Antiques Ravin' Page 2

  “Like that daguerreotype photo?”

  “Nothing quite so valuable, dear, but still worth a pretty penny. An ingenious gimmick to embrace its famous folly, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, but it must be tough coming up with Poe items like that.”

  “Not really. Everyone on the town council is an antiques dealer with beaucoup connections. Last year’s treasure was a short missive Eddie Poe had written to a friend about a change of address, worth several thousand . . . priced at a mere twenty-five dollars.”

  “Not too shabby,” I said. “How come we’ve never attended?”

  Mother sniffed. “Because, dear, the first year the festival was held I wrote to the city council and offered to perform ‘The Raven’ at the opening ceremony, in full costume and makeup!”

  “As what, a raven?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, dear! As Poe, of course. I look rather dashing in a mustache. And can you imagine? I never heard boo back from them!” She was getting miffed about it all over again, enough so to get a curious upward look from Soosh. “Well, I swore to myself I would darken Antiqua’s door, nevermore!”

  “But now you’re sheriff and you have to.”

  “And now they will see just who it was they snubbed!”

  She didn’t just hold a grudge, she caressed it, nurtured it . . .

  Fairly familiar with Poe’s work, I said, “Maybe the issue was what a long poem ‘The Raven’ is. Maybe if you had offered up a shorter one, like ‘Annabel Lee’ or ‘The City in the Sea’ . . .”

  But she was snoring.

  Serenity County’s new sheriff was starting her day off with a nap, as was the out-of-uniform deputy Sushi, curled in her lap.

  The lady sleeps! Oh, may her sleep, which is enduring, so be deep!

  I returned my attention to the road, where the gently rolling hills had been replaced with flat farmland, fields of tall green corn swaying seductively in the breeze, tassels ready for pollination.

  Half an hour later, an exit sign to Antiqua appeared and I turned off the Interstate onto a secondary road, where a two-pump gas station kept company with a cut-rate motel.

  Soon a larger sign greeted me:

  WELCOME TO ANTIQUA!

  ANTIQUES CAPITAL

  OF THE MIDWEST

  POPULATION 354

  The asphalt highway became cobblestone Antiques Drive, where well-kept houses on either side—newer ones on the outskirts, older but grander homes more centrally located—wore well-tended lawns in civic pride.

  I passed a tree-shaded park with a large pond, several log-cabin-style picnic shelters, and a perfunctory playground, all deserted at this early hour. As I breezed on in to the small downtown, Mother and Sushi snored on.

  I slowed the Explorer along the main drag to rubberneck at the quaint Victorian brick buildings decorated with colorful floral planters—some hanging, others in urns—each business displaying its merchandise behind gleaming windows. Most were antiques stores, but among them was a café, and bakery, and gift shop.

  After three blocks, the downtown turned residential again—houses not quite so nice now, but lawns still welcoming—and I backtracked along side streets, where significantly more modern buildings maintained the town’s service industries: drugstore, bar, restaurant, and a branch bank.

  A one-story clapboard church with small bell tower, which could have been built ten years ago or one hundred, was relegated to a side street as well; next to it lay an old cemetery that probably dated back to the founding of the town.

  I was about to swing onto Antiques Drive again when a man in a pale yellow polo shirt and tan slacks ran into the street and flagged me down. He was smiling but something frantic was in it.

  I stopped and powered down the window, which was akin to opening a hot oven door.

  “Ah . . . Sheriff?” the man asked, frowning. He was mid-sixties, silver-haired and distinguished looking (in a country-club way), and wore wire-framed glasses. Perhaps a sweet young thing like myself, in a sundress, was not what he was expecting.

  “That would be her,” I said, nodding to the uniformed if slumbering Mother, a little drool oozing from her open mouth.

  I poked her arm, and she woke up with a snort, echoed by Sushi. They looked at me with identical dazed expressions.

  “What?” Mother mumbled. “Where?”

  “10-23,” I chirped, which meant we’d arrived at the scene, then I turned back to the man. “Where do you want her?”

  I admit it sounded as if I was dropping off a potted plant.

