Antiques Swap (11 page)

The Eight of Clubs maybe?

A waitress, noticing my addition to the group, appeared, and I ordered coffee.

After she left, I looked around at my reluctant hosts as if we were all seated at a poker table. I was about to run a bluff.

“Look, fellas,” I said, casual as old shoes, “I know
all about
the Eight of Clubs . . . so there's no reason acting all tight-lipped like this. Do you really imagine you could tell Vivian Borne anything she hasn't discovered already? Especially about their . . .” What was the word Henry had used? “. . . shenanigans?” Unfortunately, I unintentionally slurred it like Henry had.

“
What?
” the men asked in unison.

“Shenanigans,” I said sharply. It came out right this time.

Wendell, seated next to Harold, and a dead ringer for Leo Gorcey (Google, kids), asked, “What's the Eight of Clubs?”

He didn't appear to be responding to my bluff with a bluff of his own. A relative newbie to the group, the ex-riverboat captain might not yet be in the complete confidence of the other, in-longer-standing members.

Which was a lucky break for me. And we all know that it's better to be lucky than smart.

“Gentlemen,” I said, “perhaps it would be best if one of you filled Wendell in. Not polite to keep a fellow Romeo in the dark.”

Vern, on the other side of Wendell, and who reminded me of the older Zachary Scott (who reminded me of the older Clark Gable), leaned toward the newbie, speaking in a whisper. “Couples who get together to play bridge.”

Wendell blinked. “So?”

“Well, they do more than deal cards, if you get my drift.”

Wendell frowned. “Not really.”

Harold grunted at the man's naïveté.

“They trade partners around.”

“You do that in bridge sometimes.”

“I mean, they're into . . .” Harold looked around, lowered his voice as he said, “. . . spouse swapping, man.”

The old newbie's eyebrows climbed his forehead like two gray caterpillars trying to mate. “Who's in this club?”

The others exchanged cautious looks, then Vern spoke sotto voce (but not so sotto that I couldn't hear his voce, despite this darn chronic earwax buildup). “That rich Yuppie bunch—Brent and Megan Morgan, Travis and Emily Thompson, Sean and Tiffany Hartman, and Wes and Vanessa Sinclair.”

Harold added, “Started out as a bridge club. That's why they call themselves the Eight of Clubs.”

And there it was, out in the open. What Pastor Tutor had merely hinted about with his Biblical references, and the pseudodrunk Henry couldn't quite verbalize.

I had to admit I was shocked. I was no prude, having lived through the Swinging Sixties; but these four couples were pillars of the community, men holding prestigious jobs and wives—minus one, now—much admired. They were churchgoers and members of various community organizations, the kind whose logos decorate
WELCOME TO
signs at the city limits of small towns.

Like Serenity.

Wendell, his open mouth finally moving, said, “My heavens. I know what
men
are like. But how could the
wives
go along with it? Do you think they were pressured?”

Harold shrugged. “Who knows with that generation? Maybe they all see it as a safe way to fool around. Maybe even the gals
liked
the idea.”

I drained the last of my coffee, and set the cup down. “Maybe one of them didn't. The one who's dead.”

 

 

 

At a swap meet, never buy electronics without trying them out first. If this is not possible, get a return guarantee in writing from the seller. By the way, contact us through our website if anyone's out there who knows someone who can fix a Sony Betamax.

Chapter Seven

Squeeze Play

 

 

 

M
orning at the shop was surprisingly busy for a Thursday, and I really could have used Mother's help, but she was off doing some “important errands,” the details of which she didn't share and I didn't request.

Over breakfast, I had summoned my intestinal fortitude and informed Mother that I was withdrawing my participation from the hunt for Vanessa Sinclair's killer.

“Oh?” Mother's eyebrows rose high over her round glasses. “That doesn't sound like you, dear.”

“Here's a novel idea,” I said. “Why can't you let the police handle an investigation for a change?”

“Why?” Mother shot me a sardonic look. “Because, dear, they've proven themselves incompetent a thousand times over. If it hadn't been for me—for
us
—a half-dozen murders in this town might have gone unsolved.”

I forked absently at my scrambled eggs. “With Tony back and on the case, they should fare just fine on their own. And anyway, I promised him I'd stay out of it.”

Mother frowned. “I thought I detected his fine Italian hand in this! I hope that promise didn't include me.”

“No. But I wish you could see how any further meddling in police affairs could hurt his chances of becoming chief again.”

“Poppycock. He
needs
our help.” She placed her napkin on the table with purpose. “Tell me—has the killer been found?”

I poked the eggs some more, shrugged.

“That's not an answer, dear.”

She was actually going to make me say it! “No. They haven't.”

“Case closed. Or anyway it
will
be, after I'm finished.” And she sat back with a satisfied smile.

I set the fork down. “Mother, this is a particularly vicious murder. Tony is just thinking of us, our safety. I think we're better off on the sidelines this time around.”

