Antiques St. Nicked Page 2

  Sushi and I made several other stops for gifts. At Artists’ Alley I bought Mother a piece of pottery that she collected (support your local artisans!), and at Meerdink’s Men’s Clothiers I got my special guy a navy sweater; and at the Hall Tree, I bought myself a present, a black cashmere sweater, just in case Mother’s gift to me was a dud.

  Final stop was the gourmet popcorn store, which made the most delicious caramel corn along with a dozen other flavors; the cagey owners piped the delicious aromas outside, so only someone with a terminally stuffed-up nose could resist and walk on by.

  Many of the shops had either entertainment, live Christmas music of some sort, or free food stuffs, most often Christmas cookies and punch. I had to reluctantly avoid most of these seasonal temptations or Sushi would have begged for samples with a diabetic catastrophe in the offing.

  By the time I’d finished shopping, the Stroll was winding down. Most of the outside events—choirs, bands, and bell-ringers—had already dispersed because the snow was coming down heavier, the wind gaining some bite.

  I called Mother on my cell, and she texted me to meet her at Simon’s display. So I trudged the four blocks through gathering snow, carrying Sushi along with my packages (she’d managed to lose all but one bootie) (why do we humans insist on trying to clothe canines?).

  Arriving at Simon’s stand at the same time as Mother, we found the throne empty, a sign on the chair reading, “SANTA IS CHECKING ON HIS ELVES.” A forlorn-looking Rudolph stood with his magnificently antlered head bowed against the blustery wind.

  Mother said, “It’s not like Simon to close before the Stroll is officially over.”

  I set Sushi down. “Who could blame him?” I shivered. “It’s getting nasty cold.” The last word came out “told.”

  “Dear, remember—neither rain nor snow nor sleet!”

  “That’s mail carriers, Mother, not Santa. And that hasn’t been true for them for yuh-yuh-yuh-yuh-years.”

  Sushi, kicking off a final bootie, trotted over to the reindeer and barked. The caribou lifted its massive head with rack of horns and made a sound more suited to a pig oinking.

  Soosh then trotted over to the workshop shed and began scratching at the door.

  Now I might have gone over and snatched Sushi up into my arms and scolded her; but the dog had instincts that rivaled the two human sleuths in the family.

  So we went over and Mother pushed open the door. Using the small but powerful light on my key chain, I mini-light-sabered around the dark interior . . .

  . . . illuminating Simon, in full Santa regalia, sprawled on his back, eyes staring upward, unblinking.

  Mother knelt over him, fingers going to his throat.

  “Oh dear,” I said. “Is it a heart attack?”

  She shook her head, then held up fingers coated in red. “No, a different sort of attack altogether.”

  I gasped just as she sighed, saying, “I’m afraid this good man has been murdered.”

  Like the Ghost of Christmas Future pointing to Scrooge’s tombstone, Mother gestured with bloody fingers to a hammer lying on the floor, its head covered in a red just a little darker than the Santa suit.

  “Why would someone kill Simon?” I asked.

  But I feared I knew the all-too-mundane answer: for the monetary contents of the red velvet donation bag discarded near the murdered man’s feet, the pouch turned inside out, as if Santa had already handed out each and every present.

  Chapter Two

  “Here is a hammer and lots of tacks, also a ball and a whip that cracks . . .”

  The first responder to my 911 call was Officer Mia Cordona, dark haired, early thirties, with curves not entirely concealed by unisex slacks and a bulky blue jacket.

  Mother and I had a somewhat tumultuous history with my one-time friend Mia ever since we’d unintentionally blown her cover on a drug case (we were investigating an unrelated murder, needless to say without Mia’s official status).

  Anyway, Officer Cordona was clearly not infused with holiday cheer upon seeing the two of us standing in the snow outside Santa’s workshop.

  “Mia, dear,” Mother began, as the law enforcer approached, “might I remind you that this is a crime scene? I realize murder isn’t your specialty.”

  Mia’s cheeks, red from the cold wind, turned a deeper, not-at-all Christmassy crimson. “Might I remind you two to stay the hell out of my way?”

