The Antique House Murders Read online

  Sharing the small copper-roofed cottage with the bakery was Slash, the hair salon where a certain stylist named Dmitri St. James had better be ready and waiting to help her move her stuff, if he knew what was good for him. But of course he’d be ready, she thought fondly. The man knew how to keep a promise.

  Across the tidy concrete alleyway from Slash sat a long, low building with a fake Williamsburg façade that housed, among other things of lesser global significance, Old Hat Vintage Fashions. She sighed with happiness, admiring the four papier-mâché giraffes in her display window, where they shimmered with color and timeless vintage style, draped today in corals, bright greens, and silvery grays. Hers was the most arresting display on the street, no contest.

  Glad to have settled the question of her ongoing retail supremacy, Charley continued up the long block, intending to turn right at the west alley and circle back around to park behind her shop. Prescott Auctions took up the entire first floor of a large brick office building on the corner. Calvin had promised to meet her there at eight. Odd that he hadn’t answered when she called just before leaving home, she thought. If he’d forgotten their appointment, it wouldn’t much matter if Dmitri was ready or not.

  As she approached, she noted lights on inside. In fact, from what she could see through the glass door and side window, it appeared that every light in the place was blazing. Excellent. All parties present and accounted for.

  She’d called Calvin Sunday afternoon and pushed back their appointment to this morning. Bless his heart, he was only too happy to accommodate her needs. Torrential rain in the forecast had kept her from collecting her Mulbridge House purchases yesterday, as they had originally discussed. Without a van, even a block was too risky. She’d paid far too much to jeopardize those delicate fabrics with water damage.

  Emerging from the alley into the rear lot, she noted a black sedan that she assumed was Calvin’s, as well as a big roll-gate truck with prescott auctions in large, ornate lettering along the side. A three-foot-tall gilt auctioneer’s gavel formed the “P” in “Prescott.” Charley frowned, recalling a Sunday morning spent poring over the new and used car ads in the newspaper. It hadn’t taken her long to determine that a panel van, even a stripped-down base-price model, was far beyond her reach. She suffered a mild twinge of vehicle envy.

  Charley wrestled the ancient VW into her reserved parking spot, unlocked Old Hat’s rear door just long enough to drop her laptop bag onto her desk, then hurried down the alley to Slash’s brushed stainless steel front door.

  “Be with you in a sec.” Looking uncharacteristically workmanlike in faded Levi’s and a dark blue pullover, Dmitri cradled the receptionist’s phone between cheek and shoulder as he tapped information into the salon’s new appointment program. Charley pinched his perfect ass, laughing when he bobbled the receiver. She wandered back through the coconut-scented salon to Afiya Vickerson’s tiny office.

  Not here yet. Luckily for her, Dmitri had had the foresight to fire up some java. Afiya, Slash’s owner, made the meanest cup of free trade coffee on Park Avenue, and she had schooled her star stylist well in the intricacies of its production.

  “Fee’s not in until ten.” Dmitri grabbed Charley from behind, spinning her around and hauling her against his broad chest. He dipped her so low, her long red hair brushed the floor. “Your radiance makes my loins rise with desire. Dump the flatfoot and run away with me.”

  She gazed up into that flawless face, the silken fall of shoulder-length midnight hair, those long, dark eyelashes. Less than a breath separated his mouth from hers. She sighed.

  “Have you been reading pulp romance again? I thought we talked about this.”

  “I haven’t had a date in six months. Give a man a break.”

  “More like eight months, and that’s your own fault, lover boy. You’re pickier than I am. Was.”

  “Yeah, yeah, you’re having regular sex; don’t rub it in. Sorry—awkward choice of imagery,” Dmitri apologized with total insincerity. Plunking her back on her feet, he reached for his coat. “Let’s roll. I’m your bitch, but only until nine.”

