"Mon dieu," mumbled Patrice. "The Titans have arrived."
"Who?" Alicia asked nervously.
"You know. Greek Mythology. The Titans were enormous beings who once ruled the earth. They were taller than the mountains and could shake the ground when they walked. This group looks just as alarming."
"That's their intimidation factor," Alicia replied, twisting a clump of her shiny black hair into a knot. "And it's working."
"All right, people!" Officer Combs called for quiet. The room was instantaneously still. "We're calling you in for questioning one at a time. You will follow me to the staff lounge, be fingerprinted, questioned, and then taken to another room. No one leaves this building until we say so. Do not talk about this case. Get food or drink as you need and if you must use the facilities, ask an officer for permission and you will be escorted to the restrooms. Only one person at a time in the restroom. Is this clear?"
Several heads nodded. "Now, we've got about forty people to question so we have decided to proceed alphabetically. We will begin with Adams, Christopher Adams."
Most the women in the room couldn't help but follow Chris's progress to the front of the room with appreciative stares. Molly was again struck by the surreal color of his aquamarine eyes as he turned to smile at someone who’d whispered "good luck." His tight black T-shirt stretched across his muscular back as he quickly but confidently approached Officer Combs.
'To the lion's den I go." He tried to sound nonchalant, but his clenched fists and white knuckles revealed his nervousness.
"It'll be over in no time," Molly offered, feeling sorry for the handsome young man. She was rewarded with a shy grin before Combs grabbed Chris by the arm and led him away as if he were already deemed guilty.
Ten minutes later, Combs returned, list in hand. "Appleby, Molly!" he yelled even though Molly was seated front and center. She felt as though she were heading for the electric chair as all eyes in the room fastened on her. Garrett, who was seated beside her, patted her hand and gave her a ridiculously comic wink. She hoped her butt didn't look big in her stretch khaki pants as she trotted off next to Combs and self-consciously tugged her blouse down over her hips.
Molly was fingerprinted in less than a minute and then given a moist towelette to attempt the futile removal of black ink from her fingers. Scrubbing at her right thumb, she was led before Detective Robeson and asked to sit in a rock-hard wooden chair in front of him. Only a Spartan metal table separated them. Robeson turned his legal pad to a fresh page and began talking.
"So let's start with last night, Miss Appleby," he began in a no-nonsense tone. Not a single trace of yesterday's gentleness lingered. 'Tell me about what you did since I saw you last. Where did you eat dinner, for example? Leave no detail out, please. You never know what could be important."
Molly stared at Robeson's massive hand as he gripped his pencil like a vise. She gulped and began to recite every nuance of last night's meal at Elmo's, from the seating arrangement, to what everyone ate, to Victoria's dramatic entrance. When she reached the part about Alexandra declaring the Dahlonega coins a fake, Robeson's eyes finally left his paper and came to rest on Molly's face.
"Hold on, hold on. Tell me more about these coins."
Molly repeated what she had learned from the gentleman curator in the seersucker suit. She explained what he had told her about the rarity of the coins and their incredible monetary value.
"So this local curator quoted you a value of close to five hundred thousand dollars?" Robeson asked, a spark of interest appearing in his molasses-brown eyes.
"Yes, sir," Molly said, relaxing. Once again, she felt that she could be of help to the intimidating detective. She could already envision the headline of the next issue of Collector's Weekly. It would read, "CW Reporter Aids Richmond Police Solve Two Homicides."
"Now there's a motive," Combs mumbled and Robeson shot him an aggravated glance.
"Please continue." Robeson raised his pencil and held it poised over the legal pad.
"A motive and a means," Molly added smugly to what Combs suggested.
"What means? Explain." Robeson lifted one eyebrow like an expectant schoolteacher.
"There was a blackout on Tuesday. It only lasted about five minutes, but that would have been long enough to steal the Dahlonega coins and replace them with fakes." Molly remembered the pinprick of light she had seen near the display cabinet containing the coins. "I didn't think anything of it at the time," she continued excitedly, "but someone could have been back there, swapping the coins! I saw a light, you know, like one cast by a penlight." Again Molly’s mind drifted off, focusing on bold newspaper headlines and a stack of fan mail piled on her desk. Surely all of the South's major papers would want to run such a sensational story. She’d be famous. And if she ended up on television, she was going to need a new outfit. And perhaps a trim, too.
