Antiques Bizarre (17 page)

“Did she hate him?”

“I don’t know. It was more…anyway, really, don’t listen to me. They hadn’t been together for a long time. It just makes me mad, her trying to make me look bad, just because I let Louis go.”

“From his column, you mean?”

“Yeah. You know that term they used to use in the record industry—payola?”

“I’ve heard it.”

“Well, Louis was raking it in, in the antiques game. He did a column for us for several years, and him taking in freebies and favors, it just made us look bad.”

John Richards came over and said to Woods, “Sam, we’re getting ready to head back to the hotel. Are you ready?”

“Sure.” He gave me a nod and a smile, and they were heading off when I trotted up alongside the bespectacled Brit.

“I guess you’re pretty happy to be heading home,” I said. “Back to the UK, or…?”

“Katherine, Don, and I have another auction to attend this week—in Baltimore, if it’s any of your business, which of course it isn’t. If you’ll
excuse
us….”

But I didn’t excuse them. Instead I followed the two men back to the table, where Katherine Estherhaus, Don Kaufman and Sergei Ivanov were preparing to go.

I said to the collective, “I
am
sorry the auction turned out the way it did—my mother and I had hoped to raise some serious funds for flood relief from the sale of the egg.”

Ivanov gave me a harsh glare. “You people in this, this provincial gulag make mess of everything. One of
us
should have egg!”

“Who knows,” I said with a girlish shrug. “Maybe one of you does.”

And I moved away.

Meanwhile, Mother had been flitting from table to table, as if she were the bereaved making sure everyone had been acknowledged and thanked, oblivious to—really, ignoring—cold stares from those who clearly felt she’d played a role in Madam Petrova’s death.

I’d had my fill of food, suspects, and funerals in general,
but I knew escape was impossible until
Mother
was ready to go. Which could be a while. I noticed that the cake had finally been cut (what took Mimi so long?) and went over and helped myself to the biggest remaining corner slice.

Looking for a place to alight, I spotted a friendly face—Mrs. Hetzler, my old middle-school math teacher, and I do mean old. Though she was seated, I could tell she had shrunk even more since the last time I’d seen her. But the woman was still as sharp as the tack I’d been tempted to place on her chair after she gave me that “D.”

She was one of Mother’s cohorts in the Red-Hatted League mystery book club, and a fairly reliable source for information. She also was a member at St. Mary’s.

“Mrs. Hetzler,” I said, plopping down beside her with my cake, “hello! Nice service, don’t you think?”

There was a lag in her response, sort of like on cable news when a guest answers a question over a remote feed.

“Yes,” the woman responded, “but I did
not
approve of the selection of Scripture.”

“Really?”

“Quite depressing! I would have suggested Isaiah 25, 7–9. And where was the
Gospel
, I ask you?”

Where indeed? And where could you find a retired teacher who didn’t think he or she was still in charge of the class?

“Well-attended, though,” I said, and forked frosting.

“Yes, yes. Few knew Nastasya personally, but many know of her good heart.
Now
we can get the church roof fixed.”

“Pardon?”

She eyed me like the spotty student I’d been. “Natasya is leaving a generous bequest. And heaven knows we can use the money.”

“Yes, I
had
heard about that. But I guess you have Clifford Ashland to thank, too.”

“Why do you say that, Brandy?”

“Well, he’s the St. Mary’s member in the family. His aunt came here because her own church could only meet once a month.”

“Ah, yes—the Russian Orthodox crowd.”

I wasn’t sure fifteen members made a crowd.

“He has turned out rather well, our Clifford. He wasn’t a wonderful student, you know—no better than you.”

That bad, huh?

She was saying, “Nastasya wasn’t always overly fond of him, you know. During his college years, she thought he was wild and irresponsible. And later, when he was selling used cars, she thought he was undignified and reckless.”

“What changed her mind?”

“He got married and settled down, made a success of himself, and without asking her for any money. Moved from used cars to establishing Serenity’s foremost brokerage. That made a big impression on Nastasya. Drew the two of them together, finally.”

Like a bad cut in a movie, Mother appeared at my side. “Would you like to
go
, dear?” she cooed. “You look
tired
….”

Since Mother rarely seemed concerned about me, I became immediately suspicious—particularly considering the reception was really just getting started, voices now animated, with some light laugher cutting through the gloom of the occasion, the room taking on a nearly festive air.

But if Mother was ready to leave, I would seize the moment before she changed her mind. I bid Mrs. Hetzler good-bye and soon Mother and I were making our way through the crowd, with minimal stop-and-chatting, then ascended the basement stairs, even as others were descending. In the lobby, church secretary Madeline Pierce was exiting the sanctuary, closing the doors behind her.

