Antiques Fate (11 page)

Tony raised a conciliatory palm. “I'm not implying otherwise. Now, I only have a few more questions before I'm done.”

“Well,
I'm
done now,” Digby snapped. He pushed back his chair and stood. “Anybody else coming?”

When he saw no one else joining his mutiny, the realtor sailed out.

Tony asked the others, “How was the donation of bottles handled?”

Flora said, “People dropped them off, over a period of several weeks, at any trustee-run establishment—the inn, the theater, the museum, Digby's office, my floral shop. Father Cumberbatch is the only trustee left off the list, since we don't want to turn the church into a liquor store.”

“Not
officially
on the list,” the priest said with a smile. “But I did have some explaining to do when the bishop paid me a surprise visit and noticed several bottles of whiskey inside the church vestibule.”

This brought chuckles from the rest and got a grin out of Tony.

Flora raised her hand as if in class. “Chief Cassato? Something I forgot to mention. This morning, when I was setting up the table, Chad Marlowe delivered the bottles that had been left at the theater. Millie had been scheduled to assist in setting up, so I asked him if he would step in for his grandmother, and help tape on some of the labels. And he did for a while, but then said he had to get back to the theater and left me on my own.”

“Did you see Chad after that? At the fete, I mean.”

“No.”

“Anyone see him at the fete?”

No one had.

Tony nodded, breathed deeply, smiled and said, “That's all the questions I have for now. You'll no doubt be hearing from the sheriff. Thank you for your patience and cooperation.”

The group rose from the table all at once and lost little time in getting out of there.

But just as the last of them had gone, Mother came rushing in and up to Tony.

“No sign of the beer bottle,” she said, clearly frazzled, tendrils of hair askew. “And believe me, I looked everywhere! My head was in more trash cans than a tomcat looking for supper.”

Tony's smile was just slightly sadistic. “Thanks for trying, Vivian.”

“Don't you find that suspicious? The missing bottle, I mean?”

“Actually I do. It might mean someone removed it.”

“My thinking exactly!”

Tony walked Mother over to join me in the couch area, where I was still sitting next to a curled-up Sushi.

“I've sent you that e-mail,” I told him. “I hope you don't take off points for spelling.”

His grin was easy. “I promise not to. Thank you.”

I said to him glumly, “I suppose you have to go back to Serenity.”

He nodded. “Sorry. With Rudder tied up, I need to handle things on that end. We'll have to cut this afternoon short. I was really looking forward to the play.”

And I'd been looking forward to talking him into staying over.

“A few things you might find of interest,” I said, “that didn't make it into the e-mail.”

“Such as?”

I told him that I'd overheard Celia and Father Cumberbatch discussing two large sums of money. And that I'd seen Flora and Digby having an animated conversation.

“Good to know,” he said. “But the money could be a reference to renovations for the inn and repairs to the church. And tempers can run high when you're putting on a big event.”

“Just trying to help,” I said, trying not to sound defensive.

“And I appreciate it. Walk me to my car?”

We did that, Sushi back in her carrier.

Tony stood by the driver's side door of his car, which was parked in front of the inn, and said to Mother, “I hate to miss your performance, Vivian.”

“Quite understandable under the circumstances.”

He gave me a quick kiss, Sushi a final pat, and got in the car. We watched him back out, wave, and disappear.

“I thought he'd never leave,” Mother said. “Now! About that snippet of conversation you heard between Celia and Father Cumberbatch—what were their
exact
words?”

I sighed, thought back. “The priest asked, ‘How much?' Then Celia said, ‘Twenty thousand each.' ”

“Renovations and repairs, my Aunt Olive! Sometimes that boyfriend of yours can be quite obtuse . . . that means thickheaded, dear.”

“I know what it means, Mother.”

“It seems quite likely there's extortion at play here.” She lifted a fingertip to her lips. “And Celia's use of the word
each
might well mean
other
trustees are the target of an extortionist.”

“Over what?”

“Their votes, perhaps! And
that
could be what Flora and Digby were arguing about.” Her eyes bore in on me. “Experience or witness anything else of interest at the fete, dear?”

“No.” I decided not to tell her about Hilda's Cyclops prediction. But then something flashed into my mind. “Mother . . . ?”

“Yes, dear?”

“You gave
your
tickets to Barclay, didn't you?”

“That's right.”

“What if the beer in that bottle had been poisoned . . .”

“That's my assumption, yes.”

“. . . but the bottle was intended for you?”

Mother's eyes went wide. “For
moi
? But why? Whoever would want to see me dead?”

I could have given her a considerable suspect list, but limited myself to this situation. “You've been snooping around, haven't you? And with your reputation for solving murders, somebody may have gotten nervous.”

