Death Is a Cabaret Page 9

  He turns from the face, sees two patches of earth between the walkway’s stones, patches rubbed bare where once there was grass. He frowns, examines the toes of the brown loafers. Snagged between sole and soft leather are spiky green blades, imbedded in packed mud. He shivers, realizing that Hamilton didn’t die instantly.

  He hears sirens, looks up and sees paramedics loping across the lawn. Others, too, are streaming down the hill toward him. Toward the fountain. Toward death.

  Jeff shuddered, drawing the attention of an old man seated next to him.

  The man poked Jeff in the ribs and grinned. “Did you fall asleep in church, young fella?”

  Jeff apologized, dragged himself back once again, to the present. The eloquent auctioneer had begun taking questions from a captive and participatory audience.

  After several well-received responses, Davenport started to dismiss the large crowd. Someone spoke up from the back of the room. Jeff recognized the voice.

  “I have a question, Mr. Davenport.” It was Detective Cal Brookner. “Did you know Frank Hamilton?”

  Fu dogs aren’t all they’re cracked up to be, Jeff thought.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Without waiting for an answer from Davenport, Detective Brookner told everyone to sit back down. He walked to the podium, pulled the mike down a good eight inches, and cut to the chase. “Most of you know by now that there’s been a murder.” A smattering of gasps came from those in the audience who’d had their heads buried in the sand all morning. “We’ll need to talk with several of you. It should go without saying, but I’ll say it anyway so there will be no confusion: No one is to leave the island. It’s going to take a lot of manpower, but we will have people screening everyone at the ferry landings. If you’re registered at this hotel, then you won’t be leaving until we’ve had a chance to talk with you and given the okay. Understand?” Obviously, the question wasn’t meant to elicit an answer. He turned to Davenport. “You come with me.” The auctioneer followed the detective out of the room.

  “Why, how rude.”

  Jeff turned and saw that the remark had come from Ruth Ann Longan, one of the three Southern women he’d met the night before. She was seated down the row from him, along with Asia Graham. Today, Asia was wearing a bright red pantsuit. To Jeff, the penguin effect from the night before remained intact, making her look today like a penguin in a red pantsuit. He approached them. “Good morning, ladies.”

  “Mr. Talbot, don’t you agree?” Ruth Ann’s voice was high-pitched.

  “The police have to do their job, and it’s not an easy one in this case.”

  “Well, yes, of course. But Mr. Davenport did such a fine job, and to have his grand finale diluted like that just doesn’t seem right.”

  “Ruthie, honey.” Asia used her cane for counterbalance and struggled to her feet as she spoke. The effort put extra emphasis in her voice. “The sooner they do their job, the sooner things around here will get back to normal.”

  “She’s right,” Jeff said.

  “I’m sure she is,” Ruth Ann conceded. “Asia? Didn’t you buy something last year from that young man who was killed this morning? I seem to recall—”

  “You know, you’re right. I’d forgotten all about that.” Asia addressed Jeff. “He showed up here at the festival with a slave document. Gave me a pretty fair price for it, too. I was leery, at first. But then he pointed out that he’d spoken with me—with all of us—the year before. I was astounded when he rattled off what each and every one of us collect.”

  “That’s impressive all right.” Jeff looked beyond Asia. “Someone’s missing from your group. Lily?”

  “Lily’s missing?” Ruth Ann turned and looked, then said, “Oh, I remember. She was positively craving some fudge. We sent her downtown, for fear she might have an attack of the vapors. We told her that we would report anything of interest from the seminar.”

  Asia began moving to the end of the row. “Looks like we’ll have plenty to report, doesn’t it, Mr. Talbot?”

  “I wish you ladies would call me Jeff. Does Lily have a favorite fudge shop on the island?” He made a mental note to pick up the fudge he’d promised Sheila.

  “Oh, that woman thinks she’s a connoisseur.” Ruth Ann emphasized connoisseur “She buys from several, then holds her own taste test.”

