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Chapter 13
Knowing what to look for when buying old or antique furniture is a skill that may take years—and several mistakes. There are even some who feel that recognizing a really fine old piece of furniture is an instinct which cannot be taught.
—The Illustrated Guide to Furniture Repair and Restoration
"Who did you kiss?" Clara asked excitedly as they began walking again. She was already imagining herself surrounded by cherubic grandchildren, all of whom treated her cats with the utmost care and were always dying to hear the history behind every antique in her historic North Carolina shotgun house.
Molly tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear and then realized that she and her mother had come to a stop directly in front of Olde Tobacco Warehouse. The restaurant looked exactly like its name: an old tobacco warehouse. It was a large brick building with oversized windows framed in aged timber.
Inside, Molly and Clara were amazed by the unique layout. As Mrs. Hewell had said, the restaurant was four stories high with an open atrium in the center. Large plants and tall potted trees peppered the floor and an enormous chandelier hung down from the distant ceiling. A hostess in skin-tight black pants led them to a table on the first floor, called the Garden Atrium. The strains of a jazz band playing on the second floor hung in the air above and mingled with the hum of clinking silverware and conversation. Dozens of waiters and waitresses moved among the floors, carrying trays laden with delicious-smelling food.
Their waiter, a rotund, gray-haired man wearing a black button-down shirt and a long off-white apron greeted them with a friendly smile and introduced himself as Peter.
"Would you care to peruse the wine list?" he asked cordially.
Clara waved it away and ordered a bourbon and soda. "With your best, non-watered bourbon," she added firmly. "Do you want something, dear? A pina colada, perhaps?" Clara prompted her unusually taciturn daughter.
"We make a terrific mango colada," the waiter offered.
"Just a Diet Coke, please." Molly waited for Peter to leave and then whispered fiercely, "I kissed Garrett, Ma. He did something really sweet, or at least I assumed he did, and so I kissed him. It was impulsive and meant nothing afterward, but I still did it. "
Clara flicked her wrist in a dismissive gesture. "Oh, that doesn't count. I've kissed dozens of people in the heat of the moment at auction. You know, when you've slipped in a bid right before the gavel falls and that piece of rare pottery or gorgeous cherry stand becomes yours for a song." The waiter arrived with their drinks. Clara ordered an appetizer and then leaned in toward Molly. "You can't seriously believe that Garrett is the killer!"
"But I do." Molly took a deep sip of her soda. "You see, the note Alexandra received indicated that she came to the museum for some kind of intimate meeting, like a romantic rendezvous. The only person I've ever seen Alexandra thaw out around is Garrett. Even Borris mentioned how she had a crush on him for ages. They worked on the same show back in England."
"Well, Garrett is a charmer, but just because she liked him doesn't mean he wrote the note. And didn't you tell me that she was sent here for sleeping with someone else involved with that show?"
"It's not just my suspicions about the romantic nature of the note. Garrett's a coin collector as well. He could have planned the whole coin robbery! But then Alexandra discovered the fakes and he was forced to silence her. Permanently."
A large plate containing a wheel of melted Brie covered in raspberry sauce arrived at their table. Clara scooped a piece of homemade bread into the cheese and popped it into her mouth, even though the cheese was still so hot it was bubbling.
"Delicious! Try some, madam. It's not like you to lose your appetite when baked cheese and fresh bread are concerned." She waited while Molly mechanically bit into a forkful of steaming cheese. "Do you have any proof that would incriminate Garrett?"
Molly shook her head. "Ow, this is hot!" She took a hasty drink of soda. "No, of course I have no proof."
"You don't really know this man and you don't have a single shred of evidence against him. This doesn't look very conclusive, cupcake. Any member of the crew could have been wooing Alexandra for all you know." Clara looked around and their attentive waiter instantly appeared at their table. She ordered the chicken cooked in a creamy sherry sauce and shitake mushrooms for herself and tornedos of beef smothered in béarnaise sauce for Molly. "Oh, well, we can't eat Mrs. Hewell's free food the whole time," she added under her breath as she noticed the prices for the first time.