Mother had a wounded look. “All right, dear—if that's the way you want it.”

“I do.”

And that's how we'd left it.

Even though I'd been occupied at the shop with a steady stream of customers, I was distracted by the sinking feeling that I'd let Mother down. I didn't really think she was going to consign herself to the sidelines. Those “errands” she was running almost certainly represented her going off poking around and checking with her “snitches.”

Adding irritation to my discomfort was the sale of several
I
♥
VIVIAN T
-shirts this morning, and not a single
I
♥
BRANDY.
So I removed two of mine from the stack, hid them in the back of the bottom counter drawer, and put my own money in the till to cover the secret transaction.

I had no choice in the matter—if Mother won the T-shirt war, she would be even more insufferable.

Around noon, foot traffic subsided, and I was eating a brown-bagged turkey sandwich at the checkout counter, Sushi patiently waiting for scraps, when the bell above the front door tinkled.

I suppressed a groan as Dumpster Dan came in, in another rumpled shirt and slacks, his sparse white hair windblown, the dirty cloth bag dangling from one thin arm, bulging with his latest find.

I mustered some semblance of a friendly greeting as he shuffled toward the counter.

“I think you'll
really
be interested in
this,
” Dan said excitedly, tiny eyes behind the thick lenses shining like bright new pennies. Which was about how much his latest discovery would likely rate.

Reaching into the bag, he withdrew the item and placed it on the counter. “It's a cast-iron toy truck,” the man said proudly. “These are really collectible.”

I picked up the toy. “Well, it
is
a truck,” I granted. “Only it's not cast-iron.”

His new-penny eyes faded with sudden wear. “No? How can you tell? That's metal, right?”

“Right, but not iron. You can tell by the weight.”

“Oh. Didn't know that.”

“Plus, this is a cheap reproduction, and we have a policy of not taking that kind of thing.” I handed the truck back. “How about a little free advice?”

“I'd appreciate that.”

“There's a reason things end up in Dumpsters—usually the stuff's either broken or just plain worthless.”

“But sometimes I find things,” he replied, spirit undampened. “Your store, it's called Trash ‘n' Treasures. So I don't have to tell
you
that a treasure can wind up in the trash.”

“Yes. It can. And people win the lottery, sometimes. If you could do a little research on what you find—the library has computers you can use—you might spare yourself from being disappointed.”

And wasting my time,
I thought, but hoped my smile didn't show it.

After Dan shuffled out, I hoped I hadn't seemed too curt; I supposed I should have given him a couple of bucks, if not for his trouble, for getting that fake out of circulation.

Still, I felt like I'd let him (and myself) down, and I got out from behind the counter, and went outside to call him back. But Dumpster Dan had disappeared.

And that's when I noticed that something else had disappeared—specifically, the New Jersey godfather's black Cadillac.

The Caddy had been parked at the curb, and now I stood gaping at its empty spot, as if staring long and hard enough might make it magically reappear. I even blinked like Barbara Eden on
I Dream of Jeannie.
No magic.

My first thought was that someone had stolen the Caddy —maybe that guy at the swap meet who'd wanted to buy it—but then I noticed something written on the sidewalk that hadn't been there when I arrived, and went to investigate.

Scrawled in what appeared to be lipstick, like a serial killer's plea for help, was:
NEEDED THE WHEELS
.

In Mother's favorite shade—Red Door.

I closed my eyes, opened them, and just as the Caddy had refused to reappear, this lipstick missive refused to disappear.

Panicking, I ran back into the shop and tried to reach Mother on her cell. But my call got forwarded to an already-full mailbox, which wasn't surprising—Mother never wanted to be bothered when she was out sleuthing. So I tried the landline at home. No answer there either, but I did leave a message on the machine (which can't be repeated here, if we ever hope to get these books into Walmart).

There wasn't anything else I could do. I certainly couldn't call the police without getting Mother into the hottest water ever, since not only did she have no valid driver's license, this would be her umpteenth vehicular offense. Mr. Ekhardt had been able to get her out of that courtroom contempt charge with a hundred-dollar fine, but this? Did the county jail have solitary confinement, I wondered?

And I most assuredly couldn't call Tony, and ask for his help on the q.t., without seeming to have let him down on my promise to keep us out of this one.

So I returned my attention to the shop, keeping myself busy by dusting the merchandise, and waiting on customers, while I ran around inside my head like somebody trying to flee a burning building.

Around four the phone on the counter rang; I was in the living room area and, thinking it was Mother, made a sprint for it.

“Brandy? It's Wes.”

“Oh. Wes. Hi.”

“Everything all right?” he asked. “You sound out of breath.”

“Everything's fine,” I said. “Expecting a call, that's all. Uh, what's up?”

“I can really use a favor.”

“Sure, I'll try to help. What is it?”

“Would you mind going with me to see Gladys Fowler?”

