Antiques Wanted

by Barbara Allan

The caller was Brandy.

  “Mother,” she began. “How can I get in touch with Judd Pickett’s daughter?”

  This threw me. “Della Pickett? But why, dear?”

  “Never mind. I’ll fill you in later.”

  “Well, all right. I believe she still works at that artists’ gallery on Fourth Street. Dear, can’t you give me a reason?”

  But she said, “In a hurry!” And ended the call.

  Now my mind would be cluttered with worry and wondering for hours until the girl arrived. Some people can be so thoughtless! All one can do is set a good example and hope.

  I took the elevator to the second floor, and when I rolled off, there down the hallway stood Deputy Dugan, poised at the door to my room. I watched him go inside, then immediately come out, perhaps expecting me to be within. But why didn’t he knock?

  Wheeling toward him, I called out, “Oh, yoohoo!”

  He turned, frowned, smiled mildly, and approached me.

  “Were you looking for me, Deputy Dugan?” I asked. “Or are you out here on some other mission?”

  “Both, really. My aunt had some clothes down in the laundry room at the time of the accident, and I thought a few of the patients on welfare could use them. So I gave my permission.”

  “How nice.”

  He went on, “And while I was here, I wanted to see how you were getting on.”

  “Peachy keen,” I said. “But I notice you entered my quarters without knocking—not that I expect you to be packing a warrant or anything!”

  “I was afraid you might be sleeping. You know, I have to admit I was a little thrown by the timing of your surgery.”

  “Oh?”

  “To be off the campaign trail for a week or more could cost you.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so,” I countered. “Most people don’t pay attention to the election until about a month before the vote.”

  He gave me a polite smile and lifted a forefinger. “Don’t forget, we have a forum in front of the city council at their next meeting.”

  It had slipped my mind; but that was a few weeks away.

  “Of course, I remember! But it’s nice of you to remind me, nonetheless. Honor among candidates and all.”

  “Well, I hope you’ll be able to be there.”

  My grin may have been a trifle too wide. “With rings on my fingers and bells on my newly aligned toes, I will!”

  He nodded, then frowned. “By the way, Mrs. Rockwell reported a clock missing. I know she’s forgetful, so there’s probably nothing to it.”

  “Sorry, dear, can’t help you with that,” I replied, and rolled on, calling jokily over my shoulder, “I’m not sheriff yet!”

  In my room, I got out of the wheelchair and into the bed myself, even though I was not supposed to. It took some wiggling, but that was better than waiting for Wanda to come and help.

  Using my room phone, I called the cafeteria to have a late lunch brought to me, instead of making the trip there. The mixture of smells from all the food options was rather off-putting; besides, I thought I’d take a short snooze while waiting for the grub.

  Sometime later, I awoke to find my tray had been delivered. Hungry, the chocolate babka having worn off, I was about to dig in when I noticed a folded piece of paper tucked beneath the plate.

  The hand-lettered note read: MEET ME IN THE GARDEN AT 3 PM IF YOU WANT TO KNOW WHAT’S GOING ON.

  Did I? I always want to know what’s going on!

  I looked at the clock next to Gabby Hayes. Good Lord—three p.m. was in just five minutes! I had really conked out. Demon babka!

  Quickly I switched from the bed to the wheelchair, and rolled out of my room, heading for the elevator to go down, and then outside.

  The garden was a secluded spot enclosed by tall evergreen bushes, with a variety of flowers, and cement benches, overseen by a life-size statue of an angel with wings, resembling faintly if coincidentally Arthur’s late wife. This area was mostly used by visitors, a quiet place for them to escape the nursing home and come to grips with the reality of their loved ones’ new lives.

  Because stone steps led down to the garden, my only option to get there was via a path off the steep driveway. This might have intimidated some, but not me—should I get going too fast, I was no novice at using the brakes on a wheelchair. After all, I had played Sheridan Whiteside in my all-female version of The Man Who Came to Dinner. (Though perhaps I should have retitled it The Woman Who Came to Dinner, and not worn the beard.)

