by Liz Bradbury
“What do I have on it?” she called back. Clearly she didn’t want to expose herself to the cold by standing and shedding her blanket. Shopping through this market would take us about forty minutes, but this woman was probably going to have to endure this until about ten or eleven a.m., when most people would pack up for the day.
Kathryn looked at the tiny hang tag on the piece. “You have twenty-five on it.”
“Cash?”
Kathryn nodded.
“I can let it go for twenty.”
“I’ll take it, thanks,” said Kathryn, handing the woman the money.
“May I see it?” I asked as we stepped away from the table. I looked at it with the loupe I carry in my pocket. “It looks like real gold,” I said quietly.
“How can you tell?”
“Well, you look at the very tip of the pin to see if the gold plate has worn off. If it’s old and it’s plated, then darker metal will show at the point. This looks all gold to me. Good for you,” I said softly.
Kathryn smiled and squeezed my arm, then opened her bag, found an old business card and pierced the pinpoint through it, then wrapped it in a paper towel.
I could see Farrel in a pavilion, shifting the contents of one of the auction box lots. At 8 a.m. the on-site auctions would begin and all the boxes would be sold very quickly. Dealers used the auctions to turn the dregs of their inventory into a little cash. There was rarely anything good in the boxes, but once in a while an excellent buy would turn up. I hoped Farrel didn’t find anything she wanted to bid on though, because 8 a.m. was almost an hour and a half away, and I was hoping I’d be somewhere warmer by then.
“Lots of empty booths. Is it always like this?” Kathryn and I were passing several wooden tables with nothing on them but frost.
“It’s what? Twenty-two degrees? This is probably the worst day of the year to be here. On summer days the place is packed.”
We came upon a double booth with full tables of a variety of real antiques. The vendor was still hauling out merchandise for sale. His huge brown coat had the furry quality of a matted old stuffed animal. As a matter of fact, it looked more like he was wearing an old bear costume rather than a plain coat. His hair was a cross between dreadlocks and Albert Einstein. He’d accessorized with a red and white striped scarf.
My inner monologue said, Where’s Waldo? He was eaten by a bear.
Farrel joined us. She said, “I know this guy. He’s not your man.” She picked up a pair of dull silver-colored rings, covertly eyed them with her jeweler’s loupe, then called to the dealer, “What can you do on these napkin rings?”
“For the pair?” growled the dealer.
“Yes.”
“Two twenty-five.”
“Can you take two bucks?” Farrel asked.
When he nodded, Farrel pulled out her wallet and gave the shag-carpeted man two one hundred dollar bills. He reached in his pocket with a frost-reddened hand, pulled out a huge roll of money and wrapped the Benjamins around it.
I heard Kathryn murmur a question to Farrel, and Farrel’s quiet one word response. “Tiffany.”
Near us was a pile of cast iron waffle irons, corn bread molds, and Dutch ovens. Kathryn uncovered two large black frying pans. She leaned in to me and said, “I think we should get a cast iron pan. Jesse uses hers for making corn bread and roasting vegetables. Do you know about the quality of these things?”
“Some. From the black patina, you can tell they’ve been well seasoned. They’re both heavy and thick. That’s good. Flip them over and read the maker’s names.”
Kathryn used two hands to turn each one over. “Um,” she said peering closely at the embossed logos on the bottoms. “This one says Wagner Ware and this one says... Griswold Erie PA. Wagner and Griswold. Oh! The cats!” She laughed deeply. “I get it!”
Farrel came over to look. She spoke quietly so the dealer wouldn’t hear. “The italic font of the Griswold company name in the large cross means it was made between the 1890s and about 1920. This Wagner Ware pan was made before 1922. Collectors like Griswold a bit more, but don’t mention it to our cats; we try not to play favorites.”
“Why do collectors like the Griswold pans better?” asked Kathryn.
“Mostly name recognition. Both of these pans were made when the quality was high for both companies,” Farrel said softly. “This seller is pretty savvy. He’ll charge more for the Griswold just for the name. So if you’re buying this pan to cook in, get the Wagner.”
