Antiques Fire Sale Read online

  To the right, a carpeted hallway of geometric design led to the barroom, and banquet room beyond. The left-hand hallway accessed various offices. Downstairs was the clubhouse with a smaller, more casual eating venue.

  An officious-looking gent approached from the office wing. I didn’t recognize him, but Mother seemed to.

  His expression was one of alarm, which could be due to Mother’s official capacity as sheriff, or her personal capacity as troublemaker. Six of one.

  “Greetings, Mr. Eggler,” Mother said with a polite smile. “I need to speak with Evelyn Snydacker.”

  His alarm morphed into concern. “Oh, dear! I’m afraid she’s in the middle of a game at the moment.”

  Mother’s smile would have remained frozen on her face however long it took for Eggler to come to his senses.

  He finally capitulated, saying, “I’ll go get her.”

  “Thank you,” Mother replied graciously. “You’ll find us in the bar.”

  While he scurried off, we made our way along the hallway to a private room with windows facing the rolling golf course, a cozy fireplace (not in use), burgundy-colored leather chairs, small cherrywood accent tables, and of course a fully stocked bar, which was unattended at the moment. The entire room was unpopulated, unless you counted us.

  Mother picked one of two comfy chairs in front of the fireplace, while I sat near the bar, wondering how I could get a soft drink. Was my ex-officio position enough to risk going around the bar and commandeering a Sprite?

  Mrs. Snydacker appeared in a forest-green pants suit, her face cheeks flushed—or perhaps she was just overly rouged—and hurried toward Mother.

  “Vivian!” she exclaimed. “How nice to see you.”

  Mother gestured for the woman to take the other chair. “My apologies, my dear, to have taken you away from your game. I know how important that is.”

  Mother’s sarcasm was hidden from Mrs. Snydacker but in clear view of her deputy daughter.

  The bridge player, now having lit, replied, “That’s quite all right, Vivian. . . . We have a roaming substitute. And besides, at the moment, I was the dummy.”

  Why don’t you take that one?

  The woman leaned toward Mother conspiratorially. “I heard you were in the hospital, Vivian. Do tell me all about it.”

  Inquiring minds want to know.

  Mother said, “I’m not here to talk about myself, dear.”

  “Oh,” Mrs. Snydacker said curtly, taking that as a rebuke. To be fair, a visit from Mother when she wasn’t in the mood to talk about herself was fairly rare. “Then, what is it you want?”

  “Just the facts,” Mother said, knowing Mrs. Snydacker was a woman of a certain age who would understand the Dragnet reference. “When did you last have contact with James Sutton?”

  She sat back, raised a forefinger to her suspiciously rosy cheek. “Well, let’s see.... It would have been Monday evening when Jimmy called me at home—to thank me for the new grant.”

  “Do you recall what time?”

  “Around seven o’clock, I would say. I was washing up the dinner dishes.”

  “And how did James sound?”

  “Well, pleased, naturally.” Mrs. Snydacker frowned. “But I did have to give him a bit of bad news.”

  While Mother waited for the woman to explain, I left my chair and went behind the bar to see what I could confiscate. A pro bono ex-officio has certain rights.

  The president of the Historical Preservation Society was saying, “I told James that after this grant, there would unfortunately be no more money available for the Wentworth mansion.”

  Mother straightened, eyes and nostrils flaring—she darn near whinnied. “As a member of the committee, why was I not party to this decision?”

  Mrs. Snydacker made a scoffing sound. “Vivian, since you were elected sheriff, you haven’t attended a single meeting.”

  “Perhaps I missed one.”

  “You were absent at the last three meetings.”

  “Well, I have been a little busy!” Mother replied, miffed.

  I located the button for Sprite on the soft drink gun dispenser, pushed it, and began filling a glass, having already helped myself to ice.

  “There’s no point in discussing this,” the woman said, miffed right back at her. “You would have been overruled, in any event. We were in unanimous agreement that no more grants would be given for what had increasingly become a money pit. Besides, why bother discussing it now? The point is moot, now that the mansion has gone up in smoke.” She seemed to know her tone was getting snippy, and added in a somber tone, “Tragically.”

