Antiques Bizarre

by Barbara Allan

  She smiled at everyone. And everyone just looked at her.

  “Act One, Scene Three!” she blurted, and her audience jumped a little. “When Martinette heard of the intention to auction off what he knew to be a fake, he was understandably alarmed. He still possessed the valuable egg—he was a collector, after all—but he knew that when the object was put up for bid, experts like those in this room would quickly discern that the egg Madam Petrova had so generously donated was a forgery. He needed to insert himself into the proceedings, because the only way he could protect himself from scandal and perhaps criminal charges was to make the winning bid on that egg.”

  From the back of the room, Ashland said, “As I told you, Mrs. Borne, he came to see me, a few weeks before the auction, to reauthenticate the egg, and make a preemptive offer of half a million. I turned him down, of course. Finally he had to offer much more.”

  “Yes. A million. Chief Cassato confirms that Mr. Martinette indeed was very wealthy, and had a vast collection of antiques and objets d’art, which are the kind of much-in-demand items that are easily liquidated. So for Martinette—with everyone’s permission, I will dispense with the ‘mister’ for this miscreant—raising a million dollars would not have been a hardship.”

  Was it my imagination, or was Mother sounding like Nero Wolfe?

  From over at left came Katherine Estherhaus’ slightly patrician tones: “But, Mrs. Borne, all of us seated here saw the egg, right in this parlor, just as you say…and it was real. Very real.”

  All along the row of expert bidders, heads bobbed. Only the nonexpert publisher, Woods, and the church secretary, Mad Pierce, did not join in.

  Mother raised a finger and waggled it. “Precisely right! And that is why we know there were…there are…two eggs! Ms. Estherhaus, could you describe the particulars of the showing of the egg, on the day of the auction? Which would be Act Two, Scene One….”

  “It began early,” the brunette said thoughtfully, “eight A.M. Local police escorted the egg from the bank, where it had been in a safe-deposit box, into the parlor…this parlor. Then, we went in one at a time, and…” She frowned. “…why, of course—Martinette was first!”

  “Was there any special reason he went first?”

  “Well, he was here first. Mr. Ashland just took him in for his private viewing, right away—I remember vaguely thinking, or perhaps someone saying, that it was probably out of courtesy to him, because Martinette had originally authenticated the object. I really didn’t give it any thought.”

  Mother asked, “Mr. Ashland, you were present?”

  “Yes. For all of the viewings.”

  “And your aunt?”

  “No. She was upstairs, in her bedroom, preparing for the auction.”

  “Could Martinette have switched the eggs?”

  “Frankly…yes. I was watching but not that closely. He could have turned away from me while he was making his examination and…yes, switched the false egg for the real one.”

  From over at the left, Kaufman cut in. “Then, Mrs. Borne—you’re saying Martinette switched the false egg with the real one, and then after we’d seen it, knowing that we wouldn’t get another close look, he…somehow switched it back?”

  Mother nodded, her eyes narrow and knowing. “Yes. The imitation Fabergé egg was indeed the one ushered grandly down the center aisle at St. Mary’s, on its tiny velvet pillow. My daughter and I do not believe the real egg ever was in the church.”

  Kaufman was on the edge of his chair. “Are you implying that these are separate matters? Separate crimes? That Martinette stole the egg years ago, and was covering up for it way after the fact? And that he was killed for that egg by someone who didn’t know it was a fake?”

  “Very possible,” Mother granted. “And I would think that would be good news to you all. Any assumption that our out-of-town bidders are the prime suspects here is a faulty one.”

  With the exception of local girl Mad Pierce, smiles gradually blossomed along the row of chairs, except for Ivanov, who was too busy chewing popcorn.

  Mother continued. “Everyone in Serenity knew that egg was valuable. And it would have been much easier for a Serenity resident to know his or her way around St. Mary’s Church, and be the one to engineer the mass poisoning of those attending. In fact, I am recommending to Chief Cassato that he allow you good out-of-towners to go on with your lives—to leave Serenity today, and attend other auctions with our blessing.”