"Hmmm." Robeson took a few notes. "Let's get back to the dinner, now."
Disappointed in Robeson's lack of fervor over her testimony thus far, Molly went on to describe Jessica knocking over the wineglass and Alexandra's denouncement of General Lee. She finished by repeating who went home in which car.
"So you, Borris, Jessica, and your mother returned to the Traveller just before ten o'clock. Is that right?"
Molly nodded. "The others are staying at a place a few miles west of here. I don't remember the name, but it's a chain hotel. Garrett took Victoria to the hotel in his car, because the minivan was full, but he's staying with us at the Traveller. I don't know when he got back. I'm a pretty heavy sleeper."
"And what about this morning? What did you do?" Robeson scribbled on his pad.
"Not too much to tell there. I got up at about seven, had breakfast, came here, forgot my ID badge, went back to my hotel for it, returned to the museum, and saw the body." Molly examined her stained fingers unhappily. "Will I be able to wash my hands after this?"
"Uh…yes," Robeson said distractedly. "Did you see anyone else at your hotel before coming here?"
Molly remembered returning to the Traveller in order to retrieve her ID badge. She hesitated, but then described the short conversation she had overheard between Jessica and Borris. Robeson was bound to find out anyway.
"What do you think that was about?" Combs demanded.
"I have no idea." Molly shrugged innocently. "I just met these people a few days ago."
"Combs"—Robeson pointed at the door without looking up—"go get the next person for questioning."
Combs sulked but did as he was told. Now that she was alone with Robeson, Molly's hands began to grow clammy. Robeson stared at his pad, unblinking and silent, while Molly wondered what he was thinking.
"I don't think they're the ones," Molly offered quietly. "Borris and Jessica, I mean. That note..." She struggled to put her thoughts into words. "It implies some kind of intimate meeting. At least that's the way I intepret it. Borris and Jessica are in love with one another, even though she won't admit it, so neither of them would be involved with Alexandra."
"So." Robeson cupped his large chin with his hand and rubbed his stubble. "Who do you like for it, then?"
Molly hesitated, not comprehending this "cop talk" phrase, but then she translated the question: "Who is the killer?"
"Randy's in the clear for this murder. He's still in jail, right?" Molly asked.
Robeson nodded in agreement.
"Someone didn't want Alexandra talking to that local curator this morning. She had to be killed before she spoke to him. No one else knows coins, except for Garrett, so unless he or the curator examined them and raised the alarm, no one would believe for certain they were fakes. If no one examined them, then whoever stole the original coins could get away with robbery. Today is the show's last day. Tomorrow the crew packs up. He or she would have been scot-free within twenty-four hours."
Robeson said nothing. The clock on the wall circulated its red second hand forward with a persistent hum. "Any holes to this theory?" Robeson fi
nally asked.
Molly sighed. "Yeah, plenty. Why kill Alexandra when her death only draws attention to the fake coins? And why kill her in the museum? It's like the killer wanted to make a big statement, but now the whole world will be looking for him."
Robeson stood. "I'll take your statement into serious consideration. If you think of anything else, let me know." He strode past her and opened the door. "And Ms. Appleby," he said as he looked down at her benevolently. "Good work finding that note."
Molly smiled. "Thanks." She paused in the doorway. "Um, will you want to talk to my mother?"
Robeson shook his head. "Not at the moment. You're free to go as well. Just don't return to the cafeteria."
"Yes, sir." Molly avoided eye contact with Combs as he led a terrified crewmember toward the fingerprinting station.
"Do I need a lawyer?" the man asked, his hands violently trembling over the inkpads.
"Not unless you've got something to hide," Combs stated wickedly. "And where do you think you're going?" he asked Molly sharply.
