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Authors: Barbara Allan

BOOK: Antiques Disposal
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We thanked Mr. Anderson for his hospitality, then departed, heading down the grand staircase and out to the street.
Behind the wheel of the Buick, I looked at Mother.
“
Russia?”
“Dear, you know I've always wanted to go to Russia.”
“Since when?”
“Why, I've mentioned it many times. You know I'm fascinated by all those dolls within dolls. You just don't listen. And for that matter, why Italy of all places?”
Lamely, I said, “I do like pasta.”
“Well, I admit that tour was a nice save, dear. All in all, quite a successful mission. Nice old gentleman.”
John Anderson was easily twenty-five years younger than her.
I said, “You sure took a chance implying we were related to Anna. You dug us quite a hole.”
“Pish posh.
Everyone
is related if you go back far enough. Now, drive around the block, then pull over.”
“What for?”
“Because we're going back as soon as Mr. Anderson leaves for that class of his.”
“What for?”
“Why, to search our late relative's apartment, of course.”
I twisted toward her. “I'm not climbing any scaffolding!”
“No need, dear.” Mother smiled. “While you were keeping Mr. Anderson busy ... ? I found
this
.”
And she waved a key attached to a round white tag that read “C.”
 
We waited on a side street until Anderson—still in his distinctive yellow-and-navy sweater—glided by, apparently none the wiser of our lingering presence.
“Mother,” I said, wide-eyed. “He's driving a white van.”
“Yes, dear,” she answered. “My glasses may be as thick as Coke bottles, but I can see that! You know, when Coca-Cola switched to plastic, they really ruined the flavor—their product tastes so much better in glass.”
“Mother—could we stay on point? You do remember the white van at the storage facility? Possibly watching?”
“If that
was
him yesterday morning, then he would have recognized us.”
“Maybe he did.”
“He didn't appear to.”
“Mother, people have been known to be deceptive when it's to their advantage.”
“When you make sarcastic remarks, dear, you wrinkle your brow, and that will have a lasting effect, if you're not careful.”
But I kept wrinkling. “If he knows who we are, why didn't he out us? Why play games?”
Mother shrugged. “For the same reason we pretended to be relatives of Anna's—to gather information.” She opened her car door. “That class may only last an hour or so. Let's get started.”
Soon we were back at the Beiderbecke house, slipping in the front door, sneaking up the grand staircase.
Quickly, Mother undid the crime scene tape across apartment “C,” then inserted the borrowed key in the lock, and we stepped into a dark, musty room.
Groping for a light switch, I found one, and we stood surveying our surroundings.
Anna's apartment mirrored Anderson's—combination parlor and bedroom—and was similarly furnished with Victorian antiques. Heavy drapes were drawn across the windows, except for one, which was boarded up. Where the burglar had broken in, obviously.
I asked, “What are we looking for anyway?”
Mother, already going through papers at a quaint writing desk, said, “Anything of importance.”
“Like what?”
When she didn't answer, I walked over to an easel in front of the boarded-up window—sunlight bleeding through the cracks—and peered at the watercolor landscape Anna had been painting, and would never finish.
Mother let out a low cry. “Ah! Now
this
is significant.”
“What?”
Again she didn't answer, stuffing whatever she had found into her coat pocket.
It was no fun being Watson, anyway the Nigel Bruce one.
I wandered back through the bedroom area, where a closed door led to a modern kitchen—most likely another transformed bedroom. Unlike the messy parlor, the kitchen had been straightened—no dishes in the sink, or food on the counters; one area had been used as a workspace, with a laptop computer.
I turned the machine on to check Anna's e-mail, but when asked for a password, I got no further. And swiping the computer didn't seem like an option worthy of pursuit, even if I did know somebody who might be able to plumb its depths.
A quick search through a small wastebasket beneath the counter—filled mostly with junk mail—did produce an interesting letter. Which
I
stuffed in
my
pocket.
“Dear ...”
I jumped.
Mother, behind me, said, “Sorry, dear ... didn't mean to scare you.”
“What?”
“My intuition tells me we must go... .”
And Mother's intuition was rarely wrong.
I followed her back through the bedroom to the parlor where she stood for a moment looking around.
“I think everything is how we found it... .”
I asked, “You have the key?”
She nodded.
“How will we get it back to Anderson?”
“You'll see.”
We slipped out, locking the apartment door behind us, Mother carefully replacing the crime scene tape, which had enough stick-'em left to do the trick.
Just outside John Anderson's door, Mother knelt down, then slid the key beneath, giving it a good push along the polished floor.
“Think that'll fool him?” I asked skeptically.
Mother shrugged. “He'll never know for sure whether we took the key, or he accidentally dropped it. Brandy?”
“Yes?”
“Small problem. I can't get up.”
I took Mother's elbow and tugged, helping her stand. Nice when Watson could contribute to the cause.
On our way down the staircase again, I commented, “There
is
another way the burglar could have gotten in to Anna's apartment besides using the scaffolding, you know.”
“Which is?”
“That key.”
Mother paused on the landing. “You mean our friend Mr. Anderson?”
I nodded.
“But, why, dear? He clearly loved the woman. She painted that watercolor of this place.”
“Love's a great murder motive. We've seen that enough. Could be unrequited love ... jealousy ... lover's quarrel gotten out of hand. When love's around, things can go wrong.”
Mother had no comment, but her eyes were narrow with thought behind the thick lenses.
On the porch, I said, “So this old house is connected to Bix Beiderbecke. Isn't it a funny coincidence that an old beat-up horn was the only thing stolen at our break-in?”
“But I've had that horn for ages, dear. It had no connection to the storage unit. Anyway, don't you think the horn was the blunt instrument used on your sister? And that the miscreant took the evidence with him to dispose of?”
That made sense.
But so, suddenly, did something else.
“Mother—we
do
have a trumpet that came out of that storage unit! It's in our garage.”
“Well, that's right, dear.” Then, as if she'd seen a ghost, she gripped my sleeve. “But it's not a trumpet, it's a cornet.”
“Does it matter?”
“It may matter a great deal.”
“Why?”
“
Bix
played cornet.”
 
