Antiques Fate (13 page)

“Seen worse,” he said, grudgingly.

Flora elbowed him. “Come on, Digby! Give it up for the girls. I saw you laughing your head off.”

He smiled, maybe for the first time in his life. “Okay. That
was
pretty funny.”

Finally Brenda joined our little group.

“I really enjoyed the play,” she graciously told Mother and me.

“Thank you, dear,” Mother said. “Very sweet of you to say. What part did you like the best?”

“Oh . . . simply all of it. And I'm
sure
my uncle would have loved it, too.”

I doubted that.

“Vivian and Brandy,” Celia said, “we're having a little after-party at the Red Lion . . . would you lovely ladies, our
stars
, please join us?”

I could have gone for a drink about then, but the decision was Mother's, and she demurred. “Thank you, but it's been a long day. And we need to see Fred about some theater business. Where
is
our trusty stagehand, by the way?”

“Oh,” Father Cumberbatch said, “he's over at the church.”

Mother frowned. “Is that right?”

“Yes. He said he wouldn't be needed at the theater, and was going to leave just after the play got going, so he could finish up the ceiling repairs before tomorrow's service.”

“Well, he really shouldn't have left his post here,” La Diva Borne said, miffed. “What if something hadn't gone as planned?”

“No harm, no foul, Mother,” I said.

The father said, “I'm heading over to the church now. We could walk together . . . ?”

“You're not coming to the party, Father?” a disappointed Flora asked.

“Sorry, no, Miss Payton. I have my sermon to go over. And, under the circumstances, I don't really think it would be appropriate.”

Chad appeared on the periphery and called, “Nice job, Vivian and Brandy.” The compliment came quick and perfunctory. His eyes moved off us. “Brenda? Could I speak to you a moment? In the office?”

“Sure,” she said with a smile.

As Chad and Brenda broke away, I began gathering up the hats scattered about the stage, and took them to a dressing room for temporary storage. I had no doubt Mother would be going over to the church.

By the time I got back to the stage, only Mother and Father Cumberbatch remained.

“Ah, there you are, dear,” Mother said. “Shall we go see how our absent stagehand is doing?”

We left the now-deserted auditorium, and were crossing the lobby when Brenda came out of the office, her expression dour.

“Brenda,” Father Cumberbatch asked, “is something wrong?”

“No, no. It's nothing.” She forced a smile. “I'm fine, really. It's just been . . . well, it's been a
day
, hasn't it?”

“Yes, it has,” Mother said. “Can we walk you home, dear? I assume you're not up for going to the after-party.”

“You assume right. Tonight, I think I just want to be alone.”

“Yes,” Mother said. “There are times when Garbo really had it right.”

Brenda clearly didn't know what Mother was talking about, but she didn't ask for clarification. We started out in the same direction, along Stratford-on-Avon toward Canterbury Lane.

“Really, there
is
something wrong,” Brenda said suddenly.

We all paused, half circling around her.

Very troubled, she said, “Chad just told me that my uncle had been loaning the theater some of our antique swords for their productions.”

Mother babbled, “How thoughtful of your uncle! There's nothing quite like the clang of real metal during the sword fight between Hamlet and Laertes in act five, scene two.”

“Mrs. Borne, you don't understand,” Brenda said. “Uncle Barclay didn't have the authority to loan
any
museum piece to
anybody—
his contract specifies that. And, well, now I have to
wonder. . . .
”

“You have to wonder,” Father Cumberbatch said gently, “what
other
authority he may have exceeded?”

She nodded.

“Brenda,” the priest said, his voice soothing, “I'm sure this was just a singular lapse in judgment.”

“Anyway,” I said, “you'll be getting the swords back, won't you?”

“Yes, tomorrow. I'm to call Chad at the theater.”

“Well then, no worries, my dear,” Mother said cheerfully. “And
you'll
be in charge of the museum now, or soon will be, after your appointment by the trustees.”

“I imagine you're right. And let me tell you, the first thing I'm going to do is take a
complete
inventory.”

With Brenda's spirits lifted, we pressed on, parting ways with the woman at Canterbury Lane.

Despite the half-moon, the night was dark, and a (working) flashlight would have come in handy, walking down Canterbury Lane toward the church—even without a murderer afoot.

