Antiques Ravin'

by Barbara Allan

  I looked over her shoulder. The first photo was a younger version of Miller, aka Phillips.

  The second one sent our mouths dropping and our eyes popping.

  The photo was of a much younger Paula Baxter, a mug shot with her holding a placard reading BETTY RITTER.

  Mother spoke into the cell again. “Chief, what else can you tell me about Paula, or should I say, Betty?”

  “Nothing, really. Seems to have stayed clean. Made a fresh start, a new life for herself there in Antiqua.”

  “And then,” Mother said, melodramatically, “along comes someone out of her past.”

  “Yes,” replied Tony.

  “I’ll go interview her now,” Mother said. “When are you coming back?”

  “I want to check in with forensics first. See if they’ve found out what that substance in the motel room is.”

  “Drugs, you think? That ‘talcum,’ maybe?”

  “Let you know.”

  His end went silent.

  I said, “That explains why Paula seemed so surprised, shocked even, when John Miller turned up on her doorstep.”

  Mother nodded. “It does indeed. Shall we avail her of an opportunity to explain herself?”

  * * *

  At around one in the afternoon, we went in an unlocked door at the rear of Paula’s building, finding a narrow stairwell up to her apartment. From behind the closed door on the landing came the sound of a television turned up loud enough to hear the banter between two baseball announcers.

  With no doorbell to ring, Mother knocked with considerable force.

  The TV volume decreased and, after a few moments, the door opened.

  Paula, casually attired in an oversized yellow T-shirt and blue jean capris, her feet bare, said, “Oh . . . Sheriff! I’m glad you’re here.”

  Very likely she would soon come to regret those words.

  “Do come in.” Paula stepped aside, we entered, and she shut the door.

  The living room, a good size, had a beige carpet, white walls, and modern furnishings. No antiques seemed to have followed her home.

  Regarding the decor, Paula said, “I spend all day with fun old stuff, but I am not about to do that at night. Please, have a seat.”

  She shooed a tabby cat off the floral couch. “Can I get either of you something cold to drink?”

  Mother declined on our behalf, and we settled onto the sofa.

  Paula crossed to an overstuffed chair, sat, then said, “There are rumors going around about a drowning at the pond late last night. Are they true?”

  “They are,” Mother said.

  “Someone I . . . know?”

  “Someone you know.”

  “Oh, dear. Who?”

  “John Miller.”

  Paula’s eyes widened, and her mouth yawned open. After a few speechless moments, she said, “Isn’t that the, uh, winner? The man who found the valuable book?”

  “Yes.”

  “It was a drowning? In the park? An accident? Could you be a little more . . . forthcoming?”

  “I believe it was murder,” Mother told her. “Although we won’t know for a certainty until after the autopsy.”

  Paula was shaking her head. “I just knew there would be trouble over that book.”

  Mother smiled. “Certainly whoever is behind these bizarre murders would like us to think so.”

  Paula stared at her. “What other reason could there be?”

  Mother’s smile just went on and on. “I thought perhaps you might have a theory about that. Which you might care to share.”

  Paula’s eyebrows climbed. “Why would I?”

  “Well, you knew him, didn’t you, dear?”

  She was shaking her mop of red hair as she said, “Sheriff, I only met him the other day, when he came into my store.” She looked at me. “You were there! Did it look like we knew each other?”

  “Kind of,” I said with a shrug.

  Mother’s fingers had been busy on her cell, loading the dual mug shots on the screen. “Perhaps you knew him under a different name—a rose by any name being as sweet.” She held up the phone. “Owen Phillips?”

  Paula paled.

  “And perhaps you may remember this person. . . .” The second mug shot filled the screen. “Betty Ritter.”

  Paula didn’t bother looking, just stared blankly at the TV, where a batter was striking out.

  “It would save all of us a terrible amount of trouble,” Mother said, “yourself included, if you would just admit what you did. Was it a struggle that got out of hand, an accident really? And you dumped your former partner-in-crime’s unconscious body in the lake? Maybe you thought he was already dead . . .”

