The Doom Diva Mysteries Books 1

by Sherry M. Siska

  The rest of the night was uneventful. Tim was right, cold cream washed off most of the black stuff, although I still had a faint smudge on my left cheekbone that wouldn’t budge, no matter how hard I scrubbed. I drank one of John’s Heinekens, ate a tuna salad sandwich, and was sitting in the family room, contemplating another beer when Tim returned.

  “You really don’t have to stay,” I said.

  “Yes, Marty, I do have to stay.” He popped open a bottle of Heineken and slugged down about half of it. His eyes had a ‘don’t go there’ look, so I punched the TV on and flipped channels until I found a baseball game. We watched the game, had another beer each, ate potato chips, and managed to not talk to each other for about an hour. All that studied silence was killing me, so I finally just went on to bed.

  The next morning, I heard Tim and Charli gabbing, but I didn’t get up until Charli returned from the garage.

  “Can you believe he made me take the car in to have it checked out?” Charli said. She was dressed in exercise clothes and was doing yoga poses. “He knows there isn’t a thing in the world wrong with it and that the van’s in the body shop getting repainted this week. It’s like he wants us both to be without our vehicles.”

  I stifled a yawn. “Well, you gotta remember, this is Tim we’re talking about. First of all, it’s a point of honor thing with him. He knows that we know he doesn’t believe us, but he’s still going to pretend like he does. Second, you’re probably right about him not wanting us to have wheels. Knowing Tim the way I do, his thinking is that if we don’t have transportation, we’ll be less likely to cause him trouble.”

  Charli spread her legs apart and bent way over, so far that her nose almost touched the floor. “Guess he forgot about John’s truck.”

  “Guess he did.” I spread my legs apart and bent over too. My back rebelled and I had to use the coffee table to boost myself back up. “Crap, that hurts.”

  Charli stood up and offered me a full-blown smile. “No it doesn’t. You’re just it lousy shape. You really ought to take a class. Or I could loan you a video. I guarantee that within a few days of steady yoga practice you’ll feel like a new woman. It’s the best…”

  I hobbled off, headed for the shower. Charli was twisted up like a pretzel, still yapping away about how great yoga was for you, when I closed the bathroom door. After that we spent about an hour cleaning Charli’s immaculate house and then decided we’d head over to Sam’s antique shop since I didn’t have to be at the police station until two.

  We went out to the garage and climbed into John’s broken down monster of a truck; it’s ugly as sin, but the thing is his pride and joy. It’s about twenty-five years old, looks like it’s held together by rust and bondo, and, of course, it refused to start for us at first. It’s a three-on-the-tree so I had to drive. Charli is too little. She has to stand up to push in the clutch and shift and even then it’s a little iffy about whether or not she’ll find the gears. Her straight shift driving theory is from the grind ‘em ‘til you find ‘em school.

  The truck finally started with a pop and a bang and a few hisses. Charli cranked the radio up really loud so we didn’t have to listen to all the funky, worrisome noises the engine made. Tooling along in the truck, the wind (busted out driver’s side window) breezing through my hair, listening to Hank William’s Junior sing about his rowdy friends was actually sort of fun. Before long we were rolling into the parking lot beside Sam’s antique shop.

  “Okay, here’s the plan,” Charli said. “I’ll keep Sam busy. You ask him to use the restroom. It’s in the back, next to his storage room and the office. You snoop around and see if you can find anything that tells you what they’re up to.”

  I wasn’t especially keen on the idea of my being the one to have to do all the sneaking around, but Charli knows way more about antiques and stuff, so she could keep Sam busy yakking for hours.

  The antique shop was in an old white Victorian style house, you know, the sort with tons of gingerbread on it. There was a big porch across the front with lots of old wicker and pots of geraniums and other flowers sitting around. I suppose it was charming, in that shabby, chic sort of way, but it wasn’t my taste.

  We opened the front door and a little bell tinkled out a welcome. Sam had the place set up so that it resembled a real house, an eccentrically decorated and overly ostentatious one, perhaps, but still fairly homey. Dark oak-trimmed archways to the left and right of the foyer led to a living room and a dining room. Charli hung a left into the living room and gazed longingly at the ivory velvet covered antique parlor set Sam had showcased in the room.

