Antiques Fate (18 page)

“That doesn't make Chad a killer,” I said, coming over for a closer look. “I'm not even sure it breaks any law, selling his vote on the board.”

“However you spin it, dear, it makes him one heck of a person of interest!”

Her purse had been dangling from an arm, and she withdrew her cell phone.

“Hold it,” I said. “Who are you calling?”

But the cell was already to her ear. “Sheriff Rudder? Thank you for taking my call. This is Vivian Borne.... Well, I'm sure you
do
have caller ID. Why do you think I thanked you for taking the call . . . ? Be that as it may, I need you to snap to and put out an APB on Chad Marlowe ASAP. Or is that a BOLO now? APB, BOLO, ASAP—just do it! . . . I am
not
overly excited. I don't remember ever being more calm. Now—look for a one-eye. . . What? No, Chad
Marlowe
doesn't have one eye, his
car
does.... Hello?” She looked at me astounded. “Can you believe that? He hung up!”

“Yeah. Really hard to believe.” I knelt and Sushi and I looked right at her as she still hovered over that wastebasket. “Mother, we're going to need more than four bank wrappers to convince a knucklehead like Rudder that Chad is a killer.”

“You're right, dear.”

“Thank you.”

“Rudder
is
a knucklehead.”

I forged ahead. “We have to prove that Chad gave his grandmother an overdose of her medication, and did the same thing to Barclay, and that he then pushed Fred from the scaffolding. Assuming he committed all three murders.”

She was nodding as I helped her to her feet. My thighs were still aching from squatting in front of that stupid Horse and Groom sign. Her knees popped like champagne corks.

“Dear, Chad had the opportunity in each instance.” She counted off on her fingers. “He had access to Millie's medication. He helped set up the Tombola bottles. And he could easily have killed Fred using the back stairs of this apartment without Glenda seeing him go.”

Holy box office, Batman—Mother was right.

Mother continued. “Furthermore, Chad had a motive for each.” Again, she counted on her fingers. “Millie was running through his inheritance. Barclay, having refused to pay his extortion demand, threatened to expose him. And Fred—”

She stopped, her middle finger rudely in the air.

“I haven't figured out yet,” she said, “why Chad killed Fred, but they were associates here at the theater, so maybe our handyman friend helped Chad by making sure Barclay won the poisoned beer, and thus became a loose end.”

“That would be my best guess,” I said, nodding.

“Then why do you look unhappy, dear?” Mother tilted her head. “Is something wrong? We're closing in on the killer!”

“Maybe we are. But because of who that killer
is
, now we're not going to get paid for doing the Scottish play.”

I'd been looking forward to buying a pair of Kate Spade heels with my share of our performance fee, a potential purchase that had become even more important to me after my humiliating onstage hat-wrangling experience. Of course, a lot of people
did
like the show . . . so maybe there'd be future bookings.

“There, there, dear,” she soothed. “Mother will fix that. I'm sure we can find some
other
form of remuneration.”

“If you're thinking of taking something, that's what the police like to call stealing.”

“I don't think helping ourselves to an item of like value is stealing at all.” She shrugged. “Tit for tat.”

An expression I never feel comfortable using.

I said, “Well, before we go unhooking Chad's Blu-ray player, or hauling out his flat-screen, we might want to poke around his office and see if our check is there. Short of that, some cash maybe.”

“Good idea, dear.”

Breaking and entering, felony theft—just another day in the life of Brandy and her zany mother.

Stairs behind a door at the end of the hallway took us down to the office on the first floor. And I took Sushi out of her sling and set her down while we poked around in drawers and file cabinets.

After a while, I asked, “Anything? I found a quarter on the floor.”

“Nothing by way of covering our fee.” Mother was seated behind the desk. She had an evil grin going. “But I
have
found Millie's address book, listing the trustees' phone numbers, which gives me an idea as to how to next advance our investigation.”

She dipped into her purse for her cell and squinted at the address page, punching in numbers.

Soon she was saying, “Mr. Lancaster? Vivian Borne, here.... Fine, and you? . . . Good. I'm over at the theater and thought you might like to know that the artistic director has decamped.... That's right, Chad's gone.... Well, as we say in the detective game, he's skipped, taken a powder, skedaddled, amscrayed, made a good and proper getaway.
And
with your twenty thousand, it seems. Or was his absence what you purchased? . . . Oh, well, I think you know very well what I'm talking about.... Such language, and on a Sunday! Mr. Lancaster, I just thought you might like to come over to explain your payoff, before I call Sheriff Rudder.” She ended the call, then looked at me. “Make sure the front door is unlocked, dear.”

Sushi scampering at my heels, I went out into the lobby, unlocked the center door, and returned.

About five minutes later, the land developer bulldozed in. Casually dressed in a green knit shirt and brown slacks, he strode up to the desk, behind which Mother still sat like a principal awaiting a recalcitrant student.

She had a chair opposite her waiting for him and gestured to it. He sat, heavily. Well, he probably always sat heavily.

Digby demanded, “What makes you think I gave . . .
how
much did you say? Twenty thousand dollars? To Chad Marlowe? That's ridiculous.”

Mother placed the bank wrappers on the desk. “These were in Chad's wastebasket.”

Digby stared at the wrappers. “So?”

“So you withdrew that amount in cash from the local bank, and we can prove it. If you don't tell me the reason why you gave twenty thousand dollars in hundred-dollar bills to Chad Marlowe, I will feel obligated to turn these wrappers over to Sheriff Rudder, who I am sure will find them of interest in his ongoing investigation into the deaths of three people.”

Digby swallowed, but then waved off Mother's little speech. “That money was a donation to the theater.”

