A Fatal Appraisal

by J. B. Stanley

  "This is wonderful!" Molly exclaimed. "Folk art, right?"

  "Yes, a contemporary piece by a North Carolina artist named Benny Carter. This is one of his early works. I thought it would make a nice addition to your story. Mrs. Wilbur here only paid two hundred dollars for it over ten years ago, and I'm about to tell her that she should insure this piece today for five thousand dollars."

  "Oh, my!" Mrs. Wilbur exclaimed as Molly dug out her camera and began to take pictures. As she was writing down how Mrs. Wilbur had bought the painting from the artist's house for $200 plus a six-pack of his favorite beer, Molly looked up and caught Alicia smiling at her.

  Was Alicia at lunch when the house keys were taken? Molly tried to remember. Yes, she had been there. Molly remembered that Alicia had sat across from her, flanked by Lindsey on one side and Patrice on the other. Garrett and Alexandra had been there, too. Borris and Jessica hadn’t arrived until after Molly had already started her lunch. Had either of them had enough time to get to Mrs. Sterling's house and back?

  Returning Alicia's smile, Molly thanked her and then headed back toward Garrett to see what he conclusions he’d drawn about Jasmine's coin. Before Molly reached his table, she could see him counting out a pile of twenties and slipping them into Jasmine's hand. Jasmine hugged him quickly and then stuffed the money in her purse.

  "Thanks again!" she said as she scooped up her son and turned toward the exit. "I've got to go! Bye!"

  "Well, that looks like a happy customer." Molly remarked as she moved to Garrett's side. She watched Jasmine hastily maneuver through the crowd. "Was the coin worth anything? I hope so, because she really seemed to need the money."

  Garrett looked grave. "I know, she told me that, too. Unfortunately, her coin was a fake. A good one, but still a fake. I didn't have the heart to tell her that, though, poor mite, so I just told her it was of small value but that I could sell it to a friend of mine."

  "So you paid her for it even though it was a fake?" Molly was astonished.

  "What's a bloke to do?" Garrett blushed and looked away.

  A warm feeling rushed through Molly and before she knew what she was doing, she threw her arms around Garrett's neck and planted a warm, grateful kiss on his lips. When he remained rigid, Molly was mortified at her forwardness and she immediately detached her arms and crossed them over her chest in embarrassment.

  "Well! I say," said Garrett teasingly. "I'm going to get involved in all sorts of good works if that's the result it produces."

  "That was so sweet of you, Garrett." Molly gave him a shy smile and settled for squeezing his hand as a means of illustrating her admiration. "Why did Jasmine rush away in such a hurry?"

  "Had to push off for work. She's got a shift at the hospital starting in an hour. Nice of you to hustle her through the queue like that. I should be kissing you for being the picture of kindness." Garrett took her hand.

  At that moment, Molly longed to confide in Garrett, to tell him all about the mold on the desk and ask him to help her find Frank's killer, but for some reason she kept silent She released his hand in order to grab her notebook from her bag.

  "I'd better get back to work. Oh, I forgot to tell you. Victoria says she's going to rest after being grilled this afternoon but will join us for dinner. That means the police haven't charged her with anything. Isn't that good news?"

  'Topping," Garrett agreed brightly. "I didn't think they had any hard evidence on the gal. Where are you off to next?"

  Molly thought about Jessica and Borris and their tardiness at yesterday's lunch. "I think I'll check out what's going on in the book and jewelry area. See you tonight."

  At the furniture area, a local dealer and one of the staff appraisers were filling in for Frank. Molly stopped to watch them as they looked over a stunning tilt-top table. She felt a sudden sadness come over her that Frank, with his incredible devotion for antique furniture, was absent.

  She also missed the warm beauty of the slant-front desk. Was it sitting in some dark room down at the police station? Did its owner know that their antique had been an accessory in a murder?

  Off to the side, partially hidden from view by a curtain, Randy and Chris sat at a table playing cards. Molly assumed the men were kept nearby in case a piece of furniture needed to be lifted or polished for the benefit of the camera's eye. She stood watching Randy. Apparently he had just lost his hand, for he threw down his cards with a slap as his lip curled in frustration.

