A Killing in Antiques (29 page)

The intake of breath from Monica, next to me, brought me back. We heard Wilson. “You have five seconds to tell me where that candlestand is.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Mr. Hogarth groaned.

“You’ve hidden it. Monty said he was putting it in the safest place.”

“It’s not here,” the old man said. “And neither is the pickle castor.”

“I know where the pickle castor is. Monty called a month ago and said he’d found it. I didn’t even remember it, I’d taken it so long ago. No one’s even looking for it by now. But Monty recognized it from one of my early museums.

“I went along with him, said I’d buy it back fair and square, then donate it back to the McGirr. I swore I never did it again, after that pickle castor. But when he came up with the candlestand a few days ago, he knew I was still at it, and I knew he could make big trouble.”

“It was you all those years ago,” Mr. Hogarth said.

“What does it matter? What’s done is done,” Wilson said, and he raised the flashlight over Mr. Hogarth’s head.

“Someone will figure it out,” Mr. Hogarth said.

“You lie, and what did you tell that busybody about the stolen artifacts?”

“I didn’t know about them until now. It was the box of lace that finally made me realize I’ve been wrong.”

The flashlight came down again on Mr. Hogarth. I had to do something. I knew I couldn’t overpower Wilson, and Monica and I together were not likely to be much better. But we might stall him long enough for the police to get here.

I turned to her. “I’ll go in this door and try to divert Wilson from the old man. Do you think you can slip into the back door of the house without being heard, and call the police? Then come into the shop and help me hold things down?”

“Sure,” she whispered. And without another word, she turned and disappeared into the dark along the side of the building.

I had to move. It was time to enter the shop. I took a breath. I didn’t know if Monica had made it into the house, but I had to open the door in front of me. I hoped that I wouldn’t have to break the glass to open it, and I was lucky. The silly thing was unlocked, and it opened quietly. So far, so good. I stepped into the shop, looking around for a weapon. Nothing in sight.

Wilson, his back toward me, hissed at the old man. His stance was rigid, his words strained.

“Do you think I’m going to let a bunch of junk collectors put me in prison over a few misplaced baubles? The minute those idiots get wind of goods taken from my museums, they’ll start looking at my fund-raising. I am not a crook,” he screamed.

Mr. Hogarth was slumped in the chair facing me. I was plainly in his sight line, but he didn’t bat an eyelash, didn’t change expression, didn’t give me away. “John, I’m so disappointed in you,” he said. He closed his eyes, and lowered his head, chin to chest. “I was so wrong about Monty all these years.”

Wilson raised his hand, the flashlight poised for another strike. “Where is that goddamned candlestand?”

I had to act before the flashlight came down on Mr. Hogarth again. I had no weapon. I knew I needed one, but I also needed to be quick. My anger surged, overwhelmed me, and for reasons I’ll never figure out, I screamed at him.

Did I think my scream would scare him to death, and that he’d stop this siege? Did I think he’d quit beating the old man, and then we could all sit down and discuss his hateful ways? In fact, I didn’t think at all. Furthermore, the instant I started screaming, he spun around and exploded at me. He struck out with the flashlight, with his feet, with his whole body.

The man’s face was electrified with fury. I felt myself thrown back against a table, and cracked in the head. I wanted to run away but couldn’t. Wanted to stop and figure out how to get out of this. Wanted him to stop hitting me. I felt light-headed. The cut on my forehead reopened; I felt blood running down my face.

But I kept screaming. I scratched, and screamed, and screamed, and screamed. I got him, too, with my fingernails. I could hardly see for the blood in my eyes, but I clawed out, and kept clawing, until I felt myself scratch across something terrible. Did I scratch his eye? My God, his eye. I think I got his eye.

Now it was Wilson screaming. Dear Lord, don’t let it be his eye. My stomach twisted.

He stepped backward and I jumped to my feet. With relief, I saw that Monica had slipped in from the house. She held an old metal lamp base, a perfect weapon. She held it like a baseball bat. Wilson swayed in front of me, and then he slid down on one knee, howling. I looked out through a bloody mist, and focused, just in time to see Monica swing the heavy metal lamp base into the space where Wilson had been, and into my face. Then I didn’t see anything.

