A Fatal Appraisal (16 page)

"I deserve a treat," she told her sodden
reflection in the rearview mirror as the fright began to be replaced by a
powerful sense of triumph. "After all, I just caught a killer."

~~~~~~~~~~

Since the days of King Arthur, a table, and particularly
a dining table, has been synonymous with royalty. Often to dine with a man is
to make him your friend.

—Paul Burroughs,
Southern Antiques

When Molly opened the Traveller’s front door, she was
greeted by the rich sound of her mother's laughter mingling with the familiar
voices of a man and another woman. As she quietly approached the dining room,
Molly lingered in the hall in order to allow the cheerful melodies of
storytelling, teasing, and giggling to wash over her and drain some of the
tension from her knotted shoulders.

Jessica and Borris were being regaled with one of Clara's
favorite tales of woe from her days as an antiques store proprietor. Molly had
heard the story dozens of times, but as she dropped her dripping purse on the
dark green wool rug that ran the length of the hall, she still couldn't help
but smile.

"This old coot, T.J., would hang around my shop for hours
bragging about how he had been around when people still built furniture with
cut nails. He said he could tell if a piece was right just by looking at it,
blah, blah, blah. So one day a customer came in and was
very
interested
in my best piece of furniture—a gorgeous corner cupboard from Pennsylvania. I
had picked it up for nothing at auction and was going to make a big enough
profit on it to pay the bills for the next three months. You can imagine my
excitement."

"What happened?" Jessica asked.

"T.J. came into the shop and I knew I was in trouble.
Even though I lowered my voice, T.J. had superhuman hearing and when I told the
customer that the piece came from a family in central Pennsylvania—which it
did—T.J. started clearing his throat. Before I could reach him to shut him up,
he drawled, 'Well, I dunno 'bout that bein' a Pennsylvania piece. Looks more
like a southern piece to me."

Borris frowned. "But didn't the woods indicate where
the piece was made?"

"Of course they did!" Clara nearly shouted.
"That corner cupboard was made of maple with birch secondary! No way was
it southern, but my customer was new to antiques, and all she saw was an old
man who looked like he'd been around since the piece was made—somewhere around 1820—and
I lost the sale!" Clara took a gulp of tea. She was really worked up now.
"I could have
killed
that man! Every time he came in I stood to
lose a sale, but I couldn't toss him out because he knew
everyone
in the
business and wouldn't hesitate to blacken my name if I treated him
rudely."

Molly finally stepped into the room and sank into the
nearest chair.

"Hello, madam. Where did you come from?" Clara
smiled at her fondly. She always called Molly "madam" when she was in
a good mood.

"Hi." Molly poured herself some tea. "Telling
war stories?"

Borris passed her a plate of heart-shaped Linzer torte
cookies. "These little tidbits are baked with Mrs. Hewell's homemade
blackberry jam. Out of this world. They simply melt in your mouth."

 "You've got powdered sugar all over your shirt,
Borris." Jessica pointed at him, laughing.

Borris smiled in return and then turned his attention back
to Clara. "So you're glad to be out of the shop business? I was dreaming
of getting into it. This traveling is wearing me down."

Jessica looked worried. "I'll tell you another shop
owner's tale of misery and wretchedness from
my
days as a proprietor. I
had these two lawyers across the street from my place who decided to redecorate
their offices with antique pieces. They repeatedly came into the shop,
dithering over what they would like to put in their waiting room."

Molly sank her teeth into the buttery, sugary heaven of a
blackberry Linzer torte and watched her mother and her two friends with
pleasure. She felt safe and enveloped in the warmth of the room and the
