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Authors: Barbara Allan

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BOOK: Antiques Disposal
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Suddenly she exclaimed, “Oh, a
stick!
”
I slammed on the brakes. “
What
stick?”
Was there a tree branch in the road?
“No, dear, upper-case
Stick
... not lower-case stick ... as in architecture. It's a Stick-style house. Pull over!”
I eased the car to the curb. We got out, then positioned ourselves on the sidewalk to best stare up at the old mansion. With its towers, turrets, and balconies, the place looked like a combination Swiss chalet and medieval castle.
I said, “I'll bite—why is it called ‘Stick?' ”
“Because of its stickwork, dear. The exposed wood and timber?”
Which indeed gave it that Swiss chalet look.
Mother was saying, “Do you see that scaffolding on the side? Some nincompoop had dared to desecrate this work of art with”—she had trouble getting the word out, spitting it like a seed—“
siding
.”
Only the one side remained to be restored.
Mother went on. “Whoever did that should be taken behind the barn and horsewhipped!”
She was old-school. But I saw her point.
Impatient to get on with the investigation, I asked, “Are we just admiring the architecture, or is this actually the right address?”
Mother shot me a look of rebuke. “Dear, it's not every day one has the opportunity to see the outside of a Stick house, let alone get
inside
one.” She started up the old cracked steps. “But yes, yes, yes—this is the address in question ... right here on West Seventh Street.”
I followed her to a cement stoop with latticework overhang, where a weathered wooden door greeted us. Next to the door, on an exposed timber, were four black mailboxes with corresponding buzzers. No names were affixed to the boxes, just the street number, followed with letters A–D.
“Which one?” I asked.
“C.”
But when I moved my finger to the correct buzzer, Mother grasped my hand and pulled it down like a lever.
“Let's just try the front door, dear.”
She was afraid we might get turned away, and then she wouldn't get to see the inside.
“But that's breaking and entering... .”
“Not if it's
unlocked
.”
So I tried the knob. It turned, and I pushed the door open.
We stepped into a large entryway, originally used as a receiving hall, and I guess serving that same purpose again.
To the left—perhaps leading to the home's former parlor—was a newer door, marked “A.” To the right, a similar door, “B,” which could once have opened to the library. Ahead, a wide staircase with ornately carved banister yawned up to a windowed landing, then continued to the level where apartments “C” and “D” awaited.
At the bottom of the stairs, I asked, “Mother, would you like me to see if anyone's home in ‘C'?”
“A few stairs won't hurt me, dear—I'm not an invalid.”
But when a winded Mother leaned on the wall at the landing, I hurried on ahead.
And what I saw at the top stopped me in my tracks.
“I'm afraid we're too late,” I told Mother as she reached me.
Because while the letter on the door of Anna's apartment was indeed “C,” it had been revised to an “X” of crime-scene tape.
 
A Trash ‘n' Treasures Tip
 
To find out where and when storage unit auctions are to be held, check local newspapers, Internet Web sites, and the schedules of individual auctioneers. Or—like Mother—you could phone the owners of the storage facilities, daily . . . at least until, like Mother, you get on their do-not-call lists.
Chapter Five
Good Neighbor Policy
A
s Mother and I stared in disbelief at the yellow-and-black tape, someone behind us spoke, and we turned to see a tall, slender man framed in the apartment doorway across the hall.
“Can I
help
you?” he asked, repeating himself pointedly.
Anna Armstrong's across-the-way neighbor was about fifty—judging by the gray hair winning over the brown—with an oblong face, long nose, and bushy eyebrows overhanging puffy-pouched eyes. Conservatively dressed in brown slacks and an argyle yellow-and-navy sweater, he regarded us with understandable suspicion.
Mother said, “We stopped by to see our dear, sweet Anna”—she gestured to the tape, then touched her bosom—“... only to find this disturbing sight.”
The puffy eyes narrowed skeptically. “ ‘
Our'
Anna? You mean, you're related?”
I glanced at Mother—wondering why she had implied as much—and waited for her next move. She was the actress—let
her
do the improv.
Mother raised a hand to her forehead, moaning, “Ohhh, I feel
faint
...”
I couldn't remember Mother ever claiming to feel faint before, at least outside of a melodrama at the Playhouse—not even when we'd stumbled onto the occasional corpse.
But taking her cue, I slipped an arm around her waist, and asked the neighbor, “Could we come in for a moment? I'm so sorry to impose, but Mother needs to sit down... .”
The man hesitated, but then Mother's pitiful if put-on state turned his suspicion to compassion, and he replied, “Why, certainly, ladies.”
