Antiques Fire Sale

by Barbara Allan

  “I’d be grateful,” I said. “Save me another trip.”

  I followed him down a carpeted hallway past a closed door with Kevin’s name, the murmur of voices indicating Tina’s hubby was with a client. Cliff’s office was at the end of the hallway, and I stepped into a spacious, nicely appointed room with a long window giving a picturesque view of the river.

  To the right was a round conference table and four chairs, to the left a wine-colored leather couch and glass coffee table, and straight ahead, in front of the windows, a mahogany desk with a brown leather swivel chair. The place whispered money, but at least it didn’t shout.

  A wide windowsill displayed a variety of family photos, showcasing Cliff’s wife and two sons at various stages of their lives. Viewing the pictures from left to right, I saw the two young sons grow up, graduate from high school, then college, and get married. The few photos that included Cliff revealed he’d put on some weight, lost some hair, and developed the appropriate lines on his face for a man with a family and a business to look after.

  On the other hand, his attractive brunette wife didn’t look any different from photo to photo; in fact, after the boys had started their own families, she appeared to have grown younger. The effects of healthy living? Or the skill of a surgeon’s hand?

  Cliff moved to his chair, where his suit jacket hung on the back, and I selected one of two client chairs in front of the cluttered desk.

  When we’d both settled, he asked, “How is your mother doing?”

  “Fine. Back at work.”

  “Good to hear. That’s a big job for someone to tackle without much experience . . . meaning no offense.”

  “Couldn’t agree more.”

  He chuckled. “I don’t know Vivian well, but I understand she can be somewhat . . . headstrong?”

  “I do know her well, and that’s an understatement.”

  The mild smile just went on forever. “What can I do for you, Brandy?”

  “I have an antique bedroom set. Or at least a collectible one. Art Deco, dates to the thirties.”

  I handed him my phone with the pictures I’d taken, and he scrolled through them.

  “Lovely,” he said, returning the photos. “I agree these pieces should be insured. Do you have another home insurance agent?”

  “No, but Mother does.”

  He shrugged. “In that case, the easiest thing for you to do is add the coverage for the bedroom set to her existing policy.”

  “I’d rather not do that.”

  Flipped a hand. “It would be cheaper than having a separate one with me.”

  I shook my head. “I’d like my own policy, in my own name.”

  I didn’t want to tell him that on several occasions, when Mother went off her meds, financial concerns had gone by the wayside, including the lapsing of several insurance policies.

  So I said, “That way I’ll know for sure that it’s covered.”

  “Makes sense,” Cliff said. “I work with several companies that specialize in coverage for antiques and collectibles.”

  “Maybe not the one you used to insure the Wentworth antiques,” I quipped, then immediately regretted it.

  He seemed to study me. “Where did you hear that?”

  Uh-oh. I didn’t want to mention Kevin, so I laid the blame on a dead man.

  “James Sutter,” I said, and explained how, on the afternoon before the fire, Sutter had talked about having separate insurance policies on the mansion and its antiques.

  “Anyway,” I rambled on, “I was kidding on the square, figuring that company’s premiums might go up, after the dust settles.”

  Cliff sat forward. “You say you were there the afternoon before the fire?”

  “Yes. Mother and I were.”

  The agent grew keenly interested. “Did Mr. Sutter show you around?”

  I gave him a tiny shrug. “Just the first floor. The second was being painted and plastered.”

  Cliff nodded, then said, “You know, this could be very useful to the insurance investigation.”

  “Regarding?”

  “What you and Vivian saw.”

  “The antiques, you mean.”

  His eyebrows rose. “It would help establish what was there.”

  Why? Was there some doubt?

  Cliff continued, “I’d appreciate it if you were willing to meet with the investigator.”

  “All right.” Another little shrug. “But Mother would be a better bet, since she’s the one familiar with the contents of the mansion. She toured the place more than once.”

  And if Mother wanted to mention the absence of the Tiffany vase, that was up to her.

  I gave Cliff our contact information.

