Antiques Frame

by Barbara Allan

  At the back door to Yesteryears, I halted, then looked to my left, at the rear of the apartment house across the way. Something caught my eye.

  In an open window on the second floor was a Hispanic youth of perhaps twelve or thirteen, perched just inside the sill, a cigarette in one hand, as he sent smoke into the outside. He was staring at me.

  The youth took a drag on the cigarette, blew more smoke out the window, and made a gesture with his head to the inside of the apartment. When I pointed to myself, he nodded, then disappeared from the window.

  Perhaps the young man wanted my autograph. It does happen!

  I retraced my footsteps along the alley and walked around to the front of the large house, which had been divided into four apartments (hence four mailboxes) with one main entrance. Once inside, I climbed a badly stained carpeted staircase to the second floor, located the correct apartment, and knocked on the door, which quickly opened.

  The youth, wearing a black shirt with a dragon, black jeans, and red-and-black running shoes, was perhaps five feet five, with dark hair and brown eyes. He was on his way to becoming a striking young man.

  I said, “Hola. Me llamo Vivian. Cómo está usted?”

  That was all the Spanish I knew, except for “Dónde está el baño?” And I didn’t need a bathroom at the moment.

  “I speak English, lady,” the youth said.

  “Thank goodness,” I replied with relief. Realizing that might have sounded insulting, I added, “I didn’t mean to infer that you didn’t.”

  “Imply,” he said.

  “What?”

  “You don’t mean to imply I don’t speak English.”

  “I certainly don’t! But, let’s face it, some of your countrymen don’t, because you’ve just arrived in our wonderful country.”

  “Lady,” he said, “you’re only making it worse.”

  I tilted my head. “You’re certainly an outspoken young man. But may I point out that you invited me? So, as my host, it’s your responsibility to make me feel welcome.”

  “Okay.”

  He stepped aside, and I entered a living-room area that was comfortably furnished in the rich earth tones of brown, tan, and green, with splashes of red.

  We appeared to be alone.

  Closing the door, the youth said, “I’m Miguel.”

  I turned to face him. “And I’m Vivian.”

  “Yeah, I know. I saw you on TV before.”

  Perhaps he did want an autograph!

  “Well, Miguel, what can I do for you?”

  “It’s what I can do for you.” He smiled a little. “And then what you can do for me.”

  I smelled blackmail in the air. I might have been indignant if it wouldn’t have made me a hypocrite. I said, “Let’s start with what you can do for me, shall we?”

  “How about tell you who killed that woman?”

  My eyes widened. “You saw who it was?”

  “I sure did.”

  “Why didn’t you go to the police?”

  “The police look at a kid like me and think, Gang.”

  “I see. Why did I think perhaps you didn’t go to them, because you want money for the information?”

  “Not money,” Miguel said.

  “What then? Ah, you’d like to be on my show!”

  He shook his head. “I’ve seen it. Not my favorite.”

  The young man was outspoken, impertinent, and insolent. I liked him!

  “Then what is it that you want?” I asked somewhat impatiently.

  “I want to be in your next book. Me. Miguel Edwardo Garcia.”

  I gestured with an open hand. “Dear, our cases are not works of fiction. I can’t just, well, shoehorn you in somewhere! The events—the people—are real and are used in the tradition of Dr. Watson chronicling the cases of Sherlock Holmes.”

  I took a breath, because I’d run out of air.

  “Granted,” I went on, “we do take some liberties—poetic license, they call it—and sometimes use false names for people to protect the innocent.”

  Or ourselves from libel suits.

  “I’ll sign off,” he said, then set his jaw stubbornly.

  “All right. Perhaps I could give you a small walk-on. Would that do?”

  He just stared at me.

  I tried again. “A secondary character with a few choice lines?”

  Slowly, he shook his head.

  We seemed to be at an impasse when suddenly the obvious occurred to me! Which occasionally it does.

