Antiques Fire Sale Page 14

  Mother leaned forward. “Surely the structure was insured. The bank would have required that for the mortgage!”

  “It was, and they did.”

  “Then why no payout?”

  “Because . . .” Cliff took in air, let it out. “James allowed the policy to lapse, two months ago.”

  “Good Lord,” Mother exclaimed. “And you didn’t know about it?”

  The insurance agent sat forward, elbows on the desk. “Not until the company holding the policy notified me that the premium was overdue. Which is why I paid him a visit.”

  “And?”

  “And . . . James said the check must have been lost or delayed in the mail, and he said he would immediately put a stop payment on it, then send the company another. But, apparently, he never did.”

  I asked, “Is that why Gavin looked so upset when he came to see you on Wednesday?”

  Cliff looked at me, as if I’d tossed cold water in his face. “What?”

  “I saw him when I was leaving your office.”

  Nervous smile. “Ah . . . yes. That was indeed the reason.”

  Who says indeed anymore?

  Mother said, “Quite understandable, since he had indeed cosigned the mortgage loan.”

  Oh. Never mind.

  She went on: “I hope he didn’t blame you for the snafu.”

  She never could resist a dig.

  “I don’t believe he did,” Cliff muttered.

  “Hopefully,” she said, “Benjamin will have better luck with his insurance coverage. Do you expect any problems with the settlement on the antiques? I assume I can ask that simple question without a court order.”

  Cliff swallowed, then shook his head. “No. The required appraisals are in order. And, as soon as the insurance company has done its investigation, and state and local fire marshals have completed theirs—which should be any time now—Mr. Wentworth will receive full coverage of the policy. I can assure you that.”

  “Of course,” Mother commented, “it helps to have a tenacious and smart agent in one’s corner to move things along.”

  “Naturally, insurance companies like to drag things out, so, yes, it does help to have someone like me pushing them.”

  “For a consideration from the insured?” she asked sweetly.

  “Consideration?”

  “Kickback, then.”

  His smile disappeared. “Sheriff, because you’re new on the job, I’m going to forget that you said that.”

  Unfazed, Mother produced her notepad and pen. “Just a few questions. When was the last time you spoke to James?”

  “Last week, when I went to see him about the lapsed policy. As I said.”

  “And what were your movements from Monday night through noon on Tuesday?”

  Cliff swiveled in his chair, thinking. “Let’s see . . . I was at home Monday night, and came to work Tuesday morning at eight and saw clients all morning. My receptionist can corroborate that.”

  “Can anyone vouch for you on Monday night?”

  He looked down at some papers on the desk, as if they might have the answer. “No. I was alone at home. My wife and I have recently separated.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. Reed. I do hope you both can work things out.”

  He nodded.

  Mother returned the notepad to her pocket. “Thank you for your time.”

  He nodded again, managed a smile.

  We left.

  Walking back to the C-Max, I said, “You’ve got a real doozy of a problem, haven’t you?”

  “I have any number of doozies going in my life, dear, at any given time. Please quantify your remark.”

  I shrugged. “It’s what Evelyn let slip . . . that some things are better off gone. Those four people you just interviewed? They all seem to benefit from that fire, or thought they would.”

  “True,” Mother said. “To varying degrees, but . . . true.”

  We had arrived at the car.

  “So maybe you shouldn’t be looking for a single killer,” I said. “But several.”

  “Or all of them,” Mother commented. “As in one big, fat doozy of a conspiracy.”

  A Trash ’n’ Treasures Tip

  When selling antiques online through an auction site, make sure you are allowed to set a reserve price. That way, the item will not be sold for anything below that price. Mother has been so confident at times that she didn’t bother with requesting a reserve. That’s how she came to sell a silver tea set for $2.98.

