Valentine Murder (9 page)

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Authors: Leslie Meier

BOOK: Valentine Murder
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“Tinker's Cove? Actually, I don't.”
“It used to be a place where tinkers, you know, tinsmiths and pewterers and peddlers, spent the winter. They gathered here and worked all winter making the wares that they peddled to farms all over the state.”
“I didn't know that,” said Lucy.
“It means that every so often something really nice turns up. You know, that funny old ashtray of Grandpa's turns out to be a priceless, two-hundred-year-old porringer.”
“I should be so lucky,” said Lucy, rising to go. “I think I will check out the Treasure Trove.”
“Happy hunting,” said Ralph, shoving back his chair and standing up.
“Thanks for the coffee.”
“The pleasure was all ours,” said Ralph.
“We don't get to meet too many suspected murderers,” agreed Hayden, holding her coat for her.
“Did I miss something?” asked Ralph.
“The police detective announced to the board members that I'm his prime suspect because I found Bitsy's body,” said Lucy, blushing.
“I can't believe that,” said Ralph.
“Of course not,” said Hayden. “I was just joking.”
“So was Lieutenant Horowitz—we happen to be old acquaintances,” explained Lucy, pausing at the door. “At least I hope he was joking. Otherwise I'm in big trouble.”
CHAPTER NINE
The Ogre guarded his treasure fiercely . . .
L
ucy checked her watch when she left Hayden and Ralph and discovered she had at least an hour before she had to be home. She decided she might as well stop in at the Treasure Trove and see if they had any pewter.
The Tinker's Cove Treasure Trove, originally a gift shop built in the shape of a pirate's chest, had seen better days. It was located on Route 1A, the old state highway which used to be the major road to the coast. When the superhighway was built, however, tourists no longer had to spend hours creeping along on the old two-lane road and business declined. Once freshly painted every spring, the Treasure Trove's dark brown siding was now faded and peeling, and owner Frank Ford supplemented his shrinking stock of new items with so-called antiques and collectables sold on commission. When the yard sale was over, the Treasure Trove was only too happy to accept the leftovers.
When Lucy turned into the parking lot she didn't have any difficulty finding a space, even though only a small area had been plowed. Hers was the only car.
The dim afternoon light was already fading as she made her way carefully across the ice and clumped snow and reached for the doorknob. The door stuck and she had to yank hard before it finally opened. When she got inside, she was greeted with a welcome blast of heat from the coal stove Frank had constructed from an oil drum. Nobody seemed to be watching the store, so she began browsing among the cluttered counters, careful not to trip on any of the items that crowded the narrow aisles.
The place was an incredible jumble: pressed glass goblets and Depression glass plates were set on old cans of motor oil and stacks of
Life
magazines; boxes and boxes of old yellow
National Geographic
magazines; old-fashioned push lawnmowers and sets of rusty painted metal breadboxes and kitchen canisters; chipped plates and blue and green glass insulators from electrical poles. Nothing was organized—it was the sort of place where you could look for hours, finding worthless bits and pieces that brought back long-forgotten memories of childhood. Lucy picked up a clear glass pitcher painted with red and blue stripes and bright yellow lemons that was just like the one Aunt Helen had at the lake, except Aunt Helen's still had its matching tumblers, and remembered Sunday afternoon visits and grown-up conversations that seemed endless to a little girl who wanted to go swimming. She stroked a bright orange pillow crocheted from synthetic yarn that was just like the ones Mrs. Pilling had on her avocado green sofa, and recalled the day Mr. Pilling fell down dead in his yard from a stroke. His little beagle dog sat on the spot for days, waiting for Mr. Pilling to return.
Shaking her head to clear out the cobwebby images of days long past, Lucy picked up her pace and marched purposefully along, searching for the dull gray gleam of pewter. She poked in boxes of old pots and mismatched china and found a sugar bowl with no lid and a modern Scandinavian-style pitcher, rather dented. There were quite a few small trays, all modern and clunkylooking, engraved with “Our Daily Bread” in gothic letters. She was just about to give up, fearing it was getting awfully late, when she stumbled over a box of cans and tins containing screws and assorted hardware—clearly discarded from someone's garage or workshop. She grabbed the corner of a glass display case to catch her balance and spotted a little tankard, hidden behind a plastic figure of Fritz the Cat.
The display case was locked, so she looked around for Frank. Not finding him, she gave a yell, and he came through the curtained doorway behind the sales counter. He was one of those thin, wizened people who never seemed to age, looking much the same at sixty as at forty. His hair was salted with gray and he was wearing his usual brown cardigan over a worn flannel shirt.
“Can I please see this old mug? The case is locked.” One thing Lucy had learned from previous negotiations with Frank was never to use any word that might imply value to describe a desired object. It might be a pewter tankard but she would call it a mug, she resolved, as Frank bustled over with a bunch of keys attached to his belt with a chain.
She tapped her foot impatiently as he tried key after key, finally finding one that worked.
“This what you want?” he asked, lifting a rather lumpy piece of amateur pottery.
“No, that metal one,” said Lucy, pointing.
“Oh,” said Frank, lifting it up and examining it. “This is nice.”
“I just need something for pens and pencils—how much do you want for it?”
“I think this might be a genuine antique,” said Frank, peering through his bifocals and stroking the white stubble on his chin. He glanced quickly at Lucy. “A hundred dollars.”
“What?” Lucy made her eyes very wide, indicating her shock and surprise at this outrageous demand. “For that old thing? You're crazy. I wasn't planning on spending more than fifteen.”
“I couldn't let it go for that,” he said, shaking his head mournfully. “How about seventy-five?”
Lucy adjusted the strap of her shoulder bag and looked toward the door, as if she were preparing to leave. “Twenty-five, and that's my absolute limit.”
“Fifty?” whined Frank.
“Done,” snapped Lucy, whipping out her checkbook.
 
