A Fatal Appraisal (25 page)

"Where?" Combs asked in surprise. "What about
the producer? Guy, Mr. Chip-On-His-Shoulder?"

"He can just wait. We've got ourselves a
serious
suspect
to interview."

~~~~~

At the same moment Randy Merrill was being released from
jail, Garrett was watching Molly and Clara from the cover of his rental car.
The two women walked west on Grace Street and then turned south onto
seventeenth. If they are really going on the Canal Walk, Garrett thought which
was likely as both women wore casual slacks, plain cotton T-shirts, and tennis
shoes, they should continue heading south until they reached the water. When they
paused to enter a shop located across from the city market area, Garrett swore
under his breath and circled around the block where he was able to park the car
out of sight.

 Heading in the direction of "To Coin a Phrase,"
Garrett passed a produce seller. The woman, a blonde in her early thirties
whose skin was tanned and weathered from too many hours spent tending her crops
in the sun, openly stared at Garrett. She gave him a coquettish smile and bent
over her rows of peaches and apples to reveal an ample bosom. Garrett avoided
her eyes and then the sudden vibration of his cell phone, which he had tucked
into his pants pocket, made him jump. The woman giggled.

"Hello?" Garrett said impatiently. Then he grew
quiet, listening to the caller intently for several long seconds. "You
wouldn't dare," he finally replied, hissing into the phone. He then
slammed it shut and shoved it into his pocket with a violent thrust. Casting a
brief, malevolent glance at the upper windows belonging to the coin shop, Garrett's
eyes narrowed into tiger like slits as he turned and hastily strode back
towards his car.

"What's the rush, hon?" the disappointed produce
vendor called after him.

"Piss off!" he snarled without the slightest trace
of his usual gallantry.

At that moment, the woman decided that the stranger was not
handsome after all. In fact, he had become instantly ugly and she focused her
attention elsewhere. She had no time for rude, unattractive tourists. 

~~~~~~~~~~

One of the more important things to look for, then, is
that the wood grain of any components which are either adjacent or at right
angles to each other, runs in one direction, otherwise the stresses created by
shrinkage or expansion would cause the wood to split.

—The Illustrated Guide to Furniture Repair and
Restoration

When Molly and Clara stepped through the Traveller's front
door, the roar of a vacuum cleaner greeted them loudly. Mrs. Hewell wore a
white apron patterned with bright cherries over her Sunday best; a
lilac-colored floral dress, sheer pantyhose, and tennis shoes. The rosy-cheeked
proprietor looked up as her two guests entered the dining room and quickly
switched off the noisy machine. Molly noticed that a crease of worry had formed
on Mrs. Hewell's forehead and her eyes lacked their usual merry sparkle.

"Hello, ladies," Mrs. Hewell greeted mother and
daughter. "Sorry to be cleaning at the moment, and especially on a Sunday,
but..." She broke off and gestured at her shoes. "Mr. Hewell and I
always walk to our church service and when we returned, Mr. Huntington was
receiving a guest in his room." She paused, not wishing to gossip about
one of her guests.

"Is something wrong, Mrs. Hewell? You look a bit pale.
Did something upset you?" Molly put a hand on the older woman's round
shoulder.

"They're having an awful fight, Mr. Huntington and his
friend," Mrs. Hewell confessed, her cheeks flushed pink. "The doors
to our guest rooms are thick, but those big keyholes ... I heard some
ugly
words, ladies. When words like that come on the television, I switch the
channel." Mrs. Hewell's cheeks grew even redder as she became more
flustered. "Even down here I could hear them clear as a bell. I would have
asked Mr. Hewell to speak to Mr. Huntington, but my dear husband has gone out
to visit a shut-in we know. Does it every Sunday."

Clara scowled. "We'll speak with Garrett. There's no
need for such childish demonstrations. I would have expected better manners
from an Englishman."

Molly grabbed her mother by the elbow. "Wait a minute.
Mrs. Hewell, did you get a look at Mr. Huntington's guest?"

Mrs. Hewell shook her head. "No, I sure didn't. I don't
want to either. I wish he'd just leave. I'd like to set the table for tea, but
perhaps you two would prefer to take your tea on the back porch where it's
quiet..."

