Death Is a Cabaret Read online

  A French Empire commode, heavily gilded, stood between a pair of black lacquered Empire side chairs upholstered in claret damask and embroidered with the Emperor’s trademark bees. The stark, linear Empire style was evident from top to bottom: Art, figurines, furniture, carpets, each and every detail had been painstakingly attended to.

  Why would Frank Hamilton choose this suite?

  As Jeff pondered this, a suspicion of the young picker’s reason for being at the festival began to worm its way into his mind.

  Frank Hamilton had come here to acquire the cabaret set.

  Realizing this, Jeff knew it would lead, somehow, to the young man’s killer. It might also lead to the reason behind the death of the auctioneer, a death that could as likely be murder as suicide.

  All he had to do was prove it.

  He got to work. The jewelry roll he’d brought along worked perfectly for storing his traveling tools. He pulled the grosgrain ties and unwrapped the padded fabric. From the stitched compartments, he chose a snake light and looped it around his neck so that his hands would be free while he searched. Next, he took out the telescoping mirror and put it in one of his pockets. It would be used to check under and behind furniture, and would prevent his having to move any heavy pieces.

  He flipped the snake light’s switch and started his search in the bathroom. The room seemed an afterthought, compared to the opulence of the suite. It was a modem bathroom with your basic white porcelain and tile. He checked between the folds of the towels and in the tank of the toilet. He checked under the countertop and behind the shower curtain. He unscrewed the shower head but only got a splash of water in his face for his trouble. On the marble countertop was a shaving kit, which appeared to be the only item that hadn’t come with the room and proved nothing more than the fact that Hamilton brushed and flossed and shaved. He traveled with none of the contingency things Jeff always took along: aspirin, bandages, cold medicine, styptic pencil, bum cream.

  Jeff moved back to the main area of the suite. A white terrycloth robe with the Grand Hotel’s monogram of a Hackney-pulled carriage in green had been slung carelessly over a chaise longue upholstered in burgundy silk. Jeff snatched it up, knowing that, if it was wet, it would ruin the delicate fabric. When he checked, though, he found that both the chair and the robe were dry. Actually, he would have been surprised if Hamilton had been so careless. The young man had exhibited a respect for antiques when he’d stroked the pram in Jeff’s car only two days before.

  Jeff examined two books about antiques that were on one of the nightstands. The Bulfinch volume was one Jeff considered indispensable. The second, familiar to him as well, was about English and continental porcelain. He had to credit Hamilton with knowing his stuff; both volumes were highly regarded in the business.

  Jeff was nothing if not thorough, and he was sure Brookner’s crew was the same. Jeff went through the motions anyway, checking behind paintings, in potted plants, under lamps, in lamps, beneath tables. He was almost amazed to find that no gum was stuck under the tables. He wondered if the maids had to check regularly for such signs of disrespect to the fine antiques.

  He checked for hollow legs and hollow bedposts. He pulled every drawer from every chest and table, looking for hidden packets that might be taped underneath. Using his mirror and light, he peered underneath and behind every stick of furniture in the room. He examined the backs of mirrors and paintings to see if they’d recently been removed. He scrutinized the drapery hems for threads that either didn’t match or that were stitched differently from the original tailor’s handiwork.

  The “old suitcases,” as Brookner had called them, were two vintage crocodile valises in pristine condition. Jeff began with the largest. Carefully, he removed jeans and T-shirts, checking their pockets for contents. He checked the case for a false bottom. There wasn’t one.

  He went through the same procedure with the smaller case. In this one were underclothes, a pair of swim trunks, and a pair of the Adidas sandals that soccer players wear off the field. They looked strange housed in the vintage case in an antique-filled room, as if the footwear were in the wrong century, rather than the other way around. Jeff checked again for a false bottom. Nothing.

  He walked to each tabletop, examining figures, knick knacks, every trinket that adorned every surface. He expected a figure of a woman seated on a garden bench to open up and reveal an inkwell, but when it didn’t, he only sighed and dropped into a chair beside the table on which it rested.

