Antiques St. Nicked (5 page)

“So what will happen to the money?” I asked him. “I know Simon intended it to go to the building of a new domestic violence shelter on the old orphanage grounds.”

“If you mean, can his daughter get her hands on it?” he replied. “Thankfully, no. The beneficiary on the account is the current shelter.”

Which shared the old YMCA building downtown with the homeless.

“If you don't mind my asking,” I said, “how much is in the account?”

His smile was patronizing. “Vivian, I don't mind you asking. But you must know I can't tell you.”

I shrugged. “Can't blame a girl for trying.”

Vern, the retired chiropractor who'd have made a decent stand-in for the older Clark Gable, said, “Not to tell tales out of school, but Simon told me last year he'd collected about a hundred grand so far.”

Randall, former pig farmer, a less (much less) sophisticated Sydney Greenstreet, added, “Last I heard, it was up to one hundred twenty-five. And Simon already owned the land.”

Chris said, “Which the
shelter
will own, after the estate is probated.”

Harold said, “Still . . . it's far short of the three hundred grand or so Simon said he needed for the new center.”

My coffee had arrived and I took a dainty sip before dropping the bomb.

“Mildred Harper,” I said, “put a silver coin worth two hundred thousand dollars in Simon's donation bag the night of the Stroll.
That
would have put the project over the top.”

Such revelations are, dear reader, why the old gents invariably welcome me to their table. That and my feminine wiles.

This particular revelation earned me audible gasps—punctuated by a few clacking dentures.

Chris, wide-eyed, asked, “Are you
sure
about that?”

I gave
him
a patronizing smile. “I heard it directly from Mildred herself.”

The banker asked, “Just what kind of coin was it?”

I made them all wait while I had another sip. Darned good coffee!

Then I said, “An 1895 O Morgan silver dollar.”

Chris sat back. “Good Lord . . . that
is
rare. I've only heard of one other turning up in my entire banking career.”

Randall was going, “Ooooh ooooh,” Gunther Toody-style. (For you youngsters, refer to Google—search
Car 54, Where Are You?
)

All eyes went to the former pig farmer, who proclaimed, “I bet Mildred's
son
killed Simon—
what's
that no-good's name?”

“David,” Vern said. “Definitely on the naughty-not-nice list, that one.”

Harold snapped his fingers. “That lowlife was hanging around at Hunter's the night of the Stroll—when the four of us stopped in for a beer, remember, men? Grousing about some
coin
he thought he deserved . . . I guess now we know
what
coin.”

So much for poker with the boys.

“You know who
else
was there?” Chris chimed in. “Simon's daughter and son-in-law!” The others nodded, remembering. “And they could have easily overheard David. . . .”

Harold said skeptically, “Come on, Chris. Sure, they were estranged and all, but Della wouldn't kill her own father.”

“Who says?” Vern said with a skeptical head shake. “She's got one nasty temper—look how she beats up on that poor husband of hers!”

And such revelations were why
I
sought out a seat at the Romeos' table.

“What's that?” I asked, not sure I heard correctly (pesky earwax buildup).

“Never knew that, Viv?” the retired chiropractor asked. “You disappoint me. Of course, I used to
work
on Rod. He'd come in with a dislocated shoulder or whatever, and have some excuse for the injury . . . but the bruises told another story.”

I'd assumed the code 16s had meant a husband hitting his wife, not the other way around.

I asked, “Did any of you gents happen to notice a Santa suit hanging behind the bar at Hunter's last night?”

In return for this seeming non sequitur, the men gave me puzzled looks.

“What gives, Viv?” Harold asked.

“Junior's Santa suit went missing—this was shortly before the start of the Stroll when Simon was killed.”

Randall raised a correcting finger. “You mean, at the
end
of the Stroll.”

“No,” I said. “Simon was killed
before
it began. Whoever murdered him stole Junior's Santa suit, then impersonated Simon for the rest of the event . . . with Simon dead in the woodshed behind him, and an upset reindeer next to him.”

Chris was shaking his head. “That's impossible, Vivian. I spoke to Simon around eight-thirty, half an hour before the Stroll ended.”

