Death Is a Cabaret Page 7

  True to the collector temperament, Ben began talking about his baseball cards and autographed pigskins and pennants. He told about his favorite find and his best deal and the one that got away, stories that Jeff had heard many times from many people. The items were different, but not the people or the passions.

  The barmaid announced last call.

  Ben glanced at his watch. “Jennifer’s probably given up on me.” He rose and told Jeff good night.

  After Ben left, Jeff turned his attention to the window. The rain had almost stopped, but the lightning still flashed, saying it wasn’t through trying to stir up things.

  Something in the gardens below caught his eye. Someone was there—a man—at the foot of the stairs by the lighted walk that led to the swimming pool. It seemed quite late for a stroll in the gardens. But the streetlamps were still burning, casting small beams of light across the walkway, and Jeff supposed the guy didn’t mind getting wet.

  Jeff tried to get a closer look. It appeared the man was talking with someone, although Jeff couldn’t see the other person because of the overhang of foliage. Something about the man seemed familiar, and Jeff searched his mind for who it was. The brandy had begun to take effect, however, and all the people he’d met during the course of the evening began to mix in his brain.

  As the conversation continued, the man seemed to become more aggressive. He paced back and forth, like an irritated coach on the sidelines, again tweaking Jeff’s memory, but he still couldn’t place who it was. Then the hidden party stepped forward quickly and back again. From Jeff’s vantage point high above, he caught only a glimpse.

  But it was enough of a glimpse to tell him that it was a woman. A woman wearing a large hat and what looked like a black dress. The hat’s wide brim shielded most of her body from Jeff’s view.

  Just then, the man popped his forehead with the heel of his left hand. Only one man had a gesture like that. The man arguing with the woman was Frank Hamilton.

  CHAPTER NINE

  There wasn’t enough brandy on the island to put Jeff to sleep after what he’d seen. What the hell was Frank Hamilton doing here, anyway? The thought of the young picker being there gnawed at Jeff, churned the brandy in his gut, took the shine off his trip.

  He left the bar, double-timed the stairs, and headed for the elevator. Go to the source of aggravation, he thought, as he punched the Down button. Confront Hamilton. Tell the bastard that he had no right being at the Antiques Festival. This was—what?—a private party. No. Off limits to unethical characters? No again.

  As the doors slid open, Jeff stood there and realized how stupid he was acting. Hamilton’s childish “I was here first” remark from the roadside the day before rang in his ears.

  And what about the woman? She was obviously talking to Frank willingly. Frank didn’t have an arm hold on her or a gun pointed at her. The fact was, it didn’t matter how much Jeff despised the man, there wasn’t a thing he could do about his presence at a public event.

  Damn. Jeff watched the doors slide shut, then made his way to his room.

  It made sense, he supposed, that Frank would attend. He was, after all, in the antique business as well. Strange, though, to have seen him only yesterday in Seattle—a yesterday that seemed more like ten years ago. Now, here he was on Mackinac Island, a world removed from Seattle, Washington.

  Jeff undressed and crawled into bed. He tried to sleep, but his imagination conjured up one stressful scenario after another. What if Frank had learned that Jeff was here for the cabaret set? Blanche owned All Things Old several years before Jeff had gotten into the antique business. He supposed there was no way of knowing just how many people she had put on the trail.

  Jeff wondered if Frank might allude to his “secret life,” as he’d also done the day before. Jeff was pretty sure that Frank didn’t know about Sheila. Otherwise, why would he continue to make it sound like Jeff was hiding some deep, dark secret?

  He tried to gain control of his thoughts. If Hamilton knew about Blanche’s quest, then what? Blanche probably hadn’t ever thought that the treasure she sought might show up in an auction. If more than one person was bidding for it—for her—then she would actually be bidding against herself. One thing was certain: Blanche was a savvy businesswoman. No, Jeff decided, Blanche hadn’t heard about the cabaret set being here.

