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Authors: Barbara Allan

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BOOK: Antiques Swap
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“What was his motive for killing Mrs. Fowler?”
Mother grinned like the Joker. Well, maybe a little crazier. “Ah . . . that one is
easy
!”
“Really?”
“Let's assume Gladys was telling the truth at the preliminary hearing, when she said she saw Wes come home, then leave again . . .”
“Assume away.”
“. . . and let's further assume
Wes
was telling the truth when he told you that Gladys tried to blackmail him by offering to change her testimony for cash.”
“Still with you.”
Her eyes danced. “So why didn't he pay her off
then,
before the hearing?”
I shrugged. “No idea.”
“Because, dear, he
wanted
Gladys Fowler to testify against him.”
“
What?
Why?”
Mother had that
cat that ate the canary
smile going. “So that there would be sufficient evidence for him to be bound over for trial.”
“Why on earth would Wes
want
to go to trial?”
“So he could beat the rap. One cannot be tried twice for the same murder. The double-jeopardy rule.”
I put a hand to my forehead, as if taking my own temperature. “Whoa . . .
I
get it. Before the trial, Gladys would have either been paid off, or found dead in her bungalow.”
“I knew you could think it through, dear, given half a chance. It's not like you're dense.”
“Thanks a lot.”
She raised a forefinger. “But our esteemed attorney Wayne Ekhardt tripped up Mr. Wesley Sinclair, by discrediting Gladys Fowler at the preliminary hearing.”
“Wes hadn't figured on the old warhorse coming through in the race,” I agreed. “He figured Mr. Ekhardt was past his prime, and
that's
why he picked him. When the time came for the trial, he'd have brought in a top out-of-town gun.”
Mother gestured with open hands. “After the preliminary hearing, Gladys undoubtedly approached Wes again for money, and this time he
did
pay her off. In cash.”
“And who was it that said blackmailers always want more?”
“Probably Erle Stanley Gardner, dear. But after reflection, possibly spurred by my investigation, the time came not only to pay Mrs. Fowler off, but to get rid of her once and for all.”
“And I became his alibi.”
“Yes, dear. You did.”
We fell silent for a moment. Then Mother picked up the beer stein. “If Wes used this to kill Vanessa, he most certainly will want it back.”
I shook my head. “Not if there isn't any forensic evidence, he won't.”
Mother smiled slyly. “Why, were you planning to tell him there isn't? Because, dear, it's not very likely he knows.”
My cell rang and it was Tony with just the news we'd been waiting for: the beer stein in our possession indeed was absent from any of the crime scene photos.
“We have him,” Mother said. “Or at least, we will, very soon.”
 
Just past the witching hour, huddled in the dark behind the shop counter, were Mother, Tony, and I, sitting Indian-style on the floor, waiting for someone to break in.
For once, Sushi was absent—her barking at an intruder would not be desirable here.
Tony was leaning back against the wall, and I was leaning next to him. He was in uniform, having come from work to pick me up at the shop. I'd had a surprise for him.
He said in my ear, “When you asked if I wanted to spend the night, you forgot to mention it'd be
here,
with Vivian in the mix.”
I whispered back, “Sorry. Couldn't be sure you'd go along with our little scheme.”
He grunted. “Not sure I should be.”
“Well, if it works, you might be chief again.”
“If it doesn't, I might be a security guard somewhere.”
“Not at Sinclair Consolidated, you won't.”
“Good point.”
Around noon, I had called Wes on his cell.
“What is it, Brandy?” he'd asked icily.
In the background I could hear restaurant chatter and clatter.
“Wes,” I said, “I'm
really
sorry about last night.” Referring, of course, to the Eight of Clubs gathering in the Executive Suite. “But it did lead to Sean confessing he attacked Mother, and you can understand why that's a good thing from our point of view.”
“And you can understand why I don't share your point of view,” he snapped. “Look I'm in the middle of lunch with Travis. Maybe—”
“This is something that doesn't have anything to do with what's been going on. Will you listen for a second?”
“. . . All right.”
I explained about the fancy beer stein Dumpster Dan had found over a week ago, and that we had just bought it for our shop.
“I know you have a really incredible collection of beer steins,” I said, “and hoped you might be willing to tell us what we should ask for it.”
“What's it look like?”
“Pewter, about six inches high, running boars. I can e-mail you a photo.”
“Ah . . . yeah. Sounds interesting. Do that. I can access it on my phone.”
He called right back, his tone far friendlier now.
“Brandy, that beer stein goes for two hundred dollars and up. The market's a little soft right now, but I'll gladly give you three.”
“Really?”
“Sure. It'll make a super addition to my collection.”
“That'd be great. Oh, but Mother promised a regular customer a first looky-loo tomorrow morning. But if we price it at the three hundred you've offered, he might pass. And if he doesn't want it, it's yours.”
“Kind of you, Brandy.”
“Consider it an olive branch.”
“Do you have the stein there at the shop?”
“Yes. You want to come by for a better look?”
“No, I've got meetings all afternoon. Just let me know tomorrow, if your customer passes.”
“You got it,” I replied, and ended the call.
Now we three were waiting in the dark, our trap baited with the beer stein positioned prominently on the counter, easily visible through the two front windows.
Mother and I felt reasonably sure that Wes would come in through the front, the house being set back from the residential street, its low porch overhang providing dark cover. In back, an alley-pole light directly behind the structure shone brightly. Still, the rear door was a possibility, so we would stay alert. Either way, we were tucked behind the counter out of sight.
“I'm not sure he'll show at all,” Tony said softly.
“Oh, he'll be along,” Mother said.
“I don't know. He's a businessman, isn't he? He'll figure the shop will have a security system.”