Mother picked up speed, approaching her. “Mad, have you seen Father O’Brien? I simply
must
speak with him.”

Madeline stood with her back to the doors, as if to bar any entry. “He’s meditating,” she said coldly, “and does
not
wish to be disturbed.”

“I quite understand,” Mother replied cordially. “I suppose I can talk to him later. Come, Brandy—let’s go home, dear.”

If you’re thinking Mother gave up a little too easily, you’re right, because when the secretary disappeared down the basement steps, Mother did an about-face and marched toward the sanctuary.

I caught up with her, grabbing her arm. “Mother, you heard the church secretary—the father doesn’t wish to be disturbed.”

She wriggled out of my grasp. “Dear, this is important! They
pay
the man to be disturbed.”

“He’s
praying
….”

“Let him do that on his own time. Anyway, he’s got a direct line to the Almighty, and with privilege comes responsibility.”

She yanked open the sanctuary door and charged in, leaving me no option but to follow her.

The sunlight flooding in through the stained-glass windows fell like God’s spotlight on Father O’Brien, who knelt in prayer at the communion rail, head bowed.

“Mother,” I whispered, “we really should
not
be bothering the father….”

I hung back as Mother pranced down the center aisle, coming up behind the priest. What was I going to
do
with her?

“Father, I’m sorry,” she said, her voice seeming to float back to me, “but I simply
must
speak to you.”

She touched his shoulder.

He toppled backward, at her feet, staring up at her and me as I approached, too; but he had nothing to say. Not with a knife sunk in his chest.

A Trash ‘n’ Treasures Tip

Set a price limit on the item you want to bid on, and stick to it. Remember to allow for extras, like a buyer’s fee and sales tax. And three Cherry Cokes, a bag of chips, and a hot dog in a stale bun.

T
he small chapel off the sanctuary had been turned into an interview room, with a card table and a few chairs set up in back, behind the pews. Mother and I were the first to be questioned by Chief Cassato, who wore his usual white shirt, blue tie, gray slacks, and blank expression.

When he’d first arrived, our eyes met, his asking if I was all right, and mine signaling yes. Then his demeanor changed abruptly from concerned suitor to tough cop.

Now, remaining seated, he was motioning brusquely for us to sit opposite him at the table, a small tape recorder making a clunky centerpiece. The religious setting gave the proceedings an extra somber note, as if they needed one, and it felt natural to be praying, which I was.

I was praying that Mother wouldn’t fall into her typical flippant arrogance—I’d seen this from her in the past, when interviewed by police—but she’d been hit hard, finding Father O’Brien, dead by violence in his own sanctuary, sprawled before her like a pagan sacrifice.

She appeared disoriented, her hands shaking, and I could see the mentally ill woman behind the confident, if eccentric, facade showing through.

The chief began, “Interviewing Brandy and Vivian Borne”—he checked his watch—“…at one twenty-two
P.M.
Who discovered Father O’Brien?”

When Mother uncharacteristically didn’t answer, I said, “We did.”

“Both of you?”

“Well,
Mother
, really…. I was coming up from in the back of the sanctuary. Mother went down ahead, to talk to the father—from where I was, he appeared to be praying—but when Mother touched him, he just…fell over. Backward. That’s when I saw the knife.”

“Mrs. Borne?” the chief asked. “Can you affirm your daughter’s account?”

Mother nodded slowly.

“For the record, Mrs. Borne is indicating the affirmative.” He went on. “Anything to add, Mrs. Borne?”

She shook her head.

“Did either of you see anyone else in the sanctuary?”

“No,” I said. “But Madeline Pierce—the church secretary? She had just come out when we got there.”

“And how did she seem?”

“Well, I’d have to say annoyed. But that was probably just because, you know…it was
us
…. People get annoyed with…” I almost said “Mother.” “…us.”

He nodded. I wasn’t expecting an argument.

“But, uh, also, Chief?”

“Yes?”

“I, uh, might be reading in, but…the secretary did seem nervous. Of course, she always seems a little uptight to me. I mean, I don’t want to get the woman in trouble….”

Mother, eyes flashing behind the magnifying lenses, blurted, “She was in
love
with him, you know!”

Tony seemed unimpressed. “Is that right?”

I frowned at her. “Mother, that’s outrageous. How can you say that? Who told you that?”

The feistiness was back. “A very reliable source!”

The chief’s eyes closed, as if he were taking advantage of the setting to summon the patience of Job. Then he said, “
Who
, Mrs. Borne?”

Her nose and chin went up, the eyes wide now. “I have a right to protect my sources.”

“No. You don’t. You’re not a detective, you’re a senior citizen and a person of interest in a murder case.”

“I am
not
a senior citizen!”

I said to her, “Mother, the key phrase there was ‘person of interest’—that’s next door to ‘suspect.’ Please cooperate.”

