A Killing in Antiques (12 page)

“Good, good,” he said quickly. “Do me a favor. Pick up some ingredients in Chinatown tomorrow when you get back to Boston. I need them before my next lesson.”

He missed having someone to run his errands. “I’m not sure I’ll be back here before the markets close,” I said. Hamp was learning Chinese cooking from a colleague at the research center.

“If the markets are closed, Professor Chou says to go to the kitchen at the Happy Dragon and buy them there.”

Oh, great. Much as I enjoyed the new cuisine at our house, and especially the fact that I didn’t have to cook it, I didn’t feature rushing back to Boston tomorrow to hunt for dried lily buds and fermented black beans. Even so, I read the rest of the list back to him, and we hung up. We have our ups and downs, Hamp and I, but most of the time we’ve been lucky enough to enjoy a rich and loving relationship. We give each other plenty of room to develop our interests, but lately Hamp needs even more time to himself, and I find myself missing the easy intimacy that’s been ours for so long.

It was eleven o’clock. My day had begun more than twenty hours before. Not a standard day. I didn’t even unfold the sofa bed. Something was chewing at the corner of my mind. I couldn’t shake it, couldn’t bring it forward. I leaned back on the pillow. I hoped the day’s chaos wouldn’t keep me awake.

A
t four thirty the next morning, I surged out of a sleep so deep that parts of it were still slipping away as I sat on the edge of the sofa bed. Five hours of sleep leaves me looking for a nap on an ordinary day, but on a Brimfield day it is enough to exhilarate me throughout the hunt.

Late in the week the lack of sleep catches up with me. Mostly I can just about match my energy with the number of days left. I promise myself a forty-eighthour nap when Brimfield is over. The older I get, the truer that promise feels.

Today’s drive was lovely. The dawn came up behind me soon after I was on the road. Forsythia and jonquils looking recently past their prime attracted the day’s first sunlight and shimmered deceitfully in a flagrantly luminous dance, a final dazzling seduction before their botanical clocks ran out.

Everything was right for a great day of gathering treasure. Coylie waved me into a space next to his truck.

He danced around the door of my van as I parked. Something was up.

“Wait’ll you hear this,” he said. His eyes were round, and his pale face made the bright orange curls even more vivid. “I spent the night of the murder in the tent next to the killer.”

“Wow.” No wonder the kid was supercharged.

“And,” he said, dragging the word out several syllables, “I talked to him, just before he went off and murdered your friend.”

“Coylie, what are you talking about?” Why didn’t he tell me this before?

“Look. Look at this,” he said, and he dashed over to his spool table, grabbed a newspaper that he had put by for this moment, and showed me the front page.

“Holy shit,” I said. I couldn’t help it. There, plastered across the front page of the
Mid-State Chronicle
, for all the world to see, was Silent Billy’s face, big as life, along with a story that appeared to accuse him of the murder. This was terrible.

I tried to concentrate on the story in the paper, but I wanted to know what in the world Coylie was talking about. It took a little sorting out before I understood.

“Frankie had to go home,” Coylie said. “He was upset. We were pulling stuff out of his truck, tossing it into mine. It was a mess.”

“So, where does Billy come in?” Enough about Frankie’s bad luck.

“He was in the next tent, up at Jay Bean’s. They only charge three bucks a night to camp up there,” he said.

“Coylie, please, what happened with Billy?” I said.

“Okay, okay, I’m getting to it,” he said.

I squashed a flash of sarcasm; I really needed him to get on with his story.

“I was yelling back at Frankie. Maybe we got into a tussle. I had to get to work at the parking lot, but Frankie wanted to pack more stuff onto my truck. That’s when this guy, the murderer, stuck his head out of his tent and looked at us. He didn’t say anything for a minute, just watched us.”

I winced. Murderer. “Call him Billy. But, you said he spoke to you?”

“Yeah, sort of. I had to leave, and Frankie was tying down the stuff he had to take back to Scottsdale, both trucks were a mess. The kil—um, Billy saw something in the back of Frankie’s truck, and said, ‘Good stuff,’ or something like that. Me and Frankie thought he meant a painting, but turns out he meant the frame. It looked like a damaged frame to me, but by the time we figured that out, I had to leave.”

