Detective Oh wanted to believe his wife’s concern was simply over the amount of time he had assigned to the task at hand, but he knew better. Even though Oh’s wife, Claire, was a dealer in fine antiques, an art historian, a professional appraiser so much higher on the collector food chain than Jane Wheel was or ever aspired to be, Oh found it fascinating that she seemed interested in competing with Jane. Claire was not really worried about the amount of work or the time allotted; she was upset that there was a large farm house filled with antiques and Jane Wheel and Tim Lowry had already seen them.
Did it matter that Jane would not covet the same Philadelphia card table that would make Claire’s heart beat faster? Bruce Oh had watched Mrs. Wheel in action. She would not caress the wood of an antique game chest; instead she would pull a vintage board game off the shelf, its broken box mended with peeling tape, carefully lift the lid and hold a pair of yellowing Bakelite dice in her hand. She would squirrel away the worn decks of cards with pictures on their backs of a little cartoon man with a loaf of Butternut Bread tucked under his arm, beaming as if she had struck gold. Bruce Oh would not raise this issue now with his wife. He would not tell her that she and Mrs. Wheel valued different objects. He had learned that it was not about who collected what . . . it was about who got there first.
When Mrs. Wheel phoned and presented her plan to catch Honest Joe, he had asked her three questions.
“Are you sure you are laying a trap for an Internet con man?
“Or, Mrs. Wheel, are you attempting to catch someone who is guilty of assault and possibly murder if the farm house owner, Swanette, does not awaken?
“Might Claire be of assistance?”
Oh knew that Tim Lowry was perfectly capable of assessing and pricing antiques. But Mrs. Wheel had answered yes to the first two questions and he felt that the best way to help her catch the bad guy, bad guys, or bad persons, this time around, was in a more tangential fashion.
Mrs. Wheel had come up with a perfectly plausible plan. He would simply be on call to aid and assist. What better way to be on call than to stand behind the expertise of his wife, who would arrive at the farm as a master appraiser, arousing no more suspicion than any other antique dealer who might consult with Tim Lowry on a few unusual items. He would simply play the bemused husband, a retired professor who tagged along to browse the library for any valuable first editions.
When he had spoken with Mrs. Wheel last night, despite her concern for her friend whose medical condition was still uncertain, she seemed confident that she would soon confront the scoundrel with whom her brother had been confused. The Herscher post office box, the fact that someone might have had access to photos from a relative’s house—Oh was a bit confused about the Nellie-Ada connections since Mrs. Wheel had gone off on several tangents herself when speaking about her mother’s secretiveness about Cousin Ada—but it seemed that Mrs. Wheel felt that a photograph of a young James Speller might have been somehow doctored and used for a seller’s Internet profile, causing the identity confusion with her brother Michael.
Mrs. Wheel had also managed to tell him a great deal about mysterious pumpkin carving, missing correspondence from Cousin Ada’s desk, a caregiver who came and went, and finally, she had mentioned something about rookie baseball cards that she had found at her brother’s house.
“I didn’t think about them as important before. I mean, I still don’t, but you know, you always told me to list everything that made me uncomfortable when I’m working on a case. And even though I know there’s a perfectly logical explanation, I keep coming back to them, wondering what they were doing there, all open and unprotected, next to Q’s stamps.”
That was the last bit of information Mrs. Wheel shared. She said she looked forward to seeing Claire in action since there was more than enough furniture for her and Tim to work on. He could hear in her voice that she was tired. Too tired for any more discussion. She had said she was too tired to eat dinner, too tired to wash her face, too tired to sit down and watch the nightly news with her father. She was heading off to bed.
There was no reason to tell her, as tired as she sounded, about a feature story that had appeared in the Chicago Tribune that week. Oh felt he was safe in assuming that she had missed it in her travels and was too tired to catch up with any newspapers this night.
