Vultures at Twilight

by Charles Atkins

  ‘We’ve had murders before,’ I reminded her, staring out at the news truck and then noticing a second parked at the distant end of Town Plot and a third with the CNN logo in front of that one.

  ‘Doesn’t it scare you, Lil?’

  I looked at Frieda with her billowy mess of dyed hair. I had to remind myself that she and her husband Gustav – who ran the antique shop in the colonial next door – were relatively recent additions to Grenville. To my way of thinking, The Greenery was eternal; it had stood and functioned as an inn and restaurant for over two centuries. Its owners, however, seemed to come and go with the seasons. The Auchinstrasses had been in Grenville for less than twenty years. In that time they had systematically bought up High Street real estate, and last year had taken over The Greenery. They had mostly left things unchanged and, to their credit, had attempted to revitalize the sagging cuisine, which had deteriorated into glutinous gravies and over-boiled vegetables. The food had never been the selling point; why we continued to come was hard to define. Yes, the dark ambience, with the open hearth and hand-wrought tools, like stepping back into the eighteenth century was a treat. But something else, looking first at Ada, and then at all the familiar faces at their regular tables; this was my community, and this inn was a part of its rhythm.

  ‘Why should it scare me?’ I asked, and yet I was anxious. ‘I don’t fit the profile.’

  ‘But what about me?’ Frieda asked, her eyes comically wide. ‘I have two shops on High Street.’

  ‘She’s got a point,’ Ada chimed in maliciously.

  As she did, a stocky dark-haired woman in a green turtle neck and khakis eating by herself at the next table looked up. She gave an enigmatic half smile.

  I smiled back, recognizing the state detective.

  ‘She’s right, you know.’ The woman said, seemingly weighing each word as she made eye contact first with Ada and then with Frieda. ‘There is a pattern.’

  Frieda shook her head, sending her curled tresses into a spasm. ‘I don’t want to talk about this. I’ll have Annie get you your drinks.’ Clearly spooked, she scurried off to greet and seat the diners who were backing up into the foyer.

  ‘Detective Perez, isn’t it?’ I asked, not about to let the opportunity slip.

  ‘Yes, and you are . . .?’

  ‘Lillian Campbell.’

  Ada looked at me for an explanation.

  ‘This is the detective working on the murders,’ I told her. Taking in details of this intense woman from her tightly curled hair, with touches of silver, to how she wore no makeup and the two little gold stud earrings that seemed more part of a uniform than any conscious stab at adornment.

  ‘Oh, please join us,’ Ada said.

  I looked across at the detective. ‘Please’.

  She paused as though weighing some internal question. ‘I’d love to,’ she finally said. ‘If you’re sure it’s all right?’

  ‘Are you kidding?’ Ada said, moving her chair to make space.

  ‘I hate eating alone,’ the detective said as she grabbed her cutlery and water glass. ‘Mattie Perez,’ she said to Ada as way of an introduction.

  ‘Ada Strauss, and I have something to confess.’

  ‘Not to the murders, I hope. We’ve already started getting a bunch of those.’

  ‘Augie Taylor?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, but how . . .?’

  ‘Augie confesses to everything in the police blotter. He’s not right in the head. His sister told me it’s some form of obsessive-compulsive disorder. That he’s forever thinking he’s guilty of crimes he didn’t commit. He’s supposed to take medication . . . Usually, he doesn’t.’

  ‘You know this town well,’ Mattie said, dipping a breadstick in the crock of port-wine cheese. The detective glanced out the lattice-framed window. ‘It is lovely, isn’t it? All the old houses and storefronts; it looks like nothing has changed in hundreds of years.’

  ‘Strict zoning,’ I replied. ‘That, and a historical society that has become increasingly fascistic over the years.’

  ‘Keeps the rabble out,’ she joked dryly.

  ‘Exactly. We don’t want people painting their eighteenth-century colonial in colors not anticipated by the founding fathers.’

  ‘Or worse still,’ Ada said, ‘vinyl siding.’

  ‘Heaven forbid,’ the detective replied. ‘So what was your confession?’

  ‘I didn’t stay to turn in the jewelry we found the other night. Lillian did it for me the next morning.’

