Death Is a Cabaret Read online

  “The best, from what I’ve heard.” Jeff extended his hand. “An honor. I recognized you as soon as I spotted the three of you approaching.”

  Davenport took his hand. Jeff had experienced more action from a dead trout.

  “Have we met?” the auctioneer said.

  “No, but I’ve read several of your articles on antiques. It’s good to finally meet you in color.”

  “I wish they would bum that bloody photo. The publishers could use anyone’s mug, and most readers wouldn’t be the wiser.” The man spoke slowly and in low, soft tones. The last thing anyone might have guessed him to be was an auctioneer. “And what’s all the fuss about my articles? If another person trots out that line tonight, I shall go back to the queen.”

  “Edward, stop teasing.” Jennifer laughed nervously, then turned to Jeff and said by way of explanation, “Several people have commented on his photograph today.”

  As they started toward the dining room, Jeff entertained the notion of going to his own room and having dinner brought up.

  The maitre d’ ushered them to a reserved table by the windows. Jeff stood for a long moment, taking in the wild yellows, oranges, greens, and pinks that colored the room. Partway down the expanse, an orchestra played a jazzy Duke Ellington number—”In The Mood,” if memory served. Jeff could barely see the band members and wondered offhandedly if binoculars were on the menu.

  Moonlight shone across the lake, and beyond that the tiny flicker of headlights could be seen moving across Mackinac Bridge. The bridge itself was strung with sparkling lights, giving it a skeletal effect.

  The sommelier approached their table, followed by a white-jacketed waiter carrying an ice bucket and a stand. Both men were Jamaican. “Champagne.” The sommelier displayed the label to the auctioneer. “Compliments of the Mussers.”

  “Please thank them for me,” Davenport said, then turned to the group. “The owners,” he said. “Grand people.”

  Jeff started to remark on Davenport’s pun, but the auctioneer didn’t seem to notice that he’d made one. Jeff kept quiet.

  “To each his own,” Davenport said. He tipped back his glass.

  Jeff had expected something more eloquent in the way of a toast.

  When the waiter returned for their orders, Jeff listened as his companions requested intriguingly named dishes such as Green Tea Smoked Mahimahi Filet and Tomato and Truffle Bisque with Fried Onion Petals. He felt a pang of regret that Sheila wasn’t there to enjoy the elaborate menu.

  He’d called her when he had first arrived at the hotel to let her know he had made it safely. They’d agreed not to talk again until the next afternoon but, after seeing the impressive dinner menu, he knew he’d have to call her sooner with a full report.

  When his turn came, he played it safe with the salad and soup courses—greens with pine nuts and goat cheese, and a minestrone—but branched out with an appetizer called Vodka-Cured Salmon with Chevre Dressing (any combination of fish and alcohol was worth trying in Jeff’s estimation) and an entrée of Slow-Roasted Duck Breast with Blackberry-Plum Sauce. He hoped the taste would live up to the creative titles. A Vegetable Napoleon was on the menu, but he passed it over. Not a damn one of his premonitions had done him any good so far.

  After they’d ordered, Jennifer announced, “Edward was Carleton’s first choice when they decided to have a special auction this year.”

  Carleton. It took Jeff a moment to realize she meant Carleton Varney, the man responsible for the interior decoration of the hotel and the reigning talent behind the Antiques Festival. Varney’s unique touch even graced rooms in the White House. Jeff wondered if the Hursts were really on a first-name basis with the icon.

  “Will Carleton Varney be here?”

  “Didn’t you see him at the Gala Preview?” asked Jennifer. “Everyone gathered in the Gallery while Carleton held a little ribbon-cutting ceremony. Then we all walked through for a peek at the treasures.”

  “Just a peek? Or, did the vendors actually start sales then?”

  “It’s a short weekend,” said Ben. “No one misses the chance to move merchandise. Carleton walked through, said a few things about the weekend. As usual, he picked up an item here and there, then put it back down and moved on. Within seconds, people swarmed the table, trying to buy the Midas-touched object.”

