Antiques St. Nicked Page 4

  Secondly—and please note that I use the preferred form of enumeration (according to Wiktionary) rather than “first,” followed by “second”—shoot. I forgot what I was secondly going to say.

  Oh! Several readers expressed their disappointment that in Antiques Slay Ride I failed to regale them with one of my usual witty tales about the passengers I encounter on the trolley. Mea culpa! Here, by way of making amends, is a doozy. (Hope I’m not making a tactical error by building it up too much.)

  Anywho, one Christmastime several years past, I had hitched a ride on the gas-converted trolley, which provides free rides to Serenity shoppers heading downtown to spend their hard-earned (not filthy) lucre. The trolley was crowded that afternoon, but a few seats remained, so no one had to give theirs up when Billy Buckly hopped aboard.

  Billy was a little person (the PC term for “dwarf” or “midget”) whose grandfather appeared in the 1939 film The Wizard of Oz as one of the Munchkin midgets (here the term seems permissible because firstly, the term at the time wasn’t negative, and secondly, Billy’s gramps was one of the Singer Midgets, a performing group). So here the term is “grandfathered in,” so to speak.

  If you’ll excuse me a moment, I think perhaps I’ve neglected to take my daily dosage of bipolar medication . . .

  . . . and I’m back!

  Returning to our delightful anecdote, Billy was dressed as an elf (that’s not un-PC, is it?) and he was on his way to Ingram’s Department Store to appear in support of their Santa. Billy headed down the trolley aisle, handing out candy canes to each and every one, then settled into a vacant seat, disappearing behind the seat back in front of him.

  At the next stop, the widow Althrop got on, a rather plump individual perhaps too fond of her own German cooking, and took the last remaining seat, which happened to be in front of the diminutive star of our story. Apparently, the widow Althrop hadn’t seen Billy, because when he popped up in his elf outfit (perhaps I failed to mention that his face was painted green) to tap her on the shoulder and offer her a candy cane, she turned, stood, and let out a scream that so startled the driver, he slammed on the brakes and little Billy would have gone flying straight into dire circumstances if it hadn’t been for Mrs. Althrop’s ample bosom. Well, wouldn’t you know it, but the very next week they were dating!

  Monday morning—with our antiques store closed (open Tuesday through Saturday) and Brandy there putting out Christmas merchandise—I was free to do some quality investigating on my own.

  Due to a handful of vehicular infractions of which I’d been wrongly accused (sometimes the System just doesn’t work!), the trolley was my preferred mode of transportation whenever Brandy was unavailable (or unwilling) to chauffeur me around.

  The trolley left me off in front of Hunter’s Hardware Store, a uniquely Midwestern aberration: while the front section of the elongated emporium sold everything one might expect of a modern (modernish) hardware business, the rear was given over to a small bar, offering hard liquor to hard workers who came in for hardware. Hardly a desirable combo, this cocktail of liquor libations and power tools, several inebriated customers having staggered home with a brand-new electrical implement only to saw off a finger, nail a foot to the floor, or (to cite a recent example) drill a hole through a previously perfect hand.

  That was the price of getting hammered at Hunter’s Hardware.

  Mary and Junior were the proprietors, Mary running the cash register, Junior pouring the drinks. The middle-aged couple bought the business some years ago with the money Junior’s better half received after losing a leg in a freak accident while on vacation in Los Angeles. (I can’t elaborate any more about said accident since receiving a second cease-and-desist letter warning that I am not even to hint at what attraction it was—and certainly I was not about to imply that the accident had anything to do with a very large mechanical ocean mammal with extremely sharp teeth.)

  Mary—who might be best if impolitely described as “dumpy” (though I’d never do such a thing), her brownish gray hair worn in a tight bun—was occupied with a customer. I just breezed on by with a polite wave and headed to the back bar, where Junior—a paunchy, mottled-nosed sort who perhaps liked to sample his own merchandise a tad too much (and I’m not talking about hammers and screwdrivers) (maybe screwdrivers)—was busy polishing tumblers.

  Well, “busy” might be overstating it.

  I slid up onto a burst-leather stool in front of him.