  Chapter Nine

  In Which Vivian Plays It by Ear

  And Brandy Gets Her

  Nose Out of Joint

  My darlings, when last you left us, Brandy and I were about to get into our C-Max after my interrogation of Cliff Reed (actually, law enforcement prefers the term interview to interrogation these days, but I don’t have to play their reindeer games). Just then my cell phone rang. Well, actually sang—the “I Fought the Law” cover by the Bobby Fuller Four—with the little I.D. window identifying Jake as the caller.

  Even though this was an inopportune time to talk with my grandson, with Brandy in close proximity and unaware of Jake’s Chicagoland involvement in the current case, I could not resist talking to the lad. I was just too anxious to find out what he learned on his adventure.

  Just to be clear, gentle reader, you have heard/read Jake’s end of our conversation in his chapter, earlier in this book, and didn’t he do a nice job! Storytelling must be in the Borne DNA, don’t you think?

  I stepped away from the car (and my mistrustful daughter) to take the call, making sure not to give away whom I was talking to, pleased as punch by Jake’s report, and how well he had done. (Do you know what flashed through my mind? The ending of the movie Auntie Mame, when Mame—so brilliantly brought to life by Rosalind Russell—was leading her grandson up the grand staircase, painting a picture in the air of the wonderful adventures they would have together now that her son/his father was too old for such things.)

  But perhaps because of the length of the conversation and my giggling toward the end of the discussion, Brandy got suspicious and, after I’d signed off, inquired about the call.

  “Oh, that was Jake,” I said casually, slipping my cell back into a pocket. “He was home with a little tummy ache today. I’m sure he’ll call you later. No worries.”

  She had her hands on her hips. “Uh-huh. Get into the car. Unless you’d like to have this little chat out here.”

  Sensing she had ascertained my deception, I preferred not having a chat with her at all. But I chose the privacy of the C-Max over a public display.

  When Brandy was behind the wheel, and I was in the passenger seat—perhaps I should say hot seat—she stared at me with unblinking accusatory eyes.

  She asked in a voice as flat as if a steamroller had traveled over her words, “Did you ask Jake to skip school and go to a downtown Chicago antiques store to check out that vase?”

  I gave her my most winning smile. “Yes, dear. I’d been meaning to tell you about that, but it slipped my mind. And he did a simply splendid job! He discovered the name of the man who sold it to the store, and even followed him to where he worked.”

  She trembled.

  She reddened.

  She raged.

  “Mother! How could you put Jake in danger, again? That man he followed could be the killer! How could you do that to my son—your grandson? And what if Roger found out? He’d make sure Jake would never have any further contact with you—and who could blame him? And maybe he would banish me for allowing you to do it!”

  “Exactly why I protected you, dear, and handled it without involving you.”

  “You expect my ex to buy that? You’ve put all of us in jeopardy!”

  The poor girl was sputtering now. So sad to see an intelligent person lose control.

  “Brandy,” I said calmly, “firstly, Jake was very careful not to use his real name, and covered his tracks in a manner that would not lead anyone to the Naperville home
. Secondly, he had more success in getting information than many a seasoned investigator would have, and you really should be proud.”

  “That’s supposed to make me feel better?”

  “Dear, he’s fourteen,” I said, “not a baby. He’s really growing up, our Jake.”

  “He’s a minor, Mother! And when you ask him to do something, of course he will—he loves you, and wants to please you.” She paused, adding, as if to herself, “And I think he likes playing detective a little too much, too. But it’s not play, Mother, it’s real, dangerous life!” She waggled a finger. “You have to promise me you won’t involve Jake ever again.”

  “Very well. I promise.”

  “Were your fingers crossed?”

  “No.”

  But my hammer toes were.

  Brandy sighed. She seemed to still be trembling somewhat.

  “All right then,” she said. “We won’t talk anymore about this.” She started the engine. “Where would the sheriff like to be taken now?”

  I had the girl drop me off at the county jail, where I checked in at the office. Deputy Chen was out dealing with a domestic dispute, so I sat at my desk and logged in my movements for the day.