Her eyes were wild as a horse about to throw some poor cowpoke trying to break it. “Yes! Not unlike Poirot showing up on the Orient Express, or a killer learning that Nero Wolfe has been hired to take the case!”

“Let's stick to reality, Mother.”

Now she was frowning in thought. “I would know for
sure
who the bottle was intended for, if I had those tickets.”

I held up a handful of tickets.

“Heavens to Murgatroyd!” Mother exclaimed. “Wherever did you get
those
, dear?”

“Out of Barclay's jacket pocket, before giving it back to his niece.”

Mother took the tickets—nine in all—and arranged them in two groups on the hood of a nearby car.

Pointing to the group of five, she said, “These are
mine
, because I remember folding them—see the crease?”

I did.

She pointed to the group of four. “Those tickets were Barclay's. His winning ticket is missing.” She leaned forward, studying the tickets. “That's odd.”

“What?”

“The larger numbers on my tickets are higher than the ones on Barclay's.”

“So what?”

“
So what,
you ask? Well, dear, the man was
behind
me in the ticket line . . . so his numbers should be higher.”

I asked, “The tickets were all on the same roll?”

“Yes, one big roll.”

I nodded. “Then, you're right. The numbers should go up as the roll is used, not
down
. Did you notice who the ticket seller was?”

Mother didn't have to think about it. “Fred Hackney.”

Fred Hackney, who had drawn Barclay's winning ticket from the drum.

Fred Hackney, who had avoided Tony's questioning by taking Brenda to the hospital.

“Couldn't Fred have started selling the tickets from the other end,” I offered, “or maybe used up tickets from last year?”

Frankly, neither explanation seemed very likely to me. But I didn't want Mother so distracted by possible murders that she might give a bad performance tonight.

“Perhaps you're right, dear,” Mother said, with a not terribly convincing yawn. “Possibly just being at a fete puts a sort of Agatha Christie cast on things.”

“Maybe so, but remember, reality.”

“I couldn't agree more.” She scooped up the tickets. “I think I'll pop inside for a nap. Why don't we both go in and catch a few relaxing zee's before the big show?”

That sounded like a good idea, and I took her up on it. On the inn's second floor, we exchanged little waves as we retired to our rooms.

But Sushi was giving me a look that said,
You don't really
buy
that, do you?

 

 

The value of an antique beer bottle is determined by factors such as rarity, age, clarity of the glass, and whether the bottle has an embossed or paper label . . . or if it contains the original beer, which would be extremely rare indeed. It would also be highly sick-making, if you drank it instead of just prized your rare brew.

Chapter Seven

Play Out the Play

Y
ou are in luck, dear reader, as I, Vivian, have been temporarily handed over the reins of our exciting narrative, which brings to mind a stagecoach pursued by outlaws along a narrow mountain trail, as the driver guides his team of horses with the occasional crack of a whip and no end of colorful exclamations.

But, once again, I must take up valuable space to take issue with some of Brandy's comments; I will limit these corrections to two, as I have been granted only the first half of this chapter (maximum 2,500 word count).

First, Brandy's use of the word
semaphoric
in reference to my acting style is both unkind and inaccurate—
of course
as a stage artiste I often rely upon expressive gesticulation. The theater is not reality but a larger-than-life representation—as a reviewer at the
Quad Cities Reader
once said, “Vivian Borne's gestures seem designed to help the audience land their collective plane.” Precisely my intention! Also, I am aware that the median age of my audiences at the Serenity Playhouse is sixty-five, a time of life when the eyes and ears may begin to falter.

Second, I resent the child's assertion that I am “getting up there.” As Nero Wolfe would say, this is sheer flummery! Seventy is the new fifty (not that I admit to being seventy), faltering eyes and ears or not.

After leaving the Horse and Groom Inn—imagine Brandy being so naive as to think I'd need a nap in the midst of a murder inquiry!—I headed straight for the Red Lion Pub. No, Vivian Bourne was not after a stiff drink—rather to drink in info on the stiffs. (Writing students, notice how I cleverly switched that around, although perhaps referring to murder victims as
stiffs
might be viewed as tactless. Art can be cruel!)

The public house (if you were wondering, that's what
pub
is short for) (You're welcome) was on Manchester between Flora's florist shop and a haberdashery. As I entered the Victorian-style building, I had a flash of déjà vu that can't be entirely attributed to my bipolar medication.

The Red Lion was similar to Hunter's in Serenity—that is to say, it was an unlikely combination of bar and hardware store. Apparently, the owners of this establishment also had no problem serving their customers alcohol with a power-tool chaser. (Hunter's now enacted a breathalyzer test for patrons buying certain items, following numerous upon-returning-home accidents, including, but not limited to, nail-gunning a foot to the floor, sawing off a finger, and drilling a hole in a hand. There are more examples, but those—my top faves!—should suffice.)