I couldn't imagine why on earth he'd want to see that awful woman, after she'd testified for the DA, and I told him so.

“I know,” he said with a sigh. “But she called me just now, at the office, and said she had information about who really killed Vanessa, but refused to tell me over the phone.”

“I don't trust her. You should call Brian Lawson or Tony Cassato about this.”

“I don't trust her, either. But I don't really care to interact with the local police unless I have to. And I've just got to find out if there's something to it. Plus, the woman sounded, well . . . weird.”

“Weird how?”

“I don't know—anxious? Even . . . scared.”

“Whoa.”

“Listen, if I'm going to deal with this woman, on any level, about anything, I need a witness.”

“Okay. But why me?”

“All my male friends are tied up at their own jobs. And I guess you're about the only . . . female friend I have, right now.”

“All right. I'll go with you. I can lock up here.”

He sighed. “Look, Brandy, before you say yes . . . there's something else about this that you should know—something I didn't even mention to Wayne Ekhardt.”

“Okay.”

“Just before the hearing, the Fowler woman called me at home, and tried to . . . well, there's no other word for it. She tried to blackmail me.”

“Holy . . . what
about?
”

“She said if I paid her ten thousand dollars, she'd withdraw what she told the police—you know, that garbage about me coming home the afternoon of the murder.”

“What did you say to her?”

“What do you think? I told her to stick it. Anyway, I wasn't afraid of her telling the truth.”

“Maybe, Wes, but it's a good thing Mr. Ekhardt was able to discredit her testimony.”

“He really is the best, awake or asleep. But now I'm wondering . . . did that woman
really
see somebody at my house?”

“And maybe,” I said, thinking aloud, “didn't see who it was because of her glasses? And just guessed it was you?”

“Or something. And maybe now has figured out who it
really
was. Anyway, are you up for this?”

“I am.”

“Can you come over to my office now? I'm just finishing up for the day. You don't mind closing up a little early?”

“That's okay. Never much business in the last hour. See you in a few minutes.”

And I hung up.

In my mind, I saw Tony, looking at me. Frowning. Come on, I wouldn't really be investigating. I'd be helping out a friend. Right? This time my Jeannie blink worked, and Tony's image went away.

I closed up the shop but did not set the alarm, since I was leaving Sushi behind with some water, kibble, and newspapers. I'd come back for her and close up more completely later.

Then I made the two-block jaunt over to Sinclair Consolidated, a striking new addition to the downtown, a three-story building of stone and glass, a rare modern building among Victorian neighbors.

Wes had moved his corporate offices to these new digs just two years ago, one of his first major decisions after the death of his father. I assume that the relocation was to get away from the stench and smoke of the Sinclair grain processing plant south of town.

I entered the gleaming, opulent lobby and checked in with an attractive young female receptionist (was that an Albert Nipon suit?), who sent me up to the third floor, where I checked in with an older, no-nonsense secretary (but just as expensively attired). By phone she let Wes know I was there, then replaced the receiver and sent me to take a seat in the waiting area.

Interesting. Sinclair Consolidated put a lovely face in its lobby, and a strict grade-school teacher's puss outside the CEO's office. Made sense, I guessed.

Less than a minute later, Wes stepped out of his office, looking sharp in a tailored navy suit, yellow shirt, and light blue silk tie.

He approached me saying, “Brandy, I'm just wrapping up in here. One more phone call to make. Can you wait? Won't be more than ten or fifteen minutes.”

I shrugged. “No problem.”

“Joyce can get you some coffee.”

“That'd be great.”

The secretary, hearing her name, looked up, suddenly pleasant.

“Cream or sugar?” she asked.

“Just cream, thanks.”

Wes disappeared back into his office.

If I had to cool my heels anywhere, it might as well be in the fanciest corporate offices in Serenity. This reception area looked like a high-end furniture showroom with its abstract-pattern plush rug, comfy leather couch, black leather chairs, flat screen TV (business channel, natch), and unlit gas fireplace. Even the magazines on the mahogany coffee table were current.

Joyce returned with my coffee—no oil-slick surface here—and I settled back with
Entertainment Weekly
. There was an article about pending TV pilots for next season, and we had rated a mention. Our pilot really leading to a series was something I half-dreaded, half-dreamed of.

I tried Mother again. Mailbox still full. No answer at home. No answer at the shop.

The coffee was magnificent, but the caffeine was probably not helping my anxiety over Mother. Still, I was about to ask Joyce for a second cup when Wes's office door opened and he came out, unbuttoning his collar. He blew air out his mouth, and his forehead was lightly beaded.

“Joyce,” he said, “would you call someone about the air conditioning in my office? Could be the sun coming in all those windows . . . but I'd like it checked out just the same.”

“Yes, Mr. Sinclair.”

“Either that, or I need to deal with an easier-going distributor.” He smiled boyishly and the middle-aged secretary returned it warmly. “I'll be gone for the rest of the afternoon. But you can reach me on my cell.”