  I followed her, trying unsuccessfully to stifle a sneeze. To cover up the musty smell bowls of thick smelling potpourri were stuck everywhere. It smelled like a cross between a funeral home and the perfume counter down at ‘Doggie O’Day’s Poochie Parlor’ pet grooming.

  Sam breezed in through a doorway at the rear of the room that was marked ‘private’. Charli gave a slight nod toward the doorway. I took it to mean that was the place I was supposed to check out.

  If Sam was upset over his friend being dead, he sure didn’t show it. He flitted toward us, his hands outstretched. “Martina! Charlene! What a lovely, delightfully delicious surprise. I’ll bet I know why you’re here. You want to look at this divine little parlor set again, don’t you, Charlene, dear?” He pronounced it ‘Shah-lane’.

  He twittered around us, getting much too close to me for my tastes. Twice he brushed against my chest, which totally grossed me out. Much more and I really would have to use his restroom. I listened to him prattle on and on about ‘Shah-lane’s exquisitely divine taste’ until I thought I was going to gag.

  “Excuse me, Sam, may I use your restroom?” No use wasting time, I figured.

  “Why certainly, Martina, dear. It’s right through there.” He waved me toward the doorway Charli had indicated.

  Right past the door there was a bathroom and what once was a bedroom or something but now served as Sam’s office. Opposite was a small, dark kitchen. Before I went into the office I cautiously opened the door that led to Sam’s storage area, which was an addition to the rear of the house. It was entirely different from the front. The storage room was stacked wall to wall with stuff. It was so jam-packed you could hardly get through.

  I squeezed between a metal shelf full of boxes of pool chemicals, brake fluid, lighter fluid, and drain cleaner, and a stack of shipping cartons to see what else was back there. Just more boxes and a couple of pieces of furniture. I peeked at the labels on several of the crates and saw that they had originated in Hong Kong, Singapore, and some other Asian places.

  That struck me as odd since I had been under the impression that Sam dealt only in high-quality American antiques with a few French and British things thrown in for good measure. I squeezed back through to the door and left the storage room for Sam’s frilly office where I quickly leafed through the sales slips on top of his desk. One was made out in Dicey’s name and was for an eight thousand dollar primitive cabinet. I was going to have to re-evaluate my interest in the legal profession. Or in antiquing. Eight grand would buy a lot of cat food.

  There wasn’t much else on the desk, only a few invoices from a wholesale company out of Boca Raton, Florida. They looked legit to me, but what do I know? I pulled open the top drawer of his file cabinet and was thumbing through the files when something interesting caught my eye. I pulled the file out and leafed through it. It was filled with clippings. The one on top was about some guy named Joe Redmond who was caught bilking an elderly neighbor in Greenwich, Ct. out of a small fortune in antiques about eight years ago.

  Before I could see what else was in the file, I heard Charli’s voice growing louder and louder. I shoved the file back into its spot, slammed the drawer closed, and darted over to the desk. Charli appeared in the office doorway. “There you are,” she said. Her voice was normal, but her face screamed out a warning.

  I yanked up the phone receiver and said, “Okay
, thanks. I’ll check back with you later,” into the mouthpiece just as Sam entered the office.

  I dropped the receiver into the cradle. “Sorry about that. I just remembered that I was supposed to call Dicey. It had completely slipped my mind. I hope that it’s okay I used your phone without asking, Sam. I tried, but couldn’t get a signal.”

  His eyes were unreadable. “No problem, Martina, dear. I wanted to show darling Charlene a photo of the fabulous Fenton lamp a dear friend of mine has for sale. It’s practically a steal at only two hundred dollars.”

  He perched on his plush, purple velvet desk chair and pulled open one of the desk drawers. Charli took the photo and studied it, remarking about how lovely the lamp was. I could tell she was forcing it, that she couldn’t give a flip about the dumb lamp.

