Antiques Carry On

by Barbara Allan

  ‘Not Colette,’ I said. ‘She always kept her head well above water.’

  Brandy said, ‘Not lately she didn’t.’

  ‘You’re right,’ the chief told his intended. ‘Colette crossed what was apparently a new line for herself when, after talking to Skylar, she realized Tiffany had become a liability.’

  ‘Poisoning the young woman,’ I said, ‘at the preview sale.’

  Tony confirmed this with a somber nod.

  I asked, ‘Has the poison been identified?’

  ‘Not as yet. But common ones such as cyanide and arsenic have been ruled out.’

  I avoided Brandy’s eyes.

  ‘As for Skylar,’ Tony said, ‘after failing to obtain the cover to the Christie book, he’d become a liability himself, apparently.’

  Especially if Skylar had told Colette that I’d mentioned MI5’s interest in his connection to Humphrey Westcott.

  Tony was saying, ‘Colette’s made no admissions, at least not as yet … but all of this is what we theorize, based in part on Angela revealing Skylar had broken his agreement with Colette.’

  Frowning, Brandy asked, ‘In what way?’

  ‘He was never to display conspicuously stolen art where someone else might see it. Skylar had acquired a valuable Remington original from Colette, which was hanging in his office, where any number of people might see it.’

  ‘And that got him killed?’

  Tony nodded gravely. ‘On such a rarefied level of dealing in illegal art, his unreliability must have been a major factor.’

  Brandy was shaking her head. ‘That doesn’t make sense to me …’

  ‘May I?’ I asked the chief.

  He nodded his assent.

  ‘Dear,’ I said to my less than worldly daughter, ‘there are wealthy people in the world who will purchase art not as an investment, nor for braggadocio, but solely for their own personal enjoyment – just as Colette enjoyed her private collection in her “bunker.”’

  ‘How can that work?’ Brandy asked. ‘What happens when one of these weird rich collectors die? What do their families do with these … these tainted masterpieces?’

  Tony said, ‘The art may go back onto the black market … or to be quietly, discreetly returned to the rightful owners, on the promise of no embarrassing publicity.’

  ‘Or,’ I interjected, ‘if the rich collector knows the end is nearing, whether due to old age or infirmity, he or she might sell the plunder back to Colette or someone like her, possibly in accordance with the original agreement.’

  ‘Well,’ Brandy said, rolling her eyes, ‘it sounds like sheer lunacy to me.’

  I arched a brow. ‘To you it does. But to a certain breed of collector? Nothing could feel more sane. Imagine feasting your eyes every day on a masterpiece that would otherwise have been unattainable – to smile back enigmatically at the Mona Lisa, perhaps, or trade glances with Van Gogh’s self-portrait. Such collectors care not a whit what happens to their precious collections after they’re gone. You can’t take it with you!’

  Brandy sucked in air. ‘Good heavens! What about that painting I hit Colette with? Can it be restored? Or was it ruined?’

  Tony bestowed a benevolent smile upon his future bride. ‘That Matisse nude should be fine, after restoration. I spoke personally with the curator of the museum in Boston where it was stolen in 1990, and he was thrilled with its recovery, along with four other paintings taken at the time.’

  The door of the conference room opened and a tall male officer I knew as Munson* stuck his head in.

  ‘Chief, sorry to interrupt,’ he said, ‘but you’re needed.’

  ‘But we no longer seem to be,’ I said, and stood. So did Brandy.

  I said pleasantly, ‘Until next time, Chiefie dear?’

  But the busy lawman said nothing, merely closed his eyes and pointed to the door.

  That afternoon, I was seated at a table in an interview room in the Johnson County Jail in downtown Iowa City, waiting patiently for Colette, being held there for the murders of Tiffany Wallace and Skylar James.

  Other than her temporary court-appointed attorney, I was the only person she’d agreed to talk to, which I suppose was an honor of sorts. Since Brandy had gone to bed with a migraine right after our visit with Chief Cassato and Agent Hasty, I (in my role as ex-officio sheriff) commandeered the Fusion to make the journey.