  Moving on to the reason for my visit, the agent proceeded to give me some homework—a general form to fill out regarding the original purchase price of the bedroom set, from whom and when, and instructions on obtaining a qualified appraisal. I would need to provide physical photos of each piece of furniture. Then, after I return the form, he’ll submit it to several insurance companies, who will come back with quotes, which he’ll compare for the best price.

  I thanked Cliff for working me into his busy schedule, took my homework assignment, and left. On my way out, I’d intended to say hello to Kevin, but his door was still closed, so I moved on.

  Then I spotted Gavin Sutter in the reception area, rising from a chair in response to the receptionist’s “Cliff will see you now,” and I froze.

  Chagrined by the scene Mother had created at the Dunn funeral home, I backtracked; spotted a bathroom; and, being a chicken at heart, ducked inside to avoid passing Gavin in the hallway.

  The bathroom must have shared a wall with Cliff’s office, because I heard the agent’s muffled greeting, followed by the sound of his office door closing.

  I was about to leave when a vocal exchange between the men reached my ears.

  “What the hell happened, Cliff?”

  “How the fudge should I know!”

  Okay, Cliff didn’t say fudge.

  At that point, the voices lowered, and I couldn’t make out what was said anymore, even with my ear to the wall.

  The locked bathroom doorknob jiggled, and I flushed, ran some sink water, and departed, giving the waiting female a smile and “Too much coffee,” to which she replied, “Me too.”

  I made my way to the reception area, where the strawberry blonde was engaged on the phone, and I headed toward the front door just as it opened.

  A white-haired, nicely tanned distinguished-looking gentleman entered. He wore a beige Burberry trench coat, open to reveal a tailored navy suit, gray shirt, and silver tie. If I’d been in Beverly Hills, I might have thought he was a retired movie star.

  He held the door for me, I thanked him, and as I went on through, I heard the receptionist say, “Good morning, Mr. Wentworth. Mr. Sutter is already here. You can go on back.”

  Hmmm. Why would Cliff meet with Sutter and Wentworth at the same time? Granted, Cliff was the agent for both men, each wanting his policy payout; but the timing seemed a little odd. Still, the mansion and furnishings were intertwined.

  I returned to my car, where Sushi, indignant at having been ditched for so long, would not look at me. She had a snaggletooth, anyway, but with her jaw jutting out the way it now did, she looked even more comical.

  “Sorry,” I said, and proceeded to explain what had kept me, as if she could understand. And can you swear she didn’t?

  At a few minutes before ten, we arrived at our shop, and after dutifully hoisting the appropriate flags, I was about to make coffee and cookies but never got a chance.

  Antiques merchants will tell you that there are predictable patterns to the flow of customer traffic. For instance, Saturdays are busy after payday (mornings more than afternoons), as are sunny days (all seasons) and Christmastime (folks looking for something unique, or wanting to recapture childhood holiday memories). But this was not Saturday, or sunny, or Christmas.

  S
o go figure.

  I was kept hopping for two straight hours by people who actually bought things, bringing in an influx of much-needed cash. And I had to give Mother the credit for the sales. Since she’d become busy as sheriff, we’ve been supplying the shop with the stash of stuff she’d collected over the years (mostly acquired when she was off her meds), which had consumed our one-car garage.

  Among the items unloaded were a Barbie Disco portable record player with microphone (BYOBG—Bring Your Own Bee Gees record); a 1940s department store lady’s head and décolleté (Ginger Rogers look-alike) used to display necklaces and that I wanted for myself (Mother said fine, if I paid for it); a battered leather case of old dental tools (I didn’t ask the man what he planned on doing with it); and a vintage roll of children’s wallpaper featuring Howdy Doody, Clarabelle, Mr. Bluster, and Mother’s favorite character from the old TV kiddie show (Flub-A-Dub, which prompted her, for reasons unknown, to sing, “Ta-ra-ra Boom-de-ay!”).

