Antiques Ravin'

by Barbara Allan

  Ignoring the tail-wagging Sushi, Mother said through clenched teeth, “How dare they tell me to vamoose! I’m the sheriff! And yet I get no respect!”

  Her and Rodney Dangerfield.

  I said dryly, “Maybe it’s the costume.”

  “I haven’t had time to change,” she snapped.

  “At least you removed the mustache. But maybe the wig should go too.”

  She looked more like the fake Paul McCartney in a Beatles tribute band than Edgar Allan.

  With a glare, she yanked off the wig and tossed it on the other side of me. Sushi glanced at it as if wondering whether to growl. Mother, her hair in a bun but askew here and there, tendrils doing a modest Medusa-like thing, had not really improved the situation.

  “And aren’t you hot in that coat?” I asked.

  “No. I adapt to all manner of weather. But I admit it is cumbersome. And my deodorant is really getting a workout.”

  “You’re telling me.”

  “Don’t be unkind, dear. This is the Lord’s house.”

  The coat came off too and got tossed on top of the wig.

  Meanwhile Mother’s eyes went questioningly to Pastor Creed at the altar.

  “He’s arbitrating,” I informed her, “on behalf of Morella’s soul.”

  “Good for him,” she said condescendingly.

  The doors opened again, and Mayor Myron Hatcher strode in, his face red and sweating, eyeglasses steamed over, shirt as drenched as if from a downpour.

  Behind Myron came his fellow city council members—Paula Baxter, Lottie Everhart, Wally Thorp, and Rick Wheeler.

  The group gathered at the mouth of our pew, glancing around at one another as if wondering who had the collection plate.

  Finally the mayor said, “Sheriff, how is the death of this girl going to impact our festival?”

  Standing next to the mayor, dark-haired, attractive Lottie looked daggers at him. “That would be your chief concern!”

  “We’ll have no infighting,” Mother said sharply, a teacher to an unruly class. She motioned to the pew in front of her. “Now, sit down so I don’t have to crane my neck.”

  They entered the designated pew, first Wally, then Paula, Rick, Lottie, and Myron. They sat themselves, then twisted to look back at Mother. Let them crane their necks.

  “The mayor’s question is a valid one,” Mother told them. “Although it could have been presented with more tact and compassion.”

  Look who was talking.

  Nonetheless, Myron apologized. “I meant no disrespect to the deceased young woman. But this is a vital weekend to our community. A lot is riding on it.”

  Paula, the redheaded, fiftyish owner of Relics Antiques, asked, “What exactly happened, Sheriff? Myron said you called him saying Morella has been found dead in the church cemetery and that we all should come over here. Was she in the mausoleum? Is that why those men are in there?”

  “Correct,” Mother said. “Brandy here, my deputy daughter, discovered her.”

  That rather sounded like I was her daughter’s deputy, and I could tell several of the council members were trying to process that. I gave them no help.

  Mother went on quickly, “Who can tell me something about this young woman? Do you know if she has family in town, or elsewhere for that matter?”

  The group looked blankly at one another.

  “Anyone?” Mother pressed. “Shall we begin with her last name?”

  Rick, the council’s resident hunk, shrugged one shoulder. “Her last name’s Crafton. I didn’t really know her at all. Other than that she worked at the coffee shop. And didn’t love living here.”

  Paula said, “I never even go in that coffee shop—the prices are outrageous! Do they imagine they’re Starbucks? But I have seen Morella around.”

  “She’s waited on me a few times,” Myron said. “But we’ve never exchanged anything more than idle chitchat.” He frowned. “I do think Morella was new in town—maybe here a few years? But I don’t remember whether she told me that or I heard it from someone. Anyway, she was not terribly friendly.”

  Lottie was nodding. “Rather sullen, I’d say. Honestly, I don’t know what she was doing here. Why would she move here when she hated the place?” She looked down the line at Wally, who was sitting at the end. “Doesn’t Morella rent the apartment above your shop?”

