"I'm honored that you've chosen to interview me," Jared said to Molly, then turned back to Clara and added modestly, "As you can see, the shop I run with Mr. Fielding’s assistance is rather small. I conduct most of my business via the Internet these days."
"At least you can avoid having to keep endless store hours." Clara walked over to a waist-high display case and began examining the coins.
Molly took out her notebook and began to ask Jared the usual litany of interview questions. How long had he been in business? What inspired him to become a dealer? What was the finest or most memorable coin he had ever bought or sold?
Jared perched comfortably on a three-legged stool next to his vintage manual cash register during the short interview. He spoke in a soft, pleasant voice and answered all of Molly's questions succinctly, but also provided her with several humorous anecdotes certain to charm all of the readers of Collector's Weekly. Molly was enjoying her interview so much that she almost forgot her primary reason for tracking down Jared Freeman in the first place.
"That's great, Mr. Freeman. This is going to make a terrific piece,” she told him with sincerity. “I'm going to photograph you by your fabulous antique cash register, and then perhaps you can show me some of your better coins and I'll snap a few pictures of them as well."
As Molly took dozens of photos, Clara flipped through a reference book on coin collecting and remained unobtrusive, which was quiet a feat for her.
"So how long have you known Mr. Huntington?" Jared asked after Molly had taken his picture.
"I just met him a week ago. I'm in town covering the taping of Hidden Treasures," Molly said, relieved that Jared had brought up the subject. "Garrett's quite a guy. How long have you two known one another?"
"Oh, I've been buying rare coins from him for almost ten years now." Jared left his stool and moved toward a tall display case. "I only buy near mint to mint coins and Garrett has an excellent eye. I have never failed to make a profit on a coin I've purchased from him."
"Any idea where he finds such good coins?" Molly asked cautiously.
Jared laughed heartily. "Now you know dealers won't kiss-and-tell when it comes to their sources. I only hope Garrett continues to get ahold of the same quality coins he's always sold me. I only buy a few per year from him, mind you, and I always have to pay him in cash, but I'll never discover where he's getting his coins."
"Did Garrett sell you something wonderful recently?" Clara batted her eyes at Jared. "Can we see it? I know absolutely nothing about coins, but I bet you could educate me a bit."
Jared flushed with pleasure, but then his face quickly fell. "Actually, I sold him a coin at the show, which is a rare treat, believe me. Then Garrett stopped by unexpectedly yesterday to sell me a real beauty. I turned around and sold it over the phone to one of my regular customers within minutes. Unfortunately, I've already shipped that coin by FedEx, so I'm afraid I can't show it to you." He looked wildly around the store, desperate not to lose Clara's favor. "However, I could show you a picture of one just like it." He scrambled over next to Clara and leafed through one of the many reference guides displayed neatly in a bookrack. "Ah, here it is."
"This one?" Clara queried as she pulled her reading glasses from her deep purse. Jared watched her every move with admiration. "Yes," he cooed. "This is an early half dollar, called a Capped Bust Half Dollar because Lady Liberty is wearing a cap and is posing in such a way that she reminds one of the busts from classical Greece or Rome."
"What year was the coin you bought?" Molly asked, an anxious constriction forming in her stomach.
"The one I acquired from Garrett was a Capped Bust 1836 Half Dollar in mint condition. A gorgeous thing." Jared puffed out his chest as if he were personally responsible for the creation of the fine collectible.
"Is that valuable?" Clara leaned in toward the smitten coin dealer.
"I should say so. In today's market it lists at around eleven thousand dollars. I give my best customers a discount, of course, but you get the idea."
Clara watched her daughter's face contort with a combination of shock and anger, so she steered Jared to another display case and began asking him questions about the gold coins locked inside while Molly tried to gain control over her raging emotions.
Finally, Molly thanked Jared for his helpfulness and promised to let him know when the article was to be published. Clara handed him one of her business cards and invited him to attend one of Lex's upcoming auctions.
"I'd love to!" His hazel eyes gleamed as he thanked Clara. "Please let me know if Lex gets any estates with any coins."
"I most certainly will," Clara promised and stepped outside to listen to the her daughter venting her wrath.
