This earned him an elbow in the ribs.
“Ouch.”
“I am almost sorry.” Miss James reached out to caress the back of his neck. “Which antique store?”
His skin tingled under her touch. Suddenly, he could not remember the name of the business. “Belongs to a fella by the name of Briggs.”
Her hand stopped halfway down his neck. “Ralph Briggs—owner of The Compleate Antiquarian?”
“Yeah. That’s the place.” He watched the painted white line slip past the car. “You know Ralph?”
“I met him once, at a party.” She frowned at the Ute. “I understand that he shows his private collection only by appointment. To special friends.”
“Well, me’n Ralph are old buddies.” It went a bit deeper than that. Once upon a merry time, Charlie Moon and Scott Parris had done an interesting piece of work with Ralph Briggs. The process was not entirely legal, but, with the assistance of the antique dealer, a modicum of justice had been done. That had been back when he was still an officer with the Southern Ute Police Department—a long time before he’d gotten the title to the Columbine, and let the Southern Ute chairman Oscar Sweetwater talk him into doing part-time work as tribal investigator. He slowed the Expedition as they neared a blind curve, switched the headlights to low beam.
Miss James flashed a smile at her man. “I am terribly impressed that you are acquainted with Ralph Briggs.” She clasped her hands like a child about to look under the tree on Christmas morning. “I can hardly wait to see the inside of The Compleate Antiquarian. There are rumors that Briggs has three priceless Tiffany lamps from the collection of—”
“Sorry, you can’t come in.”
“What?”
“You’ll have to wait outside.”
There was a taut silence before she said, “Charlie—tell me that you are joking.”
Moon shook his head. “This is serious personal business. Between me and Ralph. But I’ll see if I can get you inside next time.”
“Golly gee, thanks a bushel and a peck.”
“Sounds like you’re a little upset.”
“I am not a little upset.” She pouted. “I am severely miffed.”
“So what do you do when you get severely miffed—throw a fit?” He reached across the seat.
She took his hand in hers. Put it on her knee.
Moon swerved, hit the shoulder, came within inches of taking out a Do Not Pass sign before he got the big car back onto the blacktop.
“You really should concentrate on your driving.” She offered this sober observation in the prim tone of a maiden who has very nearly been taken advantage of.
Moon was surprised to find both hands on the wheel. He remembered that it had been hilarious when SUPD officer Jim Wolfe had run off the road. Guess I had it coming.
The woman smiled. Charlie is such a darling man—and so terribly cute. “I still cannot believe you are such a brute. The very idea—leaving me sitting outside in the dark while you browse around in a fabulously exclusive antique shop with your old chum.”
It took him a few heartbeats to find his voice. “I won’t be doing any browsing. And it’ll only be for ten minutes, tops.” He took a deep breath. “Then we’ll go have a fine dinner.”
Miss James leaned over and whispered in his ear, “You still have not told me where.”
He adjusted the rearview mirror until he saw the oval of her face. “How about the Blue Light?”
“That sounds very nice.”
He had no doubt that it would be. It was a first-class joint. No one had been murdered there for almost a year.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
SERIOUS BUSINESS
Ralph Briggs was seated on a balloon-back rosewood chair, his knees under a Chippendale mahogany desk. The antiquarian was nattily attired in his customary work clothes—a three-piece gray wool suit, a pale blue linen shirt. A black bow tie was skillfully knotted at his collar; simple platinum links pinned his cuffs. He was quite the elegant figure—a fashion plate suitable for the cover of American Antique Dealer’s Monthly Journal. Except for one detail: Like Huck Finn lolling on the riverbank on a muggy August afternoon, Ralph Briggs was barefoot. This very deliberate man did nothing without a purpose; there was a sensible reason for the naked feet. The meticulously neat housekeeper had removed his shoes to avoid soiling the fabulous Kilim prayer rug under the chair. Likewise his socks, because he enjoyed the pleasantly rough texture of the carpet on his toes. Behind him, tastefully displayed on a splendid John Goddard tea table, a Matthew Norman carriage clock nibbled away the seconds. Taking no thought of the diminishing number of ticks and tocks allotted to him, Ralph Briggs inked numbers into a leather-bound ledger. He attended to his accounting as if time could be purchased like bread or wine. Presently, the task was completed. He raised the lid of a cherry box that concealed a small control console, pressed an ivory button. Within two beats of his heart, waves of the Budapest Strings began to wash over him in great, soothing sweeps. The enchanted dance of Schubert’s Ständchen carried him off to a distant, peaceful land.
