Antiques Chop (A Trash 'n' Treasures Mystery) (11 page)

“You were found with an ax in your hands, Corporal. Do you remember picking up that object? Or someone handing one to you?”

“No, ma’am.”

“No memory of that at all?”

“No, ma’am.”

Eddie sighed. “All right, Corporal. That will be all.” The ranger stood, and so did Joe, giving her another salute.

I whispered in her ear. “Uh, remember—name and serial number?”

“Oh. Oh, yes.” Eddie said, “Corporal, one further order. . . .”

And she fulfilled the sheriff’s request.

As Joe was being led away, he stopped and looked back. “Sergeant? I
do
remember one other thing.”

We waited for what we hoped would be an important detail.

“The Medivac never came,” he said sadly.

In front of the station, on the sidewalk, I asked, “What did Joe mean by that? Medivac?”

Eddie shrugged. “It means he did see the body—a comrade down—and called out for a medical helicopter.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Which means Spring was already dead when Joe got there. . . .”

A crisp nod from Eddie. “Way I see it.”

I dug out my keys. “I’ll take you back to the park.”

Eddie gestured with a hand. “No need. Got some business at the courthouse. I’ll get a lift from there.”

“You sure? I can wait. You did me a favor. . . .”

She smiled. “Go. That’s an order, Private.”

I grinned at her and nodded, heading back to my car, feeling better about Joe’s innocence.

Somewhat.

 

Shop owners need to find new ways to reach buyers, i.e., sending mass e-mails to current customers that offer them a discount for bringing in a new customer. (We put flyers in people’s mailboxes until the postal inspector told us to stop. Buzz kill!)

Chapter Six

Chop Around

D
earest ones! Vivian speaking (writing) once again, coming to you direct from the heart and the heartland.

To my great dismay, I have once again been relegated to a token chapter in the middle of the book. :( This I feel is a tactical error, not to mention unfair, considering that my fan mail has now exceeded Brandy’s.

The young woman has tried to placate me by insisting that being in the middle is preferable, even providing a treat for readers—like the creamy center of a Twinkie or the fluffy frosting of an Oreo (Double-Stuf). She seemed sincere when she suggested this, or perhaps she was just hungry.

But what if one doesn’t care for the fattening likes of Twinkies or Oreos? There are those who consider such delectables mere junk food, callous conveyers of empty calories.

(
Vivian to publisher’s legal department
:
Please make sure that I may say the above without engendering legal action from the good folks at Hostess and/or Nabisco. You might remind them that “delectable” is a compliment.
)

But, dear reader, that’s not the
worst
of it.
:<
My word limit has been reinstated, in reaction to my chapter in
Antiques Disposal
running just the teensy weensiest smidge long, having to be split into two chapters. (Which Brandy and even our editor accused me of doing on purpose!)

Now I ask you, were William Faulkner, F. Scott Fitzgerald, or Ernest Hemingway ever restricted to word-count limitations? Did anyone complain when Leo Tolstoy turned in his manuscript of
War and Peace?
(Well, readers still complain, but we’re talking editors here.)

I grant it’s possible some editor found the occasional need to rein in Norman Mailer and Truman Capote, but then the former was an egomaniac and the latter a trifle eccentric, and really both were just terrible show-offs, a couple of regular Chatty Cathies.

At any rate, I will have to be on my guard to prevent myself from going on and on, exploring this discursive topic and that one, inadvertently using up my quota. I am on the alert!

It was about ten-thirty in the
A.M.
when Brandy dropped me off at the police station. I strolled through the open-air atrium with its fruit trees in full fall foliage, then strode into the red brick building with the confidence of an amateur sleuth who had led this simple small-town police department to the solution of so many a major crime.

The small waiting area was empty but for me, of course, and a few mismatched chairs, an overworked Coke machine, and a sad-looking rubber tree plant. I had arrived before my attorney, Wayne Ekhardt, which was not surprising, because Wayne hasn’t been moving quickly for the last decade or three.

I marched up to the bulletproof glass and announced myself to a female dispatcher, whose auburn hair brushed her shoulders. Her dark blue eyes were keen behind red-framed glasses.

“Vivian Borne to see Brian Lawson,” I said formally. “And I’m expecting my lawyer, momentarily.”

She nodded, businesslike. “When you’re both here, I’ll contact the chief. Until then, please have a seat.”

Her name was Heather and she was a recent hire, taking the place of the former dispatcher, Evelyn, who’d been dismissed for giving me inside information.