  Mother tsk-tsked. “Profanity is both unprofessional and unbecoming in a public servant . . . a public servant whose salary we help pay, I might add.”

  Hoping to defuse the tension, I stepped between them, and asked Mia, “Where should we go? We did discover the body, and call it in.”

  Her dark eyes shifted coldly to me. “Go. Home.”

  Mother’s eyebrows climbed over the rims of her big-lensed glasses. “What about our statements?”

  “Someone will get them later . . . now leave.”

  “Don’t you even want to know—”

  “No.”

  And Mia headed to the shed door.

  Mother looked crushed, but as for me, I was fine with not loitering in this nasty (and getting nastier) weather, much less cooling our heels in a clammy, cold interview room at the police station.

  Handing Sushi over to Mother, I gathered my packages, which I’d removed from the workshop, and soon Serenity’s two most notorious amateur sleuths were walking to their car in decidedly unfestive silence.

  At home, in our Victorian-appointed living room, I took my time curling up on the couch with Sushi—it takes a lot of pillows to get comfy on a Queen Anne—while Mother went into the 1950s-styled kitchen to make us some tea.

  Last year Mother had come up with a nontraditional way of putting up our Christmas tree—and I do mean “putting up.” After seeing one Tannenbaum hanging upside down in a floral shop, she did that very thing with ours only to have it come crashing down one winter night, startling us from our wee little beds, shattering a host of glass ornaments.

  This year, with reinforced hooks, Mother had our tree hanging sideways (with new plastic ornaments).

  Bearing two steaming cups of tea, Mother returned, handed me one, then sat beside me.

  I eyed her closely. “How are you doing? I mean, I know you and Simon were . . . close.”

  “Why I’m fine, dear,” Mother replied, sipping her tea.

  She has always been able to compartmentalize—perhaps in part a result of her medication—and I already knew her focus was on finding Simon’s killer. While she had a sentimental side, Mother also displayed a nearly cold-blooded attitude where death was concerned. To Mother, death was just a part of life.

  Car headlights stroked across the front picture window as a vehicle pulled into our drive. With a murmur of a growl, Sushi jumped down from the couch to investigate, and I followed suit, going to the vestibule and opening the front door.

  “It’s Tony,” I said, surprised that the officer sent to take our statements was the Chief of Police himself; but then, Tony Cassato was that “special guy” of mine I referred to earlier.

  As he came in, in his standard top-cop attire—light blue shirt, navy tie, gray slacks under an open topcoat—I felt my eyes fill with tears, my medication not providing the emotional filter of Mother’s.

  “Are you all right?” Tony asked with concern. In his midforties, he was about six foot, barrel-chested, square-jawed, with military short hair just beginning to gray at the temples.

  “Who would kill Santa,” I sniffed, sounding like little Brandy of yore, “for a few measly dollars?”

  Tony placed his hands on my shoulders and squeezed just a little. “There are some bad people in this world, Brandy—you know that as well as anybody. But trust me—we’re making a list, and we’ll be checking it more than twice.”

  “What about all his animals?”

  “Animal Control has arranged with a farmer neighbor of his to look after them for now.”

  Taking my arm gently, he steered m
e over to the couch, next to Mother, who asked cheerfully, “Would you like some tea, Chief Cassato?”

  “No thank you, Vivian.” He sat in a needlepoint Queen Anne armchair next to us, which was about as comfortable as a coach-class airplane seat.

  Sushi jumped into her favorite man’s lap and he gave her a few fond strokes, then, all business, set her back down on the floor where she dutifully curled in a ball at his feet.

  Tony removed a little notebook and pen from his pocket (a tape recorder being reserved for “formal statements”) and began. “What time did you find Mr. Wright?”

  I waited for Mother to answer, as she usually did in any police questioning, but she remained strangely mute.

  “About a quarter to nine,” I said, adding, “fifteen minutes before the Stroll ended.”

  Tony looked at Mother, and she nodded.

  He asked, “How did you happen to find him?”

