Antiques Wanted

by Barbara Allan

  This time I moved my stool back behind Tilda, where I was out of range of that swinging necklace (in addition, I kept my thoughts focused on a pair of Jimmy Choo shoes I’d seen on Tradesy). Our hippie-ish hostess put Mother successfully under, with no other former life of hers or mine revealing itself.

  The following is a playback of the recording that Mother and I listened to in the car in front of Tilda’s house, twenty minutes later.

  Tilda: I wish to speak to Vivian Borne, and Vivian Borne alone. Is that understood?

  Mother: Yes.

  Tilda: Last week, at approximately two forty-five in the morning, someone entered your room at Sunny Meadow Manor.

  Mother: Yes.

  Tilda: I take you to the very moment when you awakened and became aware of his or her presence.

  Mother: Yes.

  Tilda: Your eyes have just opened. What do you see?

  Mother: Someone is beside my bed.

  Tilda: A man or woman?

  Mother: Yes.

  Tilda: (exasperated) Which?

  Mother: . . . Can’t tell.

  Tilda: (going slightly off script) We will say “the intruder” for the sake of nongender specificity. What is the intruder doing?

  Mother: Just standing there. The intruder has something in his or her hand.

  Tilda: Is it a weapon? A knife, or gun, perhaps?

  Mother: No. The intruder holds my photo of Gabby Hayes.

  Tilda: Of . . . who?

  Brandy: (whispered) Never mind.

  Mother: Of whom.

  Tilda: What?

  Mother: Photo of whom. Framed. Under glass.

  Tilda: Is the intruder preparing to hit you with it?

  Mother: No, just holding it.

  Tilda: Then what?

  Mother: I yelled. Then the intruder dropped the frame and ran.

  The recording ended.

  Puzzled, I asked, “Why would someone want that photo?”

  Mother was frowning. “Well, I admit it’s a lovely likeness. And signed movie star photos, when authentic, can be of quite some value. Where’s Gabby now?”

  “Still packed in one of the suitcases with the stuff from your room.”

  “Hmmmm. Let’s go home, dear, shall we?”

  Before long, we were seated on the Victorian needlepoint couch in the living room while Mother removed the vintage eight-by-ten glossy photo from its now glassless frame.

  A sheet of white paper floated into her lap.

  She picked the sheet up, and together we looked at it. Written in a strong hand, the letter of provenance read: This photo was signed by Mr. Gabby Hayes during a Chicago publicity tour of The Cariboo Trail in 1950. Judd Pickett.

  Added below that, in the same hand, was written: This now belongs to Daryl Dugan. Judd Pickett.

  Neither signature was dated.

  Mother turned the letter over; the other side was as blank as her expression.

  “Why would anyone want to steal this?” she wondered aloud. “Granted, the photo is worth a few hundred dollars, but nothing worth killing over! Even for a die-hard Gabby Hayes fan like moi.”

  “Perhaps there’s a cryptic message in the note,” I said archly. “Or if we hold it up to a mirror, the signature will spell something backward. Like in Nancy Drew.” I was just making trouble.

  “Perhaps there’s an anagram in the signature,” she said.

  “I was just kidding, Mother.”

  “I knew you were.”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  The landline phone in the living room rang, putting an end to the squabble. I got up to answer it.

  “Joe Lange here,” my friend said.

  “Problem at the shop?” I asked.

  “That’s a negatory,” he replied.

  Joe always talked in military-speak.

  “Good to hear,” I said. “So what’s up?”

  “Tom McElroy from the pawnshop called at oh-fourteen-hundred asking for you. I wasn’t sure if I should give him your cell number.”

  My pulse quickened. “Did he say what he wanted?”

  “Also negatory. I told him you might stop by the shop, but I didn’t know your ETA.”

  Estimated time of arrival.

  “Thanks,” I said. “I’ll go see him. Over and out.” Now he had me doing it.

  Mother raised her eyebrows in silent query.

  “Tell you on the way to the pawnshop,” I said.