  ‘No harm. We could have handled that better; thank God Kevin thought enough to get chairs. We got a lot of complaints, eighty and ninety year olds waiting for hours; I feel awful about it. So the two of you live in Pilgrim’s Progress? If you don’t mind me saying, you look kind of young for that.’

  ‘But we do,’ I offered. ‘Adjoining condos. So did you recover all the jewelry?’ I asked, remembering Hank’s comment from the other day.

  ‘No,’ she admitted, and then quietly added, ‘unfortunately.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ada, deftly catching her thread. ‘It clouds the motive, doesn’t it?’

  ‘How do you figure that?’ Mattie asked, her dark – almost black – eyes giving Ada an appraising look.

  ‘If the motive was purely revenge, then giving away all the jewelry makes sense. Pretty creative if you ask me. Mildred Potts – God forgive me for saying this – was a crook . . . I’ll get to that,’ Ada added, sensing that the detective was about to ask for clarification. ‘Anyway, if the majority of the jewelry is not recovered the possible motives are greater. The recovered pieces could be a smoke screen for a crime that was purely profit driven. I’d have to wonder if Mildred might have had one or two large-stone diamonds, or something else of great value that could make all the lovely trinkets pale in comparison. Especially if it was something that could be readily sold.’

  ‘You’ve given this some thought, Mrs Strauss.’

  ‘It’s Ada.’

  ‘Mattie,’ offered the detective.

  ‘Well, Mattie,’ Ada continued, ‘you’ve probably already gotten this piece of information, but I can’t stress how upset people can get if they’re being taken advantage of. Personally, if I feel that someone is lying or trying to cheat me, it makes my blood boil. And Mildred was shameless.’ Ada recapped the saga of Evie’s estate and how Mildred had tried to pay pennies on the dollar. ‘Now it is possible,’ Ada mused, while buttering a roll, ‘that she really didn’t know the value of the Childe Hassam painting. But what really gets my goat is the comment she made that Evie had bought it at one of those “starving artist” motel sales. It was too much.’

  ‘Not an honest mistake?’ Mattie asked.

  ‘Please, the frame alone is worth a few thousand dollars. Someone who knows nothing about art could tell the picture has value. Mildred knew what she was about . . . Her behavior speaks volumes of her character and business practices. She thought nothing of cheating people. So what do you think about McElroy’s murder?’ she asked, switching back to the topic that had the town buzzing.

  The detective shook her head.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked, figuring Mattie to be in her late thirties, maybe early forties.

  ‘It’s been a long and gristly morning,’ she admitted. ‘After I finish here, it’s back to work.’

  ‘On a Sunday?’ I asked.

  ‘That’s the nature of homicide. Even taking lunch isn’t something I normally do. I just wanted to clear my head, and also try to get a better sense of this town. You two are actually being quite helpful with that.’

  ‘You just do murders?’ Ada asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s amazing,’ I said, and then I don’t know why, but I blurted. ‘Not the most girlie of professions.’

  ‘Yeah.’ She laughed. ‘It’s still mostly for the boys, but that’s changing.’

  ‘Men get upset,’ Ada interjected, ‘when we move into territory they think is theirs.’

  ‘Exactly.’
<
br />   ‘But, Ada,’ I said, ‘you managed Strauss’ for years.’

  ‘Yes, but Harry got the credit. I was the woman behind the man.’

  ‘Are you talking about the department store?’ Mattie asked.

  ‘Yes, although it’s no longer Strauss’,’ Ada explained.

  The detective tucked a stray curl behind her ear and looked at Ada. ‘My mother used to take us back-to-school shopping at Strauss’ in Hartford. That’s a blast from the past. She’d have us all wear matching red knit hats so that we wouldn’t get lost.’

  ‘Our back-to-school sale,’ Ada said, ‘was a major event. We’d hire extra security guards. More often than not fights broke out over the silliest things. That and the yearly wedding-gown sale. Both of which, I might add, were my ideas. And I don’t mean to sound bitter, but Harry always took the credit.’

  ‘That sucks,’ said the detective, and then, with a sheepish smile added, ‘sorry.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I assured her. ‘We’re not as genteel as we look.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ada with a twinkle that warned of an impending pun. ‘Some of us aren’t gentile at all.’