  Behind the bar, I also found some fruit in a little fridge and tossed a maraschino cherry and orange wedge into the glass. I looked around for a little paper umbrella, but no dice.

  Mrs. Snydacker went on, “And now we can use our funds for other endeavors—projects that require but a single grant, such as repairing the swing bridge at the park or the marquee on the old Palace Theater.”

  Mother’s shoulders sagged a little. “You’re right, of course. But I did love that old place.”

  Mrs. Snydacker’s tone turned sympathetic. “I know you did, Vivian. So did I. So did we all! But some things are beyond saving.” What she said next seemed to be a thought better not spoken out loud. “In fact, some things are better off gone.”

  Mother snapped out of her funk. “I need to know your whereabouts from Monday evening through noon on Tuesday.”

  Mrs. Snydacker goggled at Mother.

  “Now, don’t bother looking offended, Evelyn. I have to ask everyone I interview that question. Strictly routine.”

  Dragnet again. And those two were old enough to remember Ben Alexander, not just Harry Morgan. (If you understand that reference without a Google search, you and Mother may have been classmates.)

  Settled back down, Mrs. Snydacker nodded her understanding. “As I said, I was at home Monday night when I received James’s call, and I didn’t go out that evening at all. Tuesday morning, I dropped by to see you at the hospital around eight, had that interview with the Serenity Sentinel nine-ish, and got home about ten.” She leaned toward Mother. “Is this about James being found in the woods? After the misidentification of whoever died in the fire? Surely you don’t think I had anything to do with any of that!”

  Mother responded with her most mysterious smile, rose, and said, “Thank you, Evelyn. I’m sure you’ll be wanting to get back to your game.”

  Mrs. Snydacker stood. “You could have at least thrown me a crumb, Vivian.”

  “A crumb, dear?”

  “Some morsel of information. Something to share!”

  “Ah. Well. Certainly. The explosion came from a propane tank.”

  “Everybody already knows that!”

  “How about this.... It was Sushi who sniffed out James’s resting place.”

  Mrs. Snydacker goggled again. “Really! My word. That little darling canine is a marvel. Well, at least that’s something to tell the ladies. Makes a rather cute anecdote, really.”

  Real cute. Dog smells corpse in the woods. Delightful.

  After the woman left, I took her place.

  Mother eyed my drink. “I don’t suppose you could make me a hot toddy without the toddy.”

  “And what exactly would that be?”

  “Hot water and honey, hold the whiskey.”

  “Didn’t spot any honey back there, honey. Here, try some of this.” I handed her my glass. “Not to worry. No booze to muddle your medication.”

  “Or yours, either.”

  “Or mine.”

  Mother in particular had learned not to mix alcohol with her medication, after once ending up in Poughkeepsie without knowing how she’d gotten there. Well, she sort of knew. A bus.

  Mother took a sip of my drink, then plucked out the cherry, bit off the stem, and chewed the plump redness, her eyebrows knitting together.

  “Something?” I asked.

  She took a moment to chew and swal
low, then replied. “Evelyn does have a motive for starting the fire, you know.”

  “I don’t know. Give.”

  “She obviously has her own pet projects that took precedence in her bridge player’s mind.”

  “What? Because of some grant money she could access? That’s a little far-fetched.” I reclaimed my drink and downed it. “Come on, Joe Friday—let’s go.”

  Benjamin Wentworth lived downtown in the refurbished six-story Grand Hotel, which had been converted into luxury condos. On the drive, Mother told me that the heir of the Wentworth antiques had recently put his condo on the market, as he planned to relocate to Arizona where he was building a home with his new, much younger wife.

  We took the elevator to the top, stepping off into beautifully carpeted luxury. Each floor had two condominiums, front and rear, and Mother rang the buzzer on the door of the former, which faced the river.

  After waiting about thirty seconds, she tried again, and almost immediately the door opened, the white-haired distinguished Wentworth wearing a very uncustomary gray sweatshirt and jeans, along with a perplexed expression.