"Detective Robeson said I could leave," she retorted. "So I'm leaving!" And then unable to think of some caustic remark to sting him with, Molly stuck her tongue out at the stunned policeman.
~~~~~
The first thing Molly did upon arriving at the Traveller was to take off her pointy shoes, which had been mashing her toes together until they formed a warped triangle. After kicking them aside, she resolved to trade in style for comfort where her feet were concerned, and then flopped onto the comfortable bed with a sigh of relief.
She wanted to spend a few minutes trying to digest all that had happened in the last few days. Randy had killed Frank and now Alexandra had been murdered. Was there a connection between the two murders or was someone else simply inspired by Randy's act of violence?
Molly could only assume that Randy had killed Frank out of pent-up rage. So Frank's was a murder ignited by hatred mixed with a little insanity. Someone else must have killed Alexandra to prevent her from meeting with the curator and firmly establishing that the valuable Dahlonega coins were actually fakes. That crime was motivated by fear, but also by hatred as well. Stringing Alexandra up so that she would hang from Lee's marble neck was a deliberate and possibly vengeful act. But who would do such a thing?
As Molly began thinking back on all the conversations from last night's dinner, she began to grow sleepy. I'll just close my eyes for a second, she thought. Within minutes, she was fast asleep.
~~~~~
Two hours later, Molly awoke with a very full bladder. The four cups of coffee she’d consumed that morning had filled her close to the bursting point. She was hungry, too. After taking care of her more immediate needs, Molly pulled out a large bag of fat-free pretzels, a spiral notebook, and a pen from her bag. Sitting at the mahogany writing desk, she tore open the bag of pretzels and began to create a list of all those present at last night's dinner. It was time to figure out the killer’s identity.
Molly knew that she could eliminate Lex, Clara, and herself as possible murderers. That left Garrett Victoria, Jessica, Borris, Tony, Patrice, Lindsey, and Alicia. Unless two of them were working together, Molly did not think any of the women had the strength to pull Alexandra's body into the air and secure the woman's dead weight to Lee's statue. Even though Alexandra probably weighed a mere 120 pounds, that still was a formidable weight for another woman to lift.
Molly was just beginning to create a column named "motive" next to the name of each appraiser when the phone rang, scattering her thoughts completely.
"Hello?" she answered crossly, not bothering to mask her annoyance over being interrupted. How could she become a famous heroine if she had no time to think?
"Molly?" a familiar voice asked.
Molly's heart skipped two beats. "Matt? Is that you?"
"God, Molly. I've been trying to reach you for days! Didn't you get my number in Ohio?"
"No. That new receptionist, Britanni, said you didn't leave it for me," Molly said, disliking the whiny, defensive tone that had crept into her voice.
Matt groaned. "Of course I did. And the number she gave me for you is completely wrong. I've been waking up this poor old man night after night. He's ready to kill me."
Molly laughed, relief flooding through her that Matt had not forgotten about her. "It is so good to hear your voice. Things are really crazy up here."
"So I've heard," Matt said somberly. "I talked to Clayton yesterday about the death of Frank Sterling. Are you okay?"
"Yes, I'm fine." Molly reassured him. "In fact, there was another murder last night." She went on to describe the group dinner, how Alexandra had been strangled, and how she, Molly, had been of invaluable assistance to the Richmond police force. This last bit was slightly exaggerated, but Molly could never resist an opportunity to make herself look good in front of Matt.
Matt was worried. "So there have been no arrests?"
"Not yet."
"Molly, I don't like this. Don't stick your nose into this one. Let the police find the murderer. In fact why don't you come home? The show's over now anyway, right?"
Molly squeezed the receiver affectionately. She loved it that Matt was fretting over her. Just the way he said "home" seemed like he was really saying she should return to him.
Maybe their relationship could really become official once she was back in North Carolina. Shaking away rosy visions of Matt sweeping her feather-light body into his arms and swinging her around like a top, Molly replied, "It's sweet of you to worry about me, Matt, but everything's fine. And the police need all the help they can get. Now, tell me what's going on with you. What happened with your brother?"