  Then I used several law enforcement databases on my computer to look for anything on an Alek Wozniack (thank you, Jake!), turning up some interesting information.

  I called Chief Cassato.

  “We need to talk,” I said, “but not on the phone.”

  “Can it wait until tomorrow?”

  “No. Meet me at Cinders at six.”

  A long pause. “Why there?”

  “Because that’s where I’m going to be,” I said, and ended the call.

  At five, I left the jail and walked over to Main Street to a certain bar where my new informant could usually be found at this hour, in the company of a special friend.

  Now, I know what longtime readers are thinking: Wait a minute, why aren’t you going to your usual haunt, Hunter’s Hardware? That unique establishment with the bar in back, where customers could drink and then buy electrical tools and go home to use them and maybe hurt themselves . . . and encounter the owner, Mary, who lost a leg on the Jaws ride at Universal Studios, who put a gag order on you not to mention the accident anymore . . . and her husband, Junior, the bartender who liked his own wares too much and was no help at all with your inquiries . . . and your informant, Henry, the old doctor-cum-barfly who ended his career by removing a patient’s gallbladder instead of the scheduled appendectomy?

  Granted, your thoughts may have been more succinct.

  Well, I’ll tell you what happened! Mary and Junior sold their hardware store and the new owner turned the back bar into a coffee shop, and Henry left for Chattanooga to live with a relative dedicated to drying him out once and for all. I know. I shall miss them, too.

  But one door closes and another one opens. And this new door took me into the most unusual gin mill in town, located on the first floor of another boxcar-style Victorian brick building in the business district, an establishment I didn’t even know existed until Brandy brought me here one evening when I was at a low ebb (because of the loss of Hunter’s). That was where, and when, she introduced me to Nona and Nona’s unusual friend Zelda. (Actually both Nona and Zelda were/are unusual.)

  But first a word (actually a number of words) about Renny, the owner of Cinders, a unique lady in her early fifties with a bubbly personality, long blond hair, pretty features, curvaceous figure, and a preference for leopard-print attire.

  Renny is an enthusiastic buyer of oddball collectibles, filling her drinking emporium with hundreds of pop-culture castaways, all available for sale, although nothing is marked. If you see something you want, make an offer—Renny may or may not accept said offer, depending upon her whim and current cash flow.

  It wasn’t unusual for a customer who’d gotten a little tipsy to be seen leaving with a life-size standee of Mr. Spock tucked under an arm and a Star Wars lightsaber in hand, or admiring that tushy-extended poster of Farrah Fawcett on a skateboard.

  Without knowing it, or perhaps sensing a coming trend, Renny had, in her years of largely indiscriminate collecting, made the bar a magnet for the local hipster crowd—twenty- and thirty-somethings and assorted oddballs just loved to hang out there.

  Inside the entrance on the left was a huge completely furnished dollhouse, as well as a vast collection of Elvis memorabilia. Continuing along the left-hand wall was a long bar with a dozen red vinyl bucket-seat chairs, a row of lava lamps providing ambience.

  Hugging the right wall, and nearly as long as the bar, was a hand shuffleboard game with little tables and chairs to one side for players to keep score. Following this came a 1950s jukebox, then a rather impressive collection of Marilyn Monroe and Betty Boop collectibles, all basking in the glow of hundreds upon hundreds of twinkle lights of varied colors strung everywhere.

  And that is but a sample of the first of four rooms.

  Renny, behind the bar, smiled upon seeing me. “Hello, Vivian. Your usual?”

  This bartender never had to ask if I was off-duty, being well aware that my preferred drink was a Shirley Temple.

  “Yes, thank you,” I replied, approaching the bar.

  Nona was seated at the very end, a glass of white wine before her; the chair next to her was vacant, an empty tumbler on the counter. Otherwise no other customer occupied this room.

  I walked over to Nona, a slender woman in her midtwenties with a narrow face, thin lips, long dark hair, and large purple-framed glasses. She wore an oversize brown leather bomber jacket, a short red-and-tan plaid skirt, ripped black tights, and floral combat boots. When I was a child, one might have called Nona a beatnik.

