A Bidder End

by Ellery Adams

  “If you’re not going to question people, I will,” she said stubbornly.

  He looked at her. “You’re a reporter,” he said. “You have every right to pursue a story, and I won’t stop you.”

  “Good. I’ll start with Julian McGregor, Brett’s assistant manager,” she said. “He worked with Brett in Boston, and he’s known him a long time. He might know if he was having financial difficulties, or seemed depressed.” She took her phone out of her bag. “I’ll take some photographs of the cookie jar to show him. Maybe he can tell me something about it.”

  As she took her pictures, Lombardi said, “If you’re really going to do this, I wouldn’t mind if you want to go with me when I interview Helen. She might feel more relaxed talking to me if you’re there.” He checked his watch. “I’ll be leaving in about forty minutes. How about I meet you in the hospital cafeteria? I need some coffee and a bite to eat.”

  Molly tried not to smile. She knew Lombardi did things by the book, but he also trusted her instincts. “Sounds good to me,” she said.

  Chapter 5

  Molly wasn’t sure where Julian lived, but Lombardi was able to look up his address on his car’s computer. When she got to the end of Brett’s driveway, she gave the guard a wave and took a right. Laurel Wreath loomed bright in the morning sunshine, and Molly felt tears spring to her eyes. Brett had worked so hard to make his business a success, and just when he’d reached the pinnacle of his career, he’d died. Gripping the steering wheel, she felt more determined than ever to find out what really happened to him.

  As she got nearer to the barn, she saw there was a white Mini Cooper with red stripes parked out front. Since it was only nine o’clock and the shop wouldn’t open for another hour, she thought Julian might have come in early. She turned into the parking lot and pulled up next to the Mini Cooper. The front door had a Closed sign in the glass panel, but there was a light on inside. Molly knocked, and a moment later Julian appeared on the other side of the glass. He unlocked the door, surprised to see her.

  “Hi, Molly. I’m sorry, but we don’t open until ten.”

  “I’m not here to shop,” she said. “Can I talk to you?”

  “Of course.” He stepped aside for her to enter. “What’s this about?”

  “It’s Brett,” she said. “I guess you didn’t notice there’s a police car parked at the end of his driveway?”

  “No, I come in from the other direction,” he said. “What happened? Was there a break-in at the house? Is he all right?”

  “Brett is dead,” she said.

  Julian stared at her. “He can’t be dead,” he said. “He runs five miles every morning. He’s in better shape than most people I know.”

  “The police don’t think he died of natural causes.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “They’re treating his death as a suicide.”

  The color drained from his face. “I, ah, I . . . I don’t understand,” he stammered. “How? I mean, why?” He swayed a little on his feet. “I feel dizzy.”

  Molly took his arm and steered him over to an early-twentieth-century wicker chair. Julian sank into it and leaned over, placing his elbows on his knees, lowering his head onto his hands.

  “Take some deep breaths,” Molly said. Julian breathed deeply in and out. When he seemed steadier, she asked, “When was the last time you saw him?”

  Julian lifted his gaze. “Last night, around seven o’clock, when he left. I closed up at nine.”

  “Did he say anything to you on the way out?”

  “He said ‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ like he always does. I know he was worried about Helen. He told me if he didn’t hear from her soon, he was going to call you, in case your cop friend could help find her. Did he call you?”

  “Yes, and I called my friend, Detective Lombardi,” she said. “He put the word out that Helen was missing. She turned up this morning at Brett’s. She’s the one who found him.”

  “Oh, my God. Is she okay?”

  “She’s at the hospital being examined.”

  He looked straight at her. “How exactly did he die?” He asked it without emotion, as if he was mentally preparing for the worst.

  Molly found it hard to even form the words, but there was no easy way to say it. “It looks like he hanged himself in his kitchen,” she said.

  Julian sucked in his breath. “This is crazy,” he said. “Why would he do such a thing?”

  “I was hoping you might have some ideas about that,” she said.

  “Me? How would I know?”