"Don't try to change the subject. Johnny got into a car accident and his leg was broken. I went to Ohio to help him home from the hospital and to stock his fridge and stuff. His girlfriend's taking next week off of work, so I’ll be back in Durham tomorrow."
"Maybe we'll finally get to spend some time together," Molly said hopefully.
"Only if you promise to stay out of this mess, Molly. What's the name of this bed-and-breakfast you're in?"
"The Traveller, after Lee's famous horse. Why?"
"I just want to set that Britanni straight when I get back to the office on Monday," Matt replied sternly.
"I think she saw your picture on the staff wall and developed an instant crush on you," Molly teased. "Can't say that I blame her."
Matt's tone softened. "Look Molly. Come home tomorrow. I'll take you out wherever you want to go."
Molly was highly tempted by the tender pleading in Matt's voice. "We'll see. This is a huge story, Matt. Swanson would string me up like a set of Christmas lights if I left now."
Matt uttered a defeated sigh. "You're probably right. Just be careful, please. I'm going to call you tomorrow night as soon as I get in." He paused. "I miss you, Molly."
Molly felt warmth flow through her face. "I miss you, too," she whispered, smiling. After she hung up, she practically bounced off the bed and grabbed the pad of paper listing the names of the appraisers. It was time to do some sleuthing, but first, she needed to discover the secret Jessica had been keeping. She looked at her watch. It was time for tea. Hopefully, Borris and Jessica were back from being questioned and Clara would be available as well. Her mother would help Molly straighten out her theories by playing devil's advocate to everything she said.
Barreling down the stairs with an utter lack of decorum, Molly arrived in the dining room to the welcome sight of her mother's crown of thick brown hair, her head bent over an antique furniture reference guide. She also recognized the tantalizing aroma of warm bread pudding.
Clara looked up from her book. "You sounded like a herd of elephants just now. Where's the fire?"
"No fire, but if that's bread pudding with vanilla custard sauce then my day has just improved significantly," Molly said, pouring herself a cup of tea.
"What's going on around here, anyway?" Clara demanded. "Jessica and Borris came strai
ght in the front door and then locked themselves in the parlor. They've been in there almost an hour and I can't hear a word they're saying." She frowned in annoyance. "I can't stand it! Would you put down that spoon and go do some snooping."
Molly grinned at her mother. "And people wonder where I get my nosiness from? I’ll go in a minute." she said spooning a generous portion of bread pudding loaded with plump raisins on her plate, "I haven't had any lunch today, so don't be shocked at how much of this I eat. Plus, I need the energy. You and I have a murder to solve."
"I thought Randy was already in jail." Clara asked, nonplussed.
"He is, for the first murder. There's been another one. Now be quiet so I can fill you in on all the details."
"Oh boy," Clara closed her book and took a swallow of tea. "I can see that cocktail time is going to start a little early today."
~~~~~~~~~~
Chapter 12
I have gone through almost trackless forest, over rugged roads, or crumbling doorways; I have gone on the spur of a moment of notice of a sale or of any division of an estate, the breaking up of a home, or the division of property.
—Paul Burroughs, Southern Antiques
Strong afternoon sunlight slanted into the front parlor of the quiet bed-and-breakfast. The bookshelves flanking the fireplace were loaded with antique reference guides, mostly about porcelain collecting, and a dozen binders filled with pristine back issues of Southern Living. A pair of sterling Tiffany candlesticks holding cranberry-colored beeswax candles stood proudly on the mantel and an array of glass paperweights lined the space between the candlesticks. Occasionally, a shard of sunlight would catch a splinter of cobalt or emerald green within one of the paperweights and the color would soar outside of its casement, like a ghost rising from a coffin.
Seated in a wingback chair, Jessica was staring forlornly at her folded hands. Across the room in a matching chair, Borris gazed emptily at the intricate patterns of the crimson and navy blue wool Caucasian rug. He traced the ochre border of diamonds with his left foot as if deep in thought. Finally, he stood, glancing briefly toward the bay windows and out onto the street beyond, before wordlessly leaving the room.
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