A Killing in Antiques (6 page)

“Any number, huh?”

“Yes,” I said firmly. Heat still radiated from me, but it was coming under control now. This guy expected some explanation regarding why I was here to see Billy.

“Your relationship with Billy . . .”

“I don’t have a relationship with Billy. He’s a friend of mine.”

That stopped him. It stopped me, too. The sweating had made me feel uncomfortable, but there was no need for me to be intimidated by this sparkling fellow in uniform. So why was I babbling inanities? I squared my shoulders. I felt my bones locking together in the process that turns me rigid.

It took all of my concentration to speak quietly, and slowly, and to remember not to clench my teeth. “I mean, he’s a nice man that I know. A good person. He was usually with Monty, or doing some errand for Monty, and
that’s
how I know him.”

“That’s your motive,” he said.

“My motive?” He’s off his rocker.

“Hey, you got your disgruntled employees out there, killing people all over the place. Monty didn’t have a wife to kill him, did he? So Billy’s
my
candidate. He’s a good one, too. That’s my position.”

He paused for a second, moved his bulk off the Crown Vic, and nodded his head. But I knew he hadn’t changed his position. I’d just heard him work that theory out, and I still couldn’t quite believe it.

“Has he been charged?” I couldn’t even say “with murder.”

“Hmmm? Well, I’ll tell you what. I’ll have you wait in this here parking lot, and I’ll go back inside and check out the situation. Why don’t you stay here and I’ll get right back to you.”

He went into the building. Relief skimmed through me. I needed a minute or two to myself to figure out the right way to approach this thing. Maybe it made a certain kind of sense for him to believe that Billy was guilty. All I needed to do was point out the flaws in his thinking.

Maybe he’d come to his senses. I walked the length of the parking lot, pulling long breaths of fresh air into my lungs. I paced back to the spot where he’d left me. I worked out questions I hadn’t thought to ask. I mentally scripted the way our conversation should have gone, the way I wanted it to go when he returned.

I stood for a while, and then I paced for a while. I conducted an animated conversation with myself. Yes, this whole mess could be worked out. I’d help the police figure it out. All I needed to do was figure it out myself. That’s where I ran out of steam, and where I noticed that half an hour had passed since the Big Sparkler had returned to the police station. I went back inside.

He was embroiled in an intense conversation with a fellow wearing plain clothes and an attitude that said “in charge.” I couldn’t hear them over the rumble of talk within the room, but I could see that they were serious. Sparkles gave the appearance of listening intently. The new man pointed his finger, jabbing it toward Sparkles’s chest. He did most of the talking.

Sparkles nodded affirmatively. Definitely in a deferential position, I thought. I took this for a good sign and began to form the points I wanted to make when I met the new man. He’d probably welcome my thoughtful analysis after speaking with Sparkles.

I worked my way over to them. They both turned toward me. I detected the slightest bit of annoyance at the interruption.

“This here’s your dowager lady, from the parking lot,” Sparkles said.

Dowager lady?

The new cop shot me a smile that flashed on and off in an instant. I prepared to speak. He beat me to it.

“We transferred your pal over to the state police as soon as he arrived here, ma’am. He was out of here an hour ago.”

I was astonished. “But he’s not guilty,” I said.

He nodded his head once, flashed his on-off smile again, and said, “Thank you for bringing that to my attention, little lady.”

He turned back to Sparkles. I was dismissed.

W
hen I left the police station I decided against taking the time to get Supercart from the van. I had lost an hour, missed some of the best action in the fields, and worse, I had missed coffee with Natalie. I headed toward the Patio in case she had lingered, visiting with anyone there. I needed to figure out what to do next. Coffee might help.

There are few restaurants in Brimfield during the other forty-nine weeks of the year, but when the antiquers converge, a wide variety of temporary food enterprises surface. Not too many years ago your only choice in cuisine was the toppings offered for your hot dogs. Now, ethnic, exotic, and a wide variety of deepfried foods are featured everywhere.

