Antiques Bizarre

by Barbara Allan

  Estherhaus, dressed in a chic black sheath, was eating only veggies. Don Kaufman was working on a sandwich he’d made from the cold cuts and cheese platter. Richards, in a navy suit, had limited himself to salad; but Ivanov, his brute bulk stretching the fabric of his sweater, had two plates going, putting my serving to shame.

  Kaufman finished his sandwich and I followed him as he headed back for more grub. He filled a fresh plate, then turned to go back to the table and almost bumped into me.

  “Sorry!” he said, and smiled.

  Under other circumstances, I might have found the slender blond attractive; he was handsome in a bland kind of way. But I had another agenda.

  “Second helping, huh?” I said, friendly. “No wonder you’re hungry.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Last time I saw you, your pal Sergei wasn’t sharing his ice cream.”

  “He’s a little selfish, at that,” Kaufman said good-naturedly. “But he’s not my pal. I know the others in our group well enough, but Sergei’s an outsider. He’s with us sort of by default.”

  “It was nice of you to pay your respects to Madam Petrova,” I said to him.

  “Well, it seemed like the right thing to do.”

  “Shall we sit for a moment?” I nodded toward a nearby table, already abandoned by eat-and-run mourners.

  “Sure.”

  We sat.

  I asked, “Besides Ivanov, you and your fellow bidders, you’re all friends?”

  “Friendly rivals—we work the same circuit.”

  “How about Martinette?”

  “I knew him primarily by reputation. He was a collector and appraiser, not someone who worked for the various auction houses. If you want to know about Martinette, Katherine is the one to talk to.”

  “Katherine Estherhaus? Why?”

  “She knew Martinette well—they were an item once.”

  I blinked. This was the best surprise since Madam Petrova skipped her funeral. “No kidding? I thought she was from New York.”

  “She is now. She used to live in Chicago.”

  We chatted a little, he finished his food, and then he gave me a nice smile and headed back to the bidders’ table. Another time, another place, maybe….

  Katherine Estherhaus I cornered in the ladies’ room at the sink, where we were both washing up. I hadn’t been intentionally staking out the rest room, but it worked out that way.

  “Ms. Estherhaus,” I said, nodding at her in the mirror.

  She nodded back, her smile strained. “Ms. Borne, isn’t it?”

  Like she could forget the Borne girls.

  “Yes. I’m surprised you’re still here, you and your friends. Haven’t the police given you a Get Out of Jail Free Card yet?”

  “We’re leaving tomorrow, thank God. I can’t wait to get out of this town. No offense meant, but this has been a most unpleasant trip.”

  We were drying our hands with a paper towel (one each, actually) when I asked, “So you and Louis Martinette were a couple once, huh?”

  “Who told you that?”

  “A little bird.”

  “A little blond bird named Kaufman?”

  I didn’t confirm or deny, saying, “Interesting coincidence, Martinette being your ex. Does Chief Cassato know?”

  “Of course he knows,” she said icily. “We’ve all been thoroughly interviewed.”

  So Tony was holding out on me. My charms had only worked so many wonders, it seemed.

  Outside the ladies’ room, I said pleasantly, “When was this, anyway?”

  “When was what?”

  “You and Martinette. And how serious was it?”

  “Why is it any of your business? Anyway, we were…close for several years. We even lived together for a time, and then parted ways on very good terms. I had no problems, no negative baggage with Louis. If you’re looking for dirt, why don’t you talk to Sam Woods?”

  “Why Woods?”

  “Well, he fired Martinette.”

  “Fired him?”

  “Yes, from his magazine. Louis wrote a column for Woods, for a number of years—‘Collector’s Corner.’ Woods accused him of giving certain dealers and shops puff-piece treatment, in return for favors and discounts.”

  “Anything to it?”

  “I’m sure there was! But you don’t write a column for a magazine like that for the money—it’s paltry pay! You do it for your reputation and any other value you can get out of it. If you’ll excuse me….”

  Woods I found at the banquet table, where he was still flirting with Mimi, the cake as yet unsliced. I got a dirty glance from her when I approached him and said, “Got a minute, Mr. Woods?”

