The Antique House Murders

by Leslie Nagel

  Well, she thought grimly, there was one thing she could do. She pulled out her cellphone and sent Marc the link to Pamela’s poison-pen post. She added a brief note: looking for trash vandal suspects? i’d start here. She identified the author and hit Send, feeling marginally better. Finding themselves on the receiving end of some unwarranted suspicion might teach certain people better manners.

  Charley stopped in her tracks as another thought occurred. Had Holland seen the Facebook post? Odds were that she had, since she’d also been tagged. The powerful CEO of a major corporation probably employed minions to track advertising and media mentions. If she had seen it, what would be her likely reaction?

  Holland Mulbridge had a reputation as a ruthless businesswoman. How far, Charley wondered suddenly, would she go to achieve her objective? With just over a day remaining before the Planning Commission vote, Holland might well be compelled to silence such a vocal obstacle to favorable public opinion. And what was Holland’s “special brand of influence”? Money. In fact, Charley decided, a good old-fashioned bribe attempt would be a very prudent business move. Instead of using threats to coerce a written apology, Holland could just buy one.

  She turned and looked back at the darkened windows of Prescott’s. Where, in the middle of a business day, was Pamela Tate?

  Charley checked her watch; it was just past 1:30. She’d been planning to finagle another conversation with Holland at some point. Why not now? They certainly wouldn’t lack for conversational topics. Charley thought of poor Millie Peache and her desperate belief in a missing will, the unhappy neighbors trying to protect an unspoiled natural area, the beleaguered Planning Commission, the vandalism.

  And what about herself? Old Hat was already ailing, and in the eyes of the community, Charley had suddenly become a greedy colluder with government and big business. She was now as caught up in the fate of Mulbridge House as any of them.

  Her stomach dropped as she thought of Calvin. Did Holland know anything that might lead to his killer?

  All things considered, there were any number of intriguing questions Holland might be in a position to answer. And if Charley happened to catch a certain high-strung estate agent engaging in a little collusion of her own, maybe she could use the fact to compel Pamela to write that retraction.

  Now all she needed was a gambit. She stepped through Old Hat’s green door, smiling at the sight of Heddy and Vanessa draping each other with scarves and chatting about pastels versus jewel tones. Then her eyes narrowed as she noted several items from her Mulbridge estate purchases.

  “Now that,” she murmured, “is a very good idea.”

  —

  Holland reluctantly received Charley in the overfurnished sitting room of the Marriott’s Presidential Suite. Charley barged in the moment the door cracked open, already talking a mile a minute around the large cardboard box she carried, amazed her ruse had worked and expecting at any moment to be tossed out on her ear.

  “Thank you so much for seeing me,” she gushed, “but you’ll be glad you did. Some of these things are so exquisite, I know dear Calvin must have included them in my buy lots by mistake. I’d never forgive myself if I sold off a piece of your family heritage!”

  Holland wore workout clothing, black spandex that bared her midriff and showcased her perfectly toned body. She’d obviously just finished a session in the hotel fitness center. Pale blond hair pulled back in a high ponytail, skin flushed with exercise, she sipped bottled water and watched with mild disdain as Charley lugged her burden across the suite, dumping it on the floor between an ornate dining table and a matching desk and chair. An open laptop and a pile of correspondence on the desk seemed deliberately displayed to illustrate how very busy and important Holland was.

  “As I said on the phone, Prescott’s people did the actual sorting, but I inspected almost everything personally. However, given the time crunch and the huge volume of contents, I suppose mistakes may have been made.” Holland’s voice was dismissive, but as Charley turned with a big fake smile, she caught her eying the box with open curiosity. “Naturally, anything of exceptional value should never have been included in a general vendor’s lot, but instead held for auction.”

  Charley kept her smile plastered in place. If such an error had been made, the mistake—and the loss—would be Holland’s, not hers. Not that she was about to say so, since this woman’s obvious greed had gotten her in the door.

