Antiques Fate (10 page)

“Do we need . . . legal representation?” This began as a question to Tony, but ended up with her going from one face to another at the table.

“You mean,” Digby said with a nasty smile, “do we have the right to remain silent? Well, I for one won't be answering
any
questions without my lawyer present.”

Tony said, “This is not an official inquiry. I've simply asked you good citizens to help me gather some preliminary information for Sheriff Rudder. Any legal concerns you have can be expressed to him.”

My thumbs wrote:
Digby wants a lawyer.

Father Cumberbatch cleared his throat, and heads turned his way. “I think we, all of us, should cooperate and answer the chief's questions. The sooner we do that, the sooner we can get back to the fete and present a unified front.”

“I agree,” Celia said, with a nod of finality. “The longer we're here, and not there, the worse it looks.”

Brenda turned toward the handyman. “What do you think, Fred?”

Fred shrugged. “I say, sure, let's get this dang thing over with.”

Brenda's eyes returned to Tony. “Okay, Chief Cassato, what do you need from me?”

Tony put Sushi down, drew a chair over and sat, but away from the table. “Tell me about your uncle at the fete, Ms. Starkadder, prior to his collapse.”

Brenda breathed deep, then let it all out. “Well, Barclay seemed fine at the Tombola raffle, just his typical, usual, rather . . . imperious self.”

Some sad smiles.

She continued with a thoughtful frown. “He always got a kick out of the fete. He was a real Anglophile. So I would say he was having a good time, just walking around, nodding to people as if”—she smiled, laughed lightly—“as if he were doing them a favor.”

More sad smiles, even a chuckle or two.

“And,” she said, “he was genuinely excited when he won that bottle of beer . . . maybe because it was his favorite brand.”

She stopped, eyes tearing.

“Take a moment,” Tony said gently.

She did, then went on. “As you may have heard me mention, my uncle said he was thirsty, and was going to drink the beer then and there, even after I reminded him it was against the rules. I knew he'd just taken his medication, and everyone
knows
it's not a good idea to—”

“Did the bottle have a twist-off cap?”

“No. A regular one. He had an opener on his key chain.”

“How much of it did your uncle drink?”

“About half, and pretty quickly . . . not chugging it, but . . . quickly. Then he started gasping for air—like he couldn't breathe.” Tears were running down her cheeks. “I . . . I felt so
helpless
.”

Flora, seated next to Brenda, handed her a tissue.

“Sorry to put you through this, Ms. Starkadder,” Tony said. “Just a few more questions.”

“I'm okay,” Brenda replied, dabbing at her eyes. “I'm all right. Go on.”

“You said the beer was his favorite brand?”

She nodded. “Castle Moat. It's imported.”

Flora offered, “The pub carries it.”

“What pub is that?”

“The Red Lion, on Cambridge, right next door to my flower shop.”

Tony asked the group, “Does anyone know what happened to that bottle? Any of you pick it up, or see someone who did?”

The group exchanged shrugs and raised eyebrows.

Tony pressed. “Does anyone remember seeing the bottle there next to Mr. Starkadder?”

Nobody did.

Brenda said, “Well, it
should
have been there, because I saw it drop from my uncle's hand.”

This time it was Tony who shrugged. “The paramedics may have taken it. I'll check.”

But they hadn't, or he wouldn't have pressed the matter here, or sent Mother off searching.

“Thank you, Brenda,” Tony said. “I won't keep you any longer. Do you need transportation to the hospital in Serenity?”

“No. We have a car. My uncle and I. But . . . I'm a little shaky. Maybe I shouldn't drive myself.”

Fred said to Brenda, “I could drive you over there, Miss Starkadder.”

“Would you, Fred? Is that all right, Chief Cassato?”

Tony asked Fred, “You'll be around later? So you'll be available if Sheriff Rudder wants to talk to you?”

“I have to be back for the play tonight. I mean, I assume the show's going on.”

Nobody contradicted that, Digby muttering, “We could use the revenue.”

“Then go ahead,” Tony told them.

In my e-mail I wrote:
Fred Hackney, New Vic Theater, Set Designer/Construction. Withdrew Barclay's winning ticket from drum. Handed it to Digby to announce number.

Gradually I typed in similar write-ups on everyone being questioned.

Fred was moving away from the table, but Brenda stayed at her seat, though she stood in place there.

She addressed the trustees: “There is something I'd like to say before I leave. Since I'll be taking my uncle's place on the board, you might like to know what my vote on the incorporation issue is. It's the same as his was....
No!
So if someone
did
kill him, and by doing so hoped to change the balance of the board . . . it was for
nothing
!”

Brenda votes no!
I typed.

Barclay's niece left the table and marched toward the exit, Fred trailing behind her.

As Brenda neared, I stood from the couch and held out Barclay's jacket, which I'd hung on to. A pained expression crossed her face as she recognized the garment as her uncle's. She took it, held it close, and gave me a grateful nod.

“Say, Fred!” Tony called as they approached the door.

Startled, the handyman stopped and turned. “Yes, sir?”

“Where did you get off to, after Mr. Starkadder collapsed?”

“I went off to fetch those paramedical people, but their tent was empty—they was already on the way over. Seen the fuss over by the Tombola, and just stayed out of the way. Anything else, Chief?”

“No, Fred. That's fine. Just stay available.”

When the door banged shut after the pair, a flabbergasted Celia cried, “Is that woman accusing one of
us
of killing Barclay?”

“Preposterous,” Digby snorted.

“The poor woman's just upset,” Father Cumberbatch said. “And she doesn't know what she's saying.”

“
Doesn't
she?” Flora asked, an edge in her voice. “Two of the three board members who've been against incorporation are dead, and of those,
I'm
the only one left!”