Losing count of the golden minutes, Ralph Briggs sat with his eyes closed.
His reverie was interrupted by the throaty rumble of a V-8 engine, the crunching of seventeen-inch tires on gritty white gravel. He removed a priceless Abraham Louis Breguet timepiece from his vest pocket, stared at the elegant chronometer. Eight fifty-nine. It must be Charles. The droll Indian chap is a full minute early.
CHARLIE MOON switched off the ignition.
Miss James flashed a smile at her man. “You promise not to be too long?”
“I’ll be back before you know I’m gone.” He tarried for a moment, holding her hand.
THE FRONT of the antique shop was dominated by a fifteen-foot-wide plate-glass window. On each side of the large glazing was a narrow crank-operated ventilation window; each of these had been opened to allow a whiff of fresh air into the musty interior. Before the Ute had a chance to push the doorbell, Ralph Briggs opened the door. “Good evening, Charles.”
“Hi, Ralph.” Moon looked at the white man’s bare feet. “Business been that bad?”
“Do not be snide.” Briggs sat down on a nondescript three-legged stool, slipped on a pair of comfortable deer-skin moccasins, then got up to peer past the towering Ute. “Your major hug is in the car?”
“That’s main squeeze.”
“Do forgive my grammatical shortcomings. I must make a note to start hanging around pool halls and shopping malls so that I may master the vernacular.”
“You are forgiven. And by the way, Miss James is my only squeeze.”
“She is not coming in?”
“That’s right.”
“She doesn’t know what you’re up to, eh?” Briggs did not wait for a reply. “Well, I suppose she will find some way to amuse herself during your absence.” A twisting breeze stirred up the darkness. He squinted at the shuddering shadows cast by a congregation of quaking aspens, locked the door with a key.
Moon followed the proprietor of The Compleate Antiquarian past a carefully orchestrated array of furniture and glassware that suggested a posh Victorian parlor. Briggs stopped at a display case in the rear of the showroom, pointed. “There is the piece you have been lusting after. Allow me to say that I am both amazed and gratified that you exhibit such good taste.”
The Ute was quite familiar with the small treasure, but he leaned to get a closer look. Among a dazzling array of glistening pearls and bejeweled butterflies was The Ring. The eternal circle was purest gold, the setting a brilliant green oval.
“I have never seen a finer emerald.” Briggs said this in a reverent whisper.
Moon shot a sideways look at the fussy little man. “Ralph, I can’t afford to get in trouble with my sweetheart, so I gotta ask—you dead sure that’s the real McCoy?”
“No. I am a total charlatan, the setting is a piece of medicine-bottle glass, the ring is common brass.” Briggs arched an eyebrow as he removed the item from
the case, placed it on a small square of black velvet. “Frankly, I doubt you would know the difference. Though perhaps your fiancée would.”
“She’s not my fiancée yet.” Dismissing the worrisome thought that she might say no, Moon focused his attention on the ring. “You really gonna let me have this for a dollar?”
“That is correct.”
“And I don’t have to kill anybody?”
“That is optional. Your choice.” Ralph Briggs did not smile.
The tribal investigator searched the man’s face and found nothing there. “What’s this all about, Ralph?”
“During our telephone conversation, I mentioned the burglary of the Cassidy Museum.”