coziness of good food and even better company. She felt as if she could
officially put Frank's murder behind her.

"You see the size of me, right?" Jessica held out
her thin arms. "I'm no Hercules, but those men used to ask me to help
carry chairs and desks and tables across the street to their office.
Then
I'd have to stay there and watch as they rearranged the stuff. Meanwhile, my
shop stood unattended."

"Did they end up buying a lot?" Clara giggled.

"That's the thing! After all of that muscle work, they
decided the
look
wasn't right and I had to help carry it all back. In
the end, I think they bought one chair and one stand from me. All the heavy
stuff got carried back to my store. Ugh!" Jessica held her clenched fists
in the air. "I could have strangled those men with their own ties."

Borris was staring at Molly's blanched face and unfocused
eyes. "Maybe we should change the subject, ladies. Molly here looks a
little wiped out."

Clara took her first good look at her daughter. "What
is it, sweetheart?"

Molly thought she was completely recovered from her
afternoon scare, but she felt her eyes suddenly grow moist. She took a deep
breath and told them all about her encounter with Randy. When she was finished,
her mother's arms were around her and Jessica was fussing over her empty
teacup.

"I'll teach that boy a thing or two when he gets out of
jail," Borris threatened, his voice coming out in a low growl.

Molly smiled weakly. The concern and sympathy shown by her
mother and her two new friends restored her spirits enormously. "Thank
you, Borris. Thanks to all of you, but I don't think any brute force will be
necessary. I think Randy's going to be in jail for quite a while."

The skinny pencil lines forming Jessica's dark eyebrows rose
up on her forehead. "Why do you say that?"

Molly filled her rapt listeners in on the details of the
black mold and her discovery of the rag in the back of Randy's truck.

"Is Randy's motive strong enough?" Clara seemed
dubious. "He disliked his employer, but so do thousands of workers."

Molly shrugged. "Maybe Randy just meant to make Frank
really miserable. Maybe he didn't know how severely that mold would affect his
boss. But there was another factor, I think. When we were all at lunch the day
Frank was killed, Randy was staring fixedly at Victoria." Molly broke off
another piece of cookie and held it between her fingers. "His eyes were
really boring into her, but with desire, not malice. Kind of how I'd look at
this cookie before taking a bite out of it." She popped the piece in her
mouth.

"But if he had feelings for Victoria, would he let her
go to jail for a crime
he
committed?" Jessica asked doubtfully.

Molly frowned. "That would be pretty cold, wouldn't it?
The good news is Randy's now in jail and Victoria's being released. The police
have no reason to hold her anymore. Apparently, they've gotten hold of her
phone records from the hotel. She made several calls to New York from her room
during the hours Frank most likely died, and she was never alone long enough
that afternoon to put the mold on the slant-front desk. So she's in the clear.
She said she'd be at the group dinner tonight."

"Where are we eating?" Borris asked Jessica.
"Or should I say, where are you driving me tonight, dear?" he added
teasingly.

"A place called Elmo's. It's all the way out in the
next county, but they're supposed to have these fabulous steaks covered with
bordelaise sauce and melted blue cheese crumbles." Jessica smacked at
Borris with her napkin. "What would you do without me as your
chauffeur?"

"Be miserable," he answered softly with tender
honesty. Suddenly, the room was filled with the tumult of the unspoken feelings
between the two appraisers. Jessica flushed right up to the roots of her spiky
hair and then quickly reached over and grabbed Clara's hand. "Come with us
tonight. You and Lex. It'll be fun."

Clara squeezed Jessica's hand. "Of course we will. Who
in their right mind would say no to a good steak?"