That was the story. All of it. Coylie had left Frankie and Billy talking about a broken picture frame. The end. So then Billy runs off and murders Monty. Okay. Or wait. Why was Frankie so worked up? Maybe
he
ran off and killed Monty. Thin, very thin.

“What time was that?” I asked.

“Just before I met you at the parking lot yesterday. Maybe ten minutes before we met.”

We thought about it, before four a.m. Could the time be important? Monty was still alive at four o’clock, when Mildred saw him.

“Any other campers up there?”

“A couple.”

“Are they still there?”

“Some. I’m staying until Thursday morning, myself.”

“Maybe I should talk to them.”

“I doubt they’re there right now. They’re probably standing in the six o’clock line. People have been heading that way for over an hour.”

I’d see the campers later; right now I’d head for the six o’clock opening. Today’s openings were staggered, and I had time for each, including second run-throughs.

I did my best to make up for yesterday’s lost time. I pored over furniture; I looked over shelves and tables loaded with things that were offered up as antiques. Plenty of junk mixed in with the real stuff.

Junk is not daunting. My eye eliminates it, and any other object that doesn’t fit my requirements. Today nothing slipped by me. I was methodical. I was determined. I executed a meticulous search. I was good, my mind completely engrossed in the hunt.

Time did its thing and I did mine. I filled Supercart and hurriedly emptied it into the van; I’d arrange things later. I’d have plenty of help today. Every time I dropped off a load of goodies I felt a wave of energy, my step lightened, and all was right with the world.

My second run-through was productive, too. The second time through is easier. Negotiations may become extended, but the buying and the selling is more relaxed. Here’s where I can allow myself to shop for vintage costume jewelry. I can’t do that on a first run, when time is of the essence. When jewelry shopping, I get so carried away that I forget about the time.

I unfolded Supercart’s counter and studied this morning’s collection. A fine assortment that nearly filled a gallon-sized plastic baggie. Antique and vintage costume jewelry is a relatively new avenue for me. I started collecting it a few years back, when I wanted a few pieces for myself. I meant to jazz up the black dresses I wear to camouflage my, ahem, fat. I’d been offended when the kids referred to the simple black dresses in my wardrobe as my vampire-wear.

When other women admired the jewelry I wore, I’d put a few pieces into the antiques shop, and the response had amazed me. Costume jewelry takes no room, it brings customers back, and it’s far more profitable than other tiny items. Hamp had been dismayed when I sold a piece of it right off my dress to the dean’s wife at a faculty party.

I still use jewelry to camouflage the black dresses that camouflage the fat, but now I also tuck it into little spaces around the shop; a pillow stuck with rhinestone pins, a cut glass bowl filled with pearls, an old brown velvet hat covered with cameos. Wine goblets full of amethyst, amber, or jet. Little surprises waiting to be discovered as one browses among the real antiques.

Today’s search had gone so well that I’d finished fine-combing the field earlier than I’d expected. With a little free time before the nine o’clock opening, I trotted toward one of the fields that I’d missed yesterday. The crowd was thinner. The sun had ripened the morning, and the fickle New England spring was inspiring false hopes that it was here to stay. The sky was blue and cloudless, the air polluted only by the gossip about Silent Billy.

The murder, its early shock value defused, was now reduced to the status of small talk. Still, it was the first item mentioned in most conversations.

The news from those in the know, and this morning that seemed to be everyone, was that Silent Billy was guilty. People, on the basis of hearing about his quirky quietness, had overwhelmingly concluded that Billy was a “head case.” Therefore, the reasoning went, he must be the killer, because, “Guys like that, they live on the edge, y’know. They snap.”

Occasionally someone would pronounce Billy innocent, but risking a jury selected from the peers that were kicking around Brimfield today would be perilous indeed. I’d call Matt later today to see if he had been able to get Billy released. He hadn’t sounded absolutely certain on the phone last night.