  "Now there's a man with some anger," Molly murmured as she turned her back on him. Randy had no love for Frank. Maybe he just meant to play a nasty trick on his employer— a trick that had ended up killing him. Molly needed to know more about this hot-tempered assistant She decided to pay a visit to the producer, Guy, who had set up his temporary office as far away from the clambering crowd as possible.

  Lucky for her, Guy was on the phone when she arrived, bellowing into the mouthpiece. "A replacement for Frank has to be in D.C. for the next show ... I don't care whether he's under contract or not just get him!"

  Guy was an all-around average guy. Nothing about his height weight or looks made him stand out in any way. He wore square reading glasses that he was constantly placing on a head of dull brown hair while he squinted through flat blue eyes at the world.

  "Who are you?" he asked impatiently.

  "Molly Appleby, from Collector's Weekly. We spoke on the phone last week."

  "Ah, yes," Guy nodded, his voice thawing notably.

  "Thank you so much for letting me visit the show. This is going to make a great piece. In fact, I have so much to write about that I think I'll do a whole series."

  All producers love publicity and this one was no exception. Guy was words away from eating out of her hand.

  "I'd love to do a side article on the crew, a behind-the- scenes kind of thing. Being that the show is wrapping up tomorrow, I'm not sure if I'll have time to get backgrounds on all of the crewmembers. Do you have anything like that with you?"

  Guy frowned. "Nah. Personnel files are back in New York. We'd have to fax stuff to you."

  That was a disappointment. "Well, can you tell me what you know about Frank's crew? For example, who will be replacing him?"

  Guy looked at her suspiciously. "I'm trying to get a dealer from Atlanta on board. He's a greedy bastard though and wants more money than we're willing to pay. You're not writing a piece on Frank, are you? You know that was an accident," he added with a growl.

  An accident? Molly ignored her instinct to laugh at such an outrageous statement. "Of course I'm not writing about Frank," she lied. "Now, how about his assistants, Randy and Chris?"

  "Don't know." Guy was obviously bored with the direction of their conversation. "Frank hand-picked those guys."

  Molly gave up. She wasn't going to find out anything from this man. He didn't know a thing about the people who actually made his show work. She stood up to leave when she had a sudden flash of inspiration. "Just one more thing. With all of these Hidden Treasures crewmembers working here, where do they all find places to park?"

  "Oh, we're borrowing Krispy Kreme's lot for the week. They're closed for renovations."

  At the name Krispy Kreme, Molly's stomach issued a loud gurgle, reminding her that she had not eaten anything for breakfast. A fresh jelly donut would certainly hit the spot. Too bad the shop was closed.

  "Frank didn't park there, though," she wondered aloud, quickly trying to cover up the sounds of her protesting stomach.

  "Frank said that there might be traces of asbestos in the air from the donut place's renovations. He refused to park there." Guy sighed and stood to leave. "He'd have parked in the handicapped spot if he thought he could get away with it Now, I need to make a call and my cell phone doesn't work well in here, so if you'll excuse me, I'm going to head outside."

  "Of course. Thank you for your time," Molly said politely, noting that the shape of the object in Guy's hand looted much more like a pack of cigarettes than a cell phone. Fortunatel
y, Guy's need to indulge his habit would leave her alone in his office. Once he was out of sight Molly moved as quickly as she could and grabbed the portable file case behind his desk. Rifling through the papers, she discovered a list of employee cars and plate numbers.

