Antiques Fate (7 page)

He shrugged. “When you're outnumbered, why not be generous? I'm sure you'll do fine. I'll be there. It's kind of required.”

I smiled through the insult. “Well, a lot is required in Old York, isn't it?”

He rolled his eyes. “Tell me about it.”

“Have you lived in the village long, Mr. Lancaster?”

“I grew up here, and I got out in a hurry.”

“What brought you back, if I might ask?”

He shrugged. “My dad passed on and left me property.”

“How much property? Again, if I might be so bold.”

“I own a number of buildings, and some undeveloped land. And, of course, I'm a realtor. I do all right. I could do better.”

“You mean, if incorporation came in.”

He shrugged, but then nodded. “This little bump in the road is a potential gold mine. Tourists eat this kind of stuff up. I have some land on the outskirts but within the village territory, as defined in our charter?” He shook his head. “Oh, what I could
do
with that hunk of real estate, given half a chance.”

“What could you do with it,” I asked gently, “given half a chance?”

He smiled, the bulldog happily going after the bone I'd tossed. “Imagine a big motel playin' up this Brit angle. Imagine a strip mall with English-type names for the stores, you know, Ye Olde Smoke Shop, Ye Olde Launderette, Henry the Eighth Burgers, that kind of thing. But a lot of these locals wouldn't stoop over to pick up money in the street.”

I shook my head sadly. “They're misguided, Mr. Lancaster. Progress is always inevitable.”

“Isn't that the truth.”

“You must have been surprised to hear Chad say he intended to honor his grandmother's wishes and vote against incorporation.”

“Uh, yeah. That was disappointing, all right.”

I smiled innocently. “Is that what you were telling him last night? I noticed you two talking, after the meeting.”

He got even paler. “That was nothing. I was just giving him my, you know, condolences.”

“Did you know Millicent well?”

“Not really. I've only been back a year. She was one of those theatrical types, you know, one of those small-town divas. Kind of pitiful but harmless.”

That was certainly not called for, but I did not react. Acting is largely reacting; but not when you're grilling a suspect in a murder case. Speaking of which . . .

“Do you buy that Millie's death was accidental, Mr. Lancaster? Doesn't it seem awfully convenient, coming when it does?”

He pawed the air. “I don't mean to sound callous, Mrs. Borne, but it's not coincidental or shocking or anything else for a senior citizen to pass away.”

“Is that what you were doing? Waiting for her to pass away?”

He frowned. I'd revealed too much.

“Lady, I have things to do. I'll see you at the play Saturday night. You break a leg, okay? Break a couple.”

His smile was ghastly, but I did smile back, and got quickly out of there.

I made my way across the village green—where volunteers were making preparations for tomorrow afternoon's fete—intending to drop in on Flora Payton at her floral shop on Manchester.

As I entered, a little bell above the door tinkled (and I didn't jump at all, thank you), and I found Flora arranging a vase of red roses behind the counter. She was wearing another low-cut top, pink, her red hair caressing her shoulders.

“Well, hello,” she said, looking up. “Vivian, isn't it?”

“It is Vivian,” I replied, closing the door, the bell sounding again. “And you're Flora.”

She grinned. “And I'm Flora.”

“Might I say that you're looking just as lovely as those blossoms.” A little flattery does wonders to loosen Ye Olde Tongues.

“Why thank you, Vivian. May I help you?”

I've also found that greasing a palm can prove an effective loosening agent, tongue-wise. “I'd like to purchase a cheery bouquet to brighten up my room.”

“I'm sure we can find something to do just the trick. Anything in mind?”

“What do you suggest, dear?”

Setting the roses aside, Flora came out from behind the counter, revealing the rest of her ensemble: a tight black skirt and red kitten heels. Unlike her flowers, this child bloomed all year long.

“These are quite lovely,” she said, gesturing to a vase of orange roses and lilies. “I call that
Clockwork Orange
.” Flora gestured to another vase brimming with pink roses and carnations. “Or perhaps you'd prefer
Pretty in Pink
.” She giggled. “I name all of my arrangements after movies.”

“I gathered that, dear,” I allowed. “Quite clever. I'll take
Pretty in Pink
.”

I once attended a theatrical showing of
A Clockwork Orange,
just getting in out of the rain, and in fact went in humming “Singin' in the Rain,” which as a song has never quite worked as well for me since. But back to our story.

“I'll wrap it up,” Flora said, reaching for the pink concoction.

