“Sheriff,” Myron Hatcher’s voice said, “Caroline’s taking me to city hall in about half an hour to hand out the last cryptogram.”
“Are you sure you’re up to it, dear?”
“Very much so.”
“Splendid. Don’t let the bad guys win! I’ll meet you over there. And mayor? The two men who’ve been working in the cellar—who hired them?”
“Why, I did. They’ve done jobs for me on my house—a father-and-son operation.”
“You’re on good terms with the men?”
Surprise registered in his voice. “Well, yes. Why do you ask?”
“I wondered if they might have any grudge against you.” Silence. “Mayor, are you still there?”
“. . . I did have an issue with some work on the house that I found unsatisfactory. We’re still disputing the bill. Frankly, that’s why I threw the church job their way, as a kind of peace offering. A goodwill gesture.”
“Ah,” I said. “Helpful to know. See you shortly.”
I replaced my cell on my duty belt.
This seemed a possible lead. Yet a dispute over a bill didn’t seem like much of a murder motive. Why kill the goose before collecting any golden eggs?
And what connection to Morella could the two workers have? Had one been a boyfriend, maybe?
I informed Henderson and Wilson where I was headed, then hoofed it over to city hall. What I need in my life, I thought, is a moped. . . .
A crowd had gathered in the late afternoon heat, divided into two groups on either side of the front door. Inside, council members Paula, Lottie, Wally, and Rick were milling around the front desk, where the slips of paper were stacked and ready to be distributed. All hands on deck.
Upon seeing me, Paula came forward. “Any word from Myron?”
“He’ll be here any minute,” I said, watching her face and the others.
The reactions were similar—apparent relief. The exception was Rick, whose expression suggested apathy.
Lottie asked, “Well, Sheriff, what happened, anyway?”
“The mayor fell asleep in his shop all night,” I said, relying on my acting skills to sell the lie. It was the story Myron and I had agreed upon.
“But,” Paula said, frowning in confusion, “I checked inside.”
Wally, next to her, grunted sarcastically, “Apparently not everywhere.”
She shot him a dirty look.
I inquired about just how the last clue would be given out, concerned about crowd control.
Lottie said, “When Myron arrives, we all go outside and hand out the slips with the encrypted clue. Five minutes later, we distribute the unencrypted version.”
“Shouldn’t it be the other way around?” I asked. “If I’d shelled out ten simoleons, I’d want my clue first.”
Rick smirked. “We tried that at the first fest, and the folks with the encrypted paper just followed the ones who knew where to go.”
Lottie was nodding. “Yesterday, with the first clue, we waited fifteen minutes before handing out the unencrypted version. On the second clue, we waited ten minutes. Today it’s only five because so many of the players will’ve figured out how to decode it themselves.”
I said, “Sounds like the festival has been a learning experience.”
“Including,” Paula said, “learning to get the cash up front for the last clue. Now we have the procedure down for the future.”
After this murderous weekend, I doubted there would be any future Edgar Allan Poe Days.
The city hall door opened and Myron Hatcher stepped in, followed closely by Caroline.
The mayor, in a pale blue polo shirt, tan slacks, and brown loafers, was impeccably groomed and looked darn near refreshed; Caroline, however, appeared haggard, her pink cotton dress wrinkled, as if she had been the one walled up in the church basement.
Myron smiled broadly at his compatriots as they gathered around him, talking over one another.
“You sure gave us a scare,” Paula scolded.
Lottie said, “What good is a cell phone if you don’t answer it!”
Actually, the mayor’s cell phone had proved very useful, hadn’t it?
Rick grumbled, “You owe us big time for covering for you at noon.”
Wally’s “Glad you’re okay” seemed obviously half-hearted.
Myron replied, “Sorry to have worried you, folks,” and then clapped his hands. “Now, everyone—back into the fray!”
Paula, Lottie, Wally, and Rick grabbed stacks of the encrypted clue and filed outside onto the sidewalk. Caroline and I followed, empty-handed, taking positions from which we could monitor the crowd’s faces for signs of surprise or alarm at His Honor being alive and well.
