Antiques Fate (9 page)

Brenda nodded curtly. “Nice to meet you.” Her eyes went to Sushi on my chest. “Cute dog. Bright-eyed.”

“Yes,” Mother said, “and to think she used to be blind!”

This true fact, of course, registered as a non sequitur, and put a burp in the middle of things.

Barclay, overdressed for the occasion, the jacket of his three-piece suit folded over one arm, was ignoring us, quickly scanning the five tickets he held for the number just called.

“Damn,” he said disappointedly.

“Barclay dear,” Mother said, as if
dear
was the man's last name, “would you like
our
tickets? We're heading back to the inn.”

“Why, thank you, Mrs. Borne.” He half bowed. “Most generous, most gracious.”

“Do call me Vivian,” Mother purred.

“Vivian.”

She pressed the tickets into the museum curator's hand. Earlier she'd told me she thought the guy was a pompous ass. But she seemed to be reconsidering that assessment.

I told both Starkadders that it was nice to meet them, then bodily steered Mother back to Tony.

“You needn't have been so rude!” she snapped.

“I wasn't rude. I said ‘nice to meet you.' It just wasn't the right time for one of your lengthy conversations.”

“Since when are my conversations lengthy?”

“Since . . . the dawn of time?”

She looked pointedly at Tony. “Well, Chief? What's
your
opinion?”

He was shaking his head. “Leave me out of this. Anyway, I wasn't even a witness.”

A whoop went up from the crowd and we glanced over to see Barclay excitedly waving one of the tickets. He'd won a bottle, but it was as if he'd snagged a new car.

Barclay collected his prize—a bottle of beer.

“How splendid!” Mother said. “I'll wager it was one of
my
tickets. Come, let us all retire to the inn.”

We were crossing the green when another shriek erupted from the Tombola crowd. This, however, was no whoop of excitement at the miracle of winning a bottle. Rather, this was a cry of alarm.

When more shouts followed, Tony sprinted in that direction.

By the time Mother and I reached the raffle crowd, Tony was ordering everyone to stand back, and as they complied, I could see Barclay, motionless on his back in the grass, and Brenda, kneeling beside her fallen uncle, pleading to the crowd and to God for help.

 

 

Antiques and collectibles donated to raise money for charity are often overpriced. But if you really want the item, think of the overpayment as your contribution to the cause. Just don't try to claim it as a tax deduction, like I did.

Chapter Six

When the Hurly-burly's Done

T
ony immediately went into official police mode, holding his badge high as he continued his crowd control. Someone had already summoned the paramedics, and they rushed over and pushed through, a dark-haired slender woman in her thirties and a slightly chunky redheaded male.

Mother and I were at the front and had a good view of the proceedings. As the male paramedic worked to revive Barclay, his female partner took Brenda to one side and urgently asked her, “What medications was your uncle using?”

Brenda, choking back tears, said, “Just his heart medication.. . . I don't know exactly what it is. He took it right before we left.”

“Any other prescription drugs?”

Brenda shook her head. “Not that I know of.”

“Over the counter?”

“Just . . . you know, simple headache medication. Aspirin, I guess.” Brenda gestured to her uncle's prone body. “He was fine until he drank that bottle of beer. Could it have reacted with the medication?”

The medic, not committing to an answer, asked, “Who's his doctor?”

Brenda gave her a name, and the medic took a few steps away and made an emergency call to the doctor for more information.

Celia, Digby, Father Cumberbatch, and Flora now gathered around Brenda, Flora slipping an arm around the woman's shoulders. Brenda turned her tear-streaked face to the florist.

“I
told
him to take that beer home and drink it there! I
told
him to take it home. It wasn't even cold!” Her words came in a near-hysterical rush. “But he wouldn't listen, said he was thirsty, just went right ahead and drank it down . . . even after I reminded him it was against the rules to drink alcohol at the fete.”

“I know, honey,” Flora said. “I heard you. Barclay always did think he was the exception to any rule.” She said this not unkindly.

Brenda nodded, tears flowing again. “Bullheaded, that's what he is. That medication
must
have caused a bad reaction with that damn beer! If only he'd listened to me.”

“Brenda,” Celia said softly, “you can't be sure the beer had anything to do with . . . with what happened. Maybe it was the excitement and the heat. Anyway, blaming yourself doesn't do any good. Anyone on medication has a responsibility to—”

Brenda wasn't listening; she wasn't hearing anything now but her own sobs.

Tony was directing the crowd to get back even farther as the male paramedic placed two paddles of an automated external defibrillator against Barclay's chest, where his shirt had been opened.

