A Killing in Antiques (8 page)

I
’d missed the opening minutes at Dealer’s Choice, and the best finds would be gone, so I walked toward my parking lot intending to pick up Supercart. People crowded the paths on both sides of the road. Route 20 danced with color and movement.

Things were somewhat of a jumble in the back of the van. A pair of old wooden shutters, in an Art Deco style, leaned against Supercart. I pushed them back with one hand and jiggled Supercart’s handle with the other, to free it. In the process I grazed an elaborate metal floor lamp, and its arm hooked over Supercart’s other side. Irritated, I gave Supercart’s handle a jerk rather than take the time to free it manually.

The lamp instantly came loose, and the sudden motion sent Supercart, and me, sprawling out the back of the van and onto the ground. I landed on my bad hip and struggled to get to my feet before an audience gathered, but I was too late.

“What’s going on?” It was Coylie, the parking attendant.

“I’m resting on the ground here, gazing at my cart.” I heard the sharpness in my voice. What did he think I was doing?

“I heard a yelp that sounded like trouble.”

Mortified, I dismissed the incident as I struggled to one knee.

“Are you hurt?” He held a hand out and helped me to my feet. “Come over to my office and sit a minute.”

The kid wanted to help. Supercart looked okay, so I limped along behind him, brushing the dirt from my clothes and checking my landing site cautiously, subtly.

He’d added an old spool table between his lawn chairs: his office. I sat in the chair he indicated, shifting my weight to the right as I did so.

“I’m fine, really. It’s the day that’s all wrong. The murder and Billy’s arrest. Then I managed to make it worse by missing a friend in need, botching a moving problem, and falling.”

“Well, you have plenty of company. I’m lower than whale shit myself,” he said. “Oops, sorry.” He began fumbling an apology.

“This is a bad day,” I said.

“Make that a week,” he raised me.

“How about a lifetime?” I offered, getting into it.

“We could rue the day we’d ever been born,” he said, grinning.

“I’m no good at ruing, and the day I was born was probably one of my better ones. But, okay, I give up. It’s been rough for you, too. So what’s your complaint?” I asked. Might as well give him a chance to whine, too.

He swung himself out of his lawn chair, hesitated a moment, rubbed his palm against his chin, then began pacing.

“I’m not going to make it in this business,” he said. “And I’ll never survive if I don’t do it here.”

“What business?” Running this parking lot’s not much of a career. The kid seemed bright; he had a lot going for him; he’d find something better.

“This business, antiques,” he said, gesturing around us, waving his arms wide. “I’ll have nothing. I’ll be nothing.”

“How are you in the antiques business?” I had missed some vital part of his problem.

“I’m here for the flea market. The parking lot just earns me a little survival money until Thursday.”

“Aha! Thursday. I’ll bet you want a place at May’s, and you didn’t reserve it ages ago, so when you got here all of their spaces were taken.”

That field is a top draw at Brimfield. About six hundred dealers sell there, many of whom have kept those spaces for years. And there’s a waiting list of names lined up to take the place of anyone who drops out.

I dismissed his problem. “It’s not the end of the world,” I said. “There are plenty of other places to sell from. Lots of good places are still available.”

“That’s not quite my problem,” he said.

“Well, you’ve got a whole lifetime,” I prattled on. “You’re young. I wouldn’t worry about it if I were you.”

“I’m twenty-two. And age is not my problem.”

“Oh?”

He paused and pulled the bill of his cap down over his eyes, releasing bright orange curls that sprang from the back of his head. He leaned his head back and looked out at me from under the cap’s deep arch.

“No, in fact, I do have a spot at May’s, and I managed to get it without reserving in advance, and I’m still twenty-two years old.” He looked at me.

Cocky. Was he bluffing? “How did you do that?” I asked.

“Guy I know, Frankie, claims he’s doing me a big favor. He’s full of big favors, old Frankie.” Coylie pulled his cap off and tossed it from hand to hand. “Gonna show me the ropes, gonna help me out, gonna put me on the map. Left me in the lurch this morning.”

“What happened?” I asked.

