A Killing in Antiques (20 page)

Not good, not good at all. “Does that mean . . . ?”

“Billy was one of them,” he said.

“What did he do? Do the police know about this? Will it make him look guilty?” I couldn’t even form all of the questions I wanted to ask.

“Slow down, Lucy. Of course the police know about it. It can’t be used as evidence of Monty’s murder, but they believe it’s an indication that Billy is violent.”

“So what happened?” I asked.

“About ten years ago he was involved in a bar brawl that left one of the participants barely alive. He spent a year in prison, then on parole. I spoke to his parole officer, who was Monty’s old parole officer, and also the connection between Monty and the helpers he hired. He told me that Billy never drank again after that, and that he was never sure that Billy was responsible for the original violence, but he was caught, found guilty, and served time.”

“That surely looks bad for Billy,” I said.

“It is bad,” Baker agreed. He shook his head, looking ready to crash, and turning the red M&M around and around in his fingers. He examined his fingertips; they were rosy.

I had no idea how to lift Baker out of his mood. Keeping him busy might take his mind off of today’s troubles.

“Baker, after you go through this field, can you do me a favor?”

He responded as I knew he would. “Of course I can,” he said without hesitation. His manners are courtly and old-fashioned.

Sellers bring their goods in allotted vehicles. When the selling starts, no further vehicles are permitted until three o’clock. I asked if he would bring my van in for me at three. I wanted to start packing and storing my stuff as soon as possible so that I could get an early start on my trip home to the Cape tonight.

“As a matter of fact,” he said, “if you want me to get the van here before three, I’ll be happy to try.”

I hesitated. If he tried to bring the van in now, and they stopped him until the posted time, he’d have to sit and fret for an hour. I started explaining, but he interrupted me.

“They consider me the press around here, so they let me dispense with some of the rules,” he said.

We decided to try it. I gave him the keys to the van, and he trotted toward the front gate. Maybe keeping him busy was the right thing, but things had surely taken a turn for the worse.

When I asked Coylie for Frankie’s cell phone number, he said, “That’s
my
cell phone. I hated to give it up, but it was the right thing to do. I showed him how to use it, but I know he’ll botch it up.”

I stood up. “I’ll try to get him right now.”

“If you reach him, tell him we had good sales today.”

I left the tent, stood in the line for the phone, then had to leave a message.

W
hen I came back we resumed munching. I told Coylie that I’d decided to buy the Mexican brooch.

“Great, that’s a beautiful piece.”

“I heard that it’s made by Matilde, and that it’s not Indian jewelry.”

“You heard wrong. Matilde didn’t make that brooch,” he said. “And while I’m at it, let me tell you that, contrary to popular opinion, Indians live in Mexico, too.”

I looked at him. “I heard it from an expert.”

“The expert was wrong. Did he pick it up?”

“No, he didn’t seem to need to.”

Coylie raised an eyebrow, got up, lifted the glass on his display case, and picked up the brooch. He turned it over and pointed to the inscription stamped on the back. I turned it slightly toward the sun, and didn’t even need my eyeglasses: “MATL Mexico 925 Salas.”

I knew that 925 meant sterling. “Looks like the MATL could stand for ‘Matilde,’ ” I said.

“That’s what it stands for,” Coylie said. “Her name was Matilde Poulat, and this was made in her studio. Salas stands for Ricardo Salas, her nephew. Her name went on everything, but his name only went on his own work. They both made wonderful jewelry and ornamental objects. Artists are still copying their work today.”

“Should I have the amethyst replaced?” I asked.

“Hell, no. Don’t let the flawed amethyst bother you. That’s what she used. When you see a perfect amethyst that large, in old Indian or Mexican work, it’s apt to be made of glass. This is good vintage. Google it and see how many jewelers are still copying their work,” he said.

Someday I may Google something. In the meantime the brooch was mine, m-i-n-e, mine. The longer I looked at it, the more I found to admire in it.

We were just wrapping up the sale, when something at the back gate caught my eye. It was Baker coming through in the van. I guess they do make exceptions for the press.