  The whole time she was studying the picture Sam’s eyes were scanning his desktop, scanning the room, scanning my face. I tried to look relaxed and honest. Not like someone who’d been snooping around. Sam’s eyes lingered on the file cabinet and on the stack of invoices lying on top of the desk.

  “Sam, much as I love the lamp, I’ll have to think about it,” Charli said. She handed the picture back to him. “It would be so gorgeous in the dining room, but I’ve been thinking about redecorating and I’m just not sure. Well, Marty, we’d best be going. We don’t want to keep Sam, now do we? Sam, dear, thanks so much for your time. I’ll be sure to talk to John about the parlor set. It’s simply wonderful. I’ll get back to you one way or another. Thanks for your time, oh, I’ve already said that.” She gave a chuckle that sounded more like someone choking.

  She’d probably have kept on babbling, but I grabbed her arm, said ‘bye’, and practically dragged her out of the shop.

  I didn’t stop trembling until we were three blocks down the street. “That was too close for comfort,” I said. “I thought you were going to keep him busy out front.”

  “I tried. I talked about every stupid thing he has in the whole stupid place, but he just couldn’t wait to show me that stupid lamp. You know, Marty, you might have gone about it a little bit quicker.”

  We huffed and puffed at each other for a few minutes until I, being way more mature than Mom gives me credit for, said, “Okay. This is nuts. It’s not getting us anywhere. We’re forgetting the whole reason we did this in the first place.”

  “You’re right,” Charli said. “I’m sorry. So, what did you find out?”

  I told her about the boxes of stuff from Asia. About the wholesaler invoice papers and about Dicey’s purchase. “Other than that, nothing. I was just starting to look in the file cabinet when you two came back.”

  Charli seemed very concerned. “What would he be doing with boxes of stuff from Asia? That makes no sense at all. Unless he’s got some sort of sideline going. No. That can’t be it. You don’t suppose he’s importing fakes do you? No. No way. Sam’s too hung up on his reputation to do something sleazy like that.”

  Personally, I wasn’t so sure. “I don’t know, sis. I mean, what do we really know about Sam? He hasn’t lived here all that long. And there is that accent of his. Where did he come from? How can you be sure he’s legit?”

  Charli’s face colored. “I trusted him because Mom did. And Dicey. They both know tons more about antiques than I do. They’d recognize a fake.”

  “Are you sure about that?” I said it quietly.

  Charli shook her head slowly from side to side. “I guess it depends on how good the stuff is.”

  “How are we going to find out?” I said as I pulled the truck into Charli’s driveway.

  My sister pushed the garage door opener. “Maybe Mom can use her newspaper sources and…”

  I eased John’s truck into its parking spot, careful not to overshoot and smack into the garage wall. “No! I don’t want Mom involved. She’ll do her reporter thing, you know, go right up to Sam and ask him about it. I can hear her now.”

  “Wait, I’ve got a great idea,” Charli said. “We can talk to Ginger Murphy. All we have to do is ask her some general questions without mentioning Sam’s name.”

  Ginger is a pal of Charli’s. She works as an auctioneer and she’s a really nice person.

  “That is a great idea.” I checked my watch. “If she’s available we can go talk to her right now and still get back in plenty of time for my police interview.”

  Charli pulled her cell phone out of her purse. “I’ll call her and check.”

  Ginger works out of her home and since she was about to break for lunch, invited us to eat with her while we talked. I backed the truck out of the garage again and within five minutes we were pulling into the driveway of Ginger’s beautiful stone cottage.

  She met us at the door. “Lord a’mighty, but it’s hotter than a tamale out here.” She pulled her glorious mane of red curls up off her neck and fanned herself. “Y’all come on in the kitchen where it’s cool. Food’s almost ready.

  Ginger’s about thirty-five, with a china doll complexion to go with the red hair, and she has a lusty laugh that makes telling her jokes tons of fun. She’s dated the assistant police chief off and on since her husband cleaned out their bank accounts and ran off with a Hooter’s girl. She’s one of the kindest people I know, and, since she’s a gourmet cook, I was anxiously awaiting what was certain to be an awesome meal. I wasn’t disappointed.