  “You’ve known Brett for years, longer than anyone else around here,” she said. “Did he seem suicidal?”

  “No.”

  “Was he having money troubles? Had he gotten into any disputes? Did he have any enemies?”

  “No, no, no,” he said, sounding exasperated.

  “I want to show you some photographs of a cookie jar I found at his house.” She took out her phone and pulled up the photos of the picnic basket cookie jar. “Do you recognize it?”

  Julian nodded. “Yes, we had one like it in the shop. It came in as a set of six. They were all stolen about three weeks ago.”

  “Were they all McCoy cookie jars?”

  “No, four of them were McCoys. There was this one, the picnic basket jar, and a pig jar, both made in the sixties, and a Bobbie the Baker jar, and a clown in a barrel, made in the seventies. The other two were a forties little lamb by American Bisque Pottery Company and a sixties Cinderella pumpkin coach by Brush Pottery Company.”

  “I’m impressed you can remember them all. You have a good memory.”

  “Thank you. Brett didn’t always appreciate how much I knew or what I did for him. It’s my job to know what we have in the shop, and it’s not every day we have a theft.” He gave her back her phone. “I don’t understand why the jar is at Brett’s. Did you find the other five?”

  “I didn’t see any other cookie jars in the kitchen, but it’s the only room I was allowed in,” she said. “I thought the jar looked out of place. I know Brett hated clutter and didn’t like knickknacks in his house. Did he know about the stolen jars?”

  “Of course he knew,” he said. “I told him as soon as Sabrina pointed out to me that they were missing. He told us not to worry about it, but in the future to be on the lookout for shoplifters.” He shook his head. “I don’t understand why he had the jar. Why did he let us think it was stolen?”

  “Could he have taken the jars on purpose, as some kind of training exercise?”

  “No. I manage the shop and the staff. He would have consulted with me on something like that. It was not a training exercise.”

  “There was a purple pawn to a game inside the jar,” she said. “Was it there when it was for sale?”

  “I’m sure it wasn’t,” he said. “We check every item before anything goes on the shop floor. A pawn piece in a cookie jar would have been thrown out.”

  “Do you sell a lot of collectible cookie jars?”

  “Not a lot. Maybe one or two a month.”

  “Do you know where Brett got the jars that were stolen?”

  “A woman gave them to him,” he said.

  “They were being sold on consignment?”

  “She didn’t want to consign them, she wanted to offload them. She gave them to Brett with no strings attached.”

  “Do you know her name?”

  “No. She told Brett she was clearing out her deceased mother’s house and wanted to give them away. Brett didn’t bother getting her name.” He shook his head. “What am I going to do, Molly? How do I tell the staff that Brett killed himself? No one is going to believe it. Heck, I don’t believe it.”

  Molly wrote Lombardi’s name and cell number on the back of one of her business cards and gave it to him. “This is the contact information for Detective Lombardi. He’s in charge of Brett’s case. As I said, for the time being the police are treating it as a suicide, but he might want to talk to you and the rest
of your staff.”

  “I don’t know how any of us can be of any help,” he said. “No one could have anticipated this.”

  “Yesterday at the auction, I met your former employer, Milo Stanton. He seemed angry.”

  “Milo is always angry,” he said. “It’s the only mood setting he has.”

  “Do you think he could have harmed Brett?”

  Julian’s eyes widened. “Milo?” He shook his head. “No, I don’t.”

  “Why not? Brett told me he wasn’t happy when he left his shop.”

  “True, but he hired Simone Landry to take his place, and you know she’s turned Oldman and Stanton into a premier auction house. What’s he got to complain about?”

  “Good point,” she said. “So why do you think he came to the auction?”

  “Knowing Milo, he was probably hoping Brett would mess it up, and he could go back to Boston and gloat about it.”

  “How long did you both work for him?”

  “I was there for six years, Brett for ten. Mostly, I worked with Brett, so I didn’t have to be around Milo very much. That’s why I lasted six years. He can be a bear to work for.” He glanced at his watch. “I have to start making those phone calls. I’ve got staff coming in at ten.” He ran his hands through his hair. “I don’t know how I’m going to break it to them.”

