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Authors: Barbara Allan

BOOK: Antiques Disposal
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“Sushi,” I commanded. “Find the killer.”
In response, her little button nose began to twitch, and the unseeing eyes moved slowly from Milton Lawrence, to John Anderson, to Waldo Hendricks, to Travis Taylor, and finally, James Lawrence. One at a time, she trotted over to each guest and sniffed. It was beautiful, as if we had choreographed it—just perfect.
Except she didn't stop at any one of them.
“Sushi?” I prompted.
She turned toward me, yawned, returned to centerstage, scratched her side with a hind leg, then lay down and started licking a paw.
I looked at Mother, who stared back, chagrined. How could the little mutt
do
this to us? At least we had the fingerprints on the glasses to fall back on... .
A voice spoke from the library doorway. “Excuse me—did I miss the auction?”
Lee Hamilton was sticking his head in.
“I got back as soon as I could,” Milton's assistant said.
And suddenly I got a whiff of the same thing Sushi did: a strong scent of men's cologne.
With a vicious little growl, Sushi scampered to her feet, and made a beeline for Lee, sinking her sharp little teeth into his ankle, hanging on with all her might, while Lee, yelping, tried to shake her off, doing an awkward one-legged dance.
Mother was on her feet, pointing. “
There's
your killer! Arrest him, Chief Lawson.”
I had moved to pull Sushi off of Lee, but she had already dropped off him like a swollen tick, teeth dappled red.
“Are you all right?” I asked him disingenuously.
“No, I'm not all right!” Lee shouted.
“Good.” I kicked him in the other leg. “And
that's
for Peggy Sue.”
He fell backward against the French door, and in a nice piece of luck, pressed his hand to the glass.
Fingerprints.
While everyone watched in astonishment, Brian took Lee's arm. “I think we need a little talk down at the station.”
Lee, trying to shake himself free, protested, “I'm not going anywhere.”
“Oh, but you are,” Brian said, asserting his grip. “You can call your lawyer from there.”
I glared at Lee as I pointed to Milton Lawrence. “Did you do all this for him? Were you just carrying out your duties as usual, Lee?”
He spoke two words, neither worth reporting.
I realized Milton Lawrence was at my side. His expression was crestfallen. Then he said to me softly, “I swear I had nothing to do with this. And I have no idea why Lee would betray me so, after all these years of loyal service.”
Then, astoundingly, Lee blurted the same two words at his employer. But now Milton's righthand man had tears in his eyes.
Escorting his suspect out, Brian looked over his shoulder, caught my eye, then nodded pointedly at the door where Lee had touched the glass. Brian wanted that protected.
And Archie Goodwin knew just what to do.
 
The auction, which took place after a brief recess, was anticlimactic in light of what had just transpired.
Travis Taylor decided to book it, before getting booked himself; but the others stayed. After an examination of the cornet and the papers by the bidders, the auction was over quickly, both John Anderson and Waldo Hendricks dropping out early, no match for the wealthy father and son.
Then Milton conceded to James—on purpose, I think.
How much did Bix Beiderbecke's cornet go for, you ask?
A lot. But the amount doesn't matter, because Mother announced then and there that the money would be donated to various charities that would help Serenity's less fortunate—allowing, however, for Peggy Sue's hospital bill, Sushi's vet expenses, a winter wardrobe for me, and some new bridgework for Mother. Apparently her teeth had been killing her lately.
“But you know me,” she said, smoothing her yellow pajamas. “I'm not one to make a big production out of it.”
As the group dispersed, Milton approached James.
“I guess that leaves me without a ride.”
James nodded. “I'd be happy to drive you home, Dad. But I haven't had lunch yet. Maybe you'd care to join me? We have some ... catching up to do.”
“Yes we do, and I could eat.” He touched his son's arm. “And the check's on me, son ... considering what you just spent.”
Nice, huh?
 