  Madeline Pierce said tightly, “What are you implying about me, Vivian?”

  “Why, nothing, dear.”

  Woods, way over right, said, “Do you know who the murderer is?”

  “I believe so.”

  “But do you know why he killed these people? I mean, someone killing Martinette is understandable. Some of us, Mrs. Borne, have a motive for that, quite apart from any egg.”

  “Yes, I am well aware. First, let’s get Mrs. Mulligan out of the way. The chief has confirmed that she committed suicide—she was embarrassed by the negative attention her ‘famous’ stew had engendered, specifically thinking she had accidentally killed Madam Petrova. The poison that took Mrs. Mulligan away was her prescribed sleeping medication, an overdose she cooked up on her own stove.”

  Madeline Pierce asked, “Why Father O’Brien? Why him?”

  “I believe the priest came upon the murderer near Martinette’s body, and very likely saw the murderer hiding the egg in the furnace. Why did he not report it to the police? I’m not sure. But my guess is that the murderer was a trusted member of the St. Mary’s congregation, and one who had been generous with donations—perhaps even had promised a donation sizeable enough to fix the church roof.”

  The church secretary said, somewhat derisively, “You’re saying, Vivian, that Father O’Brien would have covered up for a killer?”

  “I am saying, Mad, that the killer told the priest that Martinette had fallen to his death tragically, accidentally. That he or she asked Father O’Brien not to say anything about what he’d seen, and that she or he would explain in detail later. As it happens, I overheard part of that later conversation, though it was badly muffled and I was unable to discern the second speaker.”

  “So,” Ivanov said, wadding up his popcorn bag, “we are clear of wrongdoing? We may go?”

  “That’s not for me to say, but Chief Cassato has indicated that your Get Out of Jail Free cards are in the offing. But I thought perhaps you might like to see the real Fabergé egg, before you go. You came a long way, after all, and it will be your last chance until there is a second auction, once the legalities are sorted through.”

  Silence.

  Had to hand it to Mother—she had showmanship.

  Finally Richards said, “The egg—you have it?”

  “No. But I believe I know where it is. I can’t be sure until we look.”

  “Look where?”

  Mother walked to the framed picture of the tsar and removed it, revealing the wall safe. “We need to look in there…. Mr. Ashland, do you mind? And perhaps you would like to open it?”

  Sitting forward on the horsehair sofa, Ashland was ashen. “No. I’m afraid you’ve gone too far with your charade, Mrs. Borne.” (You have no idea how delighted Mother was to hear Ashland use the word “charade”—later, she went on and on about it.) “This is my home, and you’re here at my sufferance.”

  “Actually,” Chief Cassato said, seated next to him, “no. I have a search warrant.”

  Which he produced from his back pocket.

  Obviously shaken, Ashland said, “Well, I’m still not opening it. I am calling my attorney, and you can get a locksmith and—”

  “Not necessary!” Mother said, gloating. “I saw your aunt open the safe, Mr. Ashland, and I miss very little.”

  Mother placed the framed picture on the floor and then slowly but confidently turned the dial right and left and right again and finally a click announced her success.

  Everyone was on their feet, with the exceptio
n of Ashland, who remained seated next to the chief, our host now hunched and hang-dog.

  Within the small safe, the egg nested on the piece of green velvet that Mother and I had seen when Madam Petrova first attended us in this parlor. The unpretentious light-colored wooden object drew gasps as if it were a more representative Fabergé egg, adorned with diamonds, emeralds and rubies and intricate work in gold.

  Tony was reading Ashland his rights while Mother and I, supervising carefully, allowed the expert bidders to examine and confirm this egg as the real thing.

  Everyone took their seats. Ashland was seated, too, but uncomfortably on that horsehair couch now, as his hands were cuffed behind him.

