The Antique House Murders

  The Antique House Murders is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  An Alibi Ebook Original

  Copyright © 2017 by Leslie Nagel

  Excerpt from The Advice Column Murders by Leslie Nagel copyright © 2017 by Leslie Nagel

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Alibi, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  ALIBI is a registered trademark and the ALIBI colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book The Advice Column Murders by Leslie Nagel. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.

  Ebook ISBN 9780425285213

  Cover design: Marietta Anastassatos

  Cover art: Ben Perini

  randomhousebooks.com

  v4.1

  ep

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  By Leslie Nagel

  About the Author

  Excerpt from The Advice Column Murders

  “The ego is not master in its own house.”

  —Sigmund Freud

  “Where there’s a will, there’s a way.”

  —Old English proverb

  Chapter 1

  The house reeked of death.

  Charley picked her way carefully over and around the boxes, crates, and haphazard piles of debris that choked the upper gallery, breathing through her mouth in an attempt to avoid the worst of the smell. Geez, it stank even worse up here than it had in the main rooms downstairs. As she snagged her toe and nearly took a header into a stack of picture frames, she wondered if the heavy work boots and rugged jeans she’d worn were sufficient protection against contracting tetanus.

  Her goal was a room at the end of the hall—the “Blue Room,” according to Calvin Prescott, the estate appraiser handling the Mulbridge family’s auction and general sale. Mulbridge House itself was scheduled for the wrecking ball, just as soon as the eager heirs could liquidate the contents and obtain final approval from the Oakwood Planning Commission. She’d read the newspaper story with interest: complete demolition of the mansion and outbuildings, then a new street and subdivision of the land into fourteen generous wooded lots. Landlocked as was this wealthy, insular suburb of Dayton, Ohio, those lots would be a smoking-hot commodity, with price tags to match. That is, they would be if the late Augusta Mulbridge’s son and daughter could convince the city to approve their development plan—not a slam dunk by any means, with neighbors and preservationists screaming bloody murder.

  Arriving without further misadventure before a massive carved wood door, Charley trailed a finger over the tracery of leaves and flowers that decorated eight separate square panels, each one a different blossom. What a beautiful piece of workmanship. Too bad it was discolored by water damage. Every antique fitting in Mulbridge House was like that: heavy, ornate, the very best quality, but sinking into decay, from the fabulous bronze laurel wreath door knockers now green with neglect to the crumbling plaster friezes in the upper gallery. Even the name of this house evoked a lost age of wealth and privilege, when massive estates on secluded roads were too isolated—and too exclusive—for a mere street address.

  She pushed open the heavy door. Its hinges squealed as if they hadn’t been oiled since the Truman administration. She shivered. This whole place was like a Hollywood horror movie set, right down to the cobwebs and creaky floorboards.

  It was more than just the smell, Charley decided. Mulbridge House exuded a palpable despair, as if the house yearned for better times still remembered. It was starting to get to her—she, a professional, a dealer in the old and discarded. Lord knew she’d waded through plenty of estate sales, digging through the leavings of the dead. Detachment was a necessary skill for a vintage clothing dealer.

  She considered herself more than half a treasure hunter, a bit like Indiana Jones, or maybe Lara Croft. She grinned. There was a Hollywood image for you. Charley Carpenter, red hair flying, slashing her way through a treacherous jungle of moldy castoffs, searching for the shining jewel, the golden idol, the key to the hidden vault. Maybe she should get a bullwhip.

  Once inside the Blue Room, she was relieved to discover that the overall creepiness factor was reduced by the late winter sunlight flooding through tall, deep-silled windows. Calvin’s minions had finished in here. Other than a radiator and a remarkable ceiling fixture of cut blue glass, the room contained just three things. An aluminum rack on wheels held four white plastic garment bags, the rack’s gleaming newness contrasting sharply with all this antiquity. Next to it was a large cardboard box, top flaps tucked shut. Two preprinted white labels, each bearing the Prescott Auctions logo, announced that the contents were shoes and handbags. A second box bore a label declaring it contained hats. Charley shivered again, this time in anticipation.

  She slowly pulled down the zipper of one of the garment bags, then parted the sides to reveal the bag’s contents.

  “Oh, my giddy aunt.” Givenchy, Armani, Halston, Chanel, Yves St. Laurent, a dozen evening gowns spilled out, gorgeous fabrics flowing through her hands in a river of shimmering color. Calvin hadn’t exaggerated.

  She quickly opened the other bags and checked their contents. Suits, skirts, dresses, more evening wear, two full-length furs, and everything in very good condition. Charley knew Augusta Mulbridge had been a virtual recluse before her death eighteen months ago. Most of these things had probably hung untouched in her wardrobe for decades. The midnight blue Chanel still had the original sales tags. Imagine buying a Chanel and never having the occasion to wear it, she thought. How sad.

  She checked the lists pinned to each zipper pull, Calvin’s neat handwriting itemizing the contents and estimating their value. Well, there was going to be a conversation about pricing, that much was clear.

