Antiques Swap Page 18

  If someone else is looking at an item you want, good etiquette dictates that you wait until they have put it back down. Once, to get a potential buyer to set a Fire-King bowl back down, Mother kindly told him that his car was being towed, which it wasn’t. And that’s not good etiquette, it’s good strategy.

  Chapter Twelve

  False Card

  (Card played with the intention of deceiving an opponent.)

  A day had passed since Sean Hartman’s arrest on suspicion of assault and battery.

  Tiffany Hartman’s blurted confession of her knowledge of her husband’s actions—caught on Mother’s spy pen—had allowed Tony to obtain a warrant to search the Hartman home and vehicles. Mother’s wallet was found at the curb in a garbage can in front of the Hartman home, and in the trunk of Sean’s BMW was a bag of golf clubs whose putter was confiscated for blood and hair analysis.

  While awaiting the test results, Mother and I were back taking care of business at the shop, behind the counter going over an inventory spreadsheet.

  I paused in the work. Some questions about last evening were finally making their way to the front of my brain.

  “Mother—how did you know you could find me in that Executive Suite?”

  Mother—now in a more age-appropriate chestnut wig reminiscent of no celebrity in particular, except perhaps Mr. Ed—replied, “Elementary, my dear Brandy . . . at least, it is when you have a snitch working at the hotel’s front desk.”

  “But however did you know Sean had called for room service?”

  Mother shrugged regally. “Afraid I must plead sheer luck, dear. I found myself riding the elevator up with the young woman who was bringing the cart.” She chuckled. “You know, these college students are likely to do all kinds of things for a little extra mazuma.”

  “You mean, like allow you to take her place—even switching clothes?”

  “For fifty dollars, yes. . . . She and I were about the same size, which was more luck, and the wig was my own, of course.”

  The little bell above the front door announced a uniformed Tony, coming in with a businesslike smile.

  “How’s everyone today?” he asked.

  “Fine so far,” I replied. “Any word back on that hair and blood analysis?”

  Sushi, who’d been asleep near our feet in her bed, uncurled herself and trotted around to greet her favorite man, pawing at his pants legs, eager for his attention. (We had that in common.)

  “Not yet,” he said, leaning down to scratch Sushi’s neck, “but we won’t be needing it.”

  “Why ever not?” Mother demanded.

  He rose, shrugged. “Sean Hartman has confessed to assault and battery.”

  “I have been avenged!” Mother said, smiling like a pirate holding up the head of a rival.

  Tony exchanged smirks with me.

  Mother was saying, “Fancy a cuppa, kind sir?”

  She had gone zero-to-sixty into the fake Brit accent she affected when in the mood to impress. Or serve tea.

  “Why not,” he said.

  Mother went to the nearby cart where an antique silver tea set was in use. We’d given up on selling it—who wants to polish silver anymore?

  “So,” I said, “are you saying the case is closed?”

  “Just the attack on Vivian,” Tony said, pulling a stool up to the other side of the counter.

  Mother came back to pour steaming tea into dainty china cups—nobody wants to wash china anymore, either—giving Tony his usual single sugar.

  Tony stirred tea with a silver spoon. “Hartman denies having killed either Vanessa Sinclair or Gladys Fowler.”

  Mother, Brit accent suddenly M.I.A., asked, “You’ve checked his whereabouts for both murders, of course?”

  Tony nodded. “Yes, and both alibis seem to hold. He was playing golf at the time of the Sinclair killing, and was in conference with an investor when the Fowler woman was strangled.”

  Mother’s latest sip of tea might have been bitter, considering her expression. “How convenient for him, and how inconvenient for us.”

  I asked, “What about Brent Morgan and Travis Thompson?”

  “Their alibis for both murders check out, too.”

  Frowning, Mother asked, “How about the little women?”

  She meant the wives, not characters created by Louisa May Alcott.

  Tony shrugged. “In the clear, I’m afraid. Starting to look like the Eight of Clubs is an eight-way dead end.”

  “Eight-way something,” I muttered.

