Antiques Fate (14 page)

“I would if she were here,” he grumbled. “I certainly can't take it up with her uncle. . . .”

“Wait,” Flora said, “she
is
here. What do you know, she just walked in!” The florist half stood, waving to get Brenda's attention.

Mother and I twisted around to see Brenda pushing frantically through the crowd, on her way over.

At the table, she stood between Mother and me and said, “What is this, eat, drink, and be merry? Don't you know that Fred is dead?”

Mother and I, exchanging glances, knew that our ability to sit back while somebody incriminated him- or herself had been severely curtailed by this premature announcement.

The three board members, uniformly startled, blurted words of disbelief.

Brenda asked them, “You didn't
know
he fell off his scaffolding? He broke his neck.”

“We didn't,” Celia said, speaking for the others.

Brenda gestured to Mother and me. “You mean,
they
didn't tell you? They were the ones who
found
him—these two and Father Cumberbatch.”

Accusatory eyes were on us.

“Over to you,” I whispered to Mother.

She cleared her throat. “Brenda is quite right. Sorry to say, Fred Hackney no longer dwells among the living.”

I groaned inwardly.

Celia's upper lip curled back. “So—when you came in here, you
knew
? And didn't
say
anything?”

“Why spoil your evening?” Mother asked innocently.

“But we
asked
you about Fred,” Flora said. “You
lied
to us.”

Mother tilted her head, narrowed her eyes, and raised a qualifying finger. “Lied? Not really. If you think back to my exact
words—
”

“Never
mind
your exact words, Mrs. Borne,” Digby growled. “You certainly misled us. One might even think you were trying to slip one of us up. In your muddled mind, I suppose we're all suspects.”

I jumped in. “First of all, it's an apparent accident, so nobody suspects anybody.” I couldn't look at Mother while I said that. “Second, we didn't think we should tell anyone what happened till Sheriff Rudder arrived . . . and we left before he got there.” I craned to look up at Brenda, who remained standing. “How did
you
find out, Ms. Starkadder?”

“Well, I went to the church—”

Mother interrupted: “Dear, do please sit down. My neck is hurting. Eyes at a level, please.”

Brenda sank into the chair next to Mother. “I went to the church to ask Fred why he hadn't told me about my uncle loaning the theater those antique swords.”

Mother began a cheerful interrogation. “Why go to Fred about it, dear?”

“Well, he was in charge of props.”

“Ah. Of course.”

“Anyway, when I got there, Father Cumberbatch wouldn't let me in at first, but finally I got him to open up and tell me what was going on.” She paused. “Then the sheriff pulled up, lights flashing, and told me to leave.”

Mother asked, “Did the sheriff mention wanting to see me, by any chance?”

“No.”

Mother seemed hurt, though she should have been relieved.

Brenda continued: “And the sheriff didn't say
not
to tell anyone, so I thought you board members had a right to know.” She shook her head slowly. “In a way, it's my fault.”

Mother asked, “Why is that, dear?”

“If Fred hadn't taken me to the hospital in Serenity, to deal with what happened to my uncle, he would have finished the church ceiling this afternoon, not tonight. He probably felt rushed and was tired and . . . oh, this is just awful.”

Mother patted the woman's arm. “There, there, dear, you couldn't know what would happen. Brandy, get Brenda some water—or would you prefer something stronger?”

“No, no, nothing, thank you. I'm too upset to stay, anyway. I'm hardly in a ‘party' mood.” She got up, nodded to everybody, the trio of trustees just nodding back and mumbling good-byes.

Watching Brenda make her way back through the crowd, I spotted Glenda, the Goth box-office girl. She was alone, seated at a high-top table by the front windows, swirling her white wine in its glass, staring into it as if looking for omens.

I rose and snaked my way over toward her. On the trip, I overheard bartender June telling a haggard blond woman at the counter, “Go home, Henny. You're already way over your limit.”

“How 'bout one more for the road?”

“No. That's it, Hen. You're cut off.”

Henny covered a burp, slid off the stool, steadied herself, smoothed her dress in a false stab at dignity, then tottered in the direction of the front door.

Please God,
I thought,
don't let her be getting behind the wheel of a car.

Glenda was taking a sip of white wine when I came up alongside her high-top. “Hi, remember me? Brandy? The hat wrangler?”

Her heavily made-up eyes studied me. “Sure. You guys should have told me you were a comedy team. I might have sold more tickets.”

“Well, we didn't know we were a comedy team till they started laughing, actually. All right if I join you?”

Glenda nodded toward the table of trustees. “Why? Bored with the company?”

I took the other stool. “You don't like them?”

She pursed her black-stained lips. “Bunch of stuffed-shirt hypocrites. Big deals in a little town.”

“Does that include Chad? He's going to be a trustee, I hear.”

“Chad's all right. He's young and he's smart and he's got talent. This town might finally see some changes, with him on the board.”

“Is that right? My understanding is he told the trustees he plans to vote
against
incorporation.”

A tiny smirk. “Yeah, that's what he
told
them.”

“You mean, he has something else in mind?”

Glenda shrugged, sipped her wine. “Better ask him.”

I tried another angle. “How did you wind up in Old York?”

“Born here. No way I'm dying here.”

“Sounds like you don't like Old York very much.”

“I don't. It's the worst.”

“Why is that?”

“It's like living in a theme park, a crummy one. Or maybe a movie studio's back lot, fixed up like eighteen eighty. Soon as I get enough money? I am
vapor
.”

“How long will that take? Getting enough money, I mean.”

A tiny black smile. “I'm workin' on it.”

A waitress came over and I ordered a white zinfandel.