 
Leaving the store, Lucy encountered a woman struggling to carry a heavy cardboard box, and held the door for her. As if embarrassed, she gave a quick bob of her head in thanks and scuttled past.
Lucy noticed her turquoise jacket, a color that hadn't been fashionable for a number of years, and her boots, which were worn down at the heel. She guessed the poor thing was trying to raise a few dollars by selling her bits and pieces to Frank.
As she crossed the parking lot, carefully watching her footing in the waning light, she passed a big old sedan with patches of rust and a peeling vinyl roof. A heavy man with a big, bushy beard sat at the wheel and the back seat was filled with a squirming bunch of children.
She was opening the car door when she heard his voice. “I've had it with you,” he growled. “Shut up, all of you!”
She glanced at him and he looked up at her. “What are you looking at?” he demanded.
She didn't answer, but ducked inside the car and shut the door. She started the engine, already feeling a little pang of guilt for spending so much money. While the car warmed up, she began unwrapping the tankard in order to take a closer look at it. Fifty dollars was more than she had planned to spend; she was already regretting the impulse that made her agree to such a high price. And as if to emphasize the waste, here, right next to her, were people who obviously had more need of that money than she did.
She turned to look at the crowded car once again, and saw the woman returning, still carrying the box. Apparently her things weren't even good enough for Frank. She had barely gotten back in the car before the man started the engine and, giving Lucy a glare, spun out of the parking lot at high speed, spraying bits of ice and gravel.
Who could blame him for being angry, thought Lucy. He and his family were wanting in the land of plenty and they weren't the only ones. Unfortunately, poverty was just about as common in Tinker's Cove as the rocks that lined the coast or the pine trees that stood in long-abandoned pastures. She remembered her conversation with Ralph and Hayden, and thought that a robbery was probably the reason for Bitsy's death.
With that thought came the discouraging realization that it was unlikely the murder would ever be solved. Without a motive, the police would only identify the murderer when, or if, something turned up in connection with another crime. A similar modus or someone willing to talk in exchange for a plea bargain.
Remembering the package in her hand, she took the little piece of pewter out of the crumpled newspaper Frank had wrapped it in. It was hard to see clearly in the dim light of late afternoon, but the tankard had a nice feel to it, she decided. It felt substantial in her hand but not too heavy. The shape was attractive, and even though pewter was a soft metal and dented easily, the straight sides were smooth. She wrapped her fingers around the handle and discovered they fit easily without pinching. Flipping it over, she examined the bottom and found it was smooth, with no identifying marks.
Lucy didn't know a great deal about antiques, but she felt confident that she had a good eye. She had visited museums and historic homes and studied the contents and frequently attended auctions, noting which items attracted the highest bids. And the more she studied the tankard, the happier she was with her purchase. She couldn't exactly say why, but something about the tankard made her suspect it was older and more valuable than she had originally thought.
Even so, thinking of the family in the car, she still felt guilty about spending such a lot of money so frivolously. She resolved to make a substantial contribution to the food pantry, and to go through the closets. The kids had plenty of outgrown but still serviceable winter clothes that could go to some less fortunate children.
Feeling somewhat better, she smiled as she flicked on the headlights and shifted into gear. Fifty dollars. It was a lot to her, but it was a far cry from the twenty thousand that Hayden had gotten for his matched pair.
What if, she thought as she pulled onto the dark road, she had discovered a truly valuable tankard, one that was worth thousands? It wasn't that ridiculous—after all, Ralph had said that good things turned up all the time, their value unrecognized until discovered by a knowledgeable collector or dealer. Maybe, she thought, hugging the happy thought to herself as she sped toward home, maybe she had found a real treasure at the Treasure Trove.
 