  “So,” Tony continued wearily, “it looks like we’re back at that square one you hear so much about.” He drained his cup, set it on the counter. “Thanks for the, uh, ‘cuppa,’ Vivian.”

  She beamed. “It’s my pleasure, working with our once and future chief. And may I say, as to last night, I hope you’ve learned that cooperating with me in my investigative efforts is far preferable to opposing me at every turn.”

  “That was a one-off, Vivian,” he said, staring her down. “And should we need to use that recording you made last night, keep in mind I knew nothing of that.”

  “But, Tony dear, that’s not—”

  “I knew nothing of it. Right?”

  She looked for a moment like he’d cold-cocked her. Then she smiled and nodded and gave him a thumb’s up and winked and drew a thumb and forefinger across her lips, in the zipped gesture. I was grateful there were no semaphore flags around.

  He closed his eyes, sighed, then summoned a smile for me. “Guess I’d better get back to it.”

  “Dinner tonight?” I asked. “At the cabin, maybe?”

  Tony was back living in his cabin in a beautiful woodsy area north on River Road.

  Nodding, he said, “I’ll buy the groceries and we’ll do the cooking together.”

  I smiled. “Sounds like my kind of aiding and abetting.”

  He nodded and winked (but did not give me a thumbs up and zipped gesture) and went out.

  After Tony left, I said, “I’m glad your attacker’s behind bars. But otherwise, where the two murders are concerned? We really haven’t accomplished much. I could even make a case that we were indirectly responsible for the ruination of a respectable man now charged with assault.”

  Mother stiffened. “Don’t be silly, dear—that ‘respectable man’ could have killed me!”

  I sighed, nodded. “Sorry. You’re right. Nothing ‘respectable’ about what he did. You came around asking questions and Sean panicked and . . . now you’re wearing a hideous wig.”

  “Yes, dear, I do think the Veronica Lake is much more flattering. But I got guacamole on it, I’m afraid.”

  The bell tinkled again as the front door opened and Dumpster Dan trudged in, sporting the familiar wrinkled clothes and carrying the usual soiled canvas tote.

  Mother assembled a smile. “Well, hello there, Daniel.”

  The man shuffled over, but his eyes were bright.

  “I have something really special today,” he said, reaching into the bag, then drawing out the item, placing it on the counter.

  The heavy pewter beer stein with a woodland motif of grazing boars seemed at once a surprising example of something decent that Dan had come up with, and vaguely familiar . . . where had I seen it? Or anyway, one like it?

  Then it came to me: on the fireplace mantel in Wes Sinclair’s man cave.

  “Where did you get this?” I asked excitedly.

  “In a Dumpster downtown.”

  “Which one?”

  “Why?” His eyes said he thought perhaps he’d done something wrong. “Does that matter?”

  “This time it does.”

  He swallowed thickly, and his eyes traveled to the ceiling for help. Finally he found the answer there. “Ah . . . behind the bank.”

  “When?”

  My pointed interrogation suddenly rattled poor Dan, and Mother had come to attention, too, like Sushi at a hydrant.

  “I . . . I didn’t steal it,” he answered defensively. “Anythin
g in a Dumpster is fair game! Taking trash is legal . . . it’s not stealing.”

  Mother—sensing that my keen interest in the beer stein had nothing to do with antiques—said soothingly, “Of course you didn’t steal it, Dan. But we do like to know the provenance of anything we buy.”

  “The providence of what?”

  “Its history, dear.”

  “Oh. Well, sure.” He took a breath and let it out. “I found the beer stein a little over a week ago, and kept it for myself. I mean, it is cool. But now my rent is due, and I need some money. And it looks valuable, so . . .”

  I asked, “How much do you want for the beer stein?”

  He swallowed again. “Is . . . twenty-five dollars too much?”

  I would have paid a lot more for what was very likely the weapon that killed Vanessa Sinclair.

  Dan was saying, “It was all dirty and crusty, so I cleaned it up. Not a single chip or dent! It’s mint, ladies.”

  So much for any forensic evidence.

  I gave Dan fifty dollars from the till, and he went out, giddy with triumph and delight.

