The Antique House Murders Page 2

  “Mr. Prescott, I demand to know what on earth that interfering old woman was talking about. What promise? What are you searching for?” Holland’s tone rang with command, the voice of a woman used to getting her way.

  Calvin waved dismissively. “Just some ridiculous nonsense about a new will.”

  Holland’s jaw dropped. “A new will? She thinks my mother—what? Left everything to her? She’s out of her mind.”

  “Not to her personally.” Calvin sighed. “She’s under the impression that your mother intended leaving the estate in trust to SOAP. I’m afraid I promised her we’d keep an eye out for any legal documents Augusta might have tucked away among her things. Of course, we do that anyway, for every client. She seemed rather fixated on the idea of the Mulbridge library, which may explain why Pamela found her digging through boxes of books just now.” He smiled at Holland. “We’ve found nothing, and so there’s nothing for you to be concerned with, as I said. Now, Charley, if you’ll come with me?”

  Pamela shook her head in disgust and headed off on a mission of her own as Calvin disappeared back through the double doors on their left. After a moment’s stunned hesitation, both women hurried after him. Charley found herself in a huge, high-ceilinged room. Rows of chairs faced a small stage with a podium and display table draped in black. A pair of workers arranged framed paintings on a series of easels against the far wall. This was the formal living room, the setting for tomorrow’s auction. After that little one-act drama, Charley couldn’t wait. It looked like things might get interesting.

  Holland spoke, breaking the silence that had followed Calvin’s casually dropped bombshell.

  “That old vulture has been hanging around for months. She drove my mother crazy.”

  “Why?” Charley asked. “Weren’t they friends?”

  Holland sniffed. “They were contemporaries. Both widowed young. Millie had no children, but she raised a nephew—I don’t recall his name. He was in Cub Scouts with Jamie. Not precisely Mother’s cup of tea, but there were ceremonies, car pools, that sort of thing.”

  Charley nodded. “That sort of thing” was the lifeblood of a small community like Oakwood. Even a woman as insulated by wealth as Augusta Mulbridge hadn’t been immune.

  “Benjy Wycoff. I remember him. He was two years ahead of me at Oakwood. But I don’t think I remember your brother.”

  “Jamie entered St. John’s in eighth grade.”

  Well, duh, Charley thought. Jameson Mulbridge, Jr., had attended an exclusive prep school, as had Holland. No mere public school education would do for the elite, not even Oakwood, one of the top-rated school districts in the state.

  “Mother knew everyone in town, regardless of their ages. That’s how she was. Involved. Caring.” A shadow flitted across Holland’s face, a momentary tightness, then it was gone. “A few years ago, dear old Millie took up this new hobby, forming that preservationist club and making a nuisance of herself with estate owners and the City Council. Talk about the devil and idle hands.” Her short laugh was devoid of humor. “Now I know what she was angling for. She was trying to get Mother to change her will and turn the house into some sort of museum. Can you imagine?”

  Charley could not. This place was so sunk into decay, it would take far more money to restore it than the house was probably worth. She doubted SOAP and its membership had pockets that deep. But what did she know?

  Since Holland was being so chatty, she decided to probe a little.

  “Are you sure she didn’t?” Holland stared at her. Charley shrugged apologetically, aware of how little she really knew about the Mulbridge family, just gossip and what she’d read in the papers. “You knew your own mother best. But Millie certainly seems convinced. She must have had some reason to think your mother was at least considering it. Those SOAP fanatics have been after me to join since I opened Old Hat, and let me tell you, they’re relentless. Is it possible your mother might have said something to…string her along?”

  “Why on earth would she do that?”

  Maybe because she was bored and lonely, Charley thought. She glanced up at the water- stained plaster rosettes decorating the ballroom ceiling. How had Holland and her brother allowed their home, their mother’s home, to spiral down into such a sorry state? Were Millie’s accusations of neglect true? Maybe Augusta had wanted to ensure that her only visitor would keep coming around. Or maybe, just maybe, she really did have a change of heart. It happened.