  Unfortunately, I had never had a need until now to test the brakes on my current ride, and very quickly found that they didn’t work at all well. The bolts were too loose for the little metal plates to press properly against the wheels!

  I flew past the garden path, staying on the driveway but not by choice, hit a speed-bump, and suddenly the left wheel shot off its axle. Then, tilting the chair to the right, balancing on a single wheel like a circus monkey on a unicycle, I was following the remaining wheel’s mate down the drive, ever picking up speed, trying to stay balanced while Fourth of July sparks flew from the metal frame’s contact with the cement. I said a little prayer as I headed onto the highway, and turned unwillingly into the path of an oncoming car.

  Mother’s Trash ’n’ Treasures Tip

  Sometimes white elephant attendees are sneaky and will hide an item they want in an area where it doesn’t belong, either to come back for it later, or wait until the last hour when prices might drop. So check out all sections. I’ve had success burying women’s jewelry among men’s tools.

  Chapter Six

  Buffalo Bilious

  With Mother tooling around Sunny Meadow Manor in her special wheelchair, “looking into things,” I would likely be hearing soon from Mr. Burnett, complaining about her upsetting the natural state of affairs at the nursing home—as if there were anything I could do about it.

  For Sushi and me, with our day quiet and a little boring without Mother around, our first responsibility was the shop, although I could tell about an hour after opening that business was going to be slow. The weather was just too perfect—sunny and midseventies—and people were more inclined to be outside doing something fun today than wandering inside an antique store looking at yesterdays.

  I wondered for a moment if I should drag a table of merchandise into the front yard to catch the eye of the occasional pedestrians strolling or jogging by. But, like them, it passed.

  Sushi liked to follow customers around and would stop when they paused in their shopping and stare up at them, possibly giving the impression she’d been trained to bark or growl at any sign of shoplifting. Actually, there were a handful of regulars who brought along treats for her and had unwittingly trained her to do this. I was convinced a real shoplifter could pocket a thousand-dollar necklace (if we had one) as long as he brought Sushi a doggie biscuit.

  Today she was taking the lack of foot-traffic in stride, curled up in her leopard-print bed on the floor behind the counter. I was keeping busy at the computer, preparing a monthly sales report (down), from which Mother and I could see what was trending (miniature oil paintings, cast-iron doorstops, vinyl records), and what was not (fine china, figurines, Bakelite jewelry).

  I was also noting merchandise we’d had for a long time that we should try harder to sell, or else be stuck with (yellow “smiley face” alarm clock, lacquered fruitcake wreath—my mistakes; glass insulators, old typewriter—Mother’s miscalculations).

  All of that done, I decided to clean out some files that were collecting dust in a box beneath the counter. One file contained old notices from the police department regarding stolen property, circulated to pawnshops and antiques dealers to be on the lookout for. These usually covered high-end items like diamonds and Rolex watches, well out of our buying price range, or modern electronics that we didn’t deal in, so truthfully we never paid much attention to the notices. (Pawnshops and dealers now can consult several online databases if they suspect something is stolen.)

  I l
eafed through the papers and was about to toss them in the wastebasket, when a name caught my eye—Judd Pickett. Listed as missing from his home after his death were two objects—first, a Bowie knife with unpolished blade, ten and one-half inches long and two inches wide, with a three-inch-long clip, iron guard, and a handle made of wood held together by brass rivets. Second, an Indian peace pipe with long spiral stem, carved raised rings decorated by brass tacks, and a catlinite bowl.

  Checking the website of a local funeral home listing all area deaths going back years, I found the date of Mr. Pickett’s demise, which coincided with the date on the police notice.

  An online article by a Serenity Sentinel reporter didn’t reveal much information about Pickett’s murder, probably because the PD didn’t want details released since the perp hadn’t been apprehended.

  But I knew where I might get those details....

  I reached for my cell and sent Tony a text: How about lunch with a beautiful blonde?

  He got right back to me: Can do, at 11.

  Me: Have food here at the shop.

  Him: OK.