  “Exactly. Whew! That thing weighs a ton. Could I have one of those?” she asked brightly, indicating Holland’s water. “Thanks!”

  After a moment’s hesitation, Holland crossed to a stainless steel mini refrigerator under a fully stocked bar and pulled out another bottle. Charley cracked the cap and took a long pull, taking advantage of the opportunity to collect her thoughts.

  After a pit stop into Old Hat for a boxful of props, she had made a beeline to the Marriott. A glance around the room showed no sign of Pamela Tate. A love seat and two enormous armchairs upholstered in gold damask crowded around a glass-topped coffee table. Beyond the wet bar Charley noted a pair of closed double doors, no doubt leading to the bedroom and bath. It seemed unlikely Pamela was hiding in there. She found it equally difficult to imagine Holland had had company in her bed last night. But it would be instructive to take a peek—you could learn all sorts of interesting things about a person from a quick snoop through their medicines and cosmetics. She noticed that, as she moved around the suite, Holland shifted position to stay between Charley and those double doors.

  The dining table held untouched copies of The Wall Street Journal and USA Today. At the far end lay a pile of oversized papers that curled as if just unrolled. Blueprints or diagrams, thought Charley. Something to do with the Mulbridge House redevelopment? She decided she needed a closer look. The key to helping the police—and possibly herself—lay in gathering as much information as possible, then seeing where it led. She took another sip of her water and turned back to Holland.

  “ ‘Huge volume’ must be the understatement of the century. Forgive some professional curiosity, and if it’s not indelicate to ask, how much did you realize from the sale? I’ve been to a lot of estate liquidations, but never one with such excellent-quality goods.”

  Holland smirked, obviously flattered. “The auction and sale netted just under eight hundred thousand dollars.” Charley’s gasp of astonishment was genuine. “Most of that was from the auction, of course. Mother collected antiques and Japanese porcelains. She had excellent taste.”

  “But, your mother died eighteen months ago,” Charley protested. “You left eight hundred thousand dollars’ worth of antiques sitting unguarded in a secluded house, with nothing to protect it?”

  “The house was equipped with cameras and an electronic alarm system.”

  “No caretaker, no security guard?” Charley pursued. “Nothing but a burglar alarm? That hardly seems adequate.”

  Holland waved a hand. “I assure you, the system is state-of-the-art and demonstrated as perfectly adequate on two separate occasions.”

  Two attempted break-ins. Charley made a mental note to tell Marc to check the police logs.

  “Of course, Calvin’s skill as an auctioneer must have contributed to such a robust bottom line. I wish—” Charley didn’t have to fake the catch in her voice. “He was so sweet. Did you know him well?”

  “He was a contract employee, nothing more.” Seeming to reconsider the harshness of this statement, Holland added, “But an excellent one. Most efficient. All the proceeds are safely in the bank. If robbery was the motive for his murder, it had nothing to do with me.”

  “But, didn’t you know?” Charley widened her eyes. “The only thing the killer took from Calvin’s office was the paper records from your sale.”

  “You’re joking.” Holland was clearly dismayed. “I suppose that explains why the police have attempted to contact me.”

  “They have? Gosh!” Charley watched her face carefully but could discern no signs of decei
t. She knew Marc wanted to question Holland about the Purple Tang. Either Holland didn’t know about the drug gang using her property, or she was an excellent actress. Marc might get more out of Holland with the element of surprise, she decided. She’d let him deliver that particular good news in person. “Why do you think anyone would steal those papers?”

  “I have no idea.” Holland’s reply was crisp, but she was obviously thinking hard.

  “What about the missing will Millie Peache was searching for?” At Holland’s startled glance, she said, “I was there that day, remember? Maybe someone thought Calvin found the will, or some clue as to its whereabouts. Millie sounded as if she had proof it exists.”

  “Her so-called proof is nothing more than delusional ramblings,” Holland scoffed. “You would be well advised not to spread baseless rumors.”

  It took Charley a moment to process what she’d heard. “Wait. Are you saying you spoke to Millie? When? What did she say?”