  Holland seemed to read something of Charley’s thoughts in her expression. “Please don’t believe Millie’s lies about Mother. The three of us discussed it. She knew Jamie and I were going to tear the place down. We agreed it would be foolish to waste time and money on…”

  Holland’s cellphone rang. She frowned at the display and turned away to answer.

  Well, well. That little speech had smacked of excuses and ass covering. She watched Holland pacing, whispering furiously. Her voice rose briefly, and Charley heard a snatch of conversation.

  “—never should have told him, Cecil! This is unacceptable. Your job is to make sure he doesn’t…” and her voice dropped again. Then, “You have no idea what I’m forced to contend with here! On top of everything else…”

  Somebody was getting reamed, Charley thought with amusement. She imagined that Holland was a stern taskmaster, accustomed to being obeyed, not much caring which hapless minion got trampled in the process.

  Why would such a woman bother to justify her actions to a mere shopkeeper? Would a powerful shipping magnate give a damn about public sentiment? She might, Charley decided, if she were worried about getting her project approvals from the city. Rumor had it that the Planning Commission was dragging its feet, still divided over whether to grant authorization for the teardown and redevelopment of the property. Like it or not, public sentiment meant a great deal in a place like Oakwood.

  After two delays on flimsy pretexts had produced threats of legal action from the Mulbridge family’s army of lawyers, the Planning Commission would finally convene in special session next Friday, just eight days from now. If the vote went against Holland and her brother, Charley imagined, they would stand to lose a lot of money. Millions, according to the OR. In her experience, people with money and power always wanted more of both. The more they had, the hungrier they were. And more often than not, they did whatever it took to get their hands on the biggest share.

  Leaving Holland to enjoy her phone call in relative privacy, Charley approached the exquisite Louis XV escritoire that Calvin had appropriated for the duration of the sale. He rubbed his hands together, blue eyes twinkling. “You found the things I set aside? What did you think?”

  “You know exactly what I thought, you rascal.” She dropped into a folding chair. “I want it all. But honestly, Calvin, you must think I was born yesterday.” She pulled out his inventories and laid them on the desk. “Do you want to see me go bankrupt?”

  After a highly gratifying thirty minutes, Charley rose, her ownership of Augusta Mulbridge’s vintage treasures secured. Best of all, she’d managed to wangle Calvin’s original estimates down nearly 20 percent. In all fairness, he’d seemed to enjoy the negotiations every bit as much as she had.

  “Thanks for holding everything until Monday. I’ll figure something out over the weekend.”

  Old Hat couldn’t afford a truck. And her ancient orange VW Beetle wouldn’t hold even one of those precious garment bags without crushing its contents. This issue with transporting estate sale finds had been a problem since she’d started her business. Up until now, whenever she planned a road trip that promised to bear bulkier fruit, she’d managed to beg, borrow, or steal vans or pickup trucks from various friends and acquaintances to haul home her purchases. This time, maybe because the sale was here in Oakwood, she’d procrastinated, then struck out with all her usual victims.

  “Charley, I’ve just had the most marvelous idea,” Calvin began as he walked her toward the door. Holland was nowhere to be seen. “There are several
out-of-town dealers for whom I’ll be holding larger items. What if I had my movers bring your things to my shop on Monday afternoon? I’ve already paid them to transport everything else. That way you could simply pop down the street and carry it all back to your place. Although I must say, it’s high time you got yourself a truck.”

  “Maybe if the new evening wear line takes off, I can finally afford one. Thanks for this—you’re the best!” Charley planted a kiss on his cheek, and he pinked with pleasure. “Good luck with the auction, sweetie. I’ll be the sassy redhead in the back row.”

  As she stepped through the heavy double doors and onto the deep front porch, she inhaled deeply, savoring the scent of the surrounding pines, the fresh smell of earth and green things, cleansing the stench of mold from her lungs. A chickadee chirruped from a nearby tree and was answered from farther within the forest. Something scurried across the driveway, a pair of tiny chipmunks making a bold dash for the safety of an ivy bed. She tried to imagine a dozen or so new homes where these woods now stood. That wasn’t really so many, was it? She knew several of the neighbors in opposition: the Meades, the Englands, the Patels. Wealthy, yes, but at the end of the day, they were honest, hardworking families like any others. She’d spoken to some of them; she’d read their letters of protest and thought she understood their concerns. It wasn’t just about privacy, or appraised property values, or perceived quality of life. These families also worried about the safety of their children traveling to school along the narrow, winding roads of west Oakwood. The question of a missing will was intriguing, she thought, but ultimately it was people that mattered.