Claire had pointed out the article to him on the “Con-Men Collectibles.” According to the reporters who had contributed to the story, there were several areas of collecting that were vulnerable to fakery. Several patterns of Depression glass were being reproduced by companies who had bought the vintage molds; there was a kind of modern resin that resembled Mrs. Wheel’s beloved vintage Bakelite; and old boards were being cobbled together to mimic antique furniture. In times of economic downturn, it seemed, people were more anxious than ever to believe they had found a valuable treasure so the con artists were coming out in full force.
The article also reported that there had been a series of counterfeit baseball cards flooding Internet auction sites. The phony collectibles had been traced to a businessman in California whose identity, pending further investigation, was being kept confidential.
Coincidences happened all of the time. There was no reason to upset Mrs. Wheel, to cause her a sleepless night. Detective Oh, however, was wide awake. After making plans with Claire for what time they would leave for Herscher, Illinois, the next day, he walked into his study and switched on his computer. Detective Oh had never before logged on to an Internet auction site, but how difficult could it be? He loved the game of baseball. With his own wife urging him to take an interest in her career and with his fascination with Mrs. Wheel’s attachment to vintage objects of all kinds that she claimed told her stories, maybe it was time for him to start a collection of his own.
Baseball cards, perhaps?
13
Sunday morning. October. A comfortable bed. Coffee percolating. Was Nellie the last person in America to use a percolator? Jane might prefer the taste and jolt of strong drip coffee these days, but when she awakened to her mother’s perfectly usable and shiny-like-new chrome pot gurgling out its caffeinated song, she felt happy enough to wiggle her toes and steal one more minute of eyes-closed reverie. In the moments before sitting up, fully awake, could she postpone thoughts of Michael’s look-alike and Ada’s ghost and the person who attacked Swanette? Nope. Apparently she couldn’t. Eyes fully open.
As soon as she slipped on her clothes, Jane fished a notebook out of her purse. She had meant to write it down before she fell asleep. Head, head oh, dad, crosswor, aitch . . . that was what she remembered Swanette saying. It was probably meaningless, the unraveling of an injured brain. The most logical interpretation? Oh my head! Swanette had just taken a blow to the side of her skull . . . it seemed only natural that she would moan about her head hurting. But she had been so earnest, so intent on Jane hearing those sounds.
Nellie had already phoned the hospital. She poured Jane’s coffee, slid a plate of toast in front of her, and announced that there was no change in Swanette’s condition.
“Still sleeping,” said Nellie.
“Who did you talk to?” asked Jane.
“Christine spent the night there. She made a schedule with the other girls and they’re going to take turns at the hospital so she won’t ever be alone. Zarita’s on duty tonight,” said Nellie.
While Jane listened to her mother, she knelt down next to Rita, trying to coax her away from Nellie’s side. The dog would not be moved.
“Those girls are something,” said Don from behind the Sunday Journal.
“Don’t you think it’s odd to call them ‘girls’?” asked Jane. “Haven’t they earned the right to be called ‘women’ by now?”
“Oh Janie, they’ve earned the right to be called anything they want,” said Don. “They call themselves ‘the office girls.’ Seems to me this girls-women thing is more about what you want to call them, not about what they want to be called.”
“Did you
know that Christine is Swanette’s heir? I mean if they don’t find her niece?” asked Jane.
“So?” asked Nellie. “Don’t go looking for trouble with them girls. They all spent time with John, asking him for legal advice and all. Christine never minded sharing her husband with Swanette.”
Jane had just been thinking out loud. She hadn’t suspected Christine of a thing.
“Sharing her husband . . .” Jane repeated out loud.
Don set aside the newspaper and added cream to his coffee.
Tim knocked at the kitchen door, then entered quickly before Nellie finished with her, “Who is it, what do you want?”
“What do you say, Tim, girls or women? ” asked Don.
“I stick with lasses, ” said Tim. “Or Fräuleins or mesdames. I find going Continental keeps you out of trouble.”
Jane wasn’t sure how long Tim had actually been outside the screen door, but long enough, she was sure, to have gotten the gist of the conversation. He was born with the “jump right in” gene. He helped himself to toast and opened the refrigerator door, searching for jam.
