Antiques Fate (15 page)

“Anything yet on Barclay's autopsy?”

Silence, while he considered my request. “The coroner found a high amount of blood pressure medication in his system. Is there any reason why you can't head back right now?”

“We haven't spoken to Rudder yet.”

“I'm sure he'd be happy to do that in Serenity.”

“Sweetie, I'm really beat. We'll head back tomorrow afternoon, okay?”

“Make it tomorrow morning.”

“Why does that matter, if this is just a bunch of coincidences, and not murders at all? Anyway, we're supposed to get our check from Chad around noon.”

There was a long pause.

Then he said, “Because I'm a cop, honey, and cops don't believe in the Easter Bunny, Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy . . . or coincidences. Please get your lovely self home.”

“Okay. And in the meantime, I'll keep the gypsy's advice in mind.”

“Huh?”

“Remember? Beware the Cyclops?”

The joke fell flat.

“Brandy, if your mother is right, and these deaths
are
murders, the killer is getting desperate. He's . . . it's what we call accelerating.”

“I'll be careful.”

“Move a dresser in front of your door tonight. Tell your mother to do the same.”

“She'll be touched you care.”

“Quite honestly, I would miss the old girl. You can even tell her that for me.”

“Okay. Minus the ‘old girl' part.”

We said some smoochy stuff that is none of your business, and then I ended the call, returned to the pub, and found another glass of white zin and a Shirley Temple waiting.

Mother reached the table just as I did. She guessed whom I'd been talking to, and ordered me to repeat my conversation with Tony, verbatim, the way Archie Goodwin does to Nero Wolfe. But I was no Archie. (
Reviewers:
It would be gratuitously cruel to quote me on that.)

When I'd finished my report, Mother said excitedly, “Now we
know
Barclay was murdered! He and Millie died by the same kind of overdose.”

“We still don't know for sure that it's murder, Mother. Not for
certain
.”

She hit the table with an open hand, jostling our drinks. “This case is driving me bonkers!”

Medication can only do so much. Shirley Temples, too.

I slid off my stool. “Come on, honey, let's go. It's almost midnight. A good night's sleep will make things look clearer in the morning.”

“You're right, dear. We need to recharge the little gray cells.”

“Make up your mind, Mother. Wolfe or Poirot.”

“Why not both?”

“How about neither?”

Leaving our unfinished drinks, we exited the pub.

Lights from the inn made a beckoning beacon across the village green, and we decided to cut through the park, where few signs of the fete remained, and were crossing Manchester Street when a single bright light shone on us and an engine roared.

A vehicle was headed right toward us.

Fast.

It swerved, not to avoid hitting us, rather to do a better job of it. I grabbed Mother's arm and propelled both of us forward, and we landed in the grass just as the car flashed by—too close for comfort!

At the end of Manchester, the vehicle took a hard left turn, tires squealing, and disappeared.

I got to my feet, then helped Mother up.

I asked, “Are you all right?”

She tested her legs. “Yes, dear. New hips seem to be working. Did you get a good look at the car?”

“No. Too dark, too sudden. Didn't get the color or license plate and certainly not a make or a model.”

But I did notice one thing: the vehicle had only one headlight. What we midwesterners call a one-eyed car.

A Cyclops.

 

 

Most reputable dealers belong to an organization that holds them to high standards. In England, it's the British Antiques Dealers' Association, or BADA. Mother thought their acronym held a negative connotation, and wrote suggesting that they change it to DABA. She's still waiting for their response.

Chapter Nine

The Devil Can Cite Scripture for His Purpose

Y
ou are in luck, gentle reader, and I am in luck, too, because this is Vivian speaking/writing. I have only been assured one chapter per book—a limitation that goes back to my negligence in allowing Brandy to sign our initial book deal—but even my daughter cannot deny me center stage when that is where I am, and she herself is not present.

Thus I on occasion am given an additional chapter (in this instance, two and a half chapters!), and I am grateful to those of you who've taken the time and energy to write our publisher asking for more Vivian with a bold, tremulous hunger similar to Oliver Twist requesting more gruel.

Sunday morning, while Brandy and Sushi slept in, I thought it might prove comforting and perhaps spiritually uplifting to attend the eight o'clock service at the Episcopal Church, and take in whatever words of guidance Father Cumberbatch might impart to his followers in the aftermath of the multiple tragedies that had befallen Old York.

Of course, I also was curious to see if Sheriff Rudder and his men were still around, and if the sanctuary had been turned into a yellow-and-black-taped crime scene. Perhaps the service would have to be held outside. We certainly had a fine day for it, sunny but with a nice leaf-rustling breeze.

I arrived early, trying out a fall Breckenridge slacks and sweater outfit that I had purchased on sale, receiving another twenty percent off because it was the store's Senior Citizens Day (I was relieved to pass for over sixty-five, and anyway my driver's license ID had been revoked some time ago). The outfit was half a size too big, but it was doing the trick nicely. One never knows unless one tries!

