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Authors: Barbara Allan

BOOK: Antiques Disposal
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“Ah.”
“He had some nice things, but no provenance.”
Meaning the antiques most likely were stolen.
I bid Ray adieu, then paused out on the sidewalk, to review my findings, also because my corns were killing me.
Usually, I wore Brandy's soft UGG boots for my field investigations, but she'd hid them after I got blood on them (not mine) (the spot came out with a little Oxi-Clean). Just then, a horse and buggy came crawling by.
No,
I wasn't hallucinating, and
yes,
I was current on my medication. Inside the buggy cuddled a bride and groom, while outside, a white-tuxedo-clad driver held the reins.
The attraction-for-hire was popular among Serenity's newlyweds, offering a romantic spin around the picturesque downtown and riverfront.
I fell in step alongside the buggy. “Would you be so kind as to give a poor woman with bunions a lift to the First National Bank?”
And before the startled couple could utter a word, I climbed aboard, scooching the bride over to make room. She seemed a little put out, but after all, I'd only make their ride more cozy.
The groom—a baby-faced youth of perhaps twenty—started to protest, but I crinkled my nose, saying, “It'll make a cute story for the kids. And their kids!”
We rode the three blocks in silence, a few pedestrians gawking from the sidewalk at my addition to the bridal party. As the buggy drew near to my destination (honestly, I could have crawled faster) I climbed off, with a “Have a nice marriage!” (Instead of “Have a nice day,” get it?)
But as sullen as they'd been on the ride, I didn't hold out much hope for them.
The first thing I did inside the modern three-story redbrick bank building was deposit the Bix papers in my safe deposit box, along with the cornet's mouthpiece and valve. I took a few minutes to reacquaint myself with the other contents—my will, abstract to the house, wedding ring, and so forth. Then I headed back to the lobby and caught the elevator up to the third floor, and Milton Lawrence's office.
I pushed open the glass door to step into a modern reception room, where Lee Hamilton—Milton's longtime assistant / secretary / chauffeur / gofer—was busy at a desk equipped with every state-of-the-art gizmo a major domo might need.
Lee was in his late fifties but looked much younger, at five-foot-six or so, blessed with an energetic boyishness, with a slim physique, hair still ungrayed brown (only his hairdresser knew for sure), and a nicely chiseled face, well-tanned but not orange like that more famous Hamilton, and I don't mean Alexander.
I knew Lee from the Playhouse, where he sometimes acted in smaller roles (he never seemed quite right for a romantic lead). But his real gifts lay in the realm of set design—often incorporating antiques from his own extensive collection—and in making the costumes (what that boy could do with a handful of sparkles and a roll of tulle!).
Lee beamed and said, “Well ... Vivian! What a pleasant surprise. Nice to see you.”
I beamed back. Nodding toward his natty navy suit, I said, “You're looking as spiffy as ever—is that Armani?”
“Hugo Boss,” he said with a catty smile. “Like my cologne—Armani is
so
last season.”
“And I
adore
your shirt—takes a man secure in his masculinity to wear pink polka dots.”
“I suppose so.” He cocked his head. “When are you coming back to the Playhouse, dear? We miss you.”
I had been the artistic director for a while, but quit over creative differences with the board.
(It had nothing to do with the real live horses I brought on stage for the revival of
Annie Get Your Gun
. Could I help it if they got frightened and bolted? And I was hardly responsible for feeding them whatever it was that had caused them to decorate the stage in so appalling, and slippery, a fashion. Anyway, I'd promised the real live horses would be a showstopper, and they were.)
I said, “Afraid I'm far too busy to be involved with theater right now.”
“Ah, yes,” he said. “From what I read in the paper, I would imagine you're in the thick of another murder mystery. Any leads?”
I shrugged. “Just getting started, gathering data, you know. Like Holmes said, ‘Data, data, data, I need bricks to build a wall.' ”
“I think that's clay to make bricks.”
“I prefer my wording. Is Milton in?”
I said this as casually as if I regularly dropped by to see Serenity's wealthiest magnate.
Lee made a sour face. “He is ... but in such foul mood. I doubt he'll see anyone today.”
“Well,
try,
would you? It's important. Milton and I go way back, you know.”
“All right,” Lee said doubtfully, and touched a button on the intercom. “Sorry to disturb you, sir ... but Vivian Borne is here—”
“
I have no desire whatsoever to see that old battle-ax! Send her away!
”
Lee cringed. He mouthed,
Sorry!
I took no offense—the stock market
had
been bearish—but replied, loud enough for Milton to hear, “Tell the lovely man that the battle-ax has brought him a sampling of her world-famous chocolate mint brownies.”
Half a beat, then: “
All right ... send her in—and bring me coffee!
”
Silencing the intercom, Lee smiled. “I marvel at your foresight.”
“Everyone has a weakness. And I know what Milton's is. Or at least one of them.”
As I headed toward the door to Milton's inner office, Lee spoke. “Vivian?”
I turned, expecting him to ask me what
his
weakness was (fine clothes and furnishings), but he merely asked, “How about one of those brownies for the guardian at the gate?”
“Anything for you, dear boy.”
And I brought out the tin from my orange tote.
 