Following her back to the counter, I eased into the purpose of my visit. “I visited the museum, earlier. It's really quite impressive.”

She was wrapping the arrangement in cellophane. “Yes, certainly is.”

“I understand the town actually owns the artifacts and that grand old house itself.”

“That's right.” She was tying the cellophane top with a pink ribbon.

“Something I can't quite grasp.”

“Oh?”

“If Barclay Starkadder is a paid employee, not an owner, why ever would
he
be against incorporation?”

She took her eyes off my purchase. “Well, that's easily answered. He gets his salary from a trust fund set up by the founding families, years ago. If this town square became Tourist Central, the museum could be moved to a smaller location, and that ‘grand house' used for something far more profitable.”

“Ah. I would think, after incorporation, the contents of the museum might even be liquidated, those valuable antiques sold to fund civic improvements.”

“Wouldn't be surprised, Vivian. And it would almost certainly put Barclay out of a cushy job.”

“I see. And you, dear? How do you stand on the incorporation issue?”

“That's easily answered, too. I vote no. I understand progress and all that. But me? I couldn't possibly compete against a chain, or some big supermarket that carried flowers.”

“Might I pose one last question, dear?”

“Sure.”

“Do you agree with those who insist that Millie took an accidental overdose?”

Even frowning in thought she was a pretty thing. “I'm not sure, Vivian. But I did see her Thursday morning at the theater, about an order for flowers. And she took a pill right in front of me.”

“When was this, dear?”

“Oh. Around eleven.”

Chad said she'd taken one earlier.

She was frowning again. “Are you all right, Vivian?”

“Fine, dear. What do I owe you?”

“Fifty-one fifty.” She grinned. “That's dollars, not pounds.”

Thank goodness not
everything
here was British!

I walked back to the inn, where the standing sign had once again been tampered with: D
EATH
C
OMES TO
O
NE
M
ORE
N
O
.

 

 

When traveling abroad, you may spot a lovely antique that seems a real bargain. But before purchasing your precious discovery, make sure you know that country's regulations on exporting goods, or you may take home a fine as well as a find.

Chapter Five

So Foul and Fair a Day I Have Not Seen

B
randy here. Did everyone make it through Mother's chapter unscathed? Anyone need an aspirin break? A visit with Captain Morgan? No? Then onward.

Friday morning I slept till ten, then had a late breakfast in the dining room at the Horse and Groom, barely making the 11
A.M.
cut-off. Mother joined me midway and, over a scone and tea, filled me in on what you've just heard from her.

“Mother,” I said, “you're really jumping the gun here. There's every reason to think Millie either accidentally overdosed or simply had a heart attack. Especially since Flora says that she saw Millie take an extra pill Thursday morning.”

“But it still
could
be murder.”

“It's a possibility, and in this climate of dispute over incorporation, maybe a good possibility. But shouldn't we wait to see what the coroner back in Serenity has to say? And if it
is
murder, Sheriff Rudder will swoop down with deputies and we can go on about the very important business of putting on your play tomorrow evening.”

All right, that last part was pandering. When all else fails with Mother, push the theater button.

“Dear, haven't we been at this long enough for you to know how vital it is to get cracking in a murder investigation? Do you know the statistics?”

“What statistics?”

She raised a lecturing forefinger. “How about this one: with every hour that passes after a murder, the perpetrator's odds of getting away with it multiply tenfold.”

“Where did you get that one?”

“Well, I didn't get it anywhere. It's common sense.”

I nibbled on my last piece of crispy bacon. Well, I was saving one piece for Sushi up in the room.

“Mother,” I said, “common sense is that we enjoy this beautiful little displaced English village. We shop. We have midafternoon tea and crumpets, whatever
they
are, then come back and relax before tonight's crucial dress rehearsal.”

The theater button again.

My tactic worked, to some degree anyway. Her concession was that we would interrupt our shopping afternoon with a visit to the New Vic—not to prep for dress, but to chat with Chad.

“This sounds,” I said, “suspiciously like more before-the-fact murder investigation.”

“That will be the subtext, dear. But there's another matter we need to attend to. We dodged a bullet last night, you know.”

“Did we?”

She nodded several times. “Millie died before I had a chance to get our contract signed for the Scottish play. Fortunately, the board's vote to put it on will box young Chad Marlowe into a corner. The show will go on! Just as Millie's last words bade us do.”

She was starting to believe Millie really had said that.

