by C. R. Corwin
“She knew how excruciatingly dire my financial situation was.”
“So she knew you’d sell them.”
“I imagine so.”
I studied his body language. I couldn’t tell if he was lying or having a nicotine fit. “Given your police record, it’s easy to believe that you might know how to sell those fireplaces and things if they were stolen,” I said. “But would you know who to sell them to if they weren’t?”
Jeannie did not like the question. “I’m sure my brother knows how to use the Yellow Pages.”
I apologized with an empathetic smile. Asked the big question. “So Eddie-if Violeta Bell knew you needed money, why didn’t she just give you money?”
Eddie scratched his hairy chin. “A proposition I have pondered myself. Endlessly without a suitable revelation.”
“Violeta Bell was a very successful antique dealer for many years,” I said. “How much money would you say she had?”
“I wouldn’t have the foggiest,” Eddie said.
“Would you be surprised if I said a million?”
“A million ain’t much in this hyper-inflationary time,” he said. “So, yes, I guess I would be surprised if there was only a one at the left end of those six zeros, and not a number with more curves and curls.”
My brain, thankfully, had adjusted to his convoluted hipster talk. I knew what he meant and went straight to the next question. “Would you be surprised if I told you she was almost broke?”
Eddie’s eyes bugged. “Hell’s bells! You shitting me?”
Jeannie’s reaction was less expressive. “That would explain the antiques instead of money, wouldn’t it?”
“Actually,” I said, “it makes me wonder why she would give your brother so many of her valuable antiques if those were the only assets she had?”
Neither Eddie nor his sister had an answer to that. At least one they wanted to share with me. While they sat like bumps on a log, I laid out the theory bubbling in my brain. “Violeta Bell was a mystery woman. In fact, the Violeta Bell people knew really didn’t exist. She created herself. For reasons that died with her. Apparently.” I told them about her fake driver’s license and passport and all her other fake or nonexistent papers. “She not only lived outside the law,” I said, “she was a big believer in cash.” I told them some of the things Eric Chen had found out about her. “She didn’t own the building where she had her antique shop. She lived in a swanky apartment in Greenlawn. When she closed her shop, she bought her unit at the Carmichael House for cash. That still left her with a lot of money in the bank. Now that’s all but gone.”
If Eddie or his sister knew any of this, they weren’t letting on. Eddie was gently drumming his fingernails on his smoldering cup. Clickety-click-click. Jeannie was studying her pedicure. I continued. “So for the last eight years, she had no money coming in and a lot going out. She also had a condo filled with valuable antiques. So unless she had a big Rubbermaid tub of cash hidden under her bed-and there’s no evidence she did-she’d be forced to sell some of those antiques from time to time. For cash. She was not one to share her good fortune with the government. Which means she’d have to find an equally stingy buyer. Or an unsuspecting one.”
Jeannie’s eyes shifted, from her pretty toes to Eddie’s anything but pretty face.
“Violeta’s condo was big,” I said. “But it wasn’t the Smithsonian. She’d have to replenish her supply. I’m sure she found a few treasures at those garage sales. The tag sales. The estate auctions-”
“She was always buying stuff,” Eddie offered. “More than the other three ladies put together. Tons of shit.”
I went on. “But would that be enough? The other Queens of Never Dull lived pretty high on the hog? I’ve got to wonder if she didn’t have another source or two.”
“None that I know of,” Eddie assured me.
I was coming to the heart of my theory. “We know that Violeta didn’t own a car. Let alone a delivery truck. If she were still dealing in antiques, she’d have to have some help. Somebody to deliver things and maybe pick things up. Somebody she could trust.”
Eddie started waving his cup like a white flag. “Mea culpa! Nolo contendere! Hang me high by my huevos grandes! Yes! Yes! I delivered a thing or two for the old bird-in that beautiful old bread box out there!”
Jeannie’s twitching lips told me she wasn’t happy hearing that. She defended her brother nonetheless. “Nothing illegal about driving a truck.”
“Heaven’s to Betsy, no,” I said. “Not if Violeta truly owned the things she was selling.”