A while back, since Mother was getting up there, I'd taken a course in the use of an AED device (ours was gathering dust in a closet), so I knew with each passing minute that Barclay's chances of being revived were decreasing dramatically.

“Clear,” the paramedic called, then delivered Barclay a shock.

This jolt was followed by a round of chest compressions and rescue breathing, and then another shock.

Finding this difficult to watch—although Sushi was leaning out, interested in yet another inexplicable human activity—I glanced away and noticed Barclay's jacket, which had been slung over his arm, the warm weather inspiring him to take it off, as had been the case for so many fete attendees. Now it lay in a forgotten heap. I walked over, knelt as Sushi looked up at me curiously, and picked the jacket up in a half daze, just trying to be helpful somehow.

Finally, when the male paramedic ceased his efforts, he looked solemnly at Brenda, standing nearby, and shook his head, which elicited another round of tears and racking sobs from the woman.

Murmurs of shock and disbelief came in a wave from the trustees and other bystanders; then came a respectful yet ominous hush, as Father Cumberbatch knelt over Barclay, delivering a truncated version of the last rites to the deceased.

When the young priest had finished, he stood and walked slowly over to rejoin Brenda and his fellow trustees.

During all this, my eyes were mostly on Tony, who was having a low-volume conference with the two paramedics. Then he made a quick cell call. When he'd clicked off, he approached Brenda.

“I've just talked to Sheriff Rudder,” Tony said, “and he's in agreement that your uncle should be taken to the hospital in Serenity.”

“I don't understand,” she said, blinking back tears. “Why not the funeral home in Selby? It's just fifteen miles. . . .”

“Due to the death of another trustee on Thursday,” he said, “Chief Rudder has determined that there should be an autopsy.”

“I still don't—”

Tony was gentle but businesslike. “Two similar deaths in three days, involving individuals with close associations—that raises questions.”

Brenda, aghast, said nothing.

“
Excuse
me,” Celia said, “but why should Brenda listen to you?”

“Yeah,” Digby jumped in. “Just who the hell are you, buddy? I saw you flashing a badge around, but you don't work for Old York.”

Nobody did. Old York didn't have any police.

Tony's badge-fold was still in his hand; he flipped it open and held it up. “Anthony Cassato. Chief of Serenity Police. In his absence, Sheriff Rudder has requested that I act on his behalf.”

Brenda was frowning. “Does this autopsy mean you think that someone . . . someone . . . ?”

“No, this is merely routine,” Tony replied quietly.

In my ear, Mother whispered, “There's nothing routine about any of this.”

Tony was saying to Brenda, “But the sheriff and I think an autopsy would be prudent. We think a judge would agree, should you protest. But wouldn't you like to know what caused this?”

“Yes, yes, I would,” Brenda said quickly. “If you need my permission, you have it.”

“Thank you for cooperating,” Tony said.

A filled black body bag was being loaded onto a gurney. Tony went over and spoke to the female paramedic, and they exchanged nods. An ambulance was backing over. Tony helped wave it in while the crowd parted. As interest waned and the process took its time, those who'd been so eager to watch the unfolding drama were getting restless, many returning to other activities.

But no question: the air had gone out of the fete's happy bubble.

Tony came back over and said to the group of board members, “Really, no one should be leaving, but without any officers here, I can't prevent that. So I'll need your help. I need to question everyone who was involved in running the Tombola game. Could you folks round them up for me?”

This took the trustees by surprise, unpleasant surprise in Digby Lancaster's case.

“Is that really necessary?” Digby asked.

Celia began, “Why on earth would—”

“Then,” Father Cumberbatch said to Tony, “you
do
consider this a suspicious death.”

Tony patted the air with quieting palms. “I need to give Sheriff Rudder a detailed account of exactly what happened here, including the events leading up to Mr. Starkadder's apparent heart attack.”

I wondered if the medics had mentioned anything else pertinent to Tony in their hushed conversation with him.

Flora, having dropped her arm from around Brenda, was gesturing to herself with both hands. “Well, there's no need to question
me
, Chief Cassato.
I
wasn't involved in running the game.”

Father Cumberbatch cooly put in, “But you
did
help set up the bottles, Flora.”

She looked at Tony, her expression sick. “Does that count?”

He nodded. “As I said, I need to talk to anyone involved in staging the game.”

Tony flinched, as if someone had thrown a punch. He hadn't noticed Mother sidling up next to him.

She said cheerfully, “Don't you think the Community Center would make an excellent place for you to conduct your interrogations . . . that is, interviews?”

To his credit, Tony merely drew a single calming breath, which he exhaled before asking her civilly, “And where is that, Vivian?”