 
On Sunday afternoon Bill took the older kids to a benefit basketball game—the firefighters and police had teamed up against the teachers to raise money for a family that had lost their home when they tried to heat it with an old kerosene stove—and Lucy settled Zoe in front of the TV with a stack of videos and sat down at the computer to work on the gambling story. While she clicked away at the keyboard, she periodically looked away from the screen to admire the tankard. Here she was feeling guilty about spending fifty dollars for a gift for Miss Tilley, and at the same time Tinker's Cove residents were spending well over five hundred dollars per person, per year, on the state lottery.
At least she had something to show for her money—a useful and attractive object that she hoped would please her old friend. If she had spent that money on scratch tickets, she thought, all she would most likely have would be a pile of worthless cardboard.
It was odd, she thought, how quickly people had accepted the lottery. When she was a girl, she remembered, her mother had often criticized a neighbor who played the illegal numbers game. “It's a waste of money that could buy milk and bread for his children,” she used to say. “He might as well throw it away.”
It had been quite a surprise to Lucy when her mother began including lottery tickets in the children's Christmas gifts, and had also begun tucking them into birthday cards. What had happened to make her change her mind? After all, gambling was gambling, whether it was sponsored by the state or the mob. And with the chance of winning in the state's Big Big Jackpot at something like 55 million to one, the mob offered better odds.
Of course, the state lottery not only promoted their games with glossy advertising that promised wealth and happiness but it also was supposed to provide money for education. Funny, thought Lucy, giving a little snort, that taxpayers would resist a one or two percent increase in the property tax amounting to ten or fifteen dollars a year at the same time they would spend hundreds on the lottery.
“It's practically un-American not to play,” she quoted the man from Gamblers Anonymous she had interviewed by telephone earlier that afternoon. “After all, Bingo supports the church and the lottery helps education. It's the new American Dream—you don't work hard to get rich, you just play the lottery.”
Finishing up the story, Lucy picked up the tankard. She'd love to know how much it was worth. Had she lost money? Was it really worth only the fifteen dollars she had originally wanted to spend? Or was it a bargain at fifty? How could she find out? Tomorrow, she decided, she'd stop by the shop and ask Ralph to take a look at it. Maybe, she thought hopefully, she had a winner.

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