Antiques Flee Market Page 18

  Ivan’s smile froze.

  I went on, “And while that might not be enough to bring an indictment against you for murder, it certainly will be of interest of the police, not to mention the attention of the public. And the kind of investigation the professionals will mount will make that of an amateur sleuth like myself seem…amateurish?”

  Ivan stared at me with hard, barely blinking eyes. Then he said flatly, “Let’s hear it, then, Vivian. What’s your proposition?”

  I adjusted myself in my chair. “First, let me say I’m not greedy. I know you have no love for a blackmailer, as what happened to Walter Yaeger attests. What I propose is a partnership between two adults, who understand that neither of them is, well, perfect. You’ve heard that the Playhouse is up for sale? Well, I’d like to buy it, only….”

  His eyes had a disturbing deadness now. “Only you’re short on capital.”

  “I do have some funds…but not enough to swing the down payment. So my proposition is this: You go into business with me, and I’ll give you that tape.”

  (But not the one running in my coat pocket.)

  Ivan seemed to be considering my offer, so I added, “If you prefer, you could be a silent partner….”

  He stood, this time slowly. “No, Vivian, you’re going to be the silent partner…utterly silent, which is the dream of everyone who has ever known you.”

  And from his jacket pocket he withdrew a revolver, a small thing with a short snout that shouldn’t have looked at all formidable but was perhaps the most frightening thing I ever saw.

  Nonetheless, gentle reader, I was pleased and proud of this development—Ivan threatening to kill me with that gun, why, it was as good as a confession! The only problem being that the gun couldn’t be “seen” on the tape recorder, so I had to perform something of a radio play, saying, “Ivan, put down that gun!”

  Pointing the weapon at me, he sneered and said, “I always knew your snooping would get you into serious trouble someday. And quite frankly, Vivian, I must say I’d rather go into business with Medusa herself than the likes of you. At least Walter Yaeger wasn’t a mental case.”

  Now that did hurt a bit, and I responded, “Why, Ivan, I always thought you were rather fond of me.”

  His laugh was also a sort of snort. “Would you like to know what I really think? You’re a conceited, crazy old busybody.”

  I arched my eyebrows. “I take exception to that. I am not old.” You’re only as old as you feel, anyway.

  “Well, let’s just say,” he said, “that today is as old as you’re ever going to be.”

  I stood and said indignantly, “Might I remind you of the letter I left behind in case something untoward should happen to me?”

  Ivan reached inside his coat. “You mean this?” He tossed my letter to Brandy on the table. “Thoughtful of you to mention it on the phone. And thoughtful of you, also, to leave a key under the mat. You’re so right—everyone does leave a spare key hidden around.”

  I admit that my confidence was shaken; I may have been an amateur sleuth, but I was a professional actress, and this was not going according to the script.

  And suddenly I was sorry that I hadn’t involved Brandy. I could have used that spunky little lady about now!

  Spreading my hands, I tried reasoning with him. “Killing me will only compound your problems, Ivan. I have reason to believe that the security tape will find its way to the police, with or without me. And my suspicious death will be linked to Walter’s, and a real investigation will turn you up just like I did.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t think so—not if your death looks like an accident. Hand over your car keys, please.”

  “What are you planning?” I stalled.

  “The keys, Vivian.”

  I got them out of my pocket and put them on the table.

  He reached for them. “What else have you got? Cell phone?”

  I put it on the counter and he took it, dropped it in a pocket of the hunting jacket.

  He nodded, then gestured forcefully with the little barrel of the small, nasty gun. “Let’s go. We’re going to check out the Christmas lights—out in the country.”

  I wasn’t exactly sure what Ivan had in mind for my “accident,” but I was willing to bet it began with the butt of his gun making potentially fatal contact with my skull.

  And Vivian Borne was not about to let that happen—if she had to die, she would die trying…trying to escape, that is.

  I said, “I’m sorry, Ivan. I’m not going anywhere. You’re going to have to shoot me, and deal with a very uncooperative corpse.”

  He shrugged. “Your cooperation really isn’t needed, dead or alive, you harridan.”