  This finally rocked the woman out of her silence. “I didn’t kill Owen! Yes, okay, I admit he and I shared a past—but we served our sentences and went our separate ways. Lived our own, very separate lives.”

  I asked, “Did you know he’d gone into the antiquing business too?”

  Her eyes went to mine. “Yes. It was always a shared interest. And”—she shrugged—“I had kept track of him a little . . . knew he had a store in Indiana, and changed his name to John Miller.” She paused. “But two days ago was the first time I’d seen, or heard from, him in years.” She paused. “Can’t you see? I’ve built myself a new life, a new reputation.”

  She’d also built herself a genuine motive for murder.

  Mother asked, “Where were you last night?”

  The words came out in a rush. “I came here after the meeting, fixed myself some dinner, watched a movie on cable. Then I took a sleeping pill, as is my habit, and went to bed. And no, I don’t have anyone who could back that up.”

  I asked, “What did John—Owen—want when he came to your store? And I don’t buy for a second that he was looking for a candlestick phone.”

  Paula sighed. “My assumption was he wanted money for his silence. So I let him know I had very little cash, if he had any intention of trying to blackmail me.”

  Mother asked, “Was that his intention?”

  Paula sighed. “Of sorts.”

  “Explain.”

  “He said he wanted to use my business in some way or other.”

  Mother frowned. “Was he looking to form a partnership?”

  Paula shrugged. “He couldn’t say, because I had customers. He wanted my cell number, so I gave it to him. And he said we’d talk later.”

  “And did you?”

  She shook her head. “I never found out what he had in mind. But if I knew him, and I did, whatever it was wasn’t likely to be strictly legit.”

  Could be for smuggling drugs, I thought, remembering that white powder Mother mentioned. Or using a legit antiques shop to fence stolen or faked pieces.

  Mother asked, “How do you think he found you?”

  “I can’t say. I’ve stayed off social media, and don’t even have my picture on my web page.”

  Mother moved on. “Who else knew about your past? Any of the council members?”

  “Myron did,” Paula said.

  “How did he come to know?”

  She shrugged. “I told him. Before I ran for the council. I trusted Myron, and wanted him to know about my past—that I’d had this relationship with Owen Phillips, who’d changed his name to John Miller, and was an antiques dealer. And that my name used to be Betty Ritter.”

  Mother nodded. “And what did Myron say?”

  “He said I’d paid for my crime, that I was a good citizen, and my business was a boon to the town. He thought I’d make a great addition to the council and saw no reason to dredge up the past. He was very decent about it.”

  I asked, “He never held it over you?”

  Paula’s eyes flashed. “If you’re referring to blackmail, no.”

  “There are forms of pressure other than demanding cash,” I said. “Your vote on the council, for instance.”

  “I resent that,” Paula snapped. “Myron has never pressured me for my vote on anything.”
r />   “But,” I pressed, “you might feel an obligation.”

  Paula thought about that. “Perhaps. But that hasn’t happened yet.”

  Mother rose, saying, “I believe that’s all for now. I’ll have to ask you not to leave town.”

  “Of course,” she said, also standing, as was I. “Can you keep what you’ve learned to yourselves?”

  Mother said, “As long as making it known isn’t necessary to bringing a killer to justice.”

  She swallowed. “Thank you.”

  We left.

  Outside, Mother faced me. “Well?”

  “I tend to believe her.”

  Mother seemed annoyed by my answer. “She has a good motive for killing Miller, and no alibi. It’s only her word that she was at home.”

  The church bell began to ring.

  Mother looked in that direction. “Hear the tolling of the bells—Iron bells!” she proclaimed. “What a world of solemn thought their monody compels.”

  “Why is it ringing now? This is Sunday afternoon, not morning.”

  Abruptly, her expression changed. “Is there some special church service this afternoon? A memorial for Morella, perhaps?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  The ringing became erratic.