  "Gotcha!" She smiled, stuffing the paper into her purse. She then headed for the nearest exit She had spied a barbeque restaurant next door to the Krispy Kreme and she wasn't going to go one step further into her investigation without a nice order of baby back ribs with a side of baked beans and a warm, butter-drenched biscuit.

  ~~~~~

  Molly had no idea what the expected to find by walking around the lot where the crew of Hidden Treasures parked. While most of die head appraisers were given the use of rental cars in each city, the crewmembers were expected to drive their own vehicles to every show. Apparently there were less perks involved in being a member of the crew. They certainly didn't stay at the same quality hotels as the appraisers, and even if she tracked down Randy's hotel, Molly had little expectation of being able to break into his hotel room if his car gave her no indication of whether or not he was a murderer.

  Scanning over the list, she read that Randy drove a black Ford F-150 with Alabama plates reading N2BASS and it didn’t take her long to locate his truck. The front grill was outfitted to hold at least six fishing poles and the rear bumper was completely covered by fishing bumper stickers reading: Women Love Me, Fish Fear Me; The Question of Fishing Is Not A Matter of Life or Death— It's Bigger Than That; 'Carpe Diem' Does Not Mean 'Fish of the Day'; and Save The Bass—Shoot A Land Developer.

  The back window was covered with fishing stickers and catch-and-release badges. A silver wide-mouth bass dangled from the rearview mirror.

  "So this is your passion," Molly said. She peered through the tinted passenger window into the cab and grimaced at the mass of fast-food cartons, balled-up napkins, and empty soda cans that littered the floor. The front seat was completely obscured by maps, fishing magazines, and what looked like a well-read issue of Playboy featuring a sexy pro-wrestler on the cover.

  A fat drop of rain splashed down onto Molly's hand as she pressed her nose against the glass.

  "Great," she complained to the dirty truck. "What was I thinking I would find? A written confession propped up on the dashboard?"

  Sighing in self-disgust, she decided to take a quick look through the small cab window at the back seat bench. It too was Uttered with old food containers and yellowed magazines, but just as Molly was about to give up and seek shelter from the rain, which had begun to dot die surface of the truck with more regularity, she spied a balled-up rag soiled with what looked like black stains on the driver's side of the bench seat.

  Hoping against hope that the stains were not created by furniture polish, Molly dashed over to the other side of the truck and peered down at the rag. Her heart began drumming faster as she stared at the powdery-looking black stains. It was the mold. It had to be.

  "I knew it!" Molly declared and pulled out both her cell phone and Detective Robeson's card from her purse. She punched in his number excitedly and almost jumped for joy when he answered on the third ring.

  "Robeson speaking." The deep voice rumbled through the earpiece. Molly quickly explained her discovery and described exactly where Randy's truck was parked in the Krispy Kreme lot.

  "This'd better be the real thing," Robeson mumbled to himself after he hung up. He untied a red-and-white checkered apron and turned off the oven. He then watched in dismay as his undercooked soufflé fell inward with a gust of steam. "So much for my day off."

  ~~~~~

  In the parking lot, the rain had picked up its tempo so Molly headed for shelter beneath an overhang on the backside of the Krispy Kreme building. Thick clouds blotted out the weak daylight and hung closely to the ground, creating the effect of an early twilight. Goose bumps erupted on Molly's arms as she listened to the growling thunder.

  Suddenly, a fork of lightning flashed across the sky and as Molly turned to look at it in nervous fascination, the lanky, wet figure of Randy appeared like a ghost from around the corner of the donut shop.

  Before she could even react, he had taken three impossibly quick strides and now stood before her, water streaming from his ratty hair. His thin arms were covered with cobra tattoos that crawled up his arms like black vines as he reached up to wipe moisture from his face.

  "Whatcha doin' poking around my ride, girlie?" he asked, leaning in towards Molly's face. She could smell beer and cigarettes on his breath.

  Molly shrank back against the concrete wall. "Uh... just admiring your bumper stickers." She tried to relax and act casual, but her body would not cooperate. Her shoulders hunched defensively and her muscles tensed. "I... um...think fishing is a great hobby."

  "You do, do ya?" Randy dropped his soaked cigarette on the ground and placed his hand on the wall next to Molly's head. "So you're lookin' for some action from a real man, not that English punk I've seen you hangin' all over."

  Molly twisted her face away from his breath and the hungry look in his eyes. She tried to laugh, but the sound came out like a strangled whimper. "No, nothing like that. Actually I have a boyfriend back in North Carolina. A very protective boyfriend."

  Randy touched a strand of Molly's hair. "Sure you do, sweet thang."