  I asked, “And how are you doing this fine day, my dear?”

  “Hunky-dory,” she said.

  I nodded to the empty chair. “And Zelda? How is she faring?”

  Nona shrugged. “You can ask her yourself when she comes back from the ladies’.”

  “Might she like another drink?” I offered.

  “I believe she would,” Nona responded.

  I turned my neck to look up the line. “Renny, one more of whatever Zelda is having.”

  “Sure thing,” the owner replied.

  I took the red bucket seat next to Zelda’s and waited silently, seeing no need to converse further until she—my new informant—had returned. Nona was rather tight-lipped, you see. Zelda was the Chatty Cathy of the duo.

  Renny delivered my Shirley Temple (with extra cherries) along with a tumbler of whiskey on the rocks, placed them on the counter, and moved off to other duties.

  Suddenly, Nona said, “She’s back.”

  I addressed the vacant chair between us. “And how is Zelda this fine evening?”

  You see, dear reader, Zelda exists only in the imagination of Nona, who is a tulpamancer, or “tulpa” for short. Tulpamancy is a mental condition in which a person will summon an imaginary companion, not unlike a child who may go through an invisible friend phase. For tulpas, however, the attachments do not disappear with age, but only grow stronger.

  Little is known about tulpamancy—it might indeed be a form of mental illness, although some see it as a manifestation of the paranormal. But as a whole, these imaginary friends have a positive influence, and the voices that tulpas hear in their heads from these attachments are nothing like the ones who talk to me when I go off my bipolar medication. Those babies can be bad influences!

  I continued talking to the chair. “Zelda, you might be of some help to me in my capacity as sheriff. Would you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

  About ten seconds passed.

  Then Nona spoke, “She says that’s cool with her. And she’s glad you weren’t hurt when the propane tank blew up.”

  Apparently Zelda read the Serenity Sentinel. “You’re too kind, Zelda.”

  I took a sip of my drink—Renny always mixed just the right combination of grenadine syrup and ginger ale—and collected my th
oughts; my questions to Zelda needed to be concise, since her answers had to be relayed through the more taciturn Nona.

  A pity Zelda and I couldn’t converse directly!

  “Zelda, would you happen to know Leon Jones?” I asked. “He’s a janitor employed at the Playhouse.”

  After a moment, Nona said, “Yes, she does.”

  “Is he involved in selling drugs?”

  Another ten seconds. “She says Leon is a source for obtaining marijuana but not a big dealer. Mostly, he sells from his own stash when he needs cash.”

  “Nona, inquire if you would if Zelda might know anything else about him.”

  “Sheriff,” Nona said, mildly exasperated, “she’s sitting right there! Please direct your questions to her. Don’t be rude. She can hear you.”

  “Oh. My apologies.” I repeated my query to the chair.

  Nona listened to Zelda, then said, “She’s heard that Leon’s left town. But that’s all she knows about that.”

  I addressed my next inquiry to both women. “I understand that you two rent the upper floor of a house down the block from the Wentworth mansion.”

  Nona nodded. Not sure about Zelda.

  I followed up: “Has there been any excess activity going on around there recently?”

  Nona asked, “Like maybe Mr. Sutter was dealing in drugs, you mean?”

  As unlikely as that seemed, I confirmed the query with a nod.

  Nona consulted with Zelda. “Not really. At least no one looking suspicious had been hanging around there.” She leaned toward the empty chair, bent her head, listened, then straightened. “Zelda wants to know if it was James who was found in the woods. And was it somebody else who died at the mansion.”

  “Zelda is correct. We don’t know who that body belonged to.”

  Nona said, “Just a minute . . . Zelda wants to tell you something about that night.”

  For an endless thirty seconds I waited with bated breath. You know, really it should be baited breath, don’t you think? Anyway, I waited.