I arched an eyebrow. “Are you sure it was Simon?”

“Well, certainly!” the banker was quick to answer. But then he frowned. “I mean, I
think
it was Simon. Of course, he
was
wearing that heavy false beard and Santa cap. . . .”

“And you
expected
it to be him.”

Chris nodded, adding, “Why wouldn't I?”

“What did you talk about?”

“I really don't recall . . . it was just a brief social conversation.” He paused, adding, “Come to think of it, I did most of the talking.”

The group fell silent for a moment, then Harold asked, as if to himself, “Why would someone impersonate Simon? It doesn't make sense.”

“It does,” I said, “
if
the killer wanted to confuse the time of death.”

Vern asked, “Wouldn't the cold weather do that anyway?”

“Possibly,” I answered. “But any pathologist worth his or her salt would take that into consideration.”

I told them about Henry's strange babbling, a by-product of the poor man falling off the wagon.

“Simon's death must have really set him off,” Randall offered.

Vern, to my left, twisted toward me. “You say Henry mentioned a
nurse
? Did he mention a name?”

I shook my head. “Only that he should have reported her—I assumed it was someone he worked with at the hospital, years ago.”

Vern's expression turned troubled. “You know, when Henry was first practicing, he made regular visits to the orphanage to tend to the children—colds and childhood maladies, plus the kind of scrapes and injuries kids get playing. Henry could have been referring to the nurse there—Maude Tanner.”

The name stirred a distant memory. “Wasn't she accused of physically disciplining the children, to the point of abuse? Whatever happened to her?”

Vern shrugged. “She
conveniently
left town before any charges were filed. And shortly after that? The orphanage closed down.”

I turned toward him and narrowed my eyes. “You seem to know a lot about the woman, Vern.”

He shrugged. “I should . . . I lived out there as a child.”

I squinted at him. “Why was that?”

“Why do you think, Viv? Why does any kid live at an orphanage? I was an orphan.”

“As was I,” Randall said, nodding.

Harold shifted in his seat. “Me, too.”

Chris held a hand up, palm out. “Not guilty.” He laughed lightly. “But they let me join the group anyway.”

Well, dear reader, I could have fallen out of my chair! The files at the orphanage had been well-sealed indeed, if Vivian Borne knew nothing of their contents. And now I understood that the bond the core group of Romeos shared was more than a love of fattening food.

My cell phone trilled—Brandy.

“Mother,” she said, excitedly, “you're not going to
believe
what I'm about to tell you. . . .”

I listened, knowing that I might well have said the same thing to her.

Chapter Five

B
randy back.

It was nine by the time I rolled out of bed Monday morning and stumbled down to the kitchen to find a note from Mother by the coffee machine saying she had “errands to run.”

Translation: She'd taken the trolley downtown to do some snooping.

A postscript said I'd find breakfast warming in the oven, which turned out to be one of my favorite Danish delights Mother makes around Christmastime.

 

3 egg yolks
¼ cup sugar
1 orange; juiced, peel grated
¼ cup butter

 

 

¾ cup flour
½ tsp salt
1 tsp baking powder
2 tbsp powdered sugar
2 eggs
1 tsp cognac
whole milk
water (mixed with milk)

 

Make the filling first by beating the yolks and sugar together in the upper part of a double boiler until well mixed; add the grated orange peel and juice, mixing well; add butter in dabs or small pieces. Cook until thickened. Let cool.

 

To make the batter, sift flour, salt, baking powder, and powdered sugar together. In separate bowl, beat the eggs slightly and stir into flour mixture. Gradually add the cognac and milk/water, beating well. Let stand fifteen minutes. Bake cakes on well-buttered griddle, browning on both sides. Remove cakes from griddle and add a tablespoon of cooled filling to the center of each; roll the cake around the filling to make a sausage shape. Arrange on an oven-proof serving dish; sprinkle with extra powdered sugar; set dish under low broiler heat to lightly brown the tops. Makes sixteen small cakes, or eight large cakes.

