Antiques Fate (20 page)

The trip back to the central circle was quicker, and Mother took the lead as we entered the middle tunnel. I was happy to have her do so. With our candles held before us, the orange-tinged passageway was gradually revealed before us.

This time we walked for about five minutes before coming to another flight of stone steps.

“Allow me,” she said.

I gave her a mock-gracious “after you” gesture, and she went up while I waited at the bottom, Sushi pacing at my feet.

What seemed like another five minutes was probably under two by the time she came back down, probably quicker than was wise with her sketchy knees. But she was really into it.

“Well?” I asked.

“
Another
panel, dear, and it was probably a sliding one, as well.”

“Probably? Didn't you slide it open?”

“No reason to. I could hear Celia talking on the phone. We're beneath the inn.”

I frowned. “I don't remember seeing Seabert at our performance, do you?”

“No. I believe Celia said he stayed back to watch the front desk and otherwise tend to things.” She paused. “Or I should say, he was
supposed
to. Certainly, as you are no doubt thinking, Seabert could have used this tunnel to get to the church and dispatch Fred and return to his more mundane duties.”

For a second time, we returned to the center circle, with a growing familiarity. We began the exploration of the left tunnel, with Sushi taking the lead, as if she knew it was her turn.

We walked for about eight minutes, splitting the difference between the time it had taken to traverse the right and middle tunnels. Finally we came to the expected stone steps, and it was my turn again. I climbed while Mother waited with Sushi.

At the top was a door with an easily found button, similar to the setup in the theater. After plastering an ear to the wood, listening for any noises behind it, and hearing nothing, I pushed the button, and the door swung outward with something of a groan and a scrape, as if it were a particularly heavy one.

I went on through and, as I turned to help Mother through, Sushi scampering by, I realized that the door on this side was cleverly disguised as a bookcase, shelves filled with leather-bound volumes.

“Where are we?” I whispered.

“The library room in the museum,” Mother replied. “And we need not whisper—the place isn't open for another hour.”

I nodded, taking in the opulent space. In addition to the floor-to-ceiling bookcases, a large fireplace took up much of one wall with lovely antique furnishings spotted around, including several Queen Anne couches, heavy ornately carved chairs, various Victorian lamps, and even a grand piano.

Mother had told me that the museum was once the home of one of the original trustees—a very wealthy one, at that—and the furnishings had been preserved to provide a snapshot of that earlier time, albeit with some updated electrical pieces.

Mother was saying, “While we're here, I want to go upstairs. There's something I simply
must
see.”

“Well, you can see whatever it is after the museum opens. Right now, we need to get back to square one—the theater. Rudder could show up there any time. It would be nice to be able to make him think we were waiting there all the while.”

“This won't take half a tic, dear.” She was already moving across the oriental carpet to the library entrance, where a red velvet rope kept out visitors.

I grabbed up Sushi and followed.

Mother unhooked the rope, we all passed through, and she rehooked it.

I followed her up a wide staircase to the second floor, where we entered what must have been a bedroom at one time and now housed various antiques collections—here china, there pottery, and so on.

Mother stood for a moment, scanning the room slowly like a lighthouse beacon, then crossed to a wall of shelves protected by another velvet rope strung between two metal posts. As she proceeded to unhook the rope, I hurried over.

“What are you
doing
?”

Ignoring me, she went to a shelf, removed an article, and brought it back to show me.

With a wicked smile and an arched eyebrow, she asked, “Does this look familiar, dear?”

I barely gave the mahogany box with copper bands a glance. “No! Put it back. That's probably very valuable.”

“Well, it's supposed to be, anyway.” She turned it over. “Perhaps
this
might ring a bell.”

One finger pointed to tiny initials carved on its bottom.

I had been holding Sushi, and put her down to take a closer look.

FH
.

“Fred Hackney,” I said numbly. “Oh my Lord—it's a fake! How did you
know
?”