Molly was fully lost in thought. Suddenly, she brightened and sat up in her chair. "Listen, Garrett knows a coin dealer in town. If I want to find out more about his true character, I could find out from the dealer. He has a shop around here, in Shockoe Bottom. Garrett mentioned the location to me at the museum the other day."
"I guess it's worth a try." Clara shrugged. "But he'll never be open tomorrow. It's Sunday."
"Excuse me, Peter," Molly asked their waiter as he paused to refill their water glasses. "Do you know if there's a store around here that sells old coins?"
The man held the water pitcher in midair and frowned in thought. "Hmm, I'm not sure. There are a couple shops that sell vintage stuff and second-hand books near the flea market on Seventeenth Street. I don't live in this part of town, but that would be your best bet. Your entrees will be right out."
"We'll check out the Seventeenth Street area. Thanks."
Clara dabbed at her mouth with her white starched napkin. "Let me guess. We're going to walk home in that direction so that you can find the coin dealer's store."
Molly smiled. "You're so clever, Ma. Yes. And then I will call this local expert tomorrow morning and tell him I simply must interview him for Collector's Weekly before I leave town. If I butter him up enough, I might learn something about Garrett and how good an actor he actually is."
"Well, I'm going to go on that Canal Walk Mrs. Hewell told me about. I’ll need to get some exercise after all of this wonderful food." She patted her flat stomach as Molly enviously eyed her mother's trim waistline. Her own pants were feeling especially snug about the middle. "Lex is leaving in the morning," Clara continued, "but I'll stick around until you go. That means you'll have to drive me home, but I refuse to leave you up here alone. You're bound to get in some enormous muddle before the police have a chance to wrap up the case."
Sunday morning dawned with the irrefutable suggestion of autumn. A crisp, light breeze blew across the weighty heads of saffron-colored chrysanthemums planted in terracotta pots outside the Traveller's front door. As Molly parted the gauzy lace curtains of her second-story room and looked out the window. The morning sun already seemed weaker than it had the day before and she knew it wouldn’t be long before she’d be dressing in sweaters and drinking copious amounts of hot chocolate.
Molly flipped open her notebook to the page where she had scribbled the name of the one coin shop she and her mother had located after last night's dinner. The number for "To Coin A Phrase," was listed under "Coins and Collectibles" in the phone book. Checking her watch, she picked up the phone, punched in the numbers, and received a voice mail recording providing the shop's location, hours, and the owner's pager number. The owner gave his name as Jared Freeman. Molly paged him and waited, enjoying her coffee and the birdsong outside her window.
The phone rang moments, later. "Mr. Freeman?" Molly answered hopefully.
"Yes. To whom am I speaking?" the dealer spoke with a slow, upper class Southern lilt.
"My name is Molly Appleby. I'm a writer for Collector's Weekly. A friend of mine, Garrett Huntington, mentioned that you were the area's most reputable coin dealer and I thought I would try to get an interview with you before I leave town. I also met you associate the other day. A Mr. Fielding? We bumped into one another at the Civil War exhibit."
"He’s been talking of nothing else since, Ms. Appleby. And Mr. Huntington is an old friend. So you’d like an interview?" Mr. Freeman
could scarcely hide his pleasure. "I'd be delighted to accommodate you. When would you like to schedule a meeting?"
Molly pressed ahead. "Actually, I was hoping to meet you at your shop sometime today."
Mr. Freeman hesitated. "Well, I normally attend church service at ten, but I could meet you around noon. Would that suit you?"
"Absolutely. I'll see you then." Molly hung up, feeling elated at the thought of discovering the true nature of the enigmatic Englishman.
~~~~~
Downstairs, Garrett and Clara were discussing the merits of real butter over margarine when making Yorkshire pudding. Molly was relieved to witness her mother's casual manner. She didn't want Garrett to realize that she was on to him. Clara handed Molly a plate piled with scrambled eggs and French toast while Garrett produced a winning smile for her behalf.
"I feel like I haven't seen you for days," he said flirtatiously.
Molly glanced at him only briefly. "With two murders, I'm sure none of us will be allowed to leave town anytime soon." Then she forced herself to soften her tone. "I guess the D.C. show will be postponed now."