  When the shop door closed behind him, Mother asked, “Dear, what made you pay twice what that little man asked . . . for a beer stein?”

  “I’ve seen this thing before.”

  “Would I have seen it?”

  “Only in a photo.”

  I moved down the counter to the computer, then opened the file containing the shots I’d taken of Wes’s beer-sign collection the afternoon Vanessa was killed. Scrolling through, I found an angle that had captured the fireplace mantel with its proudly displayed array of beer steins. As Mother looked over my shoulder, I enlarged the photo, then isolated one in particular . . .

  . . . the beer stein, which now sat on our counter.

  “Great Caesar’s Ghost,” Mother said, quoting Perry White. “We’re out of the woods and back in the game!”

  I raised a cautionary finger. “But we have to be sure it’s the same beer stein.”

  “As Dan pointed out, there are no chips or dents on this one. And the photo betrays none, either. Still, like any collectible, there are identical ones out there . . .”

  “If it was used as the murder weapon,” I said, “and the killer disposed of it right after the murder, then . . .”

  Mother snapped her fingers. “Then it will be absent in the crime scene photos!”

  I nodded. “If it isn’t in them, then that . . .” I pointed to our new acquisition. “. . . is the blunt instrument that killed Vanessa Sinclair.”

  I called Tony on his cell, explained to him what we had, then e-mailed him the picture. With uncharacteristic urgency in his voice, he said he’d get right back to me.

  Mother was practically doing a Riverdance jig (just imagine if she’d been Harold’s partner at the swingers’ affair). “You know what this means, don’t you, dear?”

  “What does it mean?”

  “That Wes was the murderer all along!”

  I held up a not so fast finger. “That beer stein could have been used to implicate him.”

  “He did have alibis for both murders,” she granted. “He was at his office when the police came to tell him about Vanessa, and you were with him when Mrs. Fowler was found.” She frowned. “Who else could it be?”

  “A stranger, maybe? Some drifter lowlife who took advantage of an open garage door?”

  “Unsatisfactory,” Mother growled in her Nero Wolfe voice.

  “Well, somebody who isn’t on our suspect list.”

  Mother sighed. “Too bad Dan didn’t provide us with the second murder weapon—the blue silk scarf, or tie.”

  I smirked at her. “Yes, darn thoughtless of him.” Then I frowned.

  “. . . Dear? Something? You have a strange look on your face. Stranger than usual, I mean.”

  “Mother, Wes was wearing a blue tie the day I went with him to see Mrs. Fowler. That is, he had one on . . . then didn’t have it on.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Elaborate.”

  “When I first saw him, he came out of his office wearing the tie. Then fifteen or twenty minutes later—after I’d waited in the outer area, as he supposedly made a business call—Wes came out not wearing the tie.”

  She squinted at me, as if trying to get me in focus. “But he was there with you at his office!”

  A hundred pinpricks prickled my skin. “No—he wasn’t with me . . . he was in his office. Behind a closed door. Later, we went out a back way, using his private elevator. That’s how he did it. He left, used his tie to strangle Mrs. Fowler, then returned to the office. He came out sweating, complaining about the air-conditioning!” My stomach churned, nauseated. “And all the while I was sitting there, drinking designer coffee.”

  “Well, he did need an alibi, dear. And who better than you?”

  My face burned with anger. “Mother, he manipulated me. Used me.”

  She batted that away. “Yes, dear, that’s how sociopaths operate. Let’s not waste time there.” She touched her chin with a forefinger. “We must now assume Wes also murdered his wife.”

  I was nodding. “Because Vanessa wanted a divorce and a hefty settlement. And, childless, she needed to get around the prenup . . . so she threatened to expose the Eight of Clubs.”

  Mother was nodding, too. “His M.O. for the first murder was the same—go to the office, slip out the back, do his foul deed, return the same way to his closed-door office, where he’d be waiting for word from the police.”

  “What was his motive for killing Mrs. Fowler?”

  Mother grinned like the Joker. Well, maybe a little crazier. “Ah . . . that one is easy!”

  “Really?”