I was glad the priest was with us, otherwise Mother most certainly would have brought up my inexcusable stage behavior. As it was, they discussed the differences between Anglo-Saxon and Norman architecture, while I lagged behind, the grassy path not wide enough for three abreast.

Soon the Gothic church was silhouetted against the night sky, lights from the sanctuary becoming a beacon.

Father Cumberbatch used a key to unlock the heavy wooden door, then pushed it open, its hinges squeaking in protest. We stepped into the dark vestibule and our heavenly host (so to speak) moved to a wall switch to turn on an overhead light.

We moved through the nave and into the mouth of the sanctuary, where at the far end, in front of the altar, a high scaffolding rose to the domed ceiling.

But Fred was not up there on the platform.

We were following Father Cumberbatch down the center aisle when he stopped so abruptly that Mother ran into him.

“What is it?” she asked.

The priest turned an ashen face toward us. His mouth was moving, but no sound came out.

Then I saw what he had: the twisted body of Fred Hackney, at the base of the scaffolding, like a religious statue that had taken a bad tumble.

A really bad tumble.

 

 

When the purchase of an early period antique—say a Louis XIV armchair—is cost-prohibitive, consider buying a good replica, which can be aesthetically pleasing and still have some resale value. And if you sit on it and it breaks, you won't have to be there on your behind, crying, in the ruins. (Ask Mother, but don't mention my name.)

Chapter Eight

What's Done Is Done

W
hen Father Cumberbatch began to rush forward, toward the fallen handyman at the base of the scaffolding, Mother grabbed the priest by the arm and held him back firmly. We were poised three-quarters of the way down the center aisle of the sanctuary.

“I'm afraid, Father,” Mother said solemnly, “the last rites will have to wait.”

He pulled out of her grasp, with unpriestly irritation. “Fred might still be alive!”

“I assure you he's not. It's obvious the poor man's neck is broken.”

And even from here, that was indeed obvious. No one could be alive with his head, his neck, twisted in that ungodly position.

A rush of air came from the priest, as if he'd been punched in the stomach. “You sound quite sure of yourself, Mrs. Borne.”

“I
have
had some experience,” Mother said, with a tinge of tasteless pride. “I also know not to disturb a crime scene.”

That startled Cumberbatch and he blinked at us. “Is
that
what this is? Surely this is a tragic accident—Fred up on the platform, losing his footing. . . .”

“Possibly,” Mother replied. “But we all know that Fred Hackney was an experienced workman . . . and that this tragedy comes in the wake of two other suspicious deaths here in Old York.”

Shaken, the priest swallowed and nodded. He was blister pale.

“Let's look at this calmly,” Mother said. “Start at the beginning. You had to unlock the front door.”

Cumberbatch nodded. “I asked Fred to keep things locked up here whenever he was working alone. There was some pilfering a while ago, nothing major, but still. . . .” His eyes kept returning to the body.

“Keep your attention right here, Father, on me. Now. Fred had his own key?”

“He did.”

“Anyone else have one?”

“Besides myself and Fred? No one. No one at all.”

“Is there another way in?”

The priest nodded toward the altar. “There's an emergency exit door back there, but it's a push-bar and doesn't have a key.”

“Can it be opened from the outside?”

“No. As I said, it's an emergency exit.”

“How about the windows? Do you keep them locked?”

“Yes, those that can be opened at all.”

“Very good,” Mother said with a nod. “Now, I think it's time for you to call Sheriff Rudder and inform him of poor Mr. Hackney's demise.”

Mother delegating this duty surprised me—I knew all too well how much she relished making 911 calls.

Cumberbatch hesitated, his eyes moving fast, hysteria trying to assert itself and falling just short. “But what should I
say
to him? How do I describe what happened?
Was
this an accident or not?”

“That's for the sheriff to determine, Father,” Mother said. “Now—the call?”

She might have handed him her cell phone, since Rudder was on speed-dial, but she didn't. Was she up to something?

“Yes, of course,” the priest said. “I'll use the office phone.”

Mother waited until the priest had gone, then sprang into action, moving briskly down to Fred's body.

I cleared my throat in an
ah-hem
manner. “Mother dear, what was that about not disturbing a crime scene?”

