Read Going Through the Notions (A Deadly Notions Mystery) Online
Authors: Cate Price
Going Through the Notions (A Deadly Notions Mystery) (13 page)
“Seven, seven, now ten, will you give me ten?”
It was amazing how many different ways there were to bid. One guy slid his eyeglasses down his nose a fraction, one raised his eyebrows, another waved his bidder card, someone else nodded, and someone called out “yes.”
Right now, she was pacing, yelling, “Will you go ten-dollar bid? You want it, Tommy Allebach? Yeah? You
got
it, baby!”
I smiled to myself. I knew she’d have the right personality for this. She was popular in town, confident, sharp, and could think on her feet. She was having fun now with the people in the crowd. Angus had been good at that, too—a gentle mixture of teasing, pushing, and prodding to drive the bidding with the dealers and regular customers.
She pointed to the Waterford bowl that Sarah carried. “Tommy, I think you should take this one. How about fifty? Don’t be cheap now!” She waved her hammer back and forth between two bidders.
“Fifty, now fifty, now seventy-five, thank you, how about eighty, eighty? I sold it at seventy-five! Bidder number 43, you are a lucky man!”
Now that she had her sea legs, she blazed through the smalls and was on to the bigger items, her cheeks flushed, and her patter smoother and more rapid fire. A smoking stand was first, a pair of end tables, then the grandfather clock, which sold for a good price, a train set, and now the set of wooden golf clubs, which sparked a huge bidding war. Once the bids started going above three hundred dollars, I kicked Joe gently in the ankle, but it was like calling a dog that was chasing a cat and had lost the ability to hear its owner. Finally it got too rich even for his blood, and the set eventually sold for well over five hundred. If Betty was giving Patsy a percentage of the commission, she was in the money tonight.
Next up was a vintage Sew-O-Matic child’s toy sewing machine in the original box. I snapped to attention. You had to be on point to get what you wanted.
“Come on, folks, don’t pass it up, do I hear ten?”
I waved my card. There was a short skirmish between me and another woman at the end of the next row, until I bid twenty-five dollars and she backed out.
“Going to let it go for twenty-five,” Patsy called. “Here we go,
sold
to bidder 21!”
She grinned at me as she brought the hammer down with a satisfying crash.
Twenty-five dollars was a good deal. I’d ask at least seventy-five for it in the store. I gripped my bidder number. The thrill of a winning bid was a high like no other.
The items came faster and faster now, and my wins were piling up. A Hepplewhite blanket chest sponge-painted orange and red in a tulip design, a primitive spinning wheel, a Topsy Turvy Doll, and two vintage hatboxes.
Finally it was time for my beloved dollhouse. My pulse was racing hard and I fanned myself quickly with the bidder card. Once the bidding started, you had to be careful with any sudden movements.
Patsy wiggled her fingers in a “come to me”–type motion, and I started the bidding. The woman I had been butting heads with all night called out seventy-five; I took a deep breath and went to a hundred. She topped me at one hundred and twenty-five. My absolute limit was one-fifty, and that might be too much.
Damn it, I really wanted this dollhouse.
“Two hundred!” someone yelled from the back of the room, and I spun around in my seat to see Fiona Adams raise her bidder card.
I gritted my teeth. “Two-ten!”
“Two-twenty!” Fiona’s smile was triumphant.
I ignored Joe’s murmur to let it go.
“Two-thirty!” I yelled.
Patsy stood helplessly, her hammer hanging in her hand.
As Fiona opened her mouth to make another bid, Martha sailed down the aisle, carrying a drink pitcher. Suddenly she stumbled, her ankle twisting in her high-heeled sandal, and the plastic jug flew out of her hand, splashing red Kool-Aid all down Fiona’s expensive white suit.
Patsy grabbed the microphone, and spoke faster than she ever had in her life. “Two-thirty, any other bids, all done, all through, at two-thirty.
Sold!
To bidder number 21!”
The crash of the hammer snapped Fiona Adams out of her shock.