  The appetizers came, and Davenport inhaled his before the others could determine whether the elaborate concoctions on their plates matched the menu’s descriptions of what they’d ordered. Then he popped a pink capsule-shaped tablet into his mouth and washed it down with champagne. The investigator in Jeff wondered what it was. “So, Talbot, what is it you’re after this weekend?”

  It was an interesting way to phrase a question. The auctioneer put Jeff on edge. “You’ll find out when you drop your gavel, and my name’s behind it.”

  “Ah, a clandestine approach.”

  “Jeff is a picker, Edward,” offered Jennifer.

  “A picker. Shouldn’t you be out rummaging through someone’s attic?”

  “Some people think ‘picker’ is just another word for bum. Chances are, I’ll make more this weekend than you do.”

  Before the auctioneer could respond, Ben cleared his throat and said, “You know, Jeff, we didn’t have time earlier to ask what you collect.”

  Jeff decided to ignore the puffed-up auctioneer. “More things than I should, probably: walking sticks, cuff links, silver. And I’m always picking up things for my—for some other collectors. Inkwells, porcelains, just about anything Victorian.” He’d almost said wife. The decision to keep Sheila a secret had been a necessary one, but he often wondered whether it was wise. However, trying to explain her illness had become increasingly complicated. Even friends who knew about it became less and less understanding as the Talbots repeatedly turned down invitations. They had made the decision together, and he would try to stick to it.

  “Porcelains?” Ben concentrated on his entrée. “Then we’ll be bidding against one another. We have our sights locked in on several auction pieces.”

  “There is plenty to go around, my friends,” said Davenport as he polished off his plate. Jeff thought of a political cartoon in which the government smiles at you while it’s filching your last slice of bread.

  His sales pitch is next, Jeff thought. He braced himself. The cabaret set would be top of the list, and he didn’t want to tip his hand. Oddly, Edward Davenport didn’t seize the opening. Jeff could understand the Hursts keeping quiet, but Davenport? Shouldn’t he be talking it up, creating more interest? Well, he figured, there were all kinds of auctioneers, just as there were all kinds of pickers.

  “So, Talbot, you sit at home and read all my articles, but you’ve never been to one of my auctions? I find that rather odd.” Davenport sat back in his chair and clasped his hands around his bulging waist.

  Jeff bristled. When he’d commented on the articles earlier, it was not as a device for endearing himself to the auctioneer, and he resented the Englishman’s attitude, suggesting it. When his antiques subscriptions arrived, Jeff closed himself up in his study with the publications and a drink—Fosters in warm weather, liquor-laced coffee in cold—and devoured the latest news in the antique world. They kept him on top of the game, gave him a look at what was bringing how much, told him how much he should spend and what he could expect to profit. Sheila’s subscription to Victoria helped, too, and she frequently marked articles for him about antiques. The publication was a good barometer for trends in antiques, as well as revealing what was being reproduced.

  Jeff debated what approach to take with the auctioneer. The last thing he needed was to have this man against him, the man who practically controlled the fate of the tea set. But the older Jeff got, the more inclined he was toward intolerance.

  The hell with it. He didn’t go to many auctions, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t hold his own. He looked at Davenport evenly. “You doubt my sincerity. Given your reputation, some people may understand tha
t, even expect it. I’m not one of them. It doesn’t make sense that you aren’t talking up the game, but that’s beside the point. I’m here to play ball, Mr. Davenport. If you want to make it hardball, then knock yourself out. I can handle it. But I’m sure as hell not here to waste my time blowing smoke up the umpire’s skirt.”

  Jeff considered leaving, then decided against it. He’d been looking forward to a cup of coffee at the end of the meal and, by God, he was going to have it. The hell with the English and their damned tea.

  “At long bloody last!” Davenport slapped the table, setting the china and silver to rattling. His blue eyes sparked, and he gave Jeff an unmistakable look of true admiration.

  “Do you want to know what my day has consisted of? One very long line of pretentious people bombarding me, fawning over my work, vying for my attention, name-dropping. I pegged you for a sharp wit upon which to entertain myself. Good choice, too, I might add. You have an intelligent look about you, Talbot.

