A Killing in Antiques (17 page)

 

I drove away. At Coney Island, filling my face with hot dogs, savoring the sauce that makes them Coney’s own, I ruminated over the situation. Monty had not been murdered for the cash he carried. Then why? No matter which way I looked at it, a motive eluded me.

Nor could I see a way to connect that early incident with his murder. Matt had pointed out that handling stolen antiques was not the same thing as stealing antiques. But Monty was caught with the goods and was mixed up in that mess somehow. I agreed that he had put it behind him. I had seen him operate for years.

His sudden interest in an alarm system was interesting, though. It was as if he was expecting today’s break-in. I turned it over in my mind as I drove away.

W
hen I got back to Boston I drove directly to Chinatown. The streets were crowded with people strolling in the mild weather. I circled the area for twenty minutes before finding a semi-legal parking space, and made it into Run Run just as they were locking the door for their seven thirty closing time. A young Chinese woman let me in. She smiled sweetly, and locked the door when I was inside. I was happy that I didn’t have to search out Hamp’s second choice, and relieved that she didn’t turn surly at my late arrival. She noticed my dithering and helped me find everything on Hamp’s list. When she let me out of the place, fifteen minutes later, she was still smiling. Ah, the harmony of the Eastern spirit.

I had eaten enough food throughout the day to keep several families nourished, but the aromas from a neighborhood full of Chinese restaurants overcame me, and I stopped at the Imperial Pearl for an order of steamed dumplings. The sky was dark but the streets were brightly lighted, still full of people, when I waddled back to the car.

When I got there I found that some idiot had doubleparked, blocking my car, so that I couldn’t get out of my space. I banged on the horn for twenty minutes before two young Asian men came bounding out of a building across the street. They were laughing and talking to each other and pointedly ignoring me as they headed for the vehicle that had trapped me.

They were identically dressed in glossy silk suits sporting unnaturally wide shoulders, long jackets, and tapering pants reminiscent of old-time zoot suiters. I muttered at them to get a move on, and they both flipped me the bird as their car rolled away, but it was too late—I had already waffled regarding the harmony of the Eastern spirit.

When I got into the apartment there were no messages under the door. Splendid. I buzzed around the place for a short while, gathering my things for the next day. A small gym bag would do for my trip back to the Cape tomorrow night. I placed the vase on the marble mantel. It was so striking that I was inspired to get some cleaning things out. I gave the vase, the mantel, and the outside of the fireplace a better cleaning than they’d ever had during our time there.

It didn’t take me long. I don’t waste much time on housework at home, or in the little apartment. For some reason, though, I never mind cleaning and polishing my inventory at the shop. Since I’ve opened my own business, I’ve become acquainted with cleaning products that I never dreamed existed. I made a note to myself to bring the little can of marble polish from the shop back here so I could give the fireplace a real treat.

I called Natalie again, but when her answering machine came on I didn’t bother leaving another message. I thought about calling Hamp, but he had something on his mind, and had little to talk about lately, so the rest of the evening was mine.

The opened can of tomato juice was chilled tonight, but it tasted a little tinny after sitting overnight in the fridge. I added a charge of vodka, and with the drink in hand I treated myself to a nice long soak in the tub. Comforting. Then, wrapped in the shabby terry-cloth robe that I keep at the apartment, I burrowed into the ancient wingback chair, feeling splendidly relaxed.

I pulled a bunch of receipts from the past few days out of my purse, and sorted through them in an attempt to do some bookkeeping. This is the part of owning a small business that I like least: the paperwork. Maintaining and updating lists of inventory, of buying and selling prices, of expenses while hunting, all of this is bothersome and I see little point in it. I buy stuff. Then I sell it. Isn’t that enough to keep track of?

Dealers frequently “forget” to give receipts, especially in receipt of cash. This is against IRS rules, and accounting rules, and against the rules at Brimfield. It’s another thing that’s almost impossible to enforce, however, and I have yet to see or hear of anyone doing something about it.

