Antiques Fire Sale

by Barbara Allan

  “I guess that’s a fair way to put it.”

  “Why the reticence?”

  “My stepfather and I had . . . we’d had words.”

  “About?”

  He was wiping his hands nervously on the rag now. “Cliff Reed told me my father-in-law had allowed the insurance policy on the mansion to lapse. You’re aware I’m cosigner of the loan, putting me in a terrible place financially, should anything happen—which it did.”

  Mother asked casually, “Did that prompt you to kill him, or did you come to that decision later?”

  Gavin’s eyes got big and angry. “I didn’t kill James! And I didn’t have a damn thing to do with the fire or the body found in it. And that’s all I care to say until I have my attorney present.”

  “That’s your prerogative, of course,” Mother said. “Still, it might improve your position if you were to be openly cooperative. Whatever bad words you may have had on your last meeting with James Sutter, however justified they might have been . . . he was your stepfather.”

  But he wasn’t having any. He turned abruptly away, went inside the garage, and closed its door.

  We returned to the C-Max.

  After we got in, I asked, “Why didn’t you tell Gavin that some of the antiques have turned up?”

  “Because, dear, the news wouldn’t affect him one way or the other.” She gave me a narrow-eyed look. “Plus, I want to keep that information out of circulation for the moment, along with the identity of the burned body.”

  Mother placed a call to Cliff Reed’s residence, where a cleaning woman told her that he could be found at the public golf course.

  I pointed the car in that direction.

  Serenity Municipal, Munie for short, was located along Highway 38 going west of town; the course had been steadily peeling away the swanky country club’s members by offering considerably lower fees. Granted, Munie didn’t have elegant evening dining, or a grand room for a wedding reception, or even a swimming pool; but that was fine for folks who chiefly cared about golfing (and their pocketbooks). A newly built clubhouse, along with an overall improved course, made the upstart even more attractive.

  Inside the clubhouse, with its tasteful rustic decor, Mother was told she could find Cliff on the links, “probably out on the back nine.”

  Outside, I stood alongside Mother while she considered her next move. She seemed stymied until a golf cart carrying a middle-aged couple came wheeling our way en route to the first tee.

  Mother stepped in front of the cart and spread her arms wide, and the man operating it slammed on the breaks.

  “I’m commandeering this vehicle in the name of the law!” Mother announced to the startled pair.

  When the couple just sat there frozen with their mouths open, Mother—for the third time today—tapped her badge. Then she waggled a thumb like a hitchhiker. “Outski!”

  As they clambered off the cart, Mother commanded, rather like Adam West to Burt Ward (look it up), “Brandy, hand these good citizens their clubs!”

  I rushed to the rear of the cart, grabbed the two bags, one at a time, and gave them to their open-mouthed owners.

  “Chop chop!” the sheriff said.

  I jumped in next to her.

  Mother put pedal to the metal, and I glanced back at the astonished couple, gaping at us, not having uttered a single syllable. I gave them a shrug and a sympathetic smile.

  Munie, after spending a small fortune on improving each hole, had installed golf cart paths to protect them. But using these paths to reach the back nine would have taken us in a roundabout way. So Mother travelled as the crow flies, heading across the fairways at a fifteen-miles-per-hour clip, the maximum speed the small gas-powered vehicle could muster.

  Since it had rained heavily during the night, and because many of the courses were hilly, the cart left behind track marks, especially going up an incline, where the tires pressed into—occasionally dug into—the grass.

  But Mother paid no heed, barreling down the fairways, disrupting play and creating chaos while yelling, “Fore!” and “Playing through!”

  “This thing,” she said at one point, hunkered over the wheel, “could really use a siren.”

  As we approached the thirteenth hole, Mother said, “Eureka! There’s our man!”

  Cliff was on the green, bent over, getting ready to putt, his concentration rivaling that of Tiger Woods; his male playing partner stood several yards away, holding the flagstick, frozen in the stillness. Even the birds seemed to be respecting the silence.