“Goddamn it, I wanted it, I wanted it,
I
wanted it!” She stamped her foot, screaming like a two-year-old having a meltdown. “You stupid, clumsy
bitch!
”
Martha backed away, making apologetic sounds to no avail.
“Look what you’ve done, you idiot!” she cried, gesturing to her ruined outfit, where the red drink stain was a bloody gash across the snowy white. She looked like something out of a 1980s horror movie.
“Jesus Christ!”
There was a sudden hush over the crowd. There were plenty of good God-fearing people in attendance tonight—a lot of them Mennonites—and they were aghast at the Lord’s name being used in vain.
Or maybe they were wondering what their own native titan would do. But Martha was strangely silent, staring in fascination at this train wreck of a seemingly sophisticated woman.
I knew the suit was ruined beyond repair. Kool-Aid had a food dye in it, which meant the designer outfit was toast, but Fiona was beyond caring, lost in a world of her own as her fury exploded to a nuclear level. As I watched her snarling, almost unrecognizable face, ranting and raving, and using language fit for a sailors’ convention, I wondered if this was how Angus acted when he said he saw red.
Could this rabid woman have seen Jimmy stealing the pens that were rightfully hers, and killed him in her rage?
But still, how could a woman, however crazy, have the strength to swing a heavy barn beam?
F
inally Cyril Mackey had evidently had enough. He marched over to Fiona and stood with his arms crossed, so close to her that she backed up a step.
“Ay up, that’s enough out o’ you,” he barked.
He handed Martha a piece of paper and a pen. “Write tha name and address down, lass.”
Martha instantly complied, and Cyril shoved it into Fiona’s hand.
“Send her t’ bill. She’ll pay you for them glad rags,” he said. “Now then, be off wi’ ye.”
Fiona glared at him, crushing the piece of paper between her long fingers, and even from this distance, I could see a green vein swelling on her high forehead. There was a moment when time seemed to stand still and everyone held their collective breath, before she spun on her heel and stalked out toward the lobby.
“Holy
crap
,” Patsy whispered down to me from the stage.
Luckily the dollhouse had been the last item up for bid, because the auction house was in complete pandemonium now. Released from the spell that had kept us frozen in place, everyone milled around, chattering excitedly. Joe and I rushed over to where Martha and Cyril stood.
Joe clapped him on the shoulder. “Cyril. Good job, my man.”
Cyril chuckled. I couldn’t remember ever seeing him smile before as he nodded toward the entrance where Fiona Adams had just marched out. “Good riddance t’bad rubbish.”
“Daisy, I see what you mean,” Martha gasped. “That woman is absolutely
crazy
.”
“Certifiable,” I agreed. “Now, was that really an accident with your pitcher?”
She winked at me. “I’ll never tell.”
Patsy jumped down from the stage, her curly dark hair damp from exertion and frizzing around her forehead. “Who
was
that insane chick? I’m so glad you got the dollhouse, Daisy. Wow! Tonight was incredible. Did you see how much stuff I sold?”
“Uh-oh.” I smiled at Betty and Sarah, who came over to join us. “I think she’s been bitten by the auction bug.”
“She did a real good job.” Betty’s face was smiling, free of the usual worried creases. “You all did.”
“Mom, you were awesome!” Claire rushed up and flung her arms around her mother’s waist.
“Thanks, sweet pea,” Patsy said, bending to wrap her in a hug. “How’d you make out in the snack bar?”
“It was
so
much fun! We sold out of all the popcorn and the ice cream. And I made seven dollars in tips.”
“Nice!” Patsy ruffled her hair. “Chip off the old block.”
“How about going back to my house for cocktails, everyone?” Martha called to the crowd. There was a chorus of cheers and high fives.
Sarah’s face lit up. “Sure!”
Joe looked at me inquiringly. “What do you say, Daisy? After moving all that stuff for days, a cold beer would really hit the spot.”
I nodded. “We’d love to.”
“Don’t worry, Eleanor,” Martha said. “I have the good gin on hand.”
“Then I’ll be there.” Eleanor twirled a wedding veil tiara around her finger.
Martha rolled her eyes at me. “Don’t do us any favors.”
