Antiques Fire Sale Page 17

  Anyway, that’s what Tilda Tompkins believed.

  “Which one is Mrs. Leggett?” I asked.

  “The fat kitty on the windowsill over there,” Tilda said pointing.

  The cat plopped down from its perch, waddled over, looked up at Sushi in my arms, and meowed. Several other cats joined Mrs. Leggett, while the rest seemed uninterested.

  I lowered Sushi to the floor, hesitating, fearful that a fight might begin. When nothing happened but a collective purring from the felines, I shrugged and followed Tilda, who moved with ethereal, dreamy grace back through the kitchen to a small, dark claustrophobic room with a single shuttered window.

  The only source of light came from a table lamp, its revolving shade with cutout stars sending its own galaxy swirling on the ceiling.

  Gladys was already stretched out on the red velvet fainting couch, Mother seated on the small stool that I usually took, which left me standing in a corner by the door, since the only other seating was a chair next to the sofa, reserved for Tilda.

  Tilda took her place, and Mother handed the guru a piece of paper, which the woman studied for a moment, then placed in her lap.

  “Now, Gladys,” Tilda began, “there’s nothing to be afraid of—no matter what you may have seen stage performers and television charlatans do, I certainly won’t make you cluck like a chicken.”

  The humorless Gladys merely said, “Thank you.”

  From the table with the lamp, Tilda took a long gold-chained necklace with a round, shiny disk, then dangled the necklace before Gladys’s face and began to swing it like a pendulum.

  “Watch the medallion,” Tilda said slowly, softly. “Consider its gentle motion. Surrender to its gentle motion.”

  Mother’s obstructed view behind Tilda was no accident, as several times when she was present while the guru hypnotized others, Mother, watching the swinging necklace, had been hypnotized, too . . .

  . . . to disastrous effect.

  Out would pop people Mother had been in a former life, like Iras, handmaiden to Cleopatra, who was in charge of the Queen’s asps; Matoaka, the younger sister of Pocahontas, and (she claimed) the real love of Captain John Smith’s life; and Myles Carter, personal attendant to King George the Third, who convinced the monarch that any talk of revolution by the colonists was merely empty “poppycock.” Helena Kowalski, Madame Curie’s talkative cook, who insisted that she—not her employer—had come up with the idea of pasteurization, was a particularly hard genie for Tilda to get back into the bottle.

  The guru was saying, “You feel relaxed . . . so very relaxed. You’re getting sleepy . . . so very sleepy. Your eyelids are heavy . . . so very heavy . . . so heavy that you simply can’t keep them open.”

  I looked over at Mother and her eyes were closed—maybe it was Tilda’s voice and not the necklace that she had previously succumbed to! Before I could move to kick her, though, Mother’s lids flickered open, and she was back among the currently living.

  “I’m going to count backward from ten to one,” Tilda said. “And when I say one, you will be asleep, completely, deeply asleep, and will respond to what I say. Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . .”

  Gladys’s body went limp at seven.

  Tilda consulted the paper in her lap. “This past Monday night you visited the Playhouse and found the front doors closed. Is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you walked around the building to see if the stage door was open. Is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Someone is at the storage building. Can you see him?”

  “No.”

  “You can’t see him?”

  “I can see them.”

  Mother leaned forward and whispered into Tilda’s ear, as this deviated from her script.

  Tilda asked, “How many people do you see?”

  “Two.”

  “Do you know who they are?”

  “One is Miguel, the stage manager. The other I’ve never seen before.”

  “Can you describe this person?”

  Mother blurted, “Is it a man or woman?”

  Tilda shushed her with a hand and repeated the question.

  Gladys spoke in a slow, robotic way. “The person is wearing a baseball cap, so could be either male or female.”

  “And what are these two doing?”

  “Taking things down off the back of a truck and putting them inside the building, then loading things up from out of the building.”

