Antiques Swap

by Barbara Allan

  I set the fork down. “Mother, this is a particularly vicious murder. Tony is just thinking of us, our safety. I think we’re better off on the sidelines this time around.”

  Mother had a wounded look. “All right, dear—if that’s the way you want it.”

  “I do.”

  And that’s how we’d left it.

  Even though I’d been occupied at the shop with a steady stream of customers, I was distracted by the sinking feeling that I’d let Mother down. I didn’t really think she was going to consign herself to the sidelines. Those “errands” she was running almost certainly represented her going off poking around and checking with her “snitches.”

  Adding irritation to my discomfort was the sale of several I ♥ VIVIAN T-shirts this morning, and not a single I ♥ BRANDY. So I removed two of mine from the stack, hid them in the back of the bottom counter drawer, and put my own money in the till to cover the secret transaction.

  I had no choice in the matter—if Mother won the T-shirt war, she would be even more insufferable.

  Around noon, foot traffic subsided, and I was eating a brown-bagged turkey sandwich at the checkout counter, Sushi patiently waiting for scraps, when the bell above the front door tinkled.

  I suppressed a groan as Dumpster Dan came in, in another rumpled shirt and slacks, his sparse white hair windblown, the dirty cloth bag dangling from one thin arm, bulging with his latest find.

  I mustered some semblance of a friendly greeting as he shuffled toward the counter.

  “I think you’ll really be interested in this,” Dan said excitedly, tiny eyes behind the thick lenses shining like bright new pennies. Which was about how much his latest discovery would likely rate.

  Reaching into the bag, he withdrew the item and placed it on the counter. “It’s a cast-iron toy truck,” the man said proudly. “These are really collectible.”

  I picked up the toy. “Well, it is a truck,” I granted. “Only it’s not cast-iron.”

  His new-penny eyes faded with sudden wear. “No? How can you tell? That’s metal, right?”

  “Right, but not iron. You can tell by the weight.”

  “Oh. Didn’t know that.”

  “Plus, this is a cheap reproduction, and we have a policy of not taking that kind of thing.” I handed the truck back. “How about a little free advice?”

  “I’d appreciate that.”

  “There’s a reason things end up in Dumpsters—usually the stuff’s either broken or just plain worthless.”

  “But sometimes I find things,” he replied, spirit undampened. “Your store, it’s called Trash ‘n’ Treasures. So I don’t have to tell you that a treasure can wind up in the trash.”

  “Yes. It can. And people win the lottery, sometimes. If you could do a little research on what you find—the library has computers you can use—you might spare yourself from being disappointed.”

  And wasting my time, I thought, but hoped my smile didn’t show it.

  After Dan shuffled out, I hoped I hadn’t seemed too curt; I supposed I should have given him a couple of bucks, if not for his trouble, for getting that fake out of circulation.

  Still, I felt like I’d let him (and myself) down, and I got out from behind the counter, and went outside to call him back. But Dumpster Dan had disappeared.

  And that’s when I noticed that something else had disappeared—specifically, the New Jersey godfather’s black Cadillac.

  The Caddy had been parked at the curb, and now I stood gaping at its empty spot, as if staring long and hard enough might make it magically reappear. I even blinked like Barbara Eden on I Dream of Jeannie. No magic.

  My first thought was that someone had stolen the Caddy —maybe that guy at the swap meet who’d wanted to buy it—but then I noticed something written on the sidewalk that hadn’t been there when I arrived, and went to investigate.

  Scrawled in what appeared to be lipstick, like a serial killer’s plea for help, was: NEEDED THE WHEELS.

  In Mother’s favorite shade—Red Door.

  I closed my eyes, opened them, and just as the Caddy had refused to reappear, this lipstick missive refused to disappear.

  Panicking, I ran back into the shop and tried to reach Mother on her cell. But my call got forwarded to an already-full mailbox, which wasn’t surprising—Mother never wanted to be bothered when she was out sleuthing. So I tried the landline at home. No answer there either, but I did leave a message on the machine (which can’t be repeated here, if we ever hope to get these books into Walmart).