  Then, just as Cliff was taking his shot, Mother called out, “Oh, yoo-hoo!” and the ball missed the cup by a mile. Figurative mile.

  He looked up, annoyed at first, then with alarm as the cart leapt up onto the green and came to an abrupt stop, the tires creating more damage than any pitch mark or divot could ever manage—and there wasn’t a golf tool made that could fix that.

  Mother hopped out. “Mr. Reed! I’m so glad I ran across you.”

  She almost had.

  He frowned. “How did you know where I was?”

  “A little birdie told me,” Mother said. Then she laughed and added, “A little golfing joke.” But no one else was even smiling, much less laughing.

  Stiffly angry, he said, “My cell wouldn’t have sufficed?”

  “Oh, no,” Mother said, approaching him. “I wanted to deliver some good news in person.” She looked at the partner. “Oh, hello, Walter. Fine day to be out on the links, don’t you think?”

  Walter, a middle-aged banker, said, “Fine day, Vivian.”

  “Well?” Cliff asked impatiently, drawing Mother’s attention back.

  “You will no doubt be pleased to learn,” she said, “that the Wentworth antiques were not entirely lost in the mansion fire. A good number of pieces have been found in the storage building at the Playhouse. Isn’t that wonderful? Apparently, someone had switched them with stage props.”

  Mother’s magnified eyes behind her large glasses studied his response.

  “Well, yes,” Cliff replied. “That is good news.” But his expression did not reflect his words.

  “I thought you might be pleased,” Mother said, as if he’d been effusive. “Now the insurance company won’t have to pay out a million smackeroos, and Benjamin Wentworth hasn’t lost his ancestral heritage—what’s left of it, with the mansion gone.” She paused. “Of course, there’ll be an investigation into how those antiques wound up at the Playhouse. . . and an inquiry into any false claims that may have been perpetrated on the insurance company.”

  I didn’t expect his reaction.

  Cliff dropped his putter and walked away.

  “Mr. Reed!” Mother called after him. “I’ve not yet finished!”

  But he kept on going, his pace picking up, heading to a golf cart that was parked on the path.

  Mother whipped out her cell, called for backup, then sprinted to our cart. Hopping in, she said, “Brandy, best I drive solo.”

  She gestured for me to get out, which I gladly did, not wanting to participate in what I thought might happen next.

  “Sorry, dear,” she called, driving off, “the extra weight would only slow me down!”

  Extra weight! I was madder at her than Cliff . . .

  . . . who had reached his cart and was doing a U-turn to head back toward the clubhouse, where his car would no doubt be waiting. This gave Mother time to cut him off, forcing the man to drive onto the course, where she took hot pursuit. Or as hot as two vehicles going fifteen miles per hour can get.

  I watched with Walter at my side as Mother caught up with Cliff, ramming her cart into his, again and again, bumper-car style, then chasing him in circles, their tires digging up sod. This went on for a while. It might help to imagine “Yakety Sax” playing, Benny Hill–style.

  “Well,” the man said, “that’s not something you see at Munie every day.”

  I shrugged. “Par for the course with Mother.”

  He looked at me.

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nbsp; I looked at him and said, “Another little golfing joke.”

  Walter frowned. “What did Cliff do to deserve that, anyway?”

  “Oh, I’m not sure anybody deserves what Mother serves up. She just wanted to ask him some questions.”

  “Huh. Interesting way to conduct official business.”

  A police car, lights flashing, siren going, arrived via the cart path, and officers Munson and Hansen got out. They stood for a moment as if trying to make sense of the tableau, then moved in and put a stop to it.

  I wasn’t near enough to hear any conversation, but after a few minutes Munson walked the handcuffed insurance agent back to the squad car, Hanson bringing up the rear.

  Mother returned to the green in the commandeered golf cart, its sides dented, plastic roof askew.

  “Hop in,” she said to me, and to Walter, “Have a nice day!”

  I said to him, “Your tax dollars at work,” and threw him a wave. He waved back, rather numbly.