“Well…” She frowned. “I suppose there’s no real reason to protect a source that’s no longer a source, is there?”

Tony’s brow tightened in irritation. “What are you talking about?”

Mother shifted in the folding chair, summoning dignity. “Mrs. Mulligan told me.”

“The late Mrs. Mulligan.”

“She wasn’t late at the time.”

He shut his eyes. He opened them. “Mrs. Mulligan told you that Madeline Pierce, the St. Mary’s secretary, was ‘in love’ with Father O’Brien.”

“Her exact words were ‘That woman has a thing for Father O’Brien, and it’s just shameful.’”

“You have no reason to believe that there was any more to this than a rumor passed along by a notorious gossip.”

Mother’s eyelashes fluttered like twin hummingbirds. “No. I suppose not. But you
could
be more kind to her memory.”

His eyebrows went halfway up his forehead. “Mrs. Mulligan’s memory? All right, Mrs. Borne, let’s
talk
about Mrs. Mulligan.”

“Don’t ask me to speak ill of the dead.”

“Let’s talk about
you
—you’re alive and well. You’re the one who discovered Mrs. Mulligan’s body, correct?”

“Of course. Whoever said I wasn’t? Anyway, haven’t you dismissed that as a suicide?”

“Not entirely. It’s possible someone who knew Mrs. Mulligan’s habits, her nightly rituals, could have taken advantage of that knowledge to put an overdose of sleeping pills in her chicken broth. Do you know anyone who might have been familiar with Mrs. Mulligan’s pattern, Mrs. Borne? Someone, perhaps, who was a close friend and dropped by once or twice a week?”

“You can’t fool me, young man. You’re
hinting
at something.”

“And now you’ve discovered a
second
body—Father O’Brien, murdered at the altar in his own church.”

“Yes. That’s why we’re talking, isn’t it?”

“It is. And it’s why you’re a person of interest. You were in charge of the auction of a very valuable antique that has gone missing. An auction where over a hundred people suffered from rat poison in their lunch, one of whom died, not coincidentally ingesting a larger dosage of that poison. You were right on the scene when the body of another murder victim, Louis Martinette, was discovered.”

“I was not! Not
first
on the scene, anyway.”

“Who was, Mrs. Borne?”

“Well, Father O’Brien, of course.”

“The same Father O’Brien whose body you discovered not an hour ago.”

I said, “If you’re really accusing Mother of something, I think we should be allowed to have our attorney present, or you should read her rights or something.”

The chief’s face smoothed into blankness again. He said, “This concludes the interview with Vivian and Brandy Borne,” and shut off the tape.

We stood, but the chief said, “Mrs. Borne, would you please step outside? I need a moment alone with your daughter.”

Mother’s nose and chin went up again. “Haven’t you had quite enough moments alone with her lately?”

“Mother!”

She gathered a few more shreds of dignity and went out.

I sighed, shook my head, and said to Tony, “I’m so sorry about her. You don’t really suspect her of anything?”

He said nothing, just gestured for me to sit again.

I sat.

And braced for an off-the-record come-to-Jesus meeting.

But instead of a tongue-lashing, he said gently, “I need both you and your mother to write down
who
you saw
where
and
when
at the funeral—and do this
separately
, without discussing it beforehand. In ink, so I can see any changes. Can you go home and do that?”

“Sure. Mother loves homework assignments.” I wasn’t kidding. And I liked this, too, because it would keep her busy, for a while, at least. Which may have been Tony’s intention.

The door to the chapel opened, and a good-looking, sandy-haired, thirtyish plainclothes detective leaned in. Brian Lawson, to be exact.

Remember him? My once and possibly future boyfriend?

“Sorry to interrupt, Chief,” Brian said in the doorway, revealing Mother just behind him, wide-eyed and hovering, “but the caterer is out here, and insists on seeing you—something about a missing cake knife.”

Mother’s ears perked, the way Sushi’s did when I opened a bag of Cheetos.

“Bring her in,” the chief said. To me he said, businesslike, “We’re done for now, Ms. Borne,” adding for Brian, “Would you please escort the Borne women off the premises. They’ve been questioned and are released.”

Brian nodded, slipped out briefly, quickly reappearing with Mimi, still wearing her white chef’s jacket, her pretty,
pudgy face clearly troubled. The detective deposited the woman at the card table, then escorted me out to join my lurking mother.

Except for a path leading from the small chapel to the lobby, the sanctuary had been cordoned off. A two-person forensics team, a man and woman in Kevlar and latex gloves, were working the crime scene. Father O’Brien’s body had been removed, but tape outlined where he’d fallen.

When we entered the lobby, Mother scooted ahead, flashing me a glance that said she was giving Brian and me some privacy.