"It does seem that way, indeed. And how will you two lovely ladies pass a lazy Sunday?" he asked, handing Molly a pitcher filled with warm maple syrup.
"Thanks." Molly drizzled a zigzag of syrup over her toast. "We're going to go on that Canal Walk. Mrs. Hewell recommended it as an entertaining source of exercise."
"That sounds brilliant." Garrett’s eyes sparkled at the prospect. "Mind if I tag along?"
As Molly struggled to come up with a polite excuse why he couldn't accompany them, Clara spoke up. "You don't want to come with us, trust me. I need some fall clothes and we are going to hit every store in Carytown until I find some decent sweater sets and a pair of black cotton pants."
Molly wondered if Garrett would realize that it was highly unlikely for such specialty boutiques to be open on a Sunday morning, especially in Virginia. Most people would be at church until late morning. Afterward, they’d go out for their large midday supper, and only then would the shopkeepers open their doors. It was more likely that the majority of the shops in Carytown would remain closed all day. Molly's forehead began to grow clammy as she nervously studied Garrett to see whether he would catch Clara in a fib.
Luckily, Garrett grimaced playfully and gave off a shudder of distaste instead. "Right. I think I'll pass on the shopping. Perhaps we'll meet for dinner, then." He stood and took his empty plate into the kitchen.
At that moment, Borris entered the dining room. His eyes were red rimmed from lack of sleep and his salt-and-pepper hair remained uncombed. His shirt was disheveled and the laces on his left sneaker were completely untied. Saying nothing, he sank down in a chair and stared into the empty coffee cup set before him.
Clara immediately filled his cup and began fixing him a plate. "You might as well eat," she nagged gently.
Borris robotically sipped some coffee and gazed down at his food as if he didn't know what to do with it. "Has she already eaten?" he asked angrily.
Molly glanced sideways at her mother. "Jessica's gone," she replied very softy.
Twirling a forkful of eggs, Borris met Molly's eyes. "Gone?"
"She had to go back to Charlotte," Molly whispered. "She had no choice.
Jessica has to show the police the copy of her note—the one telling her to keep quiet." From the kitchen, Molly could hear the sound of riotous laughter. At least Garrett was too busy humoring Mrs. Hewell to overhear their conversation.
Borris instantly grew alarmed. "Is she alone? Who knows about this? She could be in danger." He flung his napkin on the ground, stood, and then collapsed back into his chair again. "Of course, it's none of my business is it?" He threw his arms up in anguish. "She wants nothing to do with me. She told me to stay out of her life!"
Clara leaned forward and said sternly, "First of all, Jessica is in the company of a police officer, so she's perfectly safe. Secondly, she’s in love with you, you silly man. She thinks you won't accept her know that you know about... her mistake, so she deliberately tried to push you away."
Borris sat in stunned silence. "I don't care about those damned coins! She loves me?" He straightened in his seat and his eyes became lively. "Did she say that?"
"Yes." Molly jumped in encouragingly. "And she doesn't have to come back to Richmond immediately, so—"
"I'm going to Charlotte!" Borris leaped up again.
"But you're not allowed to leave town, are you?" Molly asked worriedly.
Borris paused in the doorway. "No, but I didn't kill anyone, so I'm going." He fished around in his pants pocket and shyly withdrew a small jewelry box. "I bought this ring a year ago, when we were taping a show in Baltimore.
Jessica appraised it for an older lady and kept talking about what a wonderful piece of estate jewelry it was. A dark blue sapphire surrounded by a small circle of diamonds. See?" Both Molly and Clara admired the beautiful ring. "I followed the lady outside and bought it from her. I know that Jess and I have only been friends since we've met, but I've always wanted something more. After yesterday, I thought I'd throw the damned thing in Richmond's James River, because she said she would never commit to another relationship again. She said the first time was the man's fault, but this time she was the bad seed. That I should wait for someone with a better character. Imagine that? All she did was make some fake coins! I told her I could easily forgive her, but she said she couldn't forgive herself." Borris paused for air. "But if Jessica said she loves me, even if she said it to you and not to me, then she's going to be wearing this ring by the end of the day, so help me."