The various board members glanced at each other, not sure what to make of Serenity's police chief and their visiting diva being so obviously well acquainted.

But it was Flora who answered, “On Brighton Street—not far.”

“What about Fred?” Celia asked. “Where has he gone off to? He should be in on these interviews—he's the one who plucked the tickets out of the drum.”

A quick exchange between board members revealed that none of them had seen the handyman since Barclay collapsed.

Father Cumberbatch asked Tony, “Would you like me to try to find him?”

“Please. Then bring him to the center.”

The priest departed.

Tony said to Brenda, “I'm afraid I'll need to include you in this. But I promise to keep my questions brief.”

She nodded. “That's thoughtful of you, Chief. I . . . I assume I'll need to get to the hospital in Serenity. Won't they be wanting information from me there? Maybe sign some papers?”

“Yes.”

Digby asked gruffly, “What about the Tombola raffle? If it's canceled, we'll have to refund the ticket money.”

“Callous as it may sound, Chief Cassato,” Celia said, stepping forward, “that would really hurt our fund-raising efforts. This is an important day for us.”

It did sound callous. But with no town taxes in Old York, I could see why Celia was concerned.

Tony glanced around. The crowd had thinned some, but otherwise the fete was going again, almost full-throttle.

He said, “I see no reason why the raffle can't continue with others running it. But no one who was involved before.”

Flora said, “I can find some volunteers from the crowd.”

“Okay,” Tony said. “Then come to the center.”

She ran off. In that latest low-cut thing of hers, she'd have no trouble getting volunteers—male ones, anyway.

Tony followed Celia, Digby, and Brenda across the green toward the Community Center. Mother and I (and Sushi) tagged after. I was a little surprised Tony hadn't told us to stay behind, but maybe he was just too distracted.

Outside the center, Tony got everyone's name before each of them trooped in. Then he turned to face me.

“Brandy,” he said, very quietly, “I could really use your help here.”

So that was why we hadn't been banished.

He was saying, in almost a whisper, “I want to keep this somewhat casual. Intimidating these people would be counterproductive. So I won't be taking notes.”

“I can record the interviews on my cell. Discreetly, so they don't notice I'm doing it.”

“No. Take
notes
on your cell, and send them to me in an e-mail. I don't mean play stenographer and put down the whole interview. Just names, occupations, and . . . highlights. You know what I want. And sit away from us.”

I nodded. “Should anyone notice, it'll look like I'm merely texting. People saw us together, so they'll figure I'm just your date. Sitting across the room, bored, waiting for you.”

“Perfect.”

Mother was taking in all this delicious subterfuge with glittering eyes. “What about me, Chiefie? What sneaky thing can
I
do?”

“You need to do something I would have done already, if my hands hadn't been so full.”

“Yes? Yes?”

“Go find that beer bottle.”

“It could be the murder weapon!”

“If there's a murder, yes, it could be. Use a hanky or something and bring it here. Do you think you'd recognize it?”

She nodded. “It was rather distinctive. Castle Moat brand. I'll check the trash containers if necessary. No one's selling beer here, after all.”

“Right. Now off you go.”

Off she went.

“Was that a fool's errand?” I asked him.

“Well, it's an errand and she's a . . . well, we really do need that bottle. And if anyone can find it, it's Vivian Borne.”

Inside, I settled on the couch in the front area, Sushi still in her baby carrier. Meanwhile, Celia, Digby, and Brenda found chairs at the large round table. Flora entered, a little out of breath, and behind her came Father Cumberbatch and Fred, who joined the others. Apparently Tony was going to interview them as a group, which seemed wise to me. Individually dealt with, they might feel more like suspects.

I removed Sushi from the sling and tried to settle her on the couch, but she stubbornly jumped down. Trotting across the room to Tony, she pawed at his pant leg, and he smiled and picked Sushi up and began petting her.

Oh that guy of mine was clever. How threatening could a chief of police be if he liked cute little fur balls?

Sushi in his arms, scratching the doggie under her neck, Tony stood before the group. “Thanks for your cooperation. This is just an informal fact-finding exercise.”

My thumbs were poised on my cell's keyboard.

Digby said, “You can spare us the soft soap, Chief Cassato. We're here because you figure Barclay Starkadder was murdered.”

Brenda stiffened in her chair, her eyes flying to Tony. “Is that right, Chief Cassato?”

Tony, continuing to pet an appreciative Sushi, replied, “At this point, no one is figuring anything. As I said, I need to give Sheriff Rudder a full account of what happened this afternoon.”

But every expression at the table seemed skeptical.

Flora had the kind of frown that can precede tears.