Murder Actually (10 page)

Bootsie waved across the field. “There's Marshall! He promised to buy me a present and if I don't supervise I'll end up with something super-creepy from the rummage sale.”

I watched her scurry away just as the bell at St. Anne's began to toll. I decided it was tolling for me, so I gathered up my purchases and headed downtown.

 

 

I parked in the car park adjacent to the English Street shopping district and walked down the boardwalk. The streets were thick with tourists and the windows lined with colorful blue, green and red awnings. A dark blue car with darkly tinted windows idled past, and I wondered when we'd started getting celebrities in All Hallows. I passed under a signboard featuring a corpulent gentleman in pink frock coat and bearing the name of the establishment, Thrubwell Antiques.

The bell above the door tinkled as I pushed it open, and a dapper little man with grizzled white hair and fierce blue eyes bounded to the entrance and peered up at me.

“Good morning, madam. I'm Mr. Thrubwell. Can I help you with something?”

“I want to buy a writing desk,” I said firmly.

“Excellent.”

He beamed for a few seconds, and then motioned for me to follow him to a dim area at the back of the store, crowded with delicate mahogany furniture.

He turned back to me abruptly. “Now. What are you?”

I felt like I had fallen down the rabbit hole. “I'm me.”

“Ah yes, a treasure to humanity! But that doesn't help me. For instance,” he bounded over and perched himself on the edge of a table. “Are you an eighteenth century American mahogany ladies' writing desk? Or perhaps you're a
Bonheur-du-jour
?”

I couldn't tell if I'd just been insulted. You never knew with French. “I'm not sure,” I said finally.

“Neither am I.”

We stood contemplating each other. I thought it was a weightier existential dilemma from my end, but he appeared to be equally engrossed in the question.

“I understand,” he turned abruptly and pointed rapidly towards other pieces. “You are
not
an eighteenth century American mahogany ladies' writing desk!”

“I'm not?”

“No!”

He stopped and made a steeple with his hands, then closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. “I think, maybe, just maybe, you are a Hepplewhite!”

“I am?”

“Oh yes,” he nodded vigorously. “I can see it now. You're definitely a Hepplewhite. I should've seen it immediately. You are a Hepplewhite and this is your new writing desk!”

He pulled a white sheet from a piece of furniture, revealing a delicately carved piece of mahogany.

I had to admit if I were really buying an antique writing desk I would've been seriously tempted, but as you probably deduced I had a different agenda in mind.

“You're so talented.” My admiration wasn't feigned as I leaned over the desk. I could just make out a series of numbers on the price tag and was fairly confident there were five as I continued. “I've never met someone with such a natural talent for antiques! Is everyone at your shop so gifted?”

“Alas,” he lifted a hand to his chest. “I'm afraid I'm the only one. I had an employee but she…” he pulled me towards him and lowered his voice, “…was murdered.”

“No!”

“Yes,” he said with relish. “It just happened the other day. They found her body at Ware estate. I can't believe you didn't hear about it,” he shook his head regretfully. “You're probably the type to disdain idle gossip.”

I lowered my voice as well. “I should confess that I'm really a private detective.”

He almost jumped up and down, his little vest riding over his stomach. “I knew it, as soon as I saw you I knew there was something mysterious about you.”

I wondered if it were my flip-flops or scrunchie that conveyed my allure as he eyed me a few more seconds and then nodded his head a half dozen times.

“Come to the back and have a cup of tea.”

He led me behind the furniture to a heavy brocade curtain. Once pulled aside it revealed a cozy office area with an antique desk similar to the one I wouldn't be buying, and a charming collection of Wedgwood china, Staffordshire figurines and Cecil Aldin prints. A tiny fire burned in the grate, and Mr. Thrubwell busied himself pouring out tea in an elegant pink and gold tea service. He offered me a cucumber sandwich the size of my thumbnail, and then sat back and balanced his teacup and saucer on his round belly.