"That bastard!" Molly shouted. "Garrett told me that coin was a fake! He gypped some needy widow! " A vision of the beautiful African-American woman and her adorable son filled Molly’s vision. "He gave her a few hundred dollars when her coin was worth thousands! Oh, I'll kill that piece of sh—!"
"Molly!" Clara interjected. "Calm down! Mr. Freeman sold the coin at that price. Who knows what he had to pay Garrett for it?"
"Look, I saw Garrett count some bills into that woman's hand. We're not talking about the eleven thousand that it’s worth. She'd be lucky if he gave her three hundred dollars! He knew exactly what that coin was worth! He took advantage of a widow and a hard-working single mom to boot! I'd say we just learned something about his character, wouldn't you?" Molly stormed up the street.
"Where are you going?" Clara demanded. "What about our Canal Walk?"
"Screw the Canal Walk!" Molly shouted back over her shoulder as she turned east in the direction of the Traveller. "I’ve got a British fish to fry!"
~~~~~
As Molly and Clara were climbing the steps leading to Jared Freeman's coin shop, Detective Paul Robeson was standing at his office window watching one of his officers hold open the door of a patrol car for one Randy Merrill.
"That's one less redneck hanging out in our jail," Combs said upon entering Robeson's office. "D.A. said our evidence was too circumstantial, so we had to let him go."
Robeson watched Randy spit a glob of mucus on the sidewalk outside the police station before raising his middle finger to anyone unlucky enough to be in the immediate vicinity.
"Guess he doesn't want a ride back to his hotel," Combs smirked. "And he says he's going to sue us, too."
Robeson sighed. "Don't they all. Did you warn him about staying away from Molly Appleby?"
"Sure did, boss." Combs watched as Randy stalked down the street, his lips moving rapidly in what was no doubt a string of obscenities. "He's going to be pissed that he's out on a Sunday. All the liquor stores are closed."
Robeson sighed. "We've got another round of questioning to go through today. Before we get all wrapped up in that, you'd better get ahold of that producer and bring him in. His cast and crew are going to be staying in our beautiful city a little while longer."
"I'll call him right now," Combs answered with barely disguised irritation. He was no secretary.
"And Combs"—Robeson turned back to the window— "call the owners of that antique desk we've got sitting in the evidence room. They should be informed that it won’t be returned to them until these cases are closed. I wouldn't go into too much detail if I were you. Just tell them their desk is now officially evidence in a criminal case and we will return it as soon as possible."
Combs nodded, and knowing full well that Robeson could see his reflection in the glass, he fought back the grimace struggling to surface on his face. Back at the wobbly desk in the stuffy room he shared with three other officers, Combs picked up the phone and barked at Guy to drive himself to the station immediately.
"And I need you to provide me with the name and phone number of the person who owns that desk, the one that had the black mold all over it."
"That information would be with Frank's files," Guy protested. "They're all in his briefcase. I'm sure his wife would—"
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"Just stop by her room and get it for me, why don't you? We'll be expecting you within the next half an hour." Combs hung up on the spluttering producer with a smirk of satisfaction. "Those TV people. Think they're above everyone else."
By the time Combs had polished off a bag of cheese puffs and two Dr. Peppers and had read all of the comic strips in The Richmond Times Dispatch, an officer was leading Guy to the interview room. Combs hustled into Robeson's office just as the detective was sorting through the papers in Frank's weathered brown briefcase.
"Here we go." Robeson scanned a pink receipt. "Eleanor Calloway. Here's her number." Robeson slid the piece of paper over to Combs. "Go ahead and use this phone."
Combs shot his superior a dirty look but picked up the phone and dialed.
"Mrs. Calloway?" he asked as the scratchy voice of an elderly woman came on the line. "My name is Officer Combs from the Richmond police department..." Combs began. "No, ma'am, I'm not selling anything. Actually, I'm calling about your old... um... antique desk, the one you lent Frank Sterling. Yes, the appraiser for Hidden Treasures." Combs rolled his eyes in irritation as Robeson watched impassively. Suddenly, Combs perked up and gestured for a pen and paper. Robeson slid both items across the desk toward the burly officer. "You say you sold it? To the man who picked it up? Ma'am, this is very important. Do you happen to remember his name? Yes?" Combs scribbled excitedly on the pad. "That does sound familiar. Thank you, Mrs. Calloway."
