A disgruntled Waldo Hendricks was saying, “Let’s get on with it! I closed my business for the afternoon and drove down here for an auction, not these ludicrous theatrics.”
“Yes,” said John Anderson, “where is the cornet?”
“Confound it!” Mother roared, and everybody blinked. “I will ask the questions. The cornet will be revealed in due course.”
Milton sneered at her. “I don’t mean to interrupt your audition for the loony bin, Vivian—but what is the chief of police doing at this auction?”
Until now, no one had seemed to notice Brian standing quietly in the back corner; now they all craned their necks, Travis Taylor looking especially nervous.
“Silence!” Mother said. She looked at Hendricks. “Despite your impertinence, sir, the auction will begin shortly”—her slit-eyed gaze went to Anderson—“at which time the cornet will be produced.” And to Milton, “Acting Chief Brian Lawson is here to safeguard the valuable antique that brings all of you under my roof.”
Sufficiently scolded, the men fell silent.
Mother sat forward. “Before the auction begins, however, I feel it best to dispense with the elephant in the room.”
Travis said, “You mean them yellow jammies?”
“No, sir! The murder of Big Jim Bob. We cannot have a murderer bidding on Bix’s cornet—that would be neither dignified nor proper. So before we get to that, gentlemen, I will reveal who among you murdered Big Jim Bob ... the same miscreant who broke into this house and assaulted my daughter ... and possibly killed Anna Armstrong.”
The guests began talking all at once: “This is preposterous,” “I don’t have to stay here and be insulted,” “I’m leaving,” and so on. All but James Lawrence, who seemed to be delighted by the afternoon’s entertainment.
“Silence!” Mother bellowed again. “You can do this here with me, or down at the station with the constabulary. Isn’t that correct, Mr. Lawson?”
Nice detail on Mother’s part—Wolfe always called Inspector Cramer “Mr.” Cramer during his charades.
“We can do that,” Brian said.
Travis snarled back at him, “You ain’t got no call to detain me.”
“Don’t I?” Brian said, underplaying his line in a manner that might have been instructive to Mother, if she were capable of instruction. “Perhaps you’d like to explain what you were doing in Jim Bob’s cottage yesterday?”
Travis thrust a finger at Mother, then at me. “Them two was there before me!”
I said, “We’re not suspects.”
A pall fell over the library. The guests now knew: they were not guests at all.
They were suspects.
Skinny Travis seemed almost pouty as he said, “Fine. I’ll stay as long as the beer holds out. Anyway, I got nothin’ to hide.”
“Good to hear,” Brian said with an easy smile. His eyes traveled from suspect to suspect. “Can I assume everyone else here also has ‘nothin’ to hide’? If you’re really interested in the auction, you might as well just sit back and enjoy the pregame show.”
When no one responded, Mother announced, “Then I shall proceed.” She leaned back in the chair, tenting her fingers again. “Each one of you had both opportunity and motive for the aforementioned offenses. With your forbearance, I will explain why everyone here is, as Archie, uh, Brandy has pointed out, indeed a suspect ... beginning with you, Milton Lawrence.”
When the millionaire once again began to protest, Mother barked, “I reiterate, this can take a short amount of time, or a much longer, protracted one, should you insist upon these continual interruptions!”
Milton fell silent, and Mother continued.
“You, sir, were aware that Anna Armstrong had possession of the valuable cornet because your son Stephen had informed you of the fact before departing for Vietnam. Whether or not you approved of his entrusting the cornet to his sweetheart is unimportant, but at some point—possibly after Stephen’s death—you desired it back. Did you also come to desire her as well, sir? And did she rebuff you on both accounts? And then did your love turn to homicidal hatred?”
Milton was leaned forward so far, he practically made a right angle. “That’s preposterous!”