  Tilda looked back at Mother and whispered, “Anything more?” Mother took the paper, scribbled something on it, and handed it back.

  Tilda read the note, frowned, shrugged, then said, “Gladys, I’m going to give you a suggestion. On the opening night of Voice of the Turtle, you are going to be the most successful actress who”—she peered at the note—“ever trod the boards?”

  Mother nodded.

  Tilda tried again, “Ever trod the boards.”

  I glared at Mother. Had this little impromptu prompt been in her mind all along? Was she operating out of two compartments with this one visit?

  Disgusted, I quietly left the room.

  In the living/waiting/shop room I found Sushi snuggled on the couch with Mrs. Leggett and other cats. She was like a sultan with his harem, except for being female and spayed. I sighed. With such a cushy life, why would any of them want to move on?

  About five minutes later, the session having ended, Tilda, Mother, and Gladys came in.

  Gladys was in a conversation with Mother. “No, I don’t remember anything that happened, Mrs. Borne, during the hypnosis session. But I sure do feel rested. Was I of any help?”

  “Indeed you were,” Mother said.

  “I’m so glad,” Gladys replied, pleased to have pleased her director.

  I pried Sushi away from her friends, then we exchanged thank-yous and good-byes, gave Tilda her modest fee, and left.

  I walked to the C-Max and got inside with Sushi; Mother had a few words with Gladys on the sidewalk, they parted, the bank teller walked to her car—was that a spring in her step?—and Mother joined me.

  I said, “Don’t you think you should have been more specific?”

  “About what the girl saw?”

  “No. About becoming the most successful actress who ever trod the boards. Who are you expecting to show up? Katharine Hepburn? Helen Hayes?”

  She twisted toward me. “Dear, the suggestion was only meant to be a confidence booster—I don’t think Gladys is going to take it literally.”

  I raised my eyebrows as high as I could without their leaving my face.

  Mother asked, “And so what if she does? There’s nothing wrong with channeling the two you mentioned, or for that matter Sarah Bernhardt, Constance Bennett, or Patti LuPone.”

  “I doubt Gladys knows who any of them are.”

  “Regardless,” Mother went on, “the suggestion probably won’t stick anyway.”

  I started the engine. “Playhouse?”

  “Playhouse.”

  Not wanting Sushi wandering around the storage building where there might be rat poison—or had that been a ruse to keep me out of the building?—we dropped her off home. Mother took the opportunity to get into her spare uniform.

  So it was midafternoon when I pulled the C-Max up in front of the storage building. Mother used her set of keys to let us in, then switched on all the overhead lights.

  “Show me,” she commanded.

  I led her to the area where the small furniture had been grouped.

  “Yes,” she said, eyes narrow. “Several things are missing from here.” She cited Mrs. Goldstein’s table and a Victorian-era lamp with beaded shade, which I hadn’t noticed was gone.

  And those two pieces were worth money, as Mother had frequently sought out (free) quality stage furniture and props, believing that if the performances were bad, at least the audience could enjoy looking at the fine decor.

  I asked, “Do you think they were sold along with the vase?”
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br />   “Very possibly. It’s my opinion that Miguel and Leon had been plundering valuable set props for who knows how long.”

  I asked, “And perhaps substituting other things in their place so the stock wouldn’t look too depleted?”

  “Possibly. We won’t know until a full inventory is taken—which we will do ASAP.”

  Mother had turned away, and I followed her as she wandered the aisles, pointing out other missing antiques—and a few new pieces that had been added—which may or may not have been legitimate contributions. She couldn’t be sure, because her job as sheriff had kept Mother out of the loop of acquisitions.

  We had arrived at the back end of the building, where large, tall sections of a castle wall had been stored after a performance of Camelot.

  Mother pointed to them. “Those set pieces used to be flat against the wall, but they’ve been put on casters and moved forward.”

  Creating a space behind them.

  I wheeled one partition out far enough for us to slip behind it.