  The walk up to Prescott’s took less than five minutes, barely enough time for Charley to quiz her friend about his weekend. The February sky was a crisp and cloudless blue, the world washed clean by the storm. Park Avenue presented a picture postcard of quiet suburban affluence, tidy shop fronts on her right facing the immaculately landscaped Safety Building to her left. Young mothers walked well-bred dogs or pushed strollers containing their stylishly bundled offspring, glancing in shop windows and chattering as they headed home from escorting older children to Harman Elementary School around the corner or continued on their way to preschool, playdates, or a morning of domestic chores and errands. One or two smiled or spoke a greeting as they passed, a client of hers or Dmitri’s. The cold air braced rather than chilled Charley’s rising spirits. It felt good to be part of a community like Oakwood. It felt good to be alive.

  Dmitri’s flair for the dramatic was in full cry as he described his visit to Mulbridge House. “Auctions aren’t my thing, so I hit the general sale on Sunday with the great unwashed. Some of us aren’t on the insider A-list.” He elbowed her in the ribs.

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m a real celebrity. Was it crowded?”

  He snorted. “Have the Kardashians had work done? The place was wall-to-wall scavengers, pushing and shoving, pawing through mountains of Lord knows what, most of it smelling like wet dog. The majority of it should’ve gone straight into the nearest Dumpster.” Dmitri shuddered. “I could hardly draw breath. People were forking over for the most ghastly stuff, and—oh! Wait until you see what I bought.”

  “So tell already.”

  “Nope, it’s too amazing to spoil with a mere verbal description. Come over to the condo one night this week and I’ll whip it out for you. We can get drunk and decide where to put it.”

  Charley rolled her eyes. “Why does everything you say drip with double entendre?”

  “It’s a gift,” Dmitri said loftily.

  “Hi, Charley!” A late-model minivan paused, driver’s window rolled down. The petite blonde at the wheel grinned cheekily at Dmitri. “You two playing hooky?”

  Charley smiled with pleasure. “Hi, Ellen! Actually, we’re picking up my purchases from the Mulbridge estate sale. You should stop in this week. I’m going to have everything merchandised by Wednesday and—”

  The woman’s face darkened. Too late, Charley remembered that Ellen Meade was one of the neighbors living near Mulbridge House who were protesting the redevelopment. “I’m not supporting those people. I don’t know how you can, either. I just dropped Penny and Jess at Harman. I’m already worried it’s too dangerous for them to walk along Runnymede. What’s going to happen when we’ve got construction equipment and who knows how many more vehicles traveling along there? That road is barely wide enough as it is, and all that heavy equipment will destroy hand-laid brick roads that have survived for over a century.”

  Charley recalled Penny and Jess Meade, two adorable grade-schoolers of whom their mother was very rightly protective. Temporarily at a loss, she managed only, “You’re right. It’s…a tricky issue.”

  “And what about Gallagher’s Island? Not to mention what a bunch of McMansions will do to our property values. We’re a small group, but don’t we deserve the same consideration as—” A vehicle behind the minivan tooted its horn, and Ellen abruptly drove off. Charley gazed after her, some of the shine gone from her morning.

  “Am I a bad person?” she wondered aloud. “Am I profiting from the misery of others?”

  Dmitri shrugged. “That housing development is going in whether you sell off Augusta Mulbridge’s fashions or not. Ellen sounded a bit confused, actually. What was that about an island?”

  “No idea.” Charley sighed, resolving to reach out to Ellen and try to mend fences.

  The front door of Prescott Auctions was unlocked, with no sign of its proprietor. “He must be in the back. Calv
in?” she called out. “Hello! It’s Charley.”

  Stepping inside, she surveyed the half-empty showroom. Most of the Mulbridge House booty had been cash-and-carry, or else scheduled for pickup by UPS or private carrier later in the week, headed for dealers around the region. She’d seen this room packed to the rafters after a successful road trip. There wasn’t much here now but some folding tables and chairs. Crates and boxes labeled for delivery lined one wall. And there was the rolling rack, still holding the four garment bags bearing her dealer number, her boxes on the floor beside it.

  Charley started toward the back of the showroom and another door, slightly ajar. Why, she wondered suddenly, were all the lights on, when he wasn’t open today?

