Death Is a Cabaret Read online

  DEATH IS A CABARET

  Book One of the Antique Lover’s Mystery Series

  By Deborah Morgan

  Digital Edition published by Crossroad Press

  Copyright 2013 / Deborah Morgan

  Cover background courtesy of:

  http://diza-74.deviantart.com

  LICENSE NOTES

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to the vendor of your choice and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Meet the Author

  Deborah Morgan made $33.33 a word for the first words she sold, and says, "it's gone downhill from there." Actually, it was award money for winning a "Name Our Business" contest in her hometown of Grove, Oklahoma. That was back in the '80s, the place was a lumberyard/home store, and the handle she gave it was "Grand Country Homeworks." (At the time, Oklahoma was called the State of Many Countries, and the northeast corner was dubbed Grand Country.)

  She's won awards in both fiction and nonfiction — most recent is the 2013 Stirrup Award from Western Writers of America for best article in Roundup Magazine, 2012. Morgan has often served as a speaker and panel moderator at writers' conventions and seminars, and is an active member of Western Writers of America.

  The fifth book in her antique-lover's mystery series featuring antiques picker (and former FBI agent) Jeff Talbot was published in April 2006. Every novel in the series made the Independent Mystery Booksellers Association list, with the third — The Marriage Casket — taking the #1 slot. In 2013, Crossroad Press contracted to publish all five of the Jeff Talbot novels in e-book format.

  She grew up on a ranch just outside Grove, was the Grove Roundup Club's Rodeo Queen when she was fifteen years old — and she still likes to wear boots and jeans.

  She's a descendant of The Dalton brothers, which may or may not explain her bent for things western. A touch of western often finds its way into her mystery writing. For instance, even though her tough-gal detective Mary Shelley lives in Detroit, she drives a pickup truck and wears cowboy boots whenever she can get away with it. In addition, a couple of fellow Western Writers of America members have found their way into the Jeff Talbot antique-lover's mysteries, and Sheila Talbot's sister, Karen Gray, decorated a retro camper in western antiques and cowgirl chic to use for her home as an itinerant photographer.

  Morgan picked up her basic knowledge of criminal investigation while she was Chief Dispatcher for a city police department in northeastern Oklahoma, and as permit clerk and dispatcher for the Oklahoma Highway Patrol. While with OHP, she could fire twelve rounds in under fifteen seconds using a handgun, and scored 93% target-shooting with a rifle from a cruiser (had to exit cruiser and use door as shield while firing through open window).

  Before moving to Michigan in 1993 to "join typewriters" with Loren D. Estleman, she was managing editor of a biweekly newspaper in southeast Kansas. She's also been managing editor of two national treasure hunting magazines. In addition to those editorial duties, she wrote columns, articles, and profiles of higher-ups in the business. She was editor and art director of the Private Eye Writers of America newsletter for three years.

  She and Loren live on 120 acres in Michigan, in a home that reflects their shared love for antiques. Each room is a different character, much like those in the couple's writing, and one of Morgan's favorite pastimes is browsing hardware stores. Her tools don't have pink handles.

  Morgan enjoys photographing other authors and many of those photos have appeared nationally in magazines, newspapers, and on book jackets.

  An accomplished poker player, Morgan's been known to match skills with such luminaries as Sara Paretsky, Lawrence Block, and Parnell Hall at the Bouchercon World Mystery Convention.

  Morgan has a son, a daughter, a grandson, and a granddaughter — all in Missouri. She spends as much time there as possible, near her Oklahoma roots in the foothills of the Ozark Mountains. Most of her family (parents, siblings, etc.) still reside there.

  Book List

  The Antique Lover’s Mystery Series

  Death Is a Cabaret

  The Weedless Widow

  The Marriage Casket

  Four on the Floor

  The Majolica Murders

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  DEATH IS A CABARET

  To my children,

  Kevin and Kimberly, my only perfect first drafts.

  The legacy begins.

  And to my precious grandson,

  Dylan Ray, born at the same time as the idea for this book.

  May your own legacy outlast the ink on these pages.

  Acknowledgments

  The author extends sincere appreciation to the following for their contributions:

  Vicky Loyd, co-director of the Northfield Township Library, Whitmore Lake, Michigan, for everything from tracking down elusive books on antiques to offering chocolate and a printer when my computer crashed, along with my nerves.

  Those wonderful and generous Michiganians on Mackinac Island: Dan and Amelia Musser, owners of the Grand Hotel; Bob Tagatz, historian, Grand Hotel; Anne St. Onge and Cindy Komblevitz of the Mackinac Island Public Library; and Police Lieutenant Pete Komblevitz.

  Author Randall Platt and her husband Jonathan Platt, for Seattle expertise.

  Editor Martha Bushko for her enthusiasm and knowledge, and agent Dominick Abel for bringing this opportunity my way.

  Husband and comrade Loren D. Estleman: Thank you for many things, from two-way reading sessions in your study to French-pressed coffee at midnight.