“Her name was Violet. An insipid name, I've always thought;
Violet by the Mossy Stone
, you know, Wordsworth. Heavy going. Anyway, I took her on, oh, two years ago or thereabouts. I needed someone to watch the store when I was away at my auctions and I like to hire dim personalities so my antiques really shine. Violet was… sufficient. She didn't have my knack, but that's something that has taken me thirty-seven years to perfect, so I didn't expect it. But she was particularly good with my nineteenth century French porcelains, such a loss…” He stopped to take a sip of tea and then continued brightly. “Anyway, she was quite good, but I did fault her excessive breaks. She was always on a coffee break or tea break or snack break...”

He took a sip of tea and lowered his voice dramatically. “The day she died, Monday, she came into work as usual. She sold a few trinkets and then took lunch around twelve. While she was on break she got a phone call. I can remember her words exactly.” His voice changed into a high squeak and he squinted angrily at the phone on his desk. “I've got it. It's just what you asked for. Are you going to the Gray book reading tonight? Yes, I know, the book wasn't very good, but everyone will be there. You will? Good. I'll bring it with me.
Click
.” Mr. Thrubwell added the sound effects and made an effective gesture of replacing a receiver.
I've got it!
Those were her exact words.
I've got it!”

“What did she mean? Got what?”

He leaned forward; his blue eyes alight with excitement. “Violet bought an antique dagger the day before she died.”

“A dagger?” I felt my excitement rising. “What kind of dagger?”

“It was a very interesting piece; a 15
th
century Rondel. I remember thinking it was quite odd because she'd never shown any interest in antique weaponry.”

“Did she say why she wanted it?”

He nodded excitedly. “She said it was a commission! She said someone asked her to pick it up for them. I was all smiles. Antique weaponry sales haven't fared well in this economy, so I was thrilled, thrilled, thrilled to unload the Rondel. And then I found out Jasper Ware had been murdered with a dagger through the heart,” his voice lowered to a sepulchral tone, “the very dagger that Violet Ambler bought from
this shop
!”

“Did she mention who she was buying it for?”

He shook his head. “Not a word. I've racked my brain but haven't been able to come up with anything. She only said that was part of her commission; that the dagger was meant to be a surprise.”

I was sure Jasper Ware had been shocked. “Do you remember anything else? Did she mention any names?

“No.”

“Could you tell if she was talking to a man or a woman?”

He shook his head. “No, sorry.”

“Did she mention Jasper Ware when she bought the dagger?”

“Not then, but I heard plenty about him at other times. She was always mentioning Jasper Ware…Jasper, Jasper, Jasper. I have to confess, I wasn't a fan of his books. They were so vulgar.”

“Did Violet ever mention Alex Ware?”

“Now that name does sound familiar,” he sat forward excitedly and almost upset his teacup. “I believe she did talk to someone named Alex.”

“Do you remember when this was?”

“It was sometime last week, last Wednesday maybe? I'm sorry; this murder has me all in a muddle!”

“Did Violet mention Alex Ware in connection with the dagger?”

“Not that I recall.”

“Do you know if Violet had any enemies?”

“None. She was very…normal. Not the type of person I'd have thought would be murdered! And I see a lot of the dark side of human nature running an antique store.”

“Did she go anywhere during her shift?”

“No, she was here. I remember because I was busy with a particular client who has a big appetite for antiques on a very small budget.” Thrubwell chuckled at the recollection and then his expression sobered. “Poor Violet. She was a silly, self-important girl, but there was no real harm in her. She was ambitious; always trying to learn as much as she could about antiques. I asked her what she intended to do with her knowledge, and she told me she was going to be a rich, bored society wife and she wanted to know exactly what she was getting.”

I finished my tea and glanced around the office. “Did you save the receipt from the dagger sale?”

“Of course!” Mr. Thrubwell sounded indignant. He stood up and walked over to a file cabinet, pulling out a manila envelope marked ‘Weaponry Sales.'

“It's right here; not much on it though.”

I read through the page. Item No. 5127; dagger, 15
th
century. T to VA. Five hundred dollars. Check No. 405.

“Do you have a copy of the check?”

“It's stapled to the receipt.”

I flipped it over. I felt my excitement rise as I looked at the copy of the check.

There was a memo in the subject line:
For CW
.

