A Fatal Appraisal

by J. B. Stanley

  "So I guess you know all about the secret panels, since you built them."

  Thomas met Elspeth's unapologetic gaze for the first time. " Yes, miss. I know where they are." And then he boldly asked, "Do you?"

  Elspeth pulled out the two slide supports located on the sides of the top drawer and placed the lid gently upon the supports. This created the writing surface of the desk and revealed the pigeonholes. Ignoring the documents neatly arranged in the pigeonholes, Elspeth quickly showed her knowledge of the secret compartments within. "They're always empty though. What good is such wonderful craftsmanship if you have nothing to put inside? No love letters, no treasured portraits or silhouettes, or locks of hair, and no details of where the redcoats will attack next..." She laughed lightly and then quickly sobered. " I guess with my mother gone, my father's life has become all business."

  Elspeth suddenly looked so forlorn that Thomas longed to make her smile again. Against his better judgment he whispered, "You've missed one. There is another hiding place."

  "Where?" she asked breathlessly. "Please do show me. My father is in Washington, so we need not fear his wrath." She drew herself up proudly but with a trace of self- mockery. "I am mistress of the manor today."

  Thomas hesitated, but the pleading blue eyes of his hostess broke down his resistance and he gingerly closed the lid and began to pull out the slide support on which the writing surface rested upon.

  "Behind there?" Elspeth peered into the narrow opening.

  Thomas shook his head with a smile. "The secret is in this piece of wood." He pulled at the hidden end of the support and a piece of wood measuring a mere four inches came off in his hand.

  "But no one could have known that was there. There are no marks, no lines!" Elspeth exclaimed. "I see a tiny grove now, but you made it along the grain so it is impossible to see." Elspeth took the piece of wood from his hand. "Look! There's a piece of paper hidden within!"

  For some unknown reason, Thomas felt a wave of dread pass over him as Elspeth unfolded the paper. Minute handwriting covered the page and as Elspeth read, her face grew alarmingly pale and her breathing slowed almost to a standstill.

  "Miss ? Are you ill? " Thomas looked around for the maid.

  Before he could move to aid her, Elspeth crumbled onto the ground, the paper clutched in her hand.

  Beads of sweat lined her ashen forehead and wisps of honey-colored hair clung to her damp cheeks. "Miss? Shall I get help?" Thomas asked pleadingly.

  "Help?" Elspeth whispered. "Only God can help me now. My father is a traitor!" She thrust the paper towards Thomas. "A traitor!"

  "I cannot read," Thomas answered softly, ashamed.

  "I shall tell you who has written it then," Elspeth hissed vehemently. "These are orders from His Majesty's Humble Servant, General Henry Clinton."

  "Clinton!" Thomas exclaimed. "Word tells that he plans to march on Philadelphia. He is a great enemy to our cause!"

  "Yes, he is a great enemy." Elspeth held the letter aloft and her blue eyes blazed with the anger of betrayal. "But at least we knew him as such, unlike my father, who has pretended to help us when all this time..." She trailed off, her overwhelming emotions prohibiting her from speech.

  Thomas leaned on the desk, remembering the day he had applied the final coat of polish to the smooth and sculpted wood. How proud he had been when it had been loaded onto Captain Tarling's coach and several townsfolk had stopped to admire its dignified beauty.