  Cabaret Sets

  Cabaret set is a term used for eighteenth-century tea or coffee services, usually made of porcelain and including a teapot, coffeepot, sugar bowl, creamer, cup and saucer, and tray. A service for one person was called a solitaire, a tête-à-tête was used for two. Breakfast services were sometimes termed déjeuner. Some were in fitted cases, which were at times as elaborate and costly as the sets themselves.

  The specific cabaret set Jeff Talbot is pursuing in this novel is a result of the author’s imagination. To her knowledge, no such set was commissioned by Napoleon. He did, however, commission many items from the Sevres Royal Porcelain Factory during his reign as French emperor, and at his hands a treasured set played an important role in history.

  Following the victories of the Italian Campaign, while negotiating peace with envoys of Emperor Francis II of Austria, Napoleon flew into a rage and hurled a priceless cabaret set to the floor, shattering it. “This is what will happen to Austria!” he shouted. “Your empire is an old maidservant, accustomed to being raped by all and sundry.” The Austrian diplomats, alarmed by this act of casual destruction, quickly agreed to his terms and signed the Treaty of Campoformio.

  CHAPTER ONE

  It was something you didn’t often see on the expressway: a factory-condition ‘48 Chevy woodie, glossy black—it had, easily, twenty coats of paint—with gleaming wooden side panels from which came its nickname, and whitewalls like new ivory.

  Traffic was on the cusp of the shift-change rush, and the woodie glided along, holding its own, its chrome winking at the passing one-coat wonders with their composite bumpers and similar shapes, like sausages on an assembly line.
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  Normally, Jeffrey Talbot would acknowledge the waves and smiles from others on the road who slowed down to admire the woodie’s lupine beauty, but he was too preoccupied with the day’s events.

  The hour-long trip back to Seattle was just what he required. He rolled up his shirtsleeves, welcoming the late-afternoon sun that streamed through the windshield.

  The heady scent of the car’s leather mingled with the fragrant, aged musk of the antiques secured in back, creating an amalgam that permeated Jeff’s senses and soothed him like a balm—a much-needed balm after today’s run-in with Frank Hamilton.

  It had started innocently enough. Both he and Hamilton had shown up at a home in rural Maple Valley where an estate sale was advertised to begin the next day.

  The two men were antiques pickers, those largely behind-the-scenes individuals who hunted down items craved by an increasing onslaught of consumers interested in history or heritage or investment or, simply, a new way of decorating. Pickers looked for bargains, then turned a profit by reselling their found treasures to dealers, or private parties with specific tastes.

  It was the pickers’ grass-roots approach—search the classifieds for promising sales (estate, garage, moving)—then drop by early and try to cut a deal. This practice was called high-grading.

  The two pickers had crossed paths several times, and Jeff had learned Hamilton’s strategies, his habits, his tells, as though he were an opponent in a poker game. This trait of Jeff’s was a holdover from his years with the FBI. Sometimes, Jeff suspected that his training with the Bureau was being put to better use now that he was working fulltime in the cutthroat world of antiques. He could predict Frank Hamilton’s approach to buying antiques, probably before Hamilton himself knew it.

  Hamilton’s boyish charm had a sexual quality that Jeff suspected was his most valuable asset. This was obvious because he usually targeted women—and he usually succeeded.

  Frank Hamilton displayed a different personality for each of three age groups:

  The young ones, eyes sparkling in response to his flirting, said they had better things to do with their Saturday nights than spend them polishing Grandma’s silver. Hamilton easily plucked a young thing of her sterling legacy, and she gave it up willingly.

  With middle-aged women, he portrayed a college kid, far from home and missing Mommy. Most guys don’t give their mothers a second thought once they’re out from under the matriarchal thumb. But Mom doesn’t know that. So, pretty young Frank cashes in. She gives him milk and cookies. She sews on loose buttons. She sends him home with leftovers—and an antique pedestal table. He’s trying to make a little money for schoolbooks and, besides, what is she going to do with that gaudy old piece of furniture when he can get it out of her way and give her a little cash to boot?

  Hamilton would later resell the table—with its pietra dura inlay, trinity of carved dragons at the feet, and maker’s signature with his Florence address included, no less—for enough to keep him in Italian loafers till someone outlasted Mussolini.

  With the elderly, Hamilton was an odd combination of politeness and urgency. He got them to warm up to him, then he turned up the heat: This deal won’t be around tomorrow! You’d better act fast! You’re going to lose out!

  Hamilton had been trying this last method on an old lady when Jeff showed up today.

  Only it appeared that he’d forgotten to add the charm.

  The large, two-story clapboard house sat off by itself twelve miles from Interstate 90, southeast of Seattle. Jeff had eased the woodie down the long driveway, gravel crunching beneath the tires. He’d recognized Hamilton’s old Ford pickup near the house.

  Hamilton, in his customary uniform of T-shirt, jeans, oversized sport coat, and loafers without socks, was having a heated discussion with a squat, white-haired woman in faded overalls and a red checkered blouse.

  Jeff parked a couple of car lengths back from the pickup and sat there, watching. Suddenly Hamilton popped his forehead with the heel of his left hand. It wasn’t the first time Jeff had seen the young picker do this, and he knew what it meant: Hamilton was dangerously close to losing it. Jeff stepped out of the woodie and approached the two slowly. He wanted to be close enough to help the elderly woman if Frank didn’t back down, but he also wanted to be far enough away so that she wouldn’t feel he was threatening her as well.

