Being the Steel Drummer - a Maggie Gale Mystery Read online

  “Listen,” I said softly. A muffled rumble underscored the shiver of the wind in the leafless branches. We moved toward it, inching along the outer edge of a block-shaped burial tomb, pressing against its cold concrete surface. The night seemed to fold in on us as a cloud passed in front of the moon. Crouching low, I leaned to look around the corner. Farrel peeked over my head.

  Farrel gasped, and I stiffened.

  The freezing breeze died, letting a gentle herbal scent fill the air.

  A ray of moonlight sliced through the darkness, revealing a ring of tombstones. In the middle was a ghost. A woman in a white gown floated high above the ground about thirty feet away from us. Her face was eerily familiar. She was looking right at us with her hand outstretched.

  “It’s the Lost Bride,” said Farrel in a hushed voice.

  Chapter 2

  “I wasn’t scared,” I insisted to Jessie Wiggins as she checked a pie in her oven.

  “Uh huh,” she nodded. I’ve known Jessie for many years and while the white highlights in her hair halo her face, she’s not angelically credulous. She does, however, have unbounded energy in her compact little body. She uses it to help Farrel run their part-time antique business and to make the best food in the northern hemisphere.

  “There was this shaft of moonlight. The statue was up so high, it looked like she was floating in space. We could barely see the dark granite pedestal,” I said, carrying a basket of biscuits to the table.

  It was Sunday morning brunch at Jessie and Farrel’s row home in the heart of Washington Mews. Cora Martin, the diminutive antique dealer who lived next door, was already there. Her short, plump frame was seated in a chair by the dining room window. She was wearing a beige sweater and slacks outfit and shoes that even I could tell were Prada. Her soft blond hair was styled to make her look younger than her seventy years.

  Cora’s husband Raymond had passed away almost eight years before, but though she missed him, sometimes terribly, Cora’s solo life didn’t slow her down. She visited her adult children and traveled to antique shows all over the country. A few weeks ago, Cora had welcomed Mickey Murphy into her home. Mickey was an adult who had the capabilities of a sweet eight-year-old, but also savant-like talents that got him into trouble. Cora helped him avoid that trouble and cooked for him. Mickey carried Cora’s groceries, helped her at antique shows, and changed the light bulbs.

  “A Jewish mother is exactly what Mickey needs,” Cora had said. “We’re a perfect match.”

  Jessie’s cell phone rang.

  “Maggie, could you get that? It’s on the counter.”

  It was Judith Levi. She’d been Farrel’s college English teacher many years ago. They’d become friends and Judith had moved to Fenchester to teach English at Irwin College when Farrel began teaching woodworking there. Now in her seventies like Cora, Judith was retired. She spent much of her time reading, writing, and reviewing books.

  “Jessie? Oh, Maggie. Dear, please tell Jessie I shall be a bit late. The men from the City are here to inspect the water pipes.”

  I paused, then said slowly, “Judith, did you call them to come? Just answer yes or no.”

  “No.”

  “They came to your door and showed you a badge and then came in to check the pipes? Just answer yes or no.”

  “Yes.”

  “Keep talking on the phone as though there’s someone on the line. Can you do that? Start now.”

  Jessie looked up in alarm. “What is it?”

  “I’m going to Judith’s.” I sped out the door, grabbing my shoulder bag and pulling my jacket on on the fly. En route I fished my handcuffs from my bag and tucked them in my back pocket.

  Judith lives less than half a block behind Farrel and Jessie’s, in a condo apartment on the second floor of a converted carriage house.

  In minutes I was at the base of Judith’s outdoor stairs, looking up at her door. It opened and a muscular bald man in a winter jacket, rushed down the steps. I stood in his path. He didn’t slow down. He just put his hand up like he was about to sing, Stop in the Name of Love, and barreled at me.

  I’d been right. Most people don’t haphazardly push other people over unless they’re thieves or rushing to a Black Friday sale.

  Twenty-five years of martial arts training comes in handy now and then. I grabbed the man’s extended wrist with a two-finger vise-like grip, pressing right on the nerve points as I pulled my handcuffs from my back pocket. He fell to his knees in wailing pain.