“That's very kind of you,” I said. But I wasn't sure I liked being thought of as a “lady” by a guy twenty years older than me.
He stepped aside, and I assisted the apparently distressed Mother (overplaying her part but apparently getting away with it) across the threshold and inside, revealing much if not most of a tidy apartment—a small parlor and large bedroom separated by a lattice archway.
The neighbor motioned to a brown leather couch—the only modern furniture among Victorian antiques—and as we sat, Mother asked ludicrously, “Could I trouble you, dear sir, for a glass of water?”
“Of course,” he replied graciously. “I'll only be a moment.”
When he had disappeared through the bedroom, to a room beyond, Mother whispered, “Just so you know, dear, not wanting to alarm you ...” And this she mouthed: “I'm faking.”
“What a relief,” I whispered. “Here I was ready to find the nearest ER.”
She brightened. “Really?”
“Give me a little credit, you big ham.”
She ignored that and went on sotto voce: “We must get as much information as possible out of our benefactor during our short stay. I believe he's rather taken with me.”
I shut my eyes, wishing for a swift, merciful death.
He was returning.
“Follow my lead,” Mother whispered.
“Like I have a choice.”
Our host came over and handed Mother the glass of water, which she downed no more greedily than some desert nomad stranded for days on the sands of the Sahara. Four glugs later, she handed the empty glass back with a great sigh and a brave smile.
“Thank you, Mr. uh—?”
“Anderson. John. I own the house.”
“Well, it's a lovely old structure,” Mother said. “I do so admire Stick architecture.”
He brightened. “Yes. It's unique. I'm happy to have the chance to restore it.”
She sat up straight, a little too quickly, reality edging out performance. “Then Anna was your tenant?”
He nodded. “That's right. Place is half-empty because I'm gradually getting rid of my tenants.”
Mother blinked at him. That got my attention, too.
His smile was warm and embarrassed. “Forgive the poor choice of words. I'm just not renewing leases. You see, once the outside renovation is complete, I plan on turning this wonderful old place into a bed-and-breakfast.”
Mother clapped, once, making me jump a little. “What a delightful idea!” she burbled.
His eyes narrowed again; perhaps he was just a trifle suspicious, thanks to Mother's miraculous recovery. “I'm sorry... . You
are
...
?
”
“Oh, how silly of me!” Mother gushed. “How rude! I'm Vivian, and this is my youngest daughter, Brandy.”
She left “Borne” off, though I wasn't sure why. Possibly she feared our prior escapades might have made the local news, since Serenity was only thirty miles south of the Cities. Or maybe she was just reluctant to leave a trail.
Mr. Anderson, taking an old wood-and-leather captain's chair opposite us, asked, “And how are you girls related to Anna?”
We were girls now, not ladies. I was fine with that.
His smile took a little of the edge off, when he added, “I'm afraid I don't recall her ever mentioning you.”
Mother shifted on the couch. “Oh, we're
distant
relatives. . . from a shirttail branch of the family tree.”
I crinkled my nose, and tried to smile cute—I was a “girl,” remember. “More like a twig.”
His eyes remained narrowed and suspicious, but his voice took on a surprisingly gentle, oddly tentative tone. “So, then ... you didn't know about Anna?”
Mother seemed about to say, “Line!” to someone offstage, so I said, “Know what about Anna? Is it something to do with that crime scene? Was she robbed?”
Following my cue this time, Mother managed, “I certainly hope she hasn't been injured!”
“Much worse, I'm afraid. I hate to be the bearer of bad tidings, ladies... .”
Ladies again.
“... but Anna passed away recently.”
Genuinely surprised, Mother said, “Oh my!”
“ ‘Passed away' is, I'm afraid, a misguiding euphemism. She was ... murdered. I had assumed you knew.”
“Goodness no!” Mother said.
“We've been out of the country,” I offered. “Italy.”
Which would have been fine, if Mother hadn't simultaneously said “Russia.”
“First Italy, then Russia,” I revised. “It was a tour. One of those special packages?”
He was trying to make sense out of that when Mother asked, “Mr. Anderson, when did this happen?”
Our unlikely tour forgotten, or at least shelved, he said, “About a month ago.”
I sat forward. “But the crime scene tape—why is it still there? Surely after that much time... .”
Mr. Anderson shrugged. “I left it in place as a deterrent. A good number of Anna's things are still in the apartment. She died intestate, and my attorney is working to see how her estate might be settled. You're the only relatives who've shown up.”