  She knew she’d take the lot. And she knew Calvin knew it. It was one of the reasons he’d invited her to the dealer presale. There were plenty of bigger dealers he could have called in from Cincinnati or Columbus, online sellers with deep pockets who wouldn’t need to dicker down. But as an old friend of her father’s, Calvin always looked out for her. He’d literally watched her grow up. While the men drank homemade root beer and played dominoes in the tiny back office, a very young Charley had spent more than a few delightful afternoons exploring dusty treasures in the Prescott showroom. Somewhere around fourth grade she’d started coming on her own, knowing she’d always find a warm welcome, as well as access to Calvin’s cookie stash. Those solo safaris marked the beginning of her fascination with vintage clothing. Since she’d opened Old Hat three years ago, Calvin Prescott had taken a fath
erly interest in her and her tiny shop, giving her advice about pricing, sending a few choice clients her way, even clueing her in on his secret recipe for lifting the musty odor of age and neglect from fragile fabrics.

  He was an occasional dinner guest at the Carpenter home on Hawthorn Boulevard, evenings that delighted her housebound father. Each time he popped into her shop in his bottle green coat and polka-dot bow tie, offering advice or brimming with a juicy piece of industry gossip, her affection for their old friend grew. Despite the forty-year difference in their ages, Calvin Prescott was a true kindred spirit.

  Charley pulled open the flaps on the first box. Glittering evening bags formed a top layer over a number of lidded shoeboxes. She checked for damage, but everything looked perfect, many of the shoes unworn. Knowing Calvin, he’d already pulled any item that was less than top quality and consigned it to the general sale.

  That’s where all the crap she’d tripped over on her way up here was headed. The general public would never see the inside of the Blue Room, or indeed most of the rooms in Mulbridge House. Calvin always handled the big estates that way, with an invitation-only dealer sale on Thursday and Friday, an auction of selected items on Saturday, then the general sale on Sunday. Anything still unsold after all that was landfill.

  Charley decided Calvin was unlikely to have hidden any dogs at the bottom, so she closed the flaps and turned to the final box. HATS.

  This box was crammed full, and what a variety! Charley pulled out a green velvet Robin Hood cap and smoothed the shiny black feather tucked into the band. Had Augusta Mulbridge actually worn this? Straws, silks, veils and fascinators, felt and wool—there was enough headgear here to more than replenish her barren post-holiday shelves. She tossed the green cap back in and shut the lid. Another no-brainer. Of course she wanted them all. Every sequin, every bugle bead, every silk rose.

  Now all she had to do was figure out how to pay for all of it. Sales had slowed lately, and cash flow was a real concern. She’d been toying with the idea of expanding her inventory to include more modern evening wear. In fact, today might be the perfect opportunity to get Calvin’s input—and perhaps soften up some of his asking prices at the same time. Charley pocketed the inventories and prepared to head downstairs and open negotiations.

  She emerged onto the upper gallery, a long open landing that connected the two wings of Mulbridge House and overlooked the soaring entry. A massive crystal chandelier gleamed dully at eye level, its hand-cut prisms clouded with grime. The curving sweep of the main staircase lay at the far end. As she passed along the carved balustrade, the sound of angry voices rose from below.

  Three people stood arguing. At least, two people were arguing. The third was watching the exchange with arms folded, expression cold.

  The primary shouter was a short, stout woman of about seventy in a shapeless plum-colored coat. Frizzy orange hair poked from beneath an equally misshapen crocheted hat of black and purple squares. The broad jowly face, suffering under an overapplication of powder and rouge, had frown lines cutting deep around a thin mouth tight with fury. Charley recognized Millicent Peache, president of Sustain Oakwood’s Architectural Past—SOAP, if you could believe it. Her sensibly shod feet were planted firmly on the black-and-white parquetry floor, as if daring the woman before her to try and get her to budge. Despite the fighting stance, her faded blue eyes reflected more desperation than anger. Pudgy veined hands trembled as she emphasized her words. Charley wondered if she was ill.

  Her harassed-looking opponent was Pamela Tate, Calvin Prescott’s chief assistant. She looked tired, dirty, and ready to do violence.

  “Mrs. Peache, those books are not to be touched until the auction. You cannot just barge in here and—”

  “Augusta Mulbridge would be twirling in her grave, positively twirling! If she could see what you’re doing to her lovely home, this architectural masterpiece, this monument to gracious living—”

  The third woman snorted. Millie rounded and jabbed a finger at her. “And you! Her own daughter. You ought to be ashamed. You know your mother never wanted this.” She waved her arms wildly, causing Pamela to take a cautious step back. “She intended Mulbridge House and its contents to be preserved! It must be preserved intact, in all its glory, a shining example of Tudor revival at its finest.”

  Charley suppressed a snort of her own. As if. The odor she’d identified upstairs was unmistakable to anyone familiar with old buildings. Mulbridge House was riddled with black mold, the structural kiss of death.

