Antiques Frame

by Barbara Allan

  Gerald nodded, swallowing thickly. After his rights had been read to him, and had been said to be understood, Gerald began, “I went to the Cassato woman’s shop to get . . . to get back a frame that our . . . our clerk Dexter mistakenly sold to her. . . .” His eyes found me. “You . . . you understand about the frame . . . don’t you, Vivian?”

  “I do. Do you know when this was, Gerald? What time?”

  “About . . . about ten minutes to four. I had to wait until her husband left . . . the police chief? And then I went in.”

  From the sidelines, Loretta Klein said coolly, “Darling, why don’t you leave it there and let me call our lawyer?”

  I could have kicked her, too!

  “No!” He paused, struggling for breath. “I . . . I offered Camilla more money . . . quite a bit more . . . than she had paid for the frame . . . but still she refused.”

  The doctor stepped forward and said, “I think we will have to leave it here. Mr. Klein is overexerting himself.”

  Was there anyone in the room I didn’t want to kick?

  Ignoring the doctor’s advice, I prompted Gerald: “What happened next?”

  “I saw . . . saw that corn husker on the desk . . . picked it up. I don’t know what came over me, but I . . . I hit her with it. She fell to the floor . . . and I just took the frame and left.”

  Loretta was crying quietly into a hankie.

  Gerald’s hand with the IV reached toward me. “I’m sorry, Vivian, about Brandy being charged for my crime. I was a . . . a coward, not coming forward. You will tell her?”

  “Yes, dear. She’s a forgiving child.” With the blush of her hands still on my neck, that was something of a stretch. But Gerald seemed to need the exoneration.

  “Now about the frame,” I continued. “The drugs inside—they were meant for Rodney Evans?”

  “What drugs?” Rudder asked.

  The sheriff, like the doctor, really wasn’t being all that helpful.

  I asked, “Was Rodney Evans the person who attacked you? Gave you this terrible beating?”

  Gerald nodded. “When I . . . gave him the frame, and the drugs weren’t there, he . . . he went crazy.” He squeezed my hand. “Loretta had nothing to do with my side business. You must understand that.”

  “And Dexter?” I asked.

  “Not him, either. But I think . . . think he came to suspect something of what had been going on . . . after I fired him.”

  Loretta said, rather plaintively, “Gerald, why did you get involved with that Evans creature? Our business was doing just fine!”

  Her husband’s voice was but a whisper. “No. It wasn’t. Bankruptcy . . . around the corner. Without the secondary business, we . . . we were . . . going . . . to lose . . . everything.”

  The hand that had been clutching mine went limp, as did the man’s body, head lolling to one side. The monitors began beeping their warnings, while a directive of “code blue” came over the intercom.

  As a team of doctors and nurses descended on the room, Sheriff Rudder and I slipped out.

  Nobody had to prompt us.

  A Trash ’n’ Treasures Tip

  When leaving a collection to heirs, none of whom want it, stipulate in your will to have it sold and the proceeds divided between them. Someone not terribly interested in a baseball card collection might enjoy cash just fine.

  Chapter Twelve

  On the Fence

  Late Monday morning, Mother, Tony and I were seated at the Duncan Phyfe table in the dining room, enjoying a lovely brunch. Tony had come here from the police station, where the sheriff had briefed him on the events of the night before, including, of course, Gerald’s deathbed confession to killing Camilla.

  Frankly, distracted by my Taser hangover, I was a little surprised that Tony had accepted Mother’s invitation to join us—he had to know she would pester him with question after question. But I hoped that he would want to see me badly enough that he’d put up with her.

  And he did. Want to see me, and put up with her . . .

  Rocky, who hadn’t seen his master since Wednesday (forever in dog time), had gone bonkers, jumping on Tony and pawing at him the moment he walked through our door. Pleased as I was to see my guy, somehow I had restrained myself from pawing at him. Sushi had sat on the sidelines, pouting because she wasn’t the center of attention, jilted by both Rocky and Tony.