  “I don’t envy you,” Molly said. “Did Brett sell the Dahlgren Bayonet knife last night?”

  “No. The dealer wanted to negotiate the price, and Brett wouldn’t budge.”

  “Who’s the dealer?”

  “Herschel Sheridan.”

  “Of course. I should have known it would be him,” Molly said. “He’s a big Civil War collector. He has a booth at the Treasure Trove, my stepfather’s shop.”

  “Now that you mention it, I wonder what happened to the knife,” he said. “I didn’t see it in Brett’s office, and it should have been there, unless he put it out on the floor for sale. Let me check.” He walked over to the register, pulled out the keyboard, and tapped the keys. “It’s not in the inventory, which means he didn’t put it out before he left last night.”

  “Maybe he took it home with him,” she said.

  “I don’t remember him leaving with the box,” he said. “Oh, well. It’s the least of my problems, and I suppose it will show up.”

  They walked back to the front door, and as Julian unlocked it, he said, “It’s going to take time for Brett’s death to sink in. Do you know if his parents have been told?”

  “The police will take care of it,” she said.

  He locked the door behind her, and Molly walked back to her car. As she started the engine, she looked at the farmhouse. The coroner’s office van was still there, but Lombardi’s car was gone.

  Chapter 6

  Using her car’s Bluetooth feature, Molly called Matt on her way to the hospital. As a surgical resident, he wasn’t always readily available to talk to, so she was surprised when he picked up.

  “Hi, sweetheart,” he said. “How did it go at Brett’s?”

  “It was awful,” she said. “Lombardi and the coroner think it’s a suicide, but I’m not convinced.” She told him about the cookie jar, and her conversation with Julian. “The jar had been stolen and shouldn’t have been at his house. And what’s with the pawn? It has to mean something.”

  “Or it doesn’t,” he said. “Maybe someone who knew about the stolen cookie jars found it at another store and returned it to Brett, only he didn’t have time to bring it back to his shop and left it on the table. As for the pawn . . .” He paused. “You’ve got me there. I can’t explain that one.”

  “Helen Hughes is at the hospital, and Lombardi invited me to join him when he interviews her,” she said. “Do you know anything about her condition?”

  “Even if I was her attending doctor, I couldn’t tell you.”

  “Right, privacy laws,” she said. “Well, I’m meeting Lombardi in the cafeteria first. Would you like to join us for coffee?”

  “I wish I could, but I have to be in surgery in about fifteen minutes. Does this mean you’re working on the case with him?”

  “The only case he’s working is a suicide. I’m treating it as a suspicious death. He said he can’t stop me from asking people questions. As a reporter, I’m within my rights. I’ll fill you in on Helen’s interview when I see you tonight.”

  They hung up, and when Molly arrived at the hospital she found Lombardi in the cafeteria eating a bacon and egg sandwich. She got in line and ordered French toast with sausage, coffee, and orange juice.

  As she sat down across from him, she said, “Julian was at Laurel Wreath. He told me the cookie jar in Brett’s kitchen was one of six that were stolen a few weeks ago.”

  “Did he have any idea how it came to be in his house?”

  “No. And he was certain there was no pawn in the jar when it was put up for sale.” She opened a packet of syrup and squeezed it onto her French toast. It wasn’t Vermont Grade A maple syrup, but some kind of fake sugary pretend syrup. She’d gotten spoiled by the real thing, but this would have to do. “I asked him if Brett had any enemies, or if he was having a dispute with anyone. He says he wasn’t. He also didn’t know if Brett was having financial difficulties. I gave him your name and number and told him you might want to talk to him and the staff. He’s giving them the bad news as we speak.” She took a bite of French toast and a sip of coffee. “Yesterday, Julian showed me a Dahlgren Bayonet knife.” She told Lombardi about the knife, and how Herschel Sheridan had declined to buy it. “Since he couldn’t find it at the shop, could you ask the investigators at the house to look for it?”