  The group was having trouble with whether to discuss the dead girl in present or past tense. That was hardly unusual, but having found her, I knew past tense applied.

  Pudgy, balding Wally, whose face looked rather puffy, said, “Yes, but she had her own entrance in back of the building. I never saw her come and go. I mean, really, she was just a tenant.”

  Mother said, “Surely you had conversations with her when she paid the rent, at least.”

  Wally shook his head, and it was unclear whether that was in sadness or just a gesture that said no.

  “Morella really wasn’t very friendly,” he said with a slow shrug. “She’d just pass me an envelope with the rent money in it, first of the month, and nod and go off. But on the other hand? She didn’t cause any trouble, either.”

  During this exchange, Pastor Creed had joined us, taking a seat in the pew across the aisle.

  Mother addressed him: “Pastor? Do you have anything to add about Morella?”

  He shook his head. “She was not a member of this church.”

  “And yet presumably one of God’s children,” Mother said with false cheer. “Nothing else you might have to say about her? It’s a small community, Pastor.”

  Mother waited for more, but when nothing came but a single head shake, she returned her attention to the others. “Where were each of you last night?”

  The immediate response was an almost comic array of startled expressions.

  “Why on earth do you ask?” the mayor asked. “Surely this was an overdose! Everyone in town knows what that mausoleum is used for.”

  “And yet,” Pastor Creed said, “none of you have done anything about it, despite my pleas.”

  Ignoring him, the mayor went on, “I can’t possibly see how what any of us were doing last night would have any bearing on that girl’s sad demise.”

  “But it might,” Mother said. “Let’s say you were out and about during the late evening hours and happened to see Morella walking in the cemetery, or noticed some other activity there. That would be helpful, wouldn’t you say?”

  Have I mentioned that Mother could be very sneaky?

  “Well, yes,” Myron agreed, nodding. “I was at my shop all evening, until well after midnight—getting ready for the festival this morning, of course. But my route home afterward did not take me by the church and the cemetery.”

  Mother’s eyes went to Lottie.

  Prompted, the sexy widow said, “I was in the Happy Hour bar all evening with some girlfriends. We left about . . . oh, eleven-thirty. And I did not go home by way of the cemetery, either.”

  Lottie turned her head to look at Rick. “You were there, too, at the Happy Hour.”

  He nodded, shrugged. “Not much else to do in this town. I went home about midnight. My route home doesn’t take me by here either.”

  Paula was next in line. “I took a sleeping pill and went to bed early, about nine. After that I was dead to the world . . . sorry. Not appropriate.”

  Wally came last. “I watched a movie with my wife,” he said. “Then she went to bed, and I fell asleep in my chair, stayed there all night.”

  Mother didn’t seem to be interested in the pastor’s whereabouts.

  “Getting back to Edgar Allan Poe Days,” Myron said, adding with a tinge of sarcasm, “if now is an okay time . . . I’m concerned about how this . . . development . . . is going to affect the event.” He looked at Mother. “Can you guarantee to keep this news away from the public for a few days?”

  Mother’s cheeks flushed. “No, mayor, I can’t. But the woman’s identity will be withheld until her next of kin is notified, of course.” She r
aised a finger. “But these things have a way of getting out. And I will be asking questions around town . . . and of course will do my best to do so discreetly.”

  Discretion did not come easily to Mother. It would be interesting to see if her role of sheriff changed that.

  “Thank you,” Myron replied. “And I’m sorry if I sounded insensitive about the girl’s death. Obviously this is a tragedy. It’s just . . . we depend on this festival to keep Antiqua afloat.”

  If the mayor was looking for absolution, he didn’t get it from Mother, even if we were in church.

  “Are you finished, Sheriff?” Paula asked. “We all need to get back to our stores.”

  “Finished for now,” Mother said pleasantly.

  The council members exchanged wary looks, then stood and exited, bunched together but for Wally, who trailed after.

  Mother and I extricated ourselves from the pew, Sushi again in my arms. Pastor Creed also stood, then met us in the aisle.

