Antiques & Collectibles 09 - Mint Condition Murder

  Mint Condition Murder

  When the female antiques dealer she was meant to interview turns up dead, Collector’s Weekly reporter Molly Appleby can’t help but wonder why anyone would kill a woman so new to the area. Before she can spend much time pondering means or motive, Molly discovers that the father she never knew is keen on a reconciliation. And while it seems unlikely that his sudden interest and the death of the dealer are connected, Molly soon learns otherwise.

  As she begins digging into the past of the victim, Molly realizes that the woman was not at all what she seemed. Not only did she possess a stash of rare coins linked to an unsolved murder, but she also engaged in illicit affairs with multiple married men. With suspects galore and a reunion with her long-lost father looming, Molly will have to uncover crimes both old and new before the secrets that refuse to stay buried turn fatal . . .

  Title Page

  

  Copyright

  Mint Condition Murder

  Ellery Adams and Parker Riggs

  Beyond the Page Books

  are published by

  Beyond the Page Publishing

  www.beyondthepagepub.com

  Copyright © 2021 by Ellery Adams and Parker Riggs.

  Cover design and illustration by Dar Albert, Wicked Smart Designs

  ISBN: 978-1-954717-17-6

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this book. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without the express written permission of both the copyright holder and the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Contents

  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

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Author’s Note

  Books by Ellery Adams and Parker Riggs

  About the Authors

  Chapter 1

  Molly Appleby was on her way to pick up her mother. As senior staff writer for Collector’s Weekly, she was always looking for a good story, and since she had arranged to interview the owner of a new antiques store, she thought her mother would love to shop while she conducted the interview. When she was done, she would treat her to lunch.

  It was a bright October day, and with the sunroof open, crisp, cool autumn air filled the car. Molly thought about how much her life had changed over the last three and a half years. She had married her husband, Matt Harrison, moved to Vermont, and had a baby, Tyler, who had turned two in September. Living in New England had been an adjustment, as Molly had never lived anywhere outside of North Carolina, but after all these months, she couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.

  Pulling up to the curb where her mother was waiting, Molly felt excited about their little outing, although she was a little unsure about the enthusiasm level of the woman she was going to meet. She had only spoken to Charlotte Blair, the owner of A Checkered Past, on the telephone, and thought her rather unfriendly and dismissive. This was very unusual. Antiques dealers were always thrilled to have Molly visit their shop, take photographs, and write a feature piece about them for the magazine.

  Clara Appleby got into the passenger seat, clicked her seat belt, and barely mumbled a “Good morning.” Molly knew right away something was wrong. Her mother was always cheerful when they were about to go shopping.

  “How are you this morning?” Molly asked.

  “Fine,” Clara said.

  Oh, boy, Molly thought. Monosyllables were not her mother’s style either. Clara loved to talk, but as they headed out of the city, she continued to be silent. After a few miles had gone by, Clara changed the radio station from light jazz to the eighties. She sat back in her seat, looking out the window, but in another minute, she reached over and turned the station again, this time to the big hits of the sixties. This station lasted about a minute before she did it again, and again, stations switching so fast they never made it through a single song.

  “Ma, please! Pick a station and stick with it.” Molly was getting exasperated. “All this fiddling with the car radio is making me crazy.”

  Clara settled on the seventies station. The Bee Gees were singing “How Deep Is Your Love,” which Molly thought was fitting, considering how her mother was testing her patience. “What’s bothering you?”

  Clara pulled down the visor and checked her reflection in the tiny mirror. Molly favored her mother in looks. They both had thick dark hair and slate gray eyes. The differences were in the way they dressed. Her mother always wore designer clothes, while Molly favored off-the-rack clothes at bargain basement prices. Clara checked her lipstick in the mirror. “I told you, everything is fine, dear.”

  Clara drummed her manicured fingernails on her pants leg. Between the changing of the radio stations and the drumming fingers, she seemed nervous. “How much coffee have you had this morning?”

  “My usual cup.” She glanced at her. “As I said, nothing is wrong, everything is perfectly fine.”

  There it was again, the word fine. Molly didn’t believe her. “Did you have a fight with Sean, is that it?” Clara and Sean Murphy been married for two years, and although Molly had never seen them have a single argument, she supposed there was a first time for everything.

  “We did not have a fight.”

  “Oh, come on. What’s up? Is it something to do with my interview?”

  “No. Why would you think that?”

  “Because I told you Charlotte didn’t seem all that interested in talking to me. Do you think I’m wasting my time?”

