The Antique House Murders Read online

  Paul Brixton was taking the lead on the burglary case, while Marc concentrated on Calvin’s murder. Charley hoped Paul caught the thieves quickly. Considering the escalating property damage, it was only a matter of time before someone got hurt.

  A soft chime sounded. Customers at last. She dropped the paper and stepped out front to find a man of about her own age. Thick blond hair tumbled over his forehead as he bent down to examine the contents of a display case. He was clean-shaven, and Charley noted a very nice profile. His business suit, while a bit worn at the cuffs, fit him well. The man glanced toward her, blasting her with a quick, even smile, then straightened, turning away as he did so. Cute butt, broad shoulders, sky blue eyes dancing with fun, and a handsome face that definitely lived up to that very nice profile.

  “Welcome to Old Hat.” Charley stepped forward, trying to establish eye contact. He retreated behind the next rack, his back to her. “What special treasure may I help you find today, Mr….”

  A movement to her right caught her eye, and she noticed a second person, a boy of about fourteen or so, wandering through the racks. He wore a dark blue sweatshirt with the hood pulled up, partially shielding his face. Charley had seen him before but couldn’t put her finger on a name. Why wasn’t he in school? Had these two come in together? They seemed unlikely companions.

  “Don’t you have anything new?” The man had circled around, crouching behind a rack of blouses, his face hidden. “All this stuff looks pretty beat up.”

  Charley stiffened, the kid in the hoodie forgotten. “This is a vintage shop. My merchandise is gently used, but of the highest quality.”

  “Uh-huh.” He stood and turned, again in a single motion. Charley followed him, trying to circle around and get in front of this jerk. She slipped along the winter coats and intercepted him as he yanked a skirt off the rack and held it up in front of his face. “Got any Dockers? Or seersucker? I find seersucker so slimming.”

  He was laughing at her! She could hear it in his voice. And there was something else, something familiar….

  “Sorry, no seersucker today. How about a nice taffeta?” Charley grabbed the skirt and yanked it down; the man immediately released it and spun away. “Chiffon is very hot this year.” She feinted right, then jumped to her left; he darted to his right, stepped into a dressing room, and slammed the door. She heard the latch shoot home. “Perhaps with an empire waist, to hide that big caboose?”

  “Hey! My ass is not big.”

  “I wouldn’t know, since you won’t let me see it. Or you. Let me guess. You’re in witness protection.”

  “Nope.”

  “Angry girlfriend?” She rattled the door handle.

  “Occupied, so sorry. And wrong again.”

  “Mystery shopper?” Those eyes, his voice; she knew that voice…

  “Is that a real job? I mean, who pays someone to go shopping? Do you get to keep the loot? What a racket.”

  Moving silently, Charley stepped into the adjoining cubicle. She placed one foot on a padded bench and slowly raised her head above the partition. Reaching over, she grabbed a handful of blond hair and pulled hard. “Gotcha!” When he jerked his head up, blue eyes wide with surprise, she felt a jolt of shocked recognition.

  “Sean Ambrose!”

  “At your service.” Sean rubbed his head. “For the record, that hurt.”

  “Good.” Charley jumped down and emerged to meet Sean face-to-face. She smiled, disbelieving. “Of all the people I expected to see today…”

  “Hiya, Red.” His answering smile was warm. “Man, it’s great to see you.” He pulled her in for a swift hug, and she was hit with a flood of memories.

  During the summer after eighth grade, the entire Cartolano clan had packed up and gone to Italy. The death of Frankie’s great-grandmother had sparked plans for a family reunion that would involve dozens of extended relations spread out over several Umbrian towns and villages. Abandoned by her best friend for an entire summer, and with her dad engrossed in preseason football conditioning, Charley was left to mooch around Oakwood on her own. She rode her ancient bike, haunted the air-conditioned library, and on cool mornings began running laps at the deserted high school track.

  Most days she found herself sharing the track with a boy she knew from her unfailing attendance at home varsity tennis matches the previous spring. Charley’s true mission at those matches had been the surreptitious observance of a dreamy senior named Marcus Trenault, but in the interests of stealth she’d also cheered on other players, including sophomore Sean Ambrose.

