Antiques Carry On

by Barbara Allan

  No one spoke – not even Mother – with the silence punctuated only by the angry sky’s rumbles and bangs and the wipers frantically doing their scraping best to clear the windshield.

  I would have pulled over to wait out the storm, had there been anywhere safe to do so; but with the river now on my left, and ditches on the right, the best option was to keep crawling along, hoping any vehicle coming up from behind would notice my tail lights before their slammed-on brakes made it too late.

  When we finally reached the safety of Serenity’s outskirts and a widening road, a collective sigh of relief filled the Fusion.

  Angela said, ‘I’m glad I didn’t make that drive myself. Thanks for this.’

  ‘Not at all,’ Mother said brightly, adding, ‘I found it exhilarating!’

  Harrowing was more like it.

  Angela directed me to go through the alley behind The Trading Post to a place by the store’s rear door where Skylar would park his Jeep Cherokee.

  But we found the spot empty.

  ‘I don’t understand it,’ Angela said – it was almost a moan. ‘He didn’t pass us on the way. I was watching!’

  ‘Try his cell once more,’ I said.

  She speed-dialed her husband, then said, ‘Damn. It went to voice mail again.’

  ‘Why don’t we go in?’ Mother suggested. ‘Perhaps there’ll be some indication of where he might’ve gone.’

  This was half trying to be helpful, half an opportunity for her to snoop. Well, make that 40% helpful, 60% a chance to snoop.

  Angela was nodding. ‘A note to himself on his desk, maybe, or something on his wall calendar. The security system will be on, but I know the code – the last four digits of his cell number.’

  I gave Mother a sideways look, which she did not acknowledge; our shop’s code was its landline’s number, something I had been opposed to.

  I pulled into the empty space.

  We exited the car, Sushi under an arm, no umbrella now, the torrential rain mercifully having abated to a drizzle. Angela led the way to the back door, where she abruptly faced us.

  ‘I don’t have a key,’ she lamented. ‘I left the house in such a hurry, I didn’t even take my bag!’

  ‘May I?’ Mother said, with a slow-motion gesture of a graceful hand to herself. She turned languidly toward me. ‘Brandy, dear?’

  I handed her Sushi, scurried back to the car, dug inside Mother’s purse, and returned with what she wanted.

  Angela’s eyes widened at the sight of the two small lock picks.

  ‘With your permission?’ Mother asked, in the manner of a mere formality.

  The woman nodded.

  In under a minute we were inside, Angela flipping on a light, then entering the code into a wall alarm system and putting a halt to the high-pitched warning tone. We were in a mailing room with stacks of cardboard boxes, packaging material, and a worktable with scale and label printer. Opposite us, an open door led to darkness.

  Sushi, annoyed with being passed back and forth, squirmed from Mother’s arms and hopped down.

  Angela, moving forward, said, ‘I’ll check the office.’

  Mother fell in behind her; but I hung back.

  The last time I entered another antique dealer’s office, as you’ll recall, the outcome was less than wonderful, and I had no desire to go through that again. But would it be unkind of me to suggest that Mother likely relished perhaps finding another murder victim?

  And the possibility presented itself that Mother and I might make a convenient alibi for Angela, had she killed her philandering husband earlier, after dispatching Tiffany …

  ‘Coming, dear?’ Mother asked over her shoulder.

  ‘Yup.’

  But I’d let them go first.

  The layout of the store was the typical Victorian boxcar style, like the Cinders bar, the second room being an inventory area with shelves for storing antiques, plus a work bench for repairs or other TLC before tagging.

  The third room was Skylar’s office.

  After Angela went in and flicked on the lights, and I didn’t hear a scream, I joined them. The space was surprisingly neat – most antiques dealer sanctums I’d been in were a disorganized mess.

  This office was divided between living and work areas. One side was mid-century wagon-wheel furniture (chair, two end tables, coffee table) and a brown Naugahyde-covered couch; the other was home to a blond desk and matching file cabinet, with the standard equipment found in any small office, including a closed laptop computer with a few papers neatly stacked to one side.