“I'm not
disturbing
it, dear—I'm examining it. There's a considerable difference.”

She crouched over the corpse, knees popping, as if a monkey were cracking its knuckles.

Fred, in a typically paint-splattered T-shirt and jeans, lay sprawled on his back on the stone floor, legs bent impossibly, arms outstretched, head twisted unnaturally to one side, eyes open in a face frozen in surprise.

Mother searched the front pockets of his jeans, found a key like the one the priest had used to let us in, examined it in her palm, then returned it to the pocket.

“Darling girl!” Mother called. “Your assistance is needed.” She was holding out a hand.

She couldn't get up by herself, and I helped her to her feet. But she still had to brace herself on the scaffolding.

“Well?” I asked. “What's your take on this?”

“I'm not sure, dear. Have you an opinion?”

Asking me meant she was really reaching.

I said, “Coincidence or not, this just about
had
to be an accident. The front door was locked, Fred had the only extra key. No one can get in through the back. Windows are locked.”

Mother raised a declamatory finger. “Ah! But our late handyman could have let someone in on some pretext—a friend, a business acquaintance.”

“If it was business, he would have conducted that business near the door, after letting them in.”

She shook her head, once. “But if it was a protracted conversation, Fred might well have gone back to work and whoever-he-let-in could have followed him to the scaffolding and . . .”

When she trailed off, I said, “And what? Faked an accident, and gone back out, and . . .”

My turn to trail off.

“What we have here,” Mother said, “is a locked room mystery.”

“No we don't. Just because you consider yourself a great detective doesn't make every situation a mystery and every accident a murder. Fred was tired and frazzled from a long, difficult day. Couldn't he just have fallen off that scaffolding?”

“I suppose.” Mother lowered her voice. “Does it strike you as suspiciously convenient that Father Cumberbatch offered to accompany us here to the church,
after
we mentioned it was our intention to see Fred?”

“You mean, might he have used us as an alibi?” I shook my head. “He has the only other key . . .”

“My point exactly.”

“. . . but in any case, I just can't see that man as a killer. Now, as for some of the
other
trustees—”

I shut my trap because the priest was coming down the center aisle.

“Sheriff Rudder is on his way,” he told us.

“How long before his arrival?” Mother asked.

Cumberbatch shrugged. “He was about forty minutes away. Soon.”

“Well,” she replied, almost cheerfully, “I'm sure you can give him a full report when he arrives.”

Cumberbatch, taken aback, asked, “You're not
leaving
?”

Mother shrugged. “There's no reason for us all to stay here twiddling our thumbs. Your church, your responsibility.”

The priest blanched at her insensitivity. “Well, the sheriff will want to talk to you and your daughter, surely.”

“You may inform Sheriff Rudder that we'll make ourselves readily available for any questions—he has my cell number.” She raised a cautionary finger. “But I strongly urge you to stay off your cell phone and not tell
anyone
about Mr. Hackney's death until Sheriff Rudder gives his blessing. Otherwise, you could have the entire grounds and church itself overrun with gawkers. Understood?”

Cumberbatch nodded. “Understood.”

“Splendid.” Then, as if summoning a pup, she said, “Come, Brandy.”

And I followed Mother out.

Outside on the stoop in the cool night air, I asked, “Why the quick exit?”

She never left a possible crime scene voluntarily.

Her eyes were dancing with excitement. “Dear, a unique opportunity to identify the killer has presented itself.”

“And what would that be?” Assuming there
was
a killer.

Her hands hugged each other. “Don't you think the stars of tonight's acclaimed performance owe the after-party a drop by? Allowing us the chance to join the trustees in the festivities before Fred Hackney's passing is common knowledge?”

No wonder she'd told the priest not to tell anybody but the sheriff about the tragedy.

She was saying, “Of course
we
won't mention Fred's death.”

I grinned, getting it. “Giving us the opportunity to see if that unnerves anyone.”

“Exactly, dear. All of the board knew that we were heading over to the church. The killer's head will be spinning, wondering what on earth is happening.”

We began walking along the darkened lane.

“One of trustees,” Mother was saying, “could have sneaked out of the theater during our performance, gone to the church, got let in by Fred, pretended to leave, then, after Fred went back to work on the ceiling—”

“Climbed the scaffolding and pushed him off? Is that even possible?”

