Antiques Flee Market (9 page)

And where was the computer? Where were the law books? Or even a few dusty files on the well-worn desk, which was bare save for a solitary telephone? At least it wasn’t a candlestick phone.

The lawyer, gesturing for us to be seated in two oak captain’s chairs opposite his desk, must have read my mind. “I conduct most of my work at home these days, Miss Borne,” he explained. “I just maintain this office for show.”

I managed a smile. “And what show would that be…
Peter Gunn?
”

The lawyer found that uproariously funny, but his laugh quickly turned into a hacking cough that weakened him further, and he dropped down into his swivel chair, gasping for breath.

Mother shot me a scolding glance, as if to say, “If our lawyer dies on us, young lady, it will be
your
fault!”

Mr. Ekhardt, exhausted, sighed and closed his eyes. I remembered Nero Wolfe in the Rex Stout novels Mother had insisted I read (one of her better recommendations); the corpulent sleuth would shut his eyes and do his best work as he became lost in thought. Perhaps Mr. Ekhardt was of that rare contemplative breed.

Only, in another moment, he was snoring.

Now I shot Mother a look, a withering, disenchanted one.

“We can afford to let him rest,” Mother countered. “After all, he’s not a young man anymore. He needs to conserve his energy, and marshal his enthusiasm.”

Wondering if this were a rest or a coma, I trained my eyes on my watch and waited. After exactly two minutes and thirty-eight seconds, Mother gave a certifiably fake, “Ah…ah…ah…
choo!
”

And Mr. Ekhardt woke up with a snort. The attorney seemed startled to suddenly see us, but then most people are. It was just that most people who reacted that way hadn’t minutes before invited us to sit down opposite them.

Mother leaned forward. “Wayne, what have your investigations told you thus far?”

He blinked. “What investigations?”

“Into this case.”

“What case?”

“Why,
Chaz
, of course. The little Cockney street urchin accused of murder.”

Did I detect a little tone of irritation in Mother’s voice? And would I ever be able to banish the image in my mind of Chaz dressed like one of the ragamuffins in
Oliver
?

“Ah, yes.” The lawyer nodded. “The British bird. That’s what they call the British girls, you know—birds.”

We waited.

“Well?” Mother asked. Apparently, she’d been hoping for more than the slang definition of “bird.”

Mr. Ekhardt signed deeply, wearily. Something seemed to click into gear. “The evidence against the girl
is
formidable.”

When he didn’t elaborate, I asked, “Such as?”

“An envelope containing a small amount of potassium cyanide was found hidden under the girl’s mattress. This, of course, is the same poison that killed Mr. Yeager.”

I could tell by Mother’s expression (smiling lips, frowning forehead) that she was conflicted: pleased that her theory of cyanide had been confirmed, upset to lose Chaz as an actress for the upcoming Christie.

“Furthermore,” the attorney continued, “there’s a little matter of the girl’s prior conviction in England….”

“Which,” I stated, “wouldn’t be admissible at trial, right?” Hey, I wasn’t a complete novice; I’d seen
Law and Order
.

Ekhardt’s nodding head was at odds with his words. “But a good trial lawyer could find a way to introduce it. And the county attorney is a good trial lawyer, as are his two deputies.”

Mother sat forward, eyes batting behind the magnifying lenses. “Wayne—what was Chaz convicted of across the pond?”

The attorney’s spindly eyebrows climbed his wrinkled brow, then dropped, indicating that we weren’t going to like what he had to say.

“Manslaughter.”

Mother shrugged. “That’s not so terrible.”

The man getting slaughtered might disagree—assuming he could.

I asked, “What happened?”

Ekhardt said, “Seems she fed her stepfather poisoned mushrooms.”

Rut-row.

Mother pshawed, “An honest mistake—one mushroom pretty much looks much like another.”

Which is why I never eat any mushrooms Mother picks, and advise you to do the same.

Ekhardt sighed, “Except the girl
did
plead guilty to the lesser charge.”

“Oh, dear,” Mother said, reality finally poking through.

“So what happens next?” I asked.

The lawyer leaned back in his well-worn leather chair. “The arraignment is tomorrow afternoon at three.”