  We made chit chat at the antique pine farm table while Ginger served us a delicious pasta salad, fragrant bowls of cold gazpacho soup, and fresh from the oven homemade yeast rolls. I must admit I almost made a pig of myself with those rolls. After a few bites, Charli told Ginger that we were doing some research on fake antiques.

  “I’ll try to help you,” Ginger said, “but keep in mind that my expertise is limited. I know more about furniture because that’s where my interest lies. Other things, like art, jewelry, porcelain, I don’t have as much knowledge of. I can tell you that I’ve personally been rooked a couple of times. I’d say that most everybody in the business has, and the ones who say different either haven’t realized it yet, or they’re lying.”

  I helped myself to another glass of the fresh brewed peach tea and a fourth roll. “If the experts can get fooled then how’s a regular person like say, Charli, how’s she supposed to know if she’s been ripped off?”

  “First, you’ve got to educate yourself,” Ginger said. “Learn as much about the area you’re interested in as possible. It helps to be a specialist since there’s so much to know. For example, I know a little about antiques, more about furniture, and the most about American made furniture of the eighteen hundreds. My friend Paul knows a little about art and a lot about Georgia O’Keefe.”

  My sister looked worried. “But that could take years. What if you see something you love, something beautiful that makes your heart sing?”

  Ginger’s face lit up. “If you find something you love, and it’s at a price you can live with, you should buy it if you can. That’s the best reason to buy something, Charli. The main thing you should do is to go to a reputable dealer, one who has a contract that states that if the item is found out to be not as represented, you can return it. Also, it’s not a bad idea to have your purchases appraised. A lot of folks skip that step because it costs them money. But if it saves you from getting ripped off, it’s worth every penny.”

  Ginger tapped her teeth and clicked her tongue like she was thinking. “Let’s see. What else was I going to say? That’s right, auctions. If you buy at auction, realize that most of the time, for less expensive stuff like I usually sell, it’s ‘caveat emptor’, let the buyer beware. I never represent something to be authentic unless I have the documentation to back it up.”

  Charli dabbed at her mouth with the green linen napkin. “How do you know if your dealer is reputable?”

  “Check him or her out,” Ginger said. “Ask around, check with the better business bureau, stuff like that. Most of the dealers around here are honest and reputable.”

  “Most of them?” I asked, my ear
s perking up.

  Ginger hesitated. “I don’t want to repeat unfounded gossip. Let’s leave it at this: I’ve heard rumors that a couple of local dealers are buying new merchandise manufactured in Asia and passing it off as true antiques.”

  “Who are they? Is Sam English one of them?” Charli asked.

  Ginger looked pained. “No. I’m really sorry, Charli, but I can’t, I won’t tell you who they are. I don’t know if it’s true. I don’t want to be responsible for ruining someone’s business if the rumors turn out to be just that. I probably shouldn’t even have mentioned it.”

  I appreciated her decision. “No, we’re glad you did. We understand about your not wanting to mention any names. What I’d like to know, though, is more about the ‘new’ antiques that they’re selling and about fake stuff in general.”

  Ginger served us each a crepe filled with chocolate mousse and topped with real whipped cream and slivered almonds. “Well, first of all with furniture you’re usually talking about stuff that’s been over-restored rather than out and out fakes. Sometimes it does happen that a person thinks they’ve got a valuable antique because that’s what their grandmother told them before she died, but it’ll turn out to be a reproduction.

  “With glassware, porcelain, stuff like that, that’s where you get into the more out and out fakes, items manufactured for the purpose of deceiving people. They’ll say that’s not true, but it is. There are factories located in several Asian countries that crank out these items and sell them to wholesalers in the US. They use techniques to make the items appear old; they use old molds with real hallmarks, stuff like that. It’s a surprisingly big industry. The wholesalers have catalogues available that you can order things from.”

  “And they can get away with this?” Charli said.

  “Yes. Because the only thing that’s required by import laws is that the items be labeled with country of origin. When the wholesalers sell to the dealers the items have labels showing ‘made in China’ for example, but most of the labels are just paper stickers and are really easy to scrape off.”