  “There,” he said, pointing across the street to a one-story tan brick building, a sign above the entrance reading CITY HALL. Nothing antique or Victorian about the place, strictly modern-day institutional.

  “We’ve been waiting for you,” he went on, a tinge of irritation in his voice, which I attributed to the heat rather than any perceived tardiness on our part; we’d made good time—for not using the siren, anyway.

  He turned and headed toward the building while I pulled the car over to the curb.

  Shutting off the engine, I said, “Hope city hall is air-conditioned.”

  Mother was giving me a hard glare of a stare.

  “What?” I asked.

  “You could have woken me up!”

  “I did wake you up.”

  “You could have woken me up sooner.” She was drying her mouth off with a hanky. “I had hoped to make a lasting first impression.”

  “Well, you succeeded.”

  We exited the vehicle, Mother carrying Sushi like a suspect she was hauling to the clink.

  The interior of city hall was as dull and institutional as the exterior, with beige walls and tan-tiled floor. A large metal desk protected the offices of city officials behind it. On the desk was a multiline phone and a silver bell with RING FOR SERVICE, which suggested that city hall had trouble keeping a receptionist.

  The silver-haired man who’d flagged us down held out a hand to Mother. “I’m Myron Hatcher, the mayor, owner of Top Drawer Antiques.”

  Mother transferred Sushi to me and then shook the hand.

  “Sheriff Vivian Borne,” she said majestically, not a speck of drool in sight. “And this is my ad hoc deputy, Brandy Borne. My daughter.” She summoned a forced smile. “If a president can hire his family, so can I!”

  I didn’t care for the deputy designation, ad hoc or otherwise, but had no need to embarrass her—she could handle that without my help.

  When the mayor’s hand went to me, I transferred Sushi back to Mother and shook with him.

  All this transferring had annoyed Sushi, who growled and squirmed out of Mother’s arms.

  Mr. Hatcher was saying, “Please come on back.”

  We skirted around the big desk and proceeded down the beige hallway, passing doors reading MAYOR, TREASURER, and ADMINISTRATOR. At one marked CONFERENCE, our host opened the door, and we proceeded in, Sushi trotting in last.

  The bulk of the room was taken up by an oval-shaped table with chairs for about a dozen, four of which were occupied by two men and two women.

  “Sheriff,” Mr. Hatcher said, “I’d like you to meet the members of the city council.”

  Mother nodded regally to them, a queen to her court. “I would like that myself.”

  Since I was now out of the conversation, I parked myself on a small couch in the corner, where Sushi soon joined me.

  The mayor began the introductions.

  The council consisted of Lottie Everhart, late forties, long dark hair, attractive, attired in a leopard-print dress, owner of Somewhere in Time; Rick Wheeler, thirties, handsome, blond, buff in a tight white T-shirt and black jeans, manager of Treasure Aisles Antiques Mall; Wally Thorp, mid-fifties, round-faced, overweight, thinning gray hair, sporting a wrinkled short-sleeved plaid shirt and well-worn cargo shorts, proprietor of Junk ’n’ Stuff; and Paula Baxter, early fifties, short dyed red hair, rather plain, in part due to scant make-up, wearing a sleeveless navy cotton dress, owner of Relics
Antiques.

  With the preamble concluded, Mother took a chair next to Paula while the mayor put a few empty seats between himself and the others.

  “Now,” Mother said, “who wants to fill me in?”

  The council members deferred to the mayor.

  “As far as we can tell,” Myron said, “our five shops were entered through their back doors sometime last night.”

  Mother nodded. “What about security systems?”

  Rick said sourly, “They don’t do any good when the sheriff’s department is an hour away.”

  “A valid point,” Mother conceded. “Though just a loud alarm can be helpful. Have you been able to determine what was stolen?”

  Paula turned up both palms. “Nothing seems to have been taken from my place.”

  “Or mine,” added Lottie.

  “Same here,” Myron said.

  Wally, the junk store owner, smirked. “It would take me a week of Sundays to take stock of my stock.”

  Mother looked at Rick. “What about you, young man?”

