Going Through the Notions (A Deadly Notions Mystery)

I
n my twenties, I fell madly in love with an electric blue pair of Manolo Blahniks in Bloomingdale’s front window. In my thirties, I lusted after bare-chested runners with washboard stomachs and golden biceps sweating in Central Park. In my forties, all I really yearned for was a day off with a good book.

Now in my late fifties, I’ve finally discovered my true passion in life. It’s for my store, a haven of all kinds of sewing notions and antiques named Sometimes a Great Notion. What can I say? I’ve always had a thing for Paul Newman, too.

My heart was currently thumping in anticipation of acquiring an antique dollhouse I’d spotted in the pre-bidding walk-through prior to the auction in Sheepville tonight. My dear husband, Joe, the recipient of some of that aforementioned lust over the years, was driving in his usual careful, and in my opinion, rather pedantic manner.

“Step on it, Joe, or we’ll never get there!”

“Easy, Daisy. We’ll make it in plenty of time.”

I leaned out of the window of our Subaru station wagon into the balmy June evening air, willing the last mile of country road to pass by as quickly as possible.

Not only had the dollhouse caught my eye, but there was a beautiful Singer Featherweight up for bid, a small vintage sewing machine prized by quilters. Either one would look wonderful in the window of the shop. There were plenty of other treasures to be had, too—tins of Bakelite buttons, several boxes of musty, but restorable tablecloths, glass doorknobs salvaged from century-old buildings, and some wooden darning eggs.

Gravel crunched under the car’s tires as we pulled into the parking lot at twenty minutes to seven. Plenty of time to register and get my bidder’s number before the evening’s events started. As usual, Joe was right.

Angus Backstead, the auctioneer, and his wife lived in a pristine white stucco three-story farmhouse across from the auction building. A Pennsylvania Dutch hex sign featuring a circle of blue and red flowers and sheaves of wheat adorned the front of the house. Baskets of overflowing pink and white impatiens hanging on the powder blue painted porch swung gently in the breeze.

A good crowd had already gathered. It would be a humdinger of an auction tonight.

I loved the auction. It was almost like going to the theater—the drama, the tragedy, and sometimes the comedy, like when Sally McIntire forgot she left her red string bikini underwear in the drawer of a nightstand she’d consigned, and the winning bidder, inspecting his purchase, held it aloft for everyone to see.

I hopped out of the car before it had barely stopped moving. I spotted my good friend, Martha Bristol, as well as several of the other regulars. Various pieces of farm equipment, miscellaneous furniture, and box lots sat on the tarmac, ready to be auctioned off first before we went inside.

But what were all the police cars doing here?

The door to the low-slung building opened, and I gasped as I saw Angus being led out in handcuffs. His face, normally ruddy from a lifetime of outdoor labor and his beloved Irish whiskey, was deathly pale. He spotted Joe and me standing at the edge of the crowd.

“I didn’t do it!” he cried as a policeman maneuvered him into a car. A little too forcefully, as Angus banged his snowy white head on the top of the door frame.

“Hey! Be careful with him,” I shouted. The door slammed shut as Angus cried out to us one last time. “Help me, Daisy!”

But it was too late. The cruiser was already pulling away.

Joe laid a steadying hand on my arm. It was always that way between us. Joe, calm and solid as a rock, and me, impulsive and quick to react.

“What the hell’s going on?” I demanded as Martha sailed up to us. She was an imposing sight in a purple, green, and yellow floral summer dress, belted tightly under her large bosom. Her long legs looked even longer in strappy yellow sandals, and her glorious mane of red hair was bundled up into a precarious knot. Kind of like a vintage Barbie on steroids. Martha was my age, but she wasn’t leaving her youth behind without a fight.

“Jimmy Kratz was found bludgeoned to death in the barn behind his house this morning,” she announced.

“What?”

Jimmy was one of the auction regulars, too. He owned a company called CleanUp and CloseOut. When people needed their basements cleaned out, or even a whole house, they called Jimmy. Some of it was pure trash, some of it he used himself, and some of the scrap metal he took to the local salvage yard. And some of the better stuff he sold at auction and scratched out a living that way.

“Well, why on earth do they think Angus had anything to do with it?” I asked.

“Jimmy stole a collection of fancy fountain pens that were due to be sold tonight. They’re saying they were worth tens of thousands of dollars.”

“Yeah, nowt like the usual rubbish.” Cyril Mackey, the English curmudgeon who ran the salvage yard, sidled up alongside us. He nodded to Joe, but ignored Martha and me. As usual, he wore a flat cap and a tweed jacket that had seen better days. He was a Yorkshireman of indeterminate age and background, and as tough as the heather clinging to the moors in a bitter gale blowing off the Pennines.

Martha sniffed at the sight of Cyril. “Apparently the physical evidence points to Angus as the culprit. His fingerprints are all over the murder weapon—a heavy barn beam.”

“They were drinking together in the pub last night,” Cyril continued, addressing Joe. “You know how Angus likes to shoot his bloody mouth off. Everyone heard him crowing about those damn pens. He were right proud of the fact that he had summat decent to sell for once.”

Joe nodded at him. “Go on.”

“He had one beer and one whiskey too many, so Jimmy took his keys and drove him home. The keys to the auction house were also on that key ring, which is how the coppers think Jimmy managed to pinch the stuff.”

Martha glared at Cyril. “As I was
saying
, in the morning, Angus must have noticed the pens were missing. He realized Jimmy had the keys and went over to his house. There was some sort of argument, and he hit him with the beam.”

“Angus couldn’t have lifted something like that,” I said. “He’s in his early sixties, for God’s sake. Joe, how much do you think a barn beam would weigh?”

