Illustrated Guide to Furniture Repair and Restoration

  Once Jessica and Borris discovered that Molly was also staying at Traveller, they insisted on driving her to Casa 'Rita, the Mexican restaurant where the head appraisers were gathering for a casual dinner. Borris was clearly looking forward to having a margarita partner.

  "We need to take advantage of Jessica's sobriety," Borris said, holding the rental car door open for Molly. "She'll drive us both home."

  "I still can't believe it," Molly was saying as Borris turned onto Broad Street and drove past one strip mall after another. He closely tailgated a Jeep Wrangler whose upside-down bumper sticker read, If you can read this, please turn me over. Clutching the door handle nervously, Molly looked out the window and continued, "Victoria and Frank are married? I mean, they don't exactly strike me as a well-matched pair."

  "I'll explain everything to you, dear,"' said Jessica, settling into her storytelling mode. "Victoria Sterling was formally Vicky Jiminski. She was a waitress at this place called The Terrapin Diner and lived in a run-down apartment complex on the outskirts of Baltimore. Back then—we're talking about ten years ago—Frank owned a successful antique shop in Baltimore and another in Alexandria, just south of D.C. He was having unbelievable success as a furniture dealer and soon developed a reputation on the East Coast for being an expert in his field."

  "Victoria knew nothing about antiques," Borris continued as Jessica took a swig from her water bottle. "But she knew Frank had money. He used to stop at The Terrapin because he loved their catfish platter. Vicky often waited on him and was shrewd enough to realize that Frank had the potential to provide her with a comfortable life."

  "Vicky has always been a looker." Jessica regained command of the story. "With her tight skirts and long legs, it was easy for her to exert her charms on wimpy, oversensitive Frank and, of course, he was bowled over. It didn't hurt that she was ten years younger either. They got married after two months of dating and then he quickly began transforming his new bride. Vicky the waitress had her hair done, was attired in a new wardrobe of designer clothes, and was given speech and acting lessons. And just like that, she became the Ms. Victoria Sterling we know and love today."

  That's why her clothes are so frumpy and mismatched, Molly thought. Victoria's never known what stylish clothes are. She just buys clothing with the highest price tags.

  "How did she ever get on TV?" Molly asked.

  Jessica snorted. "Frank knew some people on the local network who gave her a spot hosting a home makeover show. Trouble is, Victoria's attractive, but she isn't too knowledgeable about decorating or antiques. Still, she's a fast learner, can memorize her lines instantly, and has a decent sense of timing and delivery. And let's face it, she has the right look for our show—that conservative, slightly dowdy elegance that people find nonthreatening and familiar."

  "How do you guys know all this stuff? Wouldn't Victoria want to conceal her background?" Molly asked.

  "Nah," said Borris. "One night she was two sheets to the wind and told us the whole story. She even confided that she and Frank have separate bedrooms at home, not that we wanted to know about that."

  "I asked why she stayed married to a man she obviously didn’t love," added Jessica as they pulled into the parking lot of another strip mall behind a white convertible with cowhide seat covers and a bumper sticker that read, Save a cow, eat a vegetarian. "Victoria said that she liked her lifestyle and had no interest in sex, so Frank was the perfect husband."

  Molly mumbled, "How romantic."

  "Romance is a Hollywood notion," Jessica said dismissively as she turned off the ignition. Molly saw a flicker of sadness surface in Borris's eyes as he watched Jessica exit the car.

  Inside Casa 'Rita, long tables covered by vinyl cloths decorated with red chili peppers were crammed in a haphazard pattern on top of a perspiring terracotta floor. Waitresses, who all seemed to be local college students, wore tight citrus-colored T-shirts bearing the text, Milk stinks, got Margaritas? Festive piñatas shaped like chili peppers, donkeys, and sombreros dangled from the ceiling. Jessica was hailed by Tony the Toy Man and the threesome moved forward to join the other head appraisers.

  Molly sat down at the end of a table with Jessica, Borris, and Tony. She waved to Garrett who was seated next to a middle-aged Asian woman with glistening, ebony hair and an unlined face. The woman broke off her conversation, smiled warmly in Molly's direction, and called out, "Hi! I'm Alicia. I'm art." Alicia gestured to the man seated on her right. "This is Patrice. He's porcelain."

  Patrice turned a bearded face toward Molly and smiled thinly. He had a prominent nose, sunken eyes, a long chin, and pointy ears. "My pleasure," he drawled in a French accent. Molly thought he resembled an elf.

  Jessica kneed Molly under the table. "That accent is totally fake," she whispered. "But it works on TV."

  Frank was seated at the other end of the long table, talking animatedly with a homely-looking woman in her late fifties. Her brown hair, woven with gray, was falling out of a low bun. She continuously poked at a pair of owl-like glasses as they slid down her small nose. Next to the owl-lady, Victoria was taking deep drinks of margarita on the rocks and looking about the restaurant with her usual indifference.