  It had been betrayed as well. It was Virginian black walnut and pine, the nails made from the local blacksmith, glue from animals living in the forest. Every piece of it, from its case to its drawer pulls, was made in The Colonies. The desk's very lines marked it as an American; there were no flourishes or ornate feet as with pieces from The Continent. It should have graced the home of an honorable, industrious gentleman. Instead it had become the property of a dangerous and loathsome scoundrel who placed the direst of secrets within its innocent nook.

  ~~~~~

  Chapter 6

  But the trouble with pine is twofold. First, it doesn't have the strength to stand up under use in thin members in chairs. Second, the wood is so soft that it is easily dented.

  —George Grotz, The Furniture Doctor

  Clara stepped down from Lex’s cargo van with a deep scowl. She quickly embraced her daughter and whispered in her ear, "Lex has been on the phone with Kitty for two of the two and a half hours it took to get here. I've never heard so many darlings or honeys in my life! I nearly suffocated myself with a plastic bag.”

  Lex and his wife Kitty were known for their outward displays of affection. Even though they worked together at the auction company and therefore spent every waking moment with one another, the pair didn’t like to be parted for long. Molly found their mutual tenderness endearing, but Clara was far more cynical when it came to marriage.

  Molly and Kitty had once taught together at the same private school. One day, Molly had invited Kitty to work Lex's Saturday sale as a bid spotter. It was love at first sight between Lex and Kitty and they were married a year later. Kitty quit her job as the school's art teacher to help manage her husband's auction company.

  Clara had once owned her own antiques shop, but the burden of holding regular store hours combined with the hassle of dealing with unreasonable customers forced her to close for good. When Lex approached her with an offer to join his staff as floor manager, she jumped at the opportunity.

  Now, as Lex dug around inside the van for his briefcase, Molly shook her head in mock sympathy and asked softly, "What do they talk about for two hours?"

  "Nothing!" Clara rolled her gray eyes and put her hands onto her crown of short, thick brown hair. As she was several inches taller than her daughter she had to lean forward to ask rhetorically, "How many times can you ask someone 'How are you, dear?' or 'Do you miss me?' when you've just seen them?"

  "They're in love. It’s really kind of sweet," Molly said as she tried to ignore the typical stab of jealously she experienced whenever she thought about the couple's happy marriage. "That's how people who love one another act."

  "Love?" Clara snorted. "Love is a twenty-pound apricot tabby named Tiny Purr who will sit on your lap all night while you watch the Discovery Channel and make biscuits on you in the morning when it's time to get up or..." She trailed off as Lex came around to their side of the van and looked at Molly expectantly.

  "Hey, Moll.” He smiled and held out his hand. “Got the keys?"

  "Right here," Molly said, handing over the key ring.

  As soon as the trio entered the house, Lex sprinted ahead to turn on lights and open blinds. Molly followed closely on her mother's heels as Clara inspected the contents of the downstairs rooms.

  "Not bad," Clara said as she examined the collection of Staffordshire in the office. "I just love a pair of Staffordshire poodles, don't you?"

  "I need to talk to you," Molly began.

  "In a minute, cupcake." Clara replaced the poodle on its shelf and headed upstairs. "You know I can't concentrate on anything when there's a house waiting to be rooted through." Lex was busy in one of the front rooms examining an oil on canvas of two women in Victorian gowns gazing at a caged canary.

  Once upstairs, Molly followed her mother around one of the guest bedrooms and practically fell on top of her when Clara stopped abruptly to examine a piece of carnival glass from the 1936 World's Fair held in Cleveland. Irritated, Clara swung around and squawked, "Stop hovering! You're acting like a man in the mall! What is with you anyway?"

  Feeling admonished, Molly took a step back and whispered, "I'm just impatient to talk to you. You see, there's been a murder. One of the appraisers ..."

  Clara's eyes flew open wide. "What? Oh! I hope it was that intensely annoying, overly pompous Frenchman who drools over the worst pieces of porcelain."

  "It wasn't him." Molly put her finger to her lips in an effort to keep her mother's voice down. "And he's not really French. It was Frank, the furniture app
raiser."

  "No!" Clara was shocked. "He had such wonderful taste! Think of all those pieces of southern furniture he highlighted on the show. The man did wonders for the furniture of our region. Oh, now that is a shame."

  "Ma." Molly was exasperated. "Never mind his loyalty for southern furniture. Did you not hear the part where I mentioned that he was murdered? And I’m the one who found his body."

  Clara's interest was now divided between examining the last room left in the house and listening to the details of her daughter's story. Hesitating, her attention was captured by the more present mysteries awaiting her in the master bedroom. Once inside, she headed straight for the display case of dolls.

  "Hold that thought until I finish this room," she told her fidgety daughter. "Then we can go back to your hotel and you can tell me everything over a cocktail. I cannot focus without Crown Royal." Clara wrinkled her nose. "This house smells worse than most."

  "Fine." Molly sighed in resignation, knowing her mother was immoveable when faced with a house loaded with collectibles. She found herself gravitating toward the biology experiment growing in the master bathroom.

  As she pushed open the bathroom door, she stared in renewed horror at the extent of mold growth on the walls and tub. For the first time, she looked down at the pink carpet and saw that black splotches of mold surrounded the base of the tub and gave the appearance that the carpet had been burned. The smell that hung about the house only hinted at the powerful, musty odor that filled every nook and cranny of the bathroom. It was so strong that it distracted Clara as she peered beneath the petticoat of a bisque doll in search of the name of its maker.

  "Good Lord, what is that stench?" she asked, putting the doll gently back into its stand. Her lip curled in disgust as she came to stand beside Molly. "That is one serious mold problem."

  "I think it's more than a problem," Molly said, looking down at the black dust on her fingertips which had come off on her skin when she’d touched the bathroom door. "I think it's the murder weapon."