“Quiet! I have not yet finished. When you discovered the cornet was not in Anna’s apartment, you surmised it must be in the storage unit she rented near Serenity. You made your way there only to find the contents had been sold. You argued with Big Jim Bob—accusing him of chicanery—and then, sir ... you killed him, after learning who had purchased the possessions. And so you came here—to my house—to steal the cornet under the cover of night. Unfortunately, my daughter, Peggy Sue, interrupted your search, and you tried to silence her, much as you had Big Jim Bob.”
“Vivian, you’re a fool,” Milton said. “This is slander! I will sue you into next month—”
“Sir, I do not accuse, I merely speculate.”
“The hell!”
Mother, unfazed, gestured with an open palm. “If Mr. Lawrence insists upon his innocence, then who did commit these foul deeds?”
She leveled her gaze on John Anderson.
“You, sir, were also in love with Anna, but the affection was not reciprocated. And when she was visited by Milton Lawrence—a man who could offer her wealth—you became incensed, not only because you loved her, but because she had offered to bring him into your bed-and-breakfast enterprise. You realized that if this were to transpire, the two of them could tip the balance of power regarding any business decision. And so, one night, you confronted her. There was an argument, and you killed her, making your brutal deed look like a burglary.”
Anderson was flabbergasted. “That’s a damn lie!”
Mother continued unflustered. “You wished to find the historic, valuable cornet she had gone on and on about—it might prove a real asset to the Beiderbecke bed-and-breakfast. You knew it was in the storage unit because Anna had mentioned as much, and so you drove there, only to arrive too late for the auction, parking your white van on the highway, watching as we loaded up some of the murdered woman’s belongings.”
Anderson shifted in his chair. “I do have a white van, and I did arrive late, and watched from a distance. That hardly makes me a murderer. I agree with Mr. Lawrence—you are flirting with slander, Mrs. Borne.”
“One cannot be sued for speculation!” Mother pressed on. “And so you followed us home, broke in at night, mistook another cornet for the Beiderbecke horn, and—upon encountering my daughter—struck her a blow upon her head.”
Anderson spoke a single though compound word, its literal meaning related to what the horses had done on the Playhouse stage. Its figurative use was more pertinent.
“Still later that night,” Mother said, narrowed eyes on Anderson, “you discovered your mistake, and returned to the storage unit where you hoped to find the real cornet among the boxes remaining there, and—”
“Don’t tell me,” Anderson interrupted acidly. “Big Jim Whozit caught me snooping around and I killed him.”
“So you admit it!”
“No, I don’t admit it!” Anderson snapped. “I didn’t kill anybody. I not only did not kill Big Jim, I never met the man! The only thing you’re getting right—apart from me showing up at the storage unit that morning—is that I indeed was in love with Anna. And Anna ... I believe she loved me, as well.”
Silence draped the room.
“Satisfactory,” Mother said. She looked at Waldo Hendricks. “And now for you, sir.”
Hendricks smirked. “I suppose you’re going to claim that I was in love with Anna Armstrong.”
“Quite the opposite,” Mother said evenly. “You hated the woman. She rejected your offer to buy the cornet at what I would assume was a ridiculously low price—apparently you were unaware she knew its true value. Additionally, she was planning to open another Beiderbecke attraction at the bed-and-breakfast, which would overshadow your own museum with the addition of the cornet.”
“Let me
see if I have this straight,” Hendricks said archly. “I broke into her apartment, killed her, went to the storage unit, saw you there, broke into your house, hit your daughter, went back to the storage unit, and killed Big Jim. Did I leave anything out?”
Mother stared. “In a matter as serious as murder, sir, it hardly pays to be flippant. These are very real and serious allegations.”
“You’re a moron,” he said.
“That, sir, is a matter of opinion!”
She shifted uncomfortably, a little thrown.
“Travees Taylor,” Mother said, and I realized she was lapsing into a French accent, “you had ze best motif for the killing of Big Jim Bob—ze former part-nère of yours in Texas, where together you engage in ze des-rep-you-ti-ah-bull bizness practiss ... until you discover zat your friend, he has been swindling you.”
“Mother!” I said. “Not Poirot. Wolfe. Not French ...”
“Belgian!” she roared, but back in her Wolfean bellow, anyway.