  “My brain was going numb,” Davenport continued. “I needed some stimulation. Don’t hold it against me. If you want to know the truth, I’d just as soon have no attention at all as to have to deal with it all. Interesting, isn’t it? Do a bad job, and everyone knows you. Do a good job, and you have to deal with the same thing.”

  It was the strangest compliment Jeff had ever received. He had to laugh. “You’re in the wrong line of work for someone who doesn’t like the limelight.”

  “True enough, Talbot, true enough. And you know what? I have no idea how I got here.” He paused. “You’re not angry?”

  “Stunned is more like it.” Actually, Jeff wasn’t sure how he felt.

  The waiter brought coffee and asked for dessert orders.

  “I feel so much better,” said the auctioneer, “I think I’ll indulge and have two. Bring a slice of that cheesecake with caramel sauce, and something chocolate—I don’t care what it is.”

  As the others were ordering dessert, a desk clerk approached and handed Davenport a sealed note. He ripped open the envelope, and his jaw clenched while he quickly read the paper. After a moment he said, “There appears to be a discrepancy with one of the lots. I hope you’ll forgive me.” He heaved himself from the chair and said to the waiter, “Have my desserts sent up to my room in half an hour.”

  “No rest for the wicked, Edward.” Jennifer said.

  If the auctioneer heard the snide comment, he didn’t show it. He slapped the note against his palm and left.

  Ben smiled at Jeff. “I hope he didn’t get under your skin too much. He can be a strange one. But he’s also the most intelligent man I’ve ever met. He’s not a Ph.D. or Rhodes scholar, but I’d put his vast knowledge up against anyone who is.” He sat back as their desserts came.

  “Well,” said Jennifer, “I think he got a little carried away this time.”

  “Don’t take it personally, sweetheart. I think he spends so much time alone with his nose buried in history books that when he gets in a crowd, it wears on his nerves.”

  “I don’t doubt he’s intelligent.” Jeff took a bite of his bread pudding with rum sauce. “I’ve drawn from the man’s knowledge many times when I’ve been in the field. No one is an expert in every facet of antiques. But people like Davenport keep us from making costly mistakes.”

  “What kinds of mistakes?” Jennifer was trying to break a dark chocolate wafer with her spoon. She only succeeded in smearing its etching of the hotel’s trademark horse and carriage.

  “The biggest problem I see now is with fakes. Of course, if you’re checking the antique malls, it’s easy enough to walk through and spot them. I always question the authenticity of something you never used to find anywhere and suddenly it’s in every fourth booth.”

  Ben said, “We rarely go to the malls. There are pickers who know what we’re looking for, so we just leave it to them to find the stuff. Except, of course, for our annual trip here. That’s because Jennifer’s parents brought her to the Grand every summer when she was a little girl.”

  Jeff debated whether to tell them what they were missing. Of course, if everyone were as obsessed with the hunt as he was, he’d be out of business. He opted, instead, for the business approach. “If you’d like to provide me with a list before we leave this weekend, I’d be happy to watch for your items. And I can give you references, if you’d like.”

  “A reference isn’t necessary, Talbot,” said Ben. He thought for a moment. “You could keep an eye out for sports memorabilia, mainly—”

  “Yes!” Jennifer interrupted, “and vintage purses—all kinds but especially the beaded ones—and sugar shakers and Faberge eggs and cameo pins.”

  Jeff scrambled for his notebook.

  “Oh!” She continued. “Didn’t I tell you earlier I collect porcelains? Place settings, figurines, vases, chocolate sets, tea sets—”

  “Jennifer welcomes any and all help in spending her inheritance.”

  Jennifer laughed a delicate, music box laugh, but Jeff could see in her eyes that her husband hadn’t been joking.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Lightning flashed briefly, silently, along the western horizon.

  The barmaid placed Jeff’s brandy on the table, and he noticed that her long nails were polished to match the red geraniums encased in clear lacquer on the tabletop. She placed his printed bar tab on the table, then walked toward a man and woman in the opposite corner. They were the only other customers, and he would have thought of them as a couple, except had they been a couple, they would’ve taken their increasingly erotic mating dance to a room. Jeff averted his gaze and stared into his glass. He hoped this last round would induce sleep.