A Trash ‘n' Treasures Tip
 
In a small town, winning a storage unit auction may become troublesome if a friend or neighbor discovers you are selling their possessions. Mother has on numerous occasions allowed sentimental objects to be bought by relatives—at a modest price.
Chapter Twelve
Disposable Income
M
other:
Lest there be any quibbling over who is best disposed to write the concluding chapter of this real-life mystery, let me remind one and all
(Brandy)
that it was Vivian Borne who talked her way into the county jail the morning after our gathering of the suspects; yes, Vivian Borne who visited Lee Hamilton, and drew from him an explication of why and how he committed these reprehensible acts.
Brandy:
Nothing doing ...
I
will write the last chapter, just as I always have, and you can simply report to me what Lee Hamilton said, and I will share it with my readers.
Mother: Our
readers! And you will miss all the nuances of my jailhouse visit. And you may well leave out something pertinent.
Brandy:
What I'll leave out is everything that's
not
pertinent.
Mother:
My rare digressions may not technically be pertinent, but they add a richness and poetry to the proceedings that your more prosaic style (which I admit has its merits) (particularly your creative use of parentheses, dear) may not do this material justice. A single solitary creative writing class at a community college does not make you Jane Austen or Mary Higgins Clark.
Editor:
I have repeatedly asked the two of you to stop your bickering, and to settle your differences, and you have consistently ignored me. Therefore, I will make a Solomon-like editorial decision and divide this baby in two. Regarding this chapter: Vivian will write the front half; Brandy the rest. And I expect to be subjected to no more of your squabbling, understood?
Brandy:
She started it.
Editor:
I repeat—
understood?
Brandy:
Fine
.
Mother:
And have I mentioned what a lovely editorial job it is that you've been doing?
 
Dearest ones! Vivian here, by popular request. The morning after my triumphant unveiling of the murderer—with a soupçon of help from our diabetic doggie—I awoke filled with vigor and vinegar, determined to bull my way into the county jail to see Lee Hamilton, who was remanded there pending charges. My performance as Nero Wolfe had clearly detailed how all of our suspects might have committed the crimes, and why. Unfortunately, I seem to have neglected the why and wherefore of the actual murderer.
The morning was sunny and crisp, the swallows gathering on the telephone lines making ready to wing their way to Capistrano, where I have never been incidentally, but hope to “fly” myself one day. San Juan, Puerto Rico, that is, not California ... unless the Capistrano in this instance
is
in California, in which case I
have
been there, and it's nothing to write home about.
Editor:
Vivian, I reserve the right to reverse my decision, should you insist on these digressions.
Mother:
I bow to your expertise.
 
After arriving downtown on the trolley—
 
Mother:
Oh! Wouldn't this be a delightful place to insert my much funnier trolley story?
Editor:
No.
 
After arriving downtown on the trolley, I hoofed it over to the new county jail, and was in luck to find Sheriff Rudder in residence; I felt confident that he would acquiesce to my request to see the prisoner because we have a mutual admiration and respect for each other.
 
Brandy:
What you mean is, he would agree to anything to get you out of his hair.
Editor:
There's always the option of canceling your book contract.
Mother:
I will pledge not to interrupt Brandy in her half chapter if she will pledge not to interrupt me in mine.
Brandy:
Deal.
 