  Dmitri followed, looking around curiously. “Bo-ring. I expected fabulous antiques, maybe a moose head or something. There were stacks of swag at the sale.”

  “This isn’t a retail business, so they don’t maintain an inventory. Calvin? Helloooo, are you back here?” Charley grasped the handle of the inner door and pushed it open. She took a step, then halted with a sharp intake of breath. “Oh, no. Oh, Calvin.”

  The little man lay crumpled on the floor of a small office, like a marionette with its strings cut. He stared sightlessly at her shoes, his cheek resting on the carpet, his tiny round glasses pushed crookedly to one side. Charley had a momentary impulse to reach out and straighten them for him.

  But of course, she didn’t touch him. Neither of them touched anything, except each another. They clung, appalled and disbelieving. An irregular patch, black under the overhead fluorescents, stained the rug beneath Calvin Prescott’s balding head. Where his yellow spotted bow tie came in contact with the stain, the fabric was tinted dark red.

  “Is that…blood?” Dmitri whispered. Charley nodded, blinking back tears of shock and grief. Then she pulled out her cellphone and punched a single key.

  “Marc? I need you.”

  Chapter 3

  She felt his fury precede him. He strode through the front door of Prescott’s, long black raincoat swirling. Despite the grim circumstances, she felt the rush, the singing in her veins that shivered through her every time he was near. He was tall and lean, his handsome face of planes and angles rescued from severity by the full, sensitive mouth. As he moved, the elegant coat did nothing to disguise the sinuous power, the hint of violence just beneath the surface.

  Cobalt blue eyes with thick, dark lashes locked onto her where she and Dmitri stood, miserable, near the garment rack. Wavy dark hair in need of a trim was tousled from his dash across Park Avenue. Charley longed to reach for him, to run her fingers back through that hair and smooth it down. Detective Marcus Trenault’s long legs ate up the distance between them, and now she could read the expression in those eyes. There was anger there, but there was also fear.

  Wordlessly, Marc pulled her in. She breathed his familiar scent, an intoxicating combination of sandalwood soap and coffee. Suddenly the effort to control her grief seemed pointless and she began to cry, sobbing into his shoulder as he stroked her hair.

  “Holy jumping Jesus, Charley.” His lips touched her temple, then he placed his hands on her shoulders and stepped back to study her face. “You okay?” When she nodded, sniffing, he turned to Dmitri. “How about you?”

  “Better than poor Mr. Prescott, I guess.” Dmitri’s voice was thin. “I’m glad I didn’t walk in on that alone.”

  The door opened again to admit two safety officers, practically running in an effort to catch up. On their heels followed Dwight Zehring, director of public safety and Marc’s boss. He scowled as he caught sight of Charley, a reaction she’d come to expect. Chief Zehring treated her with barely concealed hostility, despite the fact that a few months ago she’d helped the police catch the serial killer known as Lucy.

  Since that first case, she’d assisted the department in an extremely unofficial capacity on several, albeit lesser, investigations. Mostly her contributions consisted of filtering local gossip for useful details people inexplicably failed to relay to the police, and then passing them along to Marc or his partner, Paul Brixton. One notable exception had been a recent vandalism case, where her informal network of local informants had helped identify the culprits. Police had arrested the gang just as they’d been about to deface Wright Library’s century-old brick façade. The fact that she’d helped prevent thousands of dollars in property damage didn’t seem to cut any ice with Chief Zehring. That was gratitude for you. When circumstances took her across the street, Charley did her best to avoid him.

  She recognized one of the safety officers as baby-faced Mitch Cooper. She’d first met the lanky young cop during the Lucy investigation. Mitch sent her a shy smile. She smiled back, and he blushed deeply, the prominent ears under a brutal buzz cut turning bright red.

  Zehring thrust his head forward. “Where’s this alleged dead body?”

  She pointed toward the office door. Marc led the way, the others following. They reappeared after less than a minute, Marc with cellphone in hand, voice too low for Charley to make out. He clicked off as he and his small entourage returned to the showroom.