  Mother surveyed the hidden area. “Just what I expected to find,” she said.

  “Me too,” I said.

  Antiques from the Wentworth mansion.

  A Trash ’n’ Treasures Tip

  When selling an item at auction online, understand that buyers often wait until the last moment to bid, a practice called “sniping,” which significantly increases the bidding price. Sometimes, before that happens, a seller will get discouraged and stop the auction or accept a low amount for their item. So be patient. Let the bidders be the anxious ones. Mother, for example, during the final hour of an auction, checks the bidding every ten seconds. Could be worse. Could be five.

  Chapter Eleven

  In Which Vivian Goes Off Course

  And Brandy Gets Teed Off

  Of course, not all the Wentworth antiques had been hidden in the storage building at the Playhouse—notably missing were the distinctive lion’s-head dining room table, chairs, and buffet, most likely left behind to be destroyed in the fire to make an insurance investigator believe (along with pieces of furniture posing as set props) that all had been a total loss.

  But many of the antiques were here, including several Victorian bedroom sets, valuable accent tables, a few lamps, velvet-cushioned chairs, and wall pictures, including the oil portrait of little Arabella. All were appropriate items to be found in a theater’s storage building, for use as set dressing.

  While I took photos with my cell, Mother called Tony, informed him what we’d found, and asked him to send someone out here to check for fingerprints on susceptible surfaces, like the metal base of a lamp or the glass in a framed picture.

  “I’m not staying on the scene,” the sheriff informed the chief. “I have things to do. In the meantime, I’ll leave the key on the top ledge of the side door.”

  I could hear Tony protesting, but Mother ended the conversation. When he rang back, she ignored him, shifting the phone to vibrate mode.

  Turning toward me, she said, “Come, Brandy. I see a light at the end of the tunnel.”

  “A train?”

  “No. A lit match.”

  On the way back to town, Mother accepted a call from Deputy Chen, which I was able to hear.

  “Sheriff,” Chen said, “Chief Cassato wanted me to tell you that Alek Wozniak has a reliable alibi for last night—whatever his actual role was in all this, he could not have driven to Serenity and killed Miguel.”

  “Interesting. Anything else?”

  “Yes. We put a rush on the DNA from Leon’s shaver. We got a match. That was your janitor’s burned body in the Wentworth ruins, all right.”

  “Very interesting.”

  “And one last thing . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “The Chief said not to ever flipping ignore his call again.”

  “Well, that’s cheeky of him.”

  “You should have heard it before I edited it.”

  “Ten-four.”

  Saturday afternoon typically meant another bridge game soiree at the country club, where Mother expected to find Evelyn Snydacker. This time around, Mother ignored the approaching Mr. Eggler, brushed passed him, tapping her badge as she did. Then she marched down the carpeted corridor as I trailed her.

  In the main dining room, she spotted Evelyn at a table, strode over, grabbed her by the arm, hauled the woman out of her chair, and dragged her from the room like a child getting taken to the woodshed. Eyes and mouths all around the room were wide and round, at least on those ladies who could tear their eyes away from their cards.

  In the empty bar, Mother plopped Evelyn rudely down in the chair the woman had occupied the other day.

  “How dare you, Vivian Borne!” The president of the Historical Preservation Society was huffing and puffing with no house to blow down. “I was in the middle of a bid, I’ll have you know!”

  Mother jabbed at her with a finger. “You lied to an officer of the law!”

  Evelyn reared back in confusion. “What officer of the law?”

  Mother pointed at her badge again. “This officer of the law!”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Looming, Mother said, “You told me you were home the evening of the fire, but I have an eyewitness who saw you going into the Wentworth mansion around eight o’clock.”

  An invisible witness, but who was quibbling? Still, I couldn’t quite picture Evelyn’s lawyer cross-examining a vacant chair.

  But, mea tulpa, Evelyn’s demeanor changed, the bridge player’s bravado collapsing like a house of cards.