  Western memorabilia covered the pine walls – everything from a collection of silver spurs to signed photographs of famous western movie stars (Tom Mix, Randolph Scott, John Wayne, Clint Eastwood) in their shoot-’em-up personas.

  At the moment, Mother was looking at a painting hanging over the couch of a cowboy out on the range being bucked by his horse.

  ‘Is that a Remington?’ she asked Angela.

  The woman, heading toward the desk, remarked without looking, ‘Yes … a copy of course.’

  ‘And a very good one,’ Mother said. ‘Not many people can afford an original.’

  I had been watching Sushi closely as she sniffed around the perimeter, and now, suddenly, she picked up her pace. Crossing to the chair behind the desk, where a fringed vest had been draped over its back, she stopped, sniffed, barked, and I swooped in to pick her up.

  Angela, sifting through the papers by the laptop, hadn’t seemed to notice. But Mother gave me a slight nod. We now knew who had broken into our house.

  With a sigh, Angela said, ‘There’s nothing here. Often he makes notes to himself, but … not this time.’

  ‘What about the laptop itself?’ I asked.

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t have his password.’

  Mother put on a look of concern. ‘Perhaps it would be best if we took you home, my dear.’

  Her performances in the field are often better than the ones on stage at the Playhouse.

  She went on, ‘I’m sure your Skylar will be there with a perfectly good explanation.’

  Angela muttered to herself, ‘Good ex-cuse maybe.’

  What did that mean?

  While Mother and I stepped out into the drizzle, Angela stayed behind to turn out the lights and reset the alarm.

  The rain had all but stopped, angry clouds having moved on to share their gloom with other communities, a nearly full moon reclaiming the night sky, providing an ivory shimmer to the puddles.

  Back behind the wheel, waiting for Angela’s return, with Mother next to me holding Sushi, I asked, ‘What do you think “gentleman burglar” Skylar was looking for?’

  ‘The necklace, of course … but why, I can’t fathom.’

  I frowned at her. ‘Couldn’t he have been looking for Westcott’s book? The one you should have given Skylar?’

  She twisted toward me. ‘Dear, we’ve been all over that. That thing is worthless.’

  ‘Maybe there was a code marked in it or something.’

  A shake of her head. ‘I read every page on the way back from London – there were no such markings, and nothing stuck between pages.’ Mother straightened as if she’d received an electric shock. ‘Good Lord! I think my copy had a marking on the overleaf.’

  ‘Saying what?’

  ‘Property of SL.’

  I groaned. What was worse? That mother had stolen her book from the Serenity Library, or that Skylar knew the one he’d been given wasn’t from Westcott.

  She was saying, ‘It was just a tiny marking. He might not have seen it or known what it meant.’

  The car’s back door opened, putting an end to our conversation.

  I looked at Angela in the visor mirror. ‘All set?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said glumly.

  Compared to our earlier expedition, the return drive along River Road was a walk in the park, the moon guiding our way; still, the pavement was slick enough that care was required – I stayed below the
speed limit and even the normally impatient Mother made no complaints. Angela seemed off in a world of her own.

  But at the top of Colorado Hill I slammed on the brakes, skidding a little, jolting everyone, fortunate not to have a car directly behind me.

  ‘Brandy! What in the world—’ Mother began. Then she drew in a sharp breath.

  She, too, had noticed the break in the guard rail, where a vehicle had apparently gone through, the metal bent and twisted outward, as if pried apart by a giant can opener.

  Angela, seeing it now, too, choked, ‘Oh, no!’

  ‘Could it have been that way before?’ Mother asked me.

  ‘If so,’ I responded, ‘I didn’t see it in the downpour.’

  With no place to pull over, I got onto what little shoulder there was and put on the emergency flashers. Then I leaned over Mother to fish a flashlight from the glove compartment.

  ‘Everyone stay put,’ I ordered.

  ‘No,’ Angela said firmly. ‘I’m coming.’

  ‘I as well,’ Mother chimed in.