Mother's smile was triumphant. “I noticed pieces of mahogany and copper on Fred's workbench when I fetched the candles.”

“What's a fake doing on display in a museum?”

“Why indeed?”

I frowned. “Then . . . where's the
real
box?”

“Sold for a profit into someone's private collection, undoubtedly, with this impressively crafted imposter put in its place. How many more fakes are behind velvet ropes all around this museum remains to be seen—but my guess is, plenty.”

Mother's eyes moved from my face and across my shoulder. “Well, Brenda, good morning. Or is it afternoon by now?”

I turned, and in midturn what I saw appeared to be a ghostly vision, as if someone out of a distant past had materialized before us.

But it was just Brenda Starkadder, wearing a voluminous eighteenth-century blue gown and a large black plumed hat, poised in the doorway. Had she been there long enough to hear us?

Mother, too cheerful, said, “I was just showing Brandy this magnificent tea box. Must have cost someone a pretty penny once upon a time.”

“Is that what you were doing,” Brenda said flatly, nothing of a question in her tone. She came toward us, the full fabric of the dress rustling like curtains in a high wind.

Stopping about three yards from us, the woman demanded, “How did you get in? What are you doing here, before we've opened?”

She must have already been up here on the second floor, and didn't know we'd come through the tunnel.

Mother replied, “Well, dear, we slipped in by the front door. I wasn't aware you didn't open until
later
on Sundays, and we were just leaving town, so . . . I'm afraid we just took advantage of that unlocked door. I hope you'll forgive us. Brandy, Sushi . . . let's be on our way.”

Brenda shook her head, the plumes on her big hat waving. “Stay put. That door is locked. You're trespassing. And it appears you're stealing, too.”

Mother shrugged. “Well, that door
couldn't
have been locked, dear. You must be mistaken. Because here we are!”

“Here you are,” Brenda said.

I said, “We do apologize. We can postpone leaving town and come later. Mother, if you'll just put that beautiful tea box back, and yes, you're right, it
is
lovely.”

The woman came closer. “As long as you're here, and fascinated by artifacts, perhaps you girls might be interested in this. . . .”

Her hands had been at her sides, hidden in the lush folds of the dress, but now her right hand emerged with a double-barreled pistol clutched in it.

Sushi, at my feet, gave a low growl.

Holding the weapon casually, Brenda said, “This antique gun is nine inches in length, has a solid silver handle, and was made in Birmingham, England, by B. Woodward and Son, around eighteen fifty. It's valued at around one thousand dollars. Oh! And it fires two shots.”

“Antique firearms,” Mother said, “aren't really our area of interest. But thank you for sharing.”

“You know,” Brenda went on, her eyes strangely distant yet very alert, “I'm always here a good hour early. I put on my costume when I arrive, and then I take a brief spin around the facility, to make sure everything is as it should be.”

“Sounds like a wise procedure,” Mother said.

“But it was just sheer luck, Sherlock, that I happened to be in the weapons room when I heard voices up here. And, suspecting there were burglars, I took this gun along for protection. Upon entering this room what should I find?” She nodded at the tea box in Mother's hands. “You two meddling oddballs, caught in the act of stealing a valuable antique.”

As Brenda leveled the gun at us, Sushi darted forward and burrowed under the dress, which the woman lifted with her free hand, looking down with wild eyes as the dog's sharp little teeth latched on to her ankle. Fortunately for Brenda, and unfortunately for us, she was wearing leather high-button shoes, and the shih tzu's grip had no apparent effect.

Brenda shook Sushi off, snarled at her, one beast to another, and Soosh ran from the room, her nails heard clicking on the wood stairs as she dashed down, heading most likely for the tunnel. Maybe Sheriff Rudder would be at the other end by now, and maybe Sushi was smart enough to lead him here, if he was smart enough to follow.

Stalling for time, I announced, “You can try to float that story. But we know everything. And in this day and age, you can't shoot us and hope to get away with it. Intruders have rights, too, you know.”