When a dealer forgets, I make a little self-sticking note for my own record keeping. Our accountant has told me that as long as these receipts do not constitute an unreasonable portion of my record keeping, it’s okay. I’ve agreed with him, but I’m not sure we define “reasonable” the same way.

I went through the slips, occasionally scribbling a more detailed description of the object. I also asterisked a few receipts to remind myself to photograph them later. Decorators often want me to mail photos before they drive out to the Cape.

My mind drifted away from the task at hand, however, and I thought instead about Monty. Not a robbery victim after all. Someone had murdered him for reasons even more odious than good old impersonal money. I thought about other motives: anger, fear, revenge. Soon the thinking stopped, and my own anger took over.

Whatever the killer’s motive, there in the dark, taking Monty’s life, he should be exposed. He should be examined in the daylight. He should have to “explain” to his peers, and to the rest of his world, the arrogance that allowed him to take another man’s life. The evil that now allows him to let another man stand accused of his crime.

My anger warmed my skin, but deep inside me, ice began to crystallize, and I realized that I needed to take part in the process that flushed Monty’s killer out into the daylight. I guess I’d known it all along, but I hadn’t wanted to deal with the problems it would create for me. I resolved to help solve Monty’s murder without putting myself, or anyone else, in danger.

It was eleven thirty when I realized that Baker may not know about the money in Monty’s pocket. I also wanted to ask if he knew about Monty’s old trouble. Baker writes a crime column in the
LIAR
. If he knew about that old situation, maybe he could enlighten me. I called his office rather than his home, and readied myself to leave a message, but he answered the phone.

“All of this is news to me,” he said. “I’ll see if I can find out more, but that’s a long time ago, and I didn’t start writing the crime column until the big heist at the Gardner Museum, so I missed out on Monty by a couple of years.”

“I’m sure we’re overlooking something that’s right under our noses,” I said.

“Maybe it has something to do with this candlestand,” he said. “I’ve just been looking at it. I’ve looked over every inch of it. It’s an excellent piece of workmanship. Butternut and cherrywood. Truly elegant in its simplicity. One of the drawers has been repaired, a fine job, glides open and closed smoothly. But there’s not a speck inside, or under, or between the drawers that tells me anything. I find nothing. Nothing except that it’s an exquisitely made piece of furniture.”

“Who knows what he was up to, Baker. Maybe the candlestand itself is the message.”

“I can’t think of what it might be saying, except that if he meant to interest me in Shaker furniture, he succeeded.”

But if Monty didn’t want to
sell
it to Baker, and if he only wanted Baker to hold it for him, was he hiding it? He had to be. So, was that what the burglar at Monty’s Contents was looking for?

O
rdinarily on a Brimfield Thursday I can sleep a civilized six hours, because the first opening is at nine. This time, helping Coylie, and tracking down Billy’s campsite neighbors, I’d make four hours do. But for the first time since Monty’s murder, I was sure I knew something.

The murder had, at first, seemed more complicated by the fact that Monty was not killed for his cash. This morning I realized that the actual motive, whatever it was, was personal. Had it been money, the killer might have been any stranger hiding in the crowd of thousands. This morning, after a brief but deep sleep, I could eliminate anyone who was a stranger.

Monty’s killer knew him. I was sure of it. That still left a large pool of suspects, but now the motive would tell the story. As soon as I figured out why, I’d know who, and I could do that without endangering myself or anyone else.

It also meant that I could avoid mentioning the murder to Hamp. After all, finding out a few facts, and then thinking about them, is hardly meddling in police business. I don’t like to worry him.

Before I left the apartment I phoned Natalie. It was early for social calls, but I figured it was a good time to catch her in. Wrong. Her machine answered again, but again I left no message. If she was on her way to Brimfield from the Berkshires, chances were that I’d run into her before the day was over.

I gathered my things for the Cape tonight. The small bag of clothes, Hamp’s ingredients, and a few other odds and ends took up very little room. I considered taking the cloisonné vase with me but decided to leave it on the mantel in the apartment, where I’d enjoy admiring it when I returned. I caught myself fantasizing about the vase, a “museum piece.” The phrase had become a joke between Monty and me.