  “Sure, why not.” Lombardi finished his breakfast and wiped his hands on a napkin. He took his cell phone off the table. “I’ll also tell them to be on the lookout for five other cookie jars. But how could the missing knife be relevant to Brett’s death? He wasn’t stabbed to death.”

  “I don’t know if it is relevant, but I do think it’s odd that it’s missing.”

  He sent off the message and put his phone back on the table. “How did Julian react when you told him Brett was dead?”

  “He got dizzy and had to sit down, but he quickly recovered,” she said. “He told me Sabrina Dolan was the sales associate who discovered the cookie jars were missing. When I get a chance, I’ll stop by her house to talk to her.”

  He looked at Molly. “You’re convinced Brett was murdered, without any evidence of it.”

  “It’s the cookie jar, and the pawn piece,” she said. “I’m telling you, they shouldn’t have been there.”

  “And I’m telling you a cookie jar on a kitchen table of a decedent’s house is not evidence of murder.”

  Molly frowned. “That’s your opinion,” she said. “Now let me finish my breakfast so we can talk to Helen.”

  Fifteen minutes later, they walked into Helen’s private room. She was sitting up in bed wearing a white hospital gown and was hooked up to a heart rate monitor and a blood pressure cuff. Her eyes and nose were red and puffy from crying, and a pile of soggy tissues were bunched up on the bedside tray. Molly noticed her wrists were bandaged. Lombardi hadn’t said anything about Helen being hurt. Was Brett’s death a suicide pact gone wrong? She shot a questioning look to Lombardi, who stood at the foot of the bed.

  “Hello, Helen. Do you remember me?”

  Helen nodded. “You’re the detective, but I don’t remember your name,” she said.

  “Detective Tony Lombardi.” He took out his notebook and pen and smiled. “I’m glad to see you’re feeling better. I need to ask you some questions. Are you up to it?”

  “I think so,” Helen said. She turned to Molly. “Who are you, and why are you here?”

  Molly took her hand. It felt as cold as ice. “I’m Molly Appleby, we met yesterday at the auction. Detective Lombardi thought you might like to see a familiar face.”

  “Oh, right. I remember you now.”

  Lombardi said in his gentle tone, “
We need to talk about the auction, and why you left in such a hurry.”

  Helen plucked another tissue from the box. She held it to her eyes, cleared her throat, and blew her nose. “I got a phone call from my ex-husband, Jasper Stuart. He told me he was at the Crescent Moon Motel, and if I didn’t come right away, he was going to kill himself.” She blew her nose, crumpled the tissue, and threw it on top of the soggy pile. “I was afraid he meant it, so I went.”

  “Why didn’t you tell Brett about this phone call?”

  “He doesn’t, he didn’t, know about Jasper, and I didn’t have time to explain. We’ve been divorced for eight years. He got out of prison a few months ago, and somehow he found me.”

  “What was he in for?”

  “He got into an argument with a woman he was living with when we were separated,” Helen said. “She called the cops, and when they got to the house they found drugs. He went to prison for seven years. I divorced him six months after he went in.”

  “How long were you married?”

  “Four years.”

  “How did you two meet?”

  “It was after I moved to Los Angeles from Fort Wayne, Indiana,” Helen said. “I was eighteen, and had no money. I got a job working at a diner waiting tables. Jasper was one of the short-order cooks. We fell in love, moved in together, and four months later we got married.” She shook her head wearily. “We were young and naïve, and didn’t know what we were doing.” Tears welled in her eyes again, and she plucked another tissue from the box. “Maybe we could have made it if Jasper hadn’t started using drugs, but he did, and he changed, and it destroyed us.”

  “How did you go from waiting tables to working as Atlas Dolan’s personal assistant?”

  “After I divorced Jasper, I got a degree in business administration, and the school had a placement office. They set me up on the interview. I was honest with Atlas about Jasper. I didn’t want him to find out some other way that I’d been married to a man who was in prison. He promised he wouldn’t tell anyone, and he hired me.”