  And he came around the table.

  As quickly as I could burn the sugar cookies on Christmas Eve, I grabbed my folding chair and hurtled it at Ivan, buying me precious seconds to scurry deeper into the otherwise darkened hall.

  But Ivan, instead of chasing after me in the dark, ran over to the wall panel and began turning on more ceiling lights, trying to flush me out, one bank of spotlights at a time.

  As the lights flickered on—threatening to reveal my hiding place in the far corner near the red glow of an exit sign—I weighed my options, which were few. I could either stay here and be chased around the vast hall, or take my chances outside in the cold.

  I bolted out the exit door.

  Almost immediately I regretted my decision.

  The already bitter wind had increased, making the dangerous wind chill even more deadly. Unwittingly, I had created the perfect “accident” for Ivan: Unless I found shelter immediately, I would most certainly freeze to death.

  With difficulty, I ran in the snow toward the grandstand, the nearest structure where I might find cover from the freezing wind. I stumbled under the wooden bleachers, crouching as I moved in, advancing as far as I could beneath the steps. There I huddled on the ground, which, thankfully, only bore a dusting of snow, yet the bitter wind still reached me with its icy fingers, tweaking my ears and nose.

  My situation was looking bleak indeed, when my half-frozen fingers found a Bic cigarette lighter among the debris that had fallen through slats in the bleachers. Saying a little prayer, I flicked the Bic, and it worked! Gathering all of the paper trash around me, I stuck the pile under the bottom step, and lit it. The result was rather amazing, even for me….

  There was a crackle, and a pop, then a big WHOOSH! as the ancient wood quickly caught fire. The flames, fanned by the wind, spread quickly upward and outward, and I had to fall back fast to keep from getting burned. Within minutes the grandstand, a structure apparently consisting of unwitting kindling, was a fiery inferno, painting the night orange, cutting through the darkness with claws of flame.

  If that didn’t catch somebody’s attention, I didn’t know what would!

  I stood a safe distance from the blaze, wondering where Ivan had got to…what was he doing? What was he thinking? Was I still in danger, or had he run off?

  I was contemplating my next move when the help I had hoped to attract arrived sooner than I had expected: A police car, lights flashing, siren blaring, barreled down the main drive of the fairgrounds. I waited until the car came to a slippery stop between the main building and the roaring, dying grandstand, then hurried toward it.

  And I nearly dropped my upper plate when the passenger door flew open and Brandy jumped out. She ran toward me, with Officer Lawson on her heels.

  Brandy’s face was red with anger (or maybe from the glow of the fire).

  “Mother!” she shouted. “You know you’re not supposed to drive!”

  “I don’t need a hearing aid, dear,” I said. “We’ll discuss my confiscating your vehicle later. Officer Lawson, there’s a murderer with a gun on the loose!”

  He frowned at me. “What is it this time, Mrs. Borne?”

  “I am sane and this is real! Ivan Wright just confessed to me that he killed Walter.”

  The sirens and clanging
of fire trucks became apparent in the background and grew and grew.

  “What kind of nonsense is this?” the snippy officer asked. “Did you start this fire, Vivian? What’s going on?”

  “I told you, you obstinate whippersnapper—Ivan, our esteemed ex-mayor, is a murderer!”

  That was when Ivan came running from the direction of the main building.

  “Vivian,” he said, out-of-breath when he reached us. “Thank God you’re alive! I was afraid you were caught in that fire….”

  “How touching,” I said dryly.

  Ivan looked from Officer Lawson to Brandy. “I’m afraid Mrs. Borne has really gone off the deep end this time,” he said, his voice laced with seeming concern. “She asked me to come out here, and then tried to extort money from me to invest in that silly Playhouse….”

  I clapped my hands. “Excellent performance, Ivan! I had no idea you could act—I really should have used you in some of my plays. But, unfortunately for you, this little improvisational monologue will not hold up…” I withdrew the recorder from my coat pocket. “…because I have everything that you said on this tape.”

  Ivan looked at the officer. “She’s out of her mind, I swear this is all delusional nonsense….”