  “Back in nineteen ninty-two, Clifford Ashland,” Mother said, “arranged to sell the egg to Martinette for a large sum, which Ashland used to start his investment company. Part of the arrangement was that Martinette would provide a convincing copy to ‘return’ to Madam Petrova, after authentication. Since the counterfeit egg had only to fool the eyes of an elderly woman, the switch went undetected, with no one the wiser. In Ashland’s mind, the deception was justified, because he was able to strike out on his own in his new business, to win him back the respect and even love of his aunt. He figured the egg would have been his one day, anyway—he was just skipping a step, so in his mind, it was not a theft at all. And for decades, all was quiet…until Vivian Borne came along to overturn the egg basket.”

  Mother was relishing the moment, so I stood and said, “The thing is, Martinette might well have stonewalled Ashland—could have told Ashland the problem was his alone, and stayed out of it. With so many years having passed, how could it have been proved that Martinette had once upon a time substituted a false egg? Martinette apparently agreed to help Ashland out only if Ashland would front the million.”

  Kaufman said, “All right, but isn’t Ashland wealthy and successful?”

  “Sure,” I said. “But in this economy, with the stock market down, how could he have put together a million dollars? My ex-husband is in the same business, and he made the point casually to me that even a multimillionaire can be very cash poor. Ashland assigned Martinette to bid a million, knowing that the auction would be scuttled by poisoning and death, and the million would never have to be paid out.”

  Estherhaus had lost her patrician poise. “Then Ashland killed his own aunt?”

  “Yes—he sat with her at the luncheon and had plenty of opportunity to add even more rat poison to her stew—with the reasonable expectation that his aunt’s death would be written off as just an unfortunate elderly fatality of the food poisoning breakout.”

  “And Father O’Brien, too?”

  “Father O’Brien, too, when the priest seemed about to expose him. I think the police will be able to confirm that Ashland has been a major donor to St. Mary’s, and Father O’Brien would have been anything but eager to kill the goose that laid the golden…you know the rest.”

  At this point, Mother invited her guests to gather around her cardboard church. She began to place game tokens here and there, moving them about as necessary, to provide details.

  “Act Two, Scene Two,” she said. “The time, last Saturday. The place, St. Mary’s Church. After the early-morning egg-zibit here in the parlor, Clifford Ashland goes to St. Mary’s and helps set up for the auction, arranging the seating, talking to the media, discussing the procedure with Father O’Brien, but mostly just staying visible. At some point—probably around ten-thirty—he slips down to the kitchen via the connecting passageway here…”

  Mother pointed to the cardboard wall behind the Popsicle-stick choir benches on the left side of the replica, and everyone (except me—I’d seen it) leaned forward.

  “…and, using the chaos in the kitchen as cover, sprinkled rat poison into Mrs. Mulligan’s stew.”

  Mother moved around the card table, so she could illustrate better, shifting her game pieces.

  “Ashland—here—watched from the rear of the sanctuary as the drama unfolded, seeing Martinette rise from his seat, claim the egg, and head toward the choir room—here—to escape the pandemonium. Then Ashland, knowing that the furnace room door was locked, seized the opportunity to get rid of Martinette.”

  I pitched in. “Ashland dashed to the lobby and took the stairs up to the walkway and across, past the bell tower, to catch up with Martinette, whom he’d seen apparently heading for the backroom exit. From the walkway, he called down to Martinette, who was dead-ended at the locked rear door, to come up and join him, indicating another way out.”

  Mother picked up. “Martinette climbed the spiral staircase only to have Ashland push him over the railing to his death.”

  Kaufman said, “The fake egg must have gone over with him, meaning Ashland risked breaking it.”

  “So what if it had broken? Ultimately, Ashland intended to get rid of the fake. Someday the real egg might have been ‘found,’ and our host, set to inherit the contents of this house after all, could claim the valuable object for himself…being not necessarily bound to any auction his aunt put in motion. Or he might never ‘find’ the egg, and instead secretly sell it to a private collector.”

  Kaufman seemed to be following this, but asked, “Then why hide the fake?”