  Using the cart path this time, we returned to the clubhouse, where the manager met us along with the owners of the cart. They crowded around, a three-person angry mob. Mother listened to their complaints patiently for a good fifteen seconds before saying, “Noted!”

  And climbed out of the cart. I got out, too, as we abandoned our ride and made for the parking lot, amid shouts—from the manager: “You’ve ruined the course!”; from the husband: “You’re going to pay for a new cart, you lunatic!”; and from the wife: “Honey, your blood pressure!”

  In the C-Max, Mother instructed me to go to Benjamin Wentworth’s condo, the “toot sweet” implied by her tone, and as I drove, she placed a call to the Reliable Hauling Company.

  Ten minutes later, on the upper floor of the Grand Hotel, Mother’s persistent bell-buzzing seemed to say the owner wasn’t in.

  But then the door flew open.

  “What?” Wentworth said, with a good deal of irritation. He was dressed in a dark gray suit with lighter gray shirt and silver tie, as if about to go out to a business meeting. No sweats today, though I had a hunch he’d soon be sweating.

  “Might I come in?” Mother asked.

  “Not a good time,” he said. “I have an appointment coming up soon. So say what you have to say, Vivian, right here.”

  “Oh,” she said, her expression as sympathetic as only an expert bad actor could achieve, “I think you should sit down for this.”

  He sighed. “Well, all right. But you’ll have to make it quick.”

  And he stepped aside.

  I followed in Mother’s footsteps, wishing she were a tulpa and I were her imaginary daughter.

  In the living room area, the oriental rug had been rolled up, the bookshelves stood vacant, and sealed boxes were stacked everywhere.

  Wentworth turned to Mother, his expression accusatory. “What is this about, Vivian?”

  “Specifically, it’s about most of the antiques thought to have been lost in the fire turning up stashed at the Playhouse. Apparently set props had been substituted for them at the mansion, to leave remnants after the blaze, designed to fool the insurance company and fire investigators.”

  Wentworth’s manner shifted to confusion. “Who on earth would have done that? And for whatever reason?” Then: “Oh! I follow. Someone planned to ‘fence’ the pieces.”

  “Possibly,” Mother said. “Or keep them for himself. At any rate, there will be no insurance payout now.”

  The man moved to an armchair. “You’re right at that, Sheriff. I do need to sit down.” He did so, then said, “Frankly, I can’t say I’m happy about this discovery, feeling as I do about those wretched things, which aren’t really to my taste.” He sighed. “I will likely sell most of them. I suppose now I’ll have to make arrangements to have them taken to the new house in Arizona.”

  Mother stepped closer. “Oh, but haven’t you already?”

  “Already what?”

  “Made those arrangements. And I don’t think you plan to sell the antiques, but to furnish your new, big home with them. You grew up with those things all around and, despite what you’ve said, they meant a great deal to you.”

  He batted that away. “Supposition. Sheer supposition. There’s no proof of any of this.”

  “Oh, but there is. You see, I’ve been talking to the Reliable Hauling Company . . . and it seems their contract with you was to make two pickups—one here, and another at the Playhouse.”

  Wentworth didn’t say anything, just covered his face with a hand. His words were muffled yet not difficult to make out at all.

  He asked, “How did you know?”

  “It was the painting, dear,” Mother said. “The portrait of little Arabella that gave you away. Who else would want it? It wasn’t particularly good, or by a known artist. You shouldn’t have been that sentimental.”

  That last was a quote from Vertigo, one of Mother’s favorite movies. At least she didn’t utter it in her Jimmy Stewart impression.

  Words filtered from between the man’s fingers. “How . . . however did I get to this point?”

  That was a rhetorical question, of course, and an existential one. But Mother, despite her artistic bent, was first and foremost a pragmatist.

  So she answered him.

  “One step at a time,” Mother replied. “The first step being when you saw an opportunity to have a million dollars and the antiques you really did care about, in spite of what you’d said, to fill that new home—a home far enough away from Serenity that you felt safe to have those precious items on display. And so what if someone from Serenity should visit? Why, these were similar pieces you found to replace the precious originals—perhaps even replicas.” She paused. “The second step? That was joining with James as his accomplice in destroying the mansion.”