  “You’re not fooling anyone, you know.”

  Charley almost jumped out of her skin. She whirled to find Pamela leaning against a pillar, a sour look on her face. “Excuse me?”

  Pamela gestured toward the house. “Calvin doesn’t need another protégée. He’s already got me. So you can save your damsel-in-distress act.”

  And with a sneer, Pamela went inside and shut the door. Charley stared at the ornate laurel-wreath door knockers in disbelief. Damsel-in-distress act? Pamela suspected she was…what? Pretending to be hard-up financially so Calvin would…She shook her head. The idea was too preposterous. Yes, she and Calvin were very close, but she’d never realized Pamela might be threatened by their relationship, that she might be jealous of Charley. Yet clearly that was the case.

  She descended the steps and headed to her car, wondering what she could do to dispel Pamela’s suspicions. Well, what could she do? They were totally groundless. She wasn’t going to pretend to be something she was not, and she wouldn’t give up her friendship with Calvin. It was a shame, really. She and Pamela had always had a cordial relationship. The woman was a bit high-strung, but Charley had never pegged her as paranoid.

  “It just goes to show,” she remarked to a bright red cardinal on a nearby branch. “You never really know about people.”

  Chapter 2

  Mulbridge House was packed. Charley slipped inside the foyer, joining the throng of would-be bidders. Numbered items or boxed lots were ranged around the perimeter. As she maneuvered her way into the dining room, she saw row after row of tables loaded with inventory. Attendants wearing PRESCOTT AUCTIONS name tags kept careful watch as potential buyers asked questions and examined objects of every description. If an estate was big enough to warrant it—and this was a huge one—Calvin hired a small army of helpers. A burly young man stood at the foot of the stairs to prevent anyone from accessing the upper rooms. Good, she thought. Her things were probably still up there.

  And there was Frankie, the top of her curly dark hair barely visible, her elfin body buffeted by the crowd, but no doubt loving every minute of it. Charley’s BFF since the seventh grade, Frankie Cartolano Bright was managing to maintain her hard-won position before a table loaded with boxes of beautiful leather-bound books from the Mulbridges’ extensive private library. A beefy man tried to shoulder his way in between her and her quarry. Charley grinned when Frankie threw an elbow, apologizing sweetly as the unfortunate recipient retreated.

  “Crazy SOAP people,” Frankie muttered as Charley slipped into the vacancy. “Pawing through all these books like they think they’re going to find dollar bills tucked between the pages. Millie and her gang shoved inside the minute the doors opened.”

  “Really?” Charley glanced toward an adjacent table and observed two older women she vaguely recognized digging furiously through more boxes, flipping through volume after volume, only to toss them aside. A frazzled attendant was attempting to keep the various numbered lots orderly. As Charley watched he gave up, spoke sharply to the two women, and hurried off. Calling for reinforcements, Charley guessed. “Where’s Millie?”

  “Who knows?” Frankie ran her fingers over the gleaming burgundy leather spines of a complete set of the works of Charles Dickens. “These will be perfect in John’s home office. I finally finished painting the shelves. Anyway, I called them a ‘gang,’ but it looks like she could only come up with two or three people. I wonder if all her crazy talk about inheriting the mansion has scared the others off.”

  After the events of Friday, the women had met for coffee and discussed in detail Holland’s outrageous conduct and Millie’s startling claim about a secret new will. They’d reached no conclusions about whether such a document existed, but there was no doubt what Millie had been searching for.

  “When Pamela caught her snooping, Millie was hunting through books, too,” Charley reminded her. “Now that SOAP finally has access to everything, I can only think of one reason why they’d ignore all these other antiques. They’re convinced Augusta Mulbridge hid the new will inside a book from her library.” She tapped her chin thoughtfully. “I wonder why they think that.”

