Mrs. Hewell looked at her in surprise. "Your mother sent me up," she said meaningfully, jerking her head in the direction of Garrett's door. "She's already invited your ‘guests’ to come right over. I don't want Mr. Huntington missing his tea. He's got an awfully strong sweet tooth, you know."
What was her crazy mother up to? Molly's mind raced. Was Mrs. Hewell sent up here to stall Garrett and hold the killer until the police arrived? Molly dashed into her room in search of an object to use as a weapon as she listened in horror to Mrs. Hewell rapping on Garrett's door.
"Mr. Huntington?" she called out sweetly. "I've brought you and your friend some tea."
To Molly's dismay, she heard the door open and a man's voice calmly say, "How nice, thank you. Garrett's just... he's in the bathroom at the moment. Can I take that from you? It looks mighty heavy."
"Oh no, I'll just put it down over on the desk," Mrs. Hewell said breezily. "I've carried heavier trays than this in my time."
Without pausing to think her plan through, Molly grabbed her purse, switched on the mini tape recorder tucked in the outer compartment, and shoved the letter opener from her own desk inside her pants pocket. She dashed into the room on what she hoped were Mrs. Hewell's heels, but the plucky proprietress was already unloading two tea settings onto the desk.
A man stood watching her carefully, his body held unnaturally erect, every muscle tightly tensed. Molly instantly recognized his attractive physique, and when he turned a pair of aquamarine eyes upon her, she forced herself to smile, despite that fact that she was returning the gaze of a murderer.
"Hello, Chris," Molly said, amazed that her voice sounded so even and calm. "Coming to join us for tea? Mrs. Hewell makes the most wonderful cinnamon scones."
"Not today," Mrs. Hewell corrected as she lifted the empty tray. "We're having my special sweet potato bread instead. That's my regular Sunday special. All right then, tell Mr. Huntington to enjoy his tea."
Molly watched in mortification as Mrs. Hewell exited the room. As Molly moved to follow, Chris leapt in front of her and slammed the door shut.
"Oh, no, you don't." Chris narrowed his brilliant eyes and pointed a finger at her. "Garrett said you've been nosing around all week. I bet you've been sitting out there with your ear pressed to the keyhole, hmm?"
Quickly retreating, Molly stepped on a bathroom towel that crunched in a harsh grating sound beneath her feet. She looked down in surprise at a shard of moss green Wedgwood. Mrs. Hewell would not be pleased, she thought wryly. That must have been the crash she’d heard from the hallway. Had Chris bashed Garrett over the head with the Wedgwood urn?
Refocusing her attention on Chris, Molly considered her chances of escape. Chris was about her height, but his wrestler's body was thick with powerful muscles and he was amazingly light on his feet. Plus, he had already killed two, possibly even three people, making him both dangerous and highly unpredictable.
"I’ll scream." Molly threatened, locking eyes with Chris. She hoped that if she challenged him, he'd reveal his plan for her and she could buy some time until the police came.
Chris made his point very clear by withdrawing a small revolver from his pants pocket. "If you make a sound, you die," he snarled and aimed the revolver at Molly's chest. “It’s that simple.”
Molly stared at the small gun as if it were a black tarantula waiting to leap from Chris's hands onto her body. She quickly decided that her best bet was to play meek and keep Chris talking.
"Okay." She raised her hands in nervous submission and backed across the room toward a stiff, ladder-back chair. She sank down onto the creaking woven seat and dropped her purse to the ground, hoping her recorder would pick up every sound.
Molly's hasty surrender seemed to cause Chris to relax. His eyes were shining over brightly with anger and what Molly was certain was a touch of madness as well.
"What have you done with Garrett?" she asked softy.
Chris smiled crookedly. "Like I told the landlady, he's in the bathroom. That traitor is quite"—he struggled for the right word—"indisposed."
"I can see why you'd be angry at him," Molly spoke soothingly. "But why did you put that mold on the desk? What did you have against Frank?" Molly prayed that Chris would be distracted by her questions. Luckily, the hand with the gun dropped to his side and he warily sat down on the edge of the bed.