  The steel door with Plexiglas window opened, and Colette – in the expected if not terribly stylish orange jumpsuit – was escorted in by a sturdy female security guard with short dark hair and an unexpectedly kind face.

  ‘Five minutes, Mrs Borne,’ the guard said. ‘I’ll be just outside.’ She departed, the door locking loudly behind her.

  Colette slid into the chair across from me.

  Without her high heels, designer clothes, and skillful make-up, the owner of Antiques Fantastique looked much older and smaller, her expression a defeated, melancholy thing. One could hardly blame her. Well, for the murders one could.

  ‘I feel I owe you an apology, Mrs Borne,’ Colette said, speaking softly. ‘You were an able adversary, whereas I mistook you for a …’

  She searched for the word, so I provided one: ‘Buffoon?’

  That actually made her smile. She said, ‘I hope I would not be so unkind. Let us say, “rank amateur.”’

  ‘I would say, with all due respect, that you are the amateur in this situation … in murder, that is. Not in criminal enterprise, of course, where you are a longtime expert. But you stepped out of your comfort zone when you dabbled in homicide.’

  She was studying me. ‘Are you wired, Vivian?’

  ‘No. I’m always a little excited like this.’

  ‘What I mean to say is, have you accessorized that, uh, lovely pants suit with a hidden microphone?’

  ‘Heavens no! I can’t be expected to do all of the work for the police. Ah … I understand. You and your attorney haven’t settled on a plea as yet.’

  ‘I haven’t settled on an attorney as yet.’

  I sat forward a little. ‘I can recommend a good one. He’s getting a touch on in years, but he can get even the most blatant murderess off. I’ll make the referral if you like.’

  ‘I’ll get back to you on that.’

  I shrugged. ‘Anyway, if I were wired in the manner you suggest, your question and my denial would make this entrapment, and anything you say couldn’t and wouldn’t be used against you in a court of law. So you may speak freely with me, Colette. May I continue you to call you “Colette?”’

  ‘Certainly.’ She sighed. ‘You are turning out to play a significant role in my life, actress that you are. The ease with which you accomplished my downfall makes me suspect some part of me wanted to be caught. I’ve grown so very, very tired of my whole way of life.’

  Nodding understandingly, I let her talk.

  She was looking past me, into memory. ‘Back when my father ran the organization, people honored their agreements, as a matter of pride. But nowadays, no one can be trusted – everyone has their own agenda.’

  I asked, ‘Were you aware that art was being sold to raise money for terrorist acts?’

  ‘Of course not!’

  ‘Why the Christie book? Such an insignificant item, compared to a Matisse or Picasso.’

  She shrugged. ‘Not every sale in my field takes place on a stratospheric level. But signed copies in dust jacket of certain titles are nothing to sneeze at.’

  That cheap reprint on British Air that crumbled in my hands was!

  She was saying, ‘I had a standing order for a signed Orient Express from a trusted client when Skylar told me he knew where to get one. That became his first assignment.’ Her voice turned bitter. ‘Which he bungled by killing that old woman.’ She went on, ‘Then, when an opportunity presented itself to get a cover for the book – provided by Humphrey Westcott – I gave Skylar a second chance after he mentioned that you were heading over to London. Why put my trust in the mail?’ She sucked in air, le
t it out. ‘Well, Skylar bungled that, too. And, after Tiffany’s … death, he wanted out of our arrangement.’

  So she was still reluctant to describe Tiffany’s passing as the murder it was.

  I asked, ‘Is Michael Hughes involved in your business?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The auction house man who ran the tag sale.’

  ‘Oh, him …’ She shook her head. ‘I barely know the man. He’s nobody.’

  Maybe, but a nobody who’d just come into a quarter of a million dollars. Chump change in her world, maybe, but then soon she’d be saving up dimes and quarters to buy candy bars from the prison canteen.

  Colette straightened in her chair. ‘Vivian, I feel I’ve said enough. Any debt I might have to you, for what I put you and your daughter through yesterday, you will have to consider settled. I’m tired and want to go back to my cell.’

