Antiques Bizarre (16 page)

“Can you call me from the plane, or is that illegal?”

“Naw, it’s fine. It’s just on the big jets and stuff you can’t use cell phones, and Dad says it’s cool. You want me to call when we’re fifteen minutes out or something?”

“That’d be great. Can’t wait to see you.” I paused, then added, “I can really use your help to keep Grandma occupied.”

“Uh-oh—don’t tell me Grandma’s involved in another
mystery
…?”

“Afraid so. But please don’t tell your father.”

“I won’t. He’s pretty touchy about that stuff, ever since I came home and got kidnapped that time.”

“Yeah. That was a little over the line.”

We signed off, and I admit to having second thoughts about having Jake drop by at a time when old ladies were dying down the street, even if the police chief assured me it had been suicide.

Though Mother and I arrived at St. Mary’s an hour early, the parking lot was practically full, irking La Grande Dame, who demanded that I claim the last handicap parking space, which I obediently did so as not to further annoy her, and to avoid hearing about ingrown toenails again.

Wearing our better clothes—Mother a subdued gray dress and black pumps, me a tailored black pants suit and silver flats—we waited in a short line to enter the church, while above us, a lone, low-pitched tower bell tolled.

Father O’Brien, draped in his ceremonial black cope, stood somberly at the small entryway, greeting the attendees as they passed on through to the lobby, where some lingered, visiting quietly, but not us.

I had to move to keep up with Mother, who made a beeline for the sanctuary. But once inside, she halted by the Holy Water Angel, surveying the pews, scrutinizing the crowd that had beaten her here, painstakingly calculating her next move.

I knew what she was after—a pew from which she could be seen by all and yet
see
all. It was a conundrum, especially with the now-limited seating. Funny how a recluse like Madam Petrova could draw such a crowd. Of course, plenty of people in Serenity had never had a chance to see her in the flesh. I wondered how many of them knew she wasn’t even here—surely the biggest subject of whispered conversation had to be the lack of a casket.

Finally, Mother put her two new hip replacements to the test, and I stayed with her as she hurtled down the center aisle, until halting three-quarters of the way down.

Addressing a middle-aged man seated on an end pew,
she intoned in her high-class voice, which was essentially a fake British accent, “Would you mind,
terr
-ibly if you scooted down? My daughter is pregnant and might have to dash out to be sick, and we wouldn’t want a
mishap
….”

Before the startled gentleman could respond, Mother said, “Thank you
soooooo
much,” and began to squeeze in as he quickly shoved the woman next to him, who in turn shoved over the next person, and so on down the line, like train boxcars bumping each other.

When I squeezed in, it was a pretty snug fit—that last “boxcar” had to get up and find another pew—but at least we were settled. And I had to hand it to Mother—we had a good view of the pulpit as well as all of the suspects on her list, every single game token in her sights.

Two rows ahead, clustered together, were our out-of-town Fabergé egg bidders (the surviving ones, anyway): Don Kaufman, Katherine Estherhaus, John Richards, and Sergei Ivanov, attired much as they’d been at the auction. Across the aisle sat publisher Samuel Woods, nervously fiddling with his suitcoat collar, channeling Rodney Dangerfield.

But our main interest—and that of everyone else in the sanctuary—was the bereaved Clifford Ashland and his wife, Angelica, the couple seated alone in the first-row pew, intermittently dabbing at their eyes with tissues.

At precisely ten o’clock, the funeral mass began, and it wasn’t long before I remembered how bored I’d been in services during our Catholic try-out. I began having trouble keeping my eyes open, getting no help from how warm it was in the cavernous sanctuary. This time of year, the furnace wasn’t going, but neither was any air-conditioning (if they had it), the purgatory-like temperature due to heat from all of the bodies.

Mother, however, seemed cool, listening intently to every word, as Father O’Brien read from the Scriptures.

“You whose rich men are full of violence, whose inhabitants speak falsehood with deceitful tongues in their heads—’”

I nodded off only to be jostled by Mother as she reached into her copious purse to withdraw a pen and small notebook, whereupon she began to scribble.