"You'd better at least let me tell the police where you've gone," Molly warned.
"Fine, I’ll call them from the road," Borris agreed. "But give me a head start, okay? Let me go after my girl." Color flowed through his cheeks and a boyish smile appeared on his face, lighting it with the expectation of bliss. "And wish me luck," he said, taking the stairs up three at a time.
"Good luck!" Clara called after him. "I hope they invite us to the wedding," she told Molly. "There's nothing like eating a good piece of wedding cake while sipping a glass of champagne and criticizing what everyone else is wearing. Come on, madam, let's get moving ourselves."
~~~~~
"What is the Canal Walk?" Garrett asked Mrs. Hewell as she loaded the breakfast plates into the dishwasher.
"Oh, it's a splendid little walking tour along the James River. There's a tour group you can join for free. The walk takes about ninety minutes and you'll hear all about the history of the two canals and get a chance to burn off some of my Southern breakfasts."
Garrett nodded with interest. "And where would a chap pick up this tour?"
Mrs. Hewell puckered her lips in thought. "Let's see. I believe they leave from Cary Street and Twelfth. But the Valentine Museum also offers a Canal Walk, but that focuses more on the historic Shockoe area."
"Indeed?" Garrett remarked quietly. "I know a fellow who deals in coins down in that area. Perhaps I'll pay him a visit before I take that tour. I wonder if his shop is one of the stops on the Appleby women's tour..."
"Well, have fun, dear," Mrs. Hewell said as she straightened up from bending over the dishwasher. She was surprised to catch something dark move across Garrett's face, momentarily clouding his handsome looks, but just as suddenly as the shadow appeared, it was gone.
She hurried by him into the dining room to finish clearing up the breakfast service. "I wonder who just walked on his grave," she muttered to herself as she nosily stacked china and gathered silverware.
A few minutes later, Garrett had returned to his room and Borris appeared in her kitchen. By the time Borris explained that he was checking out, proudly showing her the ring he meant to give Jessica that very day, Mrs. Hewell had forgotten all about Garrett's sinister look. She insisted on packing a bag lunch for a very fidgety Borris as she plied him with heaps of outdated but well-meaning romantic advice.
Finally, Borri
s was allowed to make it out the door after planting a friendly kiss on his hostess's plump cheek. Mrs. Hewell bustled off to her home behind the bed-and-breakfast to share the exciting news with her completely disinterested husband.
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Chapter 14
It is not always that I have gone to some white-columned mansion of other days . . . where within its guarded confines rare pieces were well-preserved. The doorways at which entrance had often been sought, have been largely neglected doors, along the river country where old settlements remain to tell the story of grandeur now departed.
—Paul Burroughs, Southern Antiques
To Coin A Phrase was located above a small coffee shop that doubled as a bookstore. A crimson and gold wooden plaque with a carved coin hung above a narrow doorway and gave one the impression of the entrance to an English pub rather than a door opening to a steep flight of stairs. The brightly lit staircase led to another simple wooden door upon which two signs were posted. The first was a warning against shoplifting and the second announced the presence of surveillance cameras. When Molly rapped on the solid door, a hazel eye appeared through the peephole and she could hear a series of deadbolts being unfastened.
Jared Freeman, a tall man in his early sixties with graying brown hair, opened the door. He grinned widely and invited Molly and Clara inside. "Welcome, welcome. Please come in." He shook Molly's hand. "Sorry about all the locks, but this isn't exactly an upscale neighborhood and I can be a bit paranoid about my inventory."
Molly introduced her mother and Jared bent gallantly over Clara's hand with a gentlemanly bow. "I believe I've seen you before, Mrs. Appleby. Is that possible?"
Clara's eyes sparkled as she noted the expensive cut of Jared's sand-colored suit and the winkling of his gold Rolex. "Of course. I've spotted you at several of Tilman's estate auctions before, right? And do call me Clara. We're all antique people here—that makes us practically family."
A Fatal Appraisal Page 17