  Against the wall at the back of the table was a fabulous Empire mantel clock in bronze. Lavishly ornamented, it resembled a shadowbox more than it did a clock. It was a miniature parlor, with a young maiden seated at a piano, her fingers positioned on the keys. Behind her were windows, elegantly draped and looking not unlike those in the suite. Golden griffins stood guard at the corners. Three more griffins stood under the piano and served as legs, their wings supporting the weight of the instrument.

  He’d seen a photo of the clock somewhere and believed the magnificent piece was the work of Raviro. On a whim, he reached out, hooked the tip of his index finger under the lip of the piano’s diminutive lid, and lifted. It was hinged. He raised it. An accordioned slip of paper popped up like a jack-in-the-box.

  Jeff adjusted the snake light, aiming its beam onto the paper. It was some sort of document—rather, a photocopy of a document because the seal was flat and gray. The original would have been a disk of gold or silver foil. Certificate, diploma, it was hard to tell. In German, he believed, but he couldn’t be sure.

  Something deep inside him said he should call Brookner. He didn’t listen.

  It didn’t seem like much to go on, but he knew who might be able to help.

  He started out the door, then paused and looked up at a painting on the wall. Napoleon looked back approvingly from his vantage point atop a majestic steed.

  Jeff rushed to his room, his mind racing with plans and possibilities. He didn’t know much about Internet investigation. While he was active with the Bureau, he’d relied on an assistant at headquarters to invest the necessary time needed to track things down via the world wide web. Jeff’s take on the Internet was that it consumed an inordinate amount of time if one didn’t keep it in check. Mostly, while he was home, he and Sheila spent much quality time together, visiting about their many interests, sharing the events of the day, watching movies or television, or just sitting in the library reading, secure in the knowledge that the other was in the same room enjoying the same pastime.

  There were times, however, when his wife was on-line for hours, researching something of interest or participating in chats or keeping an eye on her bids at eBay. He didn’t begrudge her these times, because it comprised the lion’s share of her interaction with other people. But it was a part of technology he’d never had much use for

  He snatched the phone from its cradle and punched his home number.

  “Is this the man who stood me up for breakfast?” Sheila asked. She loved caller ID and usually didn’t waste time with preambles.

  “Honey, I’m sorry about how things ended last night. But I’m not sorry for missing you.”

  “Fair enough. That doesn’t change the fact that you were supposed to call this morning. I was beginning to think I’d been replaced by antiques.”

  “Not in a million years.” Jeff told her about the deaths of Frank Hamilton and Edward Davenport. He filled her in on the call to Gordy and concluded with the discovery of the document he now held in his hand.

  “Jeff, do you think you’re safe?”

  “What? Oh, sure. Don’t worry about me.”

  “I can’t help it. Promise me you’ll watch your back.”

  “Always. Anyway, hon, I’ve got Gordy running background checks on some of the people attending the festival, but I wonder if you’d be willing to help on something international.” He barely got the request out before she said yes. He knew she’d love playing virtual detective. -”I found a document of some s
ort. It’s in German, I think, lots of umlauts and consonants crowded together like they’ve never met a vowel. I wonder what it’s like to play Wheel of Fortune over there?”

  “What?”

  “Never mind. The name of the person who received the citation or diploma or whatever this is, is Eric Von Schreibtisch. There’s also a field that might be a company or an institution, or maybe his major or something—says ‘Europaervolkswirtschaft’.” He spelled the word.

  Sheila repeated the spellings. “Are you sure there’s nothing else on there I might need?”

  “I don’t speak German so, no, I’m not sure. Start with what I gave you, and we’ll see if I need to translate the rest.” He folded the paper and slid it into his pocket. “How are things there? Everything okay?”

  “Sure. I found a salmon recipe in an old Bon Appétit that sounds fabulous, so I’m making that for dinner tonight. Greer went down to the fish market for fresh salmon.”