“Or if the driver was oblivious to the pre-supposed illegality of the endeavor,” Eddie added.
I pretended to absolve him. “Just a working man earning a little unreported cash on the side?”
“Nothing more convoluted than that,” said Eddie.
Now I started closing the trap. “Where exactly did you deliver things for her?”
Not surprisingly, Eddie was suddenly opaque. “That, most unfortunately, is impossible for a professional driver like myself to reiterate. I’ve driven to so many places, I don’t know exactly where I’ve been or haven’t.”
I rocked back and forth, drumming on the armrests, letting Eddie stew. Then I let him have it. “You know what I think Eddie? I think you and Violeta were in business together. Buying and selling stolen antiques. Those things the police found up here weren’t gifts. They were a shipment for you to deliver. Maybe to a dealer in some other city or state who didn’t know they were hot. Or didn’t give a damn. You couldn’t tell police that, of course. You’d go back to prison.”
Jeannie’s laugh was dripping with disbelief. Not to mention contempt. “And so he’s risking a murder charge to hide his other crimes?”
I smiled at her like a senile aunt. Turned toward Eddie. He was slowly sinking into the sofa cushions. “That is what you’re doing-isn’t it Eddie? Betting the police won’t find enough evidence to charge you with Violeta Bell’s murder?”
That was the last straw for Jeannie. She jumped up and wrapped her arms around her waist like the sleeves on a straightjacket. She started shouting at me. “My brother did not kill anybody! Bob said you believed that!”
Nobody shouts at Maddy Sprowls. Not without getting double the decibels in return. “Your brother is going to be twiddling his thumbs on death row if he doesn’t start telling a more forthcoming version of the truth-that’s all I’m saying!”
Jeannie stormed to the door. Threw it open for me. “I’ve never heard anybody talk so much bullshit in my life!”
I slowly rocked back and forth, staring into Eddie’s gray eyes until they started to quiver. “Is your sister right, Mr. French? Am I talking bullshit?”
Jeannie suggested it would be better if I left. I agreed. I clomped down the steps as mad as a hornet. Not caring one whit if Eddie was innocent or guilty. If he spent the rest of his life in prison or Paris, France. When I reached the ground I headed straight for that bread truck. I was sure they were watching me. I didn’t care one whit about that either. First I wrote down the license plate number for Eric Chen to check out. Then I checked the driver’s side door to see if it was locked. It wasn’t. I got in. I checked the ashtray for the key. It was there. I put it in the ignition and started the engine. I watched the gas gauge rise. The tank was almost half full. I checked the odometer. There was a string of zeros. When I looked closer I could see that a tiny smiley face had been painted inside each little white aught. Next I looked for that metal strip under the windshield that has the vehicle identification number. It was gone. I crawled out of the truck, got in my Shadow, and drove the hell home.
10
Sunday, July 23
We were on our way to Oswosso Swamp Park, to dine on baked chips and turkey sandwiches from Subway, watch the herons stand perfectly still in the stagnant water, and try not to get trampled by the joggers. Ike’s idea of a perfect Sunday afternoon.
“I think I may need professional help,” I sa
id, as we zipped along West Apple Street.
He slipped his right hand off the steering wheel-the reckless old buzzard always drives with both hands like some kid in driver’s ed-and lovingly scratched the top of my head. “Come on now, Maddy. I know Bob Averill’s got your brain in a twist, but it’s not something that requires psychoanalysis, is it?”
“Not that kind of professional help,” I growled. “Somebody who knows something about the antique business.”
He put his hand back on the wheel. Chuckled with relief. “I know Joseph Lambright, if that’ll do you any good.”
“It might if I knew who Joseph Lambright was.”
He squeaked with disbelief. “What? You’ve lived in Hannawa all these years and you don’t know who Joseph Lambright is?”
“No, I don’t know who Joseph Lambrigh is.”
“I can’t believe you don’t know who Joseph Lambright is.”
Now my brain was in a twist. “Jesus Christ, Ike! Who is Joseph Lambright?”