  There wasn’t anything else I could do. I certainly couldn’t call the police without getting Mother into the hottest water ever, since not only did she have no valid driver’s license, this would be her umpteenth vehicular offense. Mr. Ekhardt had been able to get her out of that courtroom contempt charge with a hundred-dollar fine, but this? Did the county jail have solitary confinement, I wondered?

  And I most assuredly couldn’t call Tony, and ask for his help on the q.t., without seeming to have let him down on my promise to keep us out of this one.

  So I returned my attention to the shop, keeping myself busy by dusting the merchandise, and waiting on customers, while I ran around inside my head like somebody trying to flee a burning building.

  Around four the phone on the counter rang; I was in the living room area and, thinking it was Mother, made a sprint for it.

  “Brandy? It’s Wes.”

  “Oh. Wes. Hi.”

  “Everything all right?” he asked. “You sound out of breath.”

  “Everything’s fine,” I said. “Expecting a call, that’s all. Uh, what’s up?”

  “I can really use a favor.”

  “Sure, I’ll try to help. What is it?”

  “Would you mind going with me to see Gladys Fowler?”

  I couldn’t imagine why on earth he’d want to see that awful woman, after she’d testified for the DA, and I told him so.

  “I know,” he said with a sigh. “But she called me just now, at the office, and said she had information about who really killed Vanessa, but refused to tell me over the phone.”

  “I don’t trust her. You should call Brian Lawson or Tony Cassato about this.”

  “I don’t trust her, either. But I don’t really care to interact with the local police unless I have to. And I’ve just got to find out if there’s something to it. Plus, the woman sounded, well . . . weird.”

  “Weird how?”

  “I don’t know—anxious? Even . . . scared.”

  “Whoa.”

  “Listen, if I’m going to deal with this woman, on any level, about anything, I need a witness.”

  “Okay. But why me?”

  “All my male friends are tied up at their own jobs. And I guess you’re about the only . . . female friend I have, right now.”

  “All right. I’ll go with you. I can lock up here.”

  He sighed. “Look, Brandy, before you say yes . . . there’s something else about this that you should know—something I didn’t even mention to Wayne Ekhardt.”

  “Okay.”

  “Just before the hearing, the Fowler woman called me at home, and tried to . . . well, there’s no other word for it. She tried to blackmail me.”

  “Holy . . . what about?”

  “She said if I paid her ten thousand dollars, she’d withdraw what she told the police—you know, that garbage about me coming home the afternoon of the murder.”

  “What did you say to her?”

  “What do you think? I told her to stick it. Anyway, I wasn’t afraid of her telling the truth.”

  “Maybe, Wes, but it’s a good thing Mr. Ekhardt was able to discredit her testimony.”

  “He really is the best, awake or asleep. But now I’m wondering . . . did that woman really see somebody at my house?”

  “And maybe,” I said, thinking aloud, “didn’t see who it was because of her glasses? And just guessed it was you?”

  “Or something. And maybe now has figured ou
t who it really was. Anyway, are you up for this?”

  “I am.”

  “Can you come over to my office now? I’m just finishing up for the day. You don’t mind closing up a little early?”

  “That’s okay. Never much business in the last hour. See you in a few minutes.”

  And I hung up.

  In my mind, I saw Tony, looking at me. Frowning. Come on, I wouldn’t really be investigating. I’d be helping out a friend. Right? This time my Jeannie blink worked, and Tony’s image went away.

  I closed up the shop but did not set the alarm, since I was leaving Sushi behind with some water, kibble, and newspapers. I’d come back for her and close up more completely later.

  Then I made the two-block jaunt over to Sinclair Consolidated, a striking new addition to the downtown, a three-story building of stone and glass, a rare modern building among Victorian neighbors.

  Wes had moved his corporate offices to these new digs just two years ago, one of his first major decisions after the death of his father. I assume that the relocation was to get away from the stench and smoke of the Sinclair grain processing plant south of town.