  “I’m making a citizen’s arrest,” I growled twisting his hand around his back, deftly cuffing him to the railing. I pushed his head back and stared into his eyes. “You keep quiet.”

  He nodded, trying to rub the pain out of his wrist.

  I squeezed past him up the steps and slipped in the front door of Judith’s cozy three-room home. She was in the living room, still on the phone. She saw me out of the corner of her eye in the vestibule, but I made a keep talking finger twirl. She continued chatting in a remarkably natural way.

  I peeked around the door frame and saw another guy standing with his back to me, idly looking at a bookcase. He was wearing a green coveralls uniform. He looked official, but he wasn’t. Fenchester water department workers wear blue.

  I quietly stepped deep into the room and tipped my head back towards the door. Judith faded back with the phone.

  “Hello,” I said in my stern cop voice.

  The man looked up sharply, surprised to find someone a tad more spry than the senior citizen who’d been there a few minutes before. He was shorter than his partner, had styled hair, a carefully shaped goatee, and the beady eyes of a B-picture con artist. The name Willie was embroidered over his front pocket next to a laminated ID badge. And he was smart enough to know when to scram. He headed for the door.

  “Nope,” I said reaching for him. But it was Judith who stopped him by sticking an umbrella between his legs. He lurched forward and fell on the floor. In a second I was on top of him with his arms behind his back.

  “Cue, help!” shouted Willie to his partner. But Cue was tied up at the moment.

  “Judith? Would you call the police, please?”

  “I already have, Maggie,” Judith said.

  Willie grunted. “I’m with the water department.”

  “Yeah, sure,” I said dryly.

  Judith looked at me sitting on Willie’s back and said, “Oh dear.”

  *******

  Rapid response is the motto of the Fenchester Police Department. They were there in five minutes. The first thing the officer said was, “Big bald guy and short guy with pointy beard! This is great. These guys are part of a band wanted for four other home invasions.”

  Cue had Judith’s pearl earrings, her gold necklace, and about $100 of her cash in his pocket. She’d kept these items in her jewelry box on her dresser and hadn’t seen Cue snatch them on his way to check the bathroom pipes while Willie kept her busy. The police bagged the evidence, gave Judith a receipt, and hauled the perps away in a squad car in record time.

  “Maggie, how did you know these men were up to no good simply from our phone conversation?” Judith asked as we walked back to Farrell and Jessie’s.

  “City workers don’t make cold calls on Sundays. They would never have just shown up at your house unless you’d reported an emergency. Criminals often pose as utility workers.” I didn’t add that they also often prey on old people.

  “I feel foolish. I suppose Farrel will scold me.”

  “You stopped the thief, Judith. You’re a rock star.”

  “Rock star? Don’t be silly,” she insisted. “Will they go to prison?”

  “Probably, for a while.”

  Judith sighed. “It was poor judgment to let them in.” She shook her head as we came through Farrell and Jessie’s door. Judith complimented Jessie on the wonderful aromas, got herself a cup of coffee, and sat down next to Cora.

  I heard Cora exclaim, “Oh no, dear, that’s terrible!”

  “Is
everything all right?” asked Jessie, collecting serving platters and utensils.

  “Everything is fine. Judith will tell you about it later.”

  “She seems to be having a good time telling Cora now. Oh, there’s the garage door,” said Jessie happily.

  Farrel and Kathryn wiped their feet on the backdoor mat and pushed through the kitchen door. They were laden with full canvas sacks.

  Jessie took Farrel’s bags as Farrel shrugged out of her heavy jacket and pulled off her wool cap. Jessie kissed Farrel and smiled at her with a moment of joy so pure that it showed the depth of their love.

  “You look like a Steiff hedgehog. Why didn’t you tell me about the ghost?” said Jessie looking up at Farrel.

  Farrel pressed down her staticky gray-blond hair with both hands, but it popped back up. “I wasn’t scared, really, Jessie, I wasn’t,” insisted Farrel.

  The warm kitchen flushed Kathryn’s face pink at her cheekbones. She was wearing a soft gray sweater with a Sabrina neckline and a dark green scarf that was just the right shade to flatter her auburn hair. She was perfectly in style, which she seemed to achieve effortlessly and which I never seem to achieve at all.