The claustrophobically low ceiling was typical of a British village pub, as if built in anticipation of a hobbit clientele. To my right was the bar area, with tables and chairs, and a long serving counter whose wall mirror doubled the display of liquor bottles.

To my left was the hardware section, where at the moment a short, stout man with wiry gray hair was busy filling a standee with batteries.

Noticing my entrance, he moved toward me with a smile and an uneven gate. “May I help you, ma'am?”

A name tag pinned near the top of his brown work apron read, “Marty.”

“No thank you, Marty,” I replied.

“Well, just let me know if I can.”

He started away, but I said, “Oh, I do have
one
small question.”

He turned and raised a fuzzy white caterpillar of an eyebrow. “Yes?”

“I hope I'm not getting too personal, but I couldn't help noticing your limp. Did you, perchance, lose a leg on a theme-park ride involving a large mechanical mammal with very sharp teeth?”

Marty had the kind of dazed look that I had seen before, from time to time, most often on the face of my psychiatrist at session's end.

“Ma'am,” he replied slowly, “I, uh, appreciate your concern . . . I guess . . . but I dropped a paint can on my foot this morning.”

“Oh, thank goodness! I thought the coincidence too extreme. But you know, I have a friend, a female, who works in a hardware store back home, who was the victim of such an incident, and I think her infirmity gains her sympathy and sales.”

“Is that right.”

“So you might consider keeping it in—the limp, I mean. It adds character!”

This
dazed look was a new one. The only similar one I'd ever seen was the time (coincidentally) a paint can dropped from the top of my ladder and landed on Brandy's head.

As I headed into the bar area, I could feel the man's eyes following me; it's nice to know, after all these years, that I still have It!

(
Note to Editor:
Please leave
It
capitalized. That's a Clara Bow reference, which will be before your time, but that's what Google is for.) (For the record, before
my
time, too, but I have a professional's sense of history where the acting profession is concerned.)

The tables were empty—not much business during the day's festivities—but one person sat at the counter, a woman in a black sweater and jeans, her back to me.

I sashayed over and hoisted myself up on a stool, politely putting one between us.

“Vivian's the name,” I said. “Here for the fete.”

She swiveled toward me. A well-preserved forty or perhaps a hard-living thirty, the woman had a once-attractive face betrayed by drink—the hard stuff, judging by what appeared to be a tumbler of whiskey before her.

“Henrietta,” she said with a slur. “But everybody calls me Henny.”

“Very well, Henny it is.”

A stocky female bartender behind the counter asked me, “What can I do you for?”

“A bottle of Castle Moat, please, my dear.”

“We've got that on tap, if you'd rather.” She had short-cropped brown hair, a plain face void of makeup, and wore a gray sweatshirt with the pub's logo.

I said, “I'd prefer a bottle, if you don't mind.”

The bartender shrugged. “Be a minute—it's in the cooler in back.”

As she left to get my beer, I twisted to face Henny. “Nice little place here. Locally owned, I assume.”

Henny's eyes tried to focus on me. “Yeah, Marty and June. He runs the hardware side, she's behind the bar.”

“Are you in town for the fete, dear?”

She shook her head. “Lived here all my life.”

“Must be a storybook existence, surrounded by such a delightful ambiance.”

“Haul my behind out if I could.”

“Well, then, why don't you, dear?”

“Easier said.”

June returned with my beer and removed the cap with an opener, some foam brimming up. I am not overly fond of beer, and my medication likes it even less. But one must make sacrifices when pursuing evildoers.

The bottle was halfway to my lips when I paused to ask, “There doesn't happen to be a bus due in, leaving for Kalamazoo?”

June smirked and chuckled. “Lady, as a bartender, I get some unusual questions, but that's a new one. No, no bus to Kalamazoo due in.”

“That's a relief.”

June and Henny exchanged glances.

I took a swig from the bottle. Not bad, as beer went. But it would go no further; I'd be faking my swigs from now on.

I ventured, “I suppose you've heard about what happened to Barclay Starkadder?”

My query had been directed to June, but the response came from Henny—a little choking sob.

I turned to her. “Oh, I
am
sorry, dear. Were you and the late Mr. Starkadder friendly?”

Henny hopped off her stool, spilling her whiskey a little, then fled to the back, where a sign directed patrons to the
Kings
and
Queens
restrooms.

“Oh, my,” I said to June. “I had no intention of upsetting that poor woman.”

Wiping up the spill, the bartender replied, “That's all right—you're not from here. You'd have no way of knowing.”

“Knowing what?”

June ceased mopping. “Henny had a fling with that hound dog, not so long ago.”

“Which hound dog would that be?”

