Antiques Ravin'

by Barbara Allan

  But we skipped the introductions, as the woman, out of breath, addressed Mother. “Am I ever glad to see you!”

  The fact that the sheriff was dressed for bed didn’t seem to faze her.

  “Why, Gladys,” Mother said, “what has you in such a tizzy?”

  “The bank has been robbed!”

  Frowning, Mother said, amazingly calm, “When, dear?”

  For all the bank manager’s urgency, I didn’t hear any alarms ringing.

  “Well, I don’t know exactly,” she said. “But some time after we closed at noon on Saturday.”

  So maybe a little late for alarms.

  I asked, “Don’t the vaults have a time lock?”

  “Well, of course,” Gladys said, “but it wasn’t the main vault that was robbed, it was the night depository safe. All the bags are gone!”

  We drove right over to the bank, Gladys sitting in back, like a prisoner.

  Soon we were seated in the woman’s office, with her behind the desk, where a nameplate identified her as the bank manager, her last name GOOCH. Mother and I were in chairs opposite her, as if we were there for a loan. Sushi was roaming free within the closed-off office. With luck she wouldn’t make a deposit.

  Gladys explained, “I got here about half an hour ago, to open up. The first thing I do is unlock the night depository safe and remove all the bags that have been stored there over the weekend.”

  “Who,” Mother asked, “besides yourself, has the combination?”

  “No one.”

  “Then how could the safe have been opened?”

  She looked at me, frustrated by my lack of knowledge of her world. “It didn’t! The bags were removed from the outside, not the inside.”

  Mother frowned. “How is that possible?”

  “It’s call ‘fishing,’” I said, showing them both that I knew more than either one thought I did. “Somebody with a key to the night depository opens the hatch outside and then uses a rope with a hook to pull all the bags out.”

  That made Mother smile. “Simple, but ingenious,” she marveled. “Does a security camera cover the depository outside?”

  Gladys shook her head. “Only inside the bank. The night deposit is in front, and the only outside camera is in the alley.”

  Bet that was going to change.

  Mother asked, “Can you determine how much was taken?”

  Her sigh came long and deep. “No, because this was an unusually busy weekend for all the businesses, completely atypical . . . except, of course, for fest weekend, once a year.”

  “It seems to me,” Mother said, “the thief would be interested only in the cash in those bags—that’s where the loss is. The checks will probably be ditched.”

  Gladys nodded. “And checks can be reissued. And, of course, any debit and credit cards that were used for payment aren’t affected.”

  Mother frowned in thought. “Do all the businesses use the night depository?”

  “Not all,” Gladys said, “but most.”

  “And how many keys are each user given?”

  “One per customer. We don’t want them floating around.”

  Mother nodded. “Did anyone notify you of a missing key?”

  “No,” Gladys said. Then she thought a moment and added, “Wait—Lottie Everhart called me Thursday morning, after her shop and all the others were broken into, and said that her key was missing . . . but then she called back later and said she’d recovered it. She’d apparently dropped it on the floor.”

  Firmly, Mother said, “I need a list of everyone who has a night deposit key.”

  Gladys nodded and exited the office, Sushi watching her go.

  I turned to Mother. “Don’t you need to notify the FBI? This is an FDIC bank.”

  “Soon, dear.”

  “Mother!”

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I need all the details first.”

  Gladys was back, handing Mother a printout.

  I stood and looked over her shoulder.

  Such familiar names as Myron Hatcher, Lottie Everhart, Paula Baxter, and Wally Thorp were included on the list. Oddly, Rick Wheeler was not.

  Mother zeroed in on that. “Rick Wheeler doesn’t use the night depository?”

  “No. He has his own safe.”

  “I’ll want to hold on to this,” Mother said, indicating the paper.

  “Certainly,” Gladys replied. “I’ve made another copy for the FBI, who should be here soon.”

  Mother stiffened. “Oh. You’ve already called them?”

  “Of course.” Gladys blinked. “Called them first thing. Standard procedure in a bank robbery.”