  “Dear,” I said, “if you tell me who you saw, and that person is indeed the killer . . . well, naturally this entire scene between us—dialogue and all—will be in the book that my daughter and I write about this very case.”

  “I want my scene used,” he said flatly, “even if the person I tell you I saw isn’t the killer. Because it would still be a clue. A lead.”

  Outspoken, impertinent, insolent . . . and smart.

  Since I wanted the name, I agreed. Anyway, this had gone on long enough to have the makings of a scene.

  “Now,” I said. “Who was it?”

  “Not so fast,” Miguel said. “I want to lead up to it.”

  So he wanted an extended scene!

  “Very well,” I replied, sighing. “But may we sit? My knees aren’t what they used to be.” And my bunions were killing me.

  After we’d settled on the couch, the youth began, “I was home with a bad cough the day that lady got killed.”

  “It could be the cigarettes.”

  He smirked. “Okay, so I skipped school. I was ducking a test. Anyway, I was here, and my mom was at work. I was sneakin’ a cig, blowin’ smoke out the window, when I see this man come walkin’ down the alley.”

  “Go on.”

  “This guy goes in the back door of that antique store about three thirty, then comes out ten minutes later in a big hurry.”

  “You’re sure of the time?”

  “Yeah. My mom comes home a little after four, and I wanted to make sure the smoke, you know, had cleared out.”

  “Can you give me a description of the man?”

  “Don’t have to. I recognized him.”

  “He was someone you know?”

  “Not exactly. But that’s another reason I didn’t go to the cops. He was the chief of police.”

  My eyes popped. “Tony Cassato?”

  “Yeah, I think that’s his name. What? You don’t believe me?”

  I made a little scoffing sound. “Young man, it’s highly unlikely the chief killed his wife. Maybe it was someone who looked like him.”

  “It was him!” Miguel said defensively. “Trust me, I know the guy when I see him. He came to talk to us at school about drugs—a day I didn’t skip.”

  Could it have been Tony?

  “Look,” the youth said, “I heard him and her didn’t live together, right? Him and that wife of his?”

  “That is true,” I said with a nod. “He and Mrs. Cassato were estranged.”

  “Well, my parents are ’stranged, too, and every time they get together, they want to kill each other.”

  “I don’t mean to make light of your suspicions,” I said, “but I know Tony Cassato quite well, and he wouldn’t be capable of murder.”

  “He carries a gun around, right?”

  “It’s too ridiculous even to consider.”

  Was I trying to convince Miguel or myself?

  “You’re still gonna put me in the book, aren’t you?” the young man was asking.

  “I always keep my word.” Unless my fingers are crossed, and I hadn’t remembered to do that.

  I checked my watch. There was just enough time to catch the trolley and make it home before Brandy, so I bid good-bye to Miguel, assuring him his scene would be included in the book (well, isn’t it?), then scooted off to the courthouse.

  With the trolley nearly full, I was in luck to find vacant the same seat I’d taken earlier. I located the little GPS button on the floor, slipped it back in the l
ining of my coat, pulled the threads tight, and made a knot.

  Then I sat, my mind whirling.

  Why hadn’t Tony mentioned his late-afternoon Camilla visit to Brandy?

  And if Tony had killed his wife, how could the man sit back and let Brandy take the rap? Or did he figure he could get her off at the last minute, if need be?

  For now, I decided not to tell Brandy about my conversation with Miguel. No sense in getting her upset and causing a further fissure in the already fragile relationship between her and the chief.

  I would confront him when he got back.

  At home, I received a grand greeting from Sushi and Rocky, mostly because they wanted to go outside, so I accommodated them, then returned to the foyer to take off my coat. After retrieving my cell phone from my purse, I turned it on.

  I had missed a call from my friend the don, who hadn’t left a message. Quickly, I speed-dialed him.

  “Viv,” he said gruffly, “where the heck’ve you been?” A man of his ilk was not used to being kept waiting.