  I hopped off my stool.

  You remember me mentioning that we had a functioning kitchen at the shop? With vintage appliances, dishes, pots and pans, silverware, old cookbooks, even a red-topped Formica table with red vinyl chairs, all for sale. The only thing that wasn’t old—or for sale—was the refrigerator where we kept our cookie dough and grub. We had made the mistake of having a cool 1950s white Philco fridge, and as soon as we’d stocked it with food for ourselves, someone came in and bought the darn thing!

  I set about getting lunch ready.

  Before her bunion operation, Mother had made several casseroles at home and frozen them there—not with my welfare in mind, but because she thought the food at Sunny Meadow might be not to her liking. Having thawed one and brought it along today, I popped it into the 1970s avocado-green oven (no buyer interest in that appliance—nostalgia hadn’t caught up with it yet).

  Mother’s Easy Chicken Casserole

  1 4-oz. package dried beef

  4 chicken breasts, skin removed

  4 slices uncooked bacon

  2 cups uncooked instant rice

  1 can undiluted mushroom soup

  1 8-oz. carton sour cream

  Spread rice in the bottom of a buttered 9-x-13-inch baking dish. Cover with layer of dried beef. Combine the soup and sour cream, then spread over dried beef. Wrap bacon around chicken breasts, and place on top. Cover and cook at 250 degrees for about two hours.

  * * *

  I would throw together a Bibb lettuce salad at the last minute, and serve yesterday’s chocolate-chip cookies for dessert.

  While the casserole was warming, I got the coffee going, then set the table for two with colorful Fiestaware dishes, and yellow Bakelite-handled silverware. Sushi, hearing the clattering, roused herself and trotted in, knowing that food was in her future. Not for a second had she thought a burglar had broken in requiring her watchdog powers.

  Promptly at eleven, Tony arrived, and I went to greet him, putting a CLOSED sign on the door, so we wouldn’t be disturbed. Without Mother around, who knew what might transpire?

  “Something smells good,” the chief said.

  “Ever the detective,” I said.

  He was sans navy blazer for a change, the sleeves of his light blue shirt rolled, and wearing the usual tan slacks, with badge clipped to his belt, and brown Florsheim shoes. Summer was almost here and our chief of police looked recklessly casual.

  Hearing her (and my) master’s voice, Sushi left her vigilant guard duty over the casserole in the kitchen, came scampering, and practically leapt into Tony’s arms. (The Borne girls are not known for their propriety where matters of the heart are concerned.)

  While Soosh adored my guy, Rocky—the chief’s mutt with a rakish black circle around one eye—was the real love of her life, and she could probably smell his scent on Tony’s clothes.

  He gave her some attention, then put her down.

  I gave him a curled finger and he followed me into the kitchen, Sushi so close on his heels he might have been a police car.

  Soon we were enjoying a crisp salad, a steaming casserole, and hot coffee. I’d opened a nearby window and a gentle breeze drifted in to ruffle the white cotton curtains.

  “And how is your day?” I asked, like we were a long-married couple sitting down for lunch in our own little bungalow kitchen.

  Tony swallowed a bite of casserole. “Hectic, so I can’t stay long—say, this is delicious.”

  “Don’t sound so surprised.”

  Usually, when I cooked for Anthony Cassato, I made Italian dishes, so I confessed the work was Mother’s.

  “How is she?” he asked. Whether that was concern or just politeness, it was nice of him to ask, considering that she was a bigger pain to him than her bunions had been to her.

  I told him the casts would come off her feet in a few weeks, and then she’d be home from Sunny Meadow and back on the campaign trail.

  He had a little smile going. “I still don’t see why now of all times she finally got around to doing something about her legendary bunions. Was she planning on chasing perps on foot?”

  I shrugged. “Rudder sometimes did.” I didn’t mention her ulterior motive of gaining access to possible murder witnesses and even suspects out at Sunny Meadow.

  I studied Tony for a moment, picking up a worried vibe that I didn’t think had a thing to do with her foot surgery. “Something wrong?”