  I sucked in air. “Mother . . . !”

  Though we were on the run, heading toward the church, it felt as though we were moving in slow motion, time stretching out interminably, until finally we reached it.

  The bell had gone silent.

  Mother, out of breath, stood before the door. “Stay out here, dear.”

  “No! I’m going in,” I said, mad at myself for my prior squeamishness.

  I pushed past her, rushed in, and ran straight into Pastor Creed.

  Who was hanging from the rope of the bell.

  A Trash ’n’ Treasures Tip

  Many top booksellers print high-quality color-picture catalogs of their stock, showcasing their best inventory. Requesting these beautiful catalogs is an easy way to get (and keep on hand) accurate information on collectible and rare books. I threw out a stack of these one time, and Mother didn’t speak to me for days. Wasn’t bad!

  Chapter Ten

  Faux Poe

  I grabbed onto Pastor Creed’s dangling legs and, best as I could, hoisted him up to ease, I hoped, the pressure from the rope cutting into his neck.

  At the same time, I yelled to Mother, “Help me get him down!”

  The pastor couldn’t have been hanging for very long, the erratic ringing of the bell having indicated a struggle stopping only minutes ago.

  Mother found a chair, dragged it over, and climbed onto its seat, then withdrew the Swiss army knife from her duty belt. This allowed her to reach above the pastor’s head, even with me holding him up some. Stretching, she began sawing away at the somewhat slackened rope.

  This took a while, and I was straining with the weight, but she stayed at it and so did I. When seemingly endless minutes finally did end, the rope snapped and now the pastor’s full poundage dropped. I collapsed as Creed came tumbling down on top of me.

  “Mother!” I cried. Whether I was summoning the sheriff or nearly swearing in church, who can say?

  “Coming, dear,” she said, and did, rolling the possible corpse off me. He lay facedown on the floor, the top half of him extending into the central aisle.

  Mother rolled the pastor onto his back and began vigorous chest compressions while singing the Bee Gees’ disco hit “Stayin’ Alive,” pushing to the song’s fast beat. Every so often she’d blow into his mouth, at first having some trouble getting the man’s tongue out of the way.

  She kept this up for a good minute, then gestured for me to take over. Pretty well recovered from my earlier efforts, including having a grown man fall on me, I followed her lead (opting not to sing) while she got out her cell phone.

  “Ben!” She barked. “Sheriff Borne.”

  Ben? I thought. Ben who?

  She was saying, “Does the reservation have paramedics?”

  Ah! Ben Saukenuk, the Tomahawk casino manager Mother had met on her investigative travels.

  “Good,” she said. “I need them to come to the church in Antiqua ASAP. There’s been an apparent suicide attempt, a hanging, and the individual might still be revived. And you’re the closest help. Can you put that in motion? Good. Thank you!”

  I wondered how long someone’s brain could be deprived of oxygen before permanent damage set in. Was there a point at which it might be better to stop trying?

  Mother took back over. On her next compression, Creed made a gurgling sound.

  “He’s breathing!” she exclaimed, pleased with her work.

  The pastor’s chest moved ever so slightly up and down, but his face remained placid, eyes closed, no movement behind the lids.

  Mother sat back. “Nothing to do now but wait.”

  But I didn’t want to stand there, or kneel there actually, even if this was a house of worship. So I got to my feet and walked toward the sanctuary. Off to one side was the door to the pastor’s office.

  I went in.

  In the center of his desk, perfectly arranged, was a computer-typed letter, a single sheet. I leaned in to read it, careful not to touch the paper.

  I killed Morella Crafton, John Miller, and tried to kill Myron Hatcher.

  May the Lord God forgive me.

  No signature.

  “Hmmm,” I said.

  That was interesting. But perhaps not as interesting as the book next to it, also neatly arranged: Tales by Edgar Allan Poe. And not just any edition: the one that many visitors to Antiqua had rushed around town looking for, and that two men fought over in the street, one of whom died not long after, with the rare book—this rare book—conspicuously absent from his possession.

