Antiques Chop (A Trash 'n' Treasures Mystery) (15 page)

I didn’t have to ask anyone. His reputation was solid.

I slipped off my rocker. (Brandy! No comments, please.) I offered my hand, and he took it, shook it, as I said, “Thanks for the visit, Sam. My apologies if my questions crossed the line momentarily.”

He stood and gently grasped my arm, his expression warm. “You are welcome here anytime, Vivian. And I’d like to see you and Brandy back at church—you’re welcome there, anytime, too.”

Sam seemed hesitant to let go, so I asked, “Is there something else?”

“I’m not sure I should mention this . . . but there
was
something else I saw that night, earlier.”

My ears perked up, much as Sushi’s do when she hears a potato chip bag rustle open. “What was that, Sam?”

He let go of my arm. “I spent much of the evening in the living room, reading, and around eleven, when I turned out the lamp, I
saw
someone . . . someone outside, moving through the light of the streetlight.”

“Who?”

“I’m sure it was nothing.”

“
Who,
Sam?”

He still seemed hesitant. “Andrew.”

“Andrew Butterworth?”

He nodded. “Walking up the street in the direction of his house, and in quite a hurry.” Reluctantly, he went on. “I didn’t mention this to anyone because it probably means nothing—after all, a lot of folks take walks at night, especially older ones. I myself was out for a stroll earlier.”

“I understand you keeping this to yourself,” I said, “but thank you for telling
me
.”

He sighed. “Andrew and I don’t exactly have a warm relationship—I mean, I did testify for the prosecution, way back when, which he viewed as me testifying against him . . . when I was just a
kid,
a teenager, who swore on the Bible to tell the truth. . . .”

The old memory seemed to shake him up. He swallowed thickly, forced a nervous smile.

“Vivian, if I were to come out with this information, it would only make matters worse. So sad to think that Andy and I were friends once, that we were
all
friends once.” He sighed deeply, then added with a tremulous smile, “But I feel better that
you
know.”

“Thank you for sharing that,” I said. I touched his shoulder. “I’ll let you get back to your plants, Sam. Next time, it’ll be a purely social visit.”

“Good. I’d like that, Vivian.”

I walked back to join Phil, finished grabbing his footage, who was waiting by the rental car.

“Who was that?”

“Someone I wish we’d got on tape,” I said.

“Where to next?”

“Mary Beth Beckman.”

“Ah. The bookstore lady who Bruce gypped on the Butterworth documentary.”

“One and the same. But I’m afraid a different ploy will be needed with her. Don’t believe
fireplaces
will cut it this time. . . . ”

It was late afternoon when we walked into Scene of the Crime, Mary Beth Beckman’s mystery bookstore, relocated across from the community college in an anonymous strip mall.

Inside, the gray carpeting looked new as did the floor-to-ceiling blond-wood bookcases and other nondescript fixtures. Blown-up covers of mystery best sellers covered any remaining wall space, along with candid photos of the proprietor with visiting authors. (I noticed that none of the ones taken of Brandy and me were among them.)

Scene of the Crime was certainly clean and pleasant in its sterile, modern way. Mary Beth had labored hard to make the shop inviting and cozy and (dare I say) mysterious, including taping a white “dead body outline” to the carpet. Nonetheless, the store carried none of the charm (much less the infamous history) of her former location in the old murder house.

Seated behind a low-slung display case of valuable books and signed first editions, the heavy-set proprietor was hunkered at a computer. Wearing a black wool poncho and a preposterous Victorian black hat with red feathers, she looked like an extra in a Harry Potter movie (way in the background) (the third one was my favorite) (how about you?).

“Well, well, well,” she said smugly upon seeing me. “Vivian Borne. If you’re here to use your author’s discount, I’m afraid I’ve canceled it.”

I gave her my loveliest smile, dripping with sincerity as only a fine actress can drip it. “My dear, Mary Beth, I realize we’ve had our differences of late, but not long ago we were fellow professionals in the world of mystery. So I am hoping, in the wake of the tragedy in the old Butterworth place, that we might, perhaps—”

“Bury the hatchet?” Her smile was wicked.

Was this a reference to the current murder, or the vintage one? If the former, then the bookseller knew more than she should. If the latter, not a bad joke!