  But anyone who knew how much she wanted it also knew that she was willing to pay anything to get it back. It was rightfully hers but, because it had been legally—if not ethically—sold by her father, she was going to have to purchase it outright. The letter of provenance didn’t change that fact. If Frank got his hands on the cabaret set, he’d soak the poor woman for all she had.

  If he got his hands on it. Well. He would have to make sure Frank didn’t make the winning bid. Jeff was still prepared to pay anything. The young picker’s presence didn’t change that.

  He toyed with the idea of calling Blanche and asking her how many people knew of her search. But he’d tried to keep his latest information about the cabaret set under wraps, just in case it didn’t pan out, and he was relatively sure she didn’t suspect his real reason for coming here.

  Finally, he surmised, his best tack would be to avoid Hamilton altogether. Pretend he wasn’t there and not let him know how much he got under his skin.

  That decided, Jeff stopped tossing and turning. The seminars he wanted to attend would be starting in a few hours, and he needed to get some rest.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Gray slices of light outlined the heavy drapes as the first signs of dawn touched Mackinac Island. Jeff had crawled wearily from bed an hour earlier, pulled a robe over his body, and brewed a pot of his personal coffee blend—a dark-roasted mix of Colombian, Kona, and Turkish beans—that Sheila had packed for him.

  The rustle he’d heard at his door earlier turned out to be a pleasant surprise of the New York Times in an interesting, miniature form—a sampling of articles faxed straight from the Big Apple and into the hands of the hotel’s guests—via the efforts of no telling how many employees who copied and stapled and delivered it at four in the morning. It was accompanied by an impressively organized schedule of the day’s events at the hotel.

  Jeff had had his first cup of coffee while going over current and future events, then had showered and dressed. Now that dawn was breaking, he poured a second cup and took it onto his balcony.

  The furniture was coated with water—either from last night’s rain, or this morning’s dew, or both—so he stood at the railing, feeling as if he were trying to see the hotel’s gardens and Lake Huron through a scrim. He savored this time of morning, loved to study the changes in the landscape that took place like the click-shink, click-shink of a slide show.

  The air smelled damp, and the rains had stirred the lake’s waters, bringing up a slight fishy smell like that he’d grown up with on the Pacific Coast.

  The gray dawn grew lighter with each frame, the flowers and grass and water taking on increasing degrees of warmth. Their vivid colors sharpened, revealed more detail.

  He heard hooves strike pavement in the distance. The clop, clop reverberated, carried farther in the fog.

  He strained to see as far as the fountain, but it wasn’t yet visible. He drank his coffee and watched silently as the fog slowly burned off.

  Specks of color began showing around the hazy perimeter as blooms of goldenrod, purple coneflower, asters, and roses came into view. The Tea Garden, nestled as it was in the concave disk below the hill where the hotel stood, would be the last to throw aside its misty blanket.

  An outline of the fountain became visible, and shafts of sunlight cut through the outlying trees and burned at the fog, trying to reflect itself off the basin of water. Jeff wondered what else the water was reflecting. It had a red tinge to it, as if it were mimicking the hotel’s trademark geraniums that bloomed on everything from the carpeting to the stationery.

  The misty veil lifted. Jeff saw something—a tarp?—draped over t
he low stone wall of the pool that surrounded the fountain. His first thought was of the kid who’d been reamed out the night before for leaving the hedge clippers out. He was really in for it when his superior discovered the tarp in the fountain.

  The sun broke full then, sharpening everything in the garden as if a spotlight had been turned onto the scene.

  Jeff’s grip went slack. He set down the cup of coffee to avoid dropping it. The tarp crumpled over the ledge wasn’t a tarp but a jacket. Two arms extended from its sleeves at unnatural angles. The red wasn’t a reflection; it was blood.

  Jeff stumbled back into his room and dialed 911. Waiting, his heart thudding, he wondered whether the secluded island actually had 911. Then a dispatcher answered, and Jeff explained what he had seen. The woman assured him that she would send an ambulance, as well as the local police, to the hotel. Jeff hung up and flew out of the room.