  And I did, expecting a verbal lashing over withholding the old Judd Pickett murder and its vague connection to our two possible new ones.

  But all she said was, “Interesting.”

  Fifteen minutes later Mother and I entered From Pawn to King, a buzzer announcing our presence. Mr. McElroy was behind the glass counter.

  “Ah, Brandy,” he said, “thanks for coming. And how are you, Vivian?”

  Mother, beside herself with excitement, eschewed any such pleasantries. “Did you find Judd’s knife and pipe in one of the boxes?”

  “Just a knife that might be his.”

  “May we see it?” I asked.

  Mr. McElroy bent, then produced a large white folded handkerchief, which he placed on the counter. He unwrapped it, revealing a long knife with unpolished blade, iron guard, and handle of wood and brass rivets.

  I pulled the police notice from my purse, set it on the counter, and Mother and I compared the description of the knife to the one in front of us.

  “I believe this is Judd’s,” Mother said.

  Mr. McElroy nodded. “My conclusion as well.”

  I asked him, “Do you have the records from the other pawnshop?”

  Another nod. “In case I have to prove the origin of any of the merchandise.”

  “What do you have regarding this knife?” Mother asked, hopefully.

  He smiled. “A Wanda Mercer signed the sale form.” Mother and I exchanged glances.

  “And the address?” I asked.

  “Four-hundred-ten Main Street.”

  An apartment just a few blocks away.

  What Mother said next was unfathomable in its sheer propriety. “You need to call Sheriff Rudder and give him that knife. He should show it to Della Pickett, Judd’s daughter, who works at the artists’ gallery, and can confirm or deny its authenticity. Come, Brandy.”

  Stunned, I followed her out onto the sidewalk, where we faced each other, Mother leaning on the cane.

  “What did you do that for?” I asked. “We finally have a real clue. It’s not like you, being so responsible.”

  “Two reasons, dear,” she said. “One, to show the sheriff I’m willing to share information. And two, so he’ll go to bat for us should we face a breaking-and-entering charge.”

  I smirked. “Into Wanda’s apartment, you mean.”

  She raised a forefinger. “I believe it’s Blake’s apartment, dear. If you recall, our janitorial acquaintance said the late Miss Mercer lived there a while . . . during which time she pawned that knife. And he will be at work.”

  “What are we looking for?” I asked.

  “Anything and everything,” Mother answered, far too chipper for someone conducting a murder investigation or two.

  (If you’re wondering why I was going along so nonchalantly with the prospect of breaking and entering, it was because when—not if—we got caught, it would squelch Mother’s bid for sheriff. Totally worth a brief stint in stir as an accessory.)

  We took the car so Mother wouldn’t have to walk with the cane, and quickly found another parking spot.

  The apartment was over a hair salon in another Victorian building, its entrance via a glass door between the salon and an alterations shop. A mailbox just inside the musty stairwell had a faded label with B. Ferrell, which didn’t necessarily mean the janitor still lived there. But the day’s mail had already been delivered—letters and adverts propping up the lid—and a quick look confirmed that he did.

  A long, narrow staircase covered with a dirty carpet stretched up, and I was concerned Mothe
r would have trouble navigating it; but the landlord had thoughtfully added a wooden railing, and she made it up just fine with the use of her cane.

  The landing above was just wide enough for us both as we stood before the apartment door.

  “What if he’s home?” I asked in a whisper.

  “Why would he be home?” she whispered back.

  “Sick, maybe?”

  “He looked quite healthy when last we saw him.”

  “What if he comes back early from work?”

  “He won’t.”

  Mother seemed awfully sure of herself.

  “Get my tools out of my bag, dear,” she said.

  Mother always traveled with two lock picks, kept in a special zippered compartment.

  I did as I was told, willing to sacrifice my freedom to spare Mother the agony of defeat (and me from the agony of victory, in the unlikely event she won the election).

  In less than a minute, Mother had worked her magic, and we passed through the door, closing it behind us.