This may have explained why he'd viewed us with some suspicion, after Mother implied we were related to the late Anna. And it put us in an awkward place right now... .
Maybe I wasn't an actress, but I didn't want to leave this to Mother's improvisational skills, which would have her drawing on everything from Agatha Christie novels to
Gaslight
.
So I said, “We're only relatives by marriage, and distant at that. I can't imagine we'd have any claim. We only looked Anna up a few years ago because we'd wound up in the same part of the country.”
“Yes,” Mother said too eagerly. “Same part of the country.”
Was I just digging the hole deeper?
“Well,” he said, “before you go, I'll give you my attorney's contact information. You might as well put in for the stuff. There are a few nice pieces. I believe there are some other things, probably of no particular value, in a storage unit somewhere.”
With too much expression, even for her, Mother said, “Really? Isn't that interesting.”
What was interesting about it?
“Well, it's a shock to hear about Anna,” Mother said. At least she had the sense to get us off this track and back on the other. “Simply terrible. I hope she didn't suffer. I
had
heard this area became infested with crime, but I thought it was under control as of late.”
Mr. Anderson sighed. “We've made significant strides—with the help of watch groups and the police—but that kind of thing can't be completely eradicated.”
I asked, “Was it a burglary?”
He nodded, and his expression grew overtly sorrowful. “And Anna woke up. Hard not to—just not that big an apartment.”
Mother asked, “How did the burglar get in?”
Something close to anguish crossed Mr. Anderson's face. For a long moment, he didn't answer.
Finally he said, “The scaffolding ... for the remodeling? It was beneath her window at the time.”
“Oh, my,” Mother said softly.
His pain was palpable, and I felt compelled to comment. “You mustn't blame yourself.”
“But I do... .” He stood abruptly, walked over to a watercolor picture of the house framed on the wall, and stared at it. “You see, Anna and I ... we were going to run the B and B together.”
This last was spoken so softly, it might have been to himself. Had he been in love with his neighbor?
Mr. Anderson turned with a sigh. “I don't think she suffered. Apparently she heard sounds, and went to see what they were ... perhaps she was headed to the door, to come get me. I'll never know.”
I asked, as gently as possible, “She was ... struck a blow?”
He nodded. “From behind. You hear that phrase all the time on television and in film—a ‘blunt object.' When the police used those words, I almost smiled at such a cliché.”
Somehow I knew he hadn't smiled.
Our host was gazing at Mother, his expression pleasant now. “You're feeling better, I see.”
“I ... I
think
so.”
What was that about?
He checked his watch. “I'm afraid I must ask you to go. I teach an adult education class in an hour, and have preparations to make.”
Mother nudged me with her foot, which I took to mean
stall.
Feigning interest, I said, “Adult education. That's such a positive thing.”
That's such a banal remark,
I thought, then asked, “What is it you teach?”
“Accounting.”
Nowhere to go with that subject; my checkbook hadn't been balanced for years. And if I said,
Oh, that's interesting,
he'd know I was a liar. Even accountants know accounting is boring.
Vamping, I said, “You know, this house seems strangely familiar... .”
Actually it did.
“You may have seen it on TV. Or somewhere in the local media.”
“Really?”
The owner of the Stick mansion smiled. “The old place is a landmark to folks around here.”
“Why's that?” I asked.
Mother had quietly left the couch to go behind Mr. Anderson; I could see her snooping through his mail on a table by the door.
He was saying, “This house was built by Charles and Louise Beiderbecke.”
“Oh,” I said, and smiled unconvincingly.
“Beiderbecke?” he prompted. This time I was the one who needed to be fed a line from offstage.
Then I got it. Anybody who lived in this part of the world knew the name Beiderbecke, which belonged to one of the most famous jazz musicians of all time, and who was Davenport's favorite son.
This time I didn't have to fake it when I said, “Oh! Were they Bix Beiderbecke's parents?”
“Grandparents. Bix grew up in a house on Grand Avenue, which is still there.”
Bits and pieces of information from articles and short news stories on local TV came flooding in. “Is it true that his parents disowned him because he loved to play jazz?”
Mr. Anderson was about to respond, but Mother cut in with, “Dear! I think you've taken up enough of this gentleman's time—he doesn't need to be pestered with all your foolish questions.”
“Sorry,” I muttered. Just
once
couldn't
she
be the shill?
I rose, and our host said, “It's really no trouble. I'm quite interested in Bix.”
Mother came around and said, “As am I, and I can fill my daughter in without imposing on you any further, and making you late for class.”
BOOK: Antiques Disposal
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ads

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