  “I mean . . . what if she wins?”

  My casserole-loaded fork stopped in midair. “You can’t be serious. You know that’s impossible.”

  He smirked. “Impossible? If I’ve learned anything about Vivian Borne, it’s not to underestimate her—with her, nothing is impossible.”

  “Look, Deputy Dugan is way ahead in the polls,” I said, gesturing with the fork, my prospective bite flying onto the floor, where an ever-watchful Sushi gobbled it up.

  “Those opinion phoners the Serenity Journal tallies up?” Tony said, with a mild smirk. “Not exactly the Gallup or Quinnipiac.”

  “Besides,” I said, shrugging that off, “Dugan’s way more qualified for the job.”

  His smirk remained. “Aren’t you forgetting a certain presidential election?”

  “Well, let’s hope qualifications still matter on the local level.” But now he had me worried. “I guess you’ll miss having a colleague like Rudder to work with.”

  “Pete was—still is—a damn good sheriff.”

  “Will Dugan make a good sheriff, you think?”

  “. . . I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

  That slight hesitation spoke volumes.

  But I knew not to press; the chief was loyal to others in local law enforcement, and if he had qualms about Dugan, he’d keep them to himself. Trash talk was not his way—a continual frustration to Mother.

  After the meal, and some small talk that’s none of your business, I cleared the plates and served the cookies.

  Nibbling on one (cookie, not plate), I asked him, ever so casually, to tell me about Judd Pickett.

  He sat back and eyed me suspiciously. “Well, didn’t that come out of nowhere.”

  “I ran across an old police ‘Stolen Property’ notice with his name, and since the murder happened before I moved back to Serenity, I thought maybe you could answer some questions.”

  “What sparks your interest in such an old case? Somebody try to sell you items from Pickett’s collection?”

  He would ask. “No. It’s probably nothing. Mother has it in her head that Harriet Douglas was murdered. . . .”

  “Oh please.”

  “. . . and Harriet gave Mother a photograph of Gabby Hayes that—”

  “You kind of lost me at Gabby Hayes.”

  “He was a sidekick of Roy Rogers and—”

  “I know who he was.” His eyes widened, then closed, then opened, tentatively. “So Harriet gave your mother a photo of
Gabby Hayes. Go on.”

  “It was autographed, and it was from the Judd Pickett collection. So if she’s right, and Harriet was murdered, here’s another murder, unsolved, from years ago, with Pickett turning up again.”

  “I’m afraid your mother has been a bad influence on you, sweetheart. Pickett wasn’t murdered, he was killed.”

  “There’s a difference?”

  “Well, of course he was murdered, but . . . Pickett was a casualty in a home invasion. It wasn’t a premeditated Agatha Christie kind of thing.”

  I thought for a moment. “Was the knife or peace pipe mentioned in that circular ever found?”

  “No. Nor was the killer ever caught—but why do I think you already know that?”

  I decided not to answer—it sounded rhetorical. “What did happen? The newspaper didn’t report much.”

  What Tony told me was this: widower Judd Pickett came home early one evening from a weekly bingo game, apparently surprised an intruder, who panicked and hit the old man with a fireplace poker, killing him instantly. A woman who happened to be driving by saw a ski-masked figure running from the house and called 911.

  “Then you arrived?” I asked.

  Tony shook his head. “The housing development where Pickett lived was in the sheriff’s jurisdiction . . . although that area has since been incorporated into the city, which puts the cold case in my lap.”

  I could tell having an unsolved murder lingering out there bothered Tony. Murder was enough of a rarity in a small town that few went unresolved. Especially since Mother started getting involved.

  I asked, “Was the witness able to give a description of the intruder?”

  “Not really,” Tony said with a sigh. “It was night, the perp wore black—of a size and frame slight enough to have been male or female.”

  “I bet it was a young man.”

  “Oh?”

  “Mr. Pickett had all kinds of valuables, and what did the killer take? A knife and a pipe—what, a knife as a weapon, a pipe to smoke dope?”

  Tony nodded. “Could be.”