CHAPTER 1
Monday, December 3
Adam Dutton stared at the snowman staring back at him from a yard across the street. Thirty years ago, Adam made a similar snowman with his godfather, Harlan Wilford—the same day Adam fell on a patch of ice with a spike sticking up through it that jammed into Adam’s leg.
The river of blood that turned the ice red could have caused Adam to bleed out if quick-thinking Harlan hadn’t fashioned a tourniquet and likely saved Adam’s life. He owed Harlan, not just for that day, but for all the other things the man had done for Adam since his father’s death. Even encouraging Adam to go into law enforcement. That’s what made it all the harder for Adam to have to arrest him.
Adam squinted at the yellow and black sign that read “Tossed Treasures Antique Store,” glinting in the early morning wintry blue sky like gold nuggets in a creek bed. He opened the door, ignoring the feeling of relief when Harlan’s assistant, Prospero Rigas, was the one to greet him instead of Harlan.
Adam’s face must have registered his mood because Prospero asked, “Everything okay, Mister Adam?”
“I need to see Harlan. He in this morning?”
Prospero nodded toward an office. “Back there.”
“Thanks.” Adam imagined how Prospero would react when he carted Harlan out of the building in handcuffs. That was one reason he’d come alone instead of bringing Jinks with him. Having two detectives on the scene somehow felt more official, more of a betrayal.
Harlan smiled up at Adam when he entered, but his smile faded when Adam quietly closed the door behind him. “Well now, Adam, you’re not usually this dramatic.” He managed a small laugh. “If you’re here to discuss the Christmas party, I don’t think it’ll be a surprise for Prospero.”
Adam eased into a chair opposite Harlan. He pointed at an ugly clock on Harlan’s desk. “That’s new. And hideous.”
“That’s a painted Syroco Clown Lux clock. Part of an estate lot that came to me recently.”
“That wouldn’t be the estate of Reuben Ryall, by any chance, would it?”
“As a matter of fact, it would. Why do you ask?”
“Did that lot contain a sword, a Medieval kind of thing, about yay big?” Adam held his arms apart about three feet.
“A reconstruction, ayah. Quite a beauty, that one. A Tritonia, based on a sword at the Museum of Medieval Stockholm in Sweden. The blades are hand-ground with a satin finish. Didja know those swords may date back to the thirteenth century?”
If it were any other time, any other day, Adam would have smiled at Harlan’s enthusiasm over the piece. The man was an antiques acolyte to the Nth degree. “And did that sword have Reuben Ryall’s name engraved on the handle?”
“Yes, yes it did. Why all this interest in a sword, Adam?”
“Have you sold that sword yet?”
“Why no, I haven’t—”
“Can you show me the sword?”
Harlan scratched the top of his head. “Well, if you’re that obsessed with the thing, why not?” He hopped up from his desk and opened the door, waiting for Adam to follow. They headed to a display case of swords of all types—short, long, plain-handled, some handles with elaborate carvings and gemstones.
Adam asked, “Which one is it?”
Harlan peered into the case. “Why, I don’t see it. It was right there,” and he pointed to an indentation in the fabric on the bottom of the case. Then he hollered over to Prospero, “Did you sell that Ryall sword when I wasn’t here?”
Prospero yelled back, “Nope. No swords lately at all. Sold that green piano stool you’ve been trying to get rid of.”
Adam put a hand on Harlan’s shoulder to guide him toward the office, where he again shut the door. Neither man sat down this time, and Harlan asked, “Adam, what the hell is going on? Did someone steal that sword? Is that why you’re here?”
“A sword matching that description, complete with ‘Reuben Ryall’ engraved on the handle, was found sticking out of a body tied to a tree. Are you sure you don’t remember selling the piece?”
Beads of sweat popped out on Harlan’s brow. “The man was murdered with that sword? Oh, dear God.”
He opened his desk drawer and pulled out a ledger. “Prospero’s working hard to get our computer database up and running. Until then, every sale goes into this book, you see.” He flipped through several pages. “No swords. Not nary a one.”
Harlan muttered to himself. “Prospero’s been after me to get a security system. But I’ve put it off. Vermonters are too honest, I told him. They’d be insulted, don’t you know.”
Adam hated himself right then, but he had a job to do, one that had become part of his DNA. He couldn’t let any relationship get in the way of that, even if it made him a traitor.
“Why did you never tell me you had a criminal record, Harlan?”
Harlan sank onto the edge of his desk. “You didn’t know me before I started going to AA, Adam. You were too young. And I’m glad you didn’t. After a few beers, I turned into one of those mean drunks. Kinda like the Incredible Hulk. Most of the time, I kept it under control. But there was this one time I let the demons get the best of me. Beat up a guy, got arrested for it. Since I was a first-timer, I got a month.”
“The guy you pummeled, George Norwick. The arrest record said he’d sold you some antiques and then found out you’d undervalued them. By a lot. He confronted you, you hit him. That sound like what happened?”
“Ayah, near as I recall. I’m not proud of that. But I didn’t cheat him. He was wrong about that part.”