  Mother, obviously miffed, asked, “Then why involve me?”

  The bank manager shrugged. “I thought you should know. You are the sheriff.”

  Mother stood abruptly. “I am indeed. When they arrive, you may tell the FBI that I’ve begun my own investigation. We can’t be sitting on our hands in a matter like this. Come, Brandy.”

  Out on the sidewalk, Mother in her pink robe was getting curious looks from a few pedestrians.

  “The Fibbies are going to ruin everything!” she blurted.

  “The what?”

  “The Fibbies! The FBI! The Feds! They’re going to come in and take over, and send yours truly packing!”

  I’d rarely seen her so distressed and couldn’t help feeling sorry for her.

  I looked down at Sushi in my arms. “I have an idea. . . .”

  “A cunning plan?”

  We were both fans of Blackadder, whose catchphrase that was.

  “A cunning plan,” I confirmed.

  Leaving the car in front of the bank, I led Mother up the street to the bakery in the next block and then told her to wait outside with Sushi.

  George, arranging pastries inside the glass display case, straightened as I barged in.

  I asked, “Did you use the bank’s night depository yesterday?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Why? Is something wrong?”

  “I need a little sack with a few doggie cookie crumbs inside—no cookies, just crumbs.”

  He winced, as if he were deaf and I was speaking too softly. “What?”

  I repeated the request. Distinctly.

  George hesitated but complied. As I was leaving, he called out, “What about the night depository?”

  “Stay tuned,” I said.

  I rejoined Mother, who took the sack and looked into it.

  She frowned. “This is supposed to lift me from the doldrums?”

  “Every time George gives me back my change,” I explained, “it has either frosting or crumbs on it. His bag was in the depository.” I shook the closed little sack. “This has crumbs.”

  Mother’s grin was downright wolfish. She was right with me.

  “Dear,” she said, “if ever I thought you were of merely average intelligence, you have proven me wrong!”

  “Thank you . . . ?”

  She continued, “I don’t believe the thief would risk hiding the bags in his home. But he might think his business is a safe haven. Let’s start on the left side of Antiques Drive and work our way down the street, then go up on the right.”

  We crossed over to Top Drawer and entered.

  Myron, feather-dusting his treasures, went bug-eyed when he got a gander of Mother in her beddie-bye getup.

  “Sheriff, what in . . . ?” he began, duster going limp in his hand.

  She approached him. “Mayor, you simply won’t believe what happened to us last night!” A hand behind her back gestured for me to get going.

  I conveyed Sushi to the back of the store, set her down, let her sniff inside the sack, and said, singsongy, “Find the cook-ie!”

  She just loved to play hiding games. Her eyes looked like shiny new pennies, and her tongue lolled as she panted with anticipation.

  The little furball took off like a greyhound chasing a metal rabbit, sniffing everywhere, jumping up on everything she could, and what she couldn’t rea
ch—say, an armoire—I held her up to sniff on top.

  When we came across the basement door, I sent her down there. Ditto with the access to the attic. Both off-limits areas got no reaction.

  Sushi worked her way to the front, where Mother remained holding Myron’s attention.

  He was saying, “Now the night depository has been robbed? Sheriff, things have really gotten out of hand. I’m glad I didn’t use it this weekend—most of my transactions were electronic, and what cash I took in went home with me. Meaning no offense, but don’t you need outside help at this point?”

  “The FBI is on the way,” she replied, as if it were she who’d summoned them. “And they’ll want to talk to everyone who has a key to the depository.”

  Myron’s eyebrows went up and down. “That’s about every business in town,” he said.

  Impatient to get going, I gave Mother a little nudge.

  Abruptly she said, “Well, must run. Places to go, people to arrest! Toodles!”

  The next stop was Paula’s Relics Antiques, where we repeated the same routine. I was sure Sushi would sniff out George’s bag here, because of Paula’s past bank robbery conviction—but no sale.

  Nor did Lottie’s Somewhere in Time get us anywhere.