Chocolate Mint Brownies
 
 
Brownies:
½ cup butter (softened)
1 cup sugar
4 eggs
1½ cup chocolate syrup
1 cup flour
¼ tsp. baking powder
Cream butter with sugar, add eggs and beat well. Add syrup. Combine flour and baking powder, then add to wet mixture. Bake in greased 11x16 pan at 350 degrees for 30-35 minutes.
 
Frosting:
2 cups powdered sugar
2 Tbsp. milk
½ cup butter (softened)
½ tsp. green food coloring
½ tsp. peppermint extract
Cream sugar, milk, and butter, add food coloring and extract. Spread on cool brownies. (If brownies are still warm, spread frosting, then pop into freezer to set.)
 
Glaze:
1 cup chocolate semi-sweet chips
6 Tbsp. butter
Melt chips and butter over low heat, stirring slowly. Cool. Spread on top of frosting. Let set before cutting. Calories: Y.D.W.T.K. (You Don't Want to Know).
As I entered Milton's inner office, Serenity's wealthiest citizen didn't bother to get up from behind his large mahogany desk. Once a handsome man, his features had been hardened by years of worshiping Mammon. He, nonetheless, still possessed a commanding presence—tall of stature, with a full head of silver hair, and a striking pair of dark blue, sharply intelligent eyes ... which at the moment were locked in greedy anticipation upon my tin of brownies.
“Milton,” I said, “you're looking well.”
He grunted only, “Vivian,” never one to acknowledge (much less return) a compliment.
I sat in the black leather visitor's chair in front of the desk, then opened the tin, allowing the chocolate-minty aroma to waft teasingly toward his helpless nostrils.
Punching an intercom button, Milton snapped, “Lee ... where is that
coffee!
”
“Almost ready, sir... .”
“Hurry it up. And, uh ... fetch a cup for Vivian, too.”
I called to the intercom, “Black, please!” Then to Milton I said, “You must treasure that man.”
“Why?”
Because he was a saint to have worked for so long for such an egomaniacal taskmaster.
“Oh,” I said, “as the saying goes, ‘A good employee is a thing of beauty.' ”
He frowned. “Who ever said that?”
“Well, I did. Just now.”
Before this meeting went entirely to heck-and-gone, I placed a gooey brownie on a colorful leaf-print napkin and passed it over to Milton—a sacrifice to a grouchy god.
“I'm not here just to shoot the breeze, Miltie,” I began. “Or to fatten you up. I
do
have important business.”
(Once I made the mistake of calling him “Uncle Miltie,” and he threw me out of his office. Some of you may be old enough to remember the television comedian Milton Berle, who was America's Uncle Miltie for a time. But as that Uncle Miltie was a raucous comedian who often dressed in drag, comparisons were not necessarily flattering to a stuffy old coot like Milton Lawrence.)
Of course, there was nothing stuffy about the way Milton took a big bite of that brownie, his eyes rolling back in his head orgasmically.
A tasteless overstatement? You've never had my brownies, then! I have been told on good authority that my brownies are better than sex.
(Note from editor:
The above passage may offend some of our readers; please soften.
)
(Note from Vivian:
But it's the God's honest truth ... both Harold and Vern
said
so—of course, their memories may be failing them. How about, “My brownies are better than a roll in the hay?”
)
Milton, mouth brimming with brownie (his second), dark frosting smeared above his upper lip, asked pointedly, “What do you want, Vivian? What are these brownies costing me?”
Before I could answer, the door opened and Lee came in balancing a tray like a waiter—impressive, but I'd seen him do that in our production of
Weekend at the Waldorf
. He set the tray down on the edge of the desk and then, with the same flourish as on stage, poured coffee from a pot into two cups, adding cream to Milton's, and leaving mine black.
After Lee had departed, I reached into my tote once more, and withdrew the love letters from Stephen to Anna, which I placed upon the desk.
Milton picked up the stack, studied them, flipped through them like he was shuffling cards, then asked sternly, “How do you come to have these, Vivian?”
I told him about winning the storage auction on Anna Armstrong's unit, concluding with, “I thought you might like to have them, now that the poor woman has passed.”
His answer was another unreadable grunt.
“Were you close to her?” I ventured, bringing the coffee cup to my lips.
Milton set the letters down. “She was around our place a good deal when she and Stephen were dating,” he said. “But after his loss, we ... drifted apart.”
I remained silent, hoping the brownies might have loosened his tongue. A sugar rush has its value.
“I did have
some
contact with Anna,” he continued, “not terribly long ago. She wanted me to invest in a bed-and-breakfast.”
I sat forward. “The Beiderbecke home in Davenport?”
He gave me a surprised glance. “Why yes. She and the owner—a John Anderson, I believe—were looking for seed money.” He paused, then went on. “At first, I wasn't interested ... but then Anna mentioned using the downstairs parlor room as a Bix museum.”
In competition with Waldo Hendricks!
Gently I asked, “Did you?”
“Did I what, Vivian?”
“Invest?”
He shook his head. “No. Before it went any further, she was gone.”
She was murdered.
He was saying, “And, of course, without Anna, I lost all interest in the project.”
He took on a melancholy mien, and I wondered if he might not have been in love with Anna himself.
Milton suddenly sat straight in his chair. “Tell me, Vivian—did you happen to find an old cornet among the items in the storage unit?”
Why deny it?
“I did ... along with the original sales receipt.”
“Then you know”—those dark blue eyes glittered—“
know
that it once belonged to Bix himself.”
I nodded.

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