Ike’s fingers tightened around the steering wheel. “Somebody who doesn’t use language like that on a Sunday, far as I know.”
Ike had just come from church. Changed into walking shorts and that khaki shirt of his with the epaulets. Bought those chips and submarine sandwiches for us. I bit my tongue and started over. “This Mr. Lambright knows the antique business, does he?”
“I can’t believe you don’t know who Joseph Lambright is!”
We were sitting at a red light now-but I would have done the same thing even if we were speeding along at eighty miles an hour. I grabbed his chin and twisted his face toward me. I purred like a saber-tooth tiger. “Unless you want a 12-inch turkey sub sticking out your ear, you will kindly accept my ignorance and tell me who Joseph Lambright is.”
Ike pried my fingers off his chin. Kissed the back of my hand. “He owns that shop on German Hill.”
“You mean Joey Junk?”
“I guess some people call him that.”
“Even he calls himself that. Heaven’s to Besty, Ike, sometime you make me mad enough to scream.”
“Please don’t do that.”
“Then take me there-now!”
And so, we delayed our happy afternoon at the park and drove straight to Joey Junk’s Treasure Trove. It was located right there on West Apple, just three blocks east of Meriwether Square, on Herders’ Hill. The area was named after the Scotch-Irish farmers who grazed their sheep on the slope back in the 1800s. Those picturesque days are long gone, of course. Today it’s a sad strip of low-rent apartment buildings, empty storefronts, gas stations that sell more beer and lottery tickets than gas, and one ramshackle motel that rents rooms by the hour. Because of that motel, snooty suburbanites call it Herpes Hill.
Joey Junk’s Treasure Trove is one of Hannawa’s most familiar landmarks. You can’t help but twist your neck when you drive by. The worthless crap stuffed inside pours right out the front door. It fills the sidewalk and half of the parking lot on the side. Old claw-foot bathtubs and bathroom sinks, chairs missing a leg or two, yellowed wedding dresses on chipped plaster mannequins, rusty iron beds, and gaudy living room lamps that should never have been made. I’m sure you’ve got a place like that in your town.
Ike pulled into the parking lot. Parked alongside a twisted pile of old bicycles. We went inside. It was bric-a-brac heaven in there. The musty air immediately made my eyes itch. Joey spotted us. He stepped across a box of old magazines and waddled toward us. “Maddy Sprowls and Ike Breeze! Don’t tell me you two know each other!”
“For too long,” I said.
I’d known Joey for a long time, too. He was about my age. Overweight and sloppy. Happy as a clam. He’d had his shop there since the sixties. Every once in a while I drop in to see if there’s anything I don’t need but can’t live without.
Joey wanted to pursue my relationship with Ike. I cut that touchy subject off at the pass and got right to business. “Ike thought maybe you could help me learn something about the antique business.”
Joey froze. Like a bull walrus caught in the headlights. “You’re not thinking of opening a shop are you? It’s not as lucrative as it looks.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “You’ve got Herders’ Hill all to yourself. I’m looking into Violeta Bell’s murder and thought maybe you could give me some idea how she did business.”
Joey dug his hands into the pockets of the shiny pair of suit pants he was wearing. “She was one tough woman to deal with.” He rubbed his neck again. “Like you without the compassion.”
Ike liked that-too much. I shushed him. “Deal with, Joey? You did business with her?”
“She came in all the time,” Joey said. “Twice a month maybe. And she bought a lot of stuff. I knew she’d probably turn right around and sell it for a lot more than what she paid.”
“That bother you?” I asked.
Joey smashed his lips together. Shook his head no. “She had a lot more knowledge about the value of things than I did. And a lot more connections. And I always got a buck or two more for the things I sold her than what I paid. That’s all the matters to me.”
Ike wandered off to look at Joey’s collection of political memorabilia. I charged ahead. “She had a pretty exclusive shop. Who exactly were her customers?”
“Hannawa’s la-de-das mostly.”
“Mostly?”
“Junk dealers like yours truly sell anything we can get our hands on. But real antique dealers tend to specialize. They buy from other dealers.”
