Antiques Knock-Off (22 page)

(I’m afraid with all of the build-up, my story might not seem that funny. Perhaps you had to be there. But one can’t help but wonder if Billy had begun on Mrs. Snodgrass’s lap, and wound up in mine, might the story have had a different and more satisfying ending? Brandy with Billy Buckly as a stepfather—now
that
would be entertaining!)

Again, I digress. Last time, this time, I promise.

Now, on to my investigating…

I disembarked the trolley at Pearl City Plaza, and went inside the antiques mall, where I had arranged for Cora Vancamp to meet me. Barring any traffic accidents on her part, she should arrive shortly. In the meantime, I checked on our booth, to see what if anything had sold since Brandy and I were last there.

Disappointingly, all our merchandise appeared present and accounted for—I’d been hoping that at least Brandy’s foolish purchase, the silly yellow smiling clock, marked down to a ridiculously low two dollars, would not be grinning back at me.

But it was.

So I picked the thing up and marched over to Ray—busy as usual at the center checkout counter—and tossed the clock on the counter.

“I’ll buy this,” I said.

Ray, bent over another antiquated sewing machine, looked up, stared at me, then at the clock, then back at me again.

“You’ve made a mistake, Vivian.”

“I think not.”

“But it’s
yours.”

“Of course it is,” I snapped. “But I don’t know of any other way to get rid of it. Besides, it’ll cheer Brandy up seeing that it sold—she’s confined to her bed, you know, since the baby was born.” I dug in my purse. “Here’s ten dollars.”

Thoroughly befuddled now, Ray picked up the clock. “It’s only marked
two.”

“I am well aware!” Some of these older people are
so
obstinate!

I handed an engraving of Alexander Hamilton toward Ray. “Record that the clock sold for ten—if she asks, tell her two people were fighting over it, upping the price. The
girl is just gullible enough to believe it, and she’ll think she made a profit on her misjudgement.”

Who said I didn’t have a heart?

(NOTE FROM BRANDY:
Does she think I don’t read my own books?)

The bell over the front door tinkled, announcing a customer, and I looked over to see Cora, wearing another avian dress—yellow hummingbirds, on this occasion. She stood tentatively, beady eyes flitting behind her glasses searching futilely for yours truly, even though I wasn’t more than twenty feet from her.

“Over here, dear!” I called. “Follow my voice….”

Blind as a bat, the poor thing, but without the radar.

Cora hurried over, hauling a small cardboard box that she placed on the counter among the sewing machine parts.

“Ray,” I said, “I understand that you had a chance to get a gander at Cora’s Acklin clock shortly after Harry bought it—is that not correct?”

Ray’s forehead creased in puzzlement. “Yes. Back then I was working part-time for Ben Timmons. Harry wanted to know how to care for it.”

I opened the box, then withdrew the clock. “Is
this
the same Acklin?”

Ray reached for the clock, then gently pushed aside some sewing parts, and set it before him.

I expected Ray to take several minutes before he answered, but in less time than it takes to remove a girdle, the elderly gentleman said, “No.”

Cora’s little eyes grew large. “But you didn’t look at it
closely!”
she protested.

His gaze was kind but firm. “I didn’t have to, Cora. After all these years, I know a knock-off when I see one … and that’s a knock-off—stem to stern.”

“But …”

“Years ago, Harry brought your clock in to me at my old repair shop, for a cleaning, before he gave it to you. It was one of the finest examples of an Acklin bedside clock.”

Cora began to tear up, poor old baby. “Then … then what
happened
to my clock? Where is
it?”

“Now, now, dear,” I said, handing her a tissue. “I think you
know
what happened—Ben Timmons switched it with this one. He lied to Brandy and me that you’d been swindled, and sold a fake clock. But as Ray has said, it was very real. Authentic.”

“I don’t understand,” Cora said. “He lied to you … he switched clocks on me …?”

“Yes. Exactly
when
is unknown, but almost certainly he did so after your eyesight began to fail, and he thought that you wouldn’t notice the difference.”

Cora wiped her eyes with a tissue. “How ever am I going to get the real one back?”

I gave her the reassuring smile of a true heroine. “Not
you,
dear,
me. I’m
going to retrieve it for you—wherever it is. There are laws against selling stolen property!”