  “Your usual, Vivian?” he asked pleasantly.

  He meant a Shirley Temple (may she rest in peace). I’d learned long ago not to mix alcohol with my medication—you would, too, if you wound up in Kalamazoo with no idea how you got there.

  “Please, kind sir.”

  Junior turned his back for just under a minute, then placed the sweet concoction on the bar as if presenting a prize.

  “Terrible shame about Simon,” he said, and gave his big head a glum shake. “Heard you and Brandy found ’im. You’re kind of gettin’ a knack for that sort of thing.”

  I took a dainty sip. “That’s right,” I told him ambiguously. My visit was not to engage Junior—who usually added little to my investigations, thanks to his ever-dwindling supply of brain cells—but rather to wring some facts out of Henry, like one of Junior’s bar rags.

  Seated several stools down, Henry was Hunter’s perennial barfly, a formerly prominent surgeon who had once taken a shot of whiskey to steady his hands, then removed a patient’s appendix instead of his gallbladder, effectively ending his career (the surgeon’s, not the patient’s).

  Henry was a bony senior citizen with silver hair, a beaky nose, and his original teeth. He had been off the sauce for a good while, thanks to Junior and me coming up with a scheme: Junior offered him free beer, and then (unbeknownst to Henry) served him only alcohol-free product. And Henry could whip up a placebo-effect drunk that rivaled the real thing.

  But as I collected my Shirley Temple and moved down to talk to Henry, I became alarmed by what appeared to be a tumbler of whisky before him, instead of a glass of near beer.

  “Hello, Henry,” I said, putting one stool between us.

  “’Lo, Viv,” he slurred.

  I shot Junior an accusatory look, and he gave me an apologetic shrug, mouthing the word “Simon.”

  So, the death of Serenity’s Santa Claus had caused Henry to demand the hard stuff. And, having been unknowingly off the real thing for months, Henry was now drunker than a skunk without half trying. (Are skunks really known to seek out alcoholic refreshment? It would seem unlikely in the wild.)

  Luckily, Henry’s brain cells seemed to work fine both on and off the sauce; he was just easier to understand, ersatz blasted.

  I said, “I know you and Simon were pals, Henry, and I’m sorry for your loss.” Simon had never abandoned the surgeon-turned-town-drunk when so many others had.

  Henry nodded, staring into his drink.

  I went on: “So I just know you’ll want to do everything you can to help me catch his killer.”

  “Shuh-shuh-should of ’ported it,” he mumbled.

  My ears perked, much as Sushi’s do when I open a bag of corn curls (puff not crispy).

  “Reported what?” I asked.

  He seemed about to nod off, so I prodded, “Henry! Is it something to do with Simon’s murder?”

  Henry shook his head. “Not ’im . . . ’er.”

  “Her? Her who?”

  “Nersh.” Henry shook his head sorrowfully. “Shuh-uh . . . should’ve . . . but din.”

  “Didn’t what, dear?”

  “Din do anythin’.”

  “When was this?”

  “Long time, long, long time . . .”

  And that was the last I got from Henry.

  I picked up Shirley and moved back down to Junior, reclaiming my former stool.

  “You need to get him back on the O’Doul’s,” I whispered, “pronto.”

  “Don’t I know it,” Junior sighed, putting down hi
s bar towel. “Came in this morning demandin’ whiskey, and I couldn’t talk him out of it. Been like that for hours.”

  “Would you happen to know what he’s talking about?”

  Junior shrugged. “I think he was sayin’ ‘nurse.’ Maybe somebody he worked with, at the hospital, ’fore he lost his license? I didn’t get a name.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I’d been watching Mary hobble over from the cash register with her ill-fitting prosthetic leg. Arriving, she lit into her husband, “If you don’t find that Santa suit, Junior Hunter, I’m takin’ it out of your till!”

  “What Santa suit?” I asked calmly, though within me excitement spiked.

  She swivelled to me, her leg squeaking like a rusty gate. “The one Junior rented to wear during the Stroll! I told him it was inappropriate, a Santa Claus bartender.”

  Junior said, “So I just hung it behind the bar—and somebody musta swiped it. You believe people these days?”