  Clara shrugged. “You won’t know until you actually sit down and talk to her.” Molly frowned. She really wasn’t going to tell her what was wrong. “I looked her up on the Internet, after you invited me to come along today. Considering the move she’s made from Boston to open a new store, I would have thought she’d be grateful to have you feature her in the magazine. Did she say why she’s opening a second store here?”

  “She didn’t want to talk on the phone,” Molly said. “But from what I can gath
er, it’s a completely different store, with a new concept. Her Boston shop, Pockets of Time, sells high-end antiques. A Checkered Past’s website has photographs of shabby chic furniture, folk art, and industrial antiques.”

  “Well, I’m certainly looking forward to having a look around while you’re interviewing her.”

  Was she? From her flat tone of voice, Molly thought her mother didn’t sound excited at all. “Are you sure you don’t want to talk about whatever’s bugging you?”

  Clara glanced at her. “I told you—”

  “Right, I know, everything’s fine.”

  Molly was getting nowhere. She knew better than to press her mother for answers. Eventually she would tell her what was on her mind, because they told each other everything. In the meantime, she would ignore her and enjoy the scenery, and hope that her mood would get better. But after ten more minutes of seventies music, Clara said in a touchy tone of voice, “I feel as if we’ve been driving forever. Are you sure we’re heading in the right direction?”

  A good mood was going to be elusive. “Yes, Ma.” Molly pointed to her car’s GPS screen. “We’ll be at A Checkered Past in about five minutes.”

  “Well, if you ask me, no one is going to want to drive this far out from the city to go antiquing. What was she thinking, opening a new store out here?”

  Molly laughed. “Are you kidding? We’ve driven hundreds of miles to go antiquing. And this is nothing. We’re fifteen miles from downtown. Besides, this area has other attractions to draw people in. It’s known for its apple orchards and farms. Look around. Isn’t it pretty?” Molly shot her mother a sideways glance. Clara was still frowning. “You know, Ma, you’re really being a Debbie Downer.”

  Clara turned sideways in her seat. “All right. There is something we need to talk about, but not now. We’ll do it later.”

  “Okay.” Molly was stunned by her tone, which sounded hesitant. She hoped her mother wasn’t ill. Was this going to be a scary talk?

  “Tell me more about Charlotte Blair,” Clara said.

  “I don’t know that much about her, only what I could get off her Pockets of Time website. I know she opened the Boston store with her business partner, Rene Flores, about fifteen years ago, on Newbury Street, no less, and they made quite a success of it. What’s really interesting is that they were both so young at the time, only twenty-one. I want to ask her how they managed to do it. I know a lot of my younger readers, who are aspiring entrepreneurs, would love to know.”

  “Did Rene come to Vermont, too?”

  “As far as I can tell, she’s still in Boston.” Her GPS announced their destination was ahead, and Molly slowed her speed. Your destination is on the right. She saw a mailbox at the end of a narrow road, and a makeshift sign stuck into the ground beside it. A Checkered Past was written in big red letters with an arrow pointing down the road. Molly made the turn and cringed as the gravel road kicked up rocks under the tires. She hoped they didn’t cause any damage.

  The road was bordered by trees, but as it angled upward, the trees began to thin, and a house came into view in the middle of a grassy field. It was a two-story dwelling of white clapboard, black shutters, and a wraparound porch with a cross-gable roof.

  Clara said, “This is a pleasant surprise. The house reminds me of those Sears kit houses that were popular in the early 1900s. I’ve seen drawings of them in old magazines.”

  A detached garage sat twenty yards off the right rear corner of the house, and there was a blue SUV parked in front of it. Molly parked in the visitors’ lot. They were the only car there.

  Molly switched off the engine. Clara opened her door and got out. Where was her purse? Molly had to search for it, since it had slid on the backseat floor mat behind the passenger seat. The vintage Chanel bag was a present from Matt. He had given it to her when he’d graduated from medical school, to thank her for all of the sacrifices she had made for him. It was the only designer item Molly owned.

  By the time she got out of the car, Clara was already standing in front of the door. As Molly came up the steps, Clara pointed to the Closed sign hanging on the other side of the glass. “I thought you said the store opened at ten.” She checked her watch. “It’s ten thirty-five, and she’s closed.”

  Molly reached around her mother and tried the door handle. It turned, and the door swung open. She smiled at her. “Charlotte must have forgotten to take the sign down this morning.” She held the door open, followed her mother inside, and flipped the sign to Open.

  “Yes, this looks exactly like the floor plans I’ve seen advertised in those old magazines,” Clara said. “The room on our right would have been the parlor, and straight ahead, the dining room. There should be a downstairs bedroom, too, and a kitchen at the rear of the house with a door to the back porch. Upstairs they had room for three bedrooms, and attic space.”

  “What about bathrooms?”