  We all ordered the prime rib with assorted sides. Considering her cholesterol issues I wanted Ada to have the roast chicken, but she would have none of it.

  ‘Pheh,’ she said. ‘I can have chicken at home, and if a piece of prime rib is going to tip me over the edge, then it’s time to go.’

  ‘You don’t look like you’re ready to go anywhere.’ Mattie said. ‘In fact you two don’t really look like the rest of the residents I was meeting at Pilgrim’s Progress. They all seemed much . . .’

  ‘Older?’ I offered. ‘It’s a retirement community, supposedly for the “active adult”. At least that was the idea when they developed it some thirty years back.’

  ‘So what happened?’ Mattie asked.

  ‘The people who bought in twenty and thirty years ago never left. And there’s a huge difference between a group of people in their mid to late fifties and sixties and those in their eighties, nineties and beyond. So the targeted “active adults” are getting increasingly less active.’

  ‘Interesting, and what happens when someone can’t take care of their own place anymore, is there like a nursing home piece?’ Mattie asked.

  ‘No,’ I explained, ‘you’re thinking of a life-care facility, or even assisted living.’

  ‘The difference?’

  ‘In a nutshell,’ Ada said, ‘and I’ve become something of an expert on the topic, if you get sick at Pilgrim’s Progress, you’re on your own. In a life-care facility, if you get sick, they move you from your apartment to a nursing home within the complex. Right now I’m thinking about buying into one for my mother, and it is hugely expensive, and on some level I think it’s a giant rip off.’

  ‘Local?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s down the road from Pilgrim’s Progress: Nillewaug Village.’

  ‘Is it nice?’

  ‘Very,’ Ada said. ‘Kind of like a tarted-up nursing home, where people get the illusion of having their own apartment.’

  ‘Do a lot of people move from Pilgrim’s Progress to Nillewaug?’ Mattie asked.

  ‘A fair number,’ I admitted.

  The detective stared at her plate, clearly following some inner trail. ‘And they can move all their stuff with them?’

  ‘To an extent,’ Ada said. ‘The apartments are small, so downsizing is almost a given.’

  ‘Interesting,’ Mattie said. ‘So how would someone trim down?’

  ‘Are you kidding?’ I asked. ‘This place is antique central. You have dozens, maybe hundreds of dealers hungry for fresh merchandise. And then there’s always McElroy’s auction; of course you’d better be in the room for the sale.’ I winced as the words left my mouth. ‘Of course, now . . . I don’t know. Oh, God!’

  Mattie caught my gaff, her look was intense. ‘McElroy wasn’t honest?’

  ‘McElroy has . . . had a bit of a reputation,’ Ada interjected. ‘I don’t know if it was true, but an ounce of prevention . . .’

  ‘So if you were at the auction, there was no way he could underpay you?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Did many people know this about him?’

  ‘It’s endemic,’ I said, realizing how little Mattie knew about our local antique industry. I also felt a wave of sadness and loss, not that I particularly liked Carl McElroy, but his auction, which had been started by his father was part of the rhythm and lifeblood of Grenville. ‘Auctioneers have a reputation for not being the most scrupulous people. Although I am sure there are exceptions. In some ways, it’s one large horse sale, where the message of the day is “buyer beware”.’

  ‘And seller beware too, apparently,’ Mattie added. ‘But other than misrepresenting the merchandise, or out-and-out underpaying the consignor, are there other scams?’

  ‘You have all afternoon?’ I asked. ‘After a while you pick up on the various games; it’s like theater.’

  ‘Give me a for instance.’

  ‘OK, there’s something called an auction reserve, and basically that’s a price below which the consignor doesn’t want to sell their item.’

  ‘That seems fair, sort of a stop-gap.’

  ‘It’s perfectly fair, if you tell everyone that there are reserves. But what a number of auctioneers do, including McElroy, is buy back items using plants in the audience if they think the prices are too low. The shills keep bidding until some agreed upon price is reached, and then they stop.’

  ‘How can you know that?’ she persisted.