"So she sold the desk right before Frank collected it, huh?" Robeson rubbed his chin. 'To whom?"
"I don't get it," said the befuddled Combs as he slid the pad of paper back across the desk. "How could she sell it and then lend it to the show?"
Robeson's dark eyes grew round with astonishment as he read the name written on the pad. He stood up and put his gun in his pocket holster, his massive arm muscles rippling in anticipation. "Let's go, Combs."
"Where?" Combs asked in surprise. "What about the producer? Guy, Mr. Chip-On-His-Shoulder?"
"He can just wait. We've got ourselves a serious suspect to interview."
~~~~~
At the same moment Randy Merrill was being released from jail, Garrett was watching Molly and Clara from the cover of his rental car. The two women walked west on Grace Street and then turned south onto seventeenth. If they are really going on the Canal Walk, Garrett thought which was likely as both women wore casual slacks, plain cotton T-shirts, and tennis shoes, they should continue heading south until they reached the water. When they paused to enter a shop located across from the city market area, Garrett swore under his breath and circled around the block where he was able to park the car out of sight.
Heading in the direction of "To Coin a Phrase," Garrett passed a produce seller. The woman, a blonde in her early thirties whose skin was tanned and weathered from too many hours spent tending her crops in the sun, openly stared at Garrett. She gave him a coquettish smile and bent over her rows of peaches and apples to reveal an ample bosom. Garrett avoided her eyes and then the sudden vibration of his cell phone, which he had tucked into his pants pocket, made him jump. The woman giggled.
"Hello?" Garrett said impatiently. Then he grew quiet, listening to the caller intently for several long seconds. "You wouldn't dare," he finally replied, hissing into the phone. He then slammed it shut and shoved it into his pocket with a violent thrust. Casting a brief, malevolent glance at the upper windows belonging to the coin shop, Garrett's eyes narrowed into tiger like slits as he turned and hastily strode back towards his car.
"What's the rush, hon?" the disappointed produce vendor called after him.
"Piss off!" he snarled without the slightest trace of his usual gallantry.
At that moment, the woman decided that the stranger was not handsome after all. In fact, he had become instantly ugly and she focused her attention elsewhere. She had no time for rude, unattractive tourists.
~~~~~~~~~~
Chapter 15
One of the more important things to look for, then, is that the wood grain of any components which are either adjacent or at right angles to each other, runs in one direction, otherwise the stresses created by shrinkage or expansion would cause the wood to split.
—The Illustrated Guide to Furniture Repair and Restoration
When Molly and Clara stepped through the Traveller's front door, the roar of a vacuum cleaner greeted them loudly. Mrs. Hewell wore a white apron patterned with bright cherries over her Sunday best; a lilac-colored floral dress, sheer pantyhose, and tennis shoes. The rosy-cheeked proprietor looked up as her two guests entered the dining room and quickly switched off the noisy machine. Molly noticed that a crease of worry had formed on Mrs. Hewell's forehead and her eyes lacked their usual merry sparkle.
"Hello, ladies," Mrs. Hewell greeted mother and daughter. "Sorry to be cleaning at the moment, and especially on a Sunday, but..." She broke off and gestured at her shoes. "Mr. Hewell and I always walk to our church service and when we returned, Mr. Huntington was receiving a guest in his room." She paused, not wishing to gossip about one of her guests.
"Is something wrong, Mrs. Hewell? You look a bit pale. Did something upset you?" Molly put a hand on the older woman's round shoulder.
"They're having an awful fight, Mr. Huntington and his friend," Mrs. Hewell confessed, her cheeks flushed pink. "The doors to our guest rooms are thick, but those big keyholes ... I heard some ugly words, ladies. When words like that come on the television, I switch the channel." Mrs. Hewell's cheeks grew even redder as she became more flustered. "Even down here I could hear them clear as a bell. I would have asked Mr. Hewell to speak to Mr. Huntington, but my dear husband has gone out to visit a shut-in we know. Does it every Sunday."