Cyril was standing at the outer edge of the group, and he turned away as if he was about to leave. My heart constricted.
Martha hesitated for a second and then sniffed in his general direction. “You’re welcome to come, too, Mr. Mackey, if you’d like.”
Cyril smiled again, for the second time in years. “Aye, I would. I fancy a drink meself.”
“You’ll need to take that cap off before you enter my house, though.” Martha gestured to the tweed cap he always wore.
“Yes, missus.” Cyril whipped his cap off.
I was sure I was right about the fact that he’d been in the military at one time from the way he snapped to it when Martha gave an order. He recognized a commander-in-chief when he saw one.
I turned to Betty. “Are you coming? Would you like to ride with Joe and me?”
“No, thank you, Daisy. I’m tuckered out. I’m going to lock up here and go on home. You enjoy yourselves. Thank you again.” She gestured for Patsy to follow her to the office so she could pay her.
“Pick up your skirt, Henry,” Patsy called to a man I recognized as one of the diner regulars who was huffing as he helped maneuver the grandfather clock onto a dolly for transport. Joe, Sarah, and I made a couple of trips back and forth to the car with my loot, including the precious dollhouse.
Once back in Millbury, we parked the car outside our house, and walked a block off Main Street toward Hemlock Lane.
Martha’s house was a huge fanciful Victorian painted a deep rose, dusty pink, and cream. Red coral bells, oriental poppies, pink and red impatiens, and pale pink astilbe bloomed along the path that led up to the house. Near the porch, peonies nodded their heavy heads, almost done now for the season, and dianthus smelled like an open bottle of perfume in the still humidity of the evening.
The front door opened into an expansive foyer. In front of us, a wide staircase with dark oak steps and intricately carved banisters swept upstairs in a gorgeous arc. To the left, a hallway with an oriental runner led to the study, piano room, parlor, and powder room, and to the right was the grand living room, dining room, and finally the kitchen in the back with its French doors out to the garden.
Inside was cool blessed relief after the sweltering atmosphere of the auction building. Martha must have had the air-conditioning cranked up full blast. It had cost a fortune to retrofit into the old house with its steam-powered radiators, but to easily overheated Martha, it wasn’t an option, but a necessity.
People were already milling around and tropical salsa music was playing. We followed the sound of laughter and found Martha at one end of the long mahogany-paneled living room, struggling to open a bottle of Veuve Cliquot champagne.
Joe grinned as he surveyed the vast array of top-shelf liquors. “I swear, Martha, your bar is better stocked than the Bridgewater Inn. There’s anything you could want to drink here.”
“Except absinthe,” Eleanor said.
“
What?
What are you talking about?” Martha’s cheeks were still pink; she was obviously not quite cooled down, and therefore more than a tad irritable. “Who the hell drinks absinthe?”
“I do. But only when I’m entertaining special visitors at home.”
Martha and I looked at each other. Who was she entertaining with hallucinogenic alcohol?
Cyril smoothly extracted the champagne bottle out of Martha’s hands.
“Good God. My back is killing me,” she moaned, leaning against the bar and lifting one foot, like a voluptuous flamingo.
I glanced down at her high-heeled gold sandals. Not exactly typical chef’s footwear.
“And I’m
starving
. I had a small bowl of cereal this morning, and that’s all I’ve had to eat all day.” She gave an anxious look in the direction of the kitchen. “Oh, the appetizers! I almost forgot about them.”
“I can handle this,” Cyril said, gesturing to the bar. “Go see about yer food now.”
She fixed him with a hard stare. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”
“G’oer, lass. I know how to make a bloody drink.”
Joe and I sucked in a quiet breath at this show of insubordination, but Martha merely gave him one last pointed look and hobbled off to the kitchen.
“Personally I saw her consume two hot dogs, a glazed donut,
and
share a bowl of popcorn with Claire, but who’s counting?” Eleanor flipped an olive into her mouth.
Cyril opened the champagne with barely a hiss, served three people standing with champagne flutes at the ready, and quickly filled drink requests for a chardonnay for me, pinot grigio for Sarah, and a bottle of beer for Joe.