  We continued on to Junk ’n’ Stuff, where Wally’s mounds of rubble seemed the perfect place to hide the bank bags, and the most difficult for Sushi to suss out. But the little beast loved clambering over hill and dale, and when she discovered a partially eaten bagel beneath a pile of toppled magazines, I could only marvel at her thorough resourcefulness. Still, we moved on because, well, a bagel isn’t a cookie.

  We tried another half-dozen shops, unsuccessfully, but when we got to Rick’s Treasure Aisles, the barn door was padlocked.

  “What now?” I asked Mother.

  “What else? We go in. I’m the sheriff.”

  “But we don’t have a warrant.”

  “We have probable cause!”

  “Do we?”

  “Deputies should be seen and not heard.”

  From her belt, Mother retrieved her two little picks and had the padlock off in a few seconds.

  We went in, closing the barn door behind us.

  The ground floor with its many dealer booths would be an unlikely place for the bank bags to be hidden—among other things, it risked one such dealer running across the swag. But the wraparound balcony—storage for such salvaged items as old doors, window frames, lattices, and iron works—would offer any number of perfect hiding places, since the items could be viewed from below and thus had far less foot traffic.

  I steered Sushi to the wooden steps leading upward, put the sack under her nose, let her sniff, and said the magic word: cookie.

  From below, Mother and I watched as the little devil climbed to the balcony, then began weaving in and out and around the bulky items, disappearing, reappearing.

  Then . . . a muffled bark.

  Sushi kept yapping until Mother and I found her behind a leaning door, where an old steamer trunk had been tucked. I tugged the heavy piece out into the open and bowed down before it.

  A SOLD sign was taped to the trunk, by way of discouraging any would-be customer. The lid had a hole-mounted lock, which needed a corrugated key to open, and I was about to ask Mother if her picks would work when company arrived.

  “What the hell are you doing?” demanded Rick, who had come up behind Mother.

  She whirled. “Ah! Mr. Wheeler. Sorry you weren’t here when we arrived.”

  Rick stepped closer to her. “You have no right breaking into my store.”

  His demeanor was threatening enough that Sushi growled, and I got to my feet.

  Mother pulled herself up. “Perhaps you forget that I’m the sheriff.”

  He looked her up and down. “You could’ve fooled me. What is this, a slumber party that got out of hand?”

  “No. It’s something else that got out of hand. The bank’s night depository was robbed last night, and I’m checking each and every business.”

  Rick sneered. “I don’t even use the bank depository. I have my own safe.”

  “Then perhaps you’ll help us cross you off the list by opening this trunk.”

  “Why that trunk?”

  “I have reason to believe it may contain the stolen deposit bags. Probable cause, as we say in the law enforcement game. Now, I’d like the key to this trunk, or else I’ll have to break into it . . . and I’d hate to damage such a lovely piece, in such fine condition.”

  “You’re wasting your time, lady.”

  “Then prove me wrong.” Mother held out a hand. “The key, Mr. Wheeler.”

  Rick sighed. His body seemed to deflate like a punctured inner tube. From the front pocket of his jeans, he removed a small key and placed it in Mother’s outstretched palm.

  She passed it to me, and I opened the trunk. Within nestled the stolen Wells Fargo depository bags.

  Sushi had her front paws on the rim of the trunk, nose twitching. She looked at the bags, then accusingly at me: So where’s the cookie, already?

  “You’ll have all the cookies you want, later,” I assured her, patting her head. She frowned but allowed herself to be plucked back into my arms.

  Mother was removing handcuffs from a duty belt pocket on her robe. “Turn around, Mr. Wheeler.”

  “How did you figure it?” he asked, complying.

  “Took crumbs to catch a crumb, dear,” Mother said. “Now, let’s go downstairs, shall we?”

  On the ground floor, Mother put the handcuffed Rick in a chair at the checkout counter.

  Mother said, “Here’s how I see it. You were behind the break-ins on Wednesday night. You needed a key to the night depository and found one in Lottie’s store, made a copy, went back the next morning during business hours, and dropped it on the floor.”

  Rick said nothing, looking past her.