  “I’ve contacted all my dealers in the mall,” he said with a shrug, “but most haven’t had a chance to take an inventory yet.” His eyebrows went up. “I did a walk-through and everything looked okay. I run a tidy ship.”

  Myron spoke. “Strikes us as odd, Sheriff, that our registers had cash in them to use in the morning, which went untouched. No small fortune, even combined . . . but still, why would a thief not help himself?”

  “Or herself,” Mother said with a grave nod.

  Paula piped up. “I expected to find my glass case with expensive rings and watches broken into and emptied out, but it wasn’t.”

  “Nor,” Lottie said, “was any of my rare Roseville pottery missing.”

  When Mother’s eyes went to Wally, he merely shrugged; apparently the junkman had nothing of real value in his store.

  Mother rested her elbow on the table and her chin on a hand. “What do you think the burglar was after?”

  Again, the group yielded to the mayor. “The only thing we can figure is that someone went looking for this year’s Poe item . . . knowing it would be a valuable prize.”

  “Makes sense. And what is it?”

  The question drew silence and shared wary looks within the group.

  Then Myron spoke. “Sorry, Sheriff Borne . . . but we’re really not at liberty to say. You see, the first of three encrypted clues as to what the Poe prize is won’t be released to the public until tomorrow, at the opening ceremony.”

  “Myron, this is the sheriff,” Paula chided. “I think she can be trusted with the information.”

  Wondering if my presence might be a problem, I offered to leave the room.

  But the mayor shook his head. “Not necessary, Deputy.”

  Deputy. I didn’t love the sound of that.

  Adjusting his wire frames again, the major sighed, then said, “Very well—it’s a book called Tales, published in 1845 by Wiley and Putnam, featuring perhaps the author’s most famous story, ‘The Gold-Bug.’”

  Lottie sat forward. “That’s where we got the idea for the encrypted clues,” she said. “The first one says what the value of the item is, the second one tells what it is, and the third gives the antiques shop where it’s hidden among various merchandise on display.”

  Eyes narrowed, Mother was taking all of this in. “It does sound as though the burglar wanted to get a jump on the competition.”

  “Yes,” Wally said. “Only he . . . or she . . . didn’t know we’d changed the procedure this year.”

  “How so?”

  “We aren’t hiding the prize until the second day of the festival,” he explained.

  “That’s by necessity,” Lottie added. “Last year, the letter was found right away, and that cast a cloud over the rest of the weekend.”

  Paula was nodding. “People left. And our shops didn’t do at all well on a weekend that’s bigger than Christmas for Antiqua.”

  “City hall especially suffered,” the mayor added.

  I heard myself ask, “Why is that?”

  The mayor glanced over at me. “City hall offers deciphered clues for ten dollars a pop, and a lot of people prefer paying the cash rather than figuring out the cryptograms, which we depend on to fund the festival, and next year’s prize of a Poe rarity.”

  Rick rolled his eyes, his expression glum. “We merchants had to dig into our own pockets this year.”

  The room fell silent again.

  “Perhaps,” Mother suggested, “you should have some law enforcement presence during the festival.”

  The mayor looked startled. “That might alarm folks.”

  I had been feeling guilty about making Mother look like a buffoon by not waking her up, so I piped up.

  “Sheriff Borne does a wonderful reading of ‘The Raven,’” I said. “If you asked her to perform at the opening ceremony, it would make perfect sense for her to be around all weekend. She could be an honored guest.”

  The council agreed my idea was a good one, and Mother sent me a grateful look.

  Since the members needed to open their shops soon, the meeting came to an end, Mother shaking hands and exchanging smiles all around.

  When Mother informed them she wanted to examine the rears of their shops to see how the burglar had gained entrance, I told her Sushi and I would be at a little coffee shop I’d noticed down the street.

  As I trailed Mother and the group out of city hall, Lottie dropped back and handed me a slip of paper.

  “Here’s the encrypted first clue,” she said, then added with a good-natured smile, “If you want a deciphered version, it’ll cost you ten bucks.”