Rather a sad state of affairs, really, and just plain sad—over the years I had lost so many moles in the PD, dispatchers mostly, some dispatched into the ranks of the unemployed, others transferred away from my supposed “bad influence” to another department or precinct.

So far I had been unable to find any weakness of Heather’s to cultivate; but as everyone has an Achilles’ heel, I’d keep trying with her. (Mine is Godiva chocolates—big box assortment. Write that down.)

Evelyn’s heel had been the painkillers she needed to stay alert during late nights at work, so I from time to time had generously shared my own prescription left over from my double hip replacement. Perhaps “generously” is the wrong word—I was careful not to administer too large a dosage.

(
Legal department to Vivian
: We advise dropping the previous paragraph.)

(
Vivian to legal department
: I disagree! No one can prove that really happened, and I doubt Evelyn would cause any trouble. Everyone says I’m an unreliable narrator—why can’t we take advantage of that?)

I selected a chair near the neglected rubber tree, then removed my cuticle scissors from my purse, and began to expertly cut away the dead leaves, giving the plant some much needed TLC. :)

I just love emoticons, don’t you? What will these imaginative kids think of next? Here are a few of my very own emo-creations (feel free to use them).

$$$$
(show me the money)

&-o
(where’s my left eyeglass lens?)

3
(soft as a baby’s bottom)

@:-]
(I got a new hat!)

+_+
(a little tipsy)

You’re welcome!

I was nearly finished with my plant pruning when Wayne entered the station. At least, he
tried
to enter, his frail body struggling to keep the heavy glass door from snapping him in two like a twig.

I jumped up to assist.

“Why, thank you, Viv,” he said, breathing hard, once safely inside. “That wasn’t really necessary, but it was very thoughtful.”

“Anything for a dear old friend,” I said. “And thank you for meeting me at such short notice.”

Wayne, pushing ninety, slight of stature, his head covered with more liver spots than hair, wore a navy pinstriped suit that by now was too large for his shrinking frame. He carried a hefty briefcase, the overall effect that of a boy (albeit a wrinkled one) playing dress-up in his father’s business attire.

Taking Wayne’s arm—as if he were steadying me when vice versa was the case—we made our ponderous way over to Heather, who told us the chief would be out shortly.

Rather than take five minutes doing an impression of Tim Conway’s Old Man walking back to the chairs, we stayed put.

“Now, Wayne, dear,” I warned, “when we get in there, I must ask you to follow my lead.”

He gave me a sideways glance. “Do I have a choice in the matter?”

I squeezed his arm and he smiled, or was that a wince? “Oh, octogenarians
do
say the darnedest things.”

The door to the inner world of the Serenity police popped open and Brian Lawson—wearing a navy shirt with white tie and tan slacks, badge clipped cutely to his belt—gestured for us to enter. His expression seemed troubled. I hoped he wasn’t having a bad morning.

Soon he was leading us down the now-familiar beige-tiled hallway—the PD had become something of a home away from home for me of late—passing police photos on the wall of bygone days (I would pause to straighten this one and that one as we progressed).

Near the end of the hall, we paused in front of a door marked
INTERVIEW ONE,
which Brian opened for us, and we all went in.

The small room was chilly, with the same beige walls and tiled floor as the hallway. Wayne and I sat in plastic chairs at a metal table, which was bolted down (what with all the thieves they interviewed here, this probably prevented pilferage).

A little tape recorder was on the table. Brian leaned in, turned the machine on, then spoke.

“Chief Brian Lawson. Interview with Vivian Borne. Attorney Wayne Ekhardt present. Wednesday, November fourteen, ten twenty-three
A.M.
”

He cleared his throat. He remained standing, arms folded. Which is very defensive body language, according to
Reader’s Digest
.

“Mrs. Borne, after you left your daughter Brandy and her son, Jake, on the porch of the old Butterworth house, you entered the crime scene. What did you do inside?”

I smiled pleasantly. “I refuse to answer on the grounds that it might tend to incriminate me.”

Wayne closed his eyes. Was that a gesture of frustration, or the start of a nap?

“Vivian,” Brian said patiently, “I’m only seeking information that may prove vital to the case. You are not a suspect. But you are a material witness, and have a responsibility to share what you know.”

Well, dear reader, I’d watched enough
NYPD Blue
reruns to be hip to such police chicanery.

I looked down my nose at the chief, which wasn’t easy to do since he was still standing. “Must I remind you that I haven’t been read my Miranda rights?”