  ~~~~~

  Molly had asked Mrs. Hewell if she and Clara could take their tea upstairs in her room. The cheerful proprietress had readily agreed and arrived moments later with a tray laden with tea service and a plate of fresh lemon squares. Molly was vigorously scrubbing her hands with soap and scalding water for the second time when the plump proprietress came bustling in.

  "What a lovely establishment!" Clara praised Mrs. Hewell as she gazed appreciatively at the Limoges tea set. "Are all of your rooms occupied?"

  "Not anymore, dear. The couple who booked the Majolica suite had to cancel, poor things. The young wife got her heel caught in a sidewalk grate and twisted her knee. They won't be rafting on the James this week, that's for sure."

  "That's why I only wear sensible shoes," Clara said smugly. "Could I have that suite then?" She turned to Molly and whispered out of the side of her mouth. "After all, Lex is paying."

  "Of course you can, dear." Mrs. Hewell's smile grew even more magnanimous. "Enjoy your tea and I'll give you the key when I come back to fetch the tray."

  Clara picked up a lemon square and took a bite. Powdered sugar drifted like snow onto her navy T-shirt. "Delightful woman," she said, brushing off her shirt. "I thought I'd stay here while we pack up Mrs. Sterling's house. Lex can stay at one of those chain hotels, but I need a good breakfast in the morning and I have a feeling I won't be disappointed at the Traveller."

  "Is Lex still taking inventory at Mrs. Sterling's?" Molly asked.

  "Yes, but he's almost done. We have a clear enough picture of the estate’s value to draw up a simple contract. I hope you're right about Victoria being willing to go through with the auction. Otherwise, this trip will be a mighty waste of time and money."

  "I'm positive she'll want to sell everything. There isn’t a sentimental bone in her body." Molly poured two cups of steaming tea. Setting her cup on a side table, she sank into an overstuffed chair with a lemon square in hand.

  "Now, tell me what's going on," Clara said as she sipped her tea. “It’s not a cocktail, but it’ll have to do.”

  Molly polished off a lemon square in record time and loaded a second onto her plate. "Do you remember the day we went to the Valley of the Kings?"

  Clara's eyes lit up. "Do I? Our whole trip was like a dream! The cruise up the Nile, the pyramids, our gorgeous guide..."

  "Focus, Ma. Do you remember what our gorgeous guide told us what he believe to be the real cause of Lord Carnarvon's death?"

  "Instead of the mummy's curse? Let me think." Clara stared at her teacup, wishing she could instantly transform it into a Waterford tumbler containing a nice cocktail as she recalled their visit into Tutankhamen's tomb. "Are you referring to the theory that the fungus trapped within the tomb caused the death of Carnarvon and possibly others as well?"

  "Yes! And I think that black mold we saw at Frank's mother's house might have caused his death. You see, it was deliberately put on a piece of furniture where he was sure to come in contact with it." Molly described Frank's allergic sensitivities and how he had displayed flulike symptoms the last time she had seen him alive.

  She went on to exaplin how she and Garrett had found Frank's body. Then Molly told her mother how she had retuned to reexamine the slant-front desk, only to find that the mold had been completely cleaned off, destroying all evidence of foul play.