  Borris and Molly ordered frozen grande margaritas, chili con queso, and sizzling chicken and steak fajitas. Jessica chose a vegetarian appetizer of bean quesadillas followed by a spinach and cheese enchilada.

  "Who is that lady Frank is talking to?" Molly asked Borris.

  "That's Lindsey. She's linens. Kind of ditzy, but a real doll. Knows her stuff, too."

  "There's an empty chair next to Tony. Is anyone else coming?" Molly asked. "I don't know if I can remember any more people."

  Jes
sica snickered. "That chair is for Alexandra Lincoln. She'd prefer a throne, however. She appraises coins, stamps, and clocks. She'll be fashionably late and make a grand entrance, even in this setting."

  "But her name doesn't have the alliteration everyone else's does," Molly pointed out.

  "No, she refused to play along. Apparently"—Jessica broke out into a haughty British accent—"she is from the Lincolns of Lincolnshire. Her father is a baron. A broke one, but still, a title is a title. Alexandra said it was insulting to have a television pseudonym," Jessica said dismissively as she bit off the comer of a blue tortilla chip. "The rest of us peasants don't mind. A paycheck is a paycheck. You can call me Penelope Pitstop as long as the money's good."

  Just as their margaritas were delivered, a stunning woman walked through the front door. Wearing a tailored designer suit in crisp white with an expensive Gucci bag and matching pumps, the woman tossed a shiny wave of copper-colored hair professionally streaked with glints of gold over her shoulder. As most of the men in the restaurant looked in her direction, she turned a carefully made-up face toward the appraisers. Molly noted the woman's shapely legs, the alluring sway of her hips as she walked, and the poise of her movements as she approached Tony and issued him a smile that was not reflected in her cold eyes.

  "Save me a seat?" she asked Tony. Unlike Garrett's, Alexandra's British accent lacked charm. It simply elevated the air of condescension about her.

  Alexandra turned golden eyes toward Molly and gave her a queenly nod. Molly felt instantly snubbed. Over the rim of her margarita glass, Molly watched Alexandra suddenly brighten as she spoke to Garrett.

  "She's had a crush on him for years," Jessica whispered.

  "And not a chance in hell." Borris sniggered.

  Garrett wasn't attracted to that gorgeous creature? Molly found herself smiling demurely in his direction. Garrett flashed her a dazzling smile in return. Molly felt a warm glow spread through her body as a result of his attention, two delicious margaritas, and the restaurant's festive atmosphere.

  "I like you two," she said as she clinked glasses with Jessica and Borris. "I think this is going to be such a cool assignment."

  Suddenly, Frank clanged a fork against his water glass in order to get everyone's attention.

  "Listen, folks." He sniffed, clenching a tissue in his fist. "As some of you are aware, my mother passed away a few months ago and she left me her townhouse. It's here in Richmond, on Strawberry Street, just a few minutes walk from the museum. Mother lived in Florida most of the year, so her place has been empty for over six months now." He turned his head aside to sneeze. "Are you wearing perfume?" he asked Lindsey accusingly.

  "Just a little," the homely woman admitted guiltily. "But it's from this morning."

  "Ugh, my nose is so sensitive." Frank honked into a tissue. "Anyway, I'm going to auction everything in her house, but if anyone would like to see what she's got before it gets packed away, you're welcome to join me tomorrow morning to go through her goodies. Of course, I know what the furniture is worth, but my mother had oodles of smalls and I don't want anything priceless to go to auction."

  Several of the appraisers smiled appreciatively at Frank. There was nothing antique and collectibles-obsessed people enjoyed more than poking their noses around other people's houses—especially ones in which all the contents were to be sold. Molly was terrified of being excluded. "I can suggest an excellent auctioneer for the job!" she shouted a bit drunkenly from her end of the table. "When are you going over?"

  Frank stood and made his way to her end of the table. 'Tomorrow morning before filming starts. Say, nine o'clock?" he asked the group, dabbing at his raw, red nose. Murmurs of assent rose from the appraisers who were distracted by the arrival of their food.

  "We'll meet you at the front door of the museum," said Jessica. "Sounds fun."

  "Good. Fine," Frank replied as the waitress arrived and Molly's fajitas were placed in front of her. As Jessica bit into her enchilada, a long string of cheese trailed from her plate to her mouth. Frank's eyes widened in panic as he stared at the cheese. Jessica giggled, but Frank dashed after the departing waitress to inquire if the burritos he had ordered contained any milk-based cheese products.

  From the corner of her eye, Molly watched Garrett excuse himself and head off to the men's room. As soon as he was gone, Alexandra's stiff smile melted away and she scowled at her plate of quesadillas.

  "You Americans consume such rubbish," she announced. "No wonder your country is faced an obesity epidemic."

  Molly was amazed that everyone ignored the barb. The other appraisers simply continued their conversations as if no one had spoken.

  "Look at this dump," Alexandra continued, "bloody disgusting."