  “You didn’t ask me where I was last night, Sheriff,” he said. “But, for your information, I was in the parsonage all night and didn’t notice any activity in the cemetery.”

  “Thank you, Pastor,” Mother replied. “Were you alone?”

  “Uh, yes. Certainly.”

  “You’re unmarried?”

  “I am.”

  An awkward silence.

  No one had to say that his alibi was worthless or that his proximity to the cemetery made him a good suspect. Not to mention his contempt for the late girl. Though, I guess I did mention it....

  “Well,” the man of God said, with a nervous smile, “I have the Sunday service’s bulletin to prepare—if you’ll excuse me.”

  “Certainly,” Mother said with a nod.

  “May I, uh . . . make a suggestion?”

  “Yes?”

  He nodded toward her black vintage suit of clothes. “If you have a uniform, I’d put it on. That wardrobe is distracting, and not in a good way.”

  Mother nodded again. “I’ll take it under advisement.”

  As he headed back to his office, I whispered, “If I’m the one giving you advisement, I have to say I agree with him.”

  “Noted.”

  “But don’t discount him, Mother. He was pretty clear to me about his dislike of the celebration of Poe. And the use of that mausoleum. And Morella’s lifestyle.”

  “Noted.”

  I went on: “And there’s a waitress named Willow at the coffee shop who worked with Morella. You should talk to her.”

  If she said “Noted” again, I was going to kick her in the sanctuary.

  But instead she said, “Most helpful, dear.”

  Outside the church, we paused on the steps and looked across to the cemetery, where the forensics officers were diligently carrying on their work inside and outside the mausoleum. Nearby, an ambulance waited to transport Morella’s remains back to Serenity for autopsy.

  I said, “Sushi and I are going back to the Pullman.”

  Mother turned to me. “Yes, dear, have a nice lie-down. You look dreadful.”

  “Thank you.”

  Mother held out her coat and wig, then dug her mustache out of a pocket. She handed all of the junk to me.

  “Will you take these back, dear? I’ll join you in a while, but first I must speak to the officers. I don’t want any attention-drawing crime scene tape used, so they must complete their work this afternoon. We’ll want to withhold the cause of death awhile longer.”

  I shifted Sushi to one hand, the wardrobe items in the other. And off I trudged, a migraine building up steam in my head.

  Back in the Pullman, the cool air that greeted me felt good—at first. But then my stomach lurched, and I dropped Mother’s costume onto the couch, and Sushi on top of them, then bolted for the bathroom, where I hunched over the toilet and lost what remained of the muffins and latte.

  Done retching, I rinsed out my mouth, took some migraine medication, ran cold water on a washcloth, headed to the bed, got under the covers, and put the folded wet cloth across my eyes.

  Sushi joined me, curling up by my side.

  My cell phone, which I’d placed on the nightstand, vibrated.

  I removed the cloth and checked the caller.

  Tony Cassato, Serenity’s chief of police, my on-again, off-again, and now on-again boyfriend.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, the concern in his voice obvious.

  I wanted to cry, but I knew that would only make my head throb more.

  “I’m okay,” I lied.

  “I understand you found the body.”

  “Yes. Not very pleasant.”

  “I could be in Antiqua in under an hour.”

  “No. I’m in bed with a migraine, and plan to stay there.”

  “Okay. But if you change your mind . . .”

  “Could you come Saturday night?”

  “I’ll make that happen. Get some sleep. How . . . how is your mother doing with this thing?”

  “Surprisingly well, actually.”

  His laugh was a grunt. Or maybe his grunt was a laugh.

  He said, “Not like it’s her first murder case,” and we said our good-byes.

  I drifted off for a while, then awoke to find Mother, dressed in her jumpsuit uniform, perched on the edge of the bed.

  “Feeling better, dear?” she asked.

  The migraine had receded, and I burst into tears, sobs racking my body, scaring Sushi off the bed.

  “There, there,” Mother soothed. “This too shall pass.”

  I wasn’t able to take finding a murder victim as lightly as Mother could . . . though that wasn’t fair, was it? She just had a realistic view of human mortality—for all her theatrical ways, she had a down-to-earth take on death.