  He gave me a pale look, like he’d just seen a ghost, but forced a smile and said, “Why, of course, Ms. Borne.”

  We found a corner and I said, “I heard you and Martinette had a history.”

  “What? Where did you hear that?”

  “Katherine Estherhaus. Why, is she fibbing?”

  He scowled. “She’s a witch.”

  “With a ‘b’?”

  “Yes. Definitely with a ‘b.’ She probably just doesn’t want people to fixate on her and Louis, in the wake of his murder. They lived together, you know—and they fought like professional wrestlers.”

  “You mean they faked it?”

  “No! I mean they fought. And not just with words….” He made a fist. “They were a pair, all right. I’ve been in relationships where things got nasty, but never actual, physical violence.” He shuddered.

  “Did she hate him?”

  “I don’t know. It was more…anyway, really, don’t listen to me. They hadn’t been together for a long time. It just makes me mad, her trying to make me look bad, just because I let Louis go.”

  “From his column, you mean?”

  “Yeah. You know that term they used to use in the record industry—payola?”

  “I’ve heard it.”

  “Well, Louis was raking it in, in the antiques game. He did a column for us for several years, and him taking in freebies and favors, it just made us look bad.”

  John Richards came over and said to Woods, “Sam, we’re getting ready to head back to the hotel. Are you ready?”

  “Sure.” He gave me a nod and a smile, and they were heading off when I trotted up alongside the bespectacled Brit.

  “I guess you’re pretty happy to be heading home,” I said. “Back to the UK, or…?”

  “Katherine, Don, and I have another auction to attend this week—in Baltimore, if it’s any of your business, which of course it isn’t. If you’ll excuse us….”

  But I didn’t excuse them. Instead I followed the two men back to the table, where Katherine Estherhaus, Don Kaufman and Sergei Ivanov were preparing to go.

  I said to the collective, “I am sorry the auction turned out the way it did—my mother and I had hoped to raise some serious funds for flood relief from the sale of the egg.”

  Ivanov gave me a harsh glare. “You people in this, this provincial gulag make mess of everything. One of us should have egg!”

  “Who knows,” I said with a girlish shrug. “Maybe one of you does.”

  And I moved away.

  Meanwhile, Mother had been flitting from table to table, as if she were the bereaved making sure everyone had been acknowledged and thanked, oblivious to—really, ignoring—cold stares from those who clearly felt she’d played a role in Madam Petrova’s death.

  I’d had my fill of food, suspects, and funerals in general, but I knew escape was impossible until Mother was ready to go. Which could be a while. I noticed that the cake had finally been cut (what took Mimi so long?) and went over and helped myself to the biggest remaining corner slice.

  Looking for a place to alight, I spotted a friendly face—Mrs. Hetzler, my old middle-school math teacher, and I do mean old. Though she was seated, I could tell she had shrunk even more since the last time I’d seen her. But the woman was still as sharp as the tack I’d been tempted to
place on her chair after she gave me that “D.”

  She was one of Mother’s cohorts in the Red-Hatted League mystery book club, and a fairly reliable source for information. She also was a member at St. Mary’s.

  “Mrs. Hetzler,” I said, plopping down beside her with my cake, “hello! Nice service, don’t you think?”

  There was a lag in her response, sort of like on cable news when a guest answers a question over a remote feed.

  “Yes,” the woman responded, “but I did not approve of the selection of Scripture.”

  “Really?”

  “Quite depressing! I would have suggested Isaiah 25, 7–9. And where was the Gospel, I ask you?”

  Where indeed? And where could you find a retired teacher who didn’t think he or she was still in charge of the class?

  “Well-attended, though,” I said, and forked frosting.

  “Yes, yes. Few knew Nastasya personally, but many know of her good heart. Now we can get the church roof fixed.”

  “Pardon?”

  She eyed me like the spotty student I’d been. “Natasya is leaving a generous bequest. And heaven knows we can use the money.”

  “Yes, I had heard about that. But I guess you have Clifford Ashland to thank, too.”

  “Why do you say that, Brandy?”