  “I do apologize for being out of reach,” I replied but gave no reason. It takes more than a mob godfather to intimidate Vivian Borne. “Have you some information for me?”

  “Yes,” he said, not sounding so gruff. “I’ve talked to my extended family in New York, Chicago, Miami . . . and none of them are related in a business way or otherwise to the dead woman.”

  Camilla.

  “I see,” I said.

  “But there is an L.A. branch of the family—once removed—that we don’t see anymore at reunions, and that might have a recent connection in Serenity.”

  Did he mean Phil Dean? I recalled Officer Schultz’s stray comment at the bakery. Could our esteemed producer/ director be involved with distributing illegal substances?

  “I appreciate this, Don,” I said. “You’ve been most helpful.”

  “Good luck, Vivian. Don’t be a stranger. And . . . be careful, young lady.”

  Charmer.

  I let Sushi and Rocky back inside, then deposited dog food in their respective dishes, which they ignored in hopes of getting shares of whatever Brandy and I would be having for supper.

  I heard the front door open, then shut, and in another moment or two Brandy tromped into the kitchen.

  “How was your day?” she asked a little too eagerly.

  Getting some leftovers out of the fridge, I said, “I met the most interesting people on the trolley. So interesting that I just rode around and around. And around.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You stayed on the trolley all day?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And never got off?”

  I gave her the same smug smile she had given me this morning. “Why, dear, you know people have said for years that I’m off my trolley.”

  Mother’s Trash ’n’ Treasures Tip

  Very valuable collections need to be included in your estate planning; otherwise, heirs may have to pay an estate tax on them. I don’t think, however, that I need to include my presidential-plate collection.

  Chapter Nine

  Staff Infection

  Brandy here.

  Have we lost anyone? If so, I feel your pain. A reader once tweeted that after she had read a chapter composed by Mother, she threw the book across the room and made a bull’s-eye in her wastebasket (an expensive impulse, since it was a library book and she broke the spine).

  Like pickled herring, Mother is an acquired taste.

  Speaking of the grande dame, she must not have learned much on her solo investigative trip—and don’t think for a minute that I believed she’d stayed on the trolley all day. . . . I know when I’ve been outfoxed. Usually, Mother can’t wait to fill me in, while this time she was (for her) uncharacteristically reserved. Hence my deduction.

  Possibly to avoid talking about her own day, she asked me how things had gone at the shop, and I told her we’d made a few nice sales, and rattled off the items.

  “I thought we might really score,” I said, “but it was a false alarm.”

  “How so, dear?”

  “A great-looking guy came in, in a really sharp suit, Armani maybe, and with a haircut he didn’t get in Serenity. He looked around the shop, took it all in. I asked him if he was looking for anything special, and he said no.”

  “A picker, maybe?”

  “I don’t think so. He just breezed in and out, looking like money.”

  She mulled that for a while. “What if he was looking for a certain picture frame?”

  I sucked in a breath. “Do you think?”

  “Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”

  I nodded. “And I’d recognize his car, too—a silver BMW.”

  Mother’s eyes flared. “I wonder if our almost customer is a suspect we’ve neglected—a name on my blackboard we haven’t really looked into.”

  “Who would that be?”

  “The fence Three-Fingered Frieda started telling you about before you two new friends were interrupted back at the jail—Rodney Evans. Didn’t she tell you he drove a BMW?”

  “She did!”

  Her smile was a crooked thing. “And you know, dear, he may have already dropped by the house. Of course, we weren’t in.”

  “You mean . . . Evans was our burglar?”

  “Could be. And I believe he was looking for something special.”

  * * *

  The next morning, Mother woke me up around nine to announce that we weren’t attending church service this morning.

  “Why not?” I asked. “Don’t you think a prayer or two might help this investigation along?”

  “Let’s not be sacrilegious, dear. I want to go out to the Kleins’ before they open at eleven, and inquire about that frame the late Camilla bought.”