  The accused’s eyes sought me out. “Get me some Scotch, will you? Straight up.”

  Nice to be serving a function.

  I went behind the counter, poured several fingers of Johnnie Walker into a tumbler, and delivered it to our interview subject.

  Evelyn downed the drink, then handed the tumbler back to me with a gesture that she wanted another. But Mother raised a “stop” hand and shook her head. She said to Evelyn, “You are lubricated enough, my dear. Spill.”

  The woman sighed, then stared past Mother at nothing for a while. “All right. All right. I did go to see James that evening. I didn’t mention it because I saw no reason to—after all, it wasn’t anything important.”

  Mother said sweetly, “You might have left its relative importance up to me. What was the nature of your visit?”

  “I told you, Vivian—it was nothing pertinent.”

  “Perhaps you’d be more comfortable if we had this little chat down at the station . . . although we don’t serve alcohol there, I’m afraid.”

  “I . . . I’d prefer to talk here,” Evelyn said, resigned. “I’ll tell you the truth about the talk I had with James.”

  Which was this: Earlier that Monday, she had been going over the invoices of repairs on the mansion, material routinely turned in by Sutter to the society, as required by their bylaws.

  And the woman noticed something she hadn’t before. Many—but not all—of the billings were in the same hand. Checking them against personal letters and notes given to her by James suggested that the handwriting was his own.

  Mother said, “He had been forging invoices.”

  Evelyn nodded. “For nonexistent repairs and maintenance, and the materials they supposedly required.”

  “For how long?”

  “For . . . years, I’m afraid. I’ve been much too trusting. This will cost me my presidency if word gets out, Vivian!”

  “It’s cost several lives already, and that’s rather more serious than your social status. Go on.”

  A sigh. “I went over there and confronted James with the evidence. And he admitted that he’d been pocketing much of the grant money. When I said I was going to expose him, he laughed and said, ‘No, you won’t.’ Can you imagine? Just like that.” She paused. “He knew. He knew that if it got out, my reputation would be ruined right along with his. And not only that, but the reputation of the Historical Preservation Society would wear a stai
n we could never scrub out. We’d never be able to get another grant again. Who would trust us?”

  “What then?”

  A shrug. “I went home. I don’t even remember driving, I was so upset.”

  Mother said, “And later, you arranged to meet James Sutter somewhere remote—and killed him.”

  The woman’s eyes grew large. “You can’t honestly believe that, Vivian! That I would be capable of murder . . . let alone burying his body in the woods somewhere. I can barely carry my groceries into the house!”

  Mother let Evelyn sweat a few moments. Then she said, “I don’t really think it’s likely you’re the murderer in this affair. But to prove that, I’ll need a statement from you to the effect of what you’ve just told me—and anything else you remember about that visit.”

  Evelyn sat forward. “There was something. Something James said before I left the mansion. He said, ‘If you’ll just give me a little time, I have a plan to pay the money back. After that, I’ll turn over a new leaf, and every invoice I give you will be legitimate.’ I don’t know whether that was a lie to help keep me quiet, or if he really had lined up a way out.”

  “He didn’t elaborate?”

  “No.” She shrugged one shoulder. “But, obviously, whatever that way was? It didn’t work out.”

  * * *

  We found Gavin Sutter at home, working in the garage with the double-wide door rolled up. When I pulled into the drive, he spotted us and came out cleaning his hands on a rag.

  Mother and I got out of the car, and I tried to read his face, but it seemed set in stone.

  “Sheriff,” he said, rather flatly. “What brings you here?”

  Mother got right down to business. “You were seen by a reliable witness going into your stepfather’s house the night of the fire. Yet when we spoke the other day, you claimed not to have had any contact with him recently.”

  Gavin’s jaw clenched, then unclenched. “Yes, I did see James that night.” He took a deep breath, and exhaled. “I didn’t mention it because I didn’t want to lie to you.”

  “You preferred to lie by omission, then?”