  “She’s a senile old woman, taking at face value the nonsense of another old woman. My mother was not herself in her final weeks.” Holland indicated the box from Old Hat. “I’m quite busy, Ms. Carpenter, so if you would proceed?”

  It was clear Holland was losing patience, so Charley crouched by the box and began pulling off strapping tape, keeping her voice offhand. “Rumor has it the Planning Commission is divided over approval of your plans to redevelop the estate, and they’re just looking for another excuse to delay making a decision. Did you see what someone posted on Facebook? Any idea who wrote it?”

  “I saw it.” Holland frowned. “My legal team is investigating. However, fictional accusations from anonymous writers carry no more weight than those of the Peache woman.” She raised a brow. “I’d say you have more to worry about than I do.”

  “You’re not wrong,” Charley acknowledged. “Still, several of the neighbors protesting your plans are very influential people, maybe not so easy to brush off as poor old Millie.” When Holland didn’t reply, Charley was tempted to press the point, but decided to change tack before Holland kicked her out. “It must be difficult, saying goodbye to the family home, all your mother’s possessions, the final ties to your childhood.”

  “Yes.”

  You sound really heartbroken, girlfriend. “I’m surprised your brother, Jameson, isn’t here to help you, particularly since the house might be gone in a matter of days. Isn’t this his childhood home, too?”

  At the mention of her brother’s name, Holland’s demeanor changed. Her face paled, and her eyes were large with a strong emotion Charley thought might be fear. She struggled to recover her veneer of calm, but her voice gave her away. “Jamie has…other responsibilities.” Her eyes darted around the suite, touching several times on the pile of unrolled papers. “Such a trivial matter is none of his concern.”

  It seemed obvious she was lying. But about what? Was she afraid of her brother? Or more intriguing, was she afraid for him for some reason? Charley scooped an armful of hats and purses from the box and rose. She began arranging them on the dining table.

  “What fun, growing up in that big, rambling house. I’ll bet you had some epic hide-and-seek battles.”

  Holland murmured, “We grew up there, yes.” Her fearful gaze softened slightly, a faint smile on her lips, and Charley saw that at least some of that strong emotion was affection. She loves her brother. Holland stepped closer and fingered a straw sunhat, her expression wistful. A bit surprised to have uncovered a human side to Holland, Charley probed gently.

  “Living so far apart, you must miss him very much.”

  “Yes.” Holland’s eyes closed briefly. “I do. But father’s corporate trust and Mother’s will are so—Jamie must stay at the Miami office. It’s fine; he has a good life there—” She clamped her mouth shut, as if only just realizing she’d been speaking aloud. Charley disliked exploiting weakness, but she sensed her time was running short.

  “Jamie’s got an equal stake in the outcome here, doesn’t he? Or is he opposed to the demolition, too? What about Millie and SOAP? If they produce a second will—”

  And just like that, the moment of vulnerability was over. “There is no will,” Holland snapped. “There will be no delay.”

  Charley knew better than to press her luck. As she laid out several evening bags in a row, she worked her way down to the end of the table where the stack of plans lay. The top sheet wasn’t a blueprint, but was instead a full color architectural drawing. oak bridge luxury estates: a springbrook construction community ran across the top of the poster-sized page. She had seen an artist’s rendering of the proposed project in a recent article in the Oakwood Register detailing the scope of the project. This version was much more detailed, a bird’s-eye view of the Mulbridge property with numbered lots lining both sides of a street labeled shadetree circle.

  She conjured a mental picture of Bobby’s colored map. His orange trapezoid was a perfect match for the outline of Oak Bridge Estates. The new street branched off Runnymede Road approximately where the driveway was now and ended in a cul-de-sac near the west end of the property. She noted four of the fourteen lots, the choicest locations deep in the woods around the cul-de-sac, sported sold stickers.

  “You’re already selling off the lots?” she asked in surprise. “The project hasn’t even been approved yet.”