  As a popular jock and upperclassman, Sean’s orbit was vastly different from that of a skinny almost–ninth grader. Still, he nodded in silent recognition each time they passed, both with earbuds in, running laps at their own paces.

  Until the day Charley rounded the far end of the track and glanced across the field to see a stranger mounting the unlocked bicycle she’d dumped against the fence.

  “Hey!” She began yelling and running, but it was clear she’d never overtake the thief. “Stop! That’s my bike, stupid! Stop! Help!”

  A figure whooshed past her, running flat out, angling across the field toward the southwest corner, swift as a deer. As Charley slowed to a trot, gasping for breath and gripping a stitch in her side, Sean reached the fence, vaulted over it one-handed, and disappeared. Fifteen minutes later, while she stood on the curb fighting back tears and wondering what to do, he reappeared, pedaling sedately down the middle of the street, sporting a cocky grin and a fat lip.

  As she struggled to articulate a stunned thank-you, he tilted his head and asked, “So, do you even play tennis, or were you just there to watch Trenault show off?” Now she was truly unable to speak, brick red and mortified. Sean laughed and punched her shoulder. “No worries, Red. I’m pretty sure your secret’s safe with me. Do you drink coffee yet?”

  Thus began an unlikely summertime friendship. With two parents with high-power careers and a girlfriend attending cheer camp in Dallas, Sean was as bored and footloose for the summer as Charley was. But like many well-heeled Oakwood teens, he also had a car. They threw her bike in back and headed to Starbucks for frozen coffees, where they talked for hours, discovering a shared love of baseball, crossword puzzles, and salt bagels. Sean became a regular on the Carpenters’ shady front porch. They munched pizza and argued about everything that mattered: music, the designated-hitter rule, vampires versus werewolves, Batman versus Superman. They played video games, Sean taught Charley to juggle, she taught him how to cartwheel. By unspoken agreement they avoided the Oakwood Community Center, Gardner Pool, and any other settings where they might encounter classmates, kids who would surely look askance at this cross-caste relationship.

  He only tried to kiss her once, an awkward attempt that felt more obligatory than passionate. When she threw her patented Bobby Carpenter elbow block, he backed off with evident relief. Neither ever mentioned the incident.

  And then it was fall, and Frankie and the girlfriend came home, and school began, and Sean was a junior and a star on the cross-country team, and that was the end of it. They smiled and exchanged good-natured insults as they passed in the halls, but except for a day the following May when she wished him luck at the University of Florida, they never really spoke again.

  “What are you doing here? I haven’t seen you since you graduated.”

  Sean’s smile turned rueful. “I haven’t been back. My folks retired and moved out West during my last year at Florida. We don’t have any other family here, so I stayed in Lauderdale. The sunshine’s great, but…” He shrugged. “Too many law school grads and not enough jobs. I was barely making ends meet as a part-time real estate appraiser. Five years out from the bar exam, I just turned thirty, and I’m basically broke. Time for a change.”

  She nodded, taking in the light tan, the slightly shabby clothes. She also noted that, despite their familiar twinkle, there were shadows around those blue eyes, lines of strain about the smiling mouth. He’d summed up t
he last decade in a few breezy sentences, but she wondered if Sean’s road back to Oakwood hadn’t included a few potholes more damaging than money troubles. “If it’s not working, fix it.”

  He beamed. “Exactly. I moved back a month ago, rented the cheapest apartment Oakwood has to offer, and started sending out my résumé. A week later I ran into some guys at Harrigan’s Pub, and the next thing you know, I’m getting a call from Keith Pitzer, begging me to do my civic duty and fill a vacancy on the Oakwood Planning Commission. Remember Keith? He was in my graduating class, and now he’s a newly minted city councilman, which completely blew my mind. If a party animal like that can get elected to public office, this country’s in deep shit.”

  Charley laughed, enjoying this unexpected reconnect to a friend from her past. “So, you’re planning to settle in Oakwood?”

  “That is the plan.” He glanced around her shop, with its peach walls and polished hardwood floors, the colorful racks of clothing and accessories gleaming in the soft light. “And here you are, a bona fide business owner. Major props, Red. I had a feeling you’d end up being your own boss.”