  I asked, “Who was in the bar that night, Junior?”

  “All kinds of folks.”

  “Let’s limit it to men—before the Stroll started.”

  Junior frowned in thought. “Jeez, Viv, I was awful busy. . . .”

  Busy sampling the sauce, no doubt.

  “But,” he continued, “a few of the Romeos stopped in, and were camped out at a table. They might have some idea who was in here.”

  This being Monday, I knew just where to find the Romeos (Retired Old Men Eating Out)—they’d be having an early lunch at Boonie’s, a recently opened upscale sports bar downtown.

  I hoofed it over to Iowa Avenue where the restaurant took up the first floor of a beautifully restored Victorian edifice. The interior, however, had been completely remodeled with nothing dating back but for the original redbrick walls. Now it was all modern tables and chairs, colorful sports memorabilia, and endless huge flat-screen TVs displaying a dizzying variety of sports channels. The sound was turned down on them all in favor of Bing Crosby, Frank Sinatra, and Andy Williams doing seasonal favorites. Right now soccer fans were screaming silently and Bing was singing “Silent Night” loudly.

  At a little after eleven, only a few patrons were on hand, and I easily spotted the Romeos seated at a rectangular table for six, having platters of juicy burgers and crispy fries. They really shouldn’t be eating such fare, what with their various health issues (too numerous to mention), but I would let that pass for the present. I had bigger burgers to fry.

  Today, only four Romeos were present, thanks to colds and flu making the winter rounds, not to mention the Grim Reaper occasionally dropping by. Present and accounted for were Harold, ex-army sergeant; Vern, retired chiropractor; Randall, former hog farmer; and Christopher, chairman of the board of the First National Bank. Chris was only semiretired, but the group let him in because the banker knew all the inside dope among Serenity’s highest social circles.

  The Romeos had recently joined a fantasy football league and, reading their dour expressions, I deduced that over the weekend their fantasy team must have done poorly in its fantasy game, perhaps racking up a low fantasy score. (FYI: None of the Romeos was my fantasy.)

  Nonetheless, I purred in my best Edie Adams doing Mae West manner, “Hello, boys—mind if I join you?”

  Normally, the female of the species was not welcome at a Romeo table, but I was the exception, the eternal Shirley MacLaine of their geriatric Rat Pack.

  My greeting resulted in an affirmative reaction and I plopped down in a chair next to Vern. Harold sat across from me with Randall to his left. Chris was at one end of the table as if conducting a board meeting.

  Harold said, “Heard you and Brandy discovered poor Simon.” The ex-army sergeant, who looked something like Bob Hope (the older Bob Hope), shook his head. “Awful, just awful.”

  “Awful indeed,” I replied. What good did saying it was awful do? Finding the killer was the only way to do anything about it.

  A waitress wearing embellished jeans and a black T-shirt that read BE NICE OR LEAVE appeared at my side and asked, “Anything today, hon?”

  “Just black coffee, please.”

  When she’d gone, I turned to Chris. “Since your bank has been sponsoring Simon’s Santa display all these years, am I correct in assuming he had his donation account with you?”

  Chris nodded. The banker reminded me vaguely of Ricardo Montalbán (without the accent): Fantasy Island, from a distance; Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan, up close. He was the only one of the four in a real suit, not a jogging outfit.

  “So what will happen to the money?” I asked him. “I know Simon intended it to go to the building of a new domestic violence shelter on the old orphanage grounds.”

  “If you mean, can his daughter get her hands on it?” he replied. “Thankfully, no. The beneficiary on the account is the current shelter.”

  Which shared the old YMCA building downtown with the homeless.

  “If you don’t mind my asking,” I said, “how much is in the account?”

  His smile was patronizing. “Vivian, I don’t mind you asking. But you must know I can’t tell you.”

  I shrugged. “Can’t blame a girl for trying.”

  Vern, the retired chiropractor who’d have made a decent stand-in for the older Clark Gable, said, “Not to tell tales out of school, but Simon told me last year he’d collected about a hundred grand so far.”

  Randall, former pig farmer, a less (much less) sophisticated Sydney Greenstreet, added, “Last I heard, it was up to one hundred twenty-five. And Simon already owned the land.”