Kathryn got the dealer’s attention and asked the price of both pans. Farrel was right. His price for the Griswold was twice that of the Wagner. Kathryn made a counter offer on the Wagner of eighteen dollars, which was accepted. Kathryn paid the man, put the black pan in a canvas bag, and slipped the bag over her shoulder.
Another customer asked about a Lionel train engine on the table.
The dealer mentioned a large price, but the customer was unfazed. He must have been an avid collector. He made a counter offer. I heard the dealer say, “OK, you can have it for that, but I want a hug too, otherwise no deal.” The customer said something else and the dealer shook his head.
I moved to the very end of the table to look at a pile of framed animation cels.
“I have authentication certificates for each of those,” called the dealer as the train collector hugged him.
“Maggie,” called Farrel, “see if there’s a Daffy.”
I knew Farrel already had a small collection of animation cels. These clear acetate sheets were generated by the thousands by animation artists, each one showing a slight movement and then photographed over a painted background. Jesse had given Farrel a cel of Bugs Bunny on Mars, as a present on Farrel’s birthday in the first year they were together.
I don’t talk about this much, but during the three years between the loss of my mother and the annexation of the Martinez family to my own, I spent each afternoon in front of the TV set watching a local small-town kids’ show stream ancient mind-numbing cartoons for hours. I sat transfixed, trying to absorb the silliness and reconstitute it as the armor I needed to block out sadness and loss. It was bizarre that the station was showing cartoons that were thirty years out of date, instead of the cartoons produced at the time. I suppose it had something to do with the lack of cable TV in that part of NY State.
Like most cartoon connoisseurs of any age, I liked the Warners’ best. I found the steely strength and mental fortitude of Bugs Bunny bracing and the sophisticated hysteria of Daffy Duck a hoot, but I loathed cartoons that featured moronic kids or redundant cat and mouse antics. Regardless, the memory of every one of them is etched in my brain.
I flipped through the cels on the table. No Daffy. These acetate paintings were all from 1950s and ’60s cartoons. Two images of Speedy Gonzales, a cartoon I’d always found racist even as a child, and one of the Parisian King of sexual harassment Pepé Le Pew.
There was also a Casper the Friendly Ghost cel. As a child I was morbidly fascinated with Casper. After all he was a ghost who could communicate and even hug his friends. But I was also constantly disappointed by the incredibly insipid story lines that never had a laugh, and there was always at least one scene where Casper cried from loneliness. How could anyone find that amusing?
Kathryn came to my side while I was holding the Casper cel.
“I never understood Casper,” she said idly. “He’s a dead child, people scream when they see him, and he has to save someone from certain death just to get a little cordial conversation. Can you imagine some writer pushing the story line to a network executive by saying, We’ll make it a comedy cartoon for kids? I liked Animaniacs.”
“They didn’t show Animaniacs in our neck of the woods. I didn’t get to see them until I was a grown-up.”
“Yes, well, neither did I,” she smirked. “What are these?”
“Um... this is Cool Cat with Colonel Rimfire. Rimfire was the antagonist. Cool Cat was a groovier version of the Pink Panther. I really liked Cool Cat.
He was just so... cool. I looked at the price for a minute and then put it down wistfully. “The rest of these are of Merlin the Magic Mouse and his sidekick Second Banana. Do you think less of me because I know this?”
“Do you think less of me after my theoretical discourse about Casper?”
“No, they were my sentiments exactly.”
“Do you think less of me because I didn’t recognize Cool Cat and Merlin? All I know is that Mel Blanc did all the voices,” mused Kathryn.
“Mel Blanc didn’t do these voices. He did most of the earlier Warner Brothers voices, but not these. He didn’t do these.” For some reason this hit me like a punch in the jaw. Why was it so important to me to communicate this? I did a mental tsk, tsk. I was still too wound up with these cartoons.
“I have to stay for the auction,” said Farrel joining us.