  “Why go to all that trouble?” I asked him. “Weren’t you dating Lottie? You could’ve gotten that key an easier way.”

  Rick thought for a while. Maybe he realized his rights hadn’t been read to him and decided it wouldn’t hurt him to answer. Anyway, he sighed, laughed . . . and talked.

  “I wanted the break-ins to seem as if some local was looking to find the Poe prize early,” he said. “And I’ve never gone out with Lottie—we’re friendly only because of her husband, who was a buddy of mine.”

  “A buddy only?” I asked.

  He scoffed. “What, have you been listening to women who want to go out with me but I turn down? Yes, he was only a friend.”

  “Who killed himself in a very Poe-like manner,” I said. “Don’t you find that odd?”

  Rick smiled a little. “Not to me. Mike had a very twisted sense of humor, even as bummed out as he was over that Poe Folly fiasco. Going the Poe route was his way of commenting on what happened to him. And, anyway, he hated that damn cat.”

  Mother asked, “How long had you been planning to rob the night depository?”

  He sighed. “Not that long. I mean, I never would have considered it at all, except business has been lousy. The rent from dealers just isn’t enough, and last time I raised it, just a little, I lost a bunch of them. Then I got to thinking about all the cash that got collected on fest weekend and would have to be deposited. I figured I’d be above suspicion, you know, ruled out? Because I didn’t use the depository service and you’d need a key to pull that stunt.”

  Mother nodded. “Nicely reasoned. Too bad you didn’t put your brain power to more positive use. And, of course, you didn’t count on the presence of Sheriff Vivian J. Borne, or the abilities of a certain bloodhound with a penchant for pastry.”

  Rick frowned. “Huh?”

  “Now,” Mother said, “about these murders . . .”

  That startled Rick, his eyebrows rising, his eyes widening, showing white all around.

  “Hold on, lady! You’re not going to pin those on me! I didn’t kill anybody. I’ll cop to robbery but not murder. What k
ind of a monster do you take me for? I wouldn’t hurt Myron or Pastor Creed, and I barely knew Morella . . . and that guy who found the book, I never met him at all. That book, by the way, that thing was a fake all the way.”

  Mother’s brow knit a sweater. She asked, “What makes you say the book wasn’t authentic?”

  He smirked, grunted a laugh. “Well, for one thing, Myron never gave us a chance to examine it. And for another thing? After we drew slips where it should be hidden? I looked in the wastebasket where our glorious mayor had thrown them, and every one was for Top Drawer—his store.”

  Stunned by this revelation, I asked, “Why didn’t you say anything?”

  He looked at me, sighed, shook his head. “Because, frankly, honey, I was relieved. I didn’t want a frenzied mob descending on my place, messing up all the booths . . . which the dealers would have to straighten up later.”

  Outside, car doors slammed. The barn door opened and in came two men in sunglasses and crisp navy suits, a blue tie on one white shirt and a red tie on the other.

  “Have you seen the sheriff?” the taller of the pair asked our little group.

  “Present and accounted for,” Mother replied.

  The agent removed his shades for a better look at the woman in the pink robe.

  “You’re the sheriff?” he asked.

  Mother tugged on the badge pinned to chenille. “Yes indeedy diddey do. And you are?”

  “Ah . . . the FBI.”

  “Good. Thank you for your assistance.” She gestured to Rick. “Well, here’s your bank robber, gentlemen, and you’ll find the missing bags in a trunk upstairs.”

  The agents traded surprised expressions.

  I pointed out the trunk above.

  “Now,” Mother went on, “I simply must scoot. We can confer later. At the moment I have a murderer to catch.”

  She breezed by the pair, and I followed with Sushi, flashing them my best smile.

  Outside, I said, “After all this . . . Myron is our man?”

  “Indeed.”

  We hoofed it back to the bank to get the Explorer, my mind abuzz, then I drove us to Top Drawer, where a CLOSED sign hung on the door.

  “Try his residence,” Mother said.

  I headed south out of town.

  “What makes you so sure it’s him?” I asked.