  “Thank you, Sean,” she said, feeling a glow of pride. “It’s kept me busy.”

  “But not too busy.”

  Sean reached into a pocket and pulled out a newspaper clipping. Charley flushed as she recognized an article that had graced the front page of the Oakwood Register about a month ago. She and Mayor Hyatt were shaking hands, both women smiling brilliantly for the camera. Chief Zehring stood to one side, face expressionless. The headline read: local sleuth helps police nab serial vandals.

  “Interesting sideline you’ve developed. And those book club killings? Unbelievable. Eighteen years in this burg and not one single interesting thing happens. And now there’s another murder. Everyone in the Safety Building is talking about it. Some poor old guy up the street— probably surprised a burglar in the act.” He peered at her closely. “Scuttlebutt says you were on the scene.”

  She stared at the floor. “He was a friend,” she whispered.

  “Aw, geez, I’m sorry, Red. That sucks.” Sean patted her shoulder. “Say, you want to grab coffee and catch up? I’ll be in and out of the Safety Building with this Planning Commission thing. The Mulbridge case is a real mess, the biggest political hot potato this city’s ever seen. You’ve heard about it?”

  “Who hasn’t?” Yet another person impacted by the fate of the old estate, she thought.

  Sean frowned. “No wonder Pitzer couldn’t get anyone else to fill my slot. Which reminds me: I’ve been trying to track down Marc Trenault. You two ever cross paths?”

  Charley’s reply was drowned out by the roar of a motorcycle engine. She turned and immediately saw why it was so loud. The front door of Old Hat stood wide open. As she watched, a figure in a dark blue hoodie ran past her display window, hands clutching a bulky shape inside the sweatshirt.

  “That kid stole something!” Charley raced outside, Sean right behind her. “Thief! Stop, you little piece of garbage!” She poised to pursue, then glanced back at her shop. If she took the time to lock up, the thief would be long gone. “Damn it!”

  “I got this. You mind the store, Red. One shoplifter, coming up!” And he was gone, sprinting across Park Avenue, swift as a deer.

  Chapter 8

  “Thief! Stop him, somebody!”

  Charley clenched her fists and swore. Idiot. She’d been so distracted by Sean Ambrose’s unexpected appearance, she’d completely forgotten about the kid, the kid who had worn a hood indoors, who was clearly not shopping for vintage ladies’ wear at his tender age, who was loitering in her shop in the middle of the school day, who was obviously playing hooky. He’d done everything but wear an up to no good sign on his chest.

  Maybe the little weasel wouldn’t get away. Even as she marveled at the speed with which Sean closed the distance between himself and his quarry, a black-clad figure wearing a visored helmet sped past her on foot. She glanced left and saw a cherry red motorcycle parked in one of the diagonal spaces in front of Slash.

  “Hey, wait—” But the stranger in black was past her and running fast, faster even than Sean. And then another figure burst onto the scene. As Sean and the thief disappeared around the house at the end of the block, Mitch Cooper shot out of Prescott Auctions’ recessed doorway. Charley watched in dismay as Mitch landed a midair kick in the center of the helmeted runner’s back, knocking him to the ground. For crap’s sake. He clearly thought this guy was the thief.

  Running hard, shouting at Mitch to stop, Charley was startled to observe the stranger springing effortlessly upright. After that face-plant, most people would’ve been unconscious. In the next instant Mitch tackled him hard, and down they both went. The pair were still struggling as she skidded to a halt. Before she could speak again and correct his mistake, Mitch yanked off the motorcycle helmet.

  Long, silky black hair tumbled free, cascading around the face and shoulders of what Charley now saw was a young woman. Mitch lay on top of her, stupefied.

  “You idiot!” The girl—she looked to be no more than twenty—squirmed under Mitch’s weight. “He’s getting away! Get off me, already!” She twisted harder and freed her wrists from Mitch’s grip. She grabbed his right shoulder with her left hand and flipped them both over. In a blink, she was on top, her left forearm against Mitch’s windpipe. Now his wrists were the ones pinned above his head. He didn’t even resist, still paralyzed with what Charley suspected was shock at discovering a pretty girl inside that helmet. Men. They were all the same, programmed at the cellular level to think with their little heads instead of their big ones.