“I moved some of his stuff here from Scottsdale, where I met him at a flea market. Frankie’s been in the business a long time, and he had some great advice. I’ve been struggling to make it, and he gave me some good ideas.”

“Sounds okay so far,” I said.

“It sounded good to me, too. I’d help him drag his stuff here, and help open his booth.”

“Then he’d let you sell your stuff from his booth?”

The kid grinned. “Yeah, how’d you know?”

“Half of the folks here have that deal,” I said. “So, you agreed. That still sounds good to me.”

“Yeah, both of us would make out.”

“But what?”

“But he had to leave here in a hurry this morning. He didn’t want to lose his spot by turning it back in. So he sublet it to me. I’m taking it in his name.”

“What a break,” I told him. “That field has hundreds of buyers lined up. They wait in line for hours for that field to open. He did you a favor.”

“I’m not so sure,” he said. “I’m here alone, and Frankie has my cell phone, and most of my cash.”

“Do you mean that he took it without asking?”

“No, he asked for it as a loan. I’m to pay myself back when I sell some of his inventory.”

“Coylie, that seems fair enough. That field is a premium place to sell antiques.”

“But their rules,” he said. “I just read the rules Frankie gave me, and they’re impossible.”

They do have rules. They even have some enforcement.

“But sellers love that field,” I said. “They come back again and again. There must be a way to keep within the rules and sell your stuff without having to quit the business.”

“I wish,” he said. “But the silliest rule is the one they seem most serious about.”

“Which one is that?”

“The one that says that I can’t set up and unpack my stuff until after the buyers have been let in. Meaning that I’m unpacking my truck, and setting up for display, while customers pile up in front of me. I can’t do that. I have to at least set up my tent in advance, so I can get my inventory where the customers can see it, and I can see them.”

“But, Coylie, the buyers know you’ll be setting up.”

“Yeah, right,” he said. “And they’ll be right there to take advantage of the chaos.”

“It is chaotic. That’s part of the fun.”

“You call that fun? The sellers aren’t even allowed to set up the damned tents until the customers arrive. Then we can take our stuff out of the truck and display it. What if it’s raining? I’ve got Frankie’s paintings and my rugs to display. I have jewelry to show. Am I supposed to do that in the rain, with a crowd piling up in front of me? This place will be a mud hole in five minutes.”

“Well, the same rules apply to everyone.”

“Well, I’m not everyone.” He had been pacing back and forth in front of me, and now he threw himself back into his lawn chair. “I can’t do it, and I can’t afford to have a helper. I can barely make it myself, and antiques are supposed to be my livelihood, what I’ve committed to.”

He looked miserable. “What made you choose antique shows, Coylie?”

“I’ve noticed,” he said, holding up a hand and counting on his fingers, “that you can get into the antique business without having any diplomas. That you don’t need to pass any tests. That you don’t need a license, and you don’t need a lot of cash to get started.” He raised his eyebrows and looked at me for verification.

I nodded; everyone thinks they can be an antiques dealer. “That’s technically accurate, but it’s not exactly the whole story.” This business is loaded with people who jump in without experience. Then jump out soon after, when they’ve had “bad luck.”

“You’re thinking about experience? Reputation?” he asked. “I figure I’ll gain plenty of experience following the flea market circuit, and I can build a good reputation, too. Not only that, I can look around, see if there’s anyplace I’d like to settle, when it comes time to settle down.”

It sounded like a plan. I wondered if the kid had an interest in a particular type of antique, or had just decided, out of the blue, to be in the antiques business.

“What kind of antiques do you like?” I asked.

“That’s easy,” he said. “I like old Navajo rugs, and I like Navajo jewelry. As a matter of fact, I like just about any kind of Indian jewelry. The old stuff, mostly, but I occasionally pick up something new, if it has a particularly good design.”

“I like jewelry myself,” I said. I’m not too familiar with Indian jewelry, but I know people who love it and collect it. “Anything else?” I asked.

“I pick up punched tinware when I can find it, especially lamps and lanterns.”

He thought a moment and told me that he collected other things as he came across them, with leanings toward rustic furnishings.

“The jewelry is a particular problem,” he said. “Some of it is valuable, and most of my bankroll is tied up in it. I’m afraid to turn my back on it while I set up the rest of my inventory.” He looked deflated.