  Back to the table. Mother was wearing Christmassy green slacks and a red top, yet another outfit of hers from Breckenridge. I was in not at all Christmassy black slacks and a purple cashmere sweater. As for Tony, he was in his standard work uniform of light-blue shirt, navy- and white-striped tie, and gray slacks.

  Mother had prepared her delicious Hof Pandekager (a pancake recipe available in Antiques St. Nicked, an e-book novella), which was served with warm cinnamon applesauce and sides of German sausage and fresh fruit.

  “Well,” Tony said, taking a break between pancakes, “I clearly can’t leave you two alone for even a few days without you getting yourselves in a jam with my colleagues. You’ll both have to answer for the break-in at the Kleins’, you know.” He paused and looked sternly at Mother. “I distinctly remember telling you to stay within the law.”

  Mother lifted the coffeepot. “Strange . . . I have no memory of that, beyond the rear door having been left open, which, of course, might make proving breaking and entering a hard go for that ambitious, young county attorney of ours. Refill, dear?”

  Tony’s only answer was a grunt, but when he held out his cup for her to fill, I detected the ghost of a smile. Then he sat back, knowing what was to come: payment for the brunch.

  Mother replaced the pot on its coaster, leaned forward, and tented her hands. “I believe I know how Rodney and Gerald ran their operation, but I would appreciate your take on it. I mean, you are an expert on this kind of thing.”

  “It’s relatively simple,” Tony said with a shrug. “Rodney was a fence for stolen property. He collaborated with Gerald to use the Kleins’ antiques business to ship those items—hidden inside various relatively worthless items, like that cuckoo clock that held the gems—to buyers in other parts of the country.”

  That might seem relatively simple to Tony, but I was confused. “How does drug smuggling fit into that?”

  “Well, right now this is theoretical. There’s digging that we have to do. But it appears that Mr. Evans is a versatile and ambitious man. In addition to shipping stolen goods around the country through Gerald Klein, Evans also had controlled substances shipped to himself via Gerald Klein.”

  “Quite ingenious,” Mother replied. “A new twist on an old game, dealing all kinds of contraband by going through a respectable conduit. Gerald could even provide what appeared to be a legitimate receipt!”

  Tony was nodding. “Or be on the receiving end of one. We found the receipt indicating that picture frame was shipped to the Kleins, with Rodney Evans the intended buyer.”

  I asked, “How long has this been going on?”

  “We don’t know yet. Probably only since things got tough for the antiques dealers in the area, and the Kleins’ legitimate business got in danger of going under.”

  Mother said, “Well, whenever it began, I think the scam could have thrived for quite some time . . . if Dexter hadn’t sold that frame to your late wife. Do you think that young man was aware of what was going on? Or possibly even a part of it?”

  Tony raised a cautionary palm. “I really can’t comment on Dexter Klein, Vivian. He’s the subject of an ongoing investigation.”

  “Well, can you at least tell me whether the young man is being cooperative?”

  “He isn’t. He’s indicated he’ll be lawyering up.”

  “Well, then,” Mother went on, “can you comment on the packages that were found in his van? Have they been examined?”

  “Yes.”

  “Anything of interest found?”

  Tony considered the question.

  “Come, come,” Mother said. “I did dis
cover the stolen jewels, after all. That should give me some capital here.”

  “All right,” Tony sighed. “One package was stuffed with packets of counterfeit twenty-dollar bills.”

  “Stuffed where?” Mother asked.

  “In a teddy bear.”

  Mother clapped once, delighted. “Clever! What else did you find?”

  Tony sighed again but answered, “Fake gift cards.”

  “In?”

  “The spines of several books.”

  “I hope those books weren’t valuable.”

  “No, though the receipts included would indicate they were.”

  I said, “Mother, I think probably all the merchandise used was junk—like the cuckoo clock—as Tony said.”

  “Well,” Mother said, “Gerald certainly was an ingenious middleman. Unless his wife, Loretta, was involved, as well . . . or do you believe Loretta was innocent in all this, as Gerald stated?”

  Tony shrugged. “Deathbed testimony carries considerable weight. I’m willing to take her husband’s word that she didn’t know what was going on—for now. But that, too, is part of our ongoing investigation.”

  I asked, “Does Mrs. Klein say she knows Rodney Evans?”

  Tony looked my way. “She claimed to have seen him only a few times, when she came back early from church on Sundays. Apparently, that’s when Evans and Gerald conducted their business. As far as she knew—she says—Evans was just another customer.”

  Mother said, “And you buy that?”

  Tony shrugged, then pushed back his chair and let out some air. “Well . . . I should get back to the station. Vivian, thank you for one fine brunch.”

  “You’re most welcome, Chief.” Mother slapped her hands on the table. “I guess that just about wraps everything up, doesn’t? In a nice neat bow.”

  Very soon, I would come to regret missing the oh-so-slight sarcasm in her voice. But at that moment I was focused on Tony, who was saying as he stood, “Oh, and, Vivian, one embarrassing photo isn’t going to cost Heather her job. But if you ever ask her for inside information again, I will have to fire her . . . and charge you with obstruction of justice.”

  Mother’s chin came up. “I have not the faintest idea what you are referring to.”

  I accompanied Tony to the front door, with Rocky tagging after. As we stood facing each other, I asked, “Do you, uh, mind clearing something up about Camilla?”

  “If I can.”

  “She didn’t know there were drugs in the frame when she bought it.” I posed that as a statement, not a question, to help take the sting out.

  His expression was utterly blank. “Are you wondering why Camilla refused to sell it back at twice the price?”

  I nodded.

  “I don’t really know. I can’t imagine she knew anything about the drugs. She wasn’t perfect, but that? That just wasn’t her.” He shrugged. “Knowing her, she probably simply liked the frame. Wanted to keep it no matter what. She was stubborn that way.”

  Wasn’t she?

  Mother’s face popped around the corner. “Sorry to disturb your little tête-à-tête, but, Chiefie . . .”

  Uh-oh. He was “Chiefie” again.

  “Who do you think will take over Sheriff Rudder’s position when he steps down?”

  “The voters will decide that this summer, Vivian.”

  “Hazard a guess.”

  “Well, it’ll likely be Daryl—Daryl Dugan.”

  Rudder’s second in command, a not very smart, strictly by-the-books man. Mother and I called him Deputy Dawg, though not to his face.

  “Thank you, sir, for the insight,” Mother said and disappeared.

  He was frowning, looking past me at where Mother had gone, when I said, “Tony?”

  His attention was on me now. “Yes?”

  “Did you ever think that maybe I . . . I had killed her?”

  I couldn’t bring myself to say “Camilla” or “your wife”—“her” was the best I could manage.

  “Not for a moment did I think that,” he said. “Did you really ever think that I might have done it?”

  “Never!”

  If one or both of us were lying, it didn’t matter. We had moved past that terrible moment.

  “Then,” I said, “we’re all right? You and me?”

  A powerful arm wrapped around me and drew me to him, and his mouth was on mine.

  Right answer, I thought.

  When we parted, he asked, “How about a take-out dinner at the cabin tonight?”

  “Sounds perfect.”

  “You can bring Rocky then. Sushi too. I’ll pick up Thai food after work.”

  Rocky, expecting to make an exit with his master, seemed confused when Tony commanded, “Stay, boy.” After Tony left, the dog ran to the living-room picture window to look out, making a sad little whine, which upset Sushi, who had trotted in and started to yap.

  I knew how Rocky felt. I always hated to see Tony leave, too.

  I barked, “Who wants to go outside!”

  Both “go” and “outside” were hot-button words for the dogs, who instantaneously forgot their angst and started leaping in the air.

  I put on my coat, hat, and gloves, slipped on a pair of waterproof boots, and retrieved a well-chewed Frisbee from the top shelf of the closet. Then we three went to the back door through the kitchen, where Mother was doing the dishes.

  She asked, “How long will you and the little angels be out there, dear?”

  “Depends on how cold it is,” I said. “But at least fifteen minutes. Why?”

  “I’ll have some hot cocoa on the stove for you when you come in.”

  “That sounds perfect,” I said.

  “Have fun, dear. You know what they say? It’s a dog’s life!”

  The dogs had a great time (me, too) cavorting in the new-fallen snow, Rocky hurling himself into the air, catching the disk, Sushi acting as his cheerleader. But then my fingers and toes got cold, and I started thinking about that hot cocoa.

  Inside, Mother was no longer in the kitchen, and I called out to her to ask if she wanted me to bring her a cup. When I got no answer, I went into the living room, and that’s when I noticed that her coat was gone and her purse and my UGGs.

  And the car keys.

  * * *

  Oh rapturous joy! Oh heavenly days! For the very first time, I get to end the book! Not only that, but this time around, I have written the equivalent of three and one half chapters—a new record for me. I’m sure our sales on this title will skyrocket! (This is Vivian, if you hadn’t already figured that out.)

  After Brandy went outside to entertain the hounds, I took the car keys from the stand by the front door, got on my coat and her snugly UGGs, grabbed my purse, and—hoping the order not to arrest me remained in force—drove off in the C-Max. Destination: the hospital.

  Rather than repeat my scrubs-outfit ploy, I entered through the lab/radiology entrance, circumventing the front information counter, where I might be questioned by a well-meaning volunteer as to the purpose of my visit. That was my business!

  After going directly to the central elevator, I rode up to the third floor, where I expected Dexter would likely be in residence with his broken arm and leg.

  After stepping off the elevator, I proceeded to the nurses’ station, behind which I knew would be the staff’s schedule board, giving detailed information regarding each patient—their doctor, day nurse, night nurse, case manager and, most importantly, room number.

  Finding Dexter to be in room 317, I traipsed down the hallway to that number, prepared to tell any police officer on the door that Chief Cassato had approved my visit. But perhaps not surprisingly, there was a lack of security on Dexter’s door. After all, where would he be going in his condition, anyway?

  With the corridor empty, I quietly opened the door and slipped inside.

  Dexter had a private room with the standard fare—recliner, bed, retractable table, TV high on the wall, small bathroom.

  He was
in the half-raised bed, asleep, one leg up in traction, his broken wing in a cast by his side.

  When I rolled the recliner up to the bed, the young man’s eyes jumped open in alarm.

  “Good morning,” I said, sitting. “Or is it afternoon already?”

  He was studying me curiously. “Why . . . why are you here, Mrs. Borne?”

  “Just to have a friendly little chat, dear.”

  “About?”

  “About the poor judgment that put you in that hospital bed.”

  He shifted a little, which made him grimace a tad in discomfort. “No offense, but I really shouldn’t talk to anyone about this until I see a lawyer.”

  I nodded. “Probably wise. Then consider this a friendly visit, just to see how you’re doing. How lucky you were to walk away from a crash like that!”

  “I . . . I didn’t really walk. They cut me out of there and carried me.”

  “I meant that more or less as an expression—that you survived where you might not have. Lucky for you, Brandy and I were on hand to call nine-one-one posthaste.” I sat back in the recliner. “It’s nice that you have a private room and don’t have to share your television with anyone. What are the odds of landing a hospital roommate with the same tastes in entertainment?”

  “I, uh, never thought about that.”

  I sat forward with some enthusiasm. Or perhaps I was just acting....

  “You know, dear, the other day, I saw a terrific Columbo on television. A rerun, of course, but then they’re all reruns now, aren’t they? The guest villain was Robert Culp. Did you know the producers liked him so much, they used him in three different episodes? The only other guest star they had more times was Patrick McGoohan. He was in four. You know, The Prisoner? Secret Agent?”

  “I don’t watch old TV shows.”

  “But did you ever see Columbo? As a child? That is, when you were a child, not Peter Falk.”

  He was getting irritated now.

  “Well,” I went on, “in this particular Columbo episode, Robert Culp was the killer, of course, but someone made the ill-advised move of trying to blackmail him. Isn’t that foolish? I mean, really. What’s one more murder to a killer? With that said, how long do you think Robert Culp’s blackmailer lasted?”