  “Let’s assume Gladys was telling the truth at the preliminary hearing, when she said she saw Wes come home, then leave again . . .”

  “Assume away.”

  “. . . and let’s further assume Wes was telling the truth when he told you that Gladys tried to blackmail him by offering to change her testimony for cash.”

  “Still with you.”

  Her eyes danced. “So why didn’t he pay her off then, before the hearing?”

  I shrugged. “No idea.”

  “Because, dear, he wanted Gladys Fowler to testify against him.”

  “What? Why?”

  Mother had that cat that ate the canary smile going. “So that there would be sufficient evidence for him to be bound over for trial.”

  “Why on earth would Wes want to go to trial?”

  “So he could beat the rap. One cannot be tried twice for the same murder. The double-jeopardy rule.”

  I put a hand to my forehead, as if taking my own temperature. “Whoa . . . I get it. Before the trial, Gladys would have either been paid off, or found dead in her bungalow.”

  “I knew you could think it through, dear, given half a chance. It’s not like you’re dense.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  She raised a forefinger. “But our esteemed attorney Wayne Ekhardt tripped up Mr. Wesley Sinclair, by discrediting Gladys Fowler at the preliminary hearing.”

  “Wes hadn’t figured on the old warhorse coming through in the race,” I agreed. “He figured Mr. Ekhardt was past his prime, and that’s why he picked him. When the time came for the trial, he’d have brought in a top out-of-town gun.”

  Mother gestured with open hands. “After the preliminary hearing, Gladys undoubtedly approached Wes again for money, and this time he did pay her off. In cash.”

  “And who was it that said blackmailers always want more?”

  “Probably Erle Stanley Gardner, dear. But after reflection, possibly spurred by my investigation, the time came not only to pay Mrs. Fowler off, but to get rid of her once and for all.”

  “And I became his alibi.”

  “Yes, dear. You did.”

  We fell silent for a moment. Then Mother picked up the beer stein. “If Wes used this to kill Vanessa, he most certainly will want it back.”

  I shook my head. “Not if there
isn’t any forensic evidence, he won’t.”

  Mother smiled slyly. “Why, were you planning to tell him there isn’t? Because, dear, it’s not very likely he knows.”

  My cell rang and it was Tony with just the news we’d been waiting for: the beer stein in our possession indeed was absent from any of the crime scene photos.

  “We have him,” Mother said. “Or at least, we will, very soon.”

  Just past the witching hour, huddled in the dark behind the shop counter, were Mother, Tony, and I, sitting Indian-style on the floor, waiting for someone to break in.

  For once, Sushi was absent—her barking at an intruder would not be desirable here.

  Tony was leaning back against the wall, and I was leaning next to him. He was in uniform, having come from work to pick me up at the shop. I’d had a surprise for him.

  He said in my ear, “When you asked if I wanted to spend the night, you forgot to mention it’d be here, with Vivian in the mix.”

  I whispered back, “Sorry. Couldn’t be sure you’d go along with our little scheme.”

  He grunted. “Not sure I should be.”

  “Well, if it works, you might be chief again.”

  “If it doesn’t, I might be a security guard somewhere.”

  “Not at Sinclair Consolidated, you won’t.”

  “Good point.”

  Around noon, I had called Wes on his cell.

  “What is it, Brandy?” he’d asked icily.

  In the background I could hear restaurant chatter and clatter.

  “Wes,” I said, “I’m really sorry about last night.” Referring, of course, to the Eight of Clubs gathering in the Executive Suite. “But it did lead to Sean confessing he attacked Mother, and you can understand why that’s a good thing from our point of view.”

  “And you can understand why I don’t share your point of view,” he snapped. “Look I’m in the middle of lunch with Travis. Maybe—”

  “This is something that doesn’t have anything to do with what’s been going on. Will you listen for a second?”

  “. . . All right.”

  I explained about the fancy beer stein Dumpster Dan had found over a week ago, and that we had just bought it for our shop.

  “I know you have a really incredible collection of beer steins,” I said, “and hoped you might be willing to tell us what we should ask for it.”