  I entered the gleaming, opulent lobby and checked in with an attractive young female receptionist (was that an Albert Nipon suit?), who sent me up to the third floor, where I checked in with an older, no-nonsense secretary (but just as expensively attired). By phone she let Wes know I was there, then replaced the receiver and sent me to take a seat in the waiting area.

  Interesting. Sinclair Consolidated put a lovely face in its lobby, and a strict grade-school teacher’s puss outside the CEO’s office. Made sense, I guessed.

  Less than a minute later, Wes stepped out of his office, looking sharp in a tailored navy suit, yellow shirt, and light blue silk tie.

  He approached me saying, “Brandy, I’m just wrapping up in here. One more phone call to make. Can you wait? Won’t be more than ten or fifteen minutes.”

  I shrugged. “No problem.”

  “Joyce can get you some coffee.”

  “That’d be great.”

  The secretary, hearing her name, looked up, suddenly pleasant.

  “Cream or sugar?” she asked.

  “Just cream, thanks.”

  Wes disappeared back into his office.

  If I had to cool my heels anywhere, it might as well be in the fanciest corporate offices in Serenity. This reception area looked like a high-end furniture showroom with its abstract-pattern plush rug, comfy leather couch, black leather chairs, flat screen TV (business channel, natch), and unlit gas fireplace. Even the magazines on the mahogany coffee table were current.

  Joyce returned with my coffee—no oil-slick surface here—and I settled back with Entertainment Weekly. There was an article about pending TV pilots for next season, and we had rated a mention. Our pilot really leading to a series was something I half-dreaded, half-dreamed of.

  I tried Mother again. Mailbox still full. No answer at home. No answer at the shop.

  The coffee was magnificent, but the caffeine was probably not helping my anxiety over Mother. Still, I was about to ask Joyce for a second cup when Wes’s office door opened and he came out, unbuttoning his collar. He blew air out his mouth, and his forehead was lightly beaded.

  “Joyce,” he said, “would you call someone about the air conditioning in my office? Could be the sun coming in all those windows . . . but I’d like it checked out just the same.”

  “Yes, Mr. Sinclair.”

  “Either that, or I need to deal with an easier-going distributor.” He smiled boyishly and the middle-aged secretary returned it warmly. “I’ll be gone for the rest of the afternoon. But you can reach me on my cell.”

  Then he turned to me with a smile and asked, “Ready?”

  I said yes, and followed him back into his office, unexpectedly decorated with Asian-style furnishings, then through a door leading to a small elevator that took us down to street level. In the back parking lot, a reserved spot was home to a silver Jaguar.

  “That is one nice ride,” I said.

  “Vanessa wanted me to drive something, uh . . . suitable for my position.” He shrugged. “But I’m a Midwestern boy. Would’ve been fine with a pickup truck. A Sierra, maybe.”

  “She was right,” I said. “Wrong image entirely.”

  He gave me a smirk. “Even for a guy who sells grain for a living?”

  “Why not split the difference? Surely Jaguar makes a pickup.”

  That got a laugh out of him. “Get in, you goof.” And he opened my car door for me. Then, as he shut me in, he said seriously, “Thanks for this.”

  I gave him a nod and a smile.

  After a few blocks, he turned onto Mulberry Street, a main artery leading out of the downtown area. We rode in silence for a few minutes.

  Then Wes said, “There’s something I’d like to come clean about.”

  “Clean is good.”

  We had stopped for a light. “You may have heard rumors . . .”

  “Green.”

  “What?”

  “Green light.”

  We moved through the intersection.

  I said, “You mean about wife-swapping?”

  Wes pulled the Jag over to the curb. Twisted to face me. “You’ve heard about that?”

  “Tina and Kevin are good friends. So I know that it’s more than just a rumor.”

  He sighed a laugh. “Yeah . . . was that trip a debacle . . .”

  I raised both hands as if in surrender. “Hey, what consenting adults do behind closed doors is no business of mine. Anyway, I’m no angel. Maybe you’ve heard why my husband divorced me. Not a pretty story.”

  He was interested. “I haven’t heard anything about that, really, but . . . wasn’t he a lot older? I always figured it was an age thing.”