  By around noon, the locusts had thinned and I’d raked in over five hundred smackers. Maybe Mother should go off her meds more often. That was when Mother blew in and showed me the error of my thinking.

  Her face was flushed, eyes wilder than usual behind the large lenses.

  I braced myself, glad to have the counter between us.

  “Guess what!” she exclaimed.

  I gave it a shot. “Your Vespa arrived.”

  “No! Wait, has it?”

  “How should I know?”

  She rushed around the counter like a thief with a gun. “If you’re going to be capricious, I won’t tell you.”

  “Fine with that.” My eyes returned to the computer screen.

  She stood there. “I just thought you’d be interested.”

  “Any special reason?”

  Excitement returned to her face. “I got a copy of Tom Peak’s autopsy report.”

  That got my attention, all right.

  I blurted, “How?” I figured, after throwing her out of the procedure, the medical examiner would be keeping that report under lock and key.

  “What you don’t know,” she replied somewhat huffily, “won’t hurt you. Or me. Or anyone!”

  But what I did know was that—like Gladys Gooch—some poor soul had surely been promised something.

  Mother was saying, “Preliminary testing of the esophagus and lungs show no signs of smoke inhalation.”

  Now she had me. Really had me.

  I said, “Then Mr. Sutter was dead before the fire started!”

  She was nodding, her smile very proud of itself. “That was Tom’s conclusion, confirmed by the coroner. Of course, results from more extensive testing of the tissue have yet to come back, but that could take months. In the meantime, the death will be treated as a homicide.” She paused. “And that’s why I need your help.”

  I gave her a hard stare. “You want me to wheedle information out of Tony.”

  She feigned surprise, one hand going to her chest. “Why, dear, I’d never ask that of you! Now that you lovebirds are back on an even keel, I wouldn’t dream of rocking the boat.”

  Was that two mixed metaphors, or three?

  “But,” she continued, “should the chief happen to let something slip about the investigation during pillow talk . . . you will tell your dear old mother, won’t you?”

  “Tony won’t let something slip,” I said, “on or off the pillow. And if he did, I wouldn’t betray him.”

  Her chin came up. “How can you be so cruel?”

  “I had a good teacher. But, listen . . . if you stay out of Tony’s way on this, I will share something I found out.”

  She brightened. “What’s that, dear?”

  “Cliff Reed, the insurance agent, is handling the claims for both Gavin Sutter and Benjamin Wentworth.”

  “Oh, I already know that.”

  “Okay. But did you know this. . . .”

  And I told Mother where I’d gone after dropping her off at the jail, and what I’d heard and seen there.

  After which she said, “While I agree it’s unusual for Cliff to meet jointly with two different clients, it’s the exchange between Gavin and Cliff before Benjamin arrived that interests me. I wish you’d been privy to more in the privy.” She paused, smiling at her own cleverness; then, dead serious, she asked, “What was your initial impression?”

  I thought back. “I guess that . . . something they were involved in together went wrong.”

  “Which might possibly include Mr. Wentworth.”

  “Possibly.” Time to change the subject. “Are you ready for the auditions this evening?”

  “I’m never not ready,” she sniffed. “And I plan to share with the gang a song I’ve just penned.”

  “‘I’m Just Wild About William’?”

  “That needed more work. I mean, really, he’s ‘Bill’ in the play, not William, and ‘Bill’ doesn’t scan well. No, I’ve worked up what will be the play’s signature song, set to ‘The Bells of St. Mary’s.’ I think Bing would be pleased.” She began to warble, “The voice of the turtle is calling to me—”

  I put a hand out to stop her. “I think I’d like to be surprised tonight, like everyone else.”

  “As you wish.”

  “You know you’ll have to cast her.”

  “Who, dear?”

  “Don’t play dumb—that’s your least convincing role. You have to cast Gladys. Otherwise, word will get around that Vivian Borne doesn’t keep her promises, and you’ll never again get anyone else to snitch—for example, whomever you wheedled that autopsy report out of.”

  She was frowning, but she said, “Good point. I’m hoping Gladys will have a change of mind, once she gets onstage, and realizes she’s out of her depth.”