  “You don’t have to label her ‘late.’ She’s the only Camilla either of us know.”

  “Not so, dear. The stage manager at my Off-Off-Off-Broadway play during my New York days was named Camilla Strulowitz.”

  “Well,” I said, crawling out from under the covers, on which Sushi still slumbered, “I’ll try hard to keep the two of them straight.”

  But I was fine with skipping church and checking out the Kleins. This was the first Sunday since my release, and I didn’t relish answering any questions from the congregation about my jail time. Church gave prying snoops a patina of concern that I could well do without.

  After a hearty breakfast, which I had insisted upon and had helped prepare, Mother and I headed out the door, leaving the dogs behind to deal with the table scraps (mixed in with their healthier dog food) I’d provided.

  We found ourselves in the midst of an overcast day, a frigid winter wind attacking us, erasing any warmth we had brought with us from the house.

  We climbed into the cold C-Max, me behind the wheel, Mother riding shotgun, and I grumbled shiveringly, “You know, we could have a warm car, if just you’d get rid of all that junk in the garage.”

  “Someday, dear,” Mother said.

  “You’d better not pass away and leave me with that mess.”

  “I’ll do my best,” she said cheerfully. “Ah, but think of the wonderful estate sale you would have!”

  “Is it close enough to Christmas,” I asked, “for me to say, ‘Bah, humbug’?”

  “Only if you’re prepared to explain the derivation of the term.”

  “That’s easy. It’s from A Christmas Carol.”

  “In fact, dear, it’s likely from our own Nordic heritage and refers to suspicion—very apt, considering our situation, if not terribly Dickensian.”

  Her “reserved” phase appeared to be over.

  As I backed the car out of the drive, Mother asked, too casually, “Have you heard from Tony?”

  “Yesterday. He called me at the shop.”

  “Did he happen to say when he’d be heading back?”

  We were tooling along Elm Street, which featured not a single elm. “He wasn’t really sure. It depends on how he’s getting
along with his daughter. She still blames him for the separation . . . and, well, Tony didn’t say this, but she may even blame him for her mother’s death.”

  Mother’s eyebrows rose above the big glasses, which was something of a feat. “Really?”

  “Well, not ‘really.’ It’s not like his daughter thinks he killed her mother! It’s just that Camilla would never have come to Serenity if she hadn’t wanted to try to reconcile with him.”

  I glanced at Mother—she was frowning. I asked her, “Something the matter?”

  She shifted in the seat. “Dear, I hadn’t wanted to mention this, but on my traverses yesterday—”

  “Ha! I knew you hadn’t ridden that stupid trolley all day!”

  “Then why even mention it?”

  “To let you know that I knew.”

  “Well, I knew you knew,” she said. “So the point is moot.”

  “Really? Even if I knew that you knew that I knew?”

  Such conversations are all too common between us, I’m afraid.

  “Dear,” Mother said, “do try not to be so infantile. Can’t you see that I’m trying to tell you something? Something important?”

  “Tell me, then.” I turned onto the bypass.

  “Yesterday,” she said, “I spoke with a certain party who saw Tony leaving the back of Camilla’s shop the afternoon she died.”

  “What? When?”

  “About three forty-five p.m. Dear, had the chief mentioned this visit to you?”

  “No!” I shook my head, hands tight on the wheel. “Mother, whoever you talked to must have been referring to his morning visit and gotten confused about the time.”

  “Oh, well, you’re probably right, dear. Think nothing of it.”

  I shot her an incredulous glance. “What are you thinking?”

  “Why, nothing, darling.”

  “Really, Mother,” I scoffed. “Tony, of all people? He did not kill Camilla.”

  And we dropped the subject, though it hung in the air between us like Tilda’s beaded curtain.

  I turned off the bypass onto a two-lane highway, and then wheeled into the gravel drive of the auction house. No other vehicles were in the lot, so I drove around back, where a white panel truck with the Klein’s logo on the side was parked.