“It's not that difficult to climb a scaffolding, dear. Before my double-hip replacement, I could have scampered up there like a monkey.”

An image of a monkey with her face doing just that popped into my head. How I wished it hadn't.

Mother dramatically wiped the night sky with a hand. “And there was poor Fred, up on the platform, painting the ceiling, his back to the killer, when that person unknown gave him a shove over the side.”

A monkey with her face. And a double-hip replacement. Cracking its knuckles.

“Mother, that still doesn't solve the key problem—that is, the problem of the key.”

She shrugged. “Perhaps there's another key after all. Duplicates can be made easily enough.”

“Okay, but why kill Fred? He's not a trustee. His death doesn't have any impact on the incorporation issue.”

“Then he must have known too much! He must have seen something!”

We had reached the corner of Cambridge and London.

Mother asked, “Did you happen to notice where the trustees were sitting in the audience?”

“I didn't happen to notice,” I said. “I made a point of it. They all had aisle seats, not grouped together in any way. But after the house lights went down, I couldn't see them.”

“So one of them could have slipped out during the performance, killed Fred, and come back.”

“I guess that's possible.”

We were cutting diagonally across the green to Manchester Street.

“But again,” I asked, “why
Fred
? And don't say he knew too much.”

She gestured with an open hand. “Perhaps he was involved in Barclay's death. Or Millie's.”

“An accomplice, you mean?”

“Precisely. The accomplice of someone who decided to tie off a loose end.”

We had arrived at the Red Lion. We went in, Mother having already clued me in about the pub/hardware store's similarity to Hunter's back in Serenity, but that didn't make it any less strange. At least the hardware section was closed, and dark, a metal fence separating bar patrons from hammers and chain saws and the like. Probably a good thing.

The pub was crowded, though not unpleasantly so, and the absence of the usual barroom thumping, mind-numbing music was a relief, with only a low-volume selection of British Invasion tunes from the sixties to provide ambiance. We wove our way through the chattering, laughing patrons to the counter, Gerry of the Pacemakers lightly singing, “How Do You Do It?” as we found a spot to stand between taken-up stools.

Bartender June, somewhat frazzled but clearly pleased with the brisk business, currently was occupied filling a tray of glasses with draw beer. While we waited to get her attention, Flora floated over.

“Oh, you're here after all!” She had to raise her voice over the din and the Pacemakers. “Come join us!”

We followed the florist to a corner table for six, where Digby and Celia sat next to each other, their backs to the wall. Flora sat next to Celia, while Mother and I took chairs across from the trio.

Digby asked us, “Fred coming?” He had a mixed drink in front of him.

“Afraid he can't make it,” Mother answered.

From our position we were able to unobtrusively watch the triumvirate closely, well placed to pick up on a facial tic or eye twitch or anything else that might give the culprit away.

Celia asked, “Still working on the church ceiling, then? Hard worker, our Fred.” She had a martini with extra olives.

“No,” Mother replied, “I think he was finished.”

Not a twitch. Not a tic.

Flora asked, “Too tired to join us?” She had a glass of red wine.

Following Mother's lead, I said, “Maybe. He was lying down on the job when we got there.”

Nothing.

“Good for him,” Celia said. “He's going to work himself to death if he isn't careful.”

Who was playing word games with who? Whom?

Celia was saying, “Between the theater, and church, and now the museum, ol' Fred doesn't have any social life at all. No wonder he's still single.”

Digby frowned. “What's this about work he's doing at the museum?”

Celia shrugged. “Oh, I don't know exactly, just some handyman stuff Brenda has him doing, I guess.”

“What
kind
of work?” Digby persisted.

What was his problem?

Frowning, Celia almost snapped at him as she said, “I told you, Digby, I have no idea. I only mention it because I saw Fred carting some tools into the museum—It's not my turn to look after him!”

“Well, it should be somebody's!”

Flora said, “What are you talking about, Digby?”

The realtor frowned. “The village owns the museum, and the board didn't authorize any repairs or renovations.
We're
who Hackney will be sending his bill to.”

Celia sighed. “Money, that's all you ever talk about. If you're so worried about it, take it up with Brenda.”