  Sirens whined in the distance as he reached the fountain. The slender body was dressed in a sport coat, jeans, and loafers without socks. Jeff spread his stance for support on the slick surface and propped one foot against the base of the fountain for leverage. He hooked his arms under those of the man and tried to lift.

  The odd angle at which he had to stand, combined with the heavy, water-soaked clothing was more than Jeff expected. He strained against the efforts of the water, which seemed determined not to release its catch. Suddenly, with a loud sucking sound, body and water separated, and Jeff pulled the person over the fountain’s wall.

  Loafers without socks. He wondered why that was important.

  There is an ominous, pounding silence during the seconds before a bell sounds. When a competition is about to start or your race against the clock is almost over and the anticipation builds within that silence and the pressure threatens to burst your eardrums and pound your heart through your chest.

  That silence deafened Jeff as he turned the man over.

  He met the cold, dead stare of Frank Hamilton.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  A makeshift interrogation room had been set up in a small office inside the hotel. It contained only a plain library table, which served as a desk, two chairs—one on either side—and a smaller table against the back wall. On the small table was a coffeepot and several cups, pitchers of ice water and glasses, and a silver tray piled high with doughnuts.

  Jeff wondered absently how long the doughnuts would last after the cops showed.

  It had been an hour since he’d found the body and, to his thinking, the investigation was getting off to a slow start.

  At length, a lean man with salt-and-pepper hair—pepper was losing—and a mustache that had already given up the fight walked in and scanned the room. “Doughnuts,” he said sarcastically. “What a friggin’ surprise.” He flung a manila folder onto the desk’s surface as if he were skipping a stone across a pond, poured himself a cup of coffee, and removed his sport coat. He hung it on the chair and dropped into the seat. He identified himself as Detective Cal Brookner, pulled three pages from the folder, lined them up side by side.

  After studying the sheets for a moment, he looked up. “FBI, huh?”

  Jeff was surprised that this news had been uncovered so quickly, especially by such a small police department, and he said so.

  “I was with Detroit PD for eighteen years,” Brookner explained as he pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and fished a book of matches out of the cellophane jacket. “Left in ninety-four to get away from death by unnatural causes, but I’ve kept my connections intact.”

  “Are you telling me that people don’t have accidents in paradise?”

  “In Paradise and Hell and every place in between.” He saw the confused look on Jeff’s face and said, “Names of Michigan towns. Inside joke.” He set the cigarette on fire, blew out the match’s flame, then looked for an ashtray. None was on the desk, so he used a saucer.

  “Accidents, sure,” the detective continued. “But this wasn’t an accident.” His voice seemed calmer now, and Jeff figured nicotine was to Brookner what caffeine was to him.

  Jeff swigged more coffee. “I didn’t think so. Quite a trick, if it were—fall forward and crack open the back of your head.”

  “Exactly. What did you do for the FBI?”

  “A paper pusher, mostly. A hundred years ago. But you probably know that already.”

  “Something to do with antiques, this says.”

  “I investigated museum thefts, that sort of thing. Now I lead a calmer life. I look for antiques that people are willing to pay for.”

  “You’re from Seattle. The victim was from Seattle.” Brookner looked up. “Did you know him?”

  “We ran into each other now and then, being in the same line of work.”

  “You know a lot about antiques?”

  Jeff hesitated. “Goya scribbled ‘Aun aprendo’ across one of the last sketches he did before he died. Means ‘I am still learning.’ That’s me. I know quite a bit, but I’ve still got a long way to go. What I don’t know, I research, or I ask people who do know. Plus, antiques are popular now, which means books about them are, too.”

  “My mother-in-law has cookie jars.” Brookner’s lips tightened. “You’d think she owned the New York Yankees.”

  Jeff leaned forward. “Are they Shawnee?”

  “I think that’s what she calls it. I thought she was talking about some kind of Indian pottery till she showed me the stuff. Looks like a bunch of pigs and puppies that somebody played dress-up with, if you ask me. Why?”