“Barclay Starkadder. You can wear fancy threads and still be a hound, you know.”

I knew that very well, and not merely from cartoons.

But I said, “Is that right?”

June nodded. “Ol' Barclay dumped her last month, and ever since, she's been a fixture around this place. She always liked a drink, but never like this before.”

“What a shame. No man is worth a woman's liver.” Well, maybe Clark Gable.

“Worst of it is,” the bartender was saying, “Henny left her happy home for that Brylcreemed bum, and now her hubby's filed for divorce, and the kids are going with him.”

“Poor darling.”

“You ask me? Getting dead? Couldn't happen to a nicer guy.”

I took a pseudo sip. “I'm sure you don't mean that, June.”

“Oh don't I? Henny's only the latest in a long line of gals that man has loved and left—some of them pretty darn prominent in our little village.”

I was leaning forward. We were coconspirators now. “Such as . . . ?”

She leaned in to whisper. “Such as . . . well, let's just say one of our trustees.”

My surprise was genuine. “You don't say! You wouldn't be talking about Celia Falwell, by any chance. You see, I'm staying at the inn, and I've, uh, seen her husband.”

June shook her head. “I mean that redheaded flirt—Flora Payton.”

“Oh, I think she's rather sweet. Bought some flowers from her for my room. Attractive lady.”

“She's a dish, all right, and nice enough as far as it goes. But she sure does like to prance around with her blossoms showing.”

Another fake sip. “Barclay and the florist—ended badly, did it?”

“I'll say! Flora threatened to
kill
Barclay in this very establishment, the night he broke it to her that he was throwing her over for Henny.” She grunted a humorless laugh. “He must have known she'd react badly, and that's why the coward picked a public place—only it backfired on him.”

“How did Flora feel about her replacement?”

“Henny? Well, naturally, Flora was upset with her at the time. But after Barclay dumped Henny? Those two gals became sisters in arms in the We Hate Barclay Starkadder Society.”

Apparently not an exclusive club.

I nodded toward the restroom, where Henny was still holed up. “Apparently your friend hasn't gotten over Barclay.”

June rolled her eyes. “Henny was at the fete when he fell over and died. Saw the whole deal from a ringside seat.”

“At the Tombola game, you mean?”

She nodded. “Henny came in here right after it happened and told me all about it . . . and climbed into a bottle.”

A group of boisterous men entered the bar and took up residence at several tables. With no alcohol served at the fete, this was bound to happen.

I managed one final question. “Can you re-cap my bottle, dear? I'd like to take it with me.”

“Sure. No problem.”

From beneath the counter, June got a gizmo that looked something like a wine cork remover with handles. She took my bent cap and put it in the gizmo, then placed the gizmo on top of my bottle and forced the handles down.

June handed me the Castle Moat. “Good as new.”

I examined the cap. “It really is. Looks like it's never been opened. Is that tool hard to come by?”

“Heck no. Marty sells 'em in the hardware section. Some people like to make their own brew, y'know. Excuse me, ma'am, I got customers to tend to.”

I thanked her, slid off my stool, and my beer bottle and I left the pub-cum-hardware store. Across the way on the village green the festivities were still in full sway, if somewhat subdued in the aftermath of Barclay's abrupt departure.

Continuing along Manchester Street, I passed Flora's Floral Shoppe, closed for the fete, then turned right onto London Street. I was drooping a little by the time I'd reached the inn—still time for that nap I should be taking on this afternoon before a performance—when I froze in my tracks, any drowsiness instantly disappearing.

The outside sign carried a new message.

O
NE
L
AST
N
O TO
D
IE
.

 

Brandy back at the helm, assuring you that no extended metaphor about ships and sailing will be inflicted upon you. In my room, I was happily asleep when Mother nudged me unhappily awake.

“Brandy dear! It's time to rise and shine, and I do mean shine, in the best theatrical sense. Time to get up and get ready for tonight's performance, sweets!”

I yawned, got out of bed—Sushi only burrowing farther beneath the covers—and headed into the tiny broom closet of a shower. And this represented Old York's idea of progress.

Twenty minutes later, I was coiffed and dressed in my “theatrical assistant” togs—a black Kamali Kulture Lycra dress and matching flats—to make me unobtrusive as I stood in the wings handing Mother her different hats. (If I had to take part in a theatrical performance, let me do so in a role that truly did fade away.) Also, I had a small, black Coach cross-body bag for a few things like my cell, room key, and some cash.

Mother was already in costume, a purple choir robe that passed for the various characters, the hats alone indicating each identity. (She had “borrowed” the robe from the music room at our church, New Hope.)

(
Mother to Brandy:
Your implication that I stole that robe is completely out of line. I borrowed it, no quotation marks needed, with full intention of returning it as soon as we got back.)