  Kathryn and I were still at that point in our relationship where everything about her—her voice, the way she moved, the look in her eyes—made me yearn for her. The intensity of it wasn’t waning. Her steel-blue gaze focused on me. It held the promise of erotic things to come.

  I’d gotten home so late she’d been fast asleep when I crawled into bed. This morning before dawn I’d barely felt her leave for the market.

  “I’ve missed you,” I said, taking Kathryn’s canvas bag. She put one arm around my waist and we kissed.

  “Have you already eaten everything?” asked Kathryn. “As though that would be possible in Jessie’s kitchen!”

  “I haven’t had a thing. We were waiting for you.”

  “Uh huh, and that bacon-flavored kiss was just your new toothpaste?”

  “Pigsodent?” I suggested.

  Farrel said, “Hogs of Maine?”

  “Sens-o-swine?” I asked.

  “Can you get swine flu from that?” asked Farrel.

  “I read about it in Porks Illustrated.”

  “STOP!” groaned Jessie and Kathryn in unison.

  Then Kathryn said, smirking, “Really, it’s a bore... a wild boar.”

  Farrel and I both snorted.

  Jessie said to Kathryn, “Oh no, not you too! Besides, it’s soy-bacon,” as she handed Farrel a pitcher of juice and waved her toward the table.

  Farrel glanced around the room and asked, “Where’s Amanda?” just as the front doorbell rang.

  Amanda Knightbridge, the host of yesterday’s neighborhood meeting, asked, “Am I late?” as she unwrapped her long woolen scarf. “Are your sister and her partner coming this morning, Maggie?”

  “They both said they were too swamped with work.”

  Amanda unbuttoned her camel hair coat. She was wearing a multi-shade purple wool sweater and a long brown skirt that came to the top of her boots. Amanda was quite a bit taller than Cora Martin, but an inch or two shorter than Judith Levi. Though her figure was imposing, she seemed to float when she walked, like a nun in a Fellini movie.

  “Will Mickey be joining us?” Amanda asked Cora.

  Cora shook her head. “Mickey watches cartoons on weekend mornings. To him, it’s a religion.”

  Amanda said, “What a shame Kathryn’s new department head has called a retreat for later today. I’m sure you wanted Kathryn all to yourself this afternoon, Maggie.”

  Amanda went to sit next to Judith, who told her the story of the bogus water company crew in a low voice. When Farrel came to the table, Judith said to Amanda in a louder voice, “Farrel was out late with Maggie in the cemetery endeavoring to thwart vandals, and she left at the crack of dawn this morning to scour the antique markets with Kathryn!”

  Kathryn yawned. “It was quite a bit before dawn.”

  “But did you get anything great, girls?” asked Cora Martin in the standard fashion of antique dealers.

  “I got a very nice porcelain pug dog I think you might like, Cora. Oh, and two very old spoons made of coin silver. One with an urn on the back of the bowl and the other has the image of a bird flying out of a cage. Quite interesting and in fine condition,” Farrel said in Amanda’s direction.

  “Show me the dog, dahling,” said Cora in a businesslike way.

  “And I’d like to see the spoons, Farrel. As you knew I would,” said Amanda happily.

  I sat down at the table, knowing that negotiations take precedence over eating. Kathryn sat beside me. She lay her hand in mine. For the next few minutes our fingers did their own subtle erotic dance.

  Cora pulled a multi-lens jeweler’s loupe from her handbag. Farrel carefully unwrapped and handed her a foot-tall ceramic dog figurine with flashing glass eyes.

  Cora examined the dog expertly, holding it in the sunlight, as she and Farrel discussed price in low voices.

  I leaned to Kathryn’s ear and asked, “How much did Farrel pay for the dog?”

  “She got it in a booth full of things tumbled together in cardboard boxes. She made an offer of forty-five dollars and the dealer took it after asking if she’d pay cash,” whispered Kathryn.

  “Really? Hmm.”

  “What’s Cora paying her for it?” Kathryn asked.