  When I was able to speak, I asked, “She . . . she wasn’t dead when someone put her in there, was she?”

  “No, dear.”

  “Her nails . . . they were broken and bloody.”

  Mother nodded. “And her face had a blue cast—a telltale sign of asphyxia.”

  I managed to sit up. “Who would do such an evil thing?”

  Mother shook her head, her expression grave. “I don’t know, but I will certainly find out. Antiqua needs to know there’s a new sheriff in town.”

  That made me laugh through the tears, though Mother just looked at me curiously.

  Sushi jumped back up and lay down at the bottom of the bed.

  Mother, eyes narrowed, said, “The killer probably thought Morella was dead when he or she put the poor child inside the sarcophagus. She’d already taken that blow to the head.”

  “So he’s just a killer,” I said, annoyed, “and not a sadist? How is that better?”

  “Dear, I’m not defending this person. I merely mean we are dealing with someone driven to violence, with a motive. Not who kills for the sheer fun of it.”

  That gave me a shiver. “I know.”

  We fell silent for a few moments.

  Then Mother said, “Tell me what you overheard at the coffee shop about the council members.”

  Not quite feeling up to giving her chapter and verse, I said, “Myron may have a gambling problem, Rick seems to be interested in men, Paula has no friends, Wally Thorp has a woman on the side, and Lottie wasn’t all that broken up about her husband’s suicide.”

  Mother’s eyes sparkled behind the large glasses she was now wearing again. “Lovely concise answer, dear! And most interesting. Especially Wally. He seemed the most upset about Morella’s death—did you notice?”

  “He was pretty quiet,” I agreed. “Awfully pale. But, Morella with Wally? That seems far-fetched.”

  Mother raised an eyebrow. “People are attracted to people for all kinds of reasons.”

  Something that had been in the back of my mind jumped to the fore.

  “Mother, the necklace. . . .”

  “What about it, dear?”

  “The clasp wasn’t broken.”

  She frowned. “I don’
t follow.”

  “Think it through.”

  “Oh, I see where you’re coming from! If Morella had wanted to leave the necklace for someone to find, she would have torn it from her neck and dropped it.”

  “Otherwise,” I said, “if the necklace had accidentally been ripped off, the clasp would have been broken as well.”

  Mother was nodding. “The killer removed the necklace and left it outside the mausoleum purposely.”

  “But why?”

  “So she would be found sooner, dear.”

  “To close down the festival?”

  Mother frowned. “There’s another possibility.”

  “What’s that?”

  Her eyebrows were high. “Does the manner of Morella’s death remind you of anything?”

  A chill ran up my spine, and my eyebrows climbed, too. “Poe’s ‘Premature Burial’!”

  “‘Premature’ precisely!” Mother stood and gazed down at me, troubled. “Dear, what would you say if I suggested we might have an Edgar Allan Poe copycat in our midst?”

  “. . . That maybe our killer is a sadist after all?”

  She nodded. “As well as quite mad.”

  A Trash ’n’ Treasures Tip

  Many online book sites allow you to list with them the rare books you are searching for. Using several sites at once will save time, and give you the best price. There’s usually a limit of titles you can list, however. The two hundred volumes Mother is looking for had to be spread around some.

  Chapter Four

  Mother on the Poe

  Dearest ones!

  This is Sheriff Vivian Borne (that has a nice ring, don’t you think?), assuming the narrative from Brandy, who has taken to her bed after the shock of discovering a corpse in a crypt (also a nice ring, if a bit bone-chilling).

  Poor darling—Brandy, I mean, although that also might apply to the late Morella, a waitress who waits no more. (Poe worthy, no?) I’m afraid she (Brandy, again) lacks the strong, resilient constitution with which I have been blessed, allowing me to press on solo with the investigation, unhampered by my well-meaning but unimaginative pro bono deputy.

  (Brandy to Mother: I do read these chapters of yours, you know. And in answer to your question a few lines ago? No.)