  Again, Mother deferred to me.

  “Well, there’s not much to tell,” I said. “Mother and I went to Simon’s display, just to say hello, and when Simon wasn’t there, we looked in the shed to see if he was inside. That’s when . . . where . . . we found him.”

  “Did you see Mr. Wright any time prior to that?”

  “Yes,” I said. “But not to speak to him—more just to wave hello. He was already dealing with a long line of children.”

  “When was that?”

  “When we first arrived at the Stroll, oh, about seven-thirty.”

  “Vivian? That right?”

  Mother nodded.

  Tony scribbled in the notebook.

  He had a few more questions—had we noticed anyone loitering around Simon’s display on either occasion we’d seen him? Did we have any idea how much money might have been in the donation bag?

  To which we both answered, “No.” Well, I answered no and Mother just shook her head.

  Tony pocketed the notebook and pen, let out a sigh, and said, “That’s all for now. I’ll let you girls know if I need formal statements.”

  Mother stood. “Well, if there’s nothing more, I’d like to retire. The Stroll left me quite exhausted.”

  “Certainly, Vivian,” he said.

  As Mother headed upstairs, I saw Tony to the front door. He was frowning.

  He asked, “Where’s the Vivian who tells me how to go about my job?”

  “She and Simon were . . . good friends.”

  “So she’s taking his death hard, then.”

  “I think maybe she is.”

  “Does that mean she’ll stay out of this, and let the professionals handle the investigation without her ‘help’?”

  “Maybe.” Not a chance.

  He put an unprofessional and very gentle hand on my cheek. “And how about you, Brandy? Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  Actually, I wasn’t. But for once I wanted Tony to leave. I wanted to check on Mother, who really did seem to have been hit hard by Simon’s murder.

  He gave me a sweet peck of a kiss, then slipped out, and I had no sooner closed the door than Mother materialized at my side, like a jump cut in a film.

  “Is he gone?”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought he’d never leave!” she said, suddenly chipper. “Now, let’s put our heads together about this new case! I’ll get the incident board. . . .”

  I smirked to myself—so she’d only been playing possum. Should have known.

  “Mother, it’s late,” I said with a head shake and a sigh. “I really am exhausted, even if you aren’t. Let’s talk in the morning.”

  She tilted her head and narrowed her eyes in what might have been genuine concern. “You do look tired, dear. Very well, this can wait till breakfast.”

  A short time later, I lay in bed, Sushi curled near my feet. But sleep was a long time coming.

  As it was for Mother . . . who I could hear crying softly in her room nearby.

  Around eight the next morning, Sunday, Mother and I were seated at the antique Duncan Phyfe table in our Mediterranean-style dining room, about to have coffee and bagels, when the landline phone rang. I thought momentarily that it might be Tony, wanting us to come down for formal statements, but on reflection realized he would have more likely called my cell.

  “Borne residence.”

  “Is this Vivian?” asked a woman’s voice.

  “No, it’s her daughter—Brandy.”

  “Oh . . . well, I guess you’ll do.”

  “Pardon?”

  “This is Mildred Harper. Could you and your mother come over to my house right away? Is that possible?”

  “I don’t know. What’s this about?”

  “I’d rather tell you when you get here.”

  “Frankly, you’re being awfully vague, and I’m afraid it’s a little early for us.”

  There was a pause. “Well—is it too early for the Bornes to learn why Simon Wright was killed?”

  “Meaning no offense, but the Bornes already know. Simon was killed for that missing donation money. A few measly dollars, a lot of it in change.”

  A brittle laugh. “You’re closer than you think, when you say that. But you’re still wrong, Ms. Borne. So very wrong. Would you like to get it right? For Mr. Wright?”

  Thirty minutes later, Mother and I arrived at Mrs. Harper’s house, one of a row of look-alike bungalows in a middle-income area of town.

  According to Mother—who either knew or knew of just about everybody in town—Mrs. Harper was around seventy and a recent widow. She had one child, a son in his late forties named David, who was “a known slacker” (as Mother put it).