In the car, on the side street, Mother withdrew a photo from the pocket where she'd stowed it. She handed it to me—a picture of a man and two teenage boys.
“Isn't that Milton Lawrence?” I asked. “A lot younger than I ever remember seeing him. But isn't that him?”
The photo had been taken decades ago—late 1960s, judging by the boys' mod clothes and Beatle haircuts.
Lawrence, now in his early eighties, was Serenity's wealthiest citizen, thanks in part to the money his wife had left him. I had no knowledge of when or how she'd died; I just knew she'd inherited plenty from ancestors who had made a fortune in logging in the early 1800s when Serenity had been known as Bloomington.
“That's Milton, all right,” Mother said.
So she was on a first-name basis with the wealthy coot. I did not detect any hint of intimacy, however.
“How about the two boys?” I asked her, not recognizing either.
“His sons. One died in Vietnam ... the other lives in Canada ... though, as far as his father is concerned, he might as well be dead, too.”
“What?”
“Nothing, dear.” Returning the photo to her pocket, she asked, “And what did
you
find? I could tell by your self-satisfied expression that you struck gold.”
“Fool's gold, maybe. Anyway—this letter.”
Which she took from me, reading aloud, “ ‘Dear Miss Armstrong, I'm sorry I missed you the other day. I hope you'll reconsider my offer. As you will discover, I don't give up easily when I set my sights on something. I hope to hear from you soon. Sincerely, Waldo Hendricks.' ”
“Who the heck's that?”
Mother dropped the letter in her lap. “Oh, you know, dear—that pompous poop who runs that ridiculous antique store in the Village of East Davenport.”
“Oh! You mean, that guy who overprices everything and won't haggle?”
She nodded. “
Or
give us a dealer's discount.”
Mother never forgot a slight—real or imagined.
“He's always such a jerk. Please tell me we don't have to go talk to him.”
“You know we do, dear,” Mother said. “We need to find out what he wanted so badly from Anna.”
 
The redundantly named Antiquarian Antiques, with its faux-weathered WALDO HENDRICKS, PROPRIETOR sign in the window, was lodged in a three-story Victorian brick building on the corner of Mound and East Eleventh.
Parking was free in the East Village, and we found a place right in front of the shop, where we quickly entered, a tinkling bell above the door announcing our presence.
Mr. Hendricks—late forties, mustached, wearing a dark pinstriped suit more befitting a banker—was seated at a tidy desk just inside the door. He looked up from his
Antiques Trader
with bored eyes, and intoned, “Oh, it's you.”
Since I had rarely been in the shop, and exchanged perhaps a dozen words with him, the owner's displeasure was clearly aimed at Mother, suggesting they had a history of which I was only a small part.
At any rate, Mother tossed her head and said, “And how very nice to see you again, too, Waldo.”
“Always a pleasure, Vivian,” he said, his tone implying the exact opposite. Then, after a perfunctory, barely audible, “If I can be of any help,” he returned to his magazine.
I prowled around, taking in the merchandise, knowing it would reflect the owner's taste in antiques, in this instance lots of red velvet chairs, massive mahogany beds, and overly ornate lamps with fringes and tassels—what Mother terms Victorian Bordello (and I call San Francisco Whorehouse).
Mother had moved on, through the front room to the second, larger one, where more of the same (to me) tacky furnishings awaited. I caught up with her in front of the last, not terribly large room, entry blocked by a metal turnstile.
A sign posted said:
BIX BEIDERBECKE MUSEUM
Recommended Donation $5.00
Affixed to the wall was a padlocked wooden box with a slit for donations, under a sign stating that all proceeds would benefit the Bix Philanthropic Society.
I asked Mother, “Just who or what
is
that society?”
She grunted. “You just saw him.”
“Waldo?”
“Waldo.”
And she pushed through the metal gate without paying.
As museums went, this one was pretty darn sparse, running to photos of the young musician (circa the 1920s), some sheet music, and a few old-time records—in various glass display cases, of course. There was even a rather embarrassing store manikin dressed in a twenties tux meant to represent Bix, but Madame Tussauds had nothing to worry about.

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