Brenda arched an eyebrow. “I'm prepared to take my chances . . . though when you say you know ‘everything,' I have no idea what you might be talking about. Perhaps you'd care to enlighten me.”

Since I was bluffing, I looked at Mother. Even in the face of death, the great diva knew how to pick up a cue, and how to hog the spotlight.

“Why don't I begin with Millie?” Mother asked Brenda.

The faintest smile tickled Brenda's lip as she trained the double-barreled weapon at Mother and me. “It's your story, Mrs. Borne.”

Mother drew herself up. “Very well. It all began with Millie's accidental death, didn't it?”

I blurted, “What? Millie's death was an
accident
? Mother, you've called it murder from the beginning!”

“Yes, but we're at the ending now, dear—isn't that right, Brenda? Millie's accidental death, the poor woman forgetfully overdosing on her own heart medication, gave you the idea to have your uncle suffer a
similar
fate.”

“Why,” Brenda asked, “would I want that? I loved my uncle.”

“Perhaps. But you probably loved him less after he discovered that you'd been selling antiques from the museum, replacing them with replicas Fred had made. Or perhaps this was just a suspicion of Barclay's that you knew would lead him to such a discovery. By the way, very clever of you, dear, to cast aspersions on your uncle for the unauthorized mishandling of antiques from this museum. Anyway, you put a fatal dosage of his medication in his favorite brand of beer, and once again solicited Fred Hackney's help, this time to make sure your uncle won that particular bottle at the raffle.”

Brenda was shaking her head. “Everyone there saw how upset I was. I'm no actress, Mrs. Borne. I'm not like you—I can't fake tears.”

“Oh, I truly believe you
were
upset when your uncle drank that beer immediately. You wanted him to take the bottle home, as was the general practice in the Tombola doings, and partake of it later—
not
draw such a commotion. And certainly not forcing you to witness the results of what you'd done.”

“Is that right?” Brenda said with a smirk.

“And it was cunning of you to then throw suspicion on the other trustees, and for that I commend you. How would you say I'm doing so far?”

Brenda laughed behind closed lips. Then she said, “It's your show, Mrs. Borne. But isn't it always?”

Mother ignored the rhetorical question. “Then Fred Hackney began to give you problems—helping his loving if secret girlfriend pilfer antiques was one thing.... He may have taken pride in the quality of his replacement items, or otherwise, he would not have signed his work. But Fred be a knowing party to murder? That's another thing entirely. I doubt he even knew your uncle was supposed to die. Ah! I can see by your face that he didn't.”

“Can you?”

“Poor Fred must have complained bitterly about being duped as he drove you to the hospital in Serenity, thereby effectively sealing his own fate. I would imagine he was very much in love with you, wasn't he, dear? He would
have
to have been, to do what he did.”

Brenda seemed almost bored. “So you say. But why don't you try to find someone who saw us together, Mrs. Borne?”

“Oh, I'll leave that drudge work to the deputies. Where was I? Oh, yes. At our performance, after the lights went down, you sneaked backstage and made use of the tunnel—
yes,
dear, we found the tunnels, and we found Chad, too, where you left him. But I'll get to that.”

“Get to it now.”

“In due time. Where did I leave off? Oh, yes, you climbed the scaffolding, took Fred by surprise, pushed the poor man to his death, then returned to the theater just as the play was ending.”

Mother paused for a breath, and I put in, “No wonder your comments didn't reflect the comic turn our performance took! At the time, when you said your uncle would have loved what we did to his favorite play, I was doubtful. You didn't see enough of the play to know what we'd done to it!”

Brenda shrugged. “Perhaps I don't have a sense of humor. Maybe I took what you did at face value, and was just being . . . nice.”

“You being ‘nice,' ” Mother said, “seems to me terribly out of character right now. For example—perhaps you'd be so good as to tell me—what had Chad done to deserve your rancor? Had he discovered your pilfering? No? Had he spotted you putting the poisoned bottle on the raffle table? No?”