“Should we be there?” I asked, which was a silly question—nothing short of a court order could have kept Mother away, and I’m not sure they issue restraining orders to make you stay so many feet away from a courthouse—although it’s probably come up for discussion in Serenity where Mother is concerned.

Ekhardt said simply, “I’m sure our young lady would appreciate the support.”

Then he folded his hands across his stomach and closed his eyes, which I took as our dismissal and not Nero Wolfean contemplation.

“Well, thank you, Wayne,” Mother said, rising.

I got up, too, and my chair scraped the floor.

Ekhardt’s eyelids fluttered open. “There
is
one other thing. The young woman spoke about a missing book….”

Mother and I exchanged startled expressions.

“The Tarzan book is
missing?
” Mother asked.

“If that indeed is what the girl was referring to, then, yes. The book is gone. I understand it’s quite valuable.”

Then his eyes closed again, and the soft snoring resumed.

We gathered our raccoon coats and tiptoed out of the office, quietly shutting the pebbled-glass door behind us.

“Finally!” Mother said in a loud whisper. “A development!”

I didn’t bothering whispering. “By that, you mean finally we have a murder motive.”

Now was not the time to share my secret with Mother: namely, that my friend Joe Lange had harbored a desire for the very book that was now missing, possibly/probably stolen….

Mother was moving quickly down the corridor, for a woman who’d had a hip replacement. “A murder motive indeed! If that Tarzan book
has
been purloined, it means that Chaz did
not
kill her grandfather.”

“Maybe she was
lying
about it being stolen,” I said, trying to keep up; my hips were younger than her remaining old one, but that new one of hers was still a threat. “And it’s hidden away somewhere.”

Mother halted, and I bumped into her.

“And why would the dear child do that?” she asked, whirling, her eyes wide behind the big glasses.

“To avert suspicion from herself, of course.”

She turned and started walking again. “Nonsense! You know full well the murderer is that
book
scout…. What did you say his name was? Harry Potthoff.
He
paid Walter a visit on that fateful morning, and when he and Walter couldn’t come to terms on the sale of the book, well, that scoundrel simply slipped cyanide in Walter’s coffee.”

I shook my head. “Pudgy may be a scoundrel…but a murderer? Besides, he’s way too obvious…. Would never happen in a Perry Mason.”

Of course, Perry Mason would never fall asleep in the middle of a consultation.

Mother put her hands on her hips, new and old. “All right then, Little Miss Smarty-pants, who do you think
did
do it?”

I frowned in thought. “Why not suicide?”

“
What?
Why, that’s utterly ridiculous! Explain.”

We were at the elevator now.

“Think about it,” I said, “Mr. Yeager’s health was failing. He realized that what little money he had left—money he wanted to go to Chaz—would get gradually eaten away by medical bills. Or maybe not so gradually. Anyway, that morning, while Chaz was at her boyfriend’s, Yeager swallowed cyanide, believing his death would be blamed on another heart attack.”

Mother seemed skeptical. “And the Tarzan novel?”

I pushed the button to summon the elevator. “Well, obviously, Yeager
did
sell it to someone, and somewhere there’s got to be proof of that.”

Mother raised a forefinger. “Or perhaps
Chaz
sold the book, and is afraid to mention it because it would look like a good
murder
motive!”

“Which,” I said glumly, “it is.”

Our ride arrived and we stepped onto an empty elevator. But it was slow going down, the elevator stopping on every floor, filling up with employees heading out for lunch, and soon Mother and I were the two sardines pushed farthest back in the corner of the can.

Mother, quiet until now, blurted, “I
still
think the book scout killed him!”

A dozen or so pair of eyes looked our way, and I smiled back with a nervous laugh. “Audio book we’re listening to. Agatha Christie?
Murder Is Easy
?”

Mother tsk-tsked. “And what a
horrible
way to die! One might think swallowing cyanide is relatively painless, but the horrible reality is something otherwise….”

I tried pinching Mother, but couldn’t get my fingers through her thick girdle.

“…first your heart stops, then your face turns
purple
and your eyes
bulge
out—”

I stepped on Mother’s shoe and her eyes bulged out as she went
“Yowwww!”
particularly loud, because that was the foot with the corn.