Mother shook her head. “But we didn't set it.”
Tony goggled at her. “And he's to know that how?”
“Tish-tosh. Even with a security system, he'll look through that window, see the beer stein on the counter, break in, grab it, and make his getaway, long before anyone can react to an alarm, silent or otherwise.”
“Vivian . . .” Tony began, irritably.
But I said, “Quiet, you two. Do you want to talk over the break-in?”
As the hours began to pass, Mother's optimism seemed to wane, and she fell asleep, her snoring thankfully subdued in her sitting position. I rested my head on Tony's shoulder and soon was visiting the Land of Nod myself.
Suddenly Tony nudged me awake.
I nudged Mother, who snorted to alertness.
The beam of a flashlight light-sabered through a front window, moving slowly across the room, scanning the area, then settling on the beer stein on the counter just above us.
At the sound of breaking glass, Tony moved into a crouch, getting his gun out. Then the revolver was in one hand and mag light in the other.
Fear spiked through me, and Mother looked electrified, eyes wide and glistening behind large lenses, waiting eagerly for what would happen next.
The door opened. Footsteps broached the short distance to the counter. A black-gloved hand reached for the beer stein, then picked it up, and that's when Tony stood.
“Right there is fine.”
I heard a startled yelp, then two
clunks,
which must have been the beer stein and Wes's flashlight hitting the floor.
Mother, disobeying Tony's orders to remain hidden till an arrest had been made, Jack-in-the-boxed up.
“Well, heavens to Murgatroyd!” she exclaimed. “It's Travis Thompson!”
I stood, too, surprised to see that the intruder caught in Tony's mag-light beam was in fact the real estate developer, his rugged features catching noir-ish shadows in the harsh illumination.
“Hands on the counter,” Tony said, gun trained on the guy.
Travis complied, as Tony moved around to pat him down.
Mother crossed to a wall switch, turning on the overhead light.
Tony—his search bringing forth no weapons, the intruder's pockets empty—put an annoyed-looking, vaguely embarrassed Travis in handcuffs, then stepped back and read him his rights.
Then Tony said, “Of course, Mr. Thompson, if you'd like to explain yourself, we're glad to listen.”
Travis shook his head scowlingly, eyes on the floor. “Not saying a word without my lawyer.”
“Your privilege. You can call him from the station.” Tony looked my way. “Leave everything as is. I'll send someone over to take photos of the broken window and the beer stein.”
The latter was on the floor, looking none the worse for the trip.
He gave us a small, tight smile. “Looks like we have our killer.”
Tony escorted Travis out, and Mother and I followed, watching from the porch in frowning confusion as he put the real estate developer in the backseat of his unmarked car at the curb.
As Tony drove off with his charge, I asked, “So were we
wrong
about Wes?”
“Apparently so. But we did catch the killer.”
“
Did
we?”
She turned my way, still frowning. “What troubles you, dear?”
“Probably the same things that're troubling you, if you'll admit it. Let's start with Travis's reaction. Shouldn't he have been scared?”
Mother shrugged. “He
was
scared. He yelped.”
“Sure, in surprise. But I mean,
after
that. It was more like he was . . . mad.”
“What perpetrator
wouldn't
be, falling into a clever trap like the one we set? Anything else, dear? Let's not kick victory in the teeth.”
“Why wasn't Travis carrying any car keys?”
She had to think about that for a few seconds. Then: “Likely because he left them in the ignition, for a fast getaway.”
“With the car doors unlocked? And risk it being stolen? And do you see a car out there with its motor running?”
Mother's eyes popped. “I've got it! He didn't have keys because—”
“
Somebody drove him.
Right.”
I trotted down the porch steps and out to the front walk, where I looked up and down the street.
The houses were dark and quiet, owners snug in their wee little beds, oblivious to the dramatic doings that had just taken place in our shop.
The cars on the street were parked nearly bumper to bumper, silently slumbering like metallic beasts.
But then one of those beasts awoke, a particularly sleek one, its dash and headlights snapping on, the vehicle pulling away from the curb, engine roaring as it sped past.
I called back to Mother. “That was Wes's
Jaguar! He
brought Travis! To do
his
bidding!”
Mother was at my side in an eye blink. “It's just like that scoundrel to let one of his pals do his dirty work for him.”
“Actually, this is the first time. He really
did
kill his wife and Mrs. Fowler.”
“I believe you're right, dear . . . but tonight he sensed the possibility of a trap . . . and sent a stalking horse in to cover that contingency!”
My cell call to Tony went straight to voice mail, so I called the dispatcher to get word to him.
Mother was saying, “We mustn't let Wes get away! He saw Travis being taken to the station. And as we Brits say, he'll do a runner.”
No time to remind Mother she wasn't a Brit.
I said, “He must be heading to the airport.”
“To the Batmobile, dear!”
Suddenly I was Burt Ward again.
“What about the shop? Lock it up?”
“Never mind—the photographer will be here presently. Now chivvy along, dear!”
Maybe she was British at that. Have to take a closer look at the Danish family tree....
The Caddy was parked a few blocks up the hill on a quiet side street, the classic ride's convertible top up, to (as Mother put it) “prevent mischief from thieves and vandals.” It took a few minutes to get there because Mother wasn't moving as fast as once she had—not since her double hip replacement.
Then I was behind the wheel, Mother riding shotgun, heading toward the riverfront, then barreling south on River Road.
Even with pedal to the metal, getting to the Municipal Airport would take ten minutes, anyway. And Wes might well be long gone. Still, we had to try. . . .
We were singularly quiet as we sped along, the rolling bluffs turning to flat farmland, headlights cutting through the night like lasers.
BOOK: Antiques Swap
11.54Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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