Attempts at serving healthful offerings are becoming popular, too, but snacks totally devoid of nutrients still do the best business. Food is served from the trucks and tents and temporary stands scattered throughout the fields. They stand alone or cluster together in twos, threes, or more. Some offer seating, and part of the Patio’s appeal is that you can sit and visit awhile. It’s a good place to gather.

At the Patio, a wagon train of food trucks circles the edge of a pebbled parking lot. Picnic tables and an assortment of other outdoor furniture fill the space within. Some of the tables sport umbrellas. The Patio is comfortable when the weather is good.

Nothing at Brimfield is comfortable when the weather is bad. Fortunately, it’s rarely bad during the selling season. Rainfalls, high winds, occasional snow flurries, and ice storms are forgotten the instant the treasure hunt resumes. Today was balmy, developing into one of those glorious spring days that fatten a poet’s portfolio.

As I got closer, the smell of food whetted my appetite and I realized that I was hungry. I had left the sandwiches with the kid in the parking lot when I was still stunned by the murder, but now my stomach was sending messages about not being fed since the coffee on the drive here at two thirty this morning.

The day was getting away from me.

When I reached the Patio, I didn’t see Natalie, and I stood at the truck with the shortest line. One couple was ahead of me, a matched set. They were of similar shape: pearoid, with low centers of gravity. Both wore black sweatpants and sweatshirts printed with pink poodles. They carried large nylon tote bags embossed with dancing pink poodles. Both wore visored caps embroidered in pink poodlery. She wore earrings from which pink poodles dangled. His ears were nude.

They gave the man in the truck a complicated order that called for deep-frying spiced chicken wings, but without the batter that was the specialty de la GMC. The wings were to be accompanied by what sounded like batter-dipped, fried sneaker sandwiches.

The man who took their order grunted and without comment began preparing it. While he worked, they discussed their safety in the wake of today’s murder. The woman was fearful. I wondered who she was and eavesdropped.

“We should leave. This place is creeping me out,” she said.

“Let’s not be hasty,” he said. “We’ve come this far, so we might as well see what’s being offered.”

“Murder is what’s being offered,” she said. “And I’m not risking my life, or my collection, with some nut running around murdering people.”

She felt that Brimfield was dangerous because of Monty’s murder. The man appeared to realize that while it had certainly proved dangerous to Monty, the murderer was unlikely to drift by in the sunlight, randomly strangling yet more victims.

Minding my own business has always been difficult for me. I had just about decided to keep my mouth shut when the woman turned around, looked at me, and said, “Aren’t you afraid to be here alone?”

I knew I should respond sensibly, but I had used up any sense I had left back at the police station. I knew she needed reassurance about her safety, but I couldn’t think of anything reasonable to say, and the most neutral response I could dredge up was a lie. “I’m sorry. I’ve been daydreaming.”

“Don’t you know there’s a murderer running around loose here?” the husband asked.

Whatever happened to “let’s not be hasty”? They both looked at me. None of this was their fault. I wondered if a diversion might be a good tactic to keep me out of trouble. Diversions don’t work on my kids anymore, but occasionally I can still sidetrack my husband with them. I asked if they were poodle collectors or pink poodle collectors. I hit pay dirt, because their concerns about danger and murder were set aside, and both responded to my non sequitur.

“We’re pink now,” she drowned him out. “We began with anything poodlish, twenty-three years ago, but we’ve had to specialize in pink because we’ve run out of space twice.”

“Did you buy a bigger home?” I asked, managing not to smirk.

“We put an addition on our first home, but when we ran out of space again, we decided it would be easier to move rather than to build another addition.”

Mrs. Poodle described the changes in their homes as their collection grew. Her husband continued speaking at the same time. I couldn’t quite hear his words, but every so often he repeated his leitmotif, “Our house is a museum.”

I smiled a lot and murmured comments like, “How true” and “
um-hmmm
.” I didn’t know which face to focus on; they both looked at me while they spoke.