“If we might cast sarcasm aside,” I said, “your underlying sentiment has merit. We should make peace or at least declare a truce.” I gestured to the cameraman. “You remember Phil Dean?”

She got to her feet behind the counter. “Yes. What do you want, Vivian? What’s he doing bringing a TV camera into my store?”

Temper in check, I said, “Now that our reality show is on hold—”

“Don’t you mean D.O.A.?” She snorted a laugh, proud of this remarkable display of wit.

I faked a chuckle. “Very droll, dear. No, I’m here because Phil and I, while we’re waiting for word on our series, are working on a documentary for Iowa Public Television. It’s on the boutique businesses of Serenity, the antiques stores, Pearl City Plaza’s shops, and of course, it would not be complete without Serenity’s own mystery bookstore . . . that is, unless you are too put out with me to cooperate with an interview and a video tour of your charming shop.”

Well, dear reader, Mary Beth Beckman did a flip-flop worthy of the sleaziest politician, scurrying excitedly out from behind the counter. “You mean you want to shoot it now?”

“Well, we are
here,
dear. But, of course, if you’re not interested. . . .”

“No, no! I most certainly am interested.” She gazed down at herself. “But am I dressed all right? For the camera, I mean.”

“You were born to wear black,” I said, “and that hat is simply
you
. And I mean that from the heart.”

I hoped Mary Beth would read Phil’s grin not as derision, but as a reflection of his positive attitude.

“Can Edgar Allan Paw be in it, too?” Mary Beth asked, bubbling with enthusiasm now.

Edgar Allan Paw was her tabby. I believe it’s a federal law that all mystery bookstore owners must own a tabby with a cute mystery-oriented name. Here are some Brandy and I’ve encountered on book tours: Pawrow, Furry Mason, and (sadly) Sam Spayed. Our favorite non-cat mystery bookstore pet names: Nero Wolfhound and Mike Hamster.

“Absolutely Edgar Allan Paw can be in it,” I said. “He can sit on your lap, if you like, and be ever so cute.” I turned to Phil. “Where do you suggest we set up?”

“Anywhere away from the front windows,” he said.

“There are some armchairs in the back,” Mary Beth said helpfully, “in the events area . . . Will that do?”

“Perfect,” Phil said with a nonderisive smile. “I’ll get set up. In the meantime, there’s a release you need to sign.”

Shortly, Mary Beth and I were seated in matching leather chairs, angled toward each other, the fat tabby, looking quite bored, on her lap. As for any customers, Mary Beth had turned the CLOSED sign outward.

Phil, behind the tripod, checked the viewfinder on the camera, then said, “On three . . . two . . .
one
.”

I looked into the lens. “Hello, fellow Iowans. This is Vivian Borne. Today I’m with Mary Beth Beckman, of Scene of the Crime, and we’re going to talk about her new store location.” I leaned forward, beaming at her. “Mary Beth, tell us why you decided to move your bookstore to the Park Avenue Strip Mall. The community college across the street must have been a factor, as was perhaps the rent, since yours is one of only three stores of a possible seven.”

Mary Beth glared at me. “Now what the hell am I supposed to say?”

“Cut,” Phil said.

“Oh, I am sorry,” I said, putting hand to bosom. “I’m afraid I’m leading the witness again.”

Mary Beth frowned. “What do you mean by that?”

“Merely a figure of speech, my dear. Shall we go again?”

“Rolling,” Phil said.

“Hello, my fellow Iowans, this is Vivian Borne. Today I’m with Mary Beth Beckman, of Scene of the Crime, and she’s going to tell us all about her new store location.”

Blah, blah, blah
.

After ten or so not terribly interesting minutes, I called an end to the interview. As before, Phil said he wanted to do some close-ups, but (you’re ahead of me, aren’t you?) first needed to step outside for a smoke.

After he’d gone, I said to Mary Beth, “Lovely job, dear. Lovely job. Just fascinating.”

“Thank you,” she said, shifting in her chair. Disturbed, the cat snarled, clawed at her, and ran off to parts unknown. “The little angel.”

“By the way, dear, not to touch on an unpleasant subject, but you do have a right to know. . . .”