“Not sure. Probably well over a hundred pounds. Maybe one-fifty.”

“You ever see him haul some of this merchandise around?” Cyril spat a stream of tobacco juice onto the parking lot, perilously close to Martha’s yellow sandals. “Steamer trunks, mahogany furniture, boxes of books? The man’s still as strong as an ox.”

“Oh my God, here comes poor Betty.” Martha grabbed my arm as we saw Angus’s wife being helped out of the auction building.

Betty had recently had hip surgery, and was still walking with a slow, painful gait. While Martha stayed behind as roving reporter on the scene, Joe and I brought Betty over to the house. Joe rummaged around in the kitchen and made tea while I got her settled in an armchair in the living room, propped up with some cushions.

“He didn’t do it, Daisy. No matter what they’re saying.” Betty murmured her thanks as Joe gave her a cup of tea.

“Of course he didn’t.” I sat down on a faded cotton love seat with a cabbage rose design.

“Angus was too drunk for me and Jimmy to get him indoors, so we left him in the glider out on the porch. The big oaf was snoring like to wake the dead. I heard him come in later this morning and take a shower. My neighbor took me shopping, but I didn’t see him or speak to him before I left. I was still too mad.”

Shopping to calm down. I could appreciate that. Retail therapy always worked for me.

“So where are these pens? Do the police have them?”

“No, they’re gone. The police searched Jimmy’s place, the barn, the auction building. They even went through everything in the house, too.
Everything
. It was so embarrassing.”

A tear trickled down her wrinkled cheek. Joe handed her a box of tissues from the coffee table.

Angus and Betty had befriended us when we first bought a house in Millbury, a neighboring village about five miles away. Betty and I made a joke of the fact that while she was named Betty Backstead by marriage, I’d never quite been able to call myself Daisy Daly. I’d kept my maiden name of Buchanan. And yes, in case you’re wondering, my sainted mother was a huge F. Scott Fitzgerald fan.

“You know how Angus carries on when he’s been drinking,” she said. “He talks your ear off. Anyone in that pub could have had the idea to steal them. I’m not even sure Jimmy did it.”

“But what does Angus say?”

“He can’t remember anything past leaving the bar. He can’t remember how he got home.” She took a sip of tea. “It’s the drinking, Daisy. It’s been getting bad lately. He has blackouts. Loses whole chunks of time. I’ve begged him to get help, but he wouldn’t listen. And now this . . .”

She blew her nose again. “He forgets things all the time. He even forgets where he’s going. I do the driving now or we’d end up in Pittsburgh.”

Twenty minutes later, after straightening up the house, Joe and I took our leave of Betty. I promised to stop by the next day.

Joe and I were both silent as we pulled out of the lot and back onto Sheepville Pike. I stared out of the car window at the rolling road, flanked by trees and fields on either side. We passed the riding stable, The Paddocks, with its white corrugated metal buildings, horse trailers, and red barn with grassy bank leading up to the main door. A split rail wooden fence stretched the length of the property, and a red cart wheel was propped up at the entrance.

Past fields filled with bright green rows of ripening cornstalks, the Wet Hen pottery studio, and the Christmas tree farm. Past grand old homes faced with fieldstone, and tall Victorians with arched windows and narrow porch columns.

But I never could stay quiet for long.

“This whole thing doesn’t make sense, Joe. I can see that Angus would be mad at Jimmy for stealing the pens, but why kill him? Why not just take the pens and go on home?”

“Well, maybe he didn’t mean to kill him,” Joe said as he turned onto River Road. “Maybe he hit him in a rage, and hit him a bit too hard. Angus doesn’t know his own strength sometimes.”

“And what would Jimmy do with a bunch of fountain pens?”

“Sell them?”

“Yeah, but that’s not the kind of circles Jimmy moves in,” I said. “If you were looking to buy a Harley-Davidson motorcycle engine or a box of washing machine parts, he’s your man. This is way out of his league. Or was, I should say.”

Trees seemed to meet above us in a loosely woven canopy that dappled the road with fading sunlight. Once in a while I caught a glimpse of the canal and the Delaware River beyond. Near a low stone bridge down on Grist Mill Road, a sign advertised the 4-H Fair coming in August.

Joe took a right to head into our tiny village of Millbury, Pennsylvania, a pretty cluster of nineteenth-century shops and homes that time had almost forgotten.

“And if they were that valuable, why not put them up for auction in Philadelphia instead? Maybe Jimmy was stealing them for someone else.”

Joe let me ramble on with my musings until we arrived home, a Greek Revival–style house right on Main Street.

“I tell you what, Joe. I know Angus is innocent, and I’m going to do whatever it takes to prove it.”

*

“T
he next morning, Betty called, crying. Angus had been denied bail, apparently because of his confused mental state and the potential to be a danger to others, as well as himself.

I’d been looking forward all week to a day off with Joe. Perhaps we’d take a trip out to the Amish country for more quilts for the store, or sip a Bloody Mary at a lazy brunch at the Bridgewater Inn. But this was more important. I kissed Joe good-bye, hopped in the Subaru, and headed for Sheepville.

I couldn’t help the usual flush of pride at seeing Sometimes a Great Notion as I drove past. I’d be changing the front window display tomorrow as I did every Monday to keep things fresh. There were new treasures from an estate sale that I couldn’t wait to unpack.

My store was situated in what used to be a Victorian home right on Main Street. It was painted a dark sage, with beetroot and cream accentuating the windows, spindles, and gingerbread trim. A black porch with obsolete gaslights hanging overhead was accessible from either end by three steps. Next to the front door sat an iron cauldron filled with pink geraniums and lime green leafy coleus.