"Nonsense!" Clara headed for the stairs.
"Those
gentlemen
can move their
discussion
to the back porch
or to the next county if they’re going to behave like naughty schoolboys."

Molly hustled up the stairs behind her mother. The muffled
shouts of two male voices could be heard coming from inside of the Wedgwood
room, but she didn't think Mrs. Hewell could hear specific words unless she had
been listening very carefully. Pressing her own inquiring ear to the keyhole,
Molly was able to pick up Garrett's conversation with his mystery guest quite
clearly.

"
You're
the pillock that screwed up!"
Garrett was shouting. "Damned, bloody ass! I told you to use the blanket
chest, not the desk! Now the whole thing is off. I'm getting the hell out of
here!"

"What about me?" the other man demanded angrily.
"I'm getting
nothing
out of this deal! And I can't just jet off to
England while the crap hits the fan. You
owe
me, Garrett. After all
these years ..." His tone became quietly menacing.

Molly could hear drawers being opened and roughly slammed
shut. "This could have been our last score, but you screwed it up! I don't
owe you a bloody thing!" Garrett laughed wickedly. "You'd still be
polishing furniture in that discount store if it weren't for me, you ungrateful
wanker."

"So you've just been using me?" the other man
growled. "I thought you cared, but you've only ever cared about the
money."

"I admit that I found you attractive once,"
Garrett answered coldly. "But I'm not in love with you, if that's what
you're wondering. Now, stand aside. I'm getting out of here and I suggest you
do the same. Perhaps we can try again next year, but for now, it's all
off."

Now that the shouting had stopped, Molly was having a
difficult time hearing every word. The tension within the room was so palpable,
however, that it seemed to seep between the doorjambs and flood into the hall.

Clara plucked at her daughter's sleeve. "What are they
saying?"

"Shh!" Molly swatted at her mother's hand. Who was
the other man? Something about his voice was familiar.

"This isn't over, Garrett," the man threatened.
"You're taking me with you or you 're not going at all."

Garrett laughed raucously. "That's a good one. What are
you going to do, kill me, too? First Frank, then Alexandra, and now me? That
would be bloody foolish of you. Now get out! I'm tired of talking rubbish. I've
got a plane to catch."

Molly inhaled sharply. Garrett had accused his friend of
murder! Behind the very door she was leaning on was Frank and Alexandra's
murderer! And Garrett was his accomplice!

"Ma," she whispered fiercely. "Go call the
police! Use the kitchen phone." Molly handed Clara Detective Robeson's
card. "The killer's in there. He just confessed. Hurry!"

Clara hesitated. "Don't do anything rash while I'm
gone," she whispered and squeezed her daughter's arm roughly to reinforce
her point.

Molly nodded in wide-eyed agreement, waited for her mother
to head downstairs, and then put her ear back to the keyhole. All she caught
was Garrett saying "Toodles, luv," as his footsteps approached the
door. Scurrying backwards away from the keyhole, Molly stood and prepared to
flee for the cover of her room, when she heard a blood-curdling shout, followed
by a loud crash. She froze in her tracks and held her breath. A second later,
the unmistakable thud of a body hitting the ground reached her ears.

Paralyzed by shock and fear, Molly stood outside the door to
her room, her mouth agape. She couldn't even whisper a warning to Mrs. Hewell,
who came bustling up the stairs with a heavily laden silver tea tray. Mrs.
Hewell put her fingers on her lips in a conspiratorial gesture and began to
whistle as she approached the door to the Wedgwood room.

Shaken from her trance, Molly quickly blocked Mrs. Hewell
with her body. "Don't go in there!" she uttered desperately.
"Come into my room."

Mrs. Hewell looked at her in surprise. "Your mother
sent me up," she said meaningfully, jerking her head in the direction of
Garrett's door. "She's already invited your ‘guests’ to come right over. I
don't want Mr. Huntington missing his tea. He's got an awfully strong sweet
tooth, you know."

What was her crazy mother up to? Molly's mind raced. Was
Mrs. Hewell sent up here to stall Garrett and hold the killer until the police
arrived? Molly dashed into her room in search of an object to use as a weapon
as she listened in horror to Mrs. Hewell rapping on Garrett's door.

"Mr. Huntington?" she called out sweetly.
"I've brought you and your friend some tea."