~~~~~

After tea, the group headed up to their respective rooms
for a little rest. Molly had difficulty focusing on the quaint Scottish village
mystery she had brought. As she lay on her bed, her thoughts kept straying to
her last date with Matt. She pictured his warm smile as he held her hand under
the table and told her about his dreams of becoming a doctor one day.

Now he was somewhere in Ohio and he hadn't even tried to
reach her. Garrett's face also appeared in her mind and Molly thought back to
the moment she had kissed the dashing Englishman. For all his charm, there was
still something missing in Garrett's personality. Molly felt that she really
hadn't seen the
real
Garrett, while Matt was instantly and utterly
sincere. Every emotion played across his sweet face like an open book.

Resolved to get in touch with Matt, Molly sat up on her bed,
grabbed the phone, and punched in the numbers to Clayton's direct line.

"Mr. Fabulous speaking," Clayton answered.

 Molly chuckled. "Now, that's an interesting way to
answer the phone."

"Why beat around the bush?" Clayton drawled.
"If it's that stud from the
Greensboro Times
calling, I want him to
know exactly who he's dealing with. I've gotten quite a few hot dates answering
the phone that way. People automatically ask me why I'm Mr. Fabulous and of
course, I have to elaborate about my skills—"

"Okay, you don't have to tell me," Molly hurriedly
interrupted as Clayton could go on for hours about his superior qualities.
"I know that you're a fine vintage."

"Ew, that makes me sound old, darling. I'm more like a
bottle of 1990 Dom Perignon. Rosy-colored and very expensive."

"Clayton, are they any updates on Matt?"

"None that I know of, honey. Did you ask the new
receptionist?"

"That little twerp? I already can't stand her,"
Molly complained as she recalled the strained conversation she had had with
Brittani.

'Tell me about it! She's a cute little thing but those
clothes! Dresses like she’s standing on a street corner looking for her next
client. Ugh. I think she wore pants made out of pink
Lycra
yesterday. I
nearly spit out my Cafe Americano!"

Molly smiled over Clayton's love of the theatrical.
"Can you see if Swanson knows anything I don’t know? I'm getting worried
about Matt. He always checks in and this time, he didn’t even leave a number.
Here's my number at the hotel, by the way."

"Hold your horses, girl. Clayton doesn't keep a pen
behind his ears, you know. Might mess up my perfectly coiffed hair."

As Clayton wrote down Molly's information, the undeniable
grumbling of their boss, Carl Swanson, could be heard in the distance. It seemed
to be coming closer and closer to Clayton's desk. The next thing she knew,
Molly was suddenly speaking to Swanson instead of Clayton.

"Appleby? That you?" he grumbled.

"Yes, Carl," Molly answered quickly. "How are
you?"

"Who gives a damn how I am?" he howled into the
mouthpiece. "I've been trying to reach you on your cell phone for hours!
All I've been getting is your damned voice mail, which you apparently
never
check! You've got a dead appraiser up there and I have no article about it!
What the hell is going on? Are you a reporter or not?"

Molly knew Swanson would track her down over this subject
sooner or later. The death of someone well known in the antiques world always
skyrocketed the paper's circulation, and a questionable death really sent subscriptions
through the roof.

"Carl." Molly tried to soothe her boss. "The
facts of the case haven’t been made clear yet. I mean, the cause of death is
known, but the current suspect is—"

"You get me a five hundred-word teaser as of five
minutes ago! I mean it! I am holding the presses on the front page until I get
an email from you. Now get off the phone and start writing! And the next time
someone falls over dead around you, I want to be the
first
to know! You
got that?"

Molly held the receiver away from her ear as this torrent of
words assaulted her. She could then hear grunts and an "unhand that phone,
you brute," from Clayton.

Breathlessly, Clayton’s voice reappeared on the line.
"Lord help us! If that man doesn't start smoking again I will simply die!
If I didn't hate the smell so much, I'd cover my clothes in Eau De Marlboro
just to tempt him back to the Land of Tobacco Addiction."

Molly snickered. "He's worse than ever. I guess I'd
better type something up. Clayton, please call me if there's any word from
Matt."

"I will, sugar. Are you behaving yourself up
there?" he asked and Molly felt a guilty flush rising up her cheeks as she
thought about kissing Garrett.

"Mostly," she said before hanging up.

She booted up her laptop and got to work on a short piece
concerning Frank's death. As she typed up the few facts she felt safe revealing
to the public, she couldn't help but think about the slant-front desk. She knew
she would have to e-mail Swanson a photo of the piece to go along with the
article, but she hated to have it viewed as a negative object. The desk might
be seen as a thing of evil as it had basically been used as a palette for the
murderer's weapon.

Where was the desk now? Was it sitting in some dark room in
the police station? Did anyone there appreciate the piece's superb
craftsmanship or recognize the loving toil that the carpenter had put into
making it so many years ago?

Molly pushed thoughts of the desk out of her head and
quickly finished her article. She emailed the teaser, along with a photo of
Frank leaning over the slant-front desk, and shut the lid of her laptop down
with a satisfying thud. She never considered that she’d spent more time
grieving over an inanimate piece of furniture than for the dead man who was the
real subject of her article.