A Killing in Antiques (24 page)

The friend with the glass had an assortment of fine cameo glass, including a stunning piece of Galle. Monica stopped when she saw a little glass figurine.

“My grandmother had a piece of glass something like this,” she said. “She called it end-of-the-day glass, because her father made it with leftover material when his work was finished, back at the Pairpoint factory in New Bedford.”

“Wow! Pairpoint was one of the fine glass producers. Their pieces are very collectible now. Does your family still have that piece?” I asked.

“I may have it,” she said. “No one in our family wanted it after my grandmother was gone. I have a couple of cartons of her stuff. But I’ve never had a place to put it.”

“This is an excellent example.”

“I think I’ll take it,” Monica said.

“Now you have a collection,” the dealer said.

We laughed. Monica would soon learn how true that was. She looked the rest of the tent over, and I purchased a small flow blue pitcher from Muriel, who introduced me to her friend Jake, who was selling a Shaker accumulation.

I told him of my interest in the candlestand. He admired the photos, said the candlestand was a fine example, but that he didn’t recognize it. “Do you suppose your friend was hiding it because it fell off the back of a truck?” he asked.

“Stolen? No, it’s not reported as stolen.” And Baker is the last person anyone would bring a stolen object to.

“Some stolen stuff doesn’t get reported,” he said. “Some places don’t keep track of things. A gallery would have to, but there are museums that might not even notice it’s missing for several years. A lot of those places are lax about storage, and very slow to do inventory audits.”

That certainly complicated matters, and when we finished our first round of shopping, I was glad that Monica felt ready to do the second run-through alone.

She moved off to shop. Nice. I wouldn’t have to fumble through my call in front of her. I found Frankie’s home phone number and punched it in. Finally, pay dirt. I gave him some background, said I was interested in Billy, and was surprised to find him unwilling to talk to me.

Remembering that he had been called home for an emergency, I attempted some sympathy, which he rejected with the comment, “My problem, not yours.” Well, excuuuse me. I tried to get back on message, but Frankie was adamant about it being none of my damned business what Billy did on his own time.

Aha. Billy must have actually fixed the frame, then told Frankie not to mention it to anyone because his boss didn’t want him working for anyone else. Rather than try to explain Monty’s quirks to Frankie, I tried a different approach.

When I said I was a friend of Coylie’s, and that I had helped him open the booth yesterday, he loosened up. But he was more interested in hearing about the opening sales than in describing his interaction with Billy. I finally pulled the information I wanted out of him. Billy
had
fixed the frame, and it had taken about a half an hour after they gathered the tools and equipment needed for the job.

“He was still packing his camping gear when I was ready to leave,” Frankie said.

“What time was that?” I asked.

“I can tell you that exactly,” he said. “It was four thirty. I called home just before I left. That stupid phone gives you the time, it tells you where you’re located, and it tells you everything except how to operate it.” I could understand, but I found that I just didn’t like the guy, and said good-bye quickly. Okay, Billy was accounted for until four thirty that morning. That’s better, and he was still packing his gear at that time.

I gave the phone a few seconds to disconnect from Frankie and quickly punched in Matt’s number. I didn’t want this to get away from me. I got a ringing signal.

“What time did Monty die?” I asked when he picked up.

Matt, who can ask plenty of questions, is not quick to answer them. “Why do you need to know?” he asked.

“Someone talked to Billy near the time of the murder.”

“The campers,” he said. “Billy told me about them, and I talked to them, but they knew nothing.”

“How about the guy who drove back to Scottsdale?” I asked.

Silence, before I heard Matt clear his throat. “Billy didn’t know his name or how to get in touch with him. How did you find him?”

“I used my little gray cells,” I said. That could have backfired, but it didn’t.

Matt laughed. “Okay, but understand this, Lucy: If I share information, I want what you know.”

“Only fair, Matt.”

“They’re calling the official time ‘between four and five a.m.,’ ” Matt said. “Monty’s body was found at daybreak, which was five that morning. He could have been dead for an hour. But it’s possible that it was earlier.”

“Then I do have news for you. Monty was seen, alive and kicking, just before four, and I can account for Billy until four thirty,” I said.