  ‘You get a feel for it. That, and you see an item that supposedly sold the week before going back across the block a couple months later. McElroy would make some lame excuse like the buyer never paid for it, or they wanted to flip it for a quick profit, but you know it’s not true. Most of the time he wouldn’t say anything.’

  ‘But why do that for some pieces and not for others?’

  ‘That’s easy,’ I explained. ‘If it was a consignor’s piece, he wouldn’t do it; he gets his fifteen or twenty percent cut, regardless. But a lot of times McElroy would gamble with his own money and buy out estates. So he owned the merchandise outright.’

  ‘I see, but wouldn’t people get suspicious?’

  ‘I’m sure the dealers knew what was going on, but as long as it was only a small portion of the merchandise, no one would say anything. McElroy was a major supplier. If you raised a fuss, he might cut you off. Auctions are funny things. There is a lot of room for mistakes. Maybe he didn’t see your bid, or maybe he says, “sold”, right as you’re trying to get your hand up.’

  As we started in on our meals, I could see Mattie mulling the information. She stared at her thick slab of prime rib and poked at its center with her knife. I suppressed an urge to tell her not to play with her food.

  ‘What is it?’ I finally asked, thinking how in many ways she reminded me of my no-nonsense daughter Barbara.

  ‘You said McElroy used plants to buy back merchandise.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You’re sure of that?’

  ‘Fairly, but I couldn’t say a hundred percent.’

  ‘Who would he use?’ she pulled a small spiral notebook from her back pocket.

  Suddenly, I became aware that our table was the focus of much interest. As I looked around, I caught a number of speculative looks from the post-church crowd.

  ‘Like I said –’ lowering my voice – ‘I can’t be certain, but there was something going on with Pete Jeffries and Salvatore Rinaldo. I couldn’t say exactly.’

  ‘Don’t forget Rudy,’ Ada added.

  ‘Rudy?’ Mattie asked.

  ‘Rudy Caputo,’ Ada clarified. ‘You know he still hasn’t gotten back to me. He was supposed to give me a quote sometime in the middle of the week.’

  ‘So how was this Rudy involved?’ Mattie asked, while scribbling names and bits of ideas.

  ‘Whenever Rudy was at the auction,’ Ada expla
ined, ‘he would leave with a good hunk of the furniture.’

  ‘You think he was buying back his own things?’

  ‘No, not that,’ she continued. ‘But I did wonder if he might have had some special arrangement with McElroy. In retail, if you want to beef up your profit margin, buy in bulk. Maybe McElroy gave him a kickback at the auction . . . or what if Rudy gave him a percentage of his sales?’

  ‘And you say he hasn’t gotten back to you?’

  ‘No,’ Ada remarked, a horrified look on her face. ‘You don’t think . . .? Oh, God! First that Potts woman and then . . .’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Mattie commented and then pushed back from the table. ‘Ada, Lillian, I’ve really enjoyed meeting both of you, but I should get back to work.’

  ‘You’ve barely touched your meal,’ Ada protested.

  ‘I don’t seem to have much of an appetite.’

  ‘Occupational hazard?’ I asked, finding that the bloody slab of meat in the center of my plate was looking less and less attractive.

  She pulled out her wallet and left a twenty under her plate. ‘That should cover it.’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ I said. ‘We’ll take care of it.’

  ‘I can’t do that,’ said Mattie. ‘You two have been very helpful. Would it be OK if I called on you if I had any questions? And please, call me immediately if Mr Caputo calls.’

  ‘Of course,’ Ada said, speaking for us both.

  ‘I’d appreciate it,’ she said, her voice low. ‘I find myself on the outskirts here.’

  ‘Grenville is very pretty,’ I said, matching my tone to hers. ‘But don’t let that fool you. There’s a lot below the surface, and we tend to be careful around strangers.’

  After Mattie left, we had them doggy bag our mostly uneaten entrées, and ordered crème brûlée and tea.

  ‘Nice woman, Hispanic, I think.’ Ada commented, while breaking the caramel topping. ‘No wedding ring, either. I wonder if she’s out of her element in Grenville.’

  I was about to respond, when I noticed a look of consternation on Ada’s face. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Oh no,’ she muttered while twisting up the right side of her mouth.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t believe I just did that.’ She produced something small and white on the tip of her tongue.