“Here,” said Nellie, reaching in from behind him and pulling out strawberry jam and apple butter. “Do you always help yourself in other peoples’ houses?”
“Nellie, my lass,” said Tim, “you are definitely not other people.”
Jane planned to ride out to the farm with Tim where Bruce and Claire Oh would meet them. Don and Nellie were going to the hospital to check on Swanette, and would join them afterward.
“You don’t have to get involved in this, Dad,” said Jane. “It’s your day off.”
“I wouldn’t miss helping out Swanette for anything,” said Don. “She’s a good old . . . Fräulein. And then we can go into Herscher and check on Ada. Sounds like somebody might be taking advantage of her.”
“Besides, how would I get out there to work if your dad didn’t drive me?” asked Nellie.
“You’re taking me up on my offer?” asked Tim. “I had a feeling you couldn’t resist the opportunity to work for T and T sales.”
“Oh, I can resist all right, I just want to make sure you don’t rob poor Swanette blind.” Nellie looked over at Tim in time to see him wince at her words.
“Oh hell, Lowry, I know you wouldn’t steal from her. I’m just kidding. Can’t you take a joke?” said Nellie. She crossed over to the stove and mixed leftover scrambled eggs into Rita’s food and set it down for her new best friend.
Jane pinched herself under the table. Nellie just apologized, in her own way, to Tim for a thoughtless insult. She cooked extra breakfast for a dog. What was next? Pigs flying and ice-skate rentals in hell?
“Before we all go our separate ways this morning,” said Jane, still trying to figure how much she could say while still keeping Michael out of the question, “I wanted to ask you about Ada and her brother.”
“I told you about them yesterday,” said Nellie.
“Yes, but I want to know more about Jim Speller,” said Jane, clearing plates and joining her mother at the sink.
“Dead and good riddance,” said Nellie.
“Nellie,” said Don.
“I don’t give a damn, I can say what I want. He was a bad man. Mean to the people around him, tormented his folks. Nice enough to Ada, I guess, which keeps him from being a complete devil, but he was no good.”
“The man’s dead,” said Don.
“So what?” asked Nellie. “Somebody dies and suddenly everything they did or everything they were is okeydokey? We have to whisper about them and shake our heads and think the best of them? That’s a crock. Somebody’s a son of a bitch in life, death don’t change that. Just makes Jim Speller a dead son of a bitch.”
“Tell us what you really think,” said Tim.
“Here’s something I know about that man. He married some woman he met a couple towns over and didn’t tell Ada. Moved her into the house and everything. He kept her there on and off for two years, telling the wife that Ada was crazy and couldn’t be told about her, so the wife had to keep hidden in their part of the house. He made her keep her own place and went there most of the time, but still lived at the house with Ada, too. His wife came and saw us that time, you remember it, Don.”
“Yes, but she wasn’t a stable woman herself, Nellie. . . .”
“Would you be? She did come to the tavern one day. He had thrown her out. I don’t even know how she found out I was related to them. Her name was Martha something. Well, Martha needed money to start living on her own again. She said she was—” Nellie stopped and glared at the ringing telephone.
“Pregnant,” she said, finishing her sentence before growling a hello into the receiver.
Jane looked at her dad. “Said she was?”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“We took her at her word. We realized later she could have been lying, Jim Speller could have even put her up to it. He and Ada owned all that land out there, worth a fortune, but he was still a schemer. Always sponging money and coming up with ways to steal a buck. He was the kind of guy who got a kick out of the taking more than the money,” said Don. He looked over at his wife who was still on the phone.
“You know your mother’s a softie. She gave her some money and Martha said she was going back to her place and decide what to do, but just wanted to get far away from him. She said he told her he didn’t want a kid and blamed her for getting pregnant on purpose.”
“Why did you think she was unstable?” Tim asked.