Within minutes of my brief powwow with the sheriff, I was moving through the lobby's metal detector—with a minor time-out when the pins in my knee set off the infernal gizmo—and then a female deputy named Patty, who'd been so accommodating during my most recent incarceration, escorted me through one locked door, then another.
Finally, in the small visitors' room, I sat awaiting Lee to appear on the other side of the Plexiglas. Assuming, that is, that he agreed to see me. After all, Brandy, Sushi, and I had exposed him as a two-time murderer.
Perhaps five minutes passed, and I was beginning to wonder if he might be holding a slight grudge, when a burly male guard escorted the prisoner to the chair on his side.
Lee had been forced to trade in his dress shirt and slacks for the familiar bright orange garb that I also had been issued not so long ago. Unlike
moi
—with a natural coloration enhanced by vivid fall shades (I recommend
everyone
have their colors done!)—Lee, minus his usual pastel finery, appeared a ghastly shade of pale.
We picked up our respective phones.
“How are they treating you, dear?” I asked with sympathy.
“It's not the Savoy,” he responded.
He seemed rather morose.
“It must be simply dreadful,” I said.
In reality, I'd had a
wonderful
time in jail organizing a theater group (see
Antiques Knock-Off
), and actually had been sorry to leave. But saying so in these circumstances would have been less than gracious.
“My dear,” I said, “I thought I
knew
you. All those hours we worked together at the Playhouse. Please help me understand.”
His eyes narrowed. “Understand what?”
“Oh, let's not play cat and mouse—we go back too far for that.” I leaned forward to where my nose almost touched the Plexiglas. “Rest assured I'm not wearing a wire—this conversation is just between us veteran thespians.”
“Vivian, I only said I'd talk to you because it was a change from that damn cell they have me in. If you think I'm going to open up to you, you're wrong.”
“Really? We've been friends, Lee, perhaps not close friends, but fellow warriors in the theatrical trenches. And yet you enter my house, and almost kill my daughter?
Really?
”
“Vivian, that wasn't personal.”
“It was
extremely
personal.” My eyes met his, and to his credit he did not avert my gaze. “I
do
feel you owe me an explanation.”
He said nothing for the longest time.
Finally he said, “Perhaps,” shrugging with his face.
But if I thought a confession would come rushing out, I was mistaken. I would have to dig for these nuggets.
“My dear, what confuses me is that your future outlook was so bright. Why risk it?”
His laugh was small but towering with bitterness. “My future outlook was bright?”
“But of course! Think of your glorious retirement! When last we spoke, you were considering Florida, or perhaps California.”
He laughed again, louder, humorless. “Viv, old girl, that would take a boatload of money, and I am left up shoot creek without a paddle.”
(Although he did not say “boatload” or “shoot”—apparently a night in stir had already made a hardened criminal of him.)
I frowned. “Surely, working for the wealthiest man in Serenity, you must have had a generous retirement package.”
He shook his head.
“Severance pay, then?”
Again the head swiveled.
“Why, that's simply dreadful!” I said, aghast. I was not acting—this seemed a travesty, after all the years Lee had put in as Milton's right-hand man.
“Well, dreadful or not, it's the case, Vivian. I was going to be set out on the curb with the rest of the refuse.”
“But my dear ... it's not as if Milton couldn't have afforded to give you such benefits. Surely you were shocked, after so much loyal service, and considering all of the sacrifices you must have made!” I shook my head,
tsk-tsk
ed. “Such shabby treatment.”
And now I must admit I had moved into the acting realm. As shameful as it might be for Milton to have treated his major domo so poorly, that hardly justified Lee Hamilton's homicidal activities.
But my feigned sympathy had Lee's eyes filling with tears. What a pity that this, one of my finest performances, was presented to an audience of one. How I wish you had been there!
He dabbed his eyes with a tissue (a box was provided—apparently tears in the visitors' room were commonplace). Then he sniffled and said, “It wasn't the money. Not really.”
“What else could it have been, dear?”
“It was the indignity! Of how disposable I was to him after decades of service and, I thought, mutual regard. Vivian. . . I
thought
I was like a son to the man.”
Considering how Milton had cut off his real son James, maybe that should have been an indicator to Lee. But I kept this observation to myself.
I asked, “Hadn't Milton paid you a substantial salary over the years? I do remember you saying as much.”
“Yes, he did, and he was more than fair. But I ... I just don't know where it all went.”
Here is where I might have said, “On fine clothes, expensive furnishings, and extensive travel?”
But I didn't.
Instead I said, “Surely it must have dawned on you that maintaining your lifestyle would be impossible after Milton's retirement. You must have known there was no retirement package.”
“I assumed there would be some kind of gift, some lump sum that would take the place of that. But when Lawrence informed me that my services for him would soon terminate, I asked if there would be a bonus, and he said ... well, he said yes.”
“He did?”
“He did.” Lee made a face as if tasting something nasty. “A one-thousand-dollar one.”
“Is that when you decided to find some other avenue of securing retirement funds?”
Lee sighed and nodded. “Lawrence had mentioned, several times, having bought a valuable cornet for his late son, Stephen. Once owned by Bix Beiderbecke himself. Recently I asked him what had become of it.”
“And he revealed that Anna Armstrong had it.”
Lee nodded glumly.
“So you went there one night last month, climbed the scaffolding, and broke-and-entered into her apartment.”
His eyebrows climbed his forehead. “But I guess I made too much noise. I was a beginner, an amateur.”
“No one's perfect, dear.”
“And, well ... she woke up and ... there was an accident.”
An interesting euphemism for killing a person.
I said, “You didn't find the cornet, did you? But did discover something that led you to the storage unit facility.”
“An invoice for the rental, yes. I ... I heard rumors that Jim Bob had a shady past, and I went to him to strike a deal. I told him the Armstrong unit contained some valuable antiques, and that ... well ... I knew a person in Chicago who wouldn't ask questions about where they came from, and we would split the proceeds.”
“Had you really made contact with someone like that in Chicago?”
“Yes.”
“Did you specifically mention the Beiderbecke horn to Big Jim Bob?”
For a moment, Lee didn't answer.
Then with a sigh he said, “Only that it was a collectible instrument that could bring in several hundred dollars.” His eyes flashed. “Somehow Jim Bob found out it was worth much more. Apparently he'd arranged to have you buy the contents of the locker, and he intended to go to your home and take back the cornet.”

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