  Just then, she produced a cell phone from her left pocket and, without breaking eye contact with Hamilton, punched the keypad with her left thumb. Jeff barely heard the three soft beeps over Hamilton’s voice, but Frank seemed to have heard them loud and clear, because his mouth clamped shut.

  The woman eyed the young picker fiercely. “You get the hell out of here now, or I’ll hit Send.”

  Hamilton didn’t budge.

  “I didn’t get this old by bluffing. Now, git!” She lunged toward the young man. He stepped back. Jeff figured Frank wasn’t afraid, merely surprised by the old woman’s sudden movement.

  Nonetheless, it had the desired effect. Hamilton mumbled something about her missing out, then stomped toward his pickup. He jumped when he saw Jeff, stopped briefly to glare at him before climbing into the cab. After grinding the starter-to its core, Hamilton got the motor to turn. He threw the truck in gear and took off. It lurched over the lawn, shaved past the woodie, and managed a skidding left turn at the end of the driveway.

  Jeff looked at the woman and chuckled. “I was about to offer my services, but it appears you don’t need them.”

  “What? Oh, this.” She held up the phone. “I’d already be dead and buried if I thought this would bring the local yokels out here in time to help me.”

  She eased her other hand from the right pocket of the overalls. It held a .38 caliber snub-nose.

  Jeff grinned.

  The old lady grinned. “My peripheral vision is still intact. You were cool as iced tea back there, not skittish like that kid. Are you a cop?”

  “FBI. Used to be, anyway. I switched to antiques because I wasn’t seeing enough action.”

  The woman chuckled, then motioned for Jeff to follow her.

  Later, approaching the interstate on-ramp with a carload of antiques from the old woman’s garage, he’d seen Frank Hamilton’s pickup on the shoulder of the road.

  He almost went on past. Then he cursed, pulled in behind the Ford, and rolled down the window. Hamilton, who had been leaning against the truck’s bed, walked toward him.

  “Did she quit you?” Jeff asked, indicating the pickup.

  “Nope,” Hamilton muttered as he walked past the driver’s window. “Just wanted to see if you’d gotten past the old lady’s crappy attitude.”

  Jeff considered telling Frank who had the attitude, but he let it slide. He got out of the car.

  Hamilton peered through the back glass. “What the hell? How. .. ?”

  “Just good business, Frank. You wouldn’t recognize it.”

  “I make out fine.”

  Jeff opened the hatch—in his opinion, those SUV owners had nothing on his station wagon—and repositioned a wooden box packed with bubble-wrapped statuary that was crowding a pristine wicker perambulator. It was rare to find one of these old baby carriages that hadn’t either been painted to within an inch of its life, damaged from storage in damp basements and outbuildings with leaky roofs, or abused beyond repair while being used as a toy by the very children who had once lain swaddled in its shelter. He straightened, looked at Hamilton. “What happened to you back there?”

  “I was there first, man. You know the rules.”

  “Rules?” Jeff’s rule book contained two: Do Unto Others (the original one, not the smart-mouthed spin-offs), and The Customer Is Always Right.

  “Yeah, rules.” Hamilton smirked. “You’ve been at this long enough to know the damn rules.”

  Jeff’s expression didn’t change. At thirty-seven, his hair hadn’t started turning gray, and it hadn’t started turning loose, either. He wouldn’t go back to being Hamilton’s age, even
if the deal included Whistler’s Mother.

  “You were coming on too strong, Frank. She had to order you off her property, for God’s sake. Don’t you know how to take a hint from a woman?”

  “I’ve never had any complaints.” Hamilton swaggered up to the woodie, and it was as if he’d seen the perambulator for the first time. He reached into the back of the car and gently stroked the soft lining. Suddenly, he turned and hurried toward his pickup.

  While a perplexed Jeff contemplated the contradictions in the man—harsh bravado, then gentle reflection, then abrupt flight—Hamilton turned again. The rebel mask was back in place. “You think people don’t talk about your secrets in that fancy house on the hill, old man?” He spat the words out bitterly, leaning on old man, but his voice had a nervous edge to it.

  Jeff smiled. He’d heard the rumors about his home life. They ranged from harmless speculation (he had a harem of women at his bidding), to downright sinister (he had an old aunt who’d gone berserk and was kept locked in a room on the third floor). There were more false stories told about his personal life than there were fakes in the antique world.

  Before Jeff could respond, Hamilton had said, “Don’t ever move in on my game again. Understand?” He had vaulted into the pickup’s cab and headed up the ramp to I-90.

  Now, trying to sort through this bizarre chain of events, Jeff almost missed his exit. He quickly checked the rearview mirror, then swerved and caught the inside of the vee.

  Episodes like the one with Hamilton made Jeff wonder if he should go back into law enforcement. Just as quickly, though, he recalled why he’d left in the first place.

  He’d grown weary of tracking missing art and antiques—operative word, missing. He’d rarely had any actual contact with antiques.