  “I think I heard $350.”

  Kathryn quietly gasped in surprise. “Why? What is it?”

  “It looks German, mid-1800s, maybe Dresden, and it’s very fine. Cora loves this kind of thing. Don’t worry about the mark-up. Cora doesn’t begrudge Farrel a profit. Cora never buys something unless she can triple the price. It may take her awhile but she’ll make a lot more money than Farrel did. And Cora didn’t have to get up before the freezing February dawn to find it.”

  Amanda fished a large magnifying glass out of her copious bag to inspect the fragile-looking silver spoons. Amanda was a collector, a very different animal than a dealer.

  “Quite early, are they not, Farrel?” she said, tracing her finger over the figural designs on the backs of their bowls.

  “Shall I look up the maker?” asked Farrel.

  “There’s no need. I recognize the marks of the silversmith. Mannerbach, about 1820. Made just about sixty miles from here. The urn is very distinct and the bird is lovely. I can clearly see the cage.”

  Kathryn asked me, “Why is it called coin silver?”

  “I don’t know as much about this as Farrel, but in the United States, real silver spoons are always marked with the word ‘sterling’ if they were made after 1865. Sterling literally means 92.5% pure silver. Before 1865 in the US, silver pieces were made in the same standard as silver coins, about 90% silver, and they only have the maker’s name and sometimes the town where they were made. Right now, sterling is at a very high price per ounce. So spoons like these, even though they’re real antiques, are at risk. Somebody might sell them for ‘melt’ just to get a quick return.”

  “Isn’t the art museum selling some old silver things that were donated to them in the past? Didn’t you tell me that, Farrel?” asked Judith.

  Farrel looked up; her negotiations with Amanda were apparently finished. “Yes, they’re selling some of the works they never show, from their stockpiles in storage. Mostly duplicate items. I asked Piper Staplehurst about the sale when we were at Amanda’s. Piper’s in charge of the liquidation. She said I could make a bid on some of the lots.”

  “I’m not sure selling off the museum collections is a wise idea,” said Amanda.

  But the antique dealers in the group firmly disagreed.

  “Oh no, dahling, museums have tons of pieces they never show. The Metropolitan Museum in New York has ten blocks of underground storage with thousands of pieces that haven’t seen the light of day for a hundred years. It’s good for the Fenchester museum to thin. And money supports the museum much better than a full closet,” said Cora.
>
  “I’ll get a box for these spoons, Amanda,” said Farrel.

  Amanda dug in her handbag for her checkbook.

  “Was the bird escaping the cage to celebrate America’s Independence?” asked Judith looking at the small design on the back of one of the spoons.

  Amanda nodded, and Judith passed the spoons to Kathryn so she and I could see the intricate designs. Amanda said, “Good show, Farrel. You know just what I like, and I’ll be a happy pauper by the time you’re through with me if you keep bringing me lovely finds like this.”

  “I’m glad I could rescue these little pieces of history from the scrapper,” said Farrel.

  “Do antique dealers often sell to each other?” Kathryn asked me.

  I said with a laugh, “Don’t you know that old joke? It goes, Five antique dealers were stranded on a desert island... And business was brisk!”

  Kathryn responded with an unbridled laugh. I glanced over at Farrel, who was watching Kathryn. She raised her eyebrows at me. I felt a tingle and hid a smile.

  I cleared my throat, then asked Kathryn, “Did you find anything interesting at the market?”

  Farrel said, “I think Kathryn found some things that were really good. I’m dying to hear what you all think.”

  “But we should all eat first!” said Kathryn.

  “Yes, please, everyone eat,” said Jessie, sitting at the head of the table. Conversation was lost to food consumption for the next ten minutes. The warm scratch biscuits with Jessie’s homemade peach jam from the peach tree in their backyard were a runaway hit. The main focus was a corn and potato pot pie with a flaky crust. Haute comfort food for a cold February morning. The appreciation for it flowed like the peach jam.

  “We have a lot to talk about this morning. I had one of those... A brush with fame. But later for that,” said Cora. “Ghosts in... what do the old-timers call it... Skeleton Park? Yes, tell about the ghosts.”