  “I need to ask you both a few—”

  “Why are you here?” Zehring interrupted sharply.

  Charley bristled, annoyance cutting through some of her grief. “I had an appointment with Calvin,” she replied evenly. She indicated the garment bags. “To collect my merchandise from the Mulbridge House sale.”

  Marc turned to Dmitri, who cocked his thumb at Charley. “I’m with her.”

  “How did you get in?” Zehring continued in the same accusatory manner.

  Again with the tone. The man seriously needed to adjust his attitude. Charley folded her arms. “We didn’t break in. The door was unlocked.”

  “If I may, sir?” Marc’s voice was carefully neutral, but Charley could tell he was pissed. He pulled a small blue leather notebook from an inside pocket. “What time did you arrive?”

  Zehring rounded on Marc. “Am I calling the Sheriff’s Department?” Marc’s boss was always threatening to bring in the county boys whenever anything serious happened, Charley thought, disgusted. Didn’t he know by now that Marc was ten times the investigator any of them were?

  “No, sir,” Marc said firmly. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

  “Very well. I will trust your judgment in this matter.” Was it Charley’s imagination, or had he glanced her way with those final words? “I want a full report ASAP. Keep these two to assist.” He indicated the two uniforms, then headed toward the door. Over his shoulder he barked, “And get a haircut, Detective. This isn’t American Idol.” He slammed the door, rattling the glass.

  Marc took a deep breath, letting it out slowly into the heavy silence that followed the departure of his commanding officer. Then he shook his head, his expression a mixture of irritation and resignation. He dragged his hand through his hair. “Okay. You two came in and found Prescott’s body. When was this, exactly?”

  “About five after eight,” she answered. “Our appointment was for eight o’clock. The front door was unlocked, so we walked in.”

  “Did you see anyone? Anyone in here, or hanging around outside?”

  She considered his question carefully before answering, determined to be a good witness, for Calvin’s sake, and for her own.

  “Kids and a few moms with strollers walking to and from Harman Elementary. School starts at eight-thirty. Some street traffic, an elderly couple with a small brown dog. Nothing unusual, nothing suspicious. I drove around the back about seven-fifty. Calvin’s car and the Prescott truck were the only vehicles at this end of the lot.” Marc nodded, still writing. “But none of that’s relevant, is it?” she asked. “Calvin’s been dead for hours, maybe longer.”

  He glanced up quickly. “How do you know that? You didn’t touch him, did you?”

  She sighed. “Of course I didn’t touch him. The only thing either of us touched is the front door handle. Oh, and the office door handle. That door w
as partially open.” Marc jotted another note. “I know he’s been dead a while because the blood on the carpet had already dried. And his eyes were so…” Charley’s voice caught as her heart clenched. “We backed out, and I called you right away.”

  Marc’s gaze softened. “He was your friend. I know this is difficult.”

  She blinked back fresh tears, willing away the awful memory of what lay beyond the office door. “He was such a sweet little man. This is going to break my father’s heart. Who could be so cruel?”

  “That’s what I’m going to find out,” he assured her. “Cooper, go around back and keep an eye on the alley door. Don’t let anyone touch either of those vehicles until county CSU gets here.”

  “Yes, sir. No, sir.” Mitch sent Charley one last, longing glance before heading out.

  “Landry, we need to secure the scene. Run across the street and get your gear.” Marc paused. “On second thought, park your squad car out front, too. Last thing we need is a TV van right in front of this window.”

  “On it.” With a friendly nod, Landry departed.

  Marc tucked the notebook away. “You two can run along. I’ll get full statements from you later.”

  Dmitri checked his watch. “Come on, doll face. I have a client in ten. Let’s let Columbo get his game on.” He tugged her hand, but Charley resisted.

  “What about my things?” she asked. “This rack and these two boxes are the reason we came down here.”

  Marc shook his head. “Part of the crime scene, at least for now. Someone will notify you when you can come back and collect them.”

  “Someone?”

  He flashed a wide grin, surprising her. “I have minions to handle such mundane details.”