  He asked, rather tightly, “Sheriff. Something I can do for you?”

  “You may start with inviting me in,” she replied.

  I was invisible, merely an extension of her, not even garnering a glance from the man.

  “Well, certainly,” he said, backing out of the way.

  We paused inside the marble-floored vestibule, as Wentworth closed the door, then moved around us, indicating we were to follow him down the corridor.

  He took us to a spacious room where the living area was to the left and kitchen to the right. The furnishings were tasteful and expensive, the appliances top-of-the-line. But most impressive were the windows running the expanse of the front wall, offering a view of the Mississippi River, sparkling in the late morning sun, as if diamonds had been cast out upon the waters. He could afford it.

  Mother, who had been appraising the open boxes resting on the Persian rug, cartons partially filled with leather-bound tomes from a nearby bookcase, asked, “Moving so soon?”

  “Yes,” Wentworth replied. “Jessica’s been in Phoenix for several weeks now, supervising construction of our new home, and I’m anxious to join her. The moving company is coming next week.”

  Mother nodded. “Heading all the way to Arizona. That’ll be quite an expense, I would imagine.”

  “Yes, but better than having to furnish from scratch, with what little I could get from a moving sale.” Wentworth shrugged. “And I found an area company that was quite reasonable—Reliable Hauling?”

  “Not familiar with them,” Mother admitted.

  Nor was I.

  Since he had yet to offer her a seat, Mother took it upon herself to cross to a brocade couch, where she plopped down, leaving Wentworth with limited options—a nearby armchair or just stand there. He chose the former.

  Rather than join Mother, I went over to gaze out the windows, where along the riverfront a train was chugging discreetly by, the city having recently established the downtown a “whistle-free” zone. Before that, city center dwellers would peel themselves off their ceilings when the trains came blaring through in the middle of the night.

  Mother was saying, “I assume you’re aware of all the latest developments.”

  “Indeed,” our host said, nodding. “I’m certainly pleased you weren’t hurt, Vivian. And I do hope you find James’s killer, and whoever it was who got himself caught in the fire.” He paused. “But I don’t know what any of that has to do with me.”

  Wentworth seemed on the defensive, as if Gavin or Evelyn had tipped him off that Mother might come around. He appeared ready with his answers.

  No, he hadn’t seen or talked to James Sutter in quite some time. No, he hadn’t left the condo Monday evening through Tuesday noon, busy packing as he was.

  Mother, her professional demeanor turning conciliatory, said, “You’re going to be missed, Benjamin. Won’t seem right around the old town without you. The Wentworths had a lot to do with the success of Serenity through the years.” She sighed. “But, I suppose I can understand that there’s nothing left to keep you here, now that the mansion is gone. I do hope you’re not too upset about the loss of the contents.”

  “Upset?” He smiled just a little. “To be brutally honest, no. Those antiques had become a collective albatross around my neck.” He raised a hand. “Don’t misunderstand. I don’t take it lightly that a life was lost in that fire. And as for whatever happened to James, and how it might relate to all this . . . very distressing.”

  He didn’t seem very distressed to me.

  “But,” he was saying, “I’m free now from the shackles of my great-grandfather’s will, and will no longer have to pay the exorbitant insurance premiums on material items for which I have no sentimental feelings whatsoever, and—actually, frankly—came to loathe.”

  But he wouldn’t loathe the huge insurance payout those “material items” would generate.

  If Mother seemed surprised by his frank admission, she didn’t betray it a whit.

  “I quite understand, Benjamin,” she said. “It might be different, had you grown up around those antiques, living with them, utilizing them. I’ve always felt one must have an emotional attachment through fond memories of a physical object in order to truly care about it.”

  I turned from the window. “We have people coming into our shop all the time,” I said, “who ooooh and ahhhhh over the darndest things, just because they used to have one like it.”

  Both Wentworth and Mother were looking at me as if they hadn’t previously noticed my presence. The sheriff shot an unappreciative glance my way. “Yes, thank you, dear. . . . Benjamin, when will you be leaving town?”