“Why didn’t you tell me about that?”

“I just did.” Matt, who doesn’t get that kind of response often, at least from me, backed off. I’m brazen when I’m wrong, and I knew I should have mentioned Mildred’s meeting earlier.

I said I’d have Mildred get in touch with him, and gave him Frankie’s phone number.

“How can they figure the time, Matt?”

“Monty had clear eyes, the right body temperature, no lividity, no rigor.”

“Can they fine-tune it any better?” I asked.

“The pathologist’s report will pin it down by the condition of the stomach contents, but that’s what they have right now.”

It was time to hang up. I didn’t want to think about lividity or stomach contents.

I decided to ease my squeamishness by beginning my own second run-through, and started on the other side of the field. That would keep me from following Monica; I didn’t want to be in her hair as she tried to figure out what she wanted.

I
decided to see that pickle castor again. The dealer, a woman I’ve seen at auctions and antiques gathering places, specializes in old containers. Mason jars, enameled soda bottles, tin boxes that once held tobacco, spice, or tea. Containers of almost any sort. She sells regularly here. I’ve looked at perfume bottles in her booth from time to time.

I couldn’t bring her name to mind, though I was sure I knew it. She has a few years on me, and she’s a woman who usually looks comfortable with herself. This morning she seemed somewhat frazzled. She rearranged her stock a bit, and tidied her booth in the quiet that usually precedes the arrival of the amateurs.

I looked at a lovely old hatbox. It was covered in pink silk and had a thick gold cord handle. Clusters of tiny silk roses adorned it. Except for some fading, the silk was in excellent condition. I was about to ask the price when my eye settled on the pickle castor.

I headed straight for it and gave it a closer look. I wondered if I should show some interest in it. A pickle castor is not my type of thing ordinarily. But if I could grab it for the right price, I’d be able to kill two birds with one stone. The negotiations could become my entrée into a conversation with this woman about the morning of the murder. Then I could bring it to Natalie as a peace offering. I stood hesitating, not sure how to approach her.

“I wondered how long it would take you to get to that pickle castor,” she said.

“What?” So much for a good approach.

“The pickle castor,” she said, and she pointed to it, right there under my fingertips. Duh. “You’re Lucy St. Elmo, aren’t you? You got yourself shot in the keister a few years ago, outing some murderer down at the Cape, didn’t you?”

Shirley. Her name is Shirley, I finally remembered. Now, how the devil does she equate that stupid incident with her silly pickle castor? I pulled my thoughts together and nodded to confirm her question. I wondered if I should feign injured dignity.

“Well, I’m doggone glad you’re here,” she said.

She squinted, and peered at my face with such intensity that I wondered if I remembered my moisturizer this morning. A grin began at the center of her mouth, then spread outward as she took a deep breath and went on. “Now you can get cracking on this one. Between the cops pestering me about the murder and the dealers pestering me about the pickle castor, I’ve had enough of this doggone foolishness to last me a lifetime.

“The minute I saw you I knew good and well that you didn’t come here about any doggone hatboxes.” She gripped my arm just above the elbow and jabbed her free hand into my shoulder as she spoke, the grin nearly reaching her ears.

Shirley thinks I’m going to solve Monty’s murder!

“Why are the cops pestering you?” I asked when I realized this.

“They’ve been after all of us in this little corner near the slope. They’ve convinced themselves that we have a view of the spot where Monty was killed. Except that no matter how often we point out that you can’t see that doggone spot from here even in the daylight, that it was dark, that we were rushing around unpacking our stuff, shouting back and forth to one another, and scuffling around moving things into our booths, they ask the same stupid questions. Did we see Monty? Did we see anyone near the spot? Did we notice anything suspicious?”

“So they’ve been questioning all of you?” That seemed natural enough, given the location.

“Yes, but when they get to someone who knows something, like me, they back off.”

“And you, of course, know . . . ?” I still had no idea what she thought she knew.

She nodded vigorously. “I tell ’em about the doggone pickle castor.” With that my shoulder took another pounding.

“The pickle castor?”