Then Glenda asked, “What's got Brenda's panties in a bunch? She flew out of here like her hair was on fire.” She leaned close. “Couldn't be over her uncle, 'cause she didn't like him one little bit.”

I figured Glenda would hear about Fred soon enough, so I told her.

“That's sick,” she said, sounding sincerely sorry to hear the news.

“Did you know Fred well?”

A one-shoulder shrug. “Just from working part-time at the Vic. He wasn't much of a conversationalist. But he had hidden depths, ol' Fred.”

“Really? How so?”

“Man, he was really talented. Just the kind of help a theater thrives on. That Fred could make
anything—
props, sets, you name it.” A sigh. “If Chad keeps the theater going, replacing Fred is gonna be way tough.”

“Fred was single?”

“Yeah. But I think he had something goin' on the sly.”

“No kidding?”

“Yeah. After a performance one night? I saw him sitting in the parking lot, in his car, with some woman. Hangin' all over each other.”

“Really! Who was she?”

Glenda shook her head. “Too dark to make out who he was makin' out with. And when they saw me, they took off in his car and she ducked down. So I figured she must be somebody's wife. That kind of stuff goes on all the time in these creepy little towns. Nothin' to do but . . . do it.”

“Did you stay out in your box-office booth throughout the performance?”

She nodded. “I sit and listen to music and stuff, keep an eye on things.”

“Well, do you know if any of the trustees left during our play?”

She cocked her head and some of her piercings slanted. “Why do you ask?”

I shrugged both shoulders. “I'd just like to know. I thought I saw somebody head out and not come back for a long time. Longer than a bathroom break. Struck me as really rude.”

She accepted that. “Well, they're a rude bunch, all right, little tin gods. But no. A few people did leave—older folks who were offended by your act. You know, they were bitchin'—‘That's not Shakespeare!' That kind of thing. Sorry.”

Understandable. Even I'd tried to leave. Even the table had.

“But you're sure that doesn't include any trustees?”

Glenda nodded. “I'm sure. I was in the ticket booth the whole time, and saw everybody who went out the front doors.”

“What if somebody used the backstage exit?”

“The alarm would have sounded. Anyway, who cares if a few uptight fogies booked it? You were a smash.” She downed the last of her wine. “Well, so much for my social life in thrilling Old York. I'm going home and hope my parents are already asleep.” Glenda slid off the stool. “Nice talkin' to you, Brandy. You seem way cool.”

“Try to be, within reason.”

The waitress finally delivered my wine and I remained at the high-top, taking a sip and looking around the room for Mother. The trustees' after-party was breaking up, news of Fred's death obviously having put a damper on things. As Celia, Digby, Flora started glad-handing their way through the crowd, making a slow path to the front door, Mother materialized, holding a Shirley Temple and assuming Glenda's stool.

“Good call, dear,” she said. “Buttonholing our lobby Goth, Glenda. Anything of interest?”

I gave her the gist, then Mother said, “Most distressing news, dear, if indeed none of the trustees left during the play. Do you believe the girl?”

“Why would she lie?”

“Why indeed. Why would anyone pierce her body and festoon what God gave her with metallic doodads? Did it occur to you perhaps that it was Glenda the Not So Good who left the theater and killed Fred?”

I frowned. “For some purpose, or just because it's good casting?”

Mother stirred her drink with the cherry, brought it up dripping and bit it off at the stem. She chewed, swallowed, and said, “Suppose Glenda was blackmailing one of the trustees? You said the girl wanted money to leave Old York.”

“Blackmailing a trustee over what?”

“Over poisoning Millie, possibly.”

“And what? Fred found out?”

“Or,” Mother said, really getting into it, “he was in on the blackmail scheme with her.”

She had me nodding. “And why share the money with him?”

“Or maybe she was in on it with Chad.”

“In on what?”

“A murder scheme to poison Chad's grandmother for the New Vic!”

“But it's falling down around everybody's feet.”

“Ah, but the land would be valuable, particularly after incorporation.”

She was making sense to me. Not really a good sign.

We sipped our drinks.

After a while, Mother asked, as if to herself, “And who was Fred Hackney's mysterious paramour? And where does she fit in? Whoever she is?” Suddenly she slipped off the stool. “Little girl's room! Won't be long. If the waitress comes by, ask for another round.”

I was ready to leave, but Mother always had trouble calling it a night after a performance. And she was probably expecting Sheriff Rudder to call her cell phone.

Speaking of cells, I'd turned mine off when we got to the theater at six-thirty. I'd forgotten all about it, and now finally retrieved it from my little bag.

Tony had sent several texts: 6:44 pm,
Break a leg!;
8:14 pm,
Hope the play went well;
9:36 pm,
Heard about Fred. Call me!;
10:12 pm
,
Please call!

It was now a little past eleven. I went outside with the cell.

“Brandy, are you all right?” Tony asked, his concern climbing through the phone.

“I'm fine. Sorry it took me so long to get back to you— I forgot my phone was off. How did you find out about Fred?”

“Rudder called me on his way to the church. Said Fred Hackney fell from a scaffolding.”

“Mother and I and Father Cumberbatch found him.”

“Was it really an accident?”

“I don't know, Tony. Mother's spinning all kinds of murder scenarios, but it just about has to be accidental. The doors were locked and the key Father Cumberbatch gave the man was still in his pocket.”

He sighed. “You know this because Vivian picked his pockets.”

“Well . . . she didn't keep it. What does Rudder think happened?”

“I haven't talked to him since he got to the scene, but it's likely he'll label it an accident, for the very reasons you mentioned.”

“But three deaths in three days, Tony? In a town this size?”

“I know. One for Guinness. But it does happen. If these deaths had occurred in a town even the size of Serenity, nobody would think anything about it. Well, maybe your mother would.”