“Did you find something interesting to bid on?” asked Kathryn,
“May I see?”
Farrel nodded as I took a look around the entire frozen field and didn’t see anyone that could have possibly been the red-haired runner in the maroon sweatshirt.
“You and Farrel go and look at the auction lots. I’ll check the booths inside,” I said.
“Should we be watching for anything, Batman?” asked Kathryn evenly.
“Victoria.”
*******
It smelled like old grease and industrial cleanser in the block building. There was some heat but not enough to call it warm.
At the front of the large space were two rows of permanent dealer booths. In the far end of the building, a large open area was available for one day set-up at a slightly higher cost than the outdoor booths.
Dealers who set up in one day antique markets in the dead of winter don’t do it because it’s fun. They do it to make cash. They often shop the markets too. Getting good merch to sell takes a lot more time than actually selling it. Dealers scour other antique and flea markets, garage sales, auctions, and even dumpsters for items of value they can resell for more than they paid. Dealers buying for resale really score when the seller doesn’t know the real value of what they have, desperately needs cash, and doesn’t have much financial investment in what they’re selling. Frankie Kibbey fit that description. If someone else was now selling his merch, they were in the same boat.
My eyes adjusted to the dim light and there in the corner booth by the back door was a young dealer with ginger-red hair, wearing a maroon hooded sweatshirt and jeans.
I considered my options. It’s legal to make a citizen’s arrest when a person is in the commission of a crime, but though selling stolen goods is a crime, I didn’t have any proof his stuff was stolen.
Of course, Red was wanted for questioning in a murder case. Maybe I’ll just encourage him to come with me for a cozy chat with the police.
I meandered slowly down the line, pretending to be interested in booths along the way. I lingered at a booth full of antique postcards. Red was dragging a big cardboard box through a side door. He hefted it onto an undraped table, along with the three other boxes he’d already brought in. Each was uncovered and brimming with newspaper wrapping.
Red’s lack of Pesky experience was working to my advantage. Had he set up outside where the aggressive buyers were, they would have swarmed his boxes before first light and bought him out in the shortest possible time. Inside there was less action.
A few of the dealers in the building now wandered over to his table, so I was able to join the small crowd without spooking the mark. Red unwrapped items and called out the prices when people asked. I watched the action. He pulled out a hand-embroidered keepsake pillow. It was clearly 19th century. Two of the dealers asked how much.
Red said, “Um, like, twenty dollars, cash?”
One of the dealers rapidly tossed a twenty at him and took the pillow in exchange. As Red pressed the cash into his pocket, I got a good look at his face. He was young—couldn’t have been more than a teenager. Bright red hair. Curiously light blue eyes that were red rimmed and dark circled from lack of sleep. His most noticeable feature after his red hair was a pervasive look of fear lurking behind every one of his nervous expressions.
Customer service was not his forte. Red didn’t know how to encourage cash flow. He ignored the questions of customers and kept twisting around to glance out the door and around the room. All the while he didn’t realize his biggest problem—me—was standing right in front of him. This was exactly the way I wanted it.
Red pulled items out of his boxes and sold them slowly because he had no idea how much this stuff was worth. Things that Cora Martin would sell for $900 he was selling for $40. The low prices were making some of the potential customers nervous.
“Is it a repro?” asked one in disbelief.
I moved down the table peering at the still wrapped items. There were sculptural figures and drawings that were obviously by Victoria Snow. This was where it had to end, because though some of the objects of virtue were worth several hundred dollars, these items by Snow were worth thousands, and they surely belonged to someone other than this teenage desperado.
Time to act. I covertly pulled out my phone and texted Kathryn,
< Need backup bring farrel >.
This was going to be a trial by fire for Kathryn, but Farrel had pulled my bacon out of the broiler more than once.
My cell buzzed back, < OK >.
Red was making a short sale on some silver candlesticks that was causing the guy buying them to sob at his own luck. Red didn’t care. All he could see were the five twenties the customer was fanning in his direction.