“Yes, every time they come here, I mention that doggone pickle castor, and they don’t give a flying fart about the doggone thing.” She took a breath, pulled her shoulders up to her ears, and spread her hands out palms up.

I backed away quickly and turned that shoulder away from her. She stepped toward me. The doggone pickle castor? As she closed in on me, I threw my arm over her shoulder and patted her on the back. Damned if she didn’t burrow her face into my shoulder and sigh deeply. I could feel her shoulders tremble briefly. Then she backed away again, squared her shoulders, and took another deep breath.

“Well, Shirley, why don’t you tell me about the dog”—I almost slipped “pickle castor?”

Shirley didn’t bat an eyelash. She looked up at me. It felt good to be taller than someone. She’s one of the dozen people on earth that I’m taller than. There, there, Shirley, it’s gonna be all better. I placed a hand on her shoulder. That stabilized her. She didn’t move. She certainly seemed to connect the pickle castor with the murder.

“Well, as you can see,” she said, “I’m stuck with the doggone thing. After Monty’s murder I was still sure a collector, or a museum, would pick it up. The doggone thing will drive me nuts.”

I looked close. It was an excellent piece. Delicately wrought silver vines dripping with wisteria surrounded the mother-of-pearl container in a sinuous embrace. A tiny set of tongs in the same vinous pattern hung from its blossom-clustered hook. It was meant to serve pickle at an elegant Victorian table.

The pickle was, of course, just as likely to be tart preserved fruit, or colorful crisp vegetables, as it was to be cucumbers or gherkins. Pickle was served in counterpoint to rich Victorian meals. Heavy, gravy-laden meat dishes. Salads, not unknown, being thought of as kitchen food, or even worse, French peasant food.

But how the devil did Monty’s murder fit in?

“Monty came into my shop about a month ago,” she said, answering my thoughts. “He got up that way maybe a couple of times a year.”

“He made the rounds, didn’t he?” I said. Her shop is in northern Vermont. I do some hunting in Vermont, but I seldom venture north of Quechee, and have never been as far north as her place.

She nodded her agreement. “He pounced on the doggone thing as soon as he spotted it. At first I thought he was angry, but he wasn’t. He just wanted to know everything there was to know about it. He wanted to know where it came from and how I got it. He even asked if it had a provenance. Can you beat that? A provenance. Wanted to know if I had a written provenance.” Her eyes were wide.

Curiouser and curiouser. A written provenance. Americans are very casual about what we call an antique, and even more casual about proof that an antique is precisely what it claims to be. This is particularly true in the under-a-million-dollars category, but even in the big time, written provenances are scarce and sketchy. The European antiques community claims to look askance at this and other American practices. But plenty of them were here today, and plenty of them were buying and selling without papers.

I couldn’t imagine Monty having an interest in a written provenance, and I was as perplexed as Shirley was over his behavior. His claim was always that he was in the junk trade, but he had a rich understanding of antiques, and I’m sure he loved them.

“And did you remember where it came from?”

“Are you kidding?” she said. “Of course I remembered where it came from. I can tell you where every piece in my shop came from. Can’t you?”

In fact, I can. I forget all kinds of things, but I can always remember where I bought a fine antique. A name might stump me for a while, but usually it comes back to me. Even when it doesn’t, I can describe the person, or the shop, or the way I got to the place. That nudges my memory. I’m able to do that for years after an event.

“I got this before an estate sale,” Shirley said. “The woman who’s lived across the street from me for years had an oddball uncle who died. She had to dispose of his estate, and she invited me to take anything I wanted if I’d help her sell off what I didn’t want. She wanted nothing for herself. My understanding is that the uncle was nasty, and you know how those things go.”

“Indeed I do.” That kind of estate sale is a dream come true.

“I made a killing on that one. I was, of course, the first dealer to see the stuff. What a day that was. . . .” Shirley gazed into the distance. She seemed lost in remembering the estate sale. She named items offered in that sale. She lingered over the triumphs of the day. Her hands were up by her own shoulders, beating at the air. I took both of them and held them, patty-cakes, nudging her back to me. We stood like that while she returned her mind to Monty’s visit.