I whipped out my cell phone.

Darn—deader than disco.

Now I ask you, people, I am no Luddite, but how am I supposed to remember to charge the blessed thing all of the time? Is it a phone or a camera battery?

I looked at Ray. “Be a dear boy, and give the police a jingle. Tell them I’m heading over to Timmons Clock Repair.”

Ray said, “If Timmons is guilty of theft and fraud, we should just send the police over there. You have no business getting involved, Vivian.”

“I solved the crime, and I will nab the miscreant.”

The old boy just smiled at me. A lopsided smile at that. “Really, Viv?”

“Yes. I intend to make a citizen’s arrest!”

How to make a citizen’s arrest:

1) If possible, notify the police in advance. Try to time it so that they show up just
after
you’ve made the arrest. (Otherwise, they’ll get all the glory. And you might get throttled or even shot, since criminals are by nature untrustworthy.)

2) Evaluate the situation carefully. To avoid being sued for slander, be absolutely certain that a crime has been, or is being, committed. (Or in my case, fairly certain. Almost certain. Pretty certain.)

3) When stopping a person in the act of an illegality, announce, “Stop!” (If the perpetrator has a gun, however, you might prefer to just run.)

4) Inform the “perp” (short for “perpetrator”) that you are making a citizen’s arrest. (Otherwise, he might just think you’re daffy.)

5) Call the police, if you haven’t already. While you wait for them, remember that you are not allowed to forcibly restrain the perp. (Tripping him, however, might be acceptable.)

6) When the police arrive, identify yourself (in my case, an unnecessary step), and tell them what you have witnessed or what evidence you have obtained.

Leaving Cora behind with Ray and her knock-off clock, I hoofed it three blocks to the old funeral home, arriving at the repair shop somewhat winded.

On the door, a plastic WE’LL BE BACK AT clock-face sign had its hands set for noon—which was in fifteen minutes. Apparently Timmons was taking an early lunch, or was out making a delivery.

Rather than cool my heels, I decided to make a preemptive strike (as they say on CNN) and backtracked to the vintage clothing store located in the adjacent funeral parlor.

Nodding a friendly hello to the young saleslady at the cash register, I plucked a 1940s blouse with shoulder pads off a rack, then sailed into a makeshift dressing room, disappearing behind the 1950s boomerang curtain.

After arranging the blouse on a chair, I exited out the back of the curtained dressing room, hurrying to a door connecting the parlor to the embalming room/clock repair shop. If you are wondering how I knew this, write it off to reconnaissance.

The old door had an ancient lock, and one swift bump with my hip (not the artificial one!) was all it took to push through. I stepped into a room used for storing business materials—mailing cartons, paper, packing materials, and the like.

Quicker than you could say “citizen’s arrest,” I was around the counter, moving past the embalming tables, and heading into the back room, where the clock parts were kept. My only apprehension was that Timmons might also know the rules of citizen’s arrest and arrest me for breaking and entering. But one must take one’s chances in the investigatory game.

What I was looking for was evidence that that persistent rumor was true: a supply of Acklin clock parts had survived the fateful fire of 1920.

And I struck gold, almost immediately. Opening a large metal cabinet revealed various shelves on which were Acklin pearl-shell clock faces, gold hour and minute hands (I slipped a set in my pocket), finely crafted cases, and precision inner workings. But other key parts were missing, making it impossible for a complete Acklin to be assembled from what had been salvaged from that long-ago fire.

This explained why Timmons was plundering other Acklin clocks from trusting customers (including Brandy and me)—substituting fake parts, and sometimes (as in Cora’s case) complete timepieces … which allowed him to
put together and sell the
real
if Frankenstein-assembled thing, for a tidy sum.

“Something I can help you with, Vivian?” a voice asked behind me.

Startled, I whirled.

Ben Timmons was smiling, but there wasn’t anything friendly about it.

For a moment I was flummoxed, almost as bad as when I went up on my lines in
I’m Getting My Act Together and Taking It on the Road.

But cool customer and consummate performer that I am, I quickly recovered. “No, Benjamin, I think I’ve
found
what I was looking for….”

