Ellen Crosby - The Merlot Murders

I mouthed “later” and went into the kitchen. Quinn showed up while I was getting ready to put a plastic platter of Thelma Johnson’s buttermilk fried chicken into our old cooler.

“I don’t suppose you’ve got that money for me yet?” he asked, leaning against the doorjamb, arms folded across his chest. He was staring at me in that predatory way of his. I felt like he was mentally undressing me.

The platter slipped in my hands and two pieces of chicken skidded off and landed on the floor. “Damn.” I put the chicken back where it belonged. “I said I’d get it to you by the end of the day. Why? Is there a problem?”

“I need it sooner than that. Carlyle’s won’t fix the destemmer without cash up front.” He walked into the kitchen and lifted the top off a casserole dish, peering at the contents.

“If you’re hungry, there’s more in the refrigerator. This is spoken for.” I took the lid from him and re-covered the dish. “Since when does Carlyle’s need cash before they fix something for us? We’ve been going to them for years.”

He opened the refrigerator and looked inside, then closed the door. He turned around and looked at me blandly. “Since the last time they fixed something for you.”

I fiddled with the latch on the cooler and hoped he couldn’t see my face, which suddenly felt quite warm. “I’ll talk to Lew. He always takes care of us. You must be dealing with someone new.” Before he could answer, I said quickly, “You’ll have your cash this afternoon. I’m on my way to the bank right now.”

I heard the refrigerator door open one more time. Philippe had the same exasperating habit, like a six-pack of beer might have materialized while he wasn’t looking. “Are you taking all that food with you to the bank?” he asked.

“Of course not.” I snapped the cooler latch shut. “I’m taking it to the soup kitchen near Philomont. I’ve put some aside for the crew, but there’s more than we could possibly eat here. I thought we should donate it to them.”

“I’ll take it for you,” he said, closing the refrigerator a second time. His voice sounded gentler than it had a moment ago. “I’ve got to meet someone in Bluemont so I’ll drop it off for you.”

“Are you sure?”

He nodded. “The money,” he said. “The sooner the better. You take care of that.”

I left.

Dominique was right. It was all about money.

I drove to Middleburg, with no idea what to say to Seth. I parked in front of the ice cream parlor on Washington Street and walked the two blocks to Jay Street. Middleburg got its name as the midway point on an old stagecoach trading road that connected Alexandria and Winchester. George Washington’s cousin sold the land for the town to Leven Powell, a Revolutionary War officer who laid out the streets in a neat grid pattern and named them for friends who were signers of the Constitution. If Powell came back for a visit today, he’d still know the place, except for the lone traffic light at the intersection of Washington and Madison.

I turned onto Jay Street. Mac Macdonald, who owned Macdonald’s Fine Antiques on the corner of Jay and Washington, stood over a window box deadheading petunias. Mac was one of the Romeos, tall and skeletally thin, dressed characteristically in a bone-colored linen suit, pale blue silk tie, and matching pocket handkerchief. Leland said once that Mac’s idea of casual dress meant he took off his tie clip. He was more stooped than he’d been two years ago and his white hair was a thinner monk’s tonsure. He’d been at the funeral yesterday but we’d only spoken briefly.

He bussed me on the cheek. His cologne, something pleasantly old-fashioned, smelled like limes. “I heard the news,” he said. “You must be pleased.”

“You mean, about Fitz?” I asked stunned.

“Good Lord, of course not! I meant that the house passes to you.”

“Oh. So you’ve been talking to Mason?”

“Actually, I went ’round the general store this morning.”

He heard it from Thelma. If that woman had her ear any closer to the ground, she’d spit dirt when she talked. If she knew, the whole town knew.

“Eli says you’re going to sell the place.”

“He’s been saying that.” I kept my face expressionless, but I’m not a good liar. If Mac found out the truth, it was a sure bet the news would boomerang right back to Thelma.

“Lucie honey, let me be frank. I know we just buried Lee but I’d like to buy the contents of your parents’ estate. I’ll give you a good price, too.”

I stared at Mac, not sure if I’d heard right. “You want to buy our furniture?”

“Yes, ma’am. Furniture, books, jewelry, the lot. I sold your mother some of her…better…pieces of furniture before you were born, so I know what they’re worth. She did, too. She had a good eye for what was dross and what was the real thing. You have some very fine, very valuable items, my dear, including some interesting French pieces. They could fetch a nice sum for you.” He folded his arms and rocked back and forth on his heels, studying me. His eyes were sparrow-bright and twinkling.

I said, truthfully, “I don’t know what to say, Mac.”

He stopped rocking. “I could come ’round this afternoon and we could talk, Lucie.”

The answer to my prayers.

But to hand everything over to Mac? Just like that?

I’d read once that an original handwritten version of one of George Washington’s undelivered speeches was found under a sofa in a cottage in some little hamlet in the middle of England. Later it had sold at an auction for a small fortune. Not that it was likely we had something lying around with that kind of provenance, but who knew? Leland, with his squirrely habits, my mother’s missing diaries, and the lost diamond necklace…it seemed a bit dangerous to let Mac back his moving truck up to the front door and cart everything off lock, stock, and barrel.

“Mac,” I said, “what if I sold you a few pieces now and we could talk about the rest later on?”

The eye-twinkling stopped. “Now, honey, if you’re going to make me buy it piecemeal, I can’t make you as good a deal as I can on the whole shebang. You got a few things there that ought to go straight to the dump. If I take them for you, it’ll save you hauling fees and a lot of fuss and bother.” He smiled benevolently, showing a lot of teeth, but there was something vaguely Big Bad Wolf about that smile.

“I guess I’ll have to take my chances,” I said, “but I am interested in selling a few things right now.”

He did some lightning quick calculating. “Let’s see. I’ll take the tall case clock and the Duncan Phyfe rolltop desk in the parlor. Also the two Hepplewhite chairs and the Federal mirror in the upstairs hall.”

I closed my eyes. He’d certainly cherry-picked the finest items, especially the clock. The house would be tomblike without ever hearing its gentle, comforting chime again.

“How much?” My voice wavered.

“Five thousand.”

“No,” I said. “They’re worth far more than that.”

He sighed noisily, to let me know he was not pleased at having to dicker. “Six thousand.”

“Ten.”

“Ten thousand ? Good Lord, child! Absolutely not. Seventy five hundred.”

“Ninety-five hundred.”

“I’ll give you nine thousand, but it’s robbery. I won’t make any money at that price.” He sounded definite and a bit peeved. “I’m only doing this for your parents.”

Mac was a good soul, but he was the kind of person who’d peel postage stamps off letters if they hadn’t been canceled and reuse them. He wasn’t going to lose money on this deal, in spite of the Sarah Bernhardt speech.

“I appreciate that.”

He harrumphed again. “Why don’t I stop by your house this afternoon and pick them up? Randy’s going to be here from the Georgetown gallery, so I’ll have the truck.”