  Chris said, “Which the shelter will own, after the estate is probated.”

  Harold said, “Still . . . it’s far short of the three hundred grand or so Simon said he needed for the new center.”

  My coffee had arrived and I took a dainty sip before dropping the bomb.

  “Mildred Harper,” I said, “put a silver coin worth two hundred thousand dollars in Simon’s donation bag the night of the Stroll. That would have put the project over the top.”

  Such revelations are, dear reader, why the old gents invariably welcome me to their table. That and my feminine wiles.

  This particular revelation earned me audible gasps—punctuated by a few clacking dentures.

  Chris, wide-eyed, asked, “Are you sure about that?”

  I gave him a patronizing smile. “I heard it directly from Mildred herself.”

  The banker asked, “Just what kind of coin was it?”

  I made them all wait while I had another sip. Darned good coffee!

  Then I said, “An 1895 O Morgan silver dollar.”

  Chris sat back. “Good Lord . . . that is rare. I’ve only heard of one other turning up in my entire banking career.”

  Randall was going, “Ooooh ooooh,” Gunther Toody-style. (For you youngsters, refer to Google—search Car 54, Where Are You?)

  All eyes went to the former pig farmer, who proclaimed, “I bet Mildred’s son killed Simon—what’s that no-good’s name?”

  “David,” Vern said. “Definitely on the naughty-not-nice list, that one.”

  Harold snapped his fingers. “That lowlife was hanging around at Hunter’s the night of the Stroll—when the four of us stopped in for a beer, remember, men? Grousing about some coin he thought he deserved . . . I guess now we know what coin.”

  So much for poker with the boys.

  “You know who else was there?” Chris chimed in. “Simon’s daughter and son-in-law!” The others nodded, remembering. “And they could have easily overheard David. . . .”

  Harold said skeptically, “Come on, Chris. Sure, they were estranged and all, but Della wouldn’t kill her own father.”

  “Who says?” Vern said with a skeptical head shake. “She’s got one nasty temper—look how she beats up on that poor husband of hers!”

  And such revelations were why I sought out a seat at the Romeos’ table.

  “What’s that?” I asked, not sure I heard correctly (pesky earwax buildu
p).

  “Never knew that, Viv?” the retired chiropractor asked. “You disappoint me. Of course, I used to work on Rod. He’d come in with a dislocated shoulder or whatever, and have some excuse for the injury . . . but the bruises told another story.”

  I’d assumed the code 16s had meant a husband hitting his wife, not the other way around.

  I asked, “Did any of you gents happen to notice a Santa suit hanging behind the bar at Hunter’s last night?”

  In return for this seeming non sequitur, the men gave me puzzled looks.

  “What gives, Viv?” Harold asked.

  “Junior’s Santa suit went missing—this was shortly before the start of the Stroll when Simon was killed.”

  Randall raised a correcting finger. “You mean, at the end of the Stroll.”

  “No,” I said. “Simon was killed before it began. Whoever murdered him stole Junior’s Santa suit, then impersonated Simon for the rest of the event . . . with Simon dead in the woodshed behind him, and an upset reindeer next to him.”

  Chris was shaking his head. “That’s impossible, Vivian. I spoke to Simon around eight-thirty, half an hour before the Stroll ended.”

  I arched an eyebrow. “Are you sure it was Simon?”

  “Well, certainly!” the banker was quick to answer. But then he frowned. “I mean, I think it was Simon. Of course, he was wearing that heavy false beard and Santa cap. . . .”

  “And you expected it to be him.”

  Chris nodded, adding, “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “What did you talk about?”

  “I really don’t recall . . . it was just a brief social conversation.” He paused, adding, “Come to think of it, I did most of the talking.”

  The group fell silent for a moment, then Harold asked, as if to himself, “Why would someone impersonate Simon? It doesn’t make sense.”

  “It does,” I said, “if the killer wanted to confuse the time of death.”

  Vern asked, “Wouldn’t the cold weather do that anyway?”

  “Possibly,” I answered. “But any pathologist worth his or her salt would take that into consideration.”