“Right. According to the newspaper account, the night crawler got away with a bunch of rare coins.”
“As well as a number of antique cameos. Though not of enormous monetary value, these baubles were very precious to Jane Cassidy. If you have kept up with the newspaper reports, you know that the wealthy lady has offered a reward of twenty thousand dollars for the return of the stolen goods.”
“That did catch my eye.”
Briggs’s smile curled the tips of his neatly trimmed mustache. “Here is a piece of information that was not reported by the media: Only a few hours after the theft, and perhaps thirty minutes after the public announcement of the reward, I received a most interesting telephone call. It was in regard to—”
The Ute raised a palm. “Wait—don’t tell me. Let me guess.”
“You have my express permission. Guess away.”
“Here’s what happened,” Moon said. “The masked guy with the bag called you, said he’d be glad to turn over the loot in exchange for the reward money.”
“That is precisely what happened.”
“Did you get a phone number on your caller ID?”
“Yes I did. It was a pay telephone in Pagosa Springs, a fact of which I have already informed the authorities. There were no useful prints found on the equipment—it had been wiped clean.”
“But he figured that a well-known dealer in old stuff like yourself would be just the right fella to arrange an exchange.”
Briggs sniffed. “To demonstrate the near-miraculous extent of my self-control, I will not express my overwhelming resentment of the phrase old stuff. But the caller evidently was aware of my reputation in the field of fine antiquities.”
Moon noted the scowl on the antiquarian’s face. “And this made you unhappy?”
“Please try to understand. While it would be quite a feather in my cap to facilitate the return of the stolen goods to the rightful owner, I did get a mite piqued when the rogue offered me ten percent of the reward as payment for arranging the exchange.”
The tribal investigator grinned. “You wanted a bigger cut?”
“Please, Charles, do not be flippant.”
Moon cocked his head. “You expect me to believe that for helping the rich lady get her stuff back—you would not accept a single greenback dollar?”
“I do indeed expect you to believe it. It is the unvarnished truth.”
“Try and convince me.”
“Charles, a man in my line of work cannot be seen to profit—even indirectly—from the commission of a felony. It would do irreparable damage to my reputation.” A smirk twisted his lips. “You, on the other hand…well, I suppose one need not state the obvious.”
MISS JAMES stared at the fascinating picture framed by the store window. Charlie and Mr. Briggs seem to be having a rather serious discussion. What could they be talking about?
MOON WATCHED the antiquarian’s eyes. “You want me to deal with the burglar. Set up the exchange of the loot for the reward money.”
Briggs nodded. “I do.”
“I can see why you don’t want to take a cut of the burglar’s payoff—but I expect you’ll want a split of whatever fee I might collect from the Cassidys.”
“Certainly not. Under no conditions would I accept a thin dime.”
The tribal investigator looked doubtful. “You really wouldn’t?”
Briggs shook his shiny-bald head.
“Not a buffalo nickel?”
“Not a ha’penny, my friend.”
“It makes me nervous when you call me ‘friend.’”
“I am deeply hurt by that remark.”
“Okay. I take it back. But tell me, Ralph—what’s in this for you?”
“Well, if you must know, Jane Cassidy uses a significant portion of her considerable wealth to purchase antiques. Alas, I have collected very little in the way of commissions from her over the years. Virtually all of her trade is directed to an odious fellow in Boston who shall remain nameless, and a similar upstart who runs a rather pretentious South Broadway shop in Denver. But if I could get in Jane’s good graces by seeing that her valuables are returned—well. Having refused any direct monetary remuneration for my services, I expect I would become Jane Cassidy’s fair-haired boy. Which might very well translate into annual profits in the five-figure range for many years to come. And with no risk whatever to my reputation. Quite the opposite, in fact.”
“Ralph, you are one clever guy.” Moon glanced at the small man’s moccasins. “And ethical all the way from the soles of your shoes to the skin of your feet.”
The canny businessman was about to make a tart reply, thought better of it.