  “And this,” I said, waving the recorder, “along with the security footage from the convenience store, will be enough to implicate you in the murder of Walter Yeager.”

  Ivan looked at Brian, expecting his support, but instead the officer said, “As a matter of fact, sir—we do have some questions we’d like to ask you at headquarters, and perhaps now would be the best time to—”

  Ivan’s face went slack.

  I said, “Careful—I told you, he has a gun! It’s small, it could be in his pocket!”

  But then it wasn’t in his pocket; it was in his hand, small and black and frightening-looking, ready to spit more fire into a night already yellow, orange, and red.

  We froze.

  Then Brian slowly put one hand up, palm out, like a traffic cop, while his other hand hovered over his own holstered weapon.

  “You need to put that gun down, Ivan,” Brian said.

  The barrel of Ivan’s revolver moved from Brian, to Brandy, to me.

  “Vivian Borne,” the ex-mayor said, silhouetted against the glowing sky, “I hate you….”

  Ivan’s hand came up and there was a quick, sharp crack as he fired a bullet into his temple.

  Then he dropped to the ground like a child making a snow angel.

  Brandy here.

  Mother and I sat in the back of Brian’s squad car as if we were the prisoners, and maybe we were. He was out there helping keep bystanders away as the old grandstand turned into cinders. Three fire trucks were expending lots of energy and plenty of water, but the only thing that could be accomplished was putting out the blaze—the damage had been done.

  Mother said to me, “How ever did you find me, child?”

  “I tried calling you from the restaurant,” I said, “and when you didn’t answer our phone or your cell, either, I went home and found my car gone!”

  I was furious with Mother. I knew she’d been through a traumatic episode—of her own making!—but, really, I could have put her across my knee and spanked her.

  But instead I kept filling her in: “Then I got a hold of Brian, and all he had to do to find you was follow the traffic accident reports.”

  Mother frowned as if she had no idea what I might be referring to, the eyes big and innocent behind the oversize lenses. “What on earth do you mean, dear?”

  “You didn’t notice you’d caused a seven car pileup on the bypass?”

  “I did no such thing,” she huffed.

  “Then you knocked over a mailbox just down the road, so we knew you were coming here. Couldn’t you have just dropped bread crumbs?”

  She raised a finger. “The mailbox I do remember. What was it doing, positioned so close to the street like that?”

  “Mother, how did this fire start? I hate to ask, but…did you do that?”

  She shrugged grandly. “What else could I do? Ivan had my cell phone, and I didn’t have a flare.”

  Oh, she had a flare, all right. Mother definitely had a flare.

  Mother’s Trash ‘n’ Treasures Tip

  The earlier you arrive at a flea market, the greater the selection, but the later you come, the better the bargain. If you’re specifically looking for good furniture, get there before the rooster crows—like the bladder, it’s the first thing to go.

  Chapter Eleven

  New Year’s Revolution

  Since the late Ivan Wright was the major suspect in the murder of Walter Yeager, the county attorney shut down the investigation. And, although rumors swirled around Serenity like a shook-up snow globe, no official statements regarding the former mayor’s involvement in the homicide were issued. Mother said Ivan still had enough local political ties to cause embarrassment, should his misdeeds come to light. But I think a general sadness had settled in among Ivan’s friends and acquaintances, who could see no reason to unearth long-buried secrets dating back as far as the 1940s.

  On the other hand, Chaz and her attorney, Mr. Ekhardt, might well think it was time to get out the shovels. A strong possibility remained that Chaz could file a civil suit against Ivan’s estate for the wrongful death of her grandfather. Mother, on the hand (and she does have her sources), doesn’t think that will go anywhere—she insists that eventually it will come to light that the state of Ivan’s financial affairs, at the time of his suicide, was dire—that he was deep in debt.

  “Wait and see,” Mother said. “You’ll find that certain of our esteemed local financiers have, over the years, made substantial loans to our respected former mayor, enabling him to maintain a lavish lifestyle beyond his actual means.”