  I returned to Mother, still on the floor seated next to the prone, breathing, but unconscious Creed.

  “Some items worth seeing on the pastor’s desk,” I told her. “I’ll stay with him while you go have a look.”

  With the help of my hand, she got to her feet, and I took her place by Creed, ready to resume CPR if need be.

  After a few minutes Mother returned, wearing a gleeful expression, which was unsettling considering the circumstances.

  “My theory,” she said, beaming, “of Creed being our killer is now confirmed.”

  I looked up at her. “Is it?”

  “Of course it is, dear.” She started ticking off on her fingers. “One, he was upset about the continued illicit use of the mausoleum and summoned Morella there by calling her from city hall, using the key he was given but never returned. Two, miffed with the mayor over the mausoleum and this distasteful festival, he attacked Myron, walling him up in the church basement. And, three, he drowned Miller, who had possession of the Poe book, knowing that would put a stop to the dreaded festival. But finally everything caught up with him, and four, distressed by what he had done, he hanged himself. It all fits, very neatly.”

  “Maybe too neatly?”

  She blinked at me, her lenses magnifying the response. “Your point being?”

  “Well, we could start with that suicide letter—unsigned.”

  “Many such tragic missives go unsigned, dear. People driven to the point of self-destruction seldom do as one might expect.”

  “Also, it’s not handwritten.”

  “Why bother with formalities at such a time?”

  “What more formal a time is there than pausing before taking your life to tell the world why? An unsigned, typewritten suicide note, Mother? What if this were a Perry Mason rerun? Or an Agatha Christie novel?”

  “First, Perry Mason is nothing but reruns. Second, this is real life, not some ridiculous novel. Meaning no offense to Dame Agatha.”

  “And isn’t it nicely convenient to find the book right there with the letter?” I paused. “Would Pastor Creed, feeling as he did about Poe’s work, even bring such a volume into his church? He would more likely burn it.”
>
  The sheriff’s stare morphed into a glare.

  Creed, eyes closed, had no opinion to share at the moment.

  Mother stomped her foot. “Damnit!” Her eyes went briefly to the ceiling. “Forgive me.” Then, reluctantly, she admitted quietly, “You’re right. The pastor also appears to have been hit on the back of his head, the same M.O. as the other victims. I now believe this fine, if rather misguided, man of the cloth was framed. It’s a good thing I took the time to think this through.”

  “Isn’t it?” I said.

  A siren called in the distance.

  “I want to check the parsonage,” I said. “Give me some of those latex gloves from your Bat belt.”

  She did.

  I left the church and made my way briskly along a worn path leading to a nearby stone cottage, perhaps built around the same time as the mausoleum and sheltered by several tall oaks. I was not surprised to find the heavy wooden door unlocked.

  The interior was clean, modest, but comfortable—lots of dark wood, a mix of modern and midcentury including probable antiques and collectibles that no doubt would have distracted Mother. The front room had a worn hardwood floor with area rugs and a stone fireplace with a small dining table and four chairs, also a couch and end tables and two easy chairs. To the left was a galley kitchen, and to the right a short hallway that led to the bathroom and bedroom.

  From the bedroom window I could see the back and right side of the church, which included most of the parking lot, where a boxy white ambulance was now parked. On the windowsill were binoculars, and I picked them up to have a closer look.

  The double doors of the ambulance, which had SAUK NATION EMERGENCY MEDICAL CARE in blue on its side, were opened wide as two men removed a retractable gurney.

  Then it hit me.

  Pastor Creed claimed that because of the leafy fullness of the trees, he hadn’t been able to see anyone entering the church basement the night of Mayor Hatcher’s abduction. But in reality, the branches were well up and out of the way.

  And wasn’t that the purpose of the binoculars? To clearly monitor any unwanted activity going on around the church?

  What had Pastor Creed seen Friday night?