 

 

I helped myself to two cakes, giving some morsels to Sushi by way of mixing them in with her dry dog food so that she'd eat all the food, and I could give her an insulin shot. Which she did and I did.

After my shower, I got into my favorite DKNY jeans and a Splendid plaid shirt. Today Sushi and I'd be going to the shop—even though it was closed—because I still had several boxes of Christmas merchandise to put out, and time was running short, only so many more shopping days and all that.

Downstairs I threw on my military-style coat, grabbed my purse (a black Hobo cross body), scooped up Sushi, and we headed out to the car.

Our shop was unique in that it took up an entire house—a two-story white clapboard built around the turn of last century and locally infamous as the site of two ax murders (see
Antiques Chop
), which is why we got the place so cheap.

Our antiques and collectibles were displayed in the proper room—that is, living-room furniture in the living room; kitchenware in the kitchen; books in the library; bedroom sets upstairs; linens in the closets. In the basement we'd recently added “Mantiques” (old tools, fishing gear, beer signs, pinup calendars, and so forth) to lure male customers or at least give the fellas something to do while the gals shopped upstairs. Everyone knew just where to go in the house to look for whatever they were after.

Anyway, at the shop, I dragged down several boxes from the attic (nothing up there but storage and cobwebs) containing a variety of holiday merchandise—vintage Christmas cards, glass ornaments, assorted plaster and plastic Santas, and so forth—that I planned on salting around the various rooms.

As Sushi looked on, I was sorting through the boxes in the ample entryway, in front of the checkout counter, when someone knocked on the locked front door.

I saw Tony through the top glass of the door and went to unlock it.

Serenity's top cop stomped the snow from his Florsheims and stepped in, his dark wool topcoat open over the usual blue shirt, navy tie, and gray slacks.

“What's so important that you had to see me now?” he asked, the slight irritation in his voice something only a girlfriend could detect.

On the drive to the shop I'd debated long and hard whether to show Tony the two pictures Mother and I had taken of Simon. My loyalty to Mother in keeping her investigation self-contained was becoming increasingly compromised by my desire to help Tony in his job.

“I would've come to the station,” I said, “but they said you were out, so I sent you that text. . . .”

Crooking a finger for him to follow, I went over to where both photos lay on the counter.

When Tony saw Mother's crime-scene shot, his face turned a Christmassy red. “Where the hell d'you get that?”

This time you would not have to be his girlfriend to pick up on the irritation.

“Mother took it with her cell—you can deal with her later.”

Tapping the other photo, I explained the difference in the suits, and the theory that Simon had actually been killed at the beginning of the Stroll.

Red fading, Tony nodded. “That makes sense. Indicates why our interviews with eye witnesses don't jibe with the preliminary autopsy report.”

A little bell tinkled, telling me I'd forgotten to relock the front door, and someone came in—some customer I'd have to turn away.

Only it wasn't a customer—rather, it was Dumpster Dan, in the too-big tattered overcoat he'd worn at the Stroll, moving toward us, face flushed.

“I
know
you're closed,” he apologized breathlessly, “but I saw the lights on and just couldn't wait.”

The man's bloodshot eyes went to Tony. “And I'm glad
you're
here, too, Chief Cassato . . . because I want you to know that I found this in a Dumpster . . . and finders keepers, right?”

Dan held up a clenched fist.

Tony, who had a certain fondness for Dan, said gently, “Well, that depends. Sometimes things get thrown away accidentally.”

“Oh.” Dan seemed to deflate.

“But if
that
is the case,” Tony went on, “there might well be a reward.”

“Oh!” Dan filled right back up.

I asked, “What do you have there, Dan? Something special?”

“I think so.” He opened his palm, and the moment I saw the shiny silver object, I knew what it was.

So did Tony.

“Mind if I see that?” Tony asked evenly, so as not to spook the man.

Dan handed over the rare silver dollar.

Examining the coin, Tony asked, “Where did you find this?”

“In a Dumpster behind Hunter's.”

“When?”

“This morning.”

“Any more money?
Newer
money?”

Dan looked down at his feet.

“Dan,” Tony said patiently, “any more money?”

