A Killing in Antiques (27 page)

“At five. By the Patio. Got woke up early.”

“I heard about that, Billy. How long did you stay there after you woke up?”

“Four thirty, quarter to five.”

Close enough to what Frankie said. We could confirm the time of Frankie’s call home on the cell phone, and the time of Monty’s death by the report of Monty’s stomach contents. Oh, my God, Monty’s Contents. I got a little queasy. Had to hurry up and think of something else.

“What was going on around here?” I asked. “Was there something that, looking back, now seems different?”

“No.”

Wrong question. What else could I ask?

“Billy, did you know Monty before he hired you?”

“Nope. A guy got us together about six years ago.”

“What about the candlestand Billy. Was there something unusual about it? Why did Monty send it to Baker, rather than leave it here or bring it to Brimfield?”

Bingo. Well, that got a reaction. Billy looked like a deer caught in the headlights. Face frozen, eyes open wide, neck pulled back, ready for flight. Not what I expected, but a reaction that said I was onto something.

“Trouble, a mistake,” he said.

“The candlestand?” Where were we headed?

“I made a lot of mistakes.” And, not waiting for comment, he went on. “One mistake got me into prison.” Beads of sweat appeared on his forehead as he struggled toward something.

“Another mistake was that table.”

“The table?” I asked. He nodded. The candlestand must be the table that Edgar mentioned. Billy was overwrought, but I held my tongue, and he went on.

“That’s my drawer.”

“You repaired it?”

“Yes, and a good job, too.”

Billy was defending his work on a fine piece of furniture. Baker told me that both the candlestand and the repair were excellent, but he hadn’t seen Billy’s mark.

“Did you sign it?”

“Couldn’t. Monty went nuts when he saw it.”

Monty would know that the candlestand was a fine piece of furniture. I know Monty didn’t want Billy to waste his time repairing cheap furniture, so why all the complaining? Still, I hesitated to interrupt, thinking Billy was getting to something, some information I needed. But now he clamped his mouth shut, and rubbed his hands over his face.

There must have been more. Billy must have known more. “Was there something else?” I asked.

“No, it was the table. Said he knew that table.”

“Whose table was it?” I asked.

Billy hesitated. “A kid in trouble. Kid didn’t know a damned thing. Wanted it fixed before his mother knew it was broke.”

“Who was the kid?”

“Don’t know,” he said. He ran both hands through his hair. “Kid said he needed it fixed right away. I helped him out, and Monty came back, saw it, and went nuts. He said I made a deal with a swindler.”

“Who?”

“Didn’t say. Said it could land me back in prison, said I never should have touched it. He nagged and complained, and told me the kid had nothing to do with it. Said the kid was a sucker and I was a patsy.”

“So why did he send it out to Baker?”

“He told me that Baker was going to make things right.”

“But why?”

“Museum piece.”

“Monty always said that, Billy,” I said.

“No, it was
from
a museum,” he said. That was it. Billy was finished. Another museum piece.

I drove back toward Brimfield, trying to make time among the commuters jockeying for the best stretch of road. The candlestand was from a museum, not merely the kind of museum piece that’s the product of wishful thinking. It probably still belongs in a museum. Why else would Monty make such a big deal about it?

 

I was only fifteen minutes late for Natalie, but she was miffed again.

I was tired. Too damned tired to play games. “Natalie, I’m just back from trying to get information out of Silent Billy. It was like removing slivers, and just as productive. I’m tired, and I’m out of ideas.”

“Did you accuse him of murder, too?”

“I didn’t, and I didn’t accuse you, either, as you well know. But let’s not go there. Please. If we’re going to have a nice visit, let’s have it. If we’ve gone beyond that, let’s call it quits for today, and maybe we can start fresh tomorrow. Right now I’m done for.”

I flung my backside into the chair across from her. It surprised me by being comfortable. I straightened up and wiggled myself deeply into its lap. When I looked across the table, I was surprised by the look on her face. She must have understood the mess I was mired in. She took my hand and patted it.

“I’m sorry,” she said. She seemed sincere, and I relaxed a little. “I’ve been so self-centered that I didn’t realize my teasing would cause you pain.”

I laughed. That was so like her, to apologize even though I deserved so much of the blame. I felt guilty enough to apologize for my lateness today, and for missing her on that first day of Brimfield. “And I’m sorry I called you at four o’clock this morning,” I said.

“You should be sorry about the wake-up call. That was cruel and inhumane treatment,” she said, laughing.

“So, what’s happening?” I could feel my edginess falling away.

“I thought you’d never ask,” she said. “I’ve been occupying myself with analyzing a stimulus bill,” she said.

That only stopped me for a moment. “His name is Bill, and you’re certainly looking stimulated,” I said, and felt like a quiz show winner when she nodded and giggled.

And thus we started. I was cheered as she described, in Natalieze, the situation. In English it might be called love. In Natalieze it was a meltdown. Her happiness over the meltdown was so evident that it lifted me up out of my own troubles.

I, in turn, told her what I surmised about the Baker and Althea meltdown.

“It’s so perfect, Lucy. I don’t know why I didn’t see it before it happened.”

“Really? I never would have picked those two for each other.”

It was fun to visit, and we lost track of time over our excellent dinner. But it was our souls that found nourishment in the desserts we shared, oozing of white chocolate, rich dark chocolate, caramel, and custard.