I took out my P.I. badge and held it up. I shouted at Red, “The police have a warrant out for you for questioning on a murder, and I have reason to believe this merchandise has been stolen. You need to accompany me to the Fenchester Police Station.”
I scanned the dealers who’d made major scores. The few shady ones were ducking out side doors, their bargain-priced loot in hand.
Red’s head snapped up. He froze. The customer with the candlesticks dropped them on the table and snapped back his twenties.
Red tried for bravado but only managed a reedy squeak.
“Look, you’re wanted for questioning all over the state. Come with me to speak to the police. It really will be safer for you if you do it this way.” I said honestly.
In a weak spurt of misplaced self preservation, Red grabbed a beautiful enameled vase that was still partly wrapped in newspaper. It looked Austrian and valuable. As the newspaper wrapping dropped away, he threw it at me like a forward pass. The small crowd of antique dealers gasped. I caught it with both hands and carefully set it back on the table. The dealers cheered.
Red fumbled in his sweatshirt pocket and pulled out an old-fashioned straight razor. He slashed at me and then behind him at the other dealers in his way. They parted down the middle like a ’70s hairstyle and he ran between them. I tried to run after him, but I had to sidle past the tables. I leapt to catch up, as Red slashed at another shopper, nearly nicking her hand.
But there was no need for me to grab him. Outside the door, Kathryn swung her new Wagner frying pan like a baseball bat, whacking Red squarely in the back as he tried to brandish the razor again. He pitched forward, sprawling on the gravel.
He continued to slash out with the razor as he scrambled to get up again. I kicked the razor out of his hand.
A second later I was on top of him, whipping my handcuffs from my belt in the back and snapping them on his wrists. “I’m making a citizen’s arrest for attempted assault with a deadly weapon.”
*******
“I’m going with you,” Kathryn said after Farrel and I had dragged Red to his twenty-year-old minivan and pushed him through the side door and shoved the rest of his boxes alongside him.
“Kathryn, you should go with Farrel,” I said as she handed me the razor she’d picked up from the gravel a few feet from Red’s hand.
“Not negotiable. I’m coming with you. As a matter
of fact, I’m going to drive,” said Kathryn. She folded her arms and looked at me steadily.
I sighed as Farrel snorted. Farrel said in a stage whisper, “You don’t have a chance.”
Kathryn winked at me disarmingly.
“This is serious, Kathryn,” I said.
“I know. That’s why I’m driving. Don’t shake your head at me.”
It probably would be smarter to have her drive while I questioned Red. We’d have to take him straight to the police station and once we got there I wouldn’t have another chance to talk to him one-to-one. “Oh, all right. But wait outside for a few minutes.” I turned away from her and slid into the Chevy Astro with Red.
All the seats were gone except the driver’s. We had to use the sliding side door because the double back doors were tied shut with rusty wire and a chain with an old padlock that somebody had probably lost the key to in the last century. Dirt peppered the worn gray carpeting. Crumpled sheets of newspaper were ready to roll around like tumbleweeds when Kathryn took the wheel. Besides Red lying on his side, the Chevy held two used paint cans, an open cardboard box with a piece of painting tarp, some used paint rollers, and the four other dirty boxes that were filled with the fine antiques that Red had been underselling.
I pulled Red over on his back and got close to his face. In my best bad cop manner I growled, “You are going to lie quietly and behave yourself.”
He whined in a reedy voice, “Who are you? You want money? Take the stuff. The van’s a piece of shit, but you can have it too.”
“I’m taking you to Fenchester Police Headquarters, where you’re wanted for questioning in a murder investigation. You also just tried to slash a lot of people with a rusty razor, and that’s grounds for a citizen’s arrest just about anywhere. Why didn’t you just come with me?”
He squealed, “Police! Murder? Is it Frankie!?! Is Frankie dead? Oh shit. Oh no,” he sobbed.
“What’s your name?”
“I didn’t kill nobody.”
“I didn’t say you did. What’s your name?”