Billy’s lack of conversational skills was no reason to hold him for murder. The police had to abide, to some degree, by the probable-cause restrictions. And collecting lace was a new one to me. I’ve always been interested in linens and lace myself, but I’ve only known Billy to be interested in restoring and refinishing furniture. I didn’t think he collected anything. I suspect that he views furniture restoration as his work, not his hobby.

 

Billy’s situation teased at my mind as I scanned the booths I passed. I didn’t expect to see anything I wanted. Here, on the day after a field has opened, it’s often items of lesser value that remain, or items more commonly found. Sometimes what looks genuine turns out to be flawed, or a repro, or to have some other problem, and that’s why it remains.

This is common knowledge among experienced sellers, and many move out of tents opened the previous day into fields not yet opened, getting two or more opening rushes at their inventory. Most fields have a rule against moving “prematurely,” and sellers sometimes have to guarantee that they’ll stay open for the duration of the field’s selling days.

But what’s common knowledge is never one hundred percent true. A smattering of sellers handle
only
exceptional items. They attract buyers by always carrying the best, and I was headed for a booth that was exceptional, always. The Andersons would be in their usual spot. They transport a premier collection of American art pottery here year after year.

The pottery is sublime, chiefly from the old Ohio Valley potteries. Always beautiful, and of excellent quality; their prices are top of the line. They have been featured in all of the slick shelter magazines, and with good reason.

I approached their booth, happy to see that both Andersons were there. We greeted one another in the Old Home Week style popular in Brimfield. We hugged, we kissed, we declared how wonderful it was to see one another again after all this time. We probably all wondered why, if we were such good friends, we didn’t ever get in touch with one another between antique shows.

“I’d like a Normandy jardinière, a large one, to place on a wonderful Roseville pedestal I bought yesterday,” I said.

“I’d like one, too,” Jane said. “But no can do. We don’t have a single Normandy item, of any size.”

“Rats.” It had been a long shot.

“The only Normandy we opened with was a small pair of wall pockets, and they went in the opening rush yesterday,” Jane said. “We have what’s here in the booth, but there’s also some stock you can look at in the truck. We hold some things back, so we can put out fresh items each day we’re here.”

“But,” Dick added, “when a collector, or a serious buyer, rather than a browser, shows up, we offer them a look into the back of our truck.”

I wondered how they could tell a browser from a serious buyer. I never can. “I will peek into the truck,” I said. “But it’s the jardinière that I’m really after.”

“What’ll you take for the pedestal?” Dick asked, as he gave me a hand up into the truck.

A good question. The pedestal had been an excellent buy. I’d paid three hundred dollars for all seven pieces of pottery. If I could show the pedestal with a matching jardinière, I could expect to turn a nice profit. I’d probably ask fifteen hundred dollars, which I’d discount for certain customers. But how long would it take me to find a jardinière, and how much would I sell him the pedestal for? I should have been ready for that question.

“I’m not sure I want to sell it without the jardinière,” I said.

“I’ll give you five hundred for the pedestal alone,” he said.

“Not until I’ve given the search for a jardinière a whirl,” I said. I may not find one at Brimfield this week, but sooner or later, I’d meet up with one. I hesitated, trying to figure out my chance of acquiring a matching jardinière.

“Six,” he said. “But that’s my best offer, and it has to be in good condition.”

“Okay,” I said. Better not to be too greedy. “But it’s in storage. I can bring it back here tomorrow if you’d like. It’s in perfect condition.”

“I’ll take it,” he said, and I was on my way.

 

I made it to the next opening a little late and had to rush in behind the sharpest buyers. I zipped by several booths before finding one that drew me in. It specialized in decorative metal objects: brass, bronze, and some cloisonné. The display was a mix of styles and periods. There was an interesting collection of American Art Deco from the twenties and thirties, none earlier, and an exquisite display of old Oriental bronze and cloisonné objects. An odd combination, I thought, but nice.

I picked up an Oriental vase, bronze with a design of concentric rings. I was about to put it down because the asking price was so high, when I noticed the rim of another vase peeking out of a cardboard box on the tent floor. Despite what I thought I was seeing, I didn’t lunge at it. I sauntered over and poked around a bit, with all of the indifference I could muster.