  “No cedar planks tonight?” Jeff asked. Much as Sheila loved to experiment with new recipes, she often used the time-honored Pacific Northwest tradition of grilling salmon on soaked cedar. Of course, that meant either Jeff or Greer had to do the outdoors cooking.

  “No. The recipe I found has wild rice and dried cranberries. I hope you don’t mind, but I’m using what Gordy had shipped to you from Cabela’s last Christmas.”

  “That’s fine. If it’s a hit, will you make it for me when I get home?”

  “If you’ll catch the salmon.”

  “Sounds good. I’ll be ready for a nice, relaxing fishing trip after this.” Jeff stretched out on the bed. “Did you persuade Greer to join you for dinner?”

  Sheila laughed. “Finally. It wasn’t easy, though. I threatened to dine on peanut butter sandwiches if he left me to eat alone.”

  “Good girl. Granted, the food here is first class, but I’m missing your special touch.”

  “Are you still talking about my cooking?”

  “Not now, I’m not.” He sighed. “I miss you.”

  “Two-way street, Talbot.”

  It used to bother him when she put an edge back on things. He’d thought it cold and uncaring. But she had explained that it was the only way she could deal with the loneliness—by not wallowing in it. He suspected she’d offered that explanation in order to protect his feelings. He’d always been the romantic of the pair.

  “Call me when you’ve got a German lesson for me.”

  “I will. Jeff?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Be careful, okay?”

  “I knew you cared.”

  The red message light on the phone winked invitingly at him as soon as Jeff cradled the receiver. He accessed voice mail, then sat up and grabbed a pen when he heard Gordon Easthope’s voice. Thankfully, he hadn’t forgotten his own special form of shorthand. After years of working with Gordy, Jeff knew the man rattled off stats like he was announcing a Mariners game.

  “Jeff, grab your Big Chief tablet. Here we go.”

  Jeff heard a shuffling of papers, then Gordy said, “Frank Hamilton, Seattle resident, six years, moved from Indy where he worked as a picker, never married.

  “Edward Davenport, arrived in the US of A from England eighteen years ago, has lived in the Big Apple ever since, foremost authority on English history—you probably know that already—no other information.

  “Your Three Musketeers, namely Lily Chastain, Ruth Ann Longan, Asia Graham, all for one and one for all, and they’ve been that way since George Burns was smoking bubblegum see-gars, have resided in New Orleans over fifty years, all widowed, active in community service: hospital, theater, delivering Meals on Wheels. Considering their ages, shouldn’t that be the other way around? Anyway, that’s it on them.

  “Benjamin Hurst, army brat, hopped all over the map till he enrolled at Ohio State University, employed by Grant Industries after graduation, married Jennifer Grant—the boss’s daughter, looks like—about six years ago.

  “Jennifer Hurst, yadda yadda University, ditto, Grant Industries. Right after they married, she and Hurst moved to Saint Paul from—wait, this is interesting. . .

  Jeff waited, heard more shuffling of papers, then Gordy’s voice continued. “From Indianapolis. That was about six years ago.”

  “So?” Jeff said to the recorded message as he jotted “IND 6YR” next to “JH/GRANT.”

  “So,” Gordy said as if answering him, “that means your Hursts and Body Number One—Hamilton—were in Indy at the same time. Long shot, but I’d better keep checking. I’ll call you back.”

  Jeff punched Seven to erase the message and hung up. He looked over his notes. It could be nothing more than a coincidence. Hell, Indy’s huge. But Gordy was right; they would need to learn whether there were any connections. Any connections at all.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The parlor was crowded by the time Jeff arrived for afternoon tea. He worked his way through the knots of chattering people, picking up stray words as he went along that told him the deaths were the main topic of conversation.

  He had changed into olive slacks and shirt, a sport coat in linen, and a vintage silk tie in muted shades of olive, ivory, black, and wine in a pattern that put one in mind of Havana palms and Panama hats. The cuff links, gold cigars with enameled bands, were from the forties.

  He decided to find Brookner before Brookner found him. That way he could unload all the information he’d come up with and, he hoped, unload his mind a little so he could enjoy the festival for a few hours.