  "So you're the only one who believes there's been a murder?" Clara asked coyly. "I must say, I'm much more interested in this Garrett fellow you've mentioned. Visiting from London? Knowledgeable about antiques? But the real question"—Clara leaned forward with a mischievous gleam in her eye—"is whether or not he's single."

  Molly rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. Her mother was relentless in her pursuit of a suitable husband for her only daughter. "No sign of foul play will surface until the autopsy is complete. As far as Garrett goes—" Molly's decision to praise her new friend was cut short by a burst of staccato knocking on her hotel room door. She opened it wide.

  "Thank goodness you're back!" Garrett said breathlessly and nearly tripped into the room. "You won't believe... oh!" He stopped as he spotted Clara sitting regally in one of the room's wing chairs. "Forgive me, I'm interrupting."

  "Nonsense." Clara beckoned toward the chair Molly had occupied. "Join us for tea. I'm Clara Appleby, Molly's mother."

  "Charmed," Garrett boldly kissed Clara on the cheek. "You two could surely be mistaken for sisters."

  Clara glowed. Molly sighed in annoyance. She often heard that statement from men trying to get on Clara's good side. "What's going on?" she demanded of Garrett.

  He turned his honey-brown eyes toward her and instantly, his face became grave. "Victoria's been picked up for questioning. The police are holding her as the primary suspect in Frank's murder case. It's absurd, of course," he explained to Clara. "That woman is no killer. However, I'm afraid we've all been summoned to the station in order to give statements. That includes you as well, Molly. I came to offer you a ride. It's bound to be an unpleasant experience, so I thought we might at least muddle through it together."

  Garrett threw another winning smile at Clara who clucked in sympathy, and then loaded Garrett's plate with the two remaining lemon squares. "How awful!" Clara exclaimed. "What on earth will you two do for dinner?"

  "I, for one, plan to take both of you lovely ladies out for a first-class meal. Just as soon as we're done I’ll come collect you, fair Clara. Until then..." Garrett bowed.

  Molly rolled her eyes again. Garrett was going a bit over the top, though her mother didn't seem to mind.

  "Let's get this over with," she mumbled ungraciously and headed out of her room without waiting to see whether Garrett was behind her or not.

  ~~~~~

  Detective Robeson was, without a doubt, a giant of a man. His six-foot-five frame was made up of 260 pounds of bulky muscle and dense bone covered by espresso- colored skin dressed in a tight black T-shirt tucked into gray pants. Molly couldn't tea
r her eyes away from his massive biceps. This man could crush another person's head by simply raising his wrist to his shoulder.

  When he spoke, his voice carried a surprisingly gentle and very deep bass to her ears. "Now, Miss Appleby. Let's start with your arrival at the museum and go from there."

  As Molly gave her statement, she felt herself growing excited about being given the opportunity to provide an invaluable clue toward solving the murder case. She had deliberately avoided telling Garrett anything about the mold reasoning that if anyone was going to get credit for assisting the police, it was going to be her. She’d spent the entire car ride thinking of the article she could write for Collector's Weekly featuring herself as the heroine!

  "So what makes you think this mold on the desk was the same as the mold in the bathroom?" The deep voice broke through her reverie.

  "It had that black, powdery look and that same musty odor."

  "And there were no traces on the desk when you returned to examine it?" Robeson leaned his massive frame an inch closer to hers.

  Molly wasn't sure, but she felt as though her starring role in solving the crime was not taking the direction she had hoped it would. "No, sir."

  He eased forward another inch, his wide nose flaring slightly and his dark eyes boring into hers. "And you didn't mention the sudden disappearance of the mold to Officer Combs at the time?"

  "Well, I didn't know it was mold then, and ... well, I had to go meet my mother and was kind of concentrating on not being late. Once I was back inside Mrs. Sterling's house, I recognized the smell first, and then, when I went into the master bathroom, I saw the stain again. That's when I realized what the black powder on the desk was actually mold."

  Robeson raised a thick pointer finger in the air. The officer unobtrusively taking notes in the comer of the room immediately put down his pen and jumped to attention.