I didn’t mention Hamp’s upcoming retirement, and I stayed away from the murder. I didn’t want to burden her when she was in such a good mood. When I finally remembered to tell her that the pickle castor was still available, she was only mildly interested. That first morning of the antiques show she had been upset, but now that she’d given herself permission for the meltdown, it was forgotten. She laughed when she heard the outrageous price Shirley was asking.

“I’ll bet the McGirr Museum wouldn’t pay that much for it now. She should open her own museum,” she said as we walked into the parking lot. “A Pickle Museum.” And on that note we said good-bye and drove off in opposite directions.

I got back to Boston at ten thirty. There was one message under the door. Hamp. I knew I had to call him tonight. I didn’t look forward to it, as I still had no idea what to say about the retirement.

“I hoped you’d come home tonight, Lucy,” he said when I called.

“If I had, I know I’d never drive back to Brimfield tomorrow morning,” I said. The three-hour drive is too much as the exhausting week progresses.

“One day away from Brimfield shouldn’t be a calamity,” he said.

He doesn’t feel that my business is a business. He sees it as a way for me to keep busy, and to also earn money for “extras,” such as small household luxuries, upgraded vacations, and such. It hasn’t been that for some time.

“I wouldn’t ask you to take a day off from school, Hamp.”

A pause. “Okay, you’re right. But we need to make plans, because this retirement is happening soon.”

We hung up at midnight. I pulled out the old sofa bed but couldn’t get comfortable. The bright green numbers on the tiny clock lit the room brilliantly. I drifted in and out of sleep, my mind spinning with retirement, murder, stolen antiques, museums. When I finally slept, the alarm screamed the news that it was four o’clock, time to get moving.

The drive on the turnpike at that hour usually soothes me. The empty road, the promise of a new day, hints of treasure to be found. But the pickle castor and the candlestand taunted me, magnifying my tiredness. Both belonged in museums. Both were important to Monty.

Neither item was on anyone’s stolen list, but they were stolen, I was sure of it. He hid the candlestand, but the pickle castor was right out in the open. He needed to accompany the buyer to the sale of the pickle castor. Why? Because he was going to make things right. He was going to confront the thief, and that’s when the thief killed him.

I
was early enough to be near the front of the unruly line for today’s opening and would have an excellent shot at the good stuff. I was exhausted; the week’s exploits were catching up with me. Mr. Hogarth was just ahead of me, embedded in an amorphous clump of people, and he was bursting with energy and excitement.

“I spent the night at my daughter’s. We had a wonderful visit,” he said. No wonder he was refreshed. His daughter is the only family he has, but she runs a big corporation and their time together is limited.

“You should have stayed the weekend,” I said.

“No way. I have to do this opening, and tomorrow is the last day. I never miss my Sunday cleanup,” he said, cackling.

No new fields open on Sunday, but it would be crowded with people who came for the festive atmosphere. For a shrewdie like Mr. Hogarth, Sunday at Brimfield offers a different opportunity: high-priced bargains. His bargaining on the final day of the marketplace is for top-of-the-line antiques that didn’t sell during the week: antiques brought here for specialized collectors. On the last day the reality of dragging things back home encourages flexibility in sellers.

This is where Mr. Hogarth shines. He is able to approach a dealer and offer a price high enough not to be offensive, but low enough to be a good deal. He’ll go home tomorrow with a few rare and beautiful treasures, and he’ll have paid bargain prices. I emulate him whenever I can. Today, though, I wasn’t thinking straight, and I was so tired that I felt sick.

“All I want to do is get through this field, grab the best stuff I can, and leave,” I told him.

I was still uncertain where, exactly, I’d go when I finished here. I probably
should
go home to the Cape, where I could comfort Hamp and assure him that retirement is good, and that he’d enjoy it. But if I did that, it was unlikely that I’d return tomorrow.

On the other hand, when I finished this field it would be early enough that I could get to Boston and finally get a great night’s sleep. If I did that I’d be able to return to Brimfield tomorrow fresh and rested, give it one last shot, and still get home to the Cape at a decent hour. A decent hour tomorrow was almost as good as a decent hour today.

My indecision nagged as I shopped the crowded field. Fortunately, nods and quick hellos were enough to pass for social skills this morning. We all knew we were down to the wire.

I spotted Wilson, again empty-handed.

“So, what’s the story on you and Monty, way back in the day?” I said. He’d probably have a different version than Mr. Hogarth.

Wilson scowled. “There is no story. We hardly knew each other,” he said. He turned on his heel and walked away stiffly.

Well, maybe I was a little abrupt. I should have thought about what I’d say to him, but I was too tired to think straight. I finished my trek through the field, which yielded enough goodies to fill Supercart.

Mr. Hogarth was packing up his truck when I finished loading the van. When I complained of my tiredness, he delivered a lecture admonishing me to take a nap in the van before driving anywhere.

I didn’t need a nap. I always miss my sleep during Brimfield Week. This week’s three or four hours a night made it exceptionally thin, but I could handle it. Maybe I
was
feeling the tiredness more. Maybe I was coming down with something. Maybe fifty was going to be a harder age than I expected.

When he realized that I didn’t intend to follow his advice, he insisted on getting coffee to wake me up for the drive. I agreed to the coffee. It would get him on the road and off my case, and it would make my stomach wretched enough to keep me awake throughout the drive.

Finally, it was time for him to leave. I acted revived, thanked him, and waved good-bye. Hardly able to keep my eyes open, I climbed into the van. It was full because I hadn’t folded Supercart into its smallest position. I leaned over to fold it down, heard something behind me, felt a strong push, and then nothing. Nothing at all.