  After greeting us at her door, Mrs. Harper—a plump diminutive woman wearing comfy pink sweats, her gray hair short and permed—escorted us into a small living room cluttered with bric-a-brac and furnished with the best Sears had to offer, twenty or thirty years ago.

  As we settled on a gold corduroy couch, Mother asked, “Now, Mildred dear, what’s this all about?”

  Mildred, perching on the edge of a green faux-velvet recliner, replied, “When I heard that you were the ones who found poor Simon, I wanted to tell you something before I shared it with the authorities.”

  Mother straightened, a gleam coming to her slightly magnified eyes. Her mourning period had morphed into full investigative mode now, and how she loved to get out in front of the police.

  “Very wise, dear,” Mother said, nodding. “While they aren’t completely incompetent, the Serenity P.D. haven’t the track record in solving murders that my daughter and I have accumulated.”

  Mildred was smiling. “Yes, I’ve followed your exploits in the local paper, and in two or three of your books. That is exactly why I called you first. Also, Vivian, I, uh . . . I know that you and Simon were, at one time, well . . .”

  “Yes,” Mother said, “we were.”

  Our hostess processed that, then went on: “Simon Wright wasn’t killed for a few dollar bills, I can assure you—but there was a valuable coin in the donation bag.”

  I sat forward. “And you know this how?”

  “Because,” she said, “I put it there.”

  Mother and I exchanged glances. Maybe this really was a murder case, not just a robbery gone awry.

  “How valuable, Mildred?” Mother asked.

  “About two hundred thousand dollars’ worth.”

  Mother’s mouth dropped open. Mine already had.

  “It was an 1895 O Morgan silver dollar,” the woman continued in a matter-of-fact manner, “that belonged to my late husband, who got it from his father. We had no idea it was worth so much until it was appraised as part of Morty’s estate. I suppose I could have sold it and benefitted, but I’m content to live here in the house where we spent our marriage.”

  I couldn’t help blurting, “So you gave it away?”

  “I did,” Mildred said with conviction. “I wanted to help Simon achieve his dream—to build a new domestic violence center on the site of the old orphanage.” She pa
used, then added dramatically, “You see, I resided at the Serenity Home for Children once upon a time myself.”

  “I never knew that about you,” Mother said, surprised.

  Vivian Borne’s knowledge of the denizens of Serenity and their personal histories apparently wasn’t entirely complete after all.

  Mildred was saying, “You’d be surprised who did reside there. Back then, such information was kept secret. Often the very young didn’t even know they were an orphan unless the adoptive parents told them . . . and many thought it best not to.”

  “That’s not common thinking now,” I said.

  “No, perhaps not. But it was a different time back then.” Her gaze drifted up over our heads as she began to reminisce. “There were nearly two hundred of us when I was there, the home drawing from all around the state. And we weren’t all orphans. If a single parent couldn’t take care of their children, as was common in postwar years, the kids ended up with us. But we all got along and looked out for each other.” Her gaze went to Mother. “Simon Wright was like a big brother to me.”

  Mother asked, “Simon was an orphan, too?”

  Mildred nodded. “And I can’t help but feeling that . . . well, when Simon purchased the abandoned home and its grounds some years ago, he had a second purpose in mind: to make something good come of that place.”

  Mother was nodding, clearly following this. But I was in the dark.

  “What do you mean?” I asked our hostess.

  But it was Mother who answered: “Dear, there were certain . . . improprieties that came to light.”

  Mildred laughed once, humorlessly. “That’s a mild way of putting it . . . abuse is more like it, and it didn’t all come to light.”

  Mother raised a cautionary finger. “As I understand it, nothing was proved.”

  “The timing didn’t allow it,” Mildred countered. “By then, the government had instituted the foster care program and the orphanage was closed, taking many of its secrets with it.”

  I asked, “Did you witness any of this abuse?”

  The woman shifted on the recliner. “Not exactly. . . I was fairly young, and wasn’t there all that long before my adoptive parents took me home with them—but I heard things.”