I handed back the papers and Mr. Thrubwell returned them to the file and picked up his teacup. “Now, for business,” his features sharpened and he eyed me expectantly. “Will you be paying for your new desk by check or credit?”

 

* * * * *

 

After I'd finally extricated myself from the Thrubwell writing desk debacle, I felt like I needed to clear my head. so I followed the crowd and drifted along English Street. The boardwalk was busy with late season tourists trolling for deals at Calico Corner and Black Sheep Knits, and as I pushed my way through the crowd I saw a new signboard, marked E. Archer, Antiques. The front windows were covered in brown paper, but I found a tear and peeked inside.

The interior was filled with packing boxes and knick-knacks, and I was about to turn away when an eye suddenly appeared on the other side of the glass and a man was regarding me from a distance of about three inches.

I yelped and jumped back. I was about to run when the door suddenly opened.

“Hi,” he held out his hand. “I'm Edgar Archer. I'm not officially open yet, but you're welcome to come inside and browse.”

I looked up at him and smiled. He was tall, around six feet, with dark auburn hair and eyes like chocolate kisses. I made a mental note to make the hero of
Cupcake Chronicles
taller and give him crinkly hair as I followed Edgar into the building. Man, he smelled good: aftershave and deodorant and just a tiny bit of dog shampoo. I sniffed the air a few times and he turned around to look at me.

“Please forgive my mess,” he said apologetically. “I haven't finished unpacking yet.”

I assured him that I wasn't going to hold it against him, and we watched as a massive black lab trotted up and proffered me a paw.

“This is Ingrid,” he said. “She's my partner.”

I held out my hand for the dog to sniff. “It's nice to meet both of you.”

I was already picturing nights of the three of us snuggled in front of a roaring fire when I remembered Blue. I suspected he wouldn't want to join our snuggle session.

“I'm Elspeth Gray,” I said. “I live on Point Savage. But you probably don't know where that is since you're new here. You just take Main Street over to….”

Horrified, I heard myself give him detailed directions to my house. I sounded like a demented GPS.

“Oh, okay,” he smiled again and his eyes crinkled at the corners.

I looked down at his hands, no ring! So far, so good. Now for the next hurdle. “Will your kids be going to All Hallows Grade School?” I asked.

“Kids?” he looked alarmed and then shook his head. A commendable reaction. “Oh no, I'm not married and I don't have any kids.”

“Great.”

We stood smiling at each other until he remembered I was ostensibly there to shop. “Go ahead and look around, Elspeth. I was just going to make a cup of coffee. Would you like some?”

I nodded and watched as he went to the back of the store and got out two mugs. What luck! I was one of the first people to meet him. Julia was going to be so jealous; he was much better looking than Sergeant Jack.

“Where are you from, Edgar?” I called out.

“Albany,” his voice was muffled as he bent over the counter to get the sugar bowl. “So I'm almost local. How about you?”

“I grew up here and moved back after my divorce.”

He finished filling the cups and handed one to me. “And how is your work as a detective going?”

“Detective?” I was puzzled for a minute and then I remembered. He was the man at the library! No wonder he looked familiar. I laughed and hoped it sounded like the tinkling silver bells I wrote about in my books.

“It's going quite well, actually.”

He made a gesture towards a set of bookshelves. “I love mysteries. I grew up reading the Hardy Boys and then I discovered Dorothy Sayers in college.”

“Yeah, she's great.” I made a mental note to get a crash course in mysteries from Julia as he continued.

“My name is actually Edgar Allen Archer.” He laughed. “You know? Edgar Allen Poe? My mom has a thing for mysteries, too.”

“Are your parents from New York?”

“Yes, originally, but now they're in Omaha.”

I gave myself a mental high-five. That was a very comfortable distance for potential in-laws. My own parents in Baltimore were sometimes a bit too close for comfort.

“What brings you to All Hallows?” I asked.

“We used to vacation here when I was a kid and I fell in love with the place. I always wanted to come back, so when I sold my interest in my law firm last year I decided to open an antique store. I'm renting the apartment upstairs until I find a place to buy.”