  “Because it couldn’t be found with the body—it would be identified as a fake, and the entire box of worms would be emptied and its contents wriggling. So Ashland hurried down the spiral stairs, made sure Martinette was dead, hid the fake egg in the furnace, then raced back up and across the walkway, and down to the lobby, where he busied himself helping the poor souls he’d poisoned.”

  A now badly dehydrated Mother held her hand out and I filled it with a cup of lemonade; she swigged it down, an athlete pausing in a race.

  “Act Three, Scene One—yesterday—Natasya Petrova’s funeral. Father O’Brien hints in his reading of the Scriptures as to the whereabouts of the egg. Ashland felt threatened enough to employ his earlier tactic—appearing to be somewhere else to all and sundry—at the time the murder of Father O’Brien took place. Witnesses would remember Ashland spending the entire reception downstairs, when actually he had gone into the kitchen to get his wife a glass of water, and was absent just long enough to slip up to the sanctuary through the passageway, plunge the caterer’s cake knife into Father O’Brien’s chest, then position his victim as if praying, to allow more time before the priest would be discovered.”

  Madeline Pierce said, “I must’ve spoken to him just moments before he was killed,” and broke into tears and ran out. I followed her but she got to her car and was gone.

  Back inside, there were other questions, which Mother answered, moving game tokens as necessary, but the show was over, or anyway winding down.

  I went over to see how Tony was doing. Ashland had already been escorted out by the pair of uniformed officers.

  “Thanks for this,” I said.

  “Don’t tell your mother,” Tony said, “but she really did fill in some gaps.”

  “Don’t you mean, handed you the killer on a silver platter?”

  He actually smiled. “You were the one who figured out the real egg would be in the safe. Anyway, just don’t you two make a habit of it.”

  Mother had completed her charade and was chatting amiably with the bidders and publisher.

  “I hope,” she said, “that this experience hasn’t given you sophisticates the wrong idea about the Heartland. We are not simple, inbred souls to whom murder and larceny are everyday matters—Serenity is really quite peaceful.”

  Except for half a dozen murders or so, since I’d come home.

  Richards admitted, “I’ve been to duller auctions.”

  Estherhaus raised an eyebrow. “I hope never to attend one this ‘dull’ again!”

  Mother asked, “What kind of money do you think the real egg will fetch, next time around?”

  Richards and Estherhaus exchanged glances, then the latter answered, “Hard to say. If you can organize enough interest, and p
ublicity—”

  I cut in. “Please don’t go there….”

  Richards smiled. “You’re right, Ms. Borne—maybe your next auction should take place in New York, or London.”

  “But first,” Katherine said, “there’s the legality of who actually owns the egg. I understand the police have it now.”

  Mother said, “It certainly doesn’t belong to the ‘loyal, loving’ nephew—you can’t inherit something you killed to get. I feel confident the courts will award the egg to the auction committee so that it may provide the flood relief its real owner intended.”

  (She was right. Three months later, an auction was held in New York that brought in $650,000 for the egg, and another $25,000 for the now-celebrated fake. Kaufman landed both for the Forbes group, which was fine with me. After all, that blond was the cutest of the male bidders.)

  By midevening, we were back home. There had been formal statements at the “cop shop,” and local media and Quad Cities TV for me to contend with and Mother to woo. Also, Mother and I posed for a photo session for Sam Woods, who contracted with me to write up the Fabergé egg story (in much shorter form than you’ve just read) for American Mid-West Magazine.

  As promised, Mother performed an enthusiastic reenactment of her charade for Jake, while I had a nice, long supportive call from Tina, who made me promise to temporarily retire from detection and devote myself to eating and loafing and watching cable TV for the duration of “our” pregnancy.

  Around nine P.M., I was alone downstairs—Jake out walking Sushi, an exhausted Mother already in bed—cleaning up in the kitchen. That was when I noticed that Mother’s weekly pills case, containing her bipolar medication, was full. That meant she had missed three days of medication—which was understandable, considering the events of the past week.