The priest continued.
“In a large household there are vessels not only of gold and silver but also of wood and clay, some of lofty and others for humble use—’”

I drifted off again, until my head suddenly dropped and I reflexively snapped it back with a ladylike snort.

“But what profit did you get then from the things of which you are now ashamed? For the end of those things is death.’”

Why was Mother paying such close attention to this droning?

“Chastised a little they shall be greatly blessed, because God tried them and found them worthy of himself. In the time of their visitation they shall shine—’”

While I didn’t fall sleep again, my behind did, anyway the left cheek, and I squirmed, changing positions, and got a reproachful glance from Mother.

“No one takes my life from me, but I lay it down on my own. I have power to lay it down, and power to take it up again. This command I have received from my Father.’”

Finally, the priest came to the end of his Scripture reading, and Mother relaxed, returning her pad and pen to her purse.

What happened next was a surprising departure as the priest exchanged the typical nonspecific sermon for a bonafide eulogy that commemorated the life of Madam Petrova. Most Catholic theologians would frown at this, but the audience showed their approval with nods, and murmurs of appreciation, at the priest’s kind and personal words.

When the priest revealed that Madam Petrova had already received a Russian Orthodox funeral, and that her earthly remains were not present, as she was being buried today in Chicago, murmurs of surprise rippled through the sanctuary…and Mother gave me a very smug sidelong glance.

After the Liturgy of the Eucharist, including communion, we sang a song of farewell—“Jesus Christ Is Risen Today”—and Father O’Brien gave a moving prayer of commendation, followed by an invitation to partake of fellowship, i.e., food.

As the congregation rose, I didn’t wait for Mother since a) I was starving as we’d skipped breakfast, and b) Mother would likely dawdle talking to anyone who cared to listen (and many who didn’t).

I maneuvered in and out of the slow lane, making for the basement, where I discovered that the lunch was being catered by Mimi’s, a popular local bistro. This was yet another departure from the norm, as the women of the church usually provided the funeral meal. Maybe Father O’Brien wasn’t taking any chances, after what had happened a few days ago; or perhaps he couldn’t bring himself to impose on his ladies so soon after the botched auction.

The food arrayed on a long banquet table seemed fairly rat-poison-proof: crisp lettuce salad bowl, cold meats and cheese platter, crunchy veggie tray, and gooey-frosted white sheet cake. Nothing looked remotely like Mrs. Mulligan’s ill-fated final stew. Still, many of the people filing in for “fellowship” seemed to steer clear of the table.

Not Brandy.

I loaded up my plate like a long-haul trucker, making up for the past couple of lean months, then found a table to myself where I proceeded to scarf, keeping one eye on Mimi. I was watching the middle-aged plump caterer (who was obviously fond of her own cooking) for the mo
ment when she’d cut the cake. I wanted to grab a corner piece with its extra frosting.

But her attention had been grabbed by Samuel Woods,
American Mid-West Magazine
publisher, food plate in hand, apparently complimenting her on the spread, judging by the way she had turned all knock-kneed and girlish.

Come on! Funeral’s over! Cut the damn cake already.

My attention turned to the Ashlands, who had taken a position near the basement entrance to receive condolences from those coming in. Ashland was letting his wife, an attractive brunette in her forties who was vaguely a Peggy Sue type, do most of the talking.

I’d finished my food, and Mimi
still
hadn’t cut the cake, so I went off to use the bathroom—my bladder and my appetite clearly had control of preggers Brandy today. When I returned, I spotted Katherine Estherhaus, Don Kaufman, John Richards, and Sergei Ivanov at a table by themselves. I got myself a cup of punch and hovered near a cluster of people nearby, making no conversation, just keeping an eye on this gathering of Mother’s game tokens.

Estherhaus, dressed in a chic black sheath, was eating only veggies. Don Kaufman was working on a sandwich he’d made from the cold cuts and cheese platter. Richards, in a navy suit, had limited himself to salad; but Ivanov, his brute bulk stretching the fabric of his sweater, had two plates going, putting my serving to shame.

Kaufman finished his sandwich and I followed him as he headed back for more grub. He filled a fresh plate, then turned to go back to the table and almost bumped into me.

“Sorry!” he said, and smiled.

Under other circumstances, I might have found the slender blond attractive; he was handsome in a bland kind of way. But I had another agenda.