  “The middle of next week,” he said. “I dislike being away from my bride for any extended time.”

  “Going so soon?” Mother asked. “Isn’t it necessary that you wait until you’ve settled with the insurance company?”

  He waved that off with a parchment-skinned hand. “That can be handled long-distance, and through my lawyer, if need be.” Our host stood and performed an excuse for a smile. “But, until then, I’m at your disposal, Vivian . . . Sheriff. And you can always reach me on my cell. You do have that number?”

  “I do,” Mother said, but she hadn’t budged from her seat on the sofa. “One more thing, if it’s not too much trouble—in regard to the Tiffany lava vase that always graced the table in the mansion’s entryway.”

  Why was she showing him her hole card on such an early round?

  “What about it?” he asked. With a just a hint of impatience.

  “It would seem,” she said, “that a vase looking exactly like it showed up for sale on the internet, just a day after the fire.”

  Wentworth frowned. “What are you saying?”

  “From where I sit”—and she was still sitting—“that strikes me as quite a coincidence. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  She was watching him closely, studying him as he took a moment to gather his thoughts before responding.

  Finally he said, “Not necessarily. I believe Tiffany made quite a few vases in his volcanic series, vases that looked nearly identical, even handcrafted as they were.”

  Mother smiled. “A reasonable-enough explanation. Still, it might be worth checking into.”

  And now, at last, she stood.

  “Come, Brandy,” she said, as if about to toss me a biscuit. “And thank you, Benjamin, for your time—we can find our way out.”

  From the condominiums it was just a stone’s throw to Cliff Reed’s office on the third floor of the First National Bank, so we left the car in the lot and hoofed it on over.

  In the outer office, the strawberry blonde receptionist informed us that Cliff had a customer at the moment.

  That didn’t suit Mother.

  Standing tall before the desk, she said, “Please inform Mr. Reed that the sheriff is here and, while I certainly understand that
he has business to conduct as an insurance agent, the sheriff, as a duly elected representative of justice, has a murder investigation to carry out.”

  The receptionist squinted at Mother, trying to bring her into focus. “And you’re the sheriff, right?”

  “I am indeed. They do not give this uniform to just anybody.”

  “I’m not surprised. I never saw one like that before. Please take a seat.”

  We did, while the receptionist used the phone to inform her boss of his visitors.

  Mother shot me a glare. “What are you smiling about?”

  “Nothing.”

  We had barely settled into our chairs when a plump woman well known to us, Mrs. Fusselman, emerged from the hallway, dragging her coat while stuffing some papers into a large tote. It appeared she’d just been rather rudely ejected from Cliff’s office. The lady gave Mother a peeved look as she trundled toward the door.

  The receptionist’s intercom buzzed, and Cliff’s voice could be heard saying to send Mother back.

  We found Cliff Reed behind his desk, with work spread out in front of him like an unappetizing banquet, and he did not rise when we entered.

  Still, he said warmly, “Hello, Vivian . . . Sheriff. Brandy, nice to see you again.”

  While I hung back, Mother moved to the visitor’s chair opposite the agent. Suddenly obsequious, she said, “I do hope I didn’t cause you any distress with Mrs. Fusselman. I would have been more than happy to wait.”

  Ha.

  “No, not at all,” Cliff assured her. “As a matter of fact, I’m glad you came when you did.” He chuckled a little. “The old gal does love to gossip, and we’d finished with our business.”

  “These gossips,” Mother said, shaking her head, smiling.

  These gossips.

  “Now,” Cliff said, “what can I do for you?”

  No specific queries about finding James, the explosion, or the mystery man in the fire. Interesting.

  Mother, all business now, said, “I’m here to inquire about the insurance policies taken out by James Sutter and Benjamin Wentworth.”

  “You’re here in your official capacity?”

  “But of course. I made that clear to your receptionist.”

  He sat back, tented his fingers. His eyebrows went up. “I thought perhaps you might be representing the Historical Preservation Society. There’ll be no payout on the mansion itself, I’m afraid.”