  “Remember, dear,” she whispered. “We found it unlocked.”

  Which cut the “breaking-and-entering” charge to just entering, or trespassing—assuming the pair of women discovered where they didn’t belong with lock picks on them were given the unlikely benefit of the doubt.

  We were in a large rectangular living room, expensively outfitted: large black leather sectional, enormous flat-screen TV, lots of pricey electronic toys, shelves containing movies, video games, and CDs (apparently Blake wasn’t into vinyl). The walls were mostly bare, except for the occasional band poster, and the room smelled of fresh paint and new carpet.

  I said, not bothering to whisper, “Blake’s job must pay better than he indicated.”

  “Well, dear, I understand that selling stolen drugs is highly profitable.”

  The apartment layout was box-car style, typical of those in Victorian buildings. An open door led us to another room—this one containing workout equipment. Another door at the far end took us into a bedroom.

  “Let’s search here,” Mother said.

  “Roger that,” I said. That’s where all my secrets were: my bedroom.

  There were no windows here, as the building was in the middle of the block, making windows possible on the front and back ends of the place.

  I turned on the overhead light.

  The room had a modern three-piece bedroom set, in dark wood—bed, bedside table, and bureau. The bed was unmade, the tabletop home to a small lamp, an ashtray, pocket change, and a few white cash register receipts.

  The top receipt caught my eye, and I went in for a closer look—from a fast-food restaurant for one latte, dated the day Wanda died, a time-stamp reading 11:32 p.m. I called Mother over.

  “Very good, dear,” she said. “Take a picture of it.”

  I did so, using my cell phone. My adrenaline was pumping—always did, when we were breaking and entering.

  Mother pointed to the black ashtray. “Interesting . . . spent matches, ashes, but no cigarette butts.”

  She brought the ashtray up to her nose and sniffed.

  “I believe Mr. Ferrell has been having a relationship with that wild girl, Mary Jane,” Mother said. “She does get around.... See what’s under the bed, dear.”

  I got down on my knees, then pulled out a man’s shoe box, which I placed on the rumpled bed.

  Mother watched as I removed the lid.

  Inside was a bag of weed, and a pipe with a long spiral stem and carved raised rings decorated with brass tacks.

  I said, “Imagine. He knew he could pawn a knife, since it was a weapon, but not this tacky-looking thing, which was really worth a fortune.”

  After more pictures were taken, I replaced the box.

  Mother had moved to the dresser, set her cane aside, and was rifling through the drawers. I decided to check out the last room, which had to be the kitchen.

  From the doorway I took everything in at once: the window offering a view of the alley, its shade half-pulled, a round dining table and chairs, row of oak cabinets, white refrigerator, dishwasher, and stove . . .

  . . . and two tiles that had been removed from the drop-ceiling, exposing a crossbeam from which hung the body of Blake Ferrell, a tipped-over chair below him.

  A Trash ’n’ Treasures Tip

  Never attend a white elephant sale looking for a specific treasure. Keeping an open mind will make the experience more exciting and rewarding. Without her mind wide open, Mother never would have come home with the banana telephone or the hot dog and bun toaster. And what would life at home be without them?

  Chapter Ten

  The Wild Hunch

  My stomach was not the cast-iron thing Mother carried around with her, so I retreated to the couch in Blake Ferrell’s living room, shaken and shaking, while she essayed the kitchen crime scene.

  After a few minutes, she joined me on the sectional, resting her cane against the couch.

  “How are you, dear?” she asked, her gaze clinical but her concern quite real.

  “. . . Okay.”

  But really I wasn’t. I could never remove emotion from the equation and look clinically at death, the way she could.

  “Your face is as pale as poor Ferrell’s, dear. Do try to buck up.”

  I just looked at her.

  She turned her gaze toward the door, saying, “I’ve called Sheriff Rudder because I thought he should come, even though we’re on Tony’s patch.”

  I nodded numbly.

  She rattled on: “And there’s no point bringing in the paramedics. The young man’s been dead for some time, judging by the lividity that’s gathered in his legs.”