  “Well, he’s the St. Mary’s member in the family. His aunt came here because her own church could only meet once a month.”

  “Ah, yes—the Russian Orthodox crowd.”

  I wasn’t sure fifteen members made a crowd.

  “He has turned out rather well, our Clifford. He wasn’t a wonderful student, you know—no better than you.”

  That bad, huh?

  She was saying, “Nastasya wasn’t always overly fond of him, you know. During his college years, she thought he was wild and irresponsible. And later, when he was selling used cars, she thought he was undignified and reckless.”

  “What changed her mind?”

  “He got married and settled down, made a success of himself, and without asking her for any money. Moved from used cars to establishing Serenity’s foremost brokerage. That made a big impression on Nastasya. Drew the two of them together, finally.”

  Like a bad cut in a movie, Mother appeared at my side. “Would you like to go, dear?” she cooed. “You look tired….”

  Since Mother rarely seemed concerned about me, I became immediately suspicious—particularly considering the reception was really just getting started, voices now animated, with some light laugher cutting through the gloom of the occasion, the room taking on a nearly festive air.

  But if Mother was ready to leave, I would seize the moment before she changed her mind. I bid Mrs. Hetzler good-bye and soon Mother and I were making our way through the crowd, with minimal stop-and-chatting, then ascended the basement stairs, even as others were descending. In the lobby, church secretary Madeline Pierce was exiting the sanctuary, closing the doors behind her.

  Mother picked up speed, approaching her. “Mad, have you seen Father O’Brien? I simply must speak with him.”

  Madeline stood with her back to the doors, as if to bar any entry. “He’s meditating,” she said coldly, “and does not wish to be disturbed.”

  “I quite understand,” Mother replied cordially. “I suppose I can talk to him later. Come, Brandy—let’s go home, dear.”

  If you’re thinking Mother gave up a little too easily, you’re right, because when the secretary disappeared down the basement steps, Mother did an about-face and marched toward the sanctuary.

  I caught up with her, grabbing her arm. “Mother, you heard the church secretary—the father doesn’t wish to be disturbed.”

  She wriggled out of my grasp. “Dear, this is important! They pay the man to be disturbed.”

  “He’s praying….”

  “Let him do that on his own time. Anyway, he’s got a direct line to the Almighty, and with privilege comes responsibility.”

  She yanked open the sanctuary door and charged in, leaving me no option but to follow her.

  The sunlight flooding in through the stained-glass windows fell like God’s spotlight on Father O’Brien, who knelt in prayer at the communion rail, head bowed.

  “Mother,” I whispered, “we really should not be bothering the father….”

  I hung back as Mother pranced down the center aisle, coming up behind the priest. What was I going to do with her?

  “Father, I’m sorry,” she said, her voice seeming to float back to me, “but I simply must speak to you.”

  She touched his shoulder.

  He toppled backward, at her feet, staring up at her and me as I approached, too; but he had nothing to say. Not with a knife sunk in his chest.

  A Trash ‘n’ Treasures Tip

  Set a price limit on the item you want to bid on, and stick to it. Remember to allow for extras, like a buyer’s fee and sales tax. And three Cherry Cokes, a bag of chips, and a hot dog in a stale bun.

  Chapter Ten

  Egg on Our Faces

  The small chapel off the sanctuary had been turned into an interview room, with a card table and a few chairs set up in back, behind the pews. Mother and I were the first to be questioned by Chief Cassato, who wore his usual white shirt, blue tie, gray slacks, and blank expression.

  When he’d first arrived, our eyes met, his asking if I was all right, and mine signaling yes. Then his demeanor changed abruptly from concerned suitor to tough cop.

  Now, remaining seated, he was motioning brusquely for us to sit opposite him at the table, a small tape recorder making a clunky centerpiece. The religious setting gave the proceedings an extra somber note, as if they needed one, and it felt natural to be praying, which I was.

  I was praying that Mother wouldn’t fall into her typical flippant arrogance—I’d seen this from her in the past, when interviewed by police—but she’d been hit hard, finding Father O’Brien, dead by violence in his own sanctuary, sprawled before her like a pagan sacrifice.