  “That sounds tempting, but I have to get some work done first.” Jeff excused himself and set out to find the Brighton Pavilion. The items that would be auctioned on Sunday were displayed there, and he was anxious to get his first look at the cabaret set. He’d been told the room would be open between the scheduled lectures.

  Several others were already there when he arrived, but the room was locked. An employee made his way through the crowd and taped a makeshift sign to the door that read Closed, after which a woman announced loudly, “we already knew that.” The employee shrugged, then left without comment. The crowd dispersed.

  Needing a diversion, Jeff spent the next hour or so perusing the booths in the other conference rooms.

  One vendor offered several inkwells. Fortunately, Jeff had begun carrying a list of what Sheila had so as to avoid duplication, and he always checked it before purchasing. Of course, his wife still had several packages in her “store,” but he knew that if they ended up with a duplicate, he could always sell it to Blanche or one of his other clients.

  He purchased two travelers, inkwells designed for journeys before the inventions of the reservoir and fountain pens in the late 1800s. Both of Jeff’s purchases were leather, and their lids were spring-loaded with thumb release buttons. Beyond that, each had its own distinct personality. One was English and reminded him of a butler: tall and resolute and dressed in black. Its sterling silver top was polished to a warm glow, and its edge was hand engraved in an elaborate floral design in a circle that formed a cartouche. The center of the cartouche was monogrammed with the initials DRB in an elegant script, and the underside of the lid was hallmarked Birmingham 1888. The box contained a flawless crystal insert in which to transfer ink.

  The French traveler was like a rich Parisian woman, wrapped in brown crocodile with a body shaped long and low as if reclining on a chaise longue. The interior was chased gold, with compartments holding a matching gold-plated inkwell, roller blotter, and a cylinder for storing nibs.

  Normally, Jeff wouldn’t pay the several hundred dollars that the vendor was asking for the two, but travelers weren’t as easy to come by as desk inkwells. It made sense that they would cost more and besides, he wanted to return home with more for Sheila than a box of fudge.

  It seemed odd to him, purchasing something called a traveler for a woman who may never again travel. Then he realized he collected snuff boxes, but he didn’t dip snuff. He sure as hell wasn’t going to start, either. What did it matter? he asked himself. When you collect, there doesn’t have to be a criterion. Only a passion.

  He purchased two circa 1835 lithographs featuring birds for a client who was redecorating her office in Seattle’s Pioneer Building. She was an avid collector of antique bird prints, and Jeff knew she wouldn’t even flinch at the mid-five-figure price tag. The lithographs were hand-colored by John and Elizabeth Gould (John Gould was also the lithographer), and each print showcased two birds with black, red, and yellow coloring.

  Jeff purchased a few other items, arranged to have everything but the inkwells shipped back to Seattle, and returned to the Brighton Pavilion on the off chance that it was open.

  He was in luck. A young man in a burgundy blazer (hotel security, Jeff guessed) was unlocking the door while a small man with a head of thick, snowy white hair looked on. Apparently hearing the rustle of Jeff’s shopping bag, they turned. The old man smiled, and his bushy brows raised inquiringly.

  Jeff guessed him to be in his early seventies. His eyes were a cloudy gray and held none of the sentiment of the smile. Blue veins showed on hands with nails in need of clipping. The nails were clean, though, white with bright pink beds as though they
’d been recently scrubbed. The man nodded and gestured with one hand, a get-on-with-it orchestration that told Jeff to state his purpose.

  “I’m here to take a look at one of the items?” Jeff posed his statement in the form of a question, hoping to lead the old man into another nod. He would take it as an affirmative.

  “Mr. Davenport was to be in charge of this,” the man said, “but I’ve been told he is with the police.”

  What Jeff had originally taken as a smile was apparently a set of ill-fitting dentures that prevented the old man’s mouth from shutting completely.

  “I doubt the police still have him,” Jeff said.

  “I wouldn’t know about that. I was told that the room will remain closed to the general public until word is received from Mr. Davenport.”

