A Killing in Antiques Read Online Free Page A

tablecloth, maybe the edge of an old tablecloth, I suppose.”
    “But wouldn’t an old piece of lace fall apart when you pulled on it?”
    “Old lace looks fragile, and with some kinds you can pull one thread and have it unravel, but a strip of lace itself is as sturdy as a rope, even after it’s been laundered and bleached for years.”
    He assimilated that information, and I handed him both sandwiches, apologizing for forgetting the coffee, but he stopped me.
    “I’ll help you load your stuff into the van, and you can tell me about it. I’ll get coffee later.”
    I nodded. The kid—he called himself Coylie—moved my things out of Supercart, and I arranged them in the van. I told him about Monty.
    The first thing you noticed about Monty was his voice. His thundering voice. “Even when you couldn’t see him, his booming voice announced his arrival,” I said. He talked nonstop, and at full volume. “He had stories for every situation.”
    The kid nodded; I think he listened the way my kids sometimes listen. Nodding and saying “uh-huh” occasionally. But I went on anyway. “He could be so irritating, you could strangle the guy sometimes.” I stopped, realizing what I had said. The kid looked up and smiled. Just as well if he wasn’t paying too much attention.
    When Supercart was empty we closed the van. Coylie slid his cap off and fanned his face with it. He ran the other hand through a mass of orange ringlets that sprang to life and caught the sunlight. He motioned me toward the lawn chairs he had set up at the entrance of the parking lot. There, he picked up both sandwiches and held one out for me. I shook my head but sat down in the other lawn chair. While Coylie ate, I babbled on; I couldn’t help myself.
    “He was very kind to me when I was starting out,” I said.
    “So why’d someone want to kill the guy?” Coylie asked as he started on a sandwich.
    “He could be a nuisance sometimes,” I said. “He never knew when to stop. He had no sense of what was playful teasing and what was a pain in the neck.”
    “You think someone’d kill him for that?” Coylie asked.
    “No, it was probably his cash. There’s a lot of cash around here today.”
    “Not in my pocket,” he said. Then he nodded and started the second sandwich. He checked his watch and reminded me that I wanted to be at a six o’clock opening. I pulled myself to my feet and headed toward Route 20. It would be good to keep busy. I rolled my empty cart in that direction.
     
    In spite of his colorful ways, or perhaps because of them, I had enjoyed Monty’s company. He had acquired a partner of sorts, called Silent Billy. The man was as quiet as Monty was noisy. Monty was highspirited, traveling in his own uproar. Silent Billy was devoted to him. I met Monty shortly after I opened my first little antiques shop in Worcester.
    That was when I still thought there was no more to the antiques business than opening a little shop and giving it a cute name. I wanted one of those darling little shops, a sort of antique boutique. I had been a collector of antiques since childhood, but I soon learned that the business was a whole different ball game from collecting pretty things.
    When the youngest of my brood entered high school, I opened my first shop, Olde Stuff. It was wonderful. I loved that shop. I thought of it as the fulfillment of a dream in my lifelong pursuit of antiques. But it was just the beginning.
    Monty was an early caller. He admired my shop vigorously, which brought his good taste to my attention. He also welcomed me into the antiques trade, and though he may have had an ulterior motive, it was nice of him and made me feel good.
    “I, myself, am in the junