Antiques Fire Sale Page 12

  “Never heard of it,” Alek said.

  “I’m sure you mentioned—” Hannah said, but got cut off.

  “I said I never heard of the place.” He picked up the plastic tub and disappeared through the push door.

  “Well, that was weird,” I said to Hannah.

  Hoping to pry a little more out of her, I asked, “Did Alek ever mention somebody’s name? A him or a her?”

  “Forget it,” she said, not as friendly now. “I was wrong.”

  In fact, Hannah seemed a little scared now. I must have pressed too hard.

  She lowered her voice. “You should eat and get out of here. Maybe don’t come back.”

  “Oh, okay. Thanks.”

  Hannah just nodded. She was scared, all right. Not for herself, but me.

  She left my ticket on the table.

  I wolfed down the food. The burger was like meatloaf in a bun, but really good. I left cash on top of the ticket, including a good tip, slung my backpack on, and made tracks.

  Out on the sidewalk, I was walking, staring at my phone, trying to call for a cab, when Alek was right in front of me. Like a wall I almost ran into.

  “Who are you?” he asked quietly, which made him seem even more threatening.

  Still, I felt relatively safe with traffic gliding by on the street and pedestrians passing on the sidewalk. So I went on defense. “What’s it to you?”

  “You were in that mailbox place.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “Yeah, doing homework. So what?”

  “You followed me.”

  I smirked. “What for? I don’t even know you. I wanted something to eat. You work there. Small world. Now stop stalking me or I’ll call the police.”

  Wozniak backed off a little but pointed a thick finger at me. “This isn’t your neighborhood. Don’t come back.”

  “Don’t worry. I wasn’t planning to.”

  And I stepped around him.

  Feeling his eyes burning holes in my back, I kept walking. I spotted a roaming cab and hailed it down.

  I had the driver take me to the nearest shopping mall, where I got another cab for the ride home.

  But it was rush hour traffic now, and the going was slow, and I was sweating bullets I wouldn’t beat my stepmom home. She always got there before Dad.

  Finally, the cab turned down my street, and I figured I was home free till I noticed the car directly in front of us was exactly like my stepmom’s Lexus. There was a good reason for that. It was her Lexus, because I recognized the license plate.

  The cab was just passing a side street when I yelled to the driver to turn there, then another turn put me somewhere behind my house.

  Throwing some bills at him, I jumped out.

  I ran between two homes, vaulted a wooden fence, tripped over a kid’s bike, scaled someone else’s chain-link fence, got chased by their dog, reached our fence, and flung myself over it. I dashed around the pool, dodged the hot tub, jumped over patio furniture, and reached the deck. Then I stood on its railing, pulled myself up onto the roof of the four-seasons room, clambered along its slope to my bedroom window, opened it, and tumbled inside. (Maybe I’d done this before.)

  Below, I heard the front door slam shut and my stepmom call out, “Jake, honey . . . I’m home!” Her footsteps sounded on the wooden stairs. Like a firing squad marching to do their duty.

  I picked myself up, tore off my backpack and jacket, stripped down to my T-shirt and boxers, and dove into bed just before my door opened.

  Pretending to wake up, I garbled, “What? Who? . . . Oh, hello.”

  “How are you feeling?”

  “I’m not sure. . . .”

  “Well, let’s have a look.” She pulled back the covers. “Oh, my . . . you’re sopping wet! You must’ve had a fever.” She felt my forehead. “But it’s broken now.”

  If this was a movie, here’s where I’d look at the camera and wink. Ferris Bueller had nothing on me.

  “Are you hungry?” she asked.

  “Not really,” I answered. Not after bolting down that Polish meal I wasn’t.

  “What about some hot chocolate with marshmallows?” she asked.

  But always room for that!

  “That sounds really good,” I said pitifully. “Thanks.”

  She nodded. “All right. I have to make a few phone calls first, and then I’ll be up with it.”

  “Okay.”

  After the door closed, I let out a big sigh of relief.

  I got up and retrieved my cell phone from my jeans, then sat on the edge of the bed.

  “Grandma? Yeah, it’s me, Jake. I’m back home.”

  The problem with investigating for Grandma was that she wanted to know every single solitary little detail of what had happened. That took a while—she even asked what I ate at the Polish diner.

  “You did splendidly,” Grandma said. “Much better than I could have.”

  That was a real compliment coming from her.

  But I didn’t think I’d done so good.

  “Grandma, you know they’re suspicious now. That vase and provenance note are gonna disappear from the antique store, Alek Wozniak will have his mail go somewhere else, and maybe change jobs.”

  “Dearest,” she said. “That doesn’t matter. You found the loose thread of yarn that will eventually unravel the entire sweater.”

  “I could try to talk to that Hannah again.”

  “No, dear.” She was whispering now; Mom must’ve been around. “I’ve already put you in more danger than I ever intended.”

  “Well, okay. But Grandma?”

  “Yes, dear?”

  “You need to be careful yourself. Because that Alek Wozniak? He’s not a nice man.”

  My door opened, and I raised my voice as a signal to her. “Yeah, I’m feeling better, Grandma. Probably go back to school tomorrow.... No, I won’t get behind on my studies.... Yes, I’m staying hydrated.... No, I won’t get constipated.” I looked at my stepmom and rolled my eyes. “Well, I’m gonna go back to sleep now.... Okay, I will. Say ‘hi’ to Mom and tell her I’ll call her later. Bye.”

  All the while I was going through that phony conversation, Grandma was giggling on the other end of the line.

  “She means well,” my stepmom said with a smile, and handed me a mug of hot chocolate brimming with gooey marshmallows.

  One final thing before I sign off, and this is just for kids with cell phones, so if you’re not one (a kid, not a cell phone), you don’t have to read on. In fact, it’s probably best if you don’t. So.

  Every once in a while, I leave my phone lying around out in the open so my dad and stepmom can get a look at it—there’s no password on mine, just a swipe to get in, which was the deal for them to buy me the iPhone SE. (And why I’ve been saving up for my own iPhone XR, with password.)

  You can’t blame parents for worrying and spying, because they probably remember all the bad stuff they did when they were our age. So go ahead and take the free phone offer. You can always delete all e-mails and texts and photos and tweets and other things that could make them crazy. Crazier. (And then hang on to that birthday and Christmas money.)

  One suggestion? If you have a code that means something special from someone, make sure it’s not lame like the sun and moon and the stars. Although I bet you’ll remember that, won’t you?

  Jake’s Trash ’n’ Treasures Tip

  The internet is a great place to get rid of any of your stuff that you’re tired of and that takes up space in your room. I use Craigslist, and so far haven’t been stiffed. There are even “safe zones” where you can meet a buyer to make the exchange, which says you’re both legit. Also, then you get to buy new stuff with the money and fill your room back up.

  Chapter Eight

  In Which Vivian Barks Up the Wrong Tree

  And Brandy Goes Out on a Limb

  Friday morning, Mother was up bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, and chomping at the bit (to mix metaphors), to begin questioning anyone who might hav
e seen or talked to James Sutter from Monday evening through midday Tuesday. The focus would be on individuals with a connection to the mansion, her list including Gavin Sutter, Evelyn Snydacker, Benjamin Wentworth, and Cliff Reed.

  Since she wanted to conduct her interviews not by phone but in person, to better gauge people’s reactions to her questions, I was once again Mother’s deputy/chauffeur. Joe Lange was called up for duty to look after the antiques shop—and Sushi—for the duration.

  Leaving directly from home, we took the C-Max, Mother in her jumpsuit uniform with a tan windbreaker, me in jeans and a sweater. I had managed to resist any sort of uniform in my ex-officio role.

  Our first stop was Gavin Sutter, who lived with his wife, Sarah, in a modest ranch home in a subdivision called Stoneybrook that had once been one of Serenity’s most desirable neighborhoods thirty years ago and was still “nothing to turn your nose up at” (as Mother put it). He worked in management at the electric company, and Sarah subcontracted from home as a CPA; they had a daughter, Heather, who attended college out of state.

  All of this was shared with me by Mother on the way. She must have cleared our visit with Gavin through his wife, because Sarah met us at the door, saying, “You won’t keep him long, will you? We have an appointment with the funeral director—again.”

  Sarah was a tall brunette with her hair pinned up, attractive even without makeup. She wore a tan sweater with gold necklace, brown tailored slacks, and brown socks sans shoes, and she was clearly frazzled.

  I wondered if we were supposed to remove our shoes, too, but our hostess said nothing about that before ushering us into a formal living room, tastefully appointed if a bit bland.

  Gavin was seated in an overstuffed armchair. He rose as we entered. He wore a navy V-neck sweater over an open-collared light blue shirt with gray slacks. He, too, was in his stocking feet, which I now figured was a practice born of the light beige carpet. It somehow brought immediately to mind this morning, when Sushi’s long leash got wound around a bush in our backyard and I had to step through the fertilizer minefield to free her.

  As Mother and I followed his gesture to occupy the couch, some back and forth between Sarah and her husband transpired. Did he want anything? No, he didn’t. Coffee? No, thank you, darling. I would have loved a cup of joe, but no offer came and the wife departed. In her current state, caffeine wouldn’t have been a good idea, if that was what she was off to acquire for herself.

  Gavin sat forward, staring at the hands in his lap before meeting Mother’s eyes.

  “Sheriff, I owe you an apology,” he said. “I behaved badly at the crematorium.”

  “Tut-tut,” Mother responded, with a wave of her hand. “You were understandably overwrought, and who wouldn’t be? We’ll hear no more about it.”

  But I could tell she was pleased by his apology. Like most people who rarely offer apologies, Mother relished those she received.

  Gavin went on: “And as it turned out, you were right to confiscate the body, which I had been told was that of my stepfather.” He sighed. “If only I hadn’t insisted the funeral go forward so quickly, Heather wouldn’t have had to rush home just in time to see some unknown stranger’s ashes put in the family vault!” He shook his head slowly. “Now we have to go through all of that again.”

  “However,” Mother said, “this time the service and burial will be for the actual dearly departed.”

  Gavin sucked in some air. “Oh! I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful, Sheriff. Thank God you found James. The real James.” He shuddered. “To think that his final resting place might otherwise have been a shallow grave in the woods somewhere is . . . really, just unbearable.”

  “Happy to help,” Mother said.

  Our host frowned. “I heard you were in the hospital after an explosion of some kind? That very same night?”

  “Yes, shortly after the discovery of your stepfather’s body. A propane tank, dear, on the property where he was found.”

  It took more than one measly exploding propane tank to stop Vivian Borne.

  She continued: “But I’m not here to discuss that. And, and as you can see, I’m quite all right.”

  “Of course,” Gavin said, taken slightly aback by Mother’s sudden curtness. “Why are you here?”

  Mother removed a small notepad and pen from a zipper pocket of her jumpsuit. “I have a few routine questions. I’ll make it brief, since you’ve been put through this loss twice.”

  “I appreciate that,” he said.

  “When did you last speak to your stepfather?”

  “You mean, the very last time?”

  “Please.”

  “Well,” Gavin said slowly, and he paused to mull the question. “I’m not exactly sure.”

  Mother prompted, “The day of the fire?”

  “No.”

  “A few days before perhaps?”

  A shake of his head.

  “A few weeks, then?”

  No reaction now.

  “Months?”

  Gavin cleared his throat. “If I might be frank . . .”

  “I insist you be.”

  “My stepfather and I hadn’t been on speaking terms for some time.”

  “And why would that be?” Mother asked bluntly.

  He shifted in the armchair, clearly uncomfortable despite its generous padding, and when Gavin finally spoke, his voice was soft—any softer, he’d have been hard to make out at all.

  “It was no one thing,” he said, “no argument, certainly no shouting match. More a gradual thing, our falling out. You may already know that I cosigned the mortgage on that mansion, so James could buy it. This was just before the housing bubble burst.”

  Tired of sitting on the sidelines, particularly with no coffee, I said, “Then suddenly the Wentworth mansion wasn’t such a good investment.”

  Gavin looked my way. “You’re quite correct. We got caught up in the same financial meltdown that hit so many in this country. And we wound up on the hook for this enormous loan.”

  Mother tsk-tsked, then said, “That would certainly strain any relationship.” (She has a sincere tsk-tsk and a fake tsk-tsk, and this was the latter.)

  I asked Gavin, “What will happen now with the loan?”

  He sighed. “There will be a payout on the insurance policy covering the home, to apply to the loan. After that, if there’s anything left in the estate, with luck it might cover the balance due. Otherwise I’ll have to take out a second mortgage on this place.” Very quietly, he said, “Sarah isn’t wild about that.”

  Mother asked, “Was there a will?”

  He shrugged a shoulder. “I don’t really know. If so, it could be in a safe deposit box somewhere, or might have been destroyed in the fire. Regardless, I expect the Historical Preservation Society to be the benefactor.”

  Mother shifted gears. “Had James ever mentioned the name Leon Jones?”

  Gavin’s brow tightened. “. . . No. I don’t believe so. Who is he?”

  “The janitor at the Playhouse,” Mother said, adding, “He seems to have disappeared.”

  This time both shoulders shrugged. “Afraid I can’t help you with that.... There’s a Miguel Something from the Playhouse, who’d been doing some painting at the mansion. . . according to Evelyn Snydacker, anyway, who keeps me informed whether I want to be or not.” He paused, his eyes narrowing. “Sheriff, who actually did die in the fire? Is that why you mentioned that janitor?”

  Sarah materialized in the mouth of the living room, and announced, “We really should go, dear.”

  Meaning we should too.

  “Just one more question, Mr. Sutter,” Mother said. “Where were you between the hours of five o’clock on Monday and noon on Tuesday?”

  Sarah looked sharply at Mother. “Don’t tell me Gavin is a suspect now? Haven’t we suffered enough indignities?”

  Her husband raised a hand. “Now, darling, the sheriff is only doing her job.” He cupped his chin with a hand. “Let’s see.... I had
dinner here with Sarah, then watched the Cardinals play the Brewers, and went to bed about eleven. The next morning I woke up at six forty-five, showered, dressed, had breakfast, and got to the plant by eight. I stayed there until one, when I left to have lunch with a coworker. Would you like his name?”

  I think Gavin expected her to demur, but when Mother didn’t, he told her who it was, and she wrote it down in the notepad.

  Mother stood and so did I. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Sutter.”

  “Happy to help,” he said, not sounding happy at all.

  As we exited, I may have left behind a small brown stain on the beige carpet by the couch where my feet had been planted, but I couldn’t be sure. A DNA test would have led to Sushi, I’m afraid.

  According to Mother, Evelyn Snydacker would be playing bridge this morning at the Serenity Country Club, as was her regular wont. Knowing how much Mother hated being interrupted during her own bridge games, I suggested she interview the woman later.

  “Nonsense,” Mother replied. “Evelyn will relish the intrusion when she finds out the sheriff wants to talk to her. She loves being the center of attention. You know the type!”

  I take the Fifth.

  The country club was located across what Mother and I refer to as the Treacherous By-pass, because the four-lane highway had few stoplights and no middle area for a driver to hole up at after a misjudged attempted crossing. Once again, we managed to survive, and I pulled in the country club’s drive.

  I found a spot for the C-Max in a lot full of BMWs, Audis, Cadillacs, and Lincolns, and we extracted ourselves from our puny but conscientious hybrid.

  From the outside, the modern structure might be mistaken for a millionaire’s home—beautifully landscaped, with drive-up portico, and an outdoor pool (closed for the season) off to one side.

  We went through double etched-glass doors into a vestibule, where a couple of facing faux Louis XV chairs stood guard, then crossed through another set of etched-glass doors, and entered an expansive greeting area where two floral couches were separated by a round cherrywood table topped with a large oriental vase filled with fresh fall flowers.