Clara scowled. "We'll speak with Garrett. There's no need for such childish demonstrations. I would have expected better manners from an Englishman."
Molly grabbed her mother by the elbow. "Wait a minute. Mrs. Hewell, did you get a look at Mr. Huntington's guest?"
Mrs. Hewell shook her head. "No, I sure didn't. I don't want to either. I wish he'd just leave. I'd like to set the table for tea, but perhaps you two would prefer to take your tea on the back porch where it's quiet..."
"Nonsense!" Clara headed for the stairs. "Those gentlemen can move their discussion to the back porch or to the next county if they’re going to behave like naughty schoolboys."
Molly hustled up the stairs behind her mother. The muffled shouts of two male voices could be heard coming from inside of the Wedgwood room, but she didn't think Mrs. Hewell could hear specific words unless she had been listening very carefully. Pressing her own inquiring ear to the keyhole, Molly was able to pick up Garrett's conversation with his mystery guest quite clearly.
"You're the pillock that screwed up!" Garrett was shouting. "Damned, bloody ass! I told you to use the blanket chest, not the desk! Now the whole thing is off. I'm getting the hell out of here!"
"What about me?" the other man demanded angrily. "I'm getting nothing out of this deal! And I can't just jet off to England while the crap hits the fan. You owe me, Garrett. After all these years ..." His tone became quietly menacing.
Molly could hear drawers being opened and roughly slammed shut. "This could have been our last score, but you screwed it up! I don't owe you a bloody thing!" Garrett laughed wickedly. "You'd still be polishing furniture in that discount store if it weren't for me, you ungrateful wanker."
"So you've just been using me?" the other man growled. "I thought you cared, but you've only ever cared about the money."
"I admit that I found you attractive once," Garrett answered coldly. "But I'm not in love with you, if that's what you're wondering. Now, stand aside. I'm getting out of here and I suggest you do the same. Perhaps we can try again next year, but for now, it's all off."
Now that the shouting had stopped, Molly was having a difficult time hearing every word. The tension within the room was so palpable, however, that it seemed to seep between the doorjambs and flood in
to the hall.
Clara plucked at her daughter's sleeve. "What are they saying?"
"Shh!" Molly swatted at her mother's hand. Who was the other man? Something about his voice was familiar.
"This isn't over, Garrett," the man threatened. "You're taking me with you or you 're not going at all."
Garrett laughed raucously. "That's a good one. What are you going to do, kill me, too? First Frank, then Alexandra, and now me? That would be bloody foolish of you. Now get out! I'm tired of talking rubbish. I've got a plane to catch."
Molly inhaled sharply. Garrett had accused his friend of murder! Behind the very door she was leaning on was Frank and Alexandra's murderer! And Garrett was his accomplice!
"Ma," she whispered fiercely. "Go call the police! Use the kitchen phone." Molly handed Clara Detective Robeson's card. "The killer's in there. He just confessed. Hurry!"
Clara hesitated. "Don't do anything rash while I'm gone," she whispered and squeezed her daughter's arm roughly to reinforce her point.
Molly nodded in wide-eyed agreement, waited for her mother to head downstairs, and then put her ear back to the keyhole. All she caught was Garrett saying "Toodles, luv," as his footsteps approached the door. Scurrying backwards away from the keyhole, Molly stood and prepared to flee for the cover of her room, when she heard a blood-curdling shout, followed by a loud crash. She froze in her tracks and held her breath. A second later, the unmistakable thud of a body hitting the ground reached her ears.
Paralyzed by shock and fear, Molly stood outside the door to her room, her mouth agape. She couldn't even whisper a warning to Mrs. Hewell, who came bustling up the stairs with a heavily laden silver tea tray. Mrs. Hewell put her fingers on her lips in a conspiratorial gesture and began to whistle as she approached the door to the Wedgwood room.
Shaken from her trance, Molly quickly blocked Mrs. Hewell with her body. "Don't go in there!" she uttered desperately. "Come into my room."
A Fatal Appraisal Page 18