  She appeared disoriented, her hands shaking, and I could see the mentally ill woman behind the confident, if eccentric, facade showing through.

  The chief began, “Interviewing Brandy and Vivian Borne”—he checked his watch—“…at one twenty-two P.M. Who discovered Father O’Brien?”

  When Mother uncharacteristically didn’t answer, I said, “We did.”

  “Both of you?”

  “Well, Mother, really…. I was coming up from in the back of the sanctuary. Mother went down ahead, to talk to the father—from where I was, he appeared to be praying—but when Mother touched him, he just…fell over. Backward. That’s when I saw the knife.”

  “Mrs. Borne?” the chief asked. “Can you affirm your daughter’s account?”

  Mother nodded slowly.

  “For the record, Mrs. Borne is indicating the affirmative.” He went on. “Anything to add, Mrs. Borne?”

  She shook her head.

  “Did either of you see anyone else in the sanctuary?”

  “No,” I said. “But Madeline Pierce—the church secretary? She had just come out when we got there.”

  “And how did she seem?”

  “Well, I’d have to say annoyed. But that was probably just because, you know…it was us…. People get annoyed with…” I almost said “Mother.” “…us.”

  He nodded. I wasn’t expecting an argument.

  “But, uh, also, Chief?”

  “Yes?”

  “I, uh, might be reading in, but…the secretary did seem nervous. Of course, she always seems a little uptight to me. I mean, I don’t want to get the woman in trouble….”

  Mother, eyes flashing behind the magnifying lenses, blurted, “She was in love with him, you know!”

  Tony seemed unimpressed. “Is that right?”

  I frowned at her. “Mother, that’s outrageous. How can you say that? Who told you that?”

  The feistiness was back. “A very reliable source!”

  The chief’s eyes closed, as if h
e were taking advantage of the setting to summon the patience of Job. Then he said, “Who, Mrs. Borne?”

  Her nose and chin went up, the eyes wide now. “I have a right to protect my sources.”

  “No. You don’t. You’re not a detective, you’re a senior citizen and a person of interest in a murder case.”

  “I am not a senior citizen!”

  I said to her, “Mother, the key phrase there was ‘person of interest’—that’s next door to ‘suspect.’ Please cooperate.”

  “Well…” She frowned. “I suppose there’s no real reason to protect a source that’s no longer a source, is there?”

  Tony’s brow tightened in irritation. “What are you talking about?”

  Mother shifted in the folding chair, summoning dignity. “Mrs. Mulligan told me.”

  “The late Mrs. Mulligan.”

  “She wasn’t late at the time.”

  He shut his eyes. He opened them. “Mrs. Mulligan told you that Madeline Pierce, the St. Mary’s secretary, was ‘in love’ with Father O’Brien.”

  “Her exact words were ‘That woman has a thing for Father O’Brien, and it’s just shameful.’”

  “You have no reason to believe that there was any more to this than a rumor passed along by a notorious gossip.”

  Mother’s eyelashes fluttered like twin hummingbirds. “No. I suppose not. But you could be more kind to her memory.”

  His eyebrows went halfway up his forehead. “Mrs. Mulligan’s memory? All right, Mrs. Borne, let’s talk about Mrs. Mulligan.”

  “Don’t ask me to speak ill of the dead.”

  “Let’s talk about you—you’re alive and well. You’re the one who discovered Mrs. Mulligan’s body, correct?”

  “Of course. Whoever said I wasn’t? Anyway, haven’t you dismissed that as a suicide?”

  “Not entirely. It’s possible someone who knew Mrs. Mulligan’s habits, her nightly rituals, could have taken advantage of that knowledge to put an overdose of sleeping pills in her chicken broth. Do you know anyone who might have been familiar with Mrs. Mulligan’s pattern, Mrs. Borne? Someone, perhaps, who was a close friend and dropped by once or twice a week?”

  “You can’t fool me, young man. You’re hinting at something.”

  “And now you’ve discovered a second body—Father O’Brien, murdered at the altar in his own church.”