  I shook my head. “I’ve talked with her. She’d rather sink the ship and take everyone down with her.”

  Mother sighed. “Then I’d best bring all of my directing skills to bear, else face embarrassment.”

  “More like ruin. You’ve weathered embarrassment plenty of times.”

  A customer came in, ending our conversation, and Mother slipped away, sheriff duty calling.

  The rest of the afternoon was slow—all lookers and no takers—and I was relieved when five o’clock crawled around.

  I was about to shut down the computer when an alert came onto the screen.

  A Tiffany vase had just been posted for sale on the website of an antique shop in Chicago. Price upon request.

  The item, as pictured, was awfully familiar.

  It seemed to be the Wentworth vase, all right.

  A Trash ’n’ Treasures Tip

  When buying online, it’s important to add to the purchase price the cost of shipping. More than once I thought I snagged a bargain, only to have the postage and handling run more than the item itself.

  Chapter Five

  In Which the Ball Lands in Vivian’s Court

  And Brandy Goes Out of Bounds

  I decided to postpone telling Mother about the appearance of the Tiffany vase online, knowing she would have enough on her mind with the auditions this evening. And, anyway, I preferred to keep her focus on theater and not homicide. The latter was Tony’s bailiwick, after all—within the city limits, anyway.

  The Playhouse Theater, situated among cornfields about ten miles west of town, began as an old barn where community actors would gather and perform on a makeshift stage to the delight of family and friends. In those days, you must have been able to imagine Judy Garland and Mickey Rooney yelling, “Come on, gang—let’s put on a show and save the farm!”

  Over the years, however, the barn had been transformed into a modern theatrical facility—thanks to Mother’s relentless haranguing for donations from Serenity’s wealthiest residents, who were often up for supporting the local arts (and getting Vivian Borne off their backs)—with new additions, periodic remodeling, and a state-of-the-art auditorium. About the only thing left of the original structure was its rooster weather vane.
r />   And Mother’s participation onstage had also been a big part of this transformation, as any play Vivian Borne appeared in, or even just directed, always drew eager crowds who knew anything could happen. And often did.

  Like the aforementioned Everybody Loves Opal footin-the-tuba debacle, or when her production of My Fair Lady included several real horses running across the stage in the Ascot scene, causing a panic in the auditorium, not to mention some messy cleanup. And, my favorite, Mother’s insistence on using real fireworks in You Can’t Take It with You, which set the curtains ablaze and nearly burned down the theater. But beautiful new fire retardant curtains did result, thanks to those benefactors.

  About half an hour before the six o’clock call, Mother (in her favorite emerald green velour pants suit) and I (in a long gray sweater and black leggings) pulled in in our C-Max, the parking lot otherwise empty. Sushi was with us because she loved to run all around inside the facility, and somehow could sense when the theater was our destination. Perhaps this was due to key words in our conversation, or possibly Mother lugging her tote bag of scripts and such. At any rate, I’d made bringing Soosh along to the theater a permanent practice, ever since once I’d left her home and she vindictively chewed up my new Jimmy Choos.

  Two cars were parked around back near the stage door entrance—the black Mazda belonging to stage manager Miguel, and Gladys Gooch’s blue Toyota. How did I identify the latter vehicle as Ms. Gooch’s? The former-bank-manager-turned-teller was standing next to it.

  As soon as we exited our vehicle, with me carrying Sushi and Mother her tote bag, Gladys came at us like an eager, perhaps mildly rabid puppy. Even Sushi was taken aback.

  “I am so excited,” she exclaimed.

  “Lovely to see you, dear,” Mother said, her performance of the line mediocre at best.

  Mother gave her prospective casting choice the eye, in particular the woman’s bland navy suit and prim white blouse.

  She said to Gladys, “You are aware you’re playing a promiscuous temptress.”

  “Well . . . I . . . just came from the bank. That kind of look is not encouraged there.”

  “Ah, understood,” Mother said, backpedaling.