“New museums should be opened hourly to house all of the objects spun into that category,” he said.

“I
like
believing that I’ll find a museum piece out there,” I’d said. “That’s half the fun of the treasure hunt.”

“But does it have to be a museum piece for you to enjoy it?” he asked. “Can’t you just enjoy an item because it is what it is? The phrase has become valueless.”

“Probably.”

“I myself keep a room full of museum pieces down at the museum—oops, I mean warehouse. And I invite you to come and select a few museum pieces for yourself.”

That was the first time he’d mentioned his antiques room at the used furniture warehouse. I’d already heard about it by then, and correctly sensed that he was about to allow me in.

“So what would you call an actual museum piece?” I’d asked, not willing to let the matter go.

“At a minimum, the object in question has to be in good shape for its age, or of the finest quality, or if that doesn’t apply, then it should be a very rare example of its kind.”

I’d never seen him so serious, but it didn’t last. He began naming things that had lately been called museum pieces. “Lava lamps, cabbage patch dolls, cutesy whiskey bottles, and while I’m at it, odd beer cans,” he said.

I caught the spirit and joined in.

“Plaster Elvis statues.”

“Franklin Mint coins.”

“Hummel figurines.”

“Commemorative Christmas plates.”

“TV show memorabilia.”

“Movie posters.”

“Hey, wait a minute,” I said. “People pay plenty of money for those old movie posters.”

“Sure they do, and they pay plenty for new ones, too, and all that other stuff. Then they squawk about the price of gas. Gas is what belongs in a museum,” he said.

“Museum piece” had become a code word between us. We laughed whenever it came up. He’d used it whenever he got the chance. Which was often.

“What about actual museums?” I’d asked.

“They’re full of phonies, including the geniuses running them,” he said.

But after that he usually announced himself with, “I’m here with a few museum pieces for you,” when he came into the shop.

Real museum pieces are as scarce at Brimfield as anywhere, and after the first opening rush has passed they’re almost nonexistent, at least for a dealer expecting to resell. Collectors with big budgets can still find treasure, but not at a killing. Nevertheless, I still harbored the thought, more of a wish, that the cloisonné vase was suitable for a museum.

 

I arrived at Brimfield as daylight broke, excited by my new outlook. I’d look at Monty’s murder from a new point of view, and I’d see the antiques marketplace from the other side.

I hadn’t really sold antiques here. On occasion, as I intended to do with the pedestal, I’d sold an item I’d just purchased. People here call that flipping. But I’d never rented a space and sold antiques from it.

I picked up the Normandy pedestal at Al’s barn, then drove to Coylie’s camping spot. I transferred the pedestal from the van to his truck, and he packed his tent and camping gear. While his booth was open today, he would camp there. I looked around the campsite.

I knew which tents I was interested in, tiptoed over to the closest, and stood listening to the low rumble of snoring. Not good. I didn’t have time to hang around this morning. I leaned forward and helloed a few times softly. I didn’t want to startle the guy, only to wake him. The snoring inside the tent stopped. I stood back and waited a few minutes. Nothing, then the soft buzz of easy snoring again.

Okay. I cleared my throat, tuned my voice, and then yoo-hooed my at-home-with-the-family wake-up call. The snoring stopped abruptly with a snort. I waited again. I was wondering if I should give it another shot when someone tapped me on the shoulder. I hadn’t heard him creep up behind me.

“It’s five o’fuckin’ clock, lady. What in hell are you tryna do? Run a train station out here?”

Startled, I swung around. He was huge, wearing baggy shorts and a T-shirt, and carrying an aluminum cane with a big rubber stopper on the bottom. I stepped back. The cane didn’t appear to be a weapon, but his mood was nasty.

“I just need some simple information.”

“You couldn’t wait for a decent hour to get this information?” he said, glowering.

I knew it was best not to offend him further. If he actually knew something, I wanted him to share it with me. I was about to begin some quick fence mending when the tent flap in front of me opened, and a fellow wearing striped pajamas and huge furry slippers appeared.