Wayne’s eyes remained closed. You tell me.

“Vivian,” Brian said less patiently, “I repeat—you are
not
a suspect.”

I folded my arms across my chest. “Then turn off that tape recorder.”

“Fine,” Brian said, sighed, and did. “
Now
will you answer the question? What did you do after you entered that house?”

“Thank you for turning off that machine. But I
still
refuse to answer on the grounds that I might incriminate myself.”

Bruce looked at Wayne. “Mr. Ekhardt!”

Wayne opened his eyes.

“Would you
please,
” the chief said, “advise your client that it would be in her best interest to cooperate.”

Wayne pulled himself up into his suit, darn near filling it. “I’m afraid she
is
within her legal rights, Chief Lawson.”

Maybe he hadn’t been napping!

The chief glared at me. “So
that’s
how it’s going to be?”

“I refuse to answer on the grounds that—”

“Damnit!”

The veins stood out on his forehead, and he snatched the recorder from the table and shoved it in his pocket.

“There’s no sense in continuing this charade,” he snapped. “Thanks for wasting my time!”

“No problem,” I said with my sweetest smile.

He thrust a finger in my face. Most rude, really, particularly considering that I was his girlfriend’s mother. What kind of impression was that to make?

“Vivian, you know we’re trying to keep this thing under wraps, to give us a head start on finding the murderer.”

“Yes, Brandy said as much.”

“We haven’t released
any
information as to the grisly details of the murder. You need to keep that to yourself, for the time being. Do you understand, Vivian?”

“Certainly.”

“In other words, keep your big mouth shut!”

I touched my bosom, cut to the quick. “And here I thought you were angry that I
wasn’t
talking today! You should make up your mind . . .
Interim
Chief Lawson.” I rose. “Good day.”

Outside the interview room, I whispered to Wayne, “I think that went swimmingly, don’t you?”

The lawyer appeared to roll his eyes in response, although I couldn’t be sure, because his eyesight at this age was on the hinky side.

The chief, you will be outraged to learn, did not do us the courtesy of showing us out. Rather, he left that to a twenty-something policeman I didn’t know, whose badge read HORTON. As he escorted Wayne and me to a back exit, Officer Horton was cute and polite and would have made a fine new interim chief.

Along the way I wheedled some information out of the newbie.

“I understand Phil Dean, the cameraman, has returned to California,” I remarked casually.

“No,” Horton said. “We haven’t given him permission to leave Serenity yet. He’s a material witness.”

“So am I!”

He gave me an odd smile.

I said, “I hope he isn’t stuck out at the Holiday Inn. They’re remodeling, you know, which must be unpleasant for him.”

Officer Horton, unlocking the exit door, remarked, “No, he’s moved to the Grand, downtown. He was afraid the media might track him down when this hits.”

The old hotel had been remodeled by way of fantasy “theme” suites.

“But you know the media!” I said. “They won’t have any trouble checking around and tracking him down.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Horton said. “He’s registered under a phony name, at our suggestion.”

“What name would that be?”

“Dean Phillips,” the young cop said without thinking. “Hey, I didn’t tell you that, lady.”

A new snitch in the making!

“Well, he’ll enjoy the Grand,” I said. “I hear the Tarzan suite is something to
yell
about!”

Horton smiled pleasantly, but his expression was strained. It was probably occurring to him that he shouldn’t have talked so freely around me. Poor baby.

Outside, I parted with Wayne, the attorney shuffling off toward his Lincoln Town Car in the police parking lot—good Lord, that man should not still be driving!
<:0

Shaking my head in worry, I hurried off toward the Grand Hotel, five blocks away.

The eight-story Victorian edifice, built in the 1880s on a beautiful bank of the Mississippi, had fallen into disrepair some years ago, its clientele running to down-and-outers and renters-by-the-hour. But the old girl, slated for demolition, was saved by the wealthy female publisher of the
Serenity Sentinel,
giving her a face-lift—the building, that is, not the publisher (although rumor has it the publisher had one done around the same time, too).

The hotel’s face-lift, however, cost considerably less than its new owner’s—three million clams. People came from all around the Midwest to spend a night or two in a fantasy suite—such as the Grecian temple room with its marble statues and waterfall, the way-out moon room with its space-capsule bed, or the valentine-arrayed bridal suite for honeymooners (wedded or not, here they came).

I arrived in the opulent lobby unsure of how to go about finding Phil Dean. The desk clerk would likely be warned to fend off anyone asking for Dean Phillips.