“But I bet getting on the rich lady’s Christmas card list isn’t all you want.”
“You are surprisingly perceptive, Charles. What I want most of all is to see the thief rendered up to justice.”
Moon frowned at the antiquarian. “Aside from offering you ten percent to set up the exchange, this presumed burglar has done something else to offend you?”
Ralph Briggs hesitated, then said, “When I informed the caller that I would not act as an intermediary between himself and Jane Cassidy, the blackguard threatened me.”
The lawman adopted a professional tone: “What was the nature of the threat?”
“It was truly hideous, Charles. The scoundrel had the gall to suggest that if I did not assist him in this matter, he would see that the police got an anonymous tip—suggesting that I was implicated in the theft.”
Moon managed not to laugh.
Briggs glared at the annoying man. “You are smirking. Say what’s on your mind.”
“It occurred to me that maybe this thief knows you. By reputation.”
The little man bristled like a terrier about to make a lunge for the big dog’s throat. “And what precisely does that mean?”
“Well, Ralph—you have been known to purchase an item without worrying much about where it came from.”
Briggs closed his eyes, made a valiant effort to calm himself. “Not being so wonderfully perfect and pure as yourself, I may have occasionally made a slight error in judgment. But if I did, it was due to excessive enthusiasm when I was faced with the opportunity of acquiring a rare treasure, never with the conscious intent of professional misconduct. And I must add that it is unkind of you to make such allusions.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”
“Apology accepted.” Briggs sniffed to show his displeasure. “Now let us proceed with the business at hand.” He rubbed a finger across his immaculate mustache. “You can surely understand why I am determined to do everything in my power to see that the stolen property is returned, and the burglar dealt with. Severely.”
Somewhat chastened, Moon turned the thing over in his mind. “Okay. I think I see the lay of the land. But why would this rich lady agree to hire me to act as middleman between her and the guy who’s holding the loot?”
Briggs allowed himself a supercilious smile. “Aside from the twin facts that I trust you implicitly and am prepared to recommend you to Jane Cassidy as the right man for the job?”
“Despite the fact that I’m flattered senseless by your confidence, I’d like to know why I am Mr. Right.”
Briggs leaned on the display case. “What if I told
you that it is highly probable that the burglar is someone with whom you are acquainted?” It was apparent from the sparkle in his eye that he was highly pleased with himself. “In fact, I am virtually certain that I can name the person who called me.”
“Ralph, I’ve always been of the opinion that virtually is one of those fuzzy cocklebur words—hiding out there somewhere in that big weed field between dead sure and wild guess. So give me a probability—is this a seven-to-three shot, or something better?”
“Oh very well, if you insist on being so boorishly quantitative.” The antiquarian looked across the room, fixed his gaze on a magnificent ormolu candelabrum. From his pained expression, it was apparent that Briggs was involved in a difficult mental calculation. “Okay. I am ninety-seven percent certain that I can tell you the caller’s name.”
“Ninety-seven is a very agreeable number—in fact, I would go so far as to say it is prime.”
“Then I have your undivided attention?”
“I am hanging on your every word.”
“You will surely agree, my NBA-sized chum, that with the identity of the caller in your vest pocket, it would be a slam dunk for you to recover the Cassidy’s stolen property and collect the entire twenty-thousand-dollar reward. Think of it—where else can you get a deal like that?”
“There is a minor issue that causes one to pause.”
“Dear me, I hope you are not going to nitpick.”
“What if your caller doesn’t have the loot? This slicker may be holding an empty bag.”
“Even if this person is a hoaxter, you cannot lose.” Briggs pointed at the emerald ring. “To enlist your aid, I will have already sold you this fabulous piece of antique jewelry for the paltry sum of one dollar.” He removed a spotless handkerchief from his breast pocket, polished away a thumbprint Moon had left on the glass display case. “The trouble with you is that you worry too much.”
“Tell me why I shouldn’t worry, Ralph.”
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