"This stupid mess was all Garrett's master plan. Frank was just supposed to get sick. Sick enough to be off the show for the week. Who knew the mold could actually kill him? You can't be too sensitive in today's world. As you can see, only the fittest survive. Poor Frank, he really was a pathetic loser." Chris shook his head with no trace of genuine sympathy. In fact, the crooked smile had reappeared on his face.
"You needed to get rid of him so you could hide the real Dahlonega coins in the desk's secret compartment, right?' Chris nodded his head in agreement "But when Frank died, you planted the rag in Randy's truck to throw suspicion on him," Molly continued.
"Aren't you just the little detective?" Chris sneered mockingly.
"And Alexandra had to die because she discovered the fake coins Garrett had Jessica make. Garrett wrote the note and gave it to Alexandra, probably when he drove Victoria back to her hotel after our dinner together." Molly thought furiously. "Except that Garrett didn't meet her at the museum. You were waiting there for her."
"Yes, I was." Chris nodded triumphantly. "And I heard how she had talked crap about General Lee. He got the last word on that English bitch, now didn't he?" The bright light in his eyes gave Chris a feverish appearance. His left foot bounced up and down on the carpet in a frenzy of jitters. His body language made it clear that he was quickly reaching the end of his patience.
"Look, you're very attractive, Chris," Molly hastily lied. At this moment, he was no longer the show's handsome furniture assistant; he was a killer, an unbalanced puppet without a puppeteer. To Molly, the figure seated on the bed holding a gun in his hand was the most grotesque person in the world. What was taking the police so long? "Even if things didn't work out between you and Garrett you could have anyone you want." She spoke rapidly, sensing that Chris was now bored with their conversation. "Why don't you get out of here and start over? I won't say anything. You can even take my car."
Chris jumped up from the end of the bed, his face contorted with fury. "Don't tell me what to do!" he shouted, holding the gun up to Molly's chest again. "I'm not stupid!" His voice lowered to a dangerous whisper. "As soon as I take care of you, I will get lost. Don't you worry about me, sweetheart."
"But what about the coins?" Molly squeaked desperately. "You're going to leave empty-handed after all that you’ve been through? I could get them for you. I can get into the police station—"
"I said I'm not stupid, now—" A sudden knocking on the door interrupted Chris's imminent threat.
"Yoohoo!" Mrs. Hewell cheerfully banged. "Mr. Huntington? Are you all done with your tea? I've come to collect the cups."
"Damn all women to hell," Chris growled. He pulled Molly to her feet and jammed the butt of the gun viciously into the small of her back. "Move!" he whispered in her ear. "Get into the bathroom. You make one sound, I kill the landlady, and then I'll come back for you. I've got nothing to lose now, understand?" his aquamarine eyes glittered feverishly.
Inside the bathroom, Molly stifled a scream. For there was Garrett's body, dumped unceremoniously in the claw foot tub. Blood ran down the side of his sandy blond hair and stained the white porcelain. Molly stared at him and gasped. She’d never seen that much blood before.
As she watched Chris shut the bathroom door, Molly caught a momentary glimpse of silver before Chris suddenly dropped like a stone on the other side of the door. Instantly, Mrs. Hewell's kind face peered around the doorframe.
"Are you all right, dearie?" she asked, her pink face framed by loose wisps of gray hair.
Molly exhaled in relief. "Yes ... I'm okay."
Mrs. Hewell caught sight of Garrett's body.
"Heaven save us!" she shouted. "Is he ... ?"
Molly quickly bent over Garrett and felt for a pulse on his neck. It took her a few seconds to find it. She had often wondered how people in movies always seemed to locate the pulse on their first try. It wasn’t an easy thing to do. "He's alive," she pronounced, noting that blood still flowed from his head wound. “Could you hand me a towel?”
"He doesn't look alive," Mrs. Hewell fretted.
"Dead men don't bleed," Molly said, sinking down against the tub. She pressed the towel against Garrett’s wound while nervously eying the pair of inert feet in leather loafers on the other side of the cracked bathroom door. Mrs. Hewell followed Molly's gaze.
"Don't you worry about him, dear. Those Victorians knew how to make one solid sterling tea tray. He's out like a light."
At that moment, Clara stepped into Garrett's room and called Molly's name. Detective Robeson was right on her heels, followed by Combs and two other officers.