“Where’s the money in that?” Ike asked from across the shop. He had his nose in a box of old campaign buttons.
“There’s plenty of money in that,” Joey explained. “Say I’m a dealer in Ohio and I get my hands on some fancy old French chair that maybe Napoleon himself sat in. But I specialize in 18th century coo-coo clocks. Which means my customers aren’t going to pay top dollar for a chair, no matter whose ass once graced it. But I know so-and-so in Timbuktu who could sell that chair for a ton of money. So I give it to him for a pretty good price and he turns around and sells it for an even prettier price.”
“How about Violeta Bell?” I asked. “Did she specialize?”
Joey smashed his lips together again. This time he nodded. “Big pieces mostly. Furniture and the like. Some European but mostly American. Nineteenth century. Early twentieth. Art Nouveau. Biedermeier. Arts amp; Crafts. She absolutely went schizoid over Art Deco.”
I was impressed. I remembered some of those names from Detective Grant’s list. “For a mere junk dealer you know your stuff.”
Ike loudly reprimanded me. “His shop’s full of junk, not his brain.”
I smiled apologetically. Joey smiled back, somewhat grimly. “I gather she was big into old fireplaces and stoves.”
“They do bring a pretty penny,” he said.
“You ever sell her any?”
“I come by a few now and then-so I suppose I might have.”
Maybe it was imagination, but Joey seemed to be getting a little nervous. “Where do dealers get their antiques, other than junk shop owners and other dealers?” I asked.
“A good fisherman fishes many ponds,” he said. “Antique malls, auctions, estate sales, classified ads, garage sales, tree lawns on garbage day.”
I knew I was going to make him really nervous now. “And where would a dealer who isn’t exactly on the up and up get her stuff?”
Joey got less nervous instead of more. Downright steely in fact. “You’re saying Violeta Bell dealt in fakes?”
Ike appeared at my side wearing a big “I Like Ike” button on his khaki shirt. “She’s not saying that, Joseph. She’s just trying to figure out why somebody might have popped her.”
I asked my next question before the conversation shifted to the Eisenhower button. “You think it’s possible she could have been selling fakes?”
“There isn’t a dealer alive who hasn’t sold a fake or three,” Joey answered. “The antique business is lousy with reproduc
tions being passed off as authentic pieces. Sometimes it’s almost impossible for dealers to tell. Even if they’re an expert in that particular area.”
“I guess I’m taking about knowingly selling fakes.”
“There are a few unscrupulous dealers who do that.”
I asked a final question. “Do you think that Violeta Bell could have been one of those few?”
“I never had any reason to suspect it.”
Ike paid Joey two dollars for the “I Like Ike” button. On the way to the car, Ike pinned it on my tee shirt. I immediately took it off. “You’re forgetting I’m a Democrat.”
He flashed me that damn don’t-you-love-me smile of his. “Lots of Democrats voted for Ike.”
“Not this one!”
We drove to Oswosso Swamp Park. We followed the trail around the rim of the marsh until we found an empty bench. We sat next to each other, our shoulders just barely touching. We didn’t say a word. We nibbled our sandwiches and chips. We slurped the sun tea I’d brewed that morning. We watched the long-legged heron do their impressions of lawn ornaments. We watched the ducks paddle by. We watched the turtles stick their snoots through the algae. We watched the human beings dumb enough to jog during what Margaret Newman in her story had called “the nation’s most blistering hot spell since rough-tough Teddy Roosevelt roasted in the Oval Office.” I didn’t know what Ike was thinking, but I was thinking about how much fun I was going to have telling Margaret that, while I enjoyed her alliteration, the Oval Office wasn’t built until the presidency of William Howard Taft.
It was Ike who finally broke the oath of silence he’d imposed before we got out of the car. “You can’t possibly think Joseph Lambright killed that old woman,” he said.
“When did I ever say that?”
“I know you were asking your questions carefully. But I also know how that wicked little brain of yours works.”
I snapped one of those tasteless baked chips between my teeth. The heron closest to us took off like the space shuttle. “I’m still at the early stages of my research. I have to suspect everybody.”