God help us if she lapsed into Charlie Chan.
Travis, not knowing what to make of Mother’s shift in characterization, seemed really rattled. On the other hand, several people were covering their faces with their hands. I was one of them.
“After Big Jim Bob fled Texas, sir, you tracked him here. When confronted, he offered to cut you in on his storage unit racket, by way of making amends for his prior financial transgressions against you. But you wanted cash, and you wanted it now, and this he claimed he didn’t have. There was an argument and it escalated into violence. Sir, you killed him with a steel cutter, but not before he told you of a valuable cornet, and where it could be found. The rest you know.”
“What was that French part about?” Travis asked, perplexed.
John Anderson frowned, apparently having followed Mother, alternating accents or not. “Where does Travis here fit in with Anna?”
Mother shrugged. “In that scenario, she doesn’t. Her death remains a tragic loose end.”
“An extra murder,” Anderson said, “is a pretty major loose end, don’t you think?”
“It is called the art of deduction, sir,” Mother announced huffily. “Not the science! I must leave something for Chief Lawson to do.”
James Lawrence uncrossed his legs. “Well, then, Mrs. Borne ... that leaves me. I can hardly wait to hear how I did it.” He laughed, shook his head, even slapped his knees. “Vivian, you haven’t changed one iota in all these years.”
“Thank you, dear,” Mother said, without any Wolfe. Then she reverted to faux Rex Stout: “I have saved the best for last. For you have the most unusual motive—neither jealousy nor greed, not even profit ... but sentiment. A desire to have something that had meant so much to your brother—the cornet—and which Stephen had promised to give you when he returned from the war ... even though Anna had possession of it for safe-keeping.”
James’s expression of cynical amusement faded.
“The cornet,” Mother said, “represented to you the last vestige of Stephen—a brother you loved and admired and lost—and your guilt for running away from an obligation which he heroically—”
“Stop it!” Milton was on his feet again. “Leave the boy alone. He had nothing to do with any of this.”
Mother blinked. “Is that an admission of guilt, sir?”
“Certainly not!” And the millionaire sat.
Mother eyed the old man. “Very well. I’ve said my piece, and now all that remains is for the murderer to be taken away in irons.”
I blinked. That was it? She had just accused everybody in the room except Brian and me of murder!
Anderson taunted her. “So then, which of us did it, Mrs. Borne? Where’s your proof for any of these accusations?”
“Yeah, lady,” Travis parroted, “where’s your damn proof?”
Mother sat back, folded her hands over her yellow-silk-clad tummy. “Gentlemen, I have no proof.”
This brought an outpouring of outrage. I closed my eyes.
Mother raised a finger. “But ... each of these scenarios is viable. And I do have a key witness, who indeed can identify the murderer.” She swiveled to me. “Archie!”
I gave her a look.
“Brandy! Bring her in.”
I left my little metal desk, disappeared from the room for a minute, then returned with our surprise witness in my arms.
Sushi.
“That’s your witness?” asked Milton, incredulous.
“A dog?” said Anderson.
“Preposterous,” spat Hendricks.
Travis howled as if he were the pooch.
But James Lawrence, twitching a smile, said, “This could be interesting.”
Brian spoke from his corner. “While this may be a little unorthodox, the dog did come into contact with the burglar, who we believe to be the killer. She is, in fact, an eyewitness to the events in this house that night.”
I put Sushi down in front of the semicircle of suspects.
Hendricks scoffed, “Look at those eyes! Your eye witness isn’t just a canine—the thing is blind. How’s that going to—”
“Quiet!” Mother said. “The animal has a great sense of smell.”
“Sushi,” I commanded. “Find the killer.”
In response, her little button nose began to twitch, and the unseeing eyes moved slowly from Milton Lawrence, to John Anderson, to Waldo Hendricks, to Travis Taylor, and finally, James Lawrence. One at a time, she trotted over to each guest and sniffed. It was beautiful, as if we had choreographed it—just perfect.
Except she didn’t stop at any one of them.