I
’m sure I heard her whack Wilson in the head, too. I was conscious. She claims I was not, and that she was sure she had killed me. But I
know
I heard the sound of that lamp base as it whumped against his head. Furthermore, when the police arrived a few minutes later, Monica and I were both on our feet, clutching each other. Doesn’t that prove I was conscious?

We were both bleeding and hysterical. I, allegedly thanking her for breaking my nose, and she, just as allegedly thanking me for not being dead.

After a moment or two of confusion with the police about who was who, Mr. Hogarth, still tied to the chair, satisfied them that it was Wilson, still on the floor, whimpering, who had caused the mayhem we all wallowed in.

The whole business was extremely messy, and I’ve lost a tiny piece of my memory, but they say it should come back. I remember nothing of the ambulance ride to the hospital, or the celebration that everyone claims took place later in the emergency room, when Mr. Hogarth limped out of his cubicle, unaided, sporting a heavily bandaged head, and what was surely the beginning of a pair of black eyes.

The hospital summoned Hamp and Philip to bring us home, and I avoided questions by faking sleep when they arrived, but before long I must have actually slept, because the next thing I remember is waking up in my bed at home. I didn’t feel too perky and would have drifted off again, but I heard sounds in the kitchen.

It was still dark, not yet dawn, but I heard something out there. In fact, it got downright noisy, so I needed to see what was happening. I was surprised to find most of the family gathered.

“Good morning,” I said, and they all turned and started speaking, but stopped, and gazed at me instead. I realized that I probably looked battered; I surely felt an assortment of aches and pains. I saw the sympathy in their faces, and knew I’d take advantage of it to stave off accusations that I’d rushed heedlessly into another mess.

“I’d better get ready for Brimfield,” I said. “Today is the last day.”

“Brimfield is over, Lucy,” Hamp said. He worked a piece of dough on the counter, folding and pressing it, and folding it again.

Was he telling me not to go back there? I have to admit that I didn’t feel like it this morning, but if Hamp was suggesting what was best for me, maybe I should make a stand.

As I realized what a dumb move that would be, Monica came toward me. “Lucy, I’m so sorry. I’m truly sorry.” She bit her lower lip, and winced as her stitched chin lifted. I could see that it hurt.

“I’m sorry, too, Monica. I thought you were my killer.” She laughed, and winced again.

“Come sit down, Ma,” Philip said. “Brimfield was over hours ago. You’ve played Sleeping Beauty long enough; it’s dinnertime.”

He was serious. So that’s what Hamp meant. I’d missed the whole day. I couldn’t believe it.

“I’d better get cracking. I’ll bet you’re all starved. I’ve got some nice rice cakes. I’ll melt some carob over them, and we can—”

“God, no, Ma,” Philip said. Philip hates carob.

“Don’t worry, Philip. I have a new mint and coconut topping for you. You’ll love it.” It’s been such a long time since we all sat at the table together. Every time I start getting a meal ready the family scatters. They all have their own lives.

“Sit down next to me, Mummy. I’ll make you feel better.”

Nick, my silliest child, pulled up a chair and motioned me over; he calls me Mummy. Nick is as silly as Philip is serious. I still can’t understand how children in the same family can be so different from one another. But Nick always makes me feel good, perhaps because I see so much of myself in him.

He threw his arm over my shoulder in a friendly gesture, but I stiffened in pain. He took my hand and patted it; then he sang to me. His version of Brenda Lee singing “I’m Sorry” always cracks me up. He told me that Spence and Nancy were on their way home. All of us—it’d been so long. I remembered setting off for Brimfield less than a week ago, happy to leave them behind.

“Dad’s making scallion pancakes; he’s taught Monica how to make the dipping sauce.”

“I can do that,” I said, and amid a chorus of nos they assured me that I should sit back down and be waited on. This was so nice and cozy.

“Baker has been calling you all day.”

“What for?” I asked, and right on cue, the phone rang. I reached, picked it up, and the whole family shouted, “Hello, Baker!”

It was turning into a party around here.