“Well, she was so upset, I guess, and to tell you the truth, I thought anybody who’d marry that guy must have something wrong with them,” said Don. “Probably not fair, but even looking at the guy made you nervous. He had these mean eyes and he’d stare you down.” Don gave a kind of shudder. “He gave me the willies.”
“If she had a son, maybe he came back here . . .” said Jane.
“I saw Martha around once or twice after we gave her the money,” said Don. “She hung out at Lucky’s in Bonfield. I was out there for a liquor dealer’s meeting when I saw her in the parking lot. She was getting into her car when I was parking. I asked Lucky what he knew about her. He said she came in once in a while, but he never saw or heard about any kid. And she turned her head away when she saw me, that’s for sure. Ashamed of lying, I figured.”
Nellie’s phone conversation was almost all one-sided. She nodded several times, muttered yes twice. Before hanging up, she said, “We’re on our way.”
“Swanette’s not doing so well. Christine said one of the doctors told her something looks worse than last night. I don’t know what, but she’s upset.”
“Should we go with you to the hospital?” asked Jane.
“No. Christine said just Dad and me. They don’t want a mob up there. But she said you kids should just keep working out at the farm. She said she was sure her husband would agree with her that it was the right thing to do. Christine wants it cleaned out. Whether Swanette wakes up or not, it’s got to be done.”
Nellie leaned over and gave Rita a strong pat and looked into the dog’s eyes. She seemed on the verge of saying something important, but then, thinking better of it, just shook her head. Within a few minutes, she and Don were on their way to the hospital.
Jane grabbed her bag, locked up the house, and she and Rita climbed into Tim’s truck. She had made both Don and Nellie promise that they would call her cell the minute they had any news from the hospital. She took out her phone, just to make sure she had a signal, and was surprised to see that she had missed a call yesterday.
“You should set that thing on the loudest ring plus vibration. And you should make a rule to check it regularly. What if it were Charley or Nick? You never hear it,” said Tim. “That’s why I encourage Nick to keep changing your ring tone . . . to keep you on your—”
Jane held up her hand to shush him as she dialed up voice mail.
“Janie, it’s Swanette. I went out to the shed. There is so much stuff here. I’m not sure where it al
l came from. Books and collectibles. There could be jewelry and coins, stuff that she wouldn’t . . .” That was all.
Jane pushed 9 to save the message, then checked the time it was recorded. Swanette called while Jane was in the car with Nellie, returning to the farm from Ada’s house. Jane’s phone was probably buried in her bag at the time. She and Nellie were yelling at each other. Or maybe the call came when she had run into the minimart to buy the bottled water at the gas station. If she had heard the phone, taken the call, would she have suspected something was wrong? Would she have cursed her cell phone for dropping the call or would she have been worried enough to call the police? An ambulance? No, of course not. If someone cried emergency at every dropped call, the sirens would never stop. But maybe she would have called Tim. He could have run out and found Swanette and gotten help. How much time did they lose? Jane turned into Swanette’s driveway five minutes after the gas station. Whoever hurt Swanette might have still been in the shed, then waited until Jane and Nellie went into the house before leaving by the service road behind the barn. Jane talked to Tim and looked around for what? Five minutes? Ten minutes? Then she went out to the shed and found Swanette unconscious. Would that fifteen or twenty minutes have made a difference?
Jane realized while she was calculating the minutes that she had missed with Swanette yesterday, Tim had been talking. She had caught a few words about furniture styles and vintages but it took her a minute to get on track with his train of thought.
“. . . if it was from the early part of her marriage. But then you got those handmade footstools. They’re neat, they really are, but the primitive stuff doesn’t gel with any of the Victorian froufrou. It’s a little like she was keeping shop or like that one sale, remember? When the woman told us she was the caretaker of all the family jewels, except instead of jewels, she had her aunt’s clothes from the twenties and thirties, her mother’s rosaries and medals, her grandmother’s Victoriana, her dad’s tools, her brother’s comic books, her uncle’s World War II memorabilia . . .”
Scary Stuff Page 13