  A commotion in the foyer drew her attention. The crowd fell silent as a woman she couldn’t see protested vehemently, while a man argued with equal vigor. Charley glimpsed Millie Peache being hustled across the foyer by a guard, crocheted hat askew, slip showing below the hem of her tatty coat, face red with anger and mortification. Charley saw several people filming and snapping photos with their cellphones.

  “The poor old thing,” Frankie whispered. “Was that necessary?”

  Pamela Tate appeared, two determined-looking young men following in her wake. She steered toward the SOAP members, who continued to ravage the book tables.

  “Ladies, I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” Pamela said into the sudden silence. “You can join your friend Mrs. Peache.” One of the women opened her mouth as if to protest, but Pamela’s helpers each took an elbow and began steering them firmly from the room.

  “That was pretty harsh,” Charley murmured, shocked at the manhandling of the three septuagenarians. “What on earth did Millie do?”

  Pamela shot her an unfriendly glance, then shrugged. “Augusta Mulbridge owned a rare antique Bible. Nineteenth-century Spanish, hand-tooled leather inlaid with ivory, illuminated chapter headers, exceptional condition. It’s worth a small fortune, and Calvin entrusted the appraisal to me,” she said proudly. “Millie and a handful of serious collectors have been taking turns examining it. They all have to wear gloves, you understand, and Calvin has been supervising the process personally. Millie took so long and got so invasive, poking and tugging at the binding and so forth, Calvin finally had to cut her off before she damaged the piece. It wasn’t as if she could have afforded to bid on it.”

  “I take it she wasn’t happy about Calvin’s decision?”

  Pamela smirked as she headed out. “You could say that.”

  “Okay, I’m bidding on Lots 81 and 87.” Frankie tucked a notepad into her jeans pocket. “The auction doesn’t start for thirty minutes, and they won’t get to my stuff for at least an hour. Let’s get some air. I feel a little faint.”

  “Don’t blame you.” Charley noted with concern that Frankie indeed looked pale. Following the hush, everyone had begun talking and exclaiming at renewed volume, and the pushing and
shoving around the book tables had taken on a dangerous edginess. Charley didn’t plan to bid on anything, but her decision to attend and help Frankie had clearly been a good one. She wrapped a protective arm around her tiny pal and maneuvered the two of them into the foyer, where blessedly fresh air blew in through the open double doors.

  The women headed down the steps and strolled across the front courtyard as late arrivals streamed past them, a few waving or nodding a quick greeting. After a few minutes Charley murmured, “You notice how none of the neighbors are here?”

  Frankie grinned. “Silent protest?”

  “I’ll bet they’re taking pictures. With all these cars, Runnymede is practically impassable. If anyone needed an ambulance…”

  Charley shivered, a sudden cold breeze carrying the promise of rain. As she glanced up at the house, she spotted Pamela at one of the front windows. Their eyes met, then Pamela turned abruptly and disappeared from sight. She sighed inwardly. Lots of negative vibes at Mulbridge House today, she thought. Time to inject some positivity.

  “Come on, short stuff. If you’re feeling better, let’s go grab a couple of seats for the auction.”

  Frankie snapped a salute, the roses back in her cheeks. “Back row?”

  “Damn skippy.”

  —

  Early Tuesday morning, Charley hauled on the semifunctional steering wheel of her VW, managing the left turn onto Park Avenue with minimal ligament damage. Running early for a change, she gave in to temptation and drove past Old Hat rather than pulling directly around to the back lot. She told herself it was good marketing sense to keep a fresh perspective on the curb appeal of any business, especially one that relied on foot traffic for a good slice of its revenue.

  Taking up almost the entire block on her left sprawled the French provincial masterpiece that was the Oakwood Safety Building. The right-hand side of the Shops of Park Avenue district was home to a dozen small businesses, occupying a series of converted houses and mismatched retail buildings. Most of them were still closed, windows dark, but Ashley’s Bakery opened at seven and was already jammed with customers. Yum.