But when the mayor made his appearance, joining the others to help pass out the first wave of papers, I spotted no alarmed reaction. These faces all seemed focused on the game that was afoot.
Then the mass disbursed.
Inside, I spoke to Myron about the lack of any reaction among the players to his showing up alive and well.
“The person responsible may not be one of them,” he said with a frustrated shrug. “Does that at least help thin the suspect list?”
“Not really,” I said. “We might just have a cool customer out there playing his or her own game. Anyway, maniacs don’t necessarily react as they should. I mean—they’re maniacs!”
In five minutes, the passing-out clues process (unencrypted this time) was repeated for the paying customers, who flew up the street in the direction of Top Drawer Antiques.
Myron said, “I’d better go help our clerk, Ryan—that poor kid’ll be overwhelmed! Coming, Caroline?”
“I’ll be along, dear. I want to have a word with the sheriff.”
He gave his wife a peck on the cheek and left.
Paula, Lottie, Wally, and Rick also departed to tend to their shops, even though they would probably not be very busy.
Alone with Caroline, I asked, “Did you see anyone acting suspiciously?”
She shook her head. “No, other than all of them are lunatics, playing this stupid game.”
I could only nod.
Then her hand was on my arm. “Sheriff, how much danger do you think Myron is in?”
“I don’t think it’s likely,” I said, “that there will be a repeat performance of what happened to your husband.”
“Not likely, you say—but it could happen?”
“Well, anything could, but I doubt any elaborate Poe nonsense would be mounted. But a more old-fashioned murder is a possibility.”
“Oh my Lord!”
“But two things will soon improve your husband’s chances.” I raised a forefinger. “One, the outsiders will be gone soon after the prize is found . . . and if the killer is one of them, or using them for cover, that’s good for Myron.” Although not good for me in solving this mystery. I offered a second finger. “Two, Serenity’s chief of police is arriving tonight.”
“You called him in?” Caroline asked.
“No. Brandy did. He and my daughter are, as the French say, les amoureux.”
More or less amour, depending on how things were going.
Caroline’s frown said she’d lost me in translation. “Well,” she said, “whatever your daughter and the chief are, it will be comforting to have more law enforcement professionals on hand.”
I had mixed emotions about that myself, but I knew it would comfort her. I was not looking forward to having Tony Cassato looking over my shoulder, second-guessing me and treating me as less than a real “law enforcement professional,” even though I’d solved far more murders than he ever had.
After Caroline departed, I was left alone with my thoughts, which I admit can make for disturbing company. My theatrically attuned mind was going over all of the possibilities for Poe-themed murders that might lay ahead. Was someone planning to pluck the heart from a victim’s body and bury it beneath the floorboards? Had an unknown fiend out there dug a pit and polished up a pendulum?
I needed to distract my thoughts and quench my thirst, so I wandered down the hallway toward the back, where I located a small lunchroom with a Coca-Cola vending machine. Scrutinizing the drinks, I did not see what I wanted. As usual.
Irritated, I took out my cell phone, looked up an e-mail address on the net, then, thumbs flying, wrote the following:
Dear President of the Coca-Cola Company,
Why don’t you ever stock TAB in your machines? If your reasoning is that it’s fallen out of favor, whose fault is that? Don’t you realize there are 76.4 million boomers, flush with retirement cash (some at least), who were weaned on the drink? We want diet sodas, sure, but not ones that scream “diet,” reminding us that we’re overweight. We already know that!
So take some money and make a commercial, and run it in key spots, like during Jeopardy!, for instance. We’ve had enough advertisements about blood thinners, adult diapers, and colon cancer test kits! We want to be reminded of our youth, not the rocky path to the beyond. There are plenty of famous “seasoned” actors you could use who still look good (just don’t shoot them with an HD camera!).