  I gave her another numb nod, glad my stomach didn’t have anything in it right now to contribute.

  Footsteps could be heard in the stairwell, coming up fast.

  I stood, paused, collected myself, and crossed to the door. Opened it.

  Rudder came in, alone, a little out of breath.

  “Kitchen,” I told him.

  Without a word, the sheriff moved in that direction, and I returned to the couch.

  Mother said, “I believe we can erase Wanda’s side of the incident board, now that it seems apparent Blake killed her.”

  “Her, and probably Judd Pickett, too,” I said.

  “In the home invasion, yes.”

  “That leaves Harriet’s death to account for. Could Blake have been responsible for that, too?”

  “Joan is still my pick,” she replied, as if she were selecting a horse to win in a race. “I don’t see how Blake, or Wanda, or Mr. Bennett could have jimmied her tank with Harriet sitting right there using it.” She raised a finger.

  “However, any of the three could have had access to it earlier.”

  “How?”

  “Perhaps Blake unloaded the tank from the medical delivery truck, or Bennett delivered it to the dispensary where Wanda was getting the pill cart ready for the morning.”

  Rudder appeared, strode toward us, and planted himself in front of the couch.

  “I’ve notified Chief Cassato,” the sheriff said. “He’ll be sending forensics.”

  Mother acted surprised. “Surely you don’t suspect foul play? Aren’t we looking at a rather physical confession from a cornered murderer?”

  “Maybe. But there’s no suicide note, which would be the place to really confess. Anyway, just being thorough.”

  “Most commendable,” Mother said, a teacher praising a rather dense student.

  Rudder looked down his nose at her. “Vivian, please tell me you didn’t break in here.”

  “I didn’t break in here,” Mother replied.

  Well . . . he told her to tell him that.

  His gaze swerved toward me. “How about you, Brandy? Did she rope you into doing her dirty work?”

  Mother put a hand on my shoulder and leaned close. “Can’t you see the child has been traumatized by making this horrific discovery? Have you no shame, sir? At long last, have you no
decency?”

  She was doing her McCarthy Hearings bit.

  Rudder just smirked skeptically at us.

  Returning to her prior position, she said, “You’ll want to take note of a receipt on the bedside table for a latte bought just a few hours before Wanda died.”

  “Anything else?” He seemed annoyed at receiving this gift of evidence from Vivian Borne.

  “You’re welcome,” Mother said. “And beneath the bed you’ll find a shoebox with Judd’s stolen pipe inside. Which, by the way, you’ll want to handle with care because it’s priceless.”

  “I know that,” Rudder snapped. “Della told me when she identified the knife.”

  “Ah! It was her father’s.”

  Multiple footsteps echoed in the stairwell—more company coming.

  Tony came through the door first, his steel gray eyes landing on Rudder, then going to Mother and me.

  I gave him a little halfhearted wave.

  He gave me a little halfhearted nod.

  “You found the body?” he asked me, barely audible.

  I nodded.

  “We’ll talk,” he said. Then the chief’s eyes returned to Rudder, who nodded toward the back of the apartment.

  On Tony’s heels came a two-man forensics team toting their gear, and the three moved on.

  Rudder returned his attention to us.

  “So,” he asked, “how did you get in?”

  “The door was unlocked,” Mother replied.

  Technically true—it had been unlocked. She’d unlocked it with her picks.

  Rudder sighed. “And how did you happen to come here?”

  “We didn’t happen to come here,” she said pleasantly. “We did it with forethought, but not malice—Blake hadn’t shown up for work.”

  No lie there.

  “You called out there and checked, did you?”

  “What do you think?”

  Thrust and parry.

  The sheriff’s voice drizzled sarcasm on his next question: “He didn’t show up for work, and so of course you were concerned?”

  “Naturally. And as it turned out, the concern was quite warranted.” She cocked her head. “How is the investigation into improprieties at Sunny Meadow going? Specifically in the area of pharmaceuticals.”