“Second helping, huh?” I said, friendly. “No wonder you’re hungry.”

“Why’s that?”

“Last time I saw you, your pal Sergei wasn’t sharing his ice cream.”

“He’s a little selfish, at that,” Kaufman said good-naturedly. “But he’s not my pal. I know the others in our group well enough, but Sergei’s an outsider. He’s with us sort of by default.”

“It was nice of you to pay your respects to Madam Petrova,” I said to him.

“Well, it seemed like the right thing to do.”

“Shall we sit for a moment?” I nodded toward a nearby table, already abandoned by eat-and-run mourners.

“Sure.”

We sat.

I asked, “Besides Ivanov, you and your fellow bidders, you’re all friends?”

“Friendly rivals—we work the same circuit.”

“How about Martinette?”

“I knew him primarily by reputation. He was a collector and appraiser, not someone who worked for the various auction houses. If you want to know about Martinette, Katherine is the one to talk to.”

“Katherine Estherhaus? Why?”

“She knew Martinette well—they were an item once.”

I blinked. This was the best surprise since Madam Petrova skipped her funeral. “No kidding? I thought she was from New York.”

“She is now. She used to live in Chicago.”

We chatted a little, he finished his food, and then he gave me a nice smile and headed back to the bidders’ table. Another time, another place, maybe….

Katherine Estherhaus I cornered in the ladies’ room at the sink, where we were both washing up. I hadn’t been intentionally staking out the rest room, but it worked out that way.

“Ms. Estherhaus,” I said, nodding at her in the mirror.

She nodded back, her smile strained. “Ms. Borne, isn’t it?”

Like she could forget the Borne girls.

“Yes. I’m surprised you’re still here, you and your friends. Haven’t the police given you a Get Out of Jail Free Card yet?”

“We’re leaving tomorrow, thank God. I can’t
wait
to get out of this town. No offense meant, but this has been a most unpleasant trip.”

We were drying our hands with a paper towel (one each, actually) when I asked, “So you and Louis Martinette were a couple once, huh?”

“Who told you that?”

“A little bird.”

“A little blond bird named Kaufman?”

I didn’t confirm or deny, saying, “Interesting coincidence, Martinette being your ex. Does Chief Cassato know?”

“Of course he knows,” she said icily. “We’ve all been thoroughly interviewed.”

So Tony was holding out on me. My charms had only worked so many wonders, it seemed.

Outside the ladies’ room, I said pleasantly, “When was this, anyway?”

“When was what?”

“You and Martinette. And how serious was it?”

“Why is it any of your business? Anyway, we were…close for several years. We even lived together for a time, and then parted ways on very good terms. I had no problems, no negative baggage with Louis. If you’re looking for dirt, why don’t you talk to Sam Woods?”

“Why Woods?”

“Well, he fired Martinette.”

“Fired him?”

“Yes, from his magazine. Louis wrote a column for
Woods, for a number of years—‘Collector’s Corner.’ Woods accused him of giving certain dealers and shops puff-piece treatment, in return for favors and discounts.”

“Anything to it?”

“I’m sure there was! But you don’t write a column for a magazine like that for the money—it’s paltry pay! You do it for your reputation and any other value you can get out of it. If you’ll
excuse
me….”

Woods I found at the banquet table, where he was still flirting with Mimi, the cake as yet unsliced. I got a dirty glance from her when I approached him and said, “Got a minute, Mr. Woods?”

He gave me a pale look, like he’d just seen a ghost, but forced a smile and said, “Why, of course, Ms. Borne.”

We found a corner and I said, “I heard you and Martinette had a history.”

“What? Where did you hear that?”

“Katherine Estherhaus. Why, is she fibbing?”

He scowled. “She’s a witch.”

“With a ‘b’?”

“Yes.
Definitely
with a ‘b.’ She probably just doesn’t want people to fixate on her and Louis, in the wake of his murder. They lived together, you know—and they fought like professional wrestlers.”

“You mean they faked it?”

“No! I mean they
fought
. And not just with words….” He made a fist. “They were a pair, all right. I’ve been in relationships where things got nasty, but never actual, physical violence.” He shuddered.