  Speaking of Mother, she was (you may or may not be relieved to hear) not charged with arson for burning down the grandstand at the fairgrounds. She gave a statement that, after being chased at gunpoint out into the night by a murderer, she had fled into hiding beneath the bleachers, where she soon became convinced she would freeze to death if she didn’t start a small fire to “warm my poor hands by.”

  So the fire was ruled accidental by the authorities (if not by me).

  She met my skepticism with a typically theatrical dismissal: “Considering how quickly that ramshackle old structure went up in flames, why, that fire was a blessing in disguise! The best Christmas gift I could ever have given the city of Serenity.”

  “Really.”

  “Indeed! Imagine if a spark had turned those dry old boards into a conflagration while the seats were filled with the behinds of Serenity citizens taking in a home game! Why, the loss of lives could have been catastrophic, not to mention the number of lawsuits the county would face. Now the fairgrounds will have a safe, state-of-the-art grandstand, attracting more events and crowds, which should easily offset the cost of the new construction.”

  This seemed ridiculous to me. But around town, Mother was (no kidding) a heroine in the eyes of many.

  But not Tony Casatto.

  The chief, furious that Mother had once again taken the law into her own hands, refused to speak to her, spurning her phone calls and impromptu visits at the station. This frustrated Mother to no end, as she hated being out of the loop—any loop.

  Christmas came and went, just Mother and me and Sushi and a handful of gifts and nonstop Christmas movies on both the 24th and 25th—the original Miracle on 34th Street (accept no substitutes), the Alastair Sim Christmas Carol (ditto), Christmas Story, Christmas Vacation, and It’s a Wonderful Life. We dispensed with the clubhouse, however, and Mother sat on the couch while I lounged on throw pillows.

  Jake, now eleven, arrived for a few days before the new year, looking a little taller, his round face having lost some of its baby fat (sorry, son). I had always thought he looked more like me than Roger, but now I could see that Jake’s features were beginning to morph into those of his dad. (And Roger
even sent me a generous gift certificate for Ingram’s.) We had a second Christmas—I got Jake some Japanese video games, and he gave me the new L.A.M.B. perfume by Gwen Stefani—and I gained five pounds eating all those goodies, again. Had to make sure they were all out of the house by January first, didn’t I?

  One overcast, cold morning right before December gave way to January, I drove Mother out to the Sunny Side Up Nursing Home to see Grace Crawford. I remained respectfully out in the hallway (but within hearing distance) while Mother quietly—and with surprising dignity and compassion—informed the bedridden woman of who had been responsible for her daughter’s death so many years ago.

  “Thank you, Vivian,” Grace said with very little emotion in her voice. “But I’m afraid I’ve known about that for a long, long time.”

  Mother was stunned momentarily into silence, then managed, “You knew Ivan had gotten your daughter pregnant?”

  “Oh, my, yes.”

  “Did…did Ella Jane tell you?”

  “Yes, but not face-to-face. I received a letter from Ella Jane the day after she died. Some might call it a suicide note, but to me it was a loving farewell to her mother.”

  “But you…then you didn’t….?”

  “Bring the matter to the attention of the authorities? Would that have brought my daughter back? Would Ivan have even been charged with anything? The word of a returning hero against that of a dead girl, who was so mentally unbalanced as to take her own life?”

  “I see.” Mother, being an Old Testament eye-for-an-eye kind of gal at heart, seemed disappointed in Grace’s turn-the-other-cheek New Testament attitude.

  Then Grace Crawford chuckled. “Not that I didn’t eventually do something with the letter.”

  “What?” Mother could barely contain her excitement.

  “I used it to feather my own nest…for many years.” Grace gestured with a bony hand around the nicely decorated private room. “Who do you think has been paying for me to stay here? I certainly didn’t have the money. But Ivan did.” She cackled again. “Having that vile man squirming on the end of a hook like the worm he was—year upon year—was much more satisfying than having him serve the kind of short prison stay he would have gotten…if he would have received one at all, back then. But prison wasn’t the point—reputation was. Respectable citizens, mayors of cities like Serenity, don’t take advantage of young girls.”