We transferred my purchases from Coylie’s truck to the van. I also had furniture held around the field, but we were almost an hour early, and if we drove around picking it up, our flagrant flouting of the rules would create trouble. A stroll through one of the other fields would be good. Neither of us had expectations of buying anything.

We stopped while I looked over a mahogany lowboy. Nice. Refinished, but well done. Made in the Queen Anne style, a style that keeps returning; it was about ninety years old. A reproduction, but a nice representation of the style, and old enough to be interesting.

“That’s a very special piece,” the dealer said, and he patted it. Everyone is into marketing.

He used the “dealer-discount” pricing system. In an upper corner a circled number indicated that the piece would be discounted by so much to a dealer. I don’t care for this system, as it often means that the dealer is rigid about his discounts. I like a more flexible discount system. As long as the flexibility is downward.

Still, it was a nice piece, and heavy; it wouldn’t be much fun for the dealer to pack up and drag back home again.

“Is that the best you can do?” I asked.

The dealer hesitated, a good sign; he was figuring his chances that I’d take it at a further discount.

“That piece will double in value before the summer is over,” he said, grinning.

“It’s a repro,” I said, glancing around at the rest of his stuff. Nice; not the big-time treasures that I craved, but good solid pieces nonetheless.

Baker moved his glasses to the tip of his nose, looked over them at the lowboy, and said, “Nothing is going to double in value over
this
summer, and especially not repros.”

“This one will.” The dealer’s smile said aces. “It was refinished by Silent Billy, the murderer, and you know what a juicy story does for an antique.”

Baker and I looked at each other, dangling jaws and slumped faces mirroring our dismay. Then we turned away. I knew that he was as floored as I, though neither of us uttered a word. We took a step or two back toward the path.

“Hey,” the dealer called after us, and he named an attractive price. Ordinarily I would have taken it, but I was so dumbfounded by the thought of what he had just said that I couldn’t consider it.

Baker hesitated, and returned to the lowboy. What on earth? He stopped, dug around in one of his bags, and placed something on the lowboy. When he turned back to me I saw the watermarked red M&M.

Baker spoke quietly. “It’s true—a good story can improve the value of an antique.” His mouth was set in a grim line.

Numbed by the thought of the lie that was taking hold around the marketplace, my thoughts spun. Many people, it seemed, had no trouble at all believing that Silent Billy had murdered Monty. My mind shut down and I decided that I had done enough shopping for the day.

Finished or not, my eye scanned the offerings as we plodded back to the van. A flicker of silver and mother-of-pearl glinted in the sun. Natalie’s pickle castor! Well, I’d have to tell her that no one else had taken it home, either. She’d be glad to hear it when I finally caught up with her.

It was still a few minutes before three when we returned to the booth, but close enough to get started picking up my stuff from around the field. I offered to drop Baker off wherever he wanted; then I’d go pick up my stuff. But he needed company, so he got into the van with me. This created another problem. Most dealers are willing to lend a hand with the lifting and packing when the buyer arrives alone. However, with Baker by my side, they let us do the moving and packing ourselves, and Baker was becoming more useless by the minute.

After struggling with a couple of pickups, I gave up and decided to move along to Al’s. Baker couldn’t hear my gentle suggestions that he follow me in his own car. He rode in the van with me. I’d come back later for the furniture, and I hoped that Baker would quit helping me so I could get the job done quickly and drive back to the Cape while it was still daylight.

He sunk into the seat beside me; his explanations faltered, then finally halted. He’d slipped into a quiet mood of despair.

Unloading at Al’s barn was the same. Baker was gentle with my treasures, but so slow and awkward that I found myself wishing he would just get out of the way and let me do it alone. I racked my brain trying to think of ways to get out of having him help me, but it was useless. Baker clung like a fearful two-yearold.

When I shut the barn door and heard the lock snap, we headed for the house, where Al was dashing around the kitchen, which smelled wonderful.

“Coffee’s fresh,” she said when I finished the introductions, “I put it on when I buzzed you in.” She took a long look at Baker and said, “Sit down. I have something for you.”