“Well . . . there
were
some bills, small ones, and a buncha change, too—but I didn't have time to get much of it before the Dumpster truck rolled up. Guess I can't keep any of the money, huh?”

“Sorry, no,” Tony said.

Dan sighed. “Afraid of that.” A pause. “But is it okay if I keep that Santa suit?”

Actually, it wasn't.

And after Tony had left with Dan to take him to the station for further questioning, I called Mother on her cell and told her what had just transpired.

After the expected gasp, she announced, “So! . . . Simon's death was
not
about someone stealing the coin for monetary gain!”

“Then what
was
it about?”

“That's what we're going to find out—come and get me at Boonie's. I think it's time we pay a visit to the old orphanage.”

 

 

With Mother giving directions, Sushi in her lap listening intently, I drove out in the country 5.7 miles, then turned down a snowy narrow lane, coming to a stop in front of an austere, multi-gabled Gothic structure of red sandstone.

“The orphanage was once the manor of a wealthy pearl button manufacturer,” Mother said, “himself an orphan who grew to success and wealth.”

We were seated in the car, gazing out at the decaying edifice.

“And,” Mother continued, “when the manufacturer died in the early 1920s, childless, a widower, he left the mansion to the county on the condition that it be used for an orphanage. Then, when it closed in the 1960s, Simon bought the property for a song. But our favorite Santa never developed it. He had long-term plans for the land.”

“What about the coin? Why was it stolen only to be discarded?”

She stared at the old orphanage. “I believe it may have been about stopping any construction on this site.”

“Why?”

“Because, dear, new construction might turn up a very old body.”

She told me about the notorious nurse, Maude Tanner.

“So we're here to find a body?” I asked, goggling at her. Every time I think I've heard her worst idea, she tops herself.

But Mother's only answer was to exit the car, and I hurried to catch up with her, setting Sushi down. We three went up the dozen or so crumbling cement steps to a wide porch precariously held up with rotting wooden columns.

Mother tried the heavy front door and found it locked.

Undaunted, she said, “There must be a key around here
somewhere.
”

“Under the welcome mat, maybe? Gee, for some reason there
isn't
a welcome mat here at Friday the Thirteenth Orphanage.”

But Mother tried various possible hiding places anyway, and came up empty. I tried, too, with no better luck.

A familiar barking came from inside, and suddenly Sushi's furry face popped up between slats of a boarded-up porch window.

“Well,
she
got in,” I said, amazed.

“Let's ask her how,” Mother replied.

“Sushi's smart, Mother, but she doesn't talk.”

“Her tracks in the snow do!”

We followed the little tracks around back where the prints went up stone steps to a smaller porch, stopping beneath a boarded-up first-floor window. One board had fallen away, allowing room enough for doggie entry. But I easily removed another rotting board, allowing Mother and me to climb over the sill.

We found ourselves in a large kitchen, although few remnants remained to indicate that other than the linoleum-topped counters. The cupboards had been torn out, leaving ugly scars, light fixtures ripped from the ceiling, frayed electrical wires dangling like stripped veins.

Mother said, “Scavengers.”

“Well, at least the stuff's being recycled.”

“I'm glad to hear such a positive attitude coming from you, dear. Because we have things to do.”

Sushi scampered to a stop at my feet. Feeling certain that she wouldn't wander too far, I let her roam free, confident she would only sniff and look into any holes in the floor, not fall in. I wished I was as confident about Mother and me.

We moved along a long dark hallway to the front of the building where the midafternoon sun coming through the space between the slats of boarded-up windows gave us some light, at least.

In the once-grand parlor, the scavengers had been even more bold, removing all the wainscoting from the lower sections of walls, leaving only faded floral wallpaper and the dirty outlines of where pictures had hung. A large fireplace had been robbed of its mantel.

The house was giving me the willies, even if I wasn't sure what the willies were, and to compensate I joked, “Maybe our nurse got stuffed up the chimney.”

Mother said, “I don't think so, dear.... I'm not getting any vibes.”

She claimed to get such vibes when her bunions were hurting her, which was a psychic feat no matter how you spelled it.