And casually, I expounded my case against him. It wasn’t until I was nearly finished that I noticed the antique rubber embalming hose that he brought out from behind his back, clasping the ends with both hands, drawing it taut, like a rope.

This was, I admit, disconcerting.

I immediately combined steps three and four.
“Stop!
I’m making a citizen’s arrest! I’ve already called the police, and they’ll be here any minute. So if you have any notion of killing me—”

The hose went slack in his hands. “I’m not going to kill you, you old busybody!” he said. “Not that I wouldn’t like to, and they’d probably give me a gold medal and a parade for it.”

That was certainly rude.

He took a step forward with the hose. “You broke into my shop. That’s against the law—I’m going to tie you up until the police
do
get here.”

So the possibility of making his own citizen’s arrest
had
occurred to him.

I put my hands on my hips.
“If
you’re making a citizen’s
arrest yourself, you can’t tie me up. I refer to step four—no restraining. Anyway, I don’t
believe
you…. You’re going to kill me just like you did Connie Grimes!”

“What?” He was both surprised and alarmed. “I didn’t kill that stupid woman!”

“But I
know
you did … and so do the police. A witness saw you go into her house the morning of the murder, and then come running out. Just try to deny it!”

Did I fail to mention to you, darlings, that I had heard this on Rhonda’s hypnosis tape? I won’t apologize, because both Agatha Christie and Rex Stout do that sort of thing all the time.

And I also didn’t mention to
Timmons
that the witness in question was a convicted felon whose hypnosis testimony, however helpful to a skilled investigator like yours truly, would not hold up in court.

The clock expert let the hose slip from his hands to the floor.

Stalling for time until the police arrived, I said, “Connie knew what you were doing, didn’t she? And threatened to expose you, or perhaps sue. Maybe she even tried to blackmail you—that was that terrible creature’s style, after all. So you went over there to discuss her terms, and when she wasn’t looking, you took a knife from the kitchen and—”

“No!” Timmons blurted. “I
didn’t
kill her! All right, I admit I’ve been stealing Acklin parts from my customers …”

How wonderful! Just like a witness breaking down on the stand in
Perry Mason!
I could just imagine the court reporter getting all of that down.

“… but I didn’t kill that woman, Vivian. I swear it. She was
alive
when I left!”

“So that’s your story, is it?” I said with a smirk.

Since the police had still not arrived, I bent my head and spoke into my cleavage.

“Did you get that, Chief? Benjamin Timmons admits stealing from his customers for his own personal gain!”

Timmons asked astonished, “You’re wearing a
wire?”

“Of course, you poor misguided soul … you don’t think I’d confront a
murderer
without properly accessorizing!”

“I told you, Vivian, I didn’t kill her! It’s the truth.”

“So you claim,” a deep male voice said.

Officer Lawson stepped in from the embalming room.

“You sure took your time!” I huffed.

Brian handcuffed Timmons, reading the man his rights, then led his prisoner out, through the embalming room.

“I led him to believe I was wired,” I said proudly, trailing behind.

Brian looked back with half-lidded eyes. “Vivian—you’re
permanently
wired.”

“Why, thank you, dear boy.”

After everything I’d done for them on so many cases, it was nice to get a compliment from the police for a change.

Mother’s Trash ‘n’ Treasures Tip

Knock-offs can hurt the value of the genuine article if enough of them infiltrate the marketplace to make collectors wary, especially in cases where the knock-offs are so well made that they can fool the well-trained eye. Even I have been known to make such mistakes, as when I mistook a reproduction chamber pot for the real thing. I thought it looked suspiciously clean.

A
sfter Mother had gone off to do her sleuthing, I decided I was tired of resting. I really didn’t feel that bad—I had some aches and pains that were no worse than a mild flu, and anyway, they were knocked back by the painkillers the doctors had thoughtfully prescribed.

Besides, as all females know, the best way to feel better is to look better. So—to the slumbering Sushi’s dismay (she looked up at me with her spooky eyes and her expression said, “Is this trip necessary?”)—I eased out of bed, trundled into the bathroom (free to trundle again!), took a nice long warm (not hot) shower, put on a little make-up, let my damp hair dry naturally, then found some of my old summer clothes that fit—tailored tan walking shorts, a red-and-tan plaid blouse, and simple white Keds.