The kitchen table was set for coffee. Al placed the coffeepot on the scrubbed oak table, returned to the counter near the stove, and fiddled with a bowl of batter. Within minutes she had a plate full of golden nuggets that smelled like apple pie and looked like heaven. She placed the plate on the table next to two huge aluminum shakers.

“Apple fritters,” she said to Baker. “Try them and decide whether I should serve them at breakfast tomorrow.” She pointed to the shakers. “Cinnamon sugar and powdered sugar—choose your weapon.” She nodded at me to dig in also.

The fritters were so hot we could hardly handle them. I tossed one from hand to hand with scorching fingers. The smell emanating from it teased my nose and made my mouth water. Baker took a bite. “Ambrosia!” he said, and blinked his eyes.

I sampled mine. It dissolved in my mouth. I tried another. A toasty crisp coating surrounded the sweet apple slices. The edges of the apple slices had melted during the cooking, but the centers retained enough body to allow the warm cocoon of batter to cling intimately. Bliss.

Baker, delighting in each mouthful, threw himself into the task. “Cinnamon for sure,” he announced. He was convinced. “Or, maybe powdered.”

Al beamed at him. “How about the batter?” she asked. “It’s an egg batter, but maybe beer batter will stick to the fruit better.”

I realized that this was my chance, grabbed up a handful of toasty fritters, and announced that I was going to go back to the barn to organize my things a little better for the next load. Baker and Al nodded. Al brought another plate of fritters to the table. Baker’s eyes liquefied as he gazed at the plate.

“Some people like maple syrup on them,” she said.

In another minute tears would flow. I slipped out the door. I spent about a minute “organizing” my things, and then I made a break for it. I’d think of something to tell them when I came back. In the meantime, I headed back to Brimfield for another load.

I picked up my furniture, and heard the news that the RAM meeting was in progress right across the street. I headed over and saw that people were already leaving.

“It was over before it started,” someone said. “The fools from RAM never considered what the fees generated by this event mean to the town.”

Good news to bring back to Baker. There was little enough of that lately. The coffee stand was quiet as people drifted toward the field I had just left. I sipped on a latte and enjoyed a moment’s solitude. Bad news and unanswered questions prevailed. I tried to reach Frankie again, to find out how long he had talked to Billy the morning of the murder, but I had to leave another message.

No good news for Billy yet, but I hoped to learn something about the Shaker candlestand tomorrow at Mildred’s tent. That was another piece of the puzzle that didn’t fit. What was Monty’s interest in that candlestand?

It was almost two hours later when I returned to Al’s barn. I couldn’t decide what excuse to offer Baker and Al when I came back. I went up to the house to see if they were upset with me. Baker was still at the table, still plucking fritters from a tray in front of him. He had slowed down since I left. He looked up and grinned at me.

“I’m sorry, Lucy. I’ve eaten most of them. I’ve never had anything quite like this before. Althea needed to save some apples for breakfast tomorrow, so she made some blackberry fritters. She’s going to try cheese fritters sometime, too.” His voice hummed with satisfaction.

Althea?

At that moment Al came into the kitchen from the pantry and set out a fresh cup for me. Neither of them seemed to notice that I had been missing.

Baker rejoiced at the news about RAM. “Of course,” he said. “I should have put two and two together, Lucy. The town would never give up that income without a fight.”

“What does the town get?” Al asked.

“Each vendor, whether antiques dealer, collector, or amateur, has to pay the town thirty dollars for a permit to sell. Since there are between five and six thousand dealers at each show, the fees have been a windfall for the town.”

“If they sell at the spring, summer, and fall shows, do they pay ninety dollars?”

“Yes, and there have been rumblings that the state is eyeing all that income and wants to get in on the action.”

I poured coffee and enjoyed a fritter; blackberries burst in my mouth, warm and sweet. Life was good.

“And a tidbit I forgot to mention,” Baker said. “When I checked my crime sources, I found that the Shaker candlestand is clean. It’s not reported as stolen.”