  “Well, there was that . . . but I had a one-night stand with an old boyfriend at my ten-year high school reunion. So I can hardly sit in judgment of the, uh . . . peccadilloes of others.” I paused, then added, “A bottle of cheap champagne may have had something to do with it.”

  Smiling sadly, Wes nodded. “That’s pretty much what happened to us. One evening, three other couples we were playing bridge with got bored with the game, and the drinking got a little out of hand, and well, with no inhibitions to stop us, one thing led to another, as they say.”

  “Where would bad judgment be without alcohol to help it along?”

  “Exactly.” Another sigh. “Then, after we sobered up, instead of being ashamed, we found we’d all . . . rather enjoyed it. We were frat brothers, the other guys and me, and the wives all sorority sisters, and a fairly wild, sophisticated group. And this is Serenity, so . . . any fooling around was better off handled sort of . . . in house. I mean, isn’t that better than—”

  “A one-night stand with an old flame?”

  “I wasn’t going there, Brandy. Really.”

  “Wes, you don’t have to justify yourself to me. Like I said, you were all consenting adults.”

  Or were they? Vanessa had to have been unhappy about something.

  Wes put a hand on my knee. “I knew you’d be understanding.”

  Suddenly uncomfortable, I lifted the hand off my knee and gave it back to him. “Emphasis on the consenting, okay? I’m just here to be a witness this afternoon.”

  “I’m sorry, Brandy. I didn’t mean . . . you know I’ve always liked you.”

  “And I’ve always liked you. Now, let’s get going.”

  Gladys Fowler’s house was what they used to call a bungalow—a one-story brick affair with a wide wooden porch and low-slung roof typically built in the 1920s for a middle-income family.

  Wes parked the Jag in the driveway, and we got out.

  He stood for a moment, looking across the street at his own home, which seemed to exist on some other planet than the Fowler one.

  “I’m going to sell that monstrosity,” he said quietly. “It’s just too . . . too damn hard, living there anymore.”

&
nbsp; “Give it some time. You might change your mind.”

  He shook his head. “I’ve already talked to Travis about putting it on the market.”

  That sounded to me like a bereaved widower making a bad decision.

  “But who in Serenity could afford to buy it?” I asked. “You’ll never get your money out of it.”

  “I know I’ll take a loss—Vanessa went crazy over-improving the property. But at this point I just don’t care.”

  Must be nice, having enough money not to care.

  “Well, try not to do anything too rash,” I said. “Come on—let’s go see what the ever delightful Gladys Fowler has to say for herself.”

  We walked to the front steps, went up, then crossed the wide porch where a wooden swing, hanging by chains from the porch’s ceiling, swayed in the breeze, as if a ghost were rocking there.

  The doorbell brought no response—no surprise, with the television blaring inside—but a pounding on the door failed to summon the mistress of the house, either.

  I went over to a picture window and peered in.

  An old Match Game rerun was playing on a console tube television facing me, Gladys seated in an easy chair, just the top of her head and one arm visible.

  “She’s in there,” I said. “Try the door—maybe it’s unlocked.”

  It was, and Wes went in first, me following. The small entryway opened into a dreary living room of well-worn green carpeting, faded floral wallpaper, and dated furniture, with an abundance of lowbrow knickknacks.

  As Wes approached the back of the chair, he called out over the loud TV. “Mrs. Fowler? It’s Wes Sinclair. Sorry to intrude, but the door was open. . . .”

  As he rounded the chair, he visibly stiffened.

  I moved toward him. “What . . . ?”

  Eyes wide with alarm, he held up a stop hand. “Do not come over here.”

  But his warning had come too late.

  Gladys Fowler had obviously been strangled, a red raw line rimming her neck, face blueish-purple, eyes bulging and bloodshot, mouth open in a silent scream.

  I stumbled backward, and fled outside, where I threw myself shaking into the porch swing, eyes closed tightly, trying to erase the terrible image of the dead woman’s face, knowing that I couldn’t. That the image would be replayed in my mind again and again in days, weeks, years to come.