Here’s an idea for a commercial you can have for free (I’ll sign off on it): Open with an old-fashioned county fair, the midway, coming in for a semi-close-up of Diane Keaton/Lane or Jessica Lange, or Sally Field who’s also held up nicely (Meryl Streep might be over even Coke’s budgetary range, as she’s a three-time Oscar winner). Cut to a medium shot of a well-preserved male actor like Kevin Costner or Pierce Brosnan or Jeff Bridges (Denzel Washington would be a bold choice!) who hands her a TAB, BUT make sure he also has one himself, so it’s not like a “Here, you’re fat, so take this” kind of thing. Music is important. Might I suggest “Do You Believe in Magic” by the Lovin’ Spoonful, or “Good Vibrations” by the Beach Boys ($$$$), or something for the old stoners like Steppenwolf’s “Magic Carpet Ride” (I’m sitting on the fence about legalizing marijuana; two legs swung over on the “no” side. But I’m okay with it used medically.)
(Note to Vivian from Editor: Must I scold you once again?)
(Note to Editor from Vivian: Sorry—I am just reporting what occurred.)
I saved my e-mail to finish later, then walked back out front, pondering what to do with myself next. Suddenly, distant shouting reached my ears—anyway, my good ear—drawing my attention out the windows.
I had a decent view of the next block, where two men—one reminding me somewhat of George Carlin, the other Ernest Borgnine, the middle-aged variety of both—were having an altercation on the sidewalk in front of Top Drawer Antiques. A crowd was gathering, building, watching; Myron was among them, looking on mortified.
As the combatants moved out into the street, I left city hall on the run—perhaps better described as a jog, or let’s call it a power walk. My light duty belt had neither gun nor Taser (let alone shark repellent, like Adam West’s Batman) but did contain a small can of Mace, which I could use to break up what had now become a full-fledged fight.
Pushing through the crowd on the periphery, the can of Mace in one hand, I reached the pair of whirling dervishes.
What are whirling dervishes, you may wonder. Well, reader mine, they are members of a Turkish order of Sufis dating back to the twelfth century, whose ritual consisted partially of a highly stylized whirling dance. The expression is used today to describe anyone who has abundant energy and is not considered derogative in anyway.
(Brandy to Mother: Get on with it!)
I yelled, as if to the back row of the Playhouse, “Stop in the name of the law!”
I don’t know for sure which of the pair pushed me, but I stumbled backward, the Mace tumbling from my hand; only barely did I manage to stay upright.
Suddenly Sushi appeared, a whirling dervish herself, attacking George Carlin, then the McHale’s Navy captain, her claws scratching, sharp little teeth biting at whoever and wherever she could. The little beast scampering and clawing and nipping proved too much of a distraction for the combatants.
The fighting ceased.
“You’re both under arrest,” I declared, feet steady under me now.
Carlin and Borgnine glared at each other.
Myron, at my side, said, “They were fighting over this.” He held out the Poe Tales book.
Carlin snapped, “I got to it first!”
“He’s lying!” growled Borgnine.
Sushi growled too, down by my feet now. Yup (as Gary Cooper said), this would be the last Edgar Allan Poe fest, all right.
“Quiet you two,” I ordered them. Then to the mayor I said, “I’ll need your conference room for my interrogation, that is, interview.”
“Is that necessary?” His Honor asked, frowning. “I saw what happened. My clerk Ryan, too. We could settle it right here.”
“I’m afraid not. I’ll need the men’s statements . . . and yours and Ryan’s.”
Myron sighed. “Okay. We’ll close up, then join you.” He held out the book. “Do you want to hold on to this, Sheriff? As evidence, maybe?”
I took the prize.
(Brandy to Mother: I’ll say.)
Turning back to Carlin and Borgnine, I commanded, “Come with me, gentlemen. Any more trouble out of you and I slap you both in handcuffs.”
I had only one set of cuffs, but what they didn’t know couldn’t hurt me.
Brandy appeared at my side, with Sushi in her arms now. “Are you all right, Mother?” she asked.
I whispered, “Please, dear—Sheriff.” Then, full voice, as if I didn’t mind being overheard (which I didn’t), I said, “It takes more than a little shove to put Vivian Borne out of commission!”