  For the first time that morning, Clara smiled. “I’m sure those were added on later, dear.”

  Molly shrugged. She didn’t care about the house. She was there to interview Charlotte. The register counter was in the room on their right, the original parlor. There was no one behind the counter or in the room. She thought the house seemed too still and quiet, as if it had been abandoned. There were no floorboards squeaking overhead, no voices coming from the other rooms, not even piped-in gentle waterfall music.

  “Let’s take a walk around,” Molly said. “Charlotte must be busy.” Despite the woman’s lack of enthusiasm for an interview, Molly couldn’t believe she would ignore her. She had made the appointment and should have been expecting her.

  Molly saw an Etienne writing desk in the corner, and immediately went over to it. The desk was painted a soft duck egg blue shade, and like the rest of the furniture for sale, was shabby chic. This wasn’t her preferred style, but she thought a distressed cabinet in creamy white and a retro chaise lounge in pale green velvet were pretty. She wondered if Charlotte was refinishing the furniture herself.

  Clara checked the price tag on the writing desk. “She’s asking two thousand. Seems a little pricey for a painted desk. I suppose time will tell if she can sell shabby chic in Vermont at Boston prices.”

  They entered the next room, where more shabby chic was on display, as well as a table piled high with American-made crafts, including a collection of glazed stoneware. Clara was drawn to it like a bee to honey. For many years, her mother had owned an antiques store in North Carolina, and had been a dealer in Southern folk art pottery. Since moving to New England, her collection had expanded to include Northern folk art pottery and design.

  Molly strolled around the room, wondering if she should go searching for Charlotte. She could be in the garage. Maybe she was using it as a workshop. She noticed a narrow staircase in the hall with a sign strung across the banisters marked Private. She stood at the bottom of the steps and looked up.

  “What are you doing?” Clara had come up behind her.

  “I thought Charlotte might live upstairs. Or maybe her office is up there. She might not have heard us come in. She’s late for our appointment.”

  “You can’t go upstairs. There’s a sign. It would be rude.”

  “Then I’ll call her.” Molly was tired of waiting. She took her cell phone out of her purse and dialed the shop number. Almost immediately, they heard a phone ringing in the room down the hall. As soon as Molly walked in, the phone stopped ringing, but not before she saw it on the floor, under an iron glass-top table.

  Behind her, Clara gasped. “Molly, look. Over there.”

  Molly saw a woman on the floor, facedown, a pool of blood by her head. Molly went over to her and crouched down.

  “Is she alive?” Clara called out. She hadn’t budged from the doorway.

  Molly could see the back of the woman’s head had been struck by something hard. She had seen a photograph of Charlotte on her website. Mid-thirties, curly blond hair, blue eyes, a button nose. She couldn’t see this woman’s face, bu
t she knew it had to be her. The hair was the same, except for the blood.

  Molly took a deep breath and felt her neck to check for a pulse. She didn’t expect to find one. She’d seen enough dead bodies to know she was gone. Sitting back on her heels, she took a moment to observe her surroundings. The room had outdoor furniture for sale. Iron pieces, like the iron glass-top table, some metal bistro garden tables, and marble planters. Could she have slipped and fallen? It didn’t seem likely, not with the back of her head bashed in. This had to be deliberate. She noticed an antique French urn not far from the body. It was on its side, as if someone had thrown it there. Even at a distance, Molly could see the blood on it. She felt a little sick to her stomach as she got to her feet and walked back to her mother.

  “I’m pretty sure it’s Charlotte, and she’s dead,” Molly said. “I’ll call Lombardi.”

  Chapter 2

  There was a wooden bench on the porch, and Molly and Clara sat there while they waited for Detective Anthony Lombardi to arrive. He was a good friend to Molly and Matt, and godfather to Tyler. With his jet black hair, olive tan complexion, and dark brown eyes, he was handsome enough to be a model but had chosen to be a homicide detective. She had worked with him on enough murder cases to know he was one of the best in his profession.

  After he arrived, they gave him a short statement, which he jotted down in his notebook. The coroner’s van arrived, and another vehicle behind it, and he closed his notebook and tucked it into the pocket of his leather coat. He wore black jeans and Doc Martens leather boots. Molly knew he had a gun holstered under the jacket, and his cell phone was clipped to his belt.

  “The coroner’s here, and my forensic team,” he said. “I’m going to talk to them, and we’ll start processing the scene. Can you stay? I might have more questions. Or do you need to be somewhere?”

  Molly said, “We’ll be here.”

  He nodded, and from that point, everything moved fast. Molly zippered her coat to her neck. Despite the sunny day, the temperature was autumn cool, and they were sitting in the shade of the porch.