Baker explained that he was wrapping up his Brimfield story, and asked if I could fill him in on some details. I agreed, but when I tried to explain, I was lost; I just couldn’t put it all together. I got so frustrated that I could feel tears stinging my eyes, and handed the phone over to Monica.

I heard her telling Baker about Supercart, and the ride to Mr. Hogarth’s, and most of it came back to me. The whole family quieted down and listened to Monica when she told Baker about our terror at Mr. Hogarth’s.

When she hung up she told me that Mr. Hogarth told Baker he feels terrible about his belief in Wilson over the years. That even as the evidence began to mount, he clung to the idea that Monty had masterminded the theft long ago, and had involved Wilson in his scheme, rather than the reverse.

The family sat staring until Hamp put a plate of sizzling scallion pancakes in front of us. We all grabbed some; they were wonderful. We savored them and let Wilson’s vile work slip into the background.

When Hamp told us that his next course, moo shi chicken, would be along soon, I had to decline. I needed a nap. And for the next few days I did plenty of napping. Everyone tiptoed around and treated me like the princess I always wanted to be.

So it’s over. Wilson is where he belongs, and his fund-raising activities are also being investigated. The family has survived what Monica and I have come to call Our Mishap, and we’re all back at the Cape, snug and sound, ready to begin living happily ever after.

 

 

The big news at last month’s Brimfield Antiques and Collectible Shows was sad news. Montgomery “Monty” Rondo was murdered in the predawn hours prior to the show’s official opening. He appears to have been strangled with a strip of lace.

Mr. Rondo was the owner of Warehouse Used Furniture in Worcester, a used furniture business. In addition, he was a well-regarded antiques picker, supplying fine antiques to businesses around New England.

John Wilson, of Lodgefield and Martha’s Vineyard, has been charged with the crime. Mr. Wilson was most recently the curator of the Jeffries Jade Museum of Goodtidings, Massachusetts.

Jay Goode, District Attorney for Center County, reports that the charges against Wilson also include kidnapping and aggravated assault upon Mrs. Lucy St. Elmo, and aggravated assault upon Mr. Pettigrew Hogarth. Mrs. Monica St. Elmo, daughter-in-law of Lucy St. Elmo, was also injured in the melee that preceded the arrest of the suspect. Theft and fraud charges may also be brought against Mr. Wilson as the district attorney’s investigation continues.

Mr. Pettigrew Hogarth, business acquaintance of both Wilson and Rondo for many years, theorizes that the murder may have been triggered by the resurfacing of some recently stolen antiques that may be related to a theft that happened many years ago. Mr. Rondo appears to have taken the blame for a theft that Mr. Wilson committed when both were young men. Hogarth now believes that Rondo felt that, in taking the blame, he could free Wilson to rise in the world with a clean slate, whereas he, Rondo, understood himself to have extremely limited horizons.

Knowing of Wilson’s connection to the original stolen goods, it is likely that Rondo became suspicious that his former friend was at it again when he discovered a pickle castor about a month ago, and realized it was taken from one of Wilson’s previous museums. Further investigation by Rondo appears to have uncovered Wilson’s more recent theft of a candlestand. This discovery put Rondo into the situation that led to his murder.

Rondo’s partner, William F. Sylund (known as “Silent Billy” to many Brimfield old-timers), has announced that Mr. Rondo has left a sizable sum of funds to be placed into a scholarship fund that Rondo founded recently, called Unlimited Horizons, for the purpose of educating troubled youths.

Police are interviewing directors of other museums where Mr. Wilson has been employed, seeking information about past thefts from their institutions. The
LIAR
has learned that objects meant for preservation and safekeeping were placed in museum archives, where they often become “lost.”

Museum thefts may be the tip of the iceberg, however, as the focus now shifts to Wilson’s fund-raising activities. It has come to light that at least one of Wilson’s previous employers is investigating the possibility of embezzlement. An undercurrent of other allegations has surfaced, and audits are under way.

Regardless of the outcome of the Wilson trial, we can say, from our personal experience and from those who also knew him, that Monty was known to be an impeccably honest dealer and a “diamond in the rough.” We will miss him.