  He checked the interrogation room, but the door was closed. There was a window looking out onto the hallway from the small office. The vertical blinds weren’t completely closed, and Jeff could see the female cop, Mel Littlefield, talking to a staff member. He’d heard political correctness was seeping into some departments and that the term interview room was now being used. When he observed the stocky Indian woman in action, however, he decided interrogation wasn’t an endangered species in this neck of the woods.

  She saw him then and came out the door. “Don’t you look sharp.” She eyed him up and down. “Just like the new Kevin Spacey.”

  “New?”

  “Yep. He musta got himself one of those Hollywood stylists. Dresses really snazzy now.”

  “Well, thanks. I think. He looks to me like a middle-aged guy with a receding hairline and jowls like a Basset hound.”

  “Not with those sexy eyes and new duds, he don’t. You make me want to go home and watch L.A. Confidential or something.”

  He started to ask what the ‘or something’ might be, but he let it pass. Sometimes he missed the playful office banter that those in law enforcement relied upon. It was a vital way of maintaining sanity against the daily doses of stress and death.

  She sighed. “Won’t be watching movies tonight, though. This case is moving along just like the traffic around here: mighty slow, with a lot of stops for horseshit.”

  Jeff laughed. “Don’t let me slow you down, then. I’m looking for Brookner. He around?”

  “Should be back soon. Tell me where you’ll be, and I’ll have him look you up.”

  “The Parlor, miss, for afternoon tea.” He pantomimed drinking with his pinkie extended.

  “You’re makin’ me hungry for scones, Mr. Talbot.” She curtsied and headed back into the interrogation room.

  Long stretches of tables were placed end to end in the Parlor and dressed in crisp white linen. Pedestaled crystal cake stands and silver trays and compotes held a feast of delicacies: pastries, sandwiches, fruits. He thought of Sheila and how much she would appreciate the artistry. Suddenly, he realized that every time he saw a particularly stylized presentation of food, he thought of Sheila. What was I like before her?

  He tried to remember. After a moment, he realized that no answer came to him. He simply couldn’t recall life before Sheila. His adult life, anyway. His emotional life. His life as a man.

  Easily enough, he remembered growing up with Auntie Pim and Grandfather a
fter his parents were killed. The older Talbots had taught him about high tea and etiquette and proper dress for a gentleman. That was how antiques had first gotten into his blood. The house was full of them, things that were passed down from one generation to the next. And each generation had been taught to respect those heirlooms, to appreciate the history behind them, to keep them in the family. Early on, Jeff had begun adding to those collections and acquiring the accoutrements needed to carry out those rituals.

  He’d started with grooming brushes, handsome sets that included brushes for hair, clothing, hats, boots. He had complete sets in every material imaginable: ebony, a wood with such heft it would sink in water; tortoise, so alive with character that he believed if he gripped it just so he could feel the pulse of the body behind the shell; carved horn and ivory; monogrammed sterling.

  Silver clinked, snapping Jeff back to reality.

  The general mood of this afternoon’s tea crowd was subdued, compared to the gaiety of the previous night’s cocktail party. The deaths had obviously had their effect on everyone.

  When a server offered him a cup of tea, he asked instead for coffee. The server’s brows raised ever so slightly, but he moved a gloved hand to another pot and poured. Jeff glared at the man, debating whether to ask why he had coffee if he was going to judge those drinking it. In the end, however, he decided not to waste his energy. He took two hefty drinks, prompted the waiter to refill the cup, and made his way across the room.

  Ben and Jennifer Hurst were standing near the main entrance, looking as if they had just stepped out of The Great Gatsby. Jeff started to approach them, then held back. The two were lost in conversation, obviously in love, oblivious to the room full of people. They stood so physically close that each might have drunk from the other’s cup as easily and deftly as his or her own. They fit like custom-made kid leather gloves, conforming to the unique shape of the hands for which they were crafted, gripping the thin, delicate web of skin between the fingers.