  ‘Your cell.’ I smiled sadly. ‘That’s what you have to look forward to for the remainder of your days, isn’t it? Of course, you’ve lived a fairly isolated life for years, and seem to have preferred the solitude of your own company, surrounded by beautiful works of art. So perhaps you’re well prepared for what’s ahead. Perhaps you’ll get a talented graffiti artist for a cellmate … or maybe you can find some other way to dress up the dreary surroundings. Toward that end, I’ve brought you something.’

  She said, skeptically, ‘Kind of you, Vivian.’

  I reached beneath the table, and placed the gift before her: a clear-plastic-wrapped bouquet of blue flowers I’d picked from her garden an hour earlier.

  I said, ‘I thought these might help.’

  After several long moments that seemed to hang there in time, she smiled knowingly. ‘They might. They might.’

  I continued to hold onto them. ‘Sorry there’s no vase. That’s not allowed. But you are able to have these. I’ve cleared it with the guard.’

  I’d promised her the role of Grushenka, hoping that wouldn’t catch up with me, like Colette’s life of crime had caught up with her!

  I said, ‘I thought they were an option you might like to have – for freshening up your cell.’

  The violet eyes locked with my blue ones. ‘Thank you, Vivian. That really is a thoughtful gesture.’

  ‘It’s the least I could do … though perhaps in gratitude, you might be willing to share with me information regarding where some of the works you’ve distributed to private collectors might be found. By others who are into art?’

  Colette didn’t miss a beat. ‘You’ll find a ledger in a panel behind the books on the first shelf on the west wall in the library.’

  I pushed the bouquet toward her. ‘Thank you, dear.’

  She was talking to herself now, shaking her head. ‘It was so simple. It should have worked.’

  I stood. ‘You made one mistake, dear.’

  She looked up. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘You involved Vivian Borne.’

  The door opened, the guard announcing my time was up.

  As was Colette’s.

  Brandy back.

  Don’t you hate it when a story has obviously reached its natural conclusion, and yet still drags on and on? At least Archie Goodwin (actually Rex Stout) would label ‘The Last Chapter’ accordingly, so readers wouldn’t get too antsy. Plus, Rex and Archie always keep the wrap-up short.

  Having been down with a well-earned migraine for the entire afternoon, I awoke headache-free to find a text waiting from Tony.

  My initial pleasant reaction curdled – it’s never a good sign in a relationship when one’s significant other says (or texts), ‘We need to talk.’ Tony’s ominous words at least included a reminder of the dinner at his cabin that we’d planned (what now seemed like) eons ago.

  Mother and I had ensnared a murderer in the trap that murderer had laid for us; but I was the one who seemed to be facing a last meal before her execution.

  Downstairs I found Mother in a particularly good mood, and informed her of my upcoming evening with Tony. She said she’d heat up some leftovers for herself.

  I returned upstairs, showered, fixed my hair, applied make-up, and put on something nice – not hoping to prevent the break-up exactly, rather trying to buy myself a little dignity when I faced the firing squad.

  Taking Sushi along to keep Rocky busy, I went out to the Fusion, where I noticed three things: the driver’s seat had been moved back, the gas gauge read near empty, and a pair of gardening gloves and shears were in the back.

  OK, so Mother had needed to go somewhere, always a possibility when I was indisposed. But she’d made it back with herself and the car in one piece, so I would put her misconduct aside for now. Anyway, if the local cops and the Highway Patrol hadn’t expressed an objection, why should I?

  Taking the River Road again, I wondered if this scenic drive I so loved would forever be linked in my mind with Skylar’s death. But the magnificent purple-pink rays of the sunset reflecting on the Mississippi, along with the casting of long shadows deepening the colors of the trees, erased such a notion. The turn was up ahead.

  Life goes on.

  I rumbled along the dirt lane leading to Tony’s remote hideaway, then pulled up in front of the cabin, fully prepared that my role in Mother’s dangerous detective work would lead to me getting dressed down by Tony (and not in the good way), capped by the cancelation of our engagement.

  Sushi, well attuned to my moods, had been subdued on the familiar trip; but any concern for her mistress evaporated the moment we entered the cabin and she saw Rocky.