The elevator door whooshed open, revealing the lobby, and everyone around us scurried off like
Titanic
passengers looking for a lifeboat.

Mother, hobbling off the elevator, asked crossly, “Was that really necessary?”

“Was describing the effects of cyanide poisoning really necessary?”

Mother grunted, but made no other protest or defense.

Outside, a ticket thumbed its nose at us from the windshield of my poor defenseless car.

“Oh, come
on!
” I said. “We weren’t in there
that
long!”

Mother smiled triumphantly. “Perhaps in the future this will teach you to allow
me
to handle the parking meter problem, dear.”

“From now on,” I said disgustedly, “it’s all yours,” grabbing the yellow ticket off.

Want to hear something
completely
despicable? Some cities have installed so-called “smart” parking meters that sense when a car vacates its space, and if there’s any time left on the meter, it resets itself! How petty can you get?

I’m with Mother; bring on the slugs.

This was the first chance we’d had to restock our booth with our flea market finds, and with Christmas fast approaching, the holiday items we’d scored had a short shelf life—specifically a set of bubble lights from the 1940s (with questionable wiring that I hoped wouldn’t set some buyer’s real tree on fire), a 1950s bank of a sleeping Santa in an easy chair, and a set of four wax candle carolers.

With the help of Red Feather, my Indian spirit guide—who is good at getting me parking places, but whose magical powers apparently do not extend to avoiding expired meters—I managed to nab a free thirty-minute loading zone spot in front of the downtown antiques mall. Which almost made up for the earlier ticket.

Almost.

I retrieved our box of collectibles from the back of the car, and we entered the Victorian, turn-of-the-last-century brick building with its ornate facade and unique corner-set front door.

The old four-story structure had a checkered past, several former owners having died under unusual circumstances; but the new owner, Raymond Spillman, had had the building blessed by a priest before moving in—Mother insisted a “reliable source” had told her a full-scale exorcism had been performed—and so far, so good.

Ray—as everyone called him—was a small, spry man in his late seventies, with a slender build, thinning gray hair, bright shining eyes, bulbous nose, and a slash of a mouth. Mother claimed he’d graduated from high school with her, but since Mother keeps adjusting her age downward, it was becoming increasingly hard to find anyone over sixty-five who hadn’t been in her (nonspecified) graduating class. (Mother attends all class reunions from 1941 through 1948.)

At the moment, there were few customers in the vast antiques mall, perhaps due to the lunch hour, but Ray—a former sewing machine salesman—was busy, nonetheless, at the center circular checkout station. He was working on an antiquated Singer with its parts laid out neatly on the counter, a surgeon preparing to put back the innards of a patient.

According to Mother (who would share with me all sorts of worthless information when I was a captive audience stuck behind the wheel of the car), Ray had once been a womanizer and a “drunkard,” but when his first grandchild was born, he turned into a dry model citizen.

Look, if I have to listen to her worthless information, so do you.

Mother chirped, “Good afternoon, Ray…aren’t you looking fit as a fiddle! Have you been taking some kind of youth serum?”

Mother always laid it on thick with the widower, hoping not to spike romantic interest, but in search of a bigger dealer discount.

Ray’s cheeks turned as red as Santa Claus’s suit. “Oh, Vi-Vivian…hell-hello.”

Mother continued. “Come now, Ray,
admit
it! You could pass for sixty…. Couldn’t he pass for sixty, Brandy?”

I hated it when she pulled me into her blarney, so instead I asked, “How are Mother and I doing this month, Ray?”

Meaning, sales in our booth. I was counting on a good payday to cover all my Christmas charges, and avoid the stiff interest rates.

Ray smiled, showing stained teeth, a byproduct of the ever-present bottle of Cola-Cola always within his reach; one was on the counter right now.

“Everyone’s having a record month!” he relayed happily.

Mother beamed and so did I. “How wonderful!” she replied. Then, innocently, she added, “Could I take the teensy-weensiest peek at the ledger book?”

Ray didn’t use a computer, keeping track of sales by hand. But his wary expression said he saw through Mother’s apparently offhand request.