“I can’t interview him, myself, because Norwick is deceased. Two years ago, heart attack.” Adam rubbed his eyes. “Wallace Ryall accused you recently of the same thing about his father’s estate, of cheating him. We have some witnesses who heard the two of you arguing, and that you poked him in the chest and said, ‘You don’t want to mess with me.’”
The shrewd, savvy Harlan who Adam knew, loved, and admired broke through the surface as the hard truth dawned on his face. “The man found murdered. It was Wallace Ryall, Reuben’s son, is that right?”
Adam nodded. “The only fingerprints on that sword were yours, which we ID’d through the Vermont Crime Information Center records. We also found a bloody handkerchief at the scene of the crime, one of yours, and the blood matches Ryall’s.”
Harlan shook his head. “You can’t think I killed Wallace, Adam, you’ve known me all your life. How could you possibly believe something like that?”
“It’s not what I think or don’t think, Harlan. It’s what the evidence says, and if wasn’t me standing here, then it would be Jinks or some other cop.”
The other man blinked hard. “You’d rather it was you than someone else.”
“If I’m not the one to arrest you, people will talk, and the integrity of the force and this investigation will be tainted. After the Forsythe debacle, the mayor is watching our department’s every move. We have to do this by the book. And if ‘by the book’ it means having you arrested while still looking for the real killer, then that’s what I have to do.”
“The real killer?” Harlan managed a small smile.
“You know I shouldn’t be talking about any of this without your attorney present.”
“I don’t need an attorney. I trust you.”
Right then, Adam wanted to grab Harlan, streak across the border into Canada, and find sanctuary in some tiny coastal town where folks didn’t ask any questions. Instead, he said, “You’ll need to come with me to the station.”
Harlan studied Adam’s pockets. “Do I get to wear handcuffs?”
“It’s too cold a day for handcuffs.” Adam spied a pair of thick buckskin chopper mitts on a table and picked them up. “These’ll do.”
On their way out of the store, with Adam letting Harlan take the lead, Harlan yelled out to Prospero again, “Might be gone a while, Prospero. Hold down the fort, will ya?”
Prospero waved at the other two men, and Adam knew what Judas Iscariot must have felt like. Like being dropped on a planet where the gravity was so dense and heavy, it crushed you into a mangled ball of flesh. What he needed was something to lighten the load, some angel of mercy to help prove Harlan’s innocence.
An image of a tall raven-haired woman flashed across his mind, and he pushed it aside. Beverly Laborde was certainly no angel. And he didn’t need that distraction, especially if she found out about Harlan’s arrest. Maybe it was a good thing he hadn’t heard anything from her in two months. Harlan’s arrest was proof positive Adam might be better off without the entanglement of relationships. No friends, no lovers, no regrets.
CHAPTER 2
Beverly Laborde ran her hand along the cracked beadboard walls, barely avoiding a splinter. When she’d arrived in front of the building, the dirty white facade stained with streaks of mold told her this was no candidate for Architectural Digest. The sign spelled out, “ANT. . .S,” the “I,” “Q,” “U,” and “E” missing. And the interior wasn’t doing anything to dispel her first impressions of the place.
Her companion, Agnes Flamm, picked up the broken remnants of a wooden captain’s chair and carried them over to a trash pile. She smiled at Beverly. “I’ve got a local handyman coming ‘round later today to patch up that beadboard and paint it all yellow. This place will look much cheerier after.”
Beverly had spied a few rats outside the building and hoped they weren’t going to be her friend’s new shopmates. “Still not sure why you decided to turn this into a wine and gift store instead of antiques like you had before.”
Agnes grabbed a broom and started sweeping the whitewashed, pickled wide-plank flooring, which looked to be in good shape. “As they like to say today, been there, done that. Too many memories, I suppose. And I thought it could be fun to try something new.”
“Like a wine shop?”
“Seems less fusty than a tea shop, don’t you think, dear?”
“You never did like doilies.”
“Hate them with a passion. A tea shop would only bring in wrinkled prunes like me, while a wine shop, well. Lots of younger customers, laughing, smiling, full of life. Besides, aged wines are sort of antiques, aren’t they?”
Beverly smiled at that. “True. I’ll bet Gregory isn’t too thrilled with your idea.”
“My son wants me to move to Florida to keep an eye on me. I hate sand almost as much as doilies.”
“I doubt he bought into that argument.”
“Oh, he means well enough. But he has too much of his father in him. The controlling, manipulative part.” When Beverly shot her a surprised look, Agnes added, “I know, I know. Shouldn’t speak ill of the fruit of your own loins, but there it is.”
“What’s the real reason, then? Why a wine shop, why now? You’ve lived above your empty antiques store for, what, ten years?”
“Eleven. And it’s all your fault.”
“My fault? Whatever do you mean?”
“When you came to visit me in October, I started thinking about the days when your grandmother and I each had a thriving antiques business. And how much we loved finding that perfect bowl or statuette we just had to have. How much we enjoyed the customers, even balancing the books. So empowering for two old, single broads. Then there’s the history of it all.”
Beverly side-stepped a board with a nail sticking out and made a note to find a hammer. “You mean wine history? Or something else?”