  So much for my leadership skills.

  But I didn’t argue. Leaving Sushi behind, we exited the vehicle, then gathered at the edge of the breach, where I aimed the bright beam below.

  At first, I didn’t see anything but the roiling dark river, still riled from the storm; but when a whitecap crashed against the embankment, then receded momentarily, my light caught the tail end of a vehicle just below the surface near the shore.

  Angela gasped, ‘That’s … that’s Skylar’s license plate!’

  She started through the metal gash, but I pulled her back, holding on tight as she struggled and tried to break away.

  ‘You can’t go down there,’ I said. ‘It’s just too steep. We have to wait for help.’

  Mother had stepped away, cell phone in hand, and was calling the accident in.

  ‘But he could be alive!’ Angela wailed.

  I shook my head.

  ‘How do you know?’ she demanded.

  I loosened my grip. ‘If this had just happened, there would be tire tracks going down in the mud, and there aren’t any, because the rain washed them away.’

  ‘If it happened a while ago,’ she said desperately, ‘he might have survived the crash! Might have got to the riverbank, and walked away …’

  ‘Possible. Which also means he’s not down there now, Angela.’

  Mother rejoined us. ‘The authorities have been notified.’

  Already, a faint siren could be heard from a first responder, which turned out to be Tony, who (I later learned) had been on the way to his cabin.

  Soon, with lights flashing, the chief pulled his unmarked car up behind ours, and exited.

  ‘Is everyone all right?’ he asked.

  Mother and I nodded.

  ‘We weren’t here when this happened,’ I said. ‘We just saw the guard rail …’

  Angela cried, ‘My husband could still be down there! He could still be alive!’

  I gave Tony the slightest shake of my head.

  But Mother said, ‘He’s not visible on the riverbank, but possibly he staggered into nearby brush or trees.’

  ‘We’ll do everything we can,’ Tony assured Angela. ‘We’ve set up a detour, and Search and Rescue …’

  Search and recovery, really.

  ‘… will be here soon. Unfortunately, because of the location …’

  Bottom of a cliff, in choppy water.

  ‘… their efforts will be hampered, and anyone inside …’

  Your dead husband.

  ‘… will have to be transported back by boat.’

  Not an ambulance. Although one would be waiting at the boat landing. With no need for a siren.

  Angela was staring at him, trying to absorb his words.

  ‘Thank you, Tony,’ I said.

  As he stepped away to speak on his cell, I took Angela gently by the arm, and led her over to the Fusion, where we sequestered in the back, Sushi joining us from the front.

  Not knowing what to say to the woman, I sat with her in silence, occasionally interrupted by her sobs.

  After what seemed like the longest time, but in reality was probably about five minutes, several beams of light found us, and a boat motor could be heard through the partially cracked window.

  ‘I’m getting out,’ Angela announced, and did so.

  I also exited, holding Sushi, and we joined Mother by the broken guard rail.

  Below, bathed in bright lights, bobbed the bright orange Search and Rescue boat, holding two men. One wore a dark shirt, slacks, and life jacket; the other, a diving suit equipped with oxygen, along with a utility belt no doubt containing tools for breaking a vehicle’s glass window and cutting off safety belts.

  Tony stood several yards away from us, cell in hand, in communication with the uniformed man, who was looking up at him.

  Then something unexpected and, frankly, touching happened. Angela slipped her hand in mine, gave it a little squeeze, and I squeezed back.

  What transpired next came quick.

  The diver went into the water and returned to the surface with Skylar; the driver’s partner helped ease the limp, lifeless body into the boat. The motor roared, and the craft sped away toward town.

  The fact that the victim had not immediately been given CPR labeled this a recovery. Which Angela understood, releasing my hand, hers going to cover her mouth.

  Tony, who’d stayed on his cell throughout the process, ended the communication, then came over to Angela.

  Before he could speak, she said, ‘I want to be with my husband.’

  ‘It would be best if you went home,’ he said gently.

  ‘No.’

  Tony nodded. ‘I understand. I’ll take you to the hospital.’