  A wave of anger surged through Molly's blood. Why was she just standing there? This puny man wasn't about to take advantage of her. "Listen to me!" She stood up and pushed his hand off the wall. "You'd better back off."

  Randy rocked on his heels while a look of amusement played across his pinched face. He narrowed his weasel eyes even further and said, "I think I'd like a taste of those nice lips. You don't have to play those games with me, girl." And he grabbed Molly's shoulders with both hands as he tried to kiss her.

  Molly jerked her knee into what she thought was his crotch, but ended up being a bony thigh. Luckily, she applied enough force to unbalance him. She shoved him roughly aside as she freed herself from his hands.

  Surprised by Molly's resistance, Randy fell on the ground and sat stunned for a moment before his face reddened with rage and he took off after her fleeing figure.

  Molly was not a fast runner, but terror increased her speed until she was flying through the rain back towards the museum, the sound of her pursuer indignant yells egging her desperately onward. As she dashed from behind a large delivery truck parked in the barbeque restaurant's lot, she ran headlong into an immoveable human wall. It was Detective Robeson.

  "Oh, thank god!" Molly wailed and held onto Robeson's massive arms. "He's after me!"

  Robeson issued the briefest of nods to the two officers standing next to him and within seconds. Randy was handcuffed and shoved, screaming obscenities, into the back of a patrol car.

  Robeson held an umbrella over Molly's head and looked her over from head to toe. "You all right?" he asked gently.

  "Yes," she said as tears mingled with the rain on her face. She brushed them away in irritation. "I thought he was going to... you know." She looked down at the ground.

  "But you got away?" Robeson handed her a napkin.

  "Yeah," she said, wiping her face. "I was pretty glad to see you, though."

  Robeson cracked a small smile. "Can you show me that truck?"

  Molly nodded. Robeson gestured to one of the officers sitting with Randy. The man ran over to Robeson, sprinted back to the patrol car, and returned with the keys to Randy's truck.

  Praying that the rag was really covered with the black mold, Molly led Robeson to the F-150. She pointed at the rag through the window and Robeson carefully retrieved it and plopped it in an evidence bag.

  "Get this to the lab and tell them to put a rush on it," Robeson told his officer. He turned back to Molly and said, "I'll need you to come down to the station and make another statement."

  She nodded wearily. "Can I stop at my hotel and get some dry clothes first?"

  "Of course. Take your time," he said, again speakin
g quite gently. "We'll be busy with that fish for a while, anyway." He smiled and gestured toward Randy's bucking figure in the patrol car. He then walked Molly back to the museum.

  Without bothering to go inside, Molly headed straight for her car and then for the bed-and-breakfast. She was hoping she could get Mrs. Hewell to give her some tea a little earlier than usual. A lemon square or two would certainly hit the spot about now as well.

  "I deserve a treat," she told her sodden reflection in the rearview mirror as the fright began to be replaced by a powerful sense of triumph. "After all, I just caught a killer."

  ~~~~~~~~~~

  Chapter 8

  Since the days of King Arthur, a table, and particularly a dining table, has been synonymous with royalty. Often to dine with a man is to make him your friend.

  —Paul Burroughs, Southern Antiques

  When Molly opened the Traveller’s front door, she was greeted by the rich sound of her mother's laughter mingling with the familiar voices of a man and another woman. As she quietly approached the dining room, Molly lingered in the hall in order to allow the cheerful melodies of storytelling, teasing, and giggling to wash over her and drain some of the tension from her knotted shoulders.

  Jessica and Borris were being regaled with one of Clara's favorite tales of woe from her days as an antiques store proprietor. Molly had heard the story dozens of times, but as she dropped her dripping purse on the dark green wool rug that ran the length of the hall, she still couldn't help but smile.

  "This old coot, T.J., would hang around my shop for hours bragging about how he had been around when people still built furniture with cut nails. He said he could tell if a piece was right just by looking at it, blah, blah, blah. So one day a customer came in and was very interested in my best piece of furniture—a gorgeous corner cupboard from Pennsylvania. I had picked it up for nothing at auction and was going to make a big enough profit on it to pay the bills for the next three months. You can imagine my excitement."