She frowned. “Know what?”

“I’m afraid, dear, that during my interview with the police, I simply had to tell the truth.”

“The truth about what?”

“About your little tiff with Bruce Spring the other day.” She sneered at me, examining her hand where her angel tabby had scratched her. “I just
thought
you might. So I went in on my
own
, and explained the whole thing.”

“Very shrewd, dear.”

“What do you mean, ‘shrewd’? I was just being a good citizen.” She tossed her head and the floppy hat slid off-kilter. “They didn’t seem at all concerned.”

I whispered conspiratorially: “No surprise—they like keeping suspects in the dark, you know. Or perhaps you don’t read police procedurals.”

Her eyes flashed. “I’m no suspect! The very idea that I could harm a fly is outlandish.”

That’s what Anthony Perkins said about his mother.

“You
were
pretty ticked off, dear. What
did
you tell the police?”

She drew in a breath and lifted her chin grandly, the hat returning to its proper position. “I told them that I’d worked here in the store that night, stocking shelves, until well after midnight.”

“This was after hours?”

“Certainly.”

“Was anyone with you?”

“No. I only have help on the weekends. Still, I’m sure someone could confirm that the lights in the store were on. One of the other merchants, or the security man. Even someone just driving by.”

Which meant nothing.

Now she leaned forward conspiratorially. “I’ll tell you who
I
think did it. . . .” She gestured with her head toward the front of the store, the hat tilting off the other side this time. “The very person you’re traipsing around with. Your precious cameraman.”

“Really? And why do you say that?”

She finally sensed the hat was off-kilter and straightened it. “My little sister Alice Jean is the bartender at the Holiday Inn, and she told me Phil Dean and Bruce Spring had a heated argument that afternoon. That it nearly came to blows.
And
that Phil came right out and threatened Bruce.”

“Threatened him how?”

“Why, to kill him, of course. Alice Jean said that Phil said, ‘I could just
strangle
you, you bastard.’
Is
that how Spring got it?
Was
he strangled? The paper doesn’t say, and the police wouldn’t tell me.”

“I’m sworn to confidentiality about the murder method,” I said, making a mental note to get to know Alice Jean. She sounded like a heck of a snitch. “Did your sister say what started the argument?”

Mary Beth nodded, the hat flapping in agreement. “She most certainly did,” she said, in a Stan Laurel sort of way.

When she didn’t continue, I said, “Well?”

Her smile was more a sneer. “Not that easy, Vivian. I want something in return.”

“What?”

She sucked at where Edgar Allan Paw had scratched her hand, then said, with eyes as gleaming as the cat’s had been: “I want a part in your next play. Now it doesn’t have to be the lead . . .”

And it wouldn’t be. She’d played a supporting role last year in
The Mousetrap,
and if she’d been any hammier, Oscar Meyer might have packaged her.

“. . . but it has to be more than a walk-on.”

“All right,” I agreed. I had just the part in mind: the cow in our upcoming production of Sondheim’s
Into the Woods
. Or at least one end of the cow.

“So,” I said, “what precipitated the fracas?”

“Spring fired him. Fired your man Phil. So then I guess you’ve been fraternizing with the enemy, huh, Miss Marple?”

Later, after we’d finished with Mary Beth, and Phil was loading up the car, he asked, “Did we get anything interesting out of her?”

Meaning the secret-camera footage.

“Something,” I admitted.

“What?”

“Really want to know?”

“I really want to know.”

So I told him.

“Vivian,” he said, with a nervous smile, “that was only an expression. Haven’t you ever said, ‘I could just kill that guy,’ or gal, or whatever?”

“Yes. Probably. But I never said I wanted to strangle anyone. That’s fairly specific, Phil.”

“Is that how Bruce was killed? Come on, Vivian. You owe me that much. Tell me.”

“I just can’t, dear.” And kind of a pity, since Spring had been chopped not choked.

“Are you going to tell the police?”

“About what, dear?”

“About the argument Bruce and I had!”

“I’m sure they already know, or soon will, and won’t need my help to find out. Between Mary Beth and her sister Alice Jean and whoever else was in that bar, you’re likely to be on Chief Lawson’s short list of suspects.”