  “When I had breakfast with him this morning, he said there would be no problem with my coming by to view one of the auction items. Do you work for him?”

  “No, I do not work for him. Now, if you will excuse me.” The old man turned to the security guard, who pushed open the door and gave Jeff a warning look.

  Jeff addressed the old man. “May I join you, sir?” He realized he was beginning to sound desperate. He’d waited for years to see the cabaret set. Suddenly, he could wait no longer. “I assure you I won’t take much of your time.”

  “I’m afraid not. No one is allowed in until Mr. Davenport arrives.”

  Jeff needed a different approach. “Please.” If he hadn’t sounded desperate before, he did now. That was not his intent, and begging wasn’t his idea of a different approach. “Just a look at Josephine’s cabaret set. Please.”

  “Josephine’s?” The old man smiled now, and Jeff saw a noticeable difference from before. “You speak her name as if you know her intimately. Rather, knew her. She’s dead, you know. Are you Napoleon reincarnated?”

  Jeff returned the smile. He wasn’t sure why he had called it Josephine’s. Perhaps it was because he’d been reading the letter of provenance so much lately. Josephine’s signature intrigued him. The small script was more in keeping with a teenage girl, not an empress. Its closely looped letters and lower case j possessed an unexpected playful quality. Her es spoke volumes, always leaning back toward the direction from which they’d come. “I. . .” He shrugged, unsure of how to explain himself.

  The letter of provenance. He withdrew his copy, along with the photo of the tea set, from his wallet and handed them to the man.

  The man carefully unfolded the letter. After reading it, he refolded it and handed it back. Jeff grinned sheepishly. “I’ve been looking for the set for many years.”

  The man studied the photograph. At length, he looked up. The gray eyes misted. “My wife’s name is Josephine. We own the set. Come with me.”

  Reverently, Jeff stepped inside. He’d anticipated this moment for so long and now skepticism crept over him. He wondered if he’d be disappointed when he saw the cabaret set. Then he realized that his feelings didn’t matter. Blanche’s did, however, and he hoped she wouldn’t be disappointed. Things from one’s childhood rarely held up under the scrutinizing and practical eye of an adult.

  “Name’s Curtis Pettigrew,” the man said as he flipped on a light switch. “I suppose I should know yours.”

  “You’re right, sir. Of course. I’m Jeff Talbot.”

  The security guard bolted the door and stationed himself in front of it.

  The room was deafeningly silent yet charged with an energy that one could only describe as the pulse of history.

  Jeff would fully realize this later, when he remembered that the room was filled with a fortune in antiques. But for now he was only aware that it held the one treasure he was seeking.

  It was the same sensation he’d had in antique shops when he’d spied something he’d been searching for, something he’d thought would never surface. He couldn’t bring himself to approach it. Not yet. He’d hold his breath. Don’t get too excited. It may not be what you think it is, what you’re praying it is.

  Now, he reminded himself to breathe, to put one foot in front of the other and follow the old man.

  The set was in a glass display case the size and shape of a casket, arranged as if it might be pressed into service at any moment for high tea. Placed to the side was the Moroccan case (large enough to have elicited questioning stares from airport employees who monitor carry-on baggage dimensions), which had housed and protected the rare pieces for over two hundred years.

  Jeff’s gaze darted quickly between the tea set and the leather case, checking that each piece had its own resting place. Each did. The set was complete: The large pot, the sugar bowl and creamer, the two cup and saucer sets, and the massive tray upon which it all now stood.

  The elaborate gilding that ran along the borders of the fitted case matched the Napoleonic bees that were stitched in gold upon the ivory silk lining.

  The finials on the lids of the teapot and sugar bowl were also gold bees, with eyes of cabochon rubies and bodies of remarkable detail.

  And Josephine’s beloved swans were everywhere. The handles were golden, every one a slender neck that led down to a body whose flared wings gripped the bowl. One could almost hear their cries as they clung to such beauty. Rich claret served as a ground for cartouches upon which water scenes were painted and elaborately framed with swirls of gold. Swans glided through the paintings as well, each scene varying slightly but all incorporating the poetic fowl and pink-cheeked maidens and pastoral surroundings. The artist’s hand had been exacting, and one could see the motion of the water, the sway of the branches as the scenes unfolded.