To Molly's dismay, she heard the door open and a man's voice
calmly say, "How nice, thank you. Garrett's just... he's in the bathroom
at the moment. Can I take that from you? It looks mighty heavy."

"Oh no, I'll just put it down over on the desk,"
Mrs. Hewell said breezily. "I've carried heavier trays than this in my
time."

Without pausing to think her plan through, Molly grabbed her
purse, switched on the mini tape recorder tucked in the outer compartment, and
shoved the letter opener from her own desk inside her pants pocket. She dashed
into the room on what she hoped were Mrs. Hewell's heels, but the plucky
proprietress was already unloading two tea settings onto the desk.

A man stood watching her carefully, his body held
unnaturally erect, every muscle tightly tensed. Molly instantly recognized his
attractive physique, and when he turned a pair of aquamarine eyes upon her, she
forced herself to smile, despite that fact that she was returning the gaze of a
murderer.

"Hello, Chris," Molly said, amazed that her voice
sounded so even and calm. "Coming to join us for tea? Mrs. Hewell makes
the most wonderful cinnamon scones."

"Not today," Mrs. Hewell corrected as she lifted
the empty tray. "We're having my special sweet potato bread instead.
That's my regular Sunday special. All right then, tell Mr. Huntington to enjoy
his tea."

Molly watched in mortification as Mrs. Hewell exited the
room. As Molly moved to follow, Chris leapt in front of her and slammed the
door shut.

"Oh, no, you don't." Chris narrowed his brilliant
eyes and pointed a finger at her. "Garrett said you've been nosing around
all week. I bet you've been sitting out there with your ear pressed to the
keyhole, hmm?"

Quickly retreating, Molly stepped on a bathroom towel that
crunched in a harsh grating sound beneath her feet. She looked down in surprise
at a shard of moss green Wedgwood. Mrs. Hewell would not be pleased, she
thought wryly. That must have been the crash she’d heard from the hallway. Had
Chris bashed Garrett over the head with the Wedgwood urn?

Refocusing her attention on Chris, Molly considered her
chances of escape. Chris was about her height, but his wrestler's body was
thick with powerful muscles and he was amazingly light on his feet. Plus, he
had already killed two, possibly even three people, making him both dangerous
and highly unpredictable.

"I’ll scream." Molly threatened, locking eyes with
Chris. She hoped that if she challenged him, he'd reveal his plan for her and
she could buy some time until the police came.

Chris made his point very clear by withdrawing a small
revolver from his pants pocket. "If you make a sound, you die," he
snarled and aimed the revolver at Molly's chest. “It’s that simple.”

Molly stared at the small gun as if it were a black
tarantula waiting to leap from Chris's hands onto her body. She quickly decided
that her best bet was to play meek and keep Chris talking.

"Okay." She raised her hands in nervous submission
and backed across the room toward a stiff, ladder-back chair. She sank down
onto the creaking woven seat and dropped her purse to the ground, hoping her
recorder would pick up every sound.

Molly's hasty surrender seemed to cause Chris to relax. His
eyes were shining over brightly with anger and what Molly was certain was a
touch of madness as well.

"What have you done with Garrett?" she asked
softy.

Chris smiled crookedly. "Like I told the landlady, he's
in the bathroom. That traitor is quite"—he struggled for the right
word—"indisposed."

"I can see why you'd be angry at him," Molly spoke
soothingly. "But why did you put that mold on the desk? What did you have
against Frank?" Molly prayed that Chris would be distracted by her
questions. Luckily, the hand with the gun dropped to his side and he warily sat
down on the edge of the bed.

"This stupid mess was all Garrett's master plan. Frank
was just supposed to get sick. Sick enough to be off the show for the week. Who
knew the mold could actually kill him? You can't be too sensitive in today's
world. As you can see, only the fittest survive. Poor Frank, he really was a
pathetic loser." Chris shook his head with no trace of genuine sympathy.
In fact, the crooked smile had reappeared on his face.

"You needed to get rid of him so you could hide the
real Dahlonega coins in the desk's secret compartment, right?' Chris nodded his
head in agreement "But when Frank died, you planted the rag in Randy's
truck to throw suspicion on him," Molly continued.