I realized that I had opened myself up for further enlightenment in the Art of the Poodle, and I gazed around the Patio looking for an out. Within my view were a few people I knew, and one of them was heading my way.

“Lucy,” he said, his rich voice carrying from several tables away.

John Wilson could have stepped out of an ad from a gentleman’s magazine. As always. His features are plain but his grooming and attire are meticulously detailed, in the tweedy manner of the English soap operas on PBS. His look evokes an image of fine old museums, and in fact, he is a curator at the Jeffries Jade Museum. The Jeffries is a little too new and a little too small to suit him for long. Wilson moves from museum to museum.

New England is loaded with wonderfully esoteric little museums. Wilson has worked, in various capacities, at a number of them, always moving upward. These museums are generally endowed by someone with scads of money, but on occasion they’re founded by someone who is merely eccentric.

The founder of Wilson’s current museum, Conrad Jeffries, may have been both, but his extravagant bequests have culturally enriched a number of communities in New England. It’s located in a depressed mill town north of Boston, which assures that Wilson will be off to greener pastures before too long.

I was surprised to see him here. Generally, when I bumped into him these days, it was likely to be at one of the high-toned auction houses. I visit them regularly, to see what’s going under the hammer in the big time. I also like to see who’s buying. It gets harder all the time to figure out who’s really buying. Even the new rich are getting cagey. But I’m good at it.

Wilson, with a healthy budget from his trustees, didn’t have to set his refined foot into Brimfield’s bedlam. He was very likely doing the same thing here that I do at the swanky auctions: checking out the trends, watching the movers and shakers. He’s not exactly a snob, but I think Brimfield is a bit uncivilized for his tidy nature. I suspect that he may not care for the saltof-the-earth flavor of the place.

I’d sensed, over time, that he’s not able to make up his mind about my flavor, either. He often finds me invisible, but not today. Today he must have noticed my transition into dowagership.

He took my hand. His smile, practiced and professional, swept over the three of us at the stand. He leaned toward me and spoke softly.

“Natalie was looking for you,” he said. “She left just after I arrived, about fifteen minutes ago.”

“Damn.” I never should have waited for that silly cop.

Mrs. Poodle stood back and admired Wilson openly, taken with his well-cultivated looks and the charming way he was able to dismiss her with a smile; she even nodded her approval to me.

“I missed her,” I said.

“We only spoke briefly,” he said. “She seemed unsettled, distracted.”

“Did she say why?” I asked. She was probably upset with me.

“Who knows with Natalie,” he said. “She runs hot and cold.”

“Oh?” I wondered briefly if he was one of her rejected swains, but I was saved from asking.

Mrs. Poodle, smiling hugely, tapped Wilson on the arm and advised him that he shouldn’t leave me here alone, that she had just been warning me about the murderer.

Wilson turned to her, surprised by the intrusion. He took in her full measure, and I watched him decide to bestow some of his grace on her.

“Let me assure you, my dear,” he said, “that we are all safe from the murderer.”

His declaration took the rest of us by surprise, and we sent up a dissonant chorus of “Whys?”

Wilson replied gently, his pleasure at being the bearer of glad tidings evident, that the murderer was now safe in police custody and that we could all rest easy. Oh, God, he meant Silent Billy.

Just then the man in the truck handed their order out to the Poodles. I glanced at the sandwiches. There actually could have been a sneaker under all that puffy batter.

I began to explain that Billy didn’t do it. But the Poodles, who seemed overjoyed with Wilson for bringing news of their safety, were thanking him, as if he had single-handedly captured some lunatic mass murderer who’d been chasing them. Wilson was accepting his due. I was invisible.

The Poodles scampered happily over to a table and pounced on their chow. I stood transfixed.

“Why did you do that?”

“Do what?” he asked.

“Why did you lead them to believe that the murderer was Silent Billy?”

“Good Lord, Lucy, the police caught him—they have him in custody. I’m sure they’ve found out how badly Monty treated Billy. I wanted to assure those poor souls that they were safe, that we’re all safe.”

“Billy didn’t kill Monty,” I said.