"I’m in here!" Molly replied to her mother's call, feeling like a shaken baby bird fallen from the nest. Clara took one look at her ashen-faced daughter and enfolded her tightly in her arms. "It’s all right," she whispered. “It’s all over now.”
Molly nestled against her mother for a moment, breathing in Clara's familiar scents of gardenia perfume and sweet pea hand lotion. After a full minute, Molly finally stopped shaking and was able to drink some of the hot, sweet tea Mrs. Hewell offered her.
Detective Robeson stared back and forth between the three women in the bathroom, the dented silver tray laying on the rug, and the two prone bodies belonging to Chris Adams and Garrett Huntington.
"What the hell is going on?" Combs voiced the question Robeson was just thinking to himself.
Molly pointed at Chris. "He's the killer, Detective." Then she gestured at Garrett. "And he's the mastermind behind it all."
Mrs. Hewell moved away from the tub so that Robeson could examine Garrett. Robeson took out his cell phone, dialed, and requested for paramedics to be dispatched immediately.
As his boss called for back-up, Combs put his hands on his hips and glowered, his pale skin flushed beneath the freckles. "And just how do you know all of this with such certainty?"
"I'm hoping I've got it all on tape," Molly said, recovering some of her nerve. "Check in my purse, over there by the ladder-back chair."
Combs ran a hand through his red hair. "Ladder-back?"
"Oh, I'll get it," Clara snapped and dug Molly's mini recorder out of the purse. She pressed the rewind button and Molly listened contentedly as her purposefully timid voice followed by Chris's angry one, rang out clearly from the tiny speaker.
"Good girl!" Clara said proudly as she handed the recorder to Combs. The other police officers looked impressed.
"Yeah, nice going." One of them gave Molly. A thumbs-up.
"Won't be a lick of use in court," Combs sulked, jealous of the attention Molly was receiving. "Miss Appleby's interference may just have cost us this case."
Clara refused to have her daughter's display of courage and quick thinking diminished. "Well, this will certainly make your questioning easier, now won't it? Without my daughter's help, you might still be barking up the wrong tree." Molly stood and walked over to her mother's side.
"Actually, we were on our way to pick up Mr. Adams. We found out he bought that old desk before the show even began so we knew—"
"Officer Combs!" Robeson snapped his phone shut and raised a pointer finger at Combs. "Escort Adams to my cruiser and then go downstairs and wait for the paramedics."
A chastised Combs, along with two other officers, carried the unconscious form of Chris Adams out of the room. Within minutes, the paramedics arrived with a gurney and loaded Garrett onto its thin white mattress. Robeson asked a fidgety Mrs. Hewell to leave the room in its present condition so that he could visualize Molly's account as she told it. Fortified with more tea, Molly quickly relived the eventful afternoon.
"And what's that in your pocket?" Robeson asked after she was done, eying the point stretching the fabric of her pants pocket.
The letter opener! Molly had forgotten all about it. "Lot of good that did me," she laughed weakly as she ran her finger along the dull blade.
"Miss Appleby, you could have gotten yourself killed," Robeson sternly reprimanded her. "As Officer Combs said, we were on our way here after another Hidden Treasures crew member told us Chris Adams was on his way to visit a friend at the Traveller. If I had arrived to find another dead body, I would have been most... aggrieved."
Molly opened her mouth to defend herself when Robeson's phone rang. He excused himself and left the room to take the call.
Frustrated by Robeson's scolding, Molly looked appealingly at her mother. "He has a point, cupcake. You could have been hurt! And what would I do without you? You're all I have in the world." Clara's eyes welled up with tears.
Suddenly, a thought struck Molly. "Ma," she said jumping out of her seat. "Keep an eye on the door, will you?"
"Why?" Clara was instantly suspicious.
"There's another mother I met whose whole life is her child. We've got to make things right by her."
Molly grabbed Garrett's suitcase and popped it open. Rifling through the case, she checked zippered pockets and dug furiously through the toiletries bag. Hands shaking with agitation, Molly found what she was searching for. Rolled up inside one of Garrett's dress shoes was a wad of money held together with a rubber band. Molly shoved the roll of bills into her own purse and closed the suitcase. Just as she returned to an upright position, Robeson came back into the room.