“I’m tired to death of people casting away their heritage, their local history. We’re one big throwaway society. If it’s not bowls and paintings, it’s kids, families, land, culture, pride.”
Screw the hammer. Beverly picked up a rock and banged the nail into place. “Like those two young toughs I ran into last time, in this very room?”
The older woman nodded. “Who knows what their home life’s like? Divorce, death, drugs, detention. You said they were after copper they could sell for cash. Cash to buy alcohol or drugs. Kinda makes you feel sorry for ‘em, in a way.”
“Didn’t feel sorry for them at the time. As I recall, they threatened to rob me. Have you seen them hanging around since?”
Agnes laughed. “They’re too afraid of you, the crazy lady with the gun.”
“Maybe I should buy you a gun, too. In case they return.”
Agnes leaned on her broom. “I’ve been meaning to ask you. Was one of those boys fourteenish? With shoulder-length floppy hair?”
“You know him?”
“Seen him around. Think it’s Denny Morland’s son, Blaine. Blaine’s mother was killed when a tree fell on her while she was riding her bicycle in a storm. A freak thing, you know? Denny spends most of the time when he’s not at work in the sawmill or Cold Creek Tavern. The boy pretty much fends for himself. Kinda like you do.”
“You mean that I’m an independent, self-sustaining modern woman who doesn’t need anyone to take care of her? Then, I take that as a compliment.”
Agnes set the broom aside and put her hands on her hips. “You needed help when you went after Reggie Forsythe, didn’t you?”
“That was different, I had to get other people involved to take that scumbag down.”
“Other people like that handsome detective, Adam Dutton, you mean. You told him you’re back in town yet?”
No, she hadn’t, and Beverly wasn’t sure why she hadn’t. After she’d sent him that note in the form of a telegram offering to be his “partner” going after more of the corrupt members of the Northeastern Antiquities League, she hadn’t written or called since. She’d started to—several times—but never followed through.
Agnes looked in her direction. “You look like a cornered animal ready to take flight.”
Beverly chewed on her lip. “Guess I have a hard time settling down in any one place. Even for a few days.”
“You know, you left town so fast last time, I never got a chance to tell you I’m sorry, Beverly.”
That took Beverly by surprise. “You, sorry? For what?”
“For what it must be like to get involved with the Forsythes. To see your own kin murdered and turn into murderers. Estranged kin though they were.”
“To be honest, I’m still not sure how I feel. One day, I’ll stay still long enough to dissect it—the case, the murders, my feelings—all of it. Just not today.”
Agnes appeared to take Beverly’s hint to change the subject and walked over to a wall next to an archway. She patted the wall. “This is where I’m going to put one rack of wines, next to a display of chocolates. I’ve got the racks being delivered tomorrow, and the chocolates and wines the day after that. I’m keeping it as local as possible. The wines, meads, and ciders are primarily from Vermont and New Hampshire. And the candies are things like Vermont maple almond brittle and artisan truffles.”
Beverly pointed toward the room beyond the archway. “What’s going in there?”
“That is going to be a little cafe, with more wine racks, some tables and chairs, a small stage area, and a counter that’ll sell coffee, soup, sandwiches, and pastries. Simple fare, but all homemade.”
“You can’t do this all by yourself. You’ll need help.”
Agnes peered at her over her eyeglasses. “Are you offering?”
“I’ll be happy to help you get set up. I mean, there’s bound to be a lot of cleaning and arranging and planning and staging, and then there’s all the merchandise to load in, and there will be flyers and a notice in the paper because you’ll have to do some advertising—”
“Beverly, dear, you’re babbling.”
Beverly chuckled, trying to cover up her embarrassment. “Like a brook?”
“Like someone who always has one foot out the door. Look, dear, there’s no pressure from me to do anything. Come or go as you please. Besides, I admire an independent, self-sustaining modern woman.”
She winked at Beverly, who felt her shoulders relax a fraction. That lasted for all of ten seconds when Beverly’s cellphone rang, and she heard the familiar deep-tenor tones of her friend, the ever-mysterious “Mr. X.”
His words put her mood into a plunge. “I hate to be the bearer of bad tidings, Beverly. Your friend Harlan Wilford was arrested for murder.”
“Murder? That’s insane. Harlan wouldn’t hurt a cockroach. In fact, I once saw him putting out a dish of sugar for a cockroach. Whoever arrested him made a mistake.”
“I’m afraid the whoever would be Adam Dutton.”
Beverly gritted her teeth and counted. Thousand-one, thousand-two, thousand-three. . .
Mr. X’s voice tolled in her ear, “Beverly? Are you still there?”
“I’m here all right. But you bet I’m going to have a word or two with Detective Dutton.”
“If you don’t end up killing the man and winding up in jail, yourself, you might stop by later and say hello to Yin and Yang.”
“How did you know I was in the area again?”
When he didn’t reply right away, she smiled. “Right. Mr. X knows all and sees all. Or should I say, ‘don’t ask, don’t tell?’”
She could hear his grin over the phone as he said, “Dutton isn’t all bad. Do kill him gently, won’t you?”
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