  He escorted her to his vehicle, settled her in the front, then came back to face Mother and me.

  The day had been long and tiring and full of surprises … but nothing could have prepared me for what Tony told us.

  ‘That was no skid on wet pavement,’ he said. ‘And the vehicle’s back end wasn’t hit … but the driver’s side was.’

  Somebody had forced Skylar James off the road, and through that railing.

  A Trash ‘n’ Treasures Tip

  Fine-art prints are considered original works of art, and not to be confused with reproductions or copies, which are mass-produced by machine. Prints are created on a copper plate or stone or other medium, then printed in a limited batch, numbered, and usually signed by the artist (if alive) and can be found in some of the world’s greatest museums. Mother feels great pride, by the way, in having a Keane ‘big-eyed child’ print signed by Margaret, not the artist’s con-man husband Walter.

  NINE

  Carry On Cleo

  Dear little Brandy had selected ‘Carry On Matron’ as the title of this chapter of mine, but the editor granted me kind permission to change it. Why? Firstly, I do not consider myself to be a matron! I neither run a British boarding school nor do I behave in the manner of a stodgy old lady, thank you very much. (Did your mind immediately repeat that phrase, ‘Thank you very much,’ and take you to that rousing number in the stage and film musical, Scrooge? If not, it should have!)

  Secondly, our more loyal, longtime readers will no doubt recall my connection to Cleopatra, the Queen of the Nile. A few years ago, while under hypnosis administered by Tilda in pursuit of a detail important to a case (Antiques Chop), out popped Iras, Cleo’s hand-maiden – moi in a former life – who was the Queen’s asp handler. (Contrary to what history has written, my maidenly hand did not follow the Queen’s into that lethal basket; my loyalty to my Egyptian mistress did not extend to such sacrifice.)

  The morning following the death of Skylar James by staged auto accident, I went out at eight into the cool spring morning to my waiting Vespa (Brandy and Sushi were still slumbering, angels unaware).

  I had a day of investigation planned and was happy knowing my daughter would be working at the shop, out of har
m’s way (and my hair). Frankly, I had arrived at the conclusion that the higher the body count, the less helpful Brandy is. Murder seems to create anxiety in the young woman.

  Anywho, my first stop was the police station downtown, a modern one-story red-brick structure next door to the new state-of-the-art, three-story county jail (the construction of which I had actively campaigned for, after spending an uncomfortable night in its ancient, crumbling predecessor some years ago).

  Kitty-corner from the jail (so much more colorful a way to express it than ‘cater-cornered,’ and anyway, who doesn’t like kitties?) stood a magnificent edifice of limestone built in the late 1800s – our courthouse, which looked like a gigantic white wedding cake with a bell tower on top rather than the traditional bride and groom (or groom and groom, or bride and bride, although of course any nuptial couple would have looked ridiculous atop a courthouse, even though any number of such ceremonies were conducted annually within).

  The proximity of the two facilities was a master stroke: a criminal could be charged at the police station, escorted across the street for arraignment at the courthouse, then jaywalked to the county jail (certain laws are really more guidelines, it would seem).

  I parked my ride in the side lot of the police station, then walked around to the front through a scenic little brick plaza with several stone benches and small shade trees.

  The small lobby of the station provided visitors with four uncomfortable mismatched chairs along one wall, an irritatingly humming soda machine in a corner, and a neglected banana tree plant leaning toward a single window as if trying to escape its pot – the depressing decor seemingly designed to encourage short visits by the citizenry.

  I marched up to the Plexiglas window behind which a young woman in civilian attire worked diligently at a computer, neglecting her role as receptionist in favor of managerial duties or some such.

  Formerly this had been where a uniformed dispatcher sat, but last year – keeping an off-the-cuff campaign promise made during a speech I’d given when running for sheriff – I’d installed a new command center on the basement level that served the sheriff, police and fire departments.

  As a civilian, I now regretted that move, as my ex-sheriff ‘perks’ did not include access to said command center. No good deed goes unpunished!