Then whispering again, I said to her, “Where have you been, darling girl? Never mind—I need you as a witness. And you never know when Sushi’s teeth might come in handy again.”
Shortly, six people and a canine were seated in the cool confines of city hall’s conference room. I was at one end of the table, Carlin to my right, Myron next to him, then pudgy young Ryan of the cherubic visage. To my left, across from Carlin, sat Borgnine, and beside him, Brandy with Sushi (that last sounds a bit like an order in a Japanese restaurant, doesn’t it?).
From a pouch I removed a tiny tape recorder, which I positioned on the table in front of me, turned on, and said, “Sheriff Vivian Borne,” then gave the date and location.
I gave Carlin a steely-eyed look. “What is your name?”
“John Miller.”
“From?”
“St. Louis, Missouri.”
“Business?”
“Antiques dealer.”
I looked at Borgnine. “And you?”
He was more forthcoming. “Paul Oldfield, Morris, Illinois. I’m a construction worker, but my wife runs an antiques shop. She couldn’t come to the festival herself, so she sent me to try to land the Poe prize.”
Back to John Miller. “What’s your story?”
He shrugged. “I spotted the book on top of a curio cabinet, got to it first, and this clown grabbed it out of my hands.”
“That’s a lie!” Oldfield exclaimed. “He snatched it out of my hands.”
“Quiet,” I said to Borgnine, I mean, Oldfield. “You’ll have your turn. Go on, Mr. Miller.”
“Well, I tried to take the book back, and it fell on the floor, and we started to . . . you know, scuffle some.”
I looked at Oldfield. “You’re up.”
“I had the book first, and he wrenched it out of my hands. He’s lucky he didn’t damage it. So I . . . I punched him. In self-defense. I mean, he got rough first.”
“Mayor Hatcher,” I said, “what say you?”
Myron took a deep breath. “Well, I’d arrived back at the shop from handing out the final clue, when I saw this gentleman”—he nodded at Miller—“take the book from the top of the cabinet. Then that gentleman”—a nod to Oldfield—“tried to take it away.”
Oldfield said, “Now he’s lying.”
I asked, “Mayor, you saw Mr. Oldfield gr
ab the book from Mr. Miller?”
“Well, Mr. Oldfield did have his back to me . . . but Mr. Miller had the book in his possession first. That much I can verify. And I am relieved that the book doesn’t seem to have been damaged.”
I asked Ryan, “Can you corroborate that?”
The chubby young clerk shifted in his chair, then nodded. “Ah, yeah . . . that’s what happened.”
The construction worker said, pleadingly, “Sheriff, I swear I found the book first.”
“Mr. Oldfield,” I said, “based on what I’ve just heard, I’m awarding Mr. Miller the book. I suggest you leave Antiqua immediately.”
He frowned. “Who put you in charge?”
“The good citizens of Serenity County. If you would prefer to remain in Antiqua and face a charge of assault and battery, that can be arranged. If you were to be found innocent, then you could pursue the matter in civil court, and—”
The man stood angrily, pushing back his chair, scraping the floor. “You needn’t concern yourself about that! And I’ll never come back to this terrible little town again.”
Sushi growled and bared her teeth.
Oldfield strode angrily to the doorway, where he paused to look back. “And don’t think I won’t use social media to tell everybody what a fraud this has been!”
He disappeared before I could advise him not to slander anyone.
I put the book on the table, gently, and pushed it the same way toward Miller. “I suggest you leave town as well.”
“My room is paid through tomorrow,” the antiques dealer said, surprised.
“Well, then, make it first thing in the morning.”
“Is that an order, Sheriff?”
“Call it a strongly worded suggestion.”
Miller nodded, picked up the book, and rose. “All right, Sheriff. And thank you.”
I nodded.
He left.
After I turned off the recorder, the room fell silent, a silence broken when the mayor muttered, “What a debacle. This may be our final Edgar Allan Poe Days.”
This thought had occurred to me already, as I’ve shared with you. Still, the idea of never performing “The Raven” here again was difficult to countenance.
Antiques Ravin' Page 12