  The black-and-white mixed breed with a K.O. circle around one eye had learned the best way to deal with Sushi’s amorous pawing was to lie down and play dead until the poor thing had exhausted herself. Maybe I should try that approach.

  Meanwhile, I just stood there, taking the room in.

  I was going to miss the pleasant, woodsy smell of the place and its man’s man ambience – Tony’s collections of old fishing lures, wicker creels, and nets haphazardly nailed to the walls; the over-stuffed brown couch where he and I had spent many an hour in front of a crackling fireplace; the scarred round oak table and chairs where we shared dinners; the tiny kitchen where we often cooked together … out of which right now wafted the delicious aroma of his signature lasagna.

  Serenity’s Chief of Police appeared in the kitchen doorway, wearing the frilly apron I’d once given him as a joke, which made me smile even in these circumstances.

  ‘Help me with the salad?’ he asked.

  One last time?

  Always difficult to read, Tony seemed unexpectedly relaxed, upbeat. Perhaps he was relieved to be done with the needy likes of me … and Mother.

  ‘Sure,’ I said.

  Everything was set out on a cutting board, and – as I started to chop the vegetables – he asked, ‘Everything all right?’

  I put the knife down. ‘You tell me.’

  Tony frowned. ‘Oh.’

  ‘Yes, oh. “We have to talk,” you said. Texted, no less. Anyway, I’d prefer not to suffer through dinner.’

  He put his bear-claw hands on my shoulders and looked down into my face, the steel-gray eyes boring through me. I felt suddenly very small.

  ‘Am I am upset that you put your life in danger?’ he asked. ‘And that you and Vivian broke the law in your methods?’

  ‘Are those rhetorical questions?’

  ‘No. But don’t answer them. I will. Yes. And yes.’

  I feared as much.

  Then he said, ‘But I had asked for Vivian’s help. And even though she promised to keep you out of harm’s way, I would have to be crazier than she is to expect that she’d honor that. So that’s on me.’

  Was that the governor of the state on the line? Was this a reprieve?

  His eyes softened. ‘You did warn me, remember? When we first started dating? That your mother would come first. I understood that – not that it made things any easier.’

  It was a reprieve!

  ‘All I ask,’ he went
on, ‘is that you try harder to keep her out of trouble, and yourself from getting caught up in her, her …’

  ‘Shenanigans?’

  ‘“Shenanigans” don’t generally include having a little dog save your pretty bottom from a murderer about to shoot you.’

  ‘Actually, more than once it has.’ I put my arms around his waist. ‘I’ll do better.’

  After the delicious meal, and when the dishes were done, Tony and I withdrew to the couch. Sushi was already snuggled against Rocky on the rug in front of the hearth, a crackling fire banishing the evening’s chill.

  We were discussing possible wedding dates when his cell vibrated.

  Tony looked at the screen.

  ‘Johnson County Sheriff,’ he said to me. ‘I’ve got to take this.’

  Tony got up, and moved a discreet distance away, so I could only hear his end of the conversation.

  ‘Yes …What?’

  Something was up.

  ‘Colette Dumont was found dead in her cell?’

  Uh-oh.

  ‘Vivian Borne came to see her?’

  The near empty gas in the car.

  ‘And brought what kind of flowers?’

  The garden gloves and shears in the back seat.

  I could draw only one conclusion.

  I stood, scooped up Sushi, grabbed my purse, and headed toward the front door, Tony calling out behind me.

  ‘Brandy!’

  Stay tuned …

  (Postscript: If you’re thinking that Mother and I stood to collect hundreds of thousands of dollars, even millions, in reward money, for information leading to the recovery of so many stolen paintings … think again. Because of her irrevocable Honorary Sheriff status, Mother (and her deputy, me) were ineligible for such rewards. Bummer.)

  A Trash ‘n’ Treasures Tip

  Collecting old fishing lures can be a fun hobby, and also profitable. Many antique lures are worth hundreds, if not thousands, of dollars. The rarest of them all, a copper Giant Haskell Minnow, sold at an auction for over one-hundred-hundred thousand. That’s a lot of bread on the hook. But think of all the reward money that slipped off ours!