A Killing in Antiques Read Online Free

barn.
    I had no helper today. TJ, my latest and most unlikely Sherpa, was back at the Cape. He’d drive up to Brimfield twice this week, tomorrow and Friday. We’d load up a big rental truck, packing it tight for the trip back to the Cape. Then, on a quiet day next week, with Brimfield over, we’d return once again and empty the barn.
    It wasn’t until I was once again gathering and safely repacking my booty in Supercart that I noticed the sound of sirens coming from the other side of Route 20. In fact, it dawned on me that the sirens had been there for some time, but I had been communing so perfectly with my greed that I had blocked nearly everything else out.
     
    It was time to head for the van and unload. I wanted Supercart empty for the six o’clock opening. Three fields opened at six o’clock this morning, and I had found premium goods at each at one time or another.
    But first I stopped at a truck that had been tantalizing me with its aromas. I decided to join the parking attendant for breakfast, and chose an exquisite pair of Italian sausage subs smothered with onions and peppers. An unusual offering for this hour of the morning, but the maître d’ had no trouble accommodating the crowd, many of whom had been working here since before midnight.
    An animated crowd had gathered at the nearby coffee truck, and there was no mistaking its excited chatter for the usual buzz. Something big was happening. Since I suffer from terminal nosiness, I moved toward a fellow whose histrionics had attracted a crowd of listeners.
    “The guy was murdered,” he said. “At the back of that field.” He was pointing in the direction of a field across Route 20, slightly south of us.
    Several others joined the crowd, and he turned to face us. His gestures became even more exaggerated as he attempted to dramatize a struggle that included strangling himself until his eyes bulged. Then, in a hoarse whisper, he delivered his trump line. “He was strangled with a piece of lace.”
    “Lace?”
    I was dumbfounded. Few places felt safer than Brimfield. There have been some flare-ups through the years, but no real violence.
    The leading man seemed to have exhausted himself and his information. A woman nearby pulled a mahogany Regency chair out of her cart. She offered it to him. He sat down, breathed deeply, and some color came back into his face.
    Meanwhile, bits of information trickled through the gathering.
    “He was found at daybreak,” someone put in.
    And then I heard who it was. My God, Monty Rondo. I felt the breath get knocked right out of me, and I must have teetered, because the woman with the Regency chair said, “Do you need a chair, too? I only have the one, but I think this fellow has recovered.”

3
    M onty Rondo. Dead. I stood, gaping. The two huge sausage and pepper sandwiches trembled in my hands. This can’t be. Monty murdered. The jolt was too terrible to absorb. What should I do?
    What I did do is try to deal with the sandwiches. I made a nest for them in Supercart’s cache. My hands shook as I tucked paper around them, and I made a pretty good mess of the job. I pushed Supercart to the parking lot, and all of a sudden it weighed a thousand pounds.
    I stopped and leaned against it.
    “Was he a friend of yours?”
    It was the parking attendant. Word of the murder had spread, and the kid seemed to realize that I was shaken.
    Was Monty my friend? I hadn’t thought about it. He’d been part of my life for fifteen years. We’d done business together. We’d come to know each other, know about each other. I’d looked forward to his offbeat chatter, to the prizes he’d picked for me. He was more than just a business connection.
    “Yes,” I said. I just hadn’t realized it before.
    “So what happened?” he asked.
    “Someone strangled him with lace.”
    The kid looked at me, eyes wide, mouth a perfect circle. “Lace? You mean, like, a tablecloth?”
    “More like a strip of lace. It could have come from a