“Sushi?” I prompted.
She turned toward me, yawned, returned to centerstage, scratched her side with a hind leg, then lay down and started licking a paw.
I looked at Mother, who stared back, chagrined. How could the little mutt do this to us? At least we had the fingerprints on the glasses to fall back on... .
A voice spoke from the library doorway. “Excuse me—did I miss the auction?”
Lee Hamilton was sticking his head in.
“I got back as soon as I could,” Milton’s assistant said.
And suddenly I got a whiff of the same thing Sushi did: a strong scent of men’s cologne.
With a vicious little growl, Sushi scampered to her feet, and made a beeline for Lee, sinking her sharp little teeth into his ankle, hanging on with all her might, while Lee, yelping, tried to shake her off, doing an awkward one-legged dance.
Mother was on her feet, pointing. “There’s your killer! Arrest him, Chief Lawson.”
I had moved to pull Sushi off of Lee, but she had already dropped off him like a swollen tick, teeth dappled red.
“Are you all right?” I asked him disingenuously.
“No, I’m not all right!” Lee shouted.
“Good.” I kicked him in the other leg. “And that’s for Peggy Sue.”
He fell backward against the French door, and in a nice piece of luck, pressed his hand to the glass.
Fingerprints.
While everyone watched in astonishment, Brian took Lee’s arm. “I think we need a little talk down at the station.”
Lee, trying to shake himself free, protested, “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Oh, but you are,” Brian said, asserting his grip. “You can call your lawyer from there.”
I glared at Lee as I pointed to Milton Lawrence. “Did you do all this for him? Were you just carrying out your duties as usual, Lee?”
He spoke two words, neither worth reporting.
I realized Milton Lawrence was at my side. His expression was crestfallen. Then he said to me softly, “I swear I had nothing to do with this. And I have no idea why Lee would betray me so, after all these years of loyal service.”
Then, astoundingly, Lee blurted the same two words at his employer. But now Milton’s righthand man had tears in his eyes.
Escorting his suspect out, Brian looked over his shoulder, caught my eye, then nodded pointedly at the doo
r where Lee had touched the glass. Brian wanted that protected.
And Archie Goodwin knew just what to do.
The auction, which took place after a brief recess, was anticlimactic in light of what had just transpired.
Travis Taylor decided to book it, before getting booked himself; but the others stayed. After an examination of the cornet and the papers by the bidders, the auction was over quickly, both John Anderson and Waldo Hendricks dropping out early, no match for the wealthy father and son.
Then Milton conceded to James—on purpose, I think.
How much did Bix Beiderbecke’s cornet go for, you ask?
A lot. But the amount doesn’t matter, because Mother announced then and there that the money would be donated to various charities that would help Serenity’s less fortunate—allowing, however, for Peggy Sue’s hospital bill, Sushi’s vet expenses, a winter wardrobe for me, and some new bridgework for Mother. Apparently her teeth had been killing her lately.
“But you know me,” she said, smoothing her yellow pajamas. “I’m not one to make a big production out of it.”
As the group dispersed, Milton approached James.
“I guess that leaves me without a ride.”
James nodded. “I’d be happy to drive you home, Dad. But I haven’t had lunch yet. Maybe you’d care to join me? We have some ... catching up to do.”
“Yes we do, and I could eat.” He touched his son’s arm. “And the check’s on me, son ... considering what you just spent.”
Nice, huh?
A Trash ‘n’ Treasures Tip
In a small town, winning a storage unit auction may become troublesome if a friend or neighbor discovers you are selling their possessions. Mother has on numerous occasions allowed sentimental objects to be bought by relatives—at a modest price.
Chapter Twelve
Disposable Income
Mother: Lest there be any quibbling over who is best disposed to write the concluding chapter of this real-life mystery, let me remind one and all (Brandy) that it was Vivian Borne who talked her way into the county jail the morning after our gathering of the suspects; yes, Vivian Borne who visited Lee Hamilton, and drew from him an explication of why and how he committed these reprehensible acts.
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