  "Cheer up, mate," Tony mocked her by using an exaggerated Cockney accent "You could be eating alone at your hotel."

  "What? And miss a line of your witty banter! Never." Alexandra's voice dripped with sarcasm. "Do try to dress better than a country bumpkin for tomorrow's shooting, Tony. You look a mess, as usual."

  Tony stuffed his mouth with salsa-drenched tortillas and bowed his head. "Thank you, Your Majesty." He clearly didn’t give a damn what Alexandria thought of him or his wardrobe.

  At that moment, Garrett returned from the restroom and headed straight for Molly.

  "Can I offer you a lift back to our hotel?" he asked, his eyes twinkling.

  Molly could feel the heat of Alexandra's angry stare burning a hole through the back of her head.

  "No, thanks." She smiled, feeling that everyone was listening. "I came over with Jessica and Borris, so I'll just go back with them."

  "It's your life," Garrett teased. "Jessica is a real New York driver. Tailgates, curses, holds up a particular finger if—"

  "Oh, I do not!" Jessica threw her napkin at Garrett.

  After a dessert of fried ice cream drizzled in warm honey, Molly and her two new friends rose to leave. Molly decided to quickly introduce herself to Alexandra and get it over with. She would rather not talk to her at all, but as a head appraiser, Alexandra could hardly be avoided, royal snob or not.

  Alexandra deliberately picked up her water glass the moment Molly held out a hand in introduction. She muttered, "Charmed," in her belittling way and turned her face away from Molly in order to tease Garrett over having to film another segment in the States.

  "She's going to be a real pleasure to interview." Molly sighed as she slid into the back seat of Borris's rental car.

  "She's a bitch all right," said Borris as they drove off. "Just ignore her. We all do."

  "If she hates America so much, why is she here?" Molly asked, eyeing a blue minivan stuffed with children as it eased itself into their lane. The van's bumper sticker proclaimed: I’m embarrassing my children—it's a full-time occupation.

  Jessica scowled. "Does anyone use a turn signal anymore?' She adjusted the rearview minor. "Alexandra got demoted from the British version of the show. Rumor has it she used to be quote a talented director, but I heard she ruined her career by sleeping with a fellow director. Problem is, he was married."

  "Yeah"—chuckled Borris—"to the daughter of the network president. Oops!"

  The trio laughed in wicked merriment.

  Back at Traveller, they said their good nights and Jessica went into the Blue Ridge room as Borris entered the Limoges. Molly made a mental note that she would need to photograph their rooms for her article before the week was over. Yawning widely, she changed into a pair of green cotton pajamas covered by a pattern of pink steaming coffee cups and fell back onto a plump, soft pillow.

  What a great assignment this was turning out to be, she thought happily before falling asleep.

  ~~~~~

  The next morning Molly heard stirrings in the hallway and realized she only had thirty minutes to get ready before meeting Frank. She had completely forgotten to set her alarm clock. Quickly showering and dressing in beige linen slacks, a light blue shirt and a sterling necklace in the G
reek key pattern, Molly decided she had just enough time to phone the office and see if there was any news about Matt.

  When a young female voice answered with, "Collector's Weekly, how may I direct your call?" Molly was momentarily taken aback.

  "Hello?" the voice asked again.

  "Where's Mrs. Goodbee?" Molly finally stammered, asking after the crotchety elderly lady who had worked the reception desk since the paper's inception twenty-five years ago.

  "Who may I ask is calling?" the voice asked with false sweetness.

  "Molly Appleby. I'm a staff writer."

  "Oh, Ms. Appleby," the girl placed special emphasis on the title. "I've actually met you already. It was over two years ago. I think you and I may have applied for the same job. You know, as a staff writer." She giggled briefly and without a trace of merriment. "Guess you landed it since you're out there writin' away and I'm here answerin' the phones. Anyways, no hard feelings." She paused and Molly was certain there was a plethora of hard feelings. "And about Mrs. Goodbee ... she quit yesterday."

  "What? Why?" Molly asked in surprise.

  "I'm afraid that's personal information," the girl replied firmly. Molly disliked her immensely.

  "Has Mr. Harrison called in?" Molly asked, nastily copying the girl's tone.

  "Oh yes. He asked to speak to you, actually."

  Molly's heart skipped a beat. "And? Did he leave a message? Did you give him my number?"

  "No, I didn't have your number. And no, he didn’t leave a message," the girl replied with evident satisfaction.

  "Did he leave his number?" Molly demanded testily.

  "Let me see here." The girl shuffled papers loud enough for Molly to hear. Then she picked up a message pad and ripped off the top sheet containing Matt's number in Ohio. Luckily for her, Molly couldn't see the malicious smile that sprouted on her young face as she balled up the paper and threw it in the trash. "Nope, no number. Sorry."

  Molly sensed the girl was lying. "Let me speak with Clayton, please."

  "Oh, he's out. My ..." The girl giggled. "We're not doing too well here, are we?"