Sidebar: I eschew dresses these days. The last one I bought had shoulder pads, and I mean circa the forties, not their revival in the eighties. (This is not to imply that
I
am circa the forties.) And nylons? Don't get me started. If it's bare skin some women don't like, why aren't they wearing nylons on their arms? Besides, after silk hose went out after WW II, what was the point? Not that I was around for WW II.

What was I saying?

Oh, yes. As I'd intended, I was the first to arrive for the service, and found a seat in the otherwise unoccupied sanctuary—a spot in the middle of the last pew on the right side of the aisle that would allow me a good vantage point for watching everyone as they came in.

Behind the pulpit, the scaffolding still stood in the apse (domed ceiling area); but the lack of yellow crime scene tape, and the apparent absence of Sheriff Rudder and/or his minions (no country patrol cars in the graveled lot, either), told me the sheriff was almost certainly treating Fred Hackney's fall as accidental.

Dropping like flies, all around us, and all our sheriff can do is find ways to excuse suspicious deaths. I was growing very disappointed with Serenity's sheriff. Perhaps next election I should run against him. Hadn't I solved every murder in the county for several years now?

Soon, others began to arrive, and among the first were the trustees. Celia and Digby wore somber expressions (although with Digby it could have just been his usual sour one) and walked down the aisle together as if they were disapproving parents in a wedding procession, but who had no choice due to a pending “blessed” event. The innkeeper-tress (that's not a real word but it should be) had on a navy dress with white collar, and the realtor a brown suit with tan tie. They sat in the second row on the left, in front of the pulpit. Apparently Celia's husband, Seabert, was either not religious or was back holding down the Horse and Groom fort.

Flora and Brenda arrived together, the former trading her usual titillating outfit for a conservative gray pants suit, while the latter wore a shapeless black dress, perhaps a nod toward mourning. They, too, sat near the front, but across the aisle from Celia and Digby.

I took note of the absence of certain others of interest, notably Chad, but also lobby-girl Glenda, barfly Henrietta, and the owners of the Red Lion, June and Marty. Their absences could be easily explained: Chad was of a generation that was a trifle godless, Glenda was probably sacrificing a goat, and the Red Lion owners had had a very late night dealing with the likes of Henny, who was probably lost in an alcoholic coma. Anyway, not everyone in the world is Episcopalian. I'm not!

As the congregation waited for the service to begin, a low murmur filled the sanctuary—the death of Fred in this very space draped itself over the chamber like a dark, low-hanging cloud—and every so often an exclamation could be heard, as someone who hadn't been told about the tragedy was informed by another who had.

At a few minutes to eight, the congregation, anticipating Father Cumberbatch's imminent entrance, fell silent; and when, at precisely eight, he strode purposefully down the center aisle, everyone craned his or her head as he passed.

The priest, in a black robe with green stole cascading down each shoulder, moved solemnly to the pulpit; his face was drawn, even haggard, the events of the past few days having aged the youthful appearance. His eyes were bloodshot in a manner more suited to Christopher Lee in an old Dracula picture than a man of the cloth.

He looked out at his flock, his chin up.

“Please stand and sing the opening hymn.”

I didn't have a program leaflet, having come too early for the greeter to hand me one at the door; but a board on the wall next to the pulpit listed what page to turn to in the hymnal book. Handy! I took the hymnal from its wooden rack before me and joined in singing “Amazing Grace,” a church oldie but goodie (well, most hymns are, oldie I mean, though not necessary goodie), my stellar voice drowning out those around me. To inspire others, one must be a leader.

After the congregation was again seated, Father Cumberbatch began, “Today's scripture is taken from Matthew twenty-one, verses twelve through thirteen. ‘And Jesus went into the temple of God, and cast out all those that sold and bought in the temple, and overthrew the tables of the moneychangers. . . .' ”

Now I regretted having sat where I had, with such a limited view of mostly the backs of heads. Sometimes I out-think myself.

So I stood, and with some difficulty, began to slide down in the pew past my fellow parishioners, creating a few toe-casualties along the way. Really, my timing was off—if I had done this during the hymn, the hollers of “Owww!” and “Watchit!” might have blended in, or at least provided a percussive counterpoint.

As it was, enough heads swiveled in my direction to halt Father Cumberbatch in his scripture reading.

As I stumbled into the aisle, I filled the silence with, “Apologies, your honor!” For a panicky moment, I had reverted to traffic court mode—probably the priest's black robe.

“I
mean
, your eminence,” I corrected, with a half bow. “Having difficulty hearing way back here—ear wax buildup, don't you know.”

All eyes were on me, and I considered making a jest—“If this was a Pentecostal Church, maybe you could heal me!”—but thought better of it. One must consider one's audience.

I was heading down the aisle now and the silence followed me, and I felt the need to keep filling it.

“I'm afraid, Father, those over-the-counter ear wax remedies just never work out for me. I'm always misplacing that bulb thingie, which by the way works very well for watering small plants.”

Around me were a few remarks that I will not report, other than to say none of them were very Christian.

“You'll find room in the first pew,” the priest said with considerable resonance. Almost God-like, really.

“Oh. Well. I wouldn't want to sit
too
close.” That way I couldn't even see
backs
of heads.

“Well, Mrs. Borne,” he said with a smile that I thought seemed rather strained, “please land somewhere.”