  Before the girl could jump up and take off again, Charley shouted, “Wait!” Both figures on the ground turned their heads in her direction. “Someone else is chasing the thief. Mitch, it’s not her. This isn’t the person who robbed me.”

  “It’s…not?” Mitch lay there looking dazed. He turned again to the girl. “But—”

  “Of course not!” The girl released him. She rose effortlessly, standing with feet apart, hands flexing. “Do I look like a thief?”

  “Yes,” Charley and Mitch said in unison.

  She blinked. “Oh. Well. I saw the kid take off, and when you shouted, it was obvious what was going down. I was in pursuit. But thanks to this brain trust, he got away.” Her voice rang with disgust.

  “You were fleeing the scene.” Mitch spoke with as much dignity as he could muster, considering he was still on his butt. Not taking his eyes off the strange girl, he too rose smoothly to his feet. He frowned. “You assaulted a police officer.”

  “I was doing your job. You should thank me. And I didn’t know you were a cop when you kicked me. Cheap shot, by the way.”

  “I identified myself.” His frown deepened. “You attacked me after I clearly—”

  “Oh, for the—”

  “Vanni? Theé mou! Eínai pragmatiká sas?”

  The commotion was drawing a crowd. People emerged from businesses up and down Park Avenue, standing on the sidewalk, craning to see what was happening. Afiya and two women wearing plastic ponchos and hair curlers stood outside Slash. Dmitri had crossed the street to where Mitch and the girl were squaring off. It was Dmitri who had spoken, using a language Charley knew from past experience was Greek. He stared at the pretty girl as if she were a mirage, a look of wonder on his face.

  And she wasn’t just pretty, she was gorgeous, a classic Mediterranean beauty, with olive skin, enormous liquid brown eyes, a generous mouth, and a straight, slim nose. While the many-zippered, bulky black bomber jacket left a few things to the imagination, skintight black leather pants hugged curvy hips and long, long legs.

  “Demmi! Eínai me! Eínai tóso kaló pou se vlépo̱!” The girl shrieked and catapulted herself at Dmitri. He caught her easily, her arms and legs wrapping around him like twin vises, as he laughed and spun them both around.

  “What the heck?” Mitch’s frown gave way to confusion. “I thought he was, you know
.”

  “She’s his sister,” Charley said, grinning. “She has to be. Look at them.” The physical resemblance between the siblings was unmistakable.

  “What are you doing here?” Dmitri set her down but kept his arms around her. “Let me look at you. Mikró píthi̱ko, you’re almost as tall as I am!”

  The girl gazed up at her brother adoringly. “I missed you so much. When I saw you on the TV news, when you got shot—” She hesitated. “Poppy refused to listen to the reports. He turned them off, wouldn’t let Mommy or me talk about it. About you. He won’t have your name spoken in the house. I wanted to come here, to the hospital, to see how you were. He said he would throw me out, too.” Dmitri closed his eyes. “But I’m eighteen now,” she continued firmly, “as of last week. Now, I do what I want.”

  Charley liked her already.

  “Happy birthday,” she said, extending her hand. “Vanessa, right? Dmitri talks about you all the time. I’m Charley.”

  Vanessa smiled and shook hands. “You’re the red-haired girl from the news, the one who was being held at gunpoint.”

  “That’s me. Your brother saved my life.”

  “He’s wonderful, isn’t he?”

  “Stop!” Dmitri held up both hands. “Sing my praises, but later. I want to know what you’re doing here.”

  “I’m going to live here.” Vanessa bit her lip. “Hopefully with you. At least at first. I’ve been accepted into the Criminal Justice Program at Sinclair Community College. I’m going to be a police officer.”

  “Say what?” Dmitri gaped at her. “Where did that come from? And what happened to theater? You’re a talented actress, Vanni.”

  It was Vanessa’s turn to stare. “How do you know that?”

  “Weeelll.” Dmitri’s smile was tinged with sadness. “I may have driven up and sneaked into the school auditorium last spring. Not every day your baby sister plays the lead in High School Musical. You’ve got a real gift.”

  “Aren’t you a little young to be a cop?” Mitch blurted.