  I looked at the row of numbers and symbols . . . and coughed up the ten-spot for a second slip of paper with the solution. Even an ad hoc deputy can put in for a few expenses.

  Lottie said, “The numbers and symbols are random designations of letters, but the code is consistent throughout the next two clues. So with this, you should be able to figure out the others.”

  A savings for the county of twenty bucks. Now I was a fiscally responsible ad hoc deputy.

  The outside of the Coffee Club looked more upscale than the inside, with its worn carpet, scarred prefab tables, and cracked faux-leather padded chairs. But none of that mattered because the air-conditioning was nicely arctic.

  I spotted a waitress behind the counter, early twenties, with short, spiky purple hair; alabaster skin; and purple lipstick. Just another typical small-town girl.

  Still in the doorway, I asked, “Is it okay if my dog comes in?”

  She shrugged. “Since the boss isn’t here, sure.”

  I took a table for two, placing the panting Sushi in my lap.

  The waitress came over. Her name tag said MORELLA, and she reeked of Shalimar perfume. Hanging from her neck on a silver chain was a pendent of a black raven, wings spread.

  “And how are you?” I asked pleasantly.

  “Livin’ the dream. What can I get you?”

  “Iced coffee . . . and maybe a little water for Sushi?”

  “Right.” She headed back behind the counter.

  A few other customers occupied tables—two giggling teenage girls hunched over a cell phone, and a young mother with small boy, sharing a cupcake.

  Morella returned, setting a sweating glass in front of me and a little bowl of water for Soosh, whose tongue flicked out and lapped up the liquid loudly.

  “Thanks,” I said. “Nice town.”

  “Don’t look under the hood.”

  “Well, the people seem friendly enough.”

  One heavily filled-in eyebrow went up. “Do they?”

  “So far.”

  “Stick around.”

  Bluntly, I asked, “What keeps you here?”

  “As soon as I get enough money, nothing.”

  “Destination?”

  She flicked me something that was probably a smile. “Anywhere else.”

  Morella put my ticket on the table
, then went to check on the other customers.

  While I sipped my cold drink, I spread out the two slips of paper Lottie had given me—the cryptogram and its solution.

  ; 48 [50?8 +1 ;48 6;89 6) ;8* ;4+?)5*=

  The value of the item is ten thousand

  I took out a pen from my little bag to make notes, recording which random numbers and symbols stood for which letter. Even without the ten-dollar translation, the code seemed pretty easy—a semicolon equaled a “t,” a 4 equaled an “h,” an 8 equaled an “e” (adding up to “the”). Also, spaces between the symbols and numbers indicated separate words, which wasn’t the case in “The Gold-Bug,” meaning when I got the next cryptogram, I could probably (as Lottie had mentioned) save Serenity County ten bucks.

  On the other hand, ten thousand bucks seemed like a lot for the local merchants to shell out.

  I finished the iced coffee, left cash for the drink plus a generous tip to speed Morella on her way anywhere else, and Sushi and I departed.

  Going back to join Mother, I crossed the side street where our Explorer was parked across from city hall.

  A slip of paper pinned beneath a wiper waved hello in the warm breeze. Walking through heat shimmering off the sidewalk, I went to the vehicle and plucked off the note.

  This message needed no deciphering.

  Believe nothing you hear and only half of what you see. Edgar Allan Poe.

  A Trash ’n’ Treasures Tip

  When collecting rare books, first decide if you will hunt on your own or use a reputable book dealer. If you hunt on your own, you will pay less but will be on your own. Unless you are very well schooled in the hobby, you may mistake a later edition for a first. A dealer will hunt for you and protect you from such mistakes, but expect to pay higher prices. On the other hand, Mother once paid thirty dollars for a Rex Stout first edition worth $1,500 (books were on sale 20 percent off, and Mother insisted on her discount).

  Chapter Two

  Poe Show

  When Mother, Sushi, and I returned to Antiqua Friday morning, we found the tiny town quite changed from the day before. The park now buzzed with activity—families occupying the picnic shelters, children cavorting on the playground, even a few rowboats gliding lazily out on the pond.