  The Cupola Bar was a two-level lounge at the top of the hotel. Three of its four sides were glass, offering a panoramic view of the lakes. Jeff was on the upper level, which was actually a gallery with a rail to keep the tipsy from tumbling through the square opening and into the lower level. If anyone did take the plunge, he would take with him an eight-foot glass chandelier that descended out of sight through the opening.

  While he drank, Jeff thought about the events of the evening. After finishing dinner with the Hursts, he had gone to The Terrace Room to check out the band and have an after-dinner drink. But it was crowded and noisy, and the sight of all those couples dancing had only served to make him miss Sheila. He’d gone back to his room and called her.

  After he’d reported every detail about his dinner and the people he’d met, Sheila had said, “To tell you the truth, I don’t know which sounds more eccentric.”

  “Eccentric or not, I’ll have my work cut out for me if Jennifer Hurst is bidding for the cabaret set.”

  “It’ll keep your skills sharp.” Sheila sighed. “So, what’s on your interesting agenda for the rest of the evening?”

  “A movie, probably. The hotel’s showing An Affair to Remember.” He never went out to movies back home, opting instead to rent videos so that he and Sheila could watch them together. “I wish you could be here.”

  “Well, I can’t, so let’s not talk about it.”

  “Why can’t we talk about it? I miss you, damn it.”

  “Let’s just change the subject, okay?”

  Jeff grudgingly agreed, not wanting to get in a fight long-distance. They talked about inconsequential things and rang off on a note of mutual dissatisfaction.

  That’s when Jeff had headed downstairs to kill a couple more hours in what he suspected would be a long evening.

  No longer in the mood for a movie, he headed back upstairs to find the bar. He’d been told that the Cupola was only one flight up from his room.

  Rain pelted the glass behind him. Brandy and rain: There was a combination that should help him sleep. Jeff drank slowly. He thought about asking if it was Napoleon brandy, but didn’t. He was beginning to resent this inner voice that encouraged premonitions.

  “A porcelain for your thoughts.”

  Jeff jumped, then stood and smiled. It was Jennifer. “My thoughts aren
’t worth that much, but I’d guess you have plenty of pieces to spare.” He held a chair for her.

  “Too many, probably. I’ve had to hire someone to come in and help me dust every week.”

  “I do the same thing.”

  “See? You need a wife to do that for you.”

  “You’re a wife. Besides, I could have two wives and they couldn’t keep up. I have an ancestor who was a lumber baron. My home has more rooms than a military funeral has guns. Some people might say I inherited a white elephant, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything.” Jeff took a drink. “Where’s Ben?”

  “He stopped to say hello to some friends.” She motioned toward the opposite corner, then smiled flirtatiously. “Were you afraid I’d hunted you down alone? No wonder you’re still single. You’re too skittish. You need to relax.”

  “I’m afraid if I do, you’ll start undressing me.”

  “Well, not here.” She smiled and sat back. “I’m only having fun, and probably way too much to drink.” As if mentioning drink reminded her that she had one, she sipped something blue from a martini glass. “You’re safe with me, Jeff. Although I do have an older sister—”

  “What’s going on over here?” Ben pulled up a chair.

  “I was just telling Jeff about Meagan,” she said with a look toward Jeff.

  “Meagan? Hell, Jennifer, she wouldn’t know a Model T from a Yugo. What would they have to talk about?”

  “I suppose you’re right, sweetheart. It was just a thought.” She gave Jeff a nervous glance. “I think I’ll go powder my nose.”

  “We need to turn in soon, anyway,” Ben said. “Lots of ground to cover tomorrow.”

  Jennifer stood. “You’re right. Let’s just meet back in the room in a few minutes, okay?” She leaned over and gave her husband a long kiss, then told Jeff good night and strolled toward the stairs.

  Jeff wasn’t sleepy yet, and he hoped Ben would stay a little longer and visit. There was one sure way to make that happen. “Ben, tell me more about your sports collection.”