  Jeff saw that someone’s hands were on the case’s glass, their palms flat against it as if feeling for a pulse. He stepped back, realizing they were his. He didn’t remember dropping his shopping bag, or reaching out, or even how he’d gotten to where he was.

  Obviously sensing Jeff’s enchantment, Pettigrew unlocked the case and carefully withdrew one of the cups. If it weren’t for the long nails, the man might easily have dropped the irreplaceable item. Jeff wondered then if he grew them for this specific purpose. It seemed right, practical.

  Transfixed, Jeff held out cupped hands.

  “Sit down first,” Pettigrew admonished, as if he were about to place a newborn baby into the arms of an excitable six-year-old.

  Jeff sat.

  The delicate cup felt warm in his hands, and he wondered if it did have a soul after all. Then he realized that his hands were cold, clammy. This reaction surprised him. He’d been moved by antiques before, but nothing had affected him like this. His heart pounded. He was holding the cup that Josephine had held two centuries before him.

  He wanted to turn it over, look at the maker’s mark that would be a milky blue underglaze. He wanted to see the Republic mark that had replaced the Louis XV and Louis XVI cursive double Ls.

  But he couldn’t move.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Sensory overload. He’d heard others talk about it, try to put it in terms that one who had never experienced it might understand. Impossible, he now realized, unless you’ve been there.

  Jeff had no other explanation for his actions. He was in his room and had only a vague recollection of Curtis Pettigrew taking the cup and returning it to the display. Jeff couldn’t remember whether he’d thanked the old man.

  He needed to get away from the festival for awhile, away from the hotel. After locking the inkwells in his suite’s safe, he put on the vest Sheila had given him and outfitted it with what he thought he might need. Downstairs, he acquired a map from the concierge and set out to explore the island.

  When he stepped outside, Jeff felt as if he’d spent the last few hours underground. The events of the morning—from Hamilton’s death to Davenport’s session to Jeff’s own cocooning among the antiques to the cabaret—had been so surreal that now the bright sunlight seemed harsh, invading.

  As he started down the long, curved sidewalk that bordered the hill above the Tea Garden, he pau
sed and studied the fountain. It looked strange, lifeless without the shell-shaped fountains around its perimeter spewing little waterfalls into the large basin.

  He checked his watch. It was almost noon. He couldn’t believe that only this morning he’d found Hamilton’s body down there.

  At the bottom of the hill he consulted the map, then turned right and strolled along the boardwalk, following the wide loop toward the docks and the central shopping area of the island.

  Main Street was crowded as a constant stream of people poured through the shop-lined breezeways that led from the docks.

  The concierge had told Jeff that the Tea Room at Fort Mackinac served a great lunch with a view of the Straits. It sounded like a strange combination, but Jeff welcomed the opportunity to squeeze in a visit to the fort. Military history had always fascinated him. He saw it, perched high on a hill overlooking Lake Huron and recognized its great vantage point so important back when the British protected the island from French invasion. Tables with bright yellow umbrellas were lined up in a row along the ledge like Canaries perched on a wire.

  Jeff struggled to climb the steep hill, noting several times that he needed to use the workout room at home more often. He half expected the island’s year-round residents to be in fantastic shape but, more often than not, the theory didn’t prove out. Obviously, though, they’d built incredible stamina. By the time he reached the fort, he decided that stamina beat muscle all to hell.

  He lingered over lunch in order to catch his breath and contemplated whether or not to take the time required for touring the fort. Getting there had taken longer than he’d anticipated, and he recognized his own criteria for such a large chunk of history. Rushing through the Revolution was not his idea of a tour.

  He settled for a quick tour of the Sutler’s Store, picking up a book on the fort’s history for himself and a Michigan cookbook for Sheila.