Mother leaned forward, tenting her fingers. “I see. Well, very generous of you, but nonetheless alarming to hear. You see, that means the young man has absconded with your donation. We should phone the sheriff straightaway, don't you think, Mr. Lancaster?”

Shifting in his chair, he said, “I
meant
to say the money was a
personal
gift to Chad, with no strings attached. No law broken in his leaving town with it.”

I said, “Mr. Lancaster, do you know Glenda, the girl who works in the box office here?”

He glanced at me as if surprised I had the power of speech. “I know who she is. Wouldn't say I
know
her.”

“Well, she knows Chad, very well. She implied strongly that Chad wasn't truthful when he stated his ‘no' position on incorporation to the trustees. That his real intention was to let certain board members—including you—understand that his vote was for sale.”

The man's face reddened. “What some idiot girl
implies—
some creature whose head would set off an airport metal detector—means nothing to me, or anybody.”

Mother said, “Come now, Mr. Lancaster. Brandy and I saw you and Chad together after that informal board meeting Thursday night. You approached Chad with the offer, didn't you?”

“You're out of your mind.”

“Yes, so I've been told. So perhaps in my confused mental state, I have it backward. Chad approached
you . . .
and Celia and Father Cumberbatch.
Every single one of you
had to kick in if you wanted to buy his precious vote. That makes a sixty-thousand-dollar fresh start for Millie's sweet grandson.”

“Absurd. And, anyway, if you were right, what crime would there be to it?”

“Chad selling his vote, in a position of public trust, is indeed illegal . . . and if you conspired with Celia and Father Cumberbatch, Mr. Lancaster? You'd be in the next cell.”

He sprang to his feet, and his eyes were so tight, they were slits. “Good-bye, Mrs. Borne. I hope you and your daughter had a lovely time in our little town.”

The realtor walked briskly to the office door, paused, then looked back. “But if you tell the sheriff about the cash I gave Chad? I will swear it was a personal gift, and no one will ever be able to prove otherwise.”

After we heard the lobby door slamming, I asked Mother, “Don't you think he should have been more upset about Chad taking off with his money?”

“No, dear. You see, by leaving town, Chad has relinquished his spot on the board. So, either way, Digby gets what he wants.”

Mother plucked the wrappers off the desk, put them in her purse, then stood at the chair and stretched, bones popping like corn.

“Come along, dear. Let us sally forth to the theater's prop room, to seek remuneration for our services.”

Murder case or not, an actor will be paid.

She was coming around the desk when I stopped her.

“Hold on, Mother. We need to be very careful how we go about this.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. There could be some valuable antiques in there, on loan from the museum. Like those swords Brenda mentioned.”

“If there are, dear, with our antiques expertise, we'll be able to identify them as such, and pass them by. And I certainly have no interest in those swords, however valuable. After all, I'm no thief!”

While Mother headed off to the prop room backstage, I went to reclaim our hats from the dressing room, which was just down the hall. There, I found a good-size cardboard box and loaded it up, then left it behind while I went to check on Mother.

Since Sushi was not with me, I assumed she had followed Mother, as Soosh adores any theater prop room. No, our pet does not have show business in her blood, she's just attracted by unusual smells.

In the cramped, stuffed-to-the-rafters prop repository, Mother was filling her own box. Not trusting her judgment—really, not trusting
her—
I rummaged through her “remunerations” to make sure nothing looked like it should be locked behind glass in a museum. Nothing qualified. Her picks were mostly items that would likely end up in another prop room, the one back at Serenity Playhouse.

“Those
are
handsome,” Mother exclaimed, pointing to two medieval swords with jewel-encrusted handles that were resting on an old trunk.

I said, “Must be the swords on loan from the museum.”

Mother picked one up, hefted it, then shook her head. “No, I don't think so—not heavy enough. An excellent replica, but not the real thing. Definitely a prop.”

“Really looks great.”

She examined it closer. “Look here, dear. . . .”

Mother was pointing to where the blade met the handle, and the letters
FH
were visible.

“Fred Hackney,” I said.

“I noticed several props carried his hallmark—he was a real artist. Who'd have guessed?”

Right then I noticed something, too, and a tiny spike of panic went through me. “Mother . . . where's
Sushi
?”

“I thought she was with you, dear.”

“No. I thought she'd be in
here
, having a field day.”

“Not to worry, dear,” Mother said, replacing the sword on the trunk with its mate, “the little darling knows her way around a theater.”

“Not this one,” I said.

I hurried out into the hallway, called for her, called again, and suffered that terrible sick feeling a pet owner gets when their precious little family member is missing. I called several more times, and finally was very relieved to hear a muffled bark.

A series of such barks led me to the workshop area, where I spotted a familiar little bulge behind a backdrop hanging on one wall. Pulling back the curtain, I found Sushi with her nose pressed against the wall.

“Find a rat, did you?” I said. Vermin and old theaters went hand in hand. And doggies went nose to nose with vermin.

“Come here, rascal,” I commanded.

But the little mutt stayed put, rooting against the wall.

Bending to scoop her up, I noticed a sweeping half-circle scratch in the wood floor as an ill-fitted door might make when opened.

“What are you doing?” Mother asked right in my ear, and I jumped.

“Don't
do
that!”

“Do what, dear?”

“Scare the stuffing out of me.” Only I didn't say “stuffing.” My hands were moving vertically down the wall. “There's a
seam
here. . . .”

Then my fingers found a small metal button, which I pushed, and a panel popped open about a half an inch.

“A secret door,” Mother exclaimed. “Just like in a dark old house movie! How delightful!”

My fingers got under the opened edge, and as I drew the door wide, its bottom scraped along the floor.

Stone steps led down into darkness.

With girlish enthusiasm, Mother said, “Let's find out where it goes! If there's another exit, that would change all of our thinking.”