  “I didn’t set the fire,” he protested.

  “No, but you knew James was going to.” She paused. “I’ve always wondered about that lumber company fire, when Jimmy was employed there. Had there been an arrangement between you two back then, too? Sort of an unwitting trial run for the mansion swindle?”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Wentworth said, stiffening, hands in his lap now as fists. “There was never any suggestion of arson at the lumber company.”

  “No. It’s only my suspicious mind that thinks you saw a way out of a family-owned firm that had been losing money for years to the big chain lumber outfits. And Jimmy, knowing he’d eventually be out of a job there, was only too willing to help out, for a portion of the insurance money. It worked once—why not twice?”

  Wentworth said nothing.

  Mother, just throwing it out there, asked, “Did you know that James was going to kill Leon Jones before setting the fire?”

  “No! I only found out about that after—”

  Wentworth clammed up.

  “I haven’t Mirandized you,” Mother said. “Until I do, nothing you tell me can be used in court.”

  Of course I was a witness who could report whatever he said—I was just ex officio, remember? And she darn well knew it.

  He said, softly, “I didn’t find out about Leon until after Miguel told me.”

  “Go on,” Mother said.

  His eyes were lowered, as if his memory were down there somewhere for him to retrieve. “Miguel came over here that night, about four in the morning, banging on the door. Said James had double-crossed us. You see, I was supposed to get the insurance money and all of the antiques that I wanted, while Miguel and Leon would be paid a flat fee to help move the antiques out. That’s the extent of my involvement.” He paused. “But then, according to Miguel anyway, when the last of the antiques had been loaded into the truck, James hit Leon with a fire poker.”

  Mother was nodding. “James planned to ‘die’ in the fire, and then to disappear.”

  He was deep in debt, after all, and had been stealing the grant money.

  “That would seem to have been his plan,” Wentworth said. “And by having been made an accomplice, Miguel had no choi
ce but go along with it. Miguel drove James to Leon’s trailer to hide out. James had tickets for a flight leaving the country the following day.”

  Mother said, “What busy little bees you all were. But the situation only got worse, didn’t it?”

  “I . . . I’m not saying any more.”

  “Then I’ll say it for you. You went to the trailer to confront James, things got out of hand, you killed him and buried his body in the woods.”

  Wentworth fell into a brooding silence.

  Mother began pacing. “Perhaps you felt you would be down in Arizona by the time James was found—or maybe not found at all—but then I complicated things by mentioning that the Tiffany lava vase had surfaced for sale at a shop in Chicago. Well, that must have been unwelcome news! How many more of the antiques that should have been left behind in the fire had Miguel secretly siphoned off?”

  Mother stopped pacing and faced Wentworth.

  She said, “Then you seized an opportunity to kill Miguel—who, after all, could implicate you—when he asked for help in getting rid of Leon’s truck. Only Miguel didn’t know he would be going into the pit as well!”

  Nothing from Wentworth. Perhaps he’d stopped listening. None of this was news to him.

  Finally he spoke: “I want to call my lawyer.”

  “You can do that from the station, Mr. Wentworth,” Mother said. “Your legal representation can explain to you all about what happens when you play with fire. It’s one of those rare times when the literal and figurative converge.”

  A Trash ’n’ Treasures Tip

  It’s important how you list something for sale on eBay when your word allotment is limited, because searches are done by item titles instead of descriptions. For example, listing, “Lovely green medium-size bowl in good condition” will not give you as many hits as “Fire King jadite bowl, 8.25” diameter, no chips.” The accompanying photo of the item is important as well. Just as in the Wentworth case, a picture is worth a thousand words.

  Chapter Twelve

  In Which Vivian Gets Her

  Just Desserts

  And Brandy Takes the Cake

  The following morning, Mother, Tony, Deputy Chen, and I were squeezed into her small office at the county jail. She held court from behind her desk with Tony and the deputy in the visitor chairs opposite. Meanwhile, I half sat on a small metal file cabinet.