  “And that,” said the woman in a voice edged with sarcasm, “is why Mother’s will leaves the house and its contents to Jamie and me. She knew we had absolutely no intention of restoring it.”

  Charley recognized the sarcastic woman, too. A picture of Holland Mulbridge had appeared in last week’s Oakwood Register, next to an irate editorial on the historical significance of Mulbridge House and the immorality of the planned demolition. Holland and her younger brother, Jameson Mulbridge, Jr., were painted as the villains of the piece. No mystery where the OR’s sympathies lay.

  Holland was as tall and elegant as Millicent was dowdy, with long, ash blond hair framing a pale, oval face, high cheekbones, and a suspiciously perfect nose. Her model-thin body was draped in couture that screamed Paris or Milan. According to the article, she was the CEO of Mulbridge Shipping, Ltd. A scary person to work for, Charley imagined, even as the older woman stood her ground.

  “No intention?” Millie was almost shouting now. “That’s a lie!”

  Holland narrowed her eyes. “How dare you presume to tell me what my mother did and did not want?”

  Pamela turned, clearly at her wits’ end. “I’m getting Calvin.”

  “How dare I?” Millie’s voice cracked as she took a step closer and pointed a shaking finger in Holland’s face. “What a pathetic excuse for a daughter. Who was here day after day, month after month, through thick and thin? Who stood as a true friend to Gussie, providing support and companionship through her declining years? While you and that brother of yours were off heaven knows where, living the high life, turning your back on a glorious heritage, neglecting a dying woman in her final—”

  It happened so fast, Charley almost missed it. One moment Millie was reading Holland the riot act, and the next she was sailing across the parquet on her ass, arms wide, mouth gaping open in an O of shock. Holland smiled tightly as she refolded her arms. Princess Elegant had actually shoved Millie in the chest, launching her across the foyer. Unbelievable. Charley was halfway down the stairs before she realized she was moving.

  “What in heaven’s name?”

  Calvin Prescott, looking dapper as ever in a neatly pressed olive green safari suit, hurried into the entry through a pair of pocket doors on the left, Pamela on his heels. He halted abruptly as Millie slid to a stop at his feet. Charley slowed her own descent, ready to step in if fists began flying in earnest.

  “Millicent.” He had an auctioneer’s voice, deep and commanding. It always surprised people the first time they heard it issuing from such a little man. He lowered it even further, managing to sound both disapproving and sympathetic. “Ms. Mulbridge. Please.” He and Pamela hauled the older woman awkwardly to her feet.

  “That little…hussy…attacked me!” Millie gasped for breath, struggling to straighten her clothing and slapping away Pamela’s attempts to help.

  “She practically spit in my face,” Holland said calmly. “I may have pushed her back a little.”

  “I’ll have you arrested for this!”

  “If anyone gets arrested today, it’s going to be you, you old bat,” Holland retorted. “Trespassing—this is still my house—attempted robbery, assault—”

  “There’s no need for the police.” Calvin glared severely at Holland over tiny round spectacles, then turned to Millie. “I understand how upsetting this is. But you know perfectly well you cannot access the inventory until the auction. The rules apply to everyone.”

  “But this is wrong!
” Millie wailed. “Calvin, you know Gussie didn’t want this! She was going to…She promised to—”

  “Yes, yes, we’ve been through all that.” Calvin had his arm around Millie’s shoulders, steering her toward the enormous double front doors. “We’ve searched everything, including the contents of the library, just as I told you we would. We’ve found nothing, my word of honor.”

  “But she promised. You promised!” Millie’s voice dropped to a furious whisper. “We trusted you. You told us we could trust you.”

  Charley strained to hear. What promise? What had Calvin been searching for? Why had he mentioned the library in particular?

  “I understand. Very distressing. What I recommend is a nice cup of tea, perhaps a hot bath. And tomorrow, when you’re feeling calmer…” Calvin’s final words were lost as he opened one of the front doors.

  Shooting Holland a final look of pure hatred, Millie allowed Calvin to maneuver her outside. Then he shut the door firmly, turned with a sigh of relief, and spotted Charley.

  “Charley, my dear. All set, are we?”

  She descended the last few steps, trying not to look guilty of first-degree eavesdropping. “Ready when you are.”

  “Who the hell is this?” Holland glared at her.

  “Holland, may I introduce Miss Charlotte Carpenter? She is the proprietor of Old Hat, the vintage clothier located just a few doors down from my own establishment. Charley, Holland Mulbridge.”

  Holland ignored Charley’s outstretched hand, dismissing her with a glance. Charley could almost hear her thinking: shopkeeper. She was suddenly acutely aware of her faded jeans, her ancient sweatshirt, and the hair she hadn’t bothered to brush out that morning, instead raking it into a violent red topknot, tendrils drifting loose around her face. Despite her tussle with Millie, Holland’s smooth golden tresses looked as if she’d just stepped out of a salon.