"Chris Adams is coming to and though he's got a splitting headache, I need to question him immediately. I'll be taking your recorder for the moment, Miss Appleby. You'll both have to come down to the station to give statements," Robeson told them. "Please tell Mrs. Hewell to join you."
"Can we have some time to gather our wits?" Clara demanded. "My daughter and I haven't even eaten lunch today."
"Of course," Robeson conceded graciously, recognizing a formidable adversary when he saw one. 'Take as long as you need."
Molly was just Jigging into her second bite of warm sweet potato bread when Mrs. Hewell appeared from inside the kitchen carrying a small bowl of whipped cream. Without asking, she dumped a hefty dollop onto the top of Molly's slice and shook one loose from the serving spoon onto Clara's as well.
"You are a wonder!" Molly exclaimed. "First you save my life and then you serve me homemade whipped cream."
"Well, did you think I'd make you eat the canned kind?"
"Reddi-wip?" Clara laughed. "My cats love that stuff. As soon as they hear the sound of me spraying some on my bowl of ice cream, they come running."
The women laughed companionably as Mrs. Hewell sank into one of the dining room chairs. "We've never had such excitement here. I must say it's quite tiring."
"How did you know to come into Garrett's room at just the right moment?" Molly asked.
Mrs. Hewell smiled wearily. "I listened as your mama called the police. They asked her so many questions that I decided I had better put my ear up to the keyhole until the police arrived. Good thing, too. When I heard that nasty man tell you to get in the bathroom, I knew I only had a few seconds when his back would be turned to close the bathroom door. That's when I came in and clobbered him." Her eyes glittered brightly. "It felt good, too."
"We both appreciate your bravery," Clara said.
"I'm sorry about your Wedgwood um." Molly frowned in sympathy. "Was it very valuable? And now your tea tray is dented, too."
"Don't worry, dear. Everything's insured. And it's always nice to have an excuse to go to every auction in town.
My husband won't be happy, but as long as I leave him supper in the oven, he'll survive."
"Boy, will I miss your cooking when I'm back in Durham." Molly cut another slice of sweet potato bread off the loaf.
"Back in Durham?" a male's voice questioned teasingly from the hallway and Mo
lly's head whipped around in disbelief. "You can't leave yet. After all, I just got here," complained a grinning Matt Harrison.
~~~~~~~~~~
Chapter 16
It was unquestionably that nostalgia which imprinted upon American furniture much of its English or Dutch aspect, for the desire to have around one objects that bring back memories of home is hard to eradicate from the hearts of men.
—Arthur De Bles, Genuine Antique Furniture
Clara watched with interest as her daughter flung herself into the open arms of the tall, wide-shouldered young man standing shyly in Mrs. Hewell's hall. Holding her forgotten teacup aloft, Clara was able to catch a clear glimpse of light blue eyes, ruddy cheeks, and sun-streaked brown hair before the man's gentle face was buried in Molly's neck.
"Well, that's a hero's welcome!" he exclaimed softly, pulling away from Molly's embrace. "And all I did was show up with the intention of protecting my best girl. I flew in from Ohio this morning and drove straight here."
"I'd better be your only girl." Molly playfully elbowed Matt in the side. "And I don't need protection any longer. The case, as they say, is closed. But I'm glad you came, nonetheless."
"Hrrrrrmph," Clara cleared her throat, eager to be introduced to the man her daughter was obviously smitten with.
"Ma, this is Matt Harrison. He and I... work together..." Molly fumbled for an explanation. As she and Matt couldn't seem to get in the swing of full-time dating, she could hardly introduce him as her boyfriend.
"I can't believe Molly hasn't told me more about you," Clara began as Molly made frantic signals for her to keep quiet.
"Mrs. Appleby." Matt smiled sincerely. "It's a pleasure to meet you. Molly talks about you all the time."
"Well, I'd love to hear what she says." Clara arched her dark eyebrows at her flustered offspring, finally taking a sip of tepid tea.
"But right now, we have to go down to the station and give our statements." Molly tugged at her mother's sleeve.
Clara wasn't quite finished appraising Matt. She looked him up and down like a horse buyer examining a prize thoroughbred up for sale.
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