“Didn't you hear her?” scoffed Digby. “She'll be voting against it, too.”

“And Chad's
another
no vote,” Celia added. “So it's still three to three.”

Flora's chair screeched as she stood and leaned her palms against the table. “Do you people take me for an idiot? I
know
about the clause in the bylaws that allows for emergency meetings.”

“So?” Digby said with a shrug.

“So . . . a two-thirds majority of the trustees can call such a meeting
before
Brenda and Chad are installed, and take a vote . . . and guess what?” Flora's upper lip curled back and much of her prettiness evaporated. “Incorporation would pass!”

“Is that true?” Father Cumberbatch asked.

Digby shrugged. “As far as it goes.”

The priest arched an eyebrow. “Generally, the truth goes pretty far.”

Celia looked up at Flora, who remained standing. “Dear . . . you're getting worked up for nothing. If you think so little of us, then tell me, why didn't we call an emergency meeting after Millie died?”

Flora spat the words: “Because,
dear
, Millie and Barclay and I,
none of us
, would have agreed to an emergency meeting. It would take
two
of us to die for that to happen. And now two have.”

The florist's gaze flew to Tony, who had been listening quietly, letting them talk.

“Don't you see, Chief Cassato?” she said. “With just Millie gone, two thirds of five trustees isn't enough for a majority—but with Barclay out of the way . . .”

I gulped—this would require math!—but I took a shot and typed:
⅔ of 5 = 3.3 people needed—one more than yes voters Celia, Digby, Father C. But with Barclay dead ⅔ of the 4 remaining trustees = 2.6 people, and the yes voters could call the emergency meeting and vote for incorporation.

Digby flew to his feet. “How would you like to be sued for slander?”

“For the love of heaven, Flora,” Celia pleaded. “Do you really think that Father Cumberbatch or Digby or I had
anything
to do with Millie's or Barclay's deaths?”

Flora, suddenly faced with a direct question, stammered, “I . . . I . . . I di-didn't . . . didn't make any direct accusation, but . . . if you were in
my
shoes—”

“That's enough,” Tony said. “Flora, Digby, please—sit down.”

With embarrassed reluctance, they did.

Tony said, “Nerves are understandably frayed after the loss of Millie and Barclay . . . who both, let's keep in mind, had heart conditions. But making accusations, and threats, is not helpful.”

Flora looked sheepish while Digby just sat there glaring, flushed.

“Let's get back to my questions about running the raffle,” Tony said, “so we can all get out of here. Maybe even enjoy what's left of the fete.”

One at a time, Digby, Father Cumberbatch, and Celia explained their roles in the game. This included what Tony already knew, having been in the crowd: that Fred drew the ticket from the drum and passed it to Digby, who announced the number and then passed it to Father Cumberbatch, who checked the drum ticket against the winner's; and Celia retrieved the corresponding bottle of beer.

But I diligently put all of that down in the e-mail, anyway.

Finally, Tony asked the group, “Why did it take so many of you to run one game?”

Celia answered, “It's long been a tradition that all the trustees are involved in some aspect of our biggest fete moneymaker.”

“I see.” His eyes went to Flora. “You mentioned earlier that you'd arranged the bottles on the table before the fete began.”

She nodded. “And stuck onto the bottles the labels with numbers that began with five, then ten, fifteen, and so forth, until all the bottles had numbers.”

Tony was rubbing his forehead like he had a headache. “I guess I'm not fully understanding.”

Celia seemed eager to explain. “Each ticket—with an identical ticket kept by the seller—has two numbers, understand? The larger one at the top—the one Digby called out—is in the thousands, because, well, we could conceivably sell thousands of tickets if the fete drew a large crowd.”

“All right,” Tony said patiently. “I'm still with you.”

She went on. “The smaller number, at the bottom of each ticket, is only in the hundreds because the most bottles we've ever raffled off was about three hundred.”

“Okay.”

“The numbers I tape on the bottles are in increments of five—beginning with five, then ten, fifteen, and so on, until I run out of bottles.”

Tony frowned. “Why not number the bottles one, two, three?”

Impatiently, as if any child would know all this, Digby said, “Because we only put one of every five tickets sold— and you
must
buy five—into the drum. Tickets with numbers ending in a zero or five.”

“So,” Tony said with a nod, “a person has only a one in five chance of winning.”

Celia nodded. “We make more money that way.”

“Wouldn't it be simpler,” Tony asked, “to charge more money for
one
ticket that has
one
number, and all the tickets go into the drum, and let the winner just pick out his own bottle?”

For a moment no one spoke—they just goggled at him, as if he'd suggested painting a mustache on the
Mona Lisa
.

Then Celia huffed, “Well, that just isn't the Old York way!”

And that was coming from somebody who
wanted
progress!

If people really were being murdered here, I hoped it wasn't over maintaining the Tombola tradition.

Tony, suppressing a smile, said, “Just an outsider's suggestion.” He swung his gaze to the florist. “Flora, when you put the bottles on the table, did you arrange them in any particular order?”

She shook her head and red hair bounced and flounced. “No, I just set them up as I pulled them out of the boxes. But the labels? Those I did apply in numerical order . . . otherwise I'd be hunting all over the table trying to find a particular number.”

“Fine. How many bottles were there?”

“Let me see . . . the last number on a label was eight hundred and eighty. So, divide that by five . . .” I let her do the math. “One hundred and seventy-six bottles.”

“Did a fete committee or you board members or somebody purchase them for the raffle?”

Digby snorted, “Good heavens, no! We'd never make a profit that way.”

“They're always donated,” Celia said.

“Who by?” Tony asked.

“Some by our local businesses, but mostly Old York citizenry.”

“Were any records kept of who gave what?”

“Why should there be?” Digby blurted. “Good God, man, these are decent folks who just want to help raise money for their town.”