“Dry martini, darling,” Eleanor said to Cyril. “Gin. None of this vodka business. And just show it the vermouth.”
He made her drink and obediently waved the vermouth bottle near the V-shaped glass of chilled gin.
“Cheers.” Eleanor took a sip out of the brimming edge of her cocktail. “Well, I’m off to mingle.” She made a beeline for Chris Paxson and a group of his young friends.
Debby Millerton, the librarian, rushed over to take Sarah by the arm, while Cyril poured himself a shot of whiskey as he settled into a conversation with Joe about the latest Phillies game.
“Um, I think I’d better help Martha in the kitchen,” I said. Joe nodded absently as I drifted away.
Across the room, Chris Paxson and his friends were laughing at a story Eleanor was telling, and giving her appreciative looks. She had a drier sense of humor than her martini, and as I looked back at my dark horse of a friend, I wondered again how well we really knew anyone.
I made my way through the dining room to the expansive kitchen with its mahogany cabinets and granite countertops. The deep double sink was set into the pink and gray granite, and ornate gold faucets gleamed in the soft recessed lighting.
Martha was pulling a tray of hors d’oeuvres out of the oven as I walked in. I wondered how she’d had time to get them ready, until I spotted the telltale black and silver bags stuffed in the corner from Magic Plate Catering.
This party wasn’t as impromptu as she’d made it seem.
She followed my gaze and sighed. “You’ve found me out, Daisy. I was hoping people would come over after the auction, but I didn’t want to make a big deal about it. I haven’t had a get-together since Teddy died, and I didn’t know if I could pull it off by myself. I mean, what if no one came? That would be too embarrassing.”
“Martha, look at your house!” From the kitchen we could hear the laughter, music, and buzz of conversation. “It’s packed!”
A slow grin spread across her face. “It is, isn’t it?”
The affable Teddy Bristol had been a great host, loud and cheerful, like a party in a box all by himself. He’d adored Martha, spoiled her outrageously, and jokingly called her his trophy wife, even though she was only ten years younger. He had two sons from his first marriage, and Martha was like a doting aunt to them. They adored her, too, but they were both in the military, and so their limited time off was usually spent with their mother.
Her expression sobered again. “I miss Teddy so much. And the boys. I miss having someone to cook for, talk about the day with, and share the good times. And the bad.” She finished sliding the mini quiches and stuffed mushrooms onto a serving platter. “It gets lonely in this old house by myself sometimes.”
I put an arm around her shoulders. “I know.”
Martha was incredibly generous, and involved in lots of charity work, plus the Historical Society, but I decided she needed something more.
Some kind of big project to occupy her energy.
I added a mental note to my to-do list, which was getting longer by the minute.
I hugged her. “Well, I, for one, am grateful you decided to have a party. It was very brave of you. Besides, we
should
celebrate. We helped Betty hold a great auction, and to keep things going until Angus gets back.”
My words hung in the air. Martha didn’t comment, but I knew she thought I was on a fool’s errand trying to prove Angus’s innocence.
I carried a tray of hors d’oeuvres into the living room. As people helped themselves to the tidbits on my platter, I watched Cyril expertly wiping down the bar and filling a shaker with ice. From his fluid motions, I could see it wasn’t the first time he’d done this. What else had he done in the years between moving from Yorkshire, England, to winding up in our sleepy village?
Some of Martha’s neighbors called her over, and I couldn’t see Joe, so I wandered around with the hors d’oeuvres, catching snippets of conversation. Warren Zeigler was standing in the corner with his wife and another couple.
“Warren! Just the person I wanted to bump into.”
“Oh, yes?”
“Yes. What’s happening with Angus’s case? Any idea who the judge will be?” As I peppered him with questions, Warren waited patiently, his eyes calm behind his round-rimmed eyeglasses. I’m not a tall woman, but I was taller than him by a few inches. He looked a bit like a baby owl sporting a bow tie.
“The preliminary hearing is on Thursday. We’ll know more after that.”