As we walked, side by side but not looking at each other, he asked, “So, Brandy—how are you doing?”

“Fine. How’s your daughter?”

“Gaining weight. Not as much as we’d like, but her nutritionist is hopeful.”

“Good to hear. How’s your wife doing?”

The couple had been separated when Brian and I were dating (I’m not
that
big a creep).

“We’re in counseling.”

“Good.”

I didn’t ask for details—part of me, despite the budding relationship with Tony, was not really rooting for the Lawsons to get back together, though I certainly hoped their daughter would get well. Soon.

We stepped outside the church, and I turned to look into those puppy-dog brown eyes. Somehow I could tell he’d heard about Tony and me. The Serenity P.D. was a small world in a small town.

So I said simply, “Hey, the chief and me? I don’t know where it’s going.”

He nodded, understanding. “Same here. I don’t expect your life to stop while I try to see where mine is headed.
But as for my marriage…we just have to give one last try. Owe that to ourselves, and our daughter.”

“I’m glad.”

And I was. Kind of. Sort of.

He gave me his boyish smile. “Don’t be a stranger.”

I smiled back. “No place to hide in Serenity.”

“That’s the truth. Unless you’re a bad guy, of course.”

Soon Mother and I were in my Buick, and I turned to her and asked, “Did you get a good look at that knife, Mother?”

“Enamel handle with rosebuds. Was it that caterer’s knife, dear? That Mimi woman’s?”

“Sounds like it.”

Which might explain why the caterer had taken so long to cut the cake, besides flirting with Sam Woods. She’d been looking for her missing knife.

I said, “I saw it on the buffet table when I went through.”

And while that flirting was going on, somebody made off with the thing—maybe even Sam Woods.

We were sitting there in the parking lot, engine off.

“Just about anyone could have taken it,” Mother said. “Anyone, that is, who partook of the food. Some guests were hesitant, after the
last
meal served at St. Mary’s.”

I said, more to myself than to Mother, “Let’s see—I was about the first, except for—”

“Don’t
say
it, dear. Write it down when we get home! Remember what the chief said—we’re not to influence each other.”

I glowered at her. “You weren’t even
there
—how did you hear that?”

“I have exceptionally good hearing, dear.”

“No, you don’t. Who was guarding that door?”

“Your nice friend—Brian. I’m not sure trading him in on an older model like the chief is a good—”

“Don’t tell me—you sent Brian off on some errand, glass of water or who-knows-what, then you cracked the door and eavesdropped.”

Her smile betrayed a not-so-secret satisfaction. “A good detective doesn’t reveal her secrets, dear. You must develop your own techniques if you want to make it in this game.”

“Game. You can call it a ‘game’ after what we found in the sanctuary? That’s no cardboard church, Mother, and the man bleeding there was no game token.”

She swallowed and turned and looked out the window.

It’s just possible I’d made her tear up. Whether that was a good thing—getting her to take this situation with the seriousness it warranted—or just further edged her to the abyss of a full-blown breakdown, well, I didn’t have the detective techniques developed yet to make that call.

I fired up the car, and we drove home in silence, each lost in our own thoughts.

Every suspect on our list had an opportunity to take the knife, even Clifford Ashland. While I hadn’t seen him go through the food line, I had noticed him walking by the banquet table on his way to the kitchen, shortly after he and his wife had arrived. Later I noticed Mrs. Ashland greeting mourners as she held a glass of water, which must have been what he’d fetched.

The bidders I’d spoken to had not been glued to that table of theirs, getting up and around to hit the food table or go to the bathroom or out for a smoke, as far as I knew. Anyone who knew Father O’Brien might be praying in the sanctuary could have copped the knife, slipped out and upstairs and done the deed, and come back down to join the food fellowship. At this kind of event, anybody could excuse him or herself long enough to dispatch Father O’Brien, attracting no attention at all.

Whoever that was, he or she was a cool customer. Make that
cold
customer….

At home, I tended to Sushi, while Mother scurried to find two legal pads and several pens, and then we went to separate rooms—me, my bedroom, Mother, the dining room—to do our assigned homework.

We were still at it when, at about four that afternoon, Jake called saying his dad’s plane had just crossed the Mississippi River, and I should head out to the airport pronto.

As soon as Sushi heard my car keys jingling, she started dancing at my feet, hoping to go with, so I got her FidoRido car seat from the front closet, and she
really
went ballistic. It took several minutes to calm her down enough that I could pick her up. And then when I did, she pee-peed in excitement, a little, on my top.

That’s what I got for not taking her along more. You get pee-peed on and so it makes you gun-shy to take her, so you take her along less, and then when you finally do, she’s so excited that she…. You get the picture. This is that vicious circle you hear so much about.