  “That information is privileged,” Holland said sharply. She shouldered Charley aside and began sliding the papers into a pile. As she did so, Charley noticed something else that hadn’t been in the Register’s version of the plan. In a corner, just below the legend yamato and drake engineering, were the words phase one.

  Phase One? Did that mean plans existed for a Phase Two? If so, where would it be located? Or was it just standard engineering practice to call any new project the first phase? Holland rolled up the plans with quick, angry movements. It was clear she hadn’t wanted Charley to see that diagram.

  “Privileged or not, you must know everyone in town’s buzzing about the project.” Charley’s mind was racing. “They’re expecting standing room only at tomorrow afternoon’s approval meeting. What if those angry neighbors disrupt the proceedings? Millie Peache might show up, too. Who knows what she’ll say or do?”

  “The city stands to make tens of thousands in additional property tax revenue from fourteen new properties.” As Holland struggled to slide a rubber band around the rolled-up plans, Charley noted that her hands were shaking. “Do you honestly think they’re going to let a group of troublemakers derail a perfectly legal, highly profitable deal?”

  More convinced with each passing moment that she’d stumbled onto something significant, Charley cast aside all pretense. “The newspaper said those lots are going for two hundred fifty to three hundred fifty thousand. We’re talking about four million dollars, perhaps more. That kind of money’s a powerful motivator, Holland.”

  “Motive?” Holland’s face, already pale, went sheet white. “Motive for what?”

  “I think you know. Someone killed Calvin Prescott to get their hands on the Mulbridge House sales records. And say what you will, approval for your project is far from a done deal.” Charley indicated the roll of plans. Holland gripped them so tightly they were crumpling under the pressure. “Engineering plans and drawings cost money. Delays cost more. Everyone knows you’ve got a demolition team scheduled for Saturday morning. With so much at stake, it seems incredible to me that Jamie wouldn’t at least make an appearance, no matter how busy he is. Where is Jamie, Holland? Is he in some sort of trouble? Are you?”

  And just like that, Charley found herself in the hotel corridor, staring at the closed door of the Presidential Suite.

  Well, she’d obviously struck a nerve. Holland Mulbridge was afraid, and it had something to do with her brother and those plans. Good thing the hats and purses she’d brought were junk. She’d had a feeling the interview might end abruptly.

  As Charley headed toward the elevator, she pulled out her cellphone to call Frankie
. Phase Two, she mused, and as she pictured again a certain colored map where orange met green, a nasty little suspicion began to grow.

  However, that mystery would have to wait. There was someone else she needed to talk to as soon as possible, and she was going to need backup.

  Chapter 11

  Charley stood on the sidewalk across Magnolia Street from the Peache residence, mentally rehearsing her next plan of attack. Millie’s house was a small two-story cottage covered in dented aluminum siding that had once been white. Even from this distance Charley could clearly see the torn screens, the crumbling front steps, the driveway that was more gravel than solid asphalt. Everything about the property projected neglect, right down to the yellowing blinds hung in grimy windows. If she hadn’t known better, Charley might have thought the place was abandoned. It was an unsightly blot on a block lined with neatly kept homes. Their tidy porches and gleaming paintwork radiated silent reproach.

  The houses on either side of Millie’s had high wooden fences running along the property lines, no doubt designed to screen out the sight of their down-at-heel neighbor. Charley felt a throb of pity. What must Millie have felt, watching those fences go up, knowing the reason why? She was a widow on a fixed income, clearly without the resources to maintain her home at the level of magazine-spread perfection demanded by most Oakwoodites. Every time she walked out her door, she would be slapped in the face with evidence of her declining circumstances, of her neighbors’ rejection and contempt.

  The temperature had continued dropping steadily since the morning. A thin winter sun slipped behind heavy clouds threatening rain, or possibly even snow. Charley shivered. She turned up the forest green velvet collar on her ankle-length houndstooth coat, feeling vaguely depressed. The dimming light did nothing to improve the view.

  Charley’s cellphone chimed with an incoming text. on our way 2 minutes. She quickly typed ready and hit Send. Showtime.