The theater doors were unlocked and we crossed the empty lobby, taking the turn down the vending machine hallway, where we found Chad's door open. He didn't see us at first, but we saw him, all right.

In the black suit again but with the tie MIA and his collar unbuttoned, the long-haired artistic director of the New Vic was seated behind his desk and leaning forward, smiling up at a black-haired girl. She wore a black T-shirt with long ragged sleeves, a short black skirt, and clunky hardware-heavy boots. Her lipstick and eye shadow were black, her face pale with white powder, eyebrows, nose, and lower lip pierced. Though she looked like death warmed over, she was laughing.

And so was Chad.

The Goth girl had one foot lifted behind her and her pink pierced tongue was flicking over black lips.

Mother knocked hard on the open door.
“I beg pardon!”

They were startled. We might have caught them at much worse than just flirting across a desk, the way they reacted.

“Chad,” Mother said, “I don't mean to interrupt. . . .”

What else could she have been meaning to do?

“. . . but I need a word or two on several key matters.” She gestured back to the corridor. “My daughter and I can wait until your meeting is over, if you like.”

Chad's embarrassed surprise morphed into irritation and then finally into an unconvincing smile. “Mrs. Borne, Glenda and I were just going over some details about tomorrow night's performance.”

Glenda's surprise had become that special sullenness reserved for anyone older than her. “I run the box office,” she said.

Mother beamed. “Well, I hope to keep your little hands busy! Let's rub those pretty black nails of yours pink!”

Glenda's eyes opened wide and stayed that way as they traveled sideways to the seated Chad, who shrugged.

“I think we have everything in place, Glenda,” Chad said. “We'll talk later.”

She gave him a “whatever” nod and brushed by us.

I nodded to Chad, as we took chairs across from him, but he didn't acknowledge me.

Mother, holding on to her purse like something keeping her afloat, leaned forward and said, “And how are you holding up, dear boy?”

His expression turned somber. “It's difficult to believe Grandmother is gone.” He gestured around the small office with its many framed posters of Millie's Shakespearean productions here at the New Vic over the decades. “She
was
this theater. I could never hope to replace her.”

“Well, dear, does that mean you're not going to try? You're not thinking of
closing
the theater, are you? Are you perhaps thinking of selling it?”

The barrage of questions made him wince. “Frankly, Mrs. Borne, I haven't got that far in my thinking yet. Right now I just want to get your production up and running, and when the curtain comes down . . . we'll see.”

“Is that what you were discussing with Mr. Lancaster last night?”

That stopped him like a slap. Now he wore no expression at all. “No. Digby was just expressing his condolences, as you might expect.”

“Yes, he does seem like a lovely, caring man. We spoke this morning, you know.”

“Yes.”

Mother smiled. “Oh, you
did
know?”

“No, I mean, I was just . . . what can I do for you, Mrs. Borne?”

Mother took a beat. “Before her tragic passing,
right
before actually, your grandmother said the contract for my performance was waiting in this office. I really should sign it, you know. Just a matter of form . . . no pun intended!”

She was overplaying, but then when wasn't she?

But there was no problem. Chad knew right where the contract was, among several small stacks of papers, and Mother signed with a flourish, keeping a copy for herself.

“Now if you would like to give me a check,” she said as offhandedly as she could manage (not very), “you won't even have to fuss with it after the performance.”

He smirked at her. “No, Mrs. Borne. I think that can wait. I'll pay you promptly after the show.”

“No problem!” She got to her feet, clutching her purse. “Always glad to sing for my supper!”

Chad gave me a look and I gave him a shrug—our only exchange in this conversation.

In the hallway, Mother said, “That young woman he was talking to? Glenda? That was no good witch.”

“She's just a Goth girl, Mother.”

“I think she would make a wonderful suspect!”

I frowned at her. “You do? Why? What's her motive?”

“Oh, I have no idea. I was thinking more in terms of . . . casting.”

 

The dress rehearsal Friday night did not go well, not only because I mixed up the hats I handed Mother from the wings, but because she uncharacteristically went up on her lines during Macbeth's famous soliloquy that begins, “Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow . . .” She said “tomorrow” maybe twelve times before getting back on track. Normally she can repeat that thing in her sleep (and often does).

I had no excuse for my prop blunders, but I think Mother was distracted by her possible murder case. The number of pills that Millie may or may not have taken remained unknown, if you considered the data Mother had gathered came from murder suspects (and better ones than Glenda).