“Yes. Thank you. I will. There's always the stable!”

Crickets.

Why must churchgoers be so humorless?

Choosing the row behind Celia and Digby, I tried to squeeze into a spot on the aisle, but it wasn't big enough, so the man on the end had to scoot over into the woman next to him, and she pushed into the person next to her, and so on down the line, the way motorcycles parked too close together do, if the first one is knocked over.

Settled, I worked up an angelic smile for the priest—a good actress has the proper facial expression ready for any occasion. “You may resume.”

“
Thank
you.”

I gave the priest a mildly reproving look. Sarcasm has no place in the pulpit.

Father Cumberbatch cleared his throat. “And Christ said, ‘My house shall be called the house of prayer, but ye have made it a den of thieves.' Let us pray.”

Everyone bowed their heads, with one notable exception—myself. I recited along to the Lord's Prayer (FYI: the Episcopalians say “trespasses” instead of “debts”), but my head was turned and my eyes were taking stock. At the prayer's conclusion, Father Cumberbatch stood silently at the pulpit, and he too seemed to study each and every face, before he spoke.

“Many of you have come this morning to better understand the losses of our fellow worshippers, Millicent Marlowe, Barclay Starkadder, and Fred Hackney. Why were they so cruelly taken from us?” He paused. “Some may say that it was God's will, His divine plan, while others may speculate that these souls were called to heaven because the Lord needed them at his side. But I will tell you nothing of the kind.”

Murmurs among the congregation.

The priest went on: “Rather than try to find or invent meaning in their deaths, we should seek meaning in their lives—in the entertainment that Millie gave to the community through her love of the theater . . . in the history that Barclay celebrated and shared with us through his dedicated work at the museum—and in the helpfulness and hard work of Fred, who so often gave of his talents for little or no remuneration, which was what he was doing when, just hours ago . . . behind me where I stand . . . tragedy struck down this uncomplicated, generous man.”

Soft sobbing could be heard around the congregation.

I had views of Celia and Digby, in front of me, and Brenda and Flora, to my left. The women were wiping tears with tissues or fingertips, but not Digby. He didn't even appear to be listening.

Father Cumberbatch was segueing into his sermon, Love Thy Neighbor, as stated on the board.

“The book of Mark tells us,” he was saying, “to love our neighbor as ourselves. While God is to be loved above everything, our neighbor is above all others. And we are to extend to our neighbor the kind of love with which we treat ourselves. Leviticus tells us not to defraud our neighbor, nor to rob him, nor to seek revenge, neither to bear a grudge. Remember the Lord's teaching: ‘All things whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, even so do unto them.' ”

And here, dear reader, is where I fell asleep. I regret admitting this, because I found considerable value and wisdom in the young father's words. But I had stayed awake most of the night, watching TCM on the small tube television (thanks to Celia's hidden satellite dish).

This I had done not strictly because of the Robert Mitchum festival they were airing—though I do love that man!—but in case Sheriff Rudder might call. I knew darn well he would need my expertise to make sense of the crime scene, which is to say the very church I was seated in. But, alas, the obstinate man never phoned. I would write it off as his loss, but it was Old York that would suffer, since I felt convinced a murderer was on the loose.

A murderer very likely seated here in the sanctuary where his or her most recent homicide had been done. Hiding in plain sight among lesser sinners.

I was roused from my slumber by the final hymn, “The Church Is One Foundation,” which was then followed by the closing benediction. Judging by the dirty looks the nearby churchgoers were flashing me, there may have been some snoring done.

The congregation stood and began its slow, shuffling exit.

As I moved into the aisle, someone behind me touched my elbow.

“Mrs. Borne?” a female voice intoned.

I turned to see a stunning woman in her midfifties, chicly dressed in a lavender tweed suit and beige patented pumps, her short black hair impeccably coiffed. She reminded me of Liz Taylor during her Passion perfume campaign. (I myself prefer White Diamonds.)

“Yes, I am Vivian Borne. And you are?”

“Edwina Kent.” She gestured to the two women flanking her. “And this is Ivy Morton . . .”

Ivy, voluptuous in a too-tight green sheath dress seemingly designed to test the Lord's patience, looked like Marilyn Monroe if she had lived into her sixties and gotten off the booze and pills but perhaps had substituted pastries.

“. . . and Melba Hornsby.”

Melba, in a rumpled linen dress, was the spitting image of Marjorie Main, Ma Kettle herself, and so hilarious in the Fred MacMurray comedy,
Murder, He Says
. (Young people, that's what Google is for . . . and if you track that film down, you're in for a treat!)

“I'm pleased to meet all of you,” I said with a little bow.

Designated speaker Edwina asked, “We wondered if you might like to join us for brunch.”

I had hoped to arrange a time with Father Cumberbatch to query him on the details of our disappointment of how the county sheriff had handled Fred Hackney's “accident” last night. But by now there would be a long line of parishioners shaking his hand, and I could always track down the young priest later.

Besides, Edwina and Ivy and Melba presented a brand-new, possibly valuable source of information. After all, three women would hardly gather in order
not
to discuss town gossip.