  “Usually a good market for it. By the way, the name did come from the Shawnee Indians. One of their arrowheads was found on the land where the plant was to be built. The company operated for only about twenty years, so that’s a key factor in collecting the stuff. The factory shut down when it couldn’t compete with foreign imports after World War II. Another factor: They used paper labels for identification, and those didn’t last if the kitchenware was actually used. So, pieces in good condition with the labels intact bring top dollar.” Jeff stopped and took a deep breath. “Sorry, Detective. I didn’t mean to stray from your investigation. But, depending on what pieces your mother-in-law has, those cookie jars could be worth thousands.”

  “No shit?” Brookner let out a low whistle.

  “Hard to believe, for non-collectors.”

  “You’ve taken all the fun out of giving her hell, Talbot.” Brookner checked another sheet. “Did Frank Hamilton collect antiques?”

  Jeff had never thought about Hamilton’s personal life. “I don’t know, to tell you the truth.”

  “Was he an expert in any particular field?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Didn’t keep up with the competition very well, did you?”

  “Only when it counted. Sure, Hamilton and I ran into each other from time to time. Hell, we even bought from each other on occasion. But I spend a lot more time studying antiques than I do pickers.”

  Someone rapped the doorjamb.

  A woman in a navy blue uniform stood there, holding a bicycle helmet. Her nameplate read Littlefield. She was American Indian (Jeff wondered if Brookner had ever asked her about Shawnee ware), short and stocky, with smooth brown skin, high cheekbones, and that proud, defiant look in her eyes that put Jeff in mind of Geronimo. Normally, he could pinpoint someone’s age, but this one had him stumped. She could’ve been anywhere between twenty-five and forty.

  “What’ve you got, Mel?” Brookner said.

  “They finally finished draining the fountain. Found this lug wrench at the bottom.” She put a large bag containing an L-shaped length of metal on the desk. “I have to wonder what it’s doing on the island. Ironic, isn’t it, to get killed with a lug wrench on an island without cars? Except for the emergency vehicles, of course.” The woman spoke with an odd combination of pinched and singsong syllables.

  Brookner started to say something, but she cut him off. “Been there, done that. Our Explorer and the ambulance share the same garage. No tools miss
ing.”

  “Mel, this is Jeff Talbot. FBI. Was, anyway. He’s some sort of antiques expert now. He found the body.”

  “Yeah? You ever been on that tee-vee show?”

  “What?”

  “That tee-vee show. People bringing in antiques for the experts to tell them that Aunt Millie’s butt-ugly vase is worth ten thousand bucks. My sister watches it.” Littlefield handed Brookner a slip of paper.

  Brookner handed her a question. “Cookout still on for tonight?”

  Mel chuckled. “Do I look like I’m gonna cancel a cookout just because someone got clocked on the island?” She was gone before the detective could respond.

  “Interesting accent for a Native American,” Jeff said. “What? Oh, Littlefield. Yeah, I’ve gotten used to that Yooper accent. You know Yooper?”

  Jeff shook his head.

  “Upper Peninsula. U.P. Yooper. It’s a carryover from Scandinavian settlers.” Brookner read the paper left by Littlefield. “Hamilton left an emergency number with the hotel when he checked in. Seattle exchange. No answer, though. And it’s—what?—two, three hours earlier there?”

  “Three.”

  “Uh-huh.” The detective stared at Jeff. “Know anyone who’d want to kill him?”

  “No. But like I said, I didn’t know too much about him.” Jeff realized that he knew Hamilton’s business approach but virtually nothing about his personal life.

  Brookner watched him another minute, then said, “The medical examiner ferried over with me. She’ll work fast. Got a Lions game she wants to watch this afternoon. Says she’ll kill the guy all over again if he makes her miss it.

  “One more question,” Brookner continued. “Did you know Hamilton was here?”

  “No. Yes. I mean, I didn’t know he was coming here. But I saw him last night, from up in the bar—”

  “The one up top?”