At any rate, I was confident that at the actual performance, with an audience present, Mother would rise to the occasion with her usual effervescence, and hopefully not give too semaphoric a performance. (The end of
my
big words for this chapter.)

 

Saturday morning—the day of the fete—the aroma (and clatter) of breakfast being served in the dining room below stirred me. Then Sushi's cold nose roused me to full wakefulness, more or less, the little mutt having decided I'd (we'd) slept enough.

After a quick shower in the tiny bathroom, I put on an outfit befitting an English fete—or anyway my idea of one: tailored slacks, button-down Oxford shirt, and an argyle cardigan.

I fed Soosh, gave her an injection, took her outside via the back stairway to do her business, returned her to the room, then knocked on Mother's door.

Getting no response, I headed down to breakfast.

Mother, in yet another Breckenridge slacks outfit (orange), was seated at a table for two beneath a print (faded) of a stable boy grooming a horse. She waved to get my attention, as if she might be hard to spot, and I wove through the crowded room, the inn having filled up with tourists overnight. The fete was drawing a crowd already.

Both Seabert (ill-fitting gray suit) and Celia (outdated purple dress with shoulder pads) were tending to the diners, aided by a single young server. Seabert worked hard to take orders and keep the water, coffee, and tea flowing, as attested by the sweat beaded on his brow.

Celia, ever the congenial if insincere hostess, flitted among the tables, asking if anyone needed anything—and if they did, ordering her husband to perform the task.

Seabert came over to us. “We've got kippers with scrambled eggs and black pudding . . . or you can have porridge.”

Since I didn't like smoked herring, and Mother warned me about black pudding (look it up), I asked for scrambled eggs only. Mother ordered the porridge knowing I'd walk out on her if she had the black pudding.

After Seabert departed, Mother asked me, “When's that delightful police chief of yours joining us?”

“Around noon.”

“How lovely.”

I frowned at her. “Mother, you aren't planning to bother Tony about this Millie thing, are you?”

“Of course not, dear. It's not Chief Cassato's business. Strictly Sheriff Rudder's bailiwick. On the other hand, it never hurts to have an expert's opinion, does it?”

After the rehearsal debacle last night, Tony and I had talked on our cells for a half hour—unusual for the tightlipped copper—and were both looking forward to attending the fete together.

Mother said ominously, “I have a bad feeling about today, darling, that I just can't seem to shake.”

“Can't or don't want to?”

She gestured dramatically. “No matter how sunny a day we may have out there, I fear a dark cloud is hovering over the little village of Old York.”

Oh brother.

“Nonsense,” I said. “It's going to be a great day.”

“I don't think so, dear.
Both
bunions are bothering me.”

“That's because you walked all over town yesterday. Plus, there was the rehearsal.”

“What about that message, on our doorstep? ‘Death comes to one more no'?”

I had to admit that was unsettling. Before, it had been a practical joker's fun, seemingly, with the innocuous messages of “rotten room,” and “horses on the moon.” Now we had an apparent threat to the remaining anti-incorporation board members.

“Flora Payton, Barclay Starkadder, and maybe Chad,” I said. “Are they in danger? Should we call Sheriff Rudder?”

“He's not taking my calls.”

Seabert dropped off our hot tea and gave us a smile that was more like a crack in his face. Then he was gone.

I leaned in. “Mother, could we please, please,
please
just have a nice day?”

Her sigh came up from her toes (or maybe bunions). “I will do my best, dear.”

“And please don't mention that latest sidewalk sign to Tony or get into any of this. He's my date, not your sounding board.”

“I wouldn't
dream
of ruining your day,” she said. “Why should a little murder get in the way of your fun?”

“Mother . . .”

She sighed. “We'll have a wonderful day.”

“Thank you.”

But I was starting to dread what might be a fete worse than death.

Our breakfasts arrived, and while we ate, Mother's spirits lifted as she told me in detail about the priceless antiquities she'd seen at the museum, her earlier account having focused strictly on her encounters with suspects.

With our meal finished, we were enjoying a second cup of tea when the patrons in the dining room began to stir, their faces turning to the front windows.

I could hear the muffled sound of bagpipes.

“What's going on?” I asked an older couple at the next table.

“The parade is about to start,” the woman replied.

“There is one?”

The man explained, “There's always a parade before the fete begins.”

Mother beamed at them. “I love a parade!” For a terrible moment, I feared she might break into song.

“Well, if you want to see it, you'd better hurry,” the man said, signing his breakfast bill to his room. “It only goes around the square once.”