“How would it be if you did have a helper?” I asked.

“I told you, I can’t afford a helper,” he said.

“I heard you, but if I volunteered to help you out, at least during the unpacking and setting-up stage, would it help?”

“God, I can’t ask that,” he said. His face flushed and he looked embarrassed.

“You’re not asking me. I’m volunteering,” I said.

I gave him my best smile, a pillar of innocence, hiding, I hoped, the hidden agenda that had instantly occurred to me. There’s a rule against dealers selling to anyone, including other dealers, before a field opens. But enforcement is tricky, and if buyer and seller are subtle enough, a few quiet deals can be made without fear of trouble.

Coylie was overjoyed. I savored the moment. I’d be inside the field before it opened, before legitimate buyers were allowed in. I couldn’t believe my luck. Sure I’d help the kid.

“So what’s your moving problem?” he asked.

Startled out of my selfish reverie, I turned my attention to the problem of moving the furniture.

“I have some furniture stashed around the fields. Things I’ve bought and paid for. There’s too much to fit in the van. When I don’t have my regular helper with me I usually hire one of the movers that hangs out here. I have him cart it over to a friend’s barn nearby. But he balked on the small load that I’ve gathered so far today, and made a deal taking another load on a long haul.”

“When do you have to move it?”

“Sooner is always better,” I said. “Dealers hold a large piece, paid for in advance of course, for a short time, but real estate is too valuable here. They usually want to replace a sold piece with inventory stockpiled on their trucks.”

“Well, you’ve already paid for it, so it’s pretty safe,” he said with a big grin. “What are they going to do if you don’t come back fast enough to suit them? Sell it to someone else?”

“Yes,” I said. “That happens.”

I watched the grin on his face freeze as dismay snatched it away. Now it was my turn to laugh.

“Yes, it’s true,” I said. “Sometimes if the dealer is ornery enough, and if he has an interested buyer, he’ll sell an item he’s already sold to you.”

“They can’t do that,” he sputtered.

“They can, and they do,” I said. “And sometimes it goes fast, especially if you’ve bought something very special. Say you’ve only left it for a few minutes while you go back for your vehicle. Another buyer may ask the dealer how much you paid, then offer a higher price. Bada-bing, it’s all over.”

“That has to be illegal,” he said. “It’s unethical; it’s irresponsible.”

“Maybe it is, Coylie, but try and make a case of it.”

“But if you paid for it, and they give it to someone else, that’s gotta be illegal!”

“Oh, they give you your money back, and sometimes with apologies that may be sincere.” Maybe. But I’m sure I’ve also seen the smirks of a sly deal on occasion.

“I have a truck,” he said. “I’ll give you a hand.”

“Oh, Coylie, no. I’m sorry. I wasn’t angling for your help, truly. I’m sure I can get a mover. I just hate to pay top dollar for the pitiful load I was able to gather today.”

“You’re not asking me. I’m volunteering,” he said, repeating my earlier words. “I can’t take big loads, because my truck is full of Frankie’s stuff.”

“If it’s full, how can you carry my stuff?”

“Easy. When Frankie had to leave, we tossed a lot of his stuff into my truck, without arranging it. If I take the time to rearrange it, I’ll end up with lots of space.”

I hesitated. I truly didn’t want to exploit the kid any further. Our deal for Thursday was already nudging my guilt button. I was about to put my foot down about moving when he interrupted my thoughts.

“How about you pay me? I won’t gouge you. We won’t be able to tell who’s doing who the favor here.”

“Perfect.”

“I get off at two,” he said. “I’d like to be back here by four o’clock, to get paid for another job.”

We firmed up the time, the place, and the price. Revived, I grabbed Supercart and headed toward Dealer’s Choice. I was far too late for the opening; I’d be going in just when everyone else was halfway through their second run.

I rambled through the field, trying to keep my mind on what was going on around me, but I couldn’t get into it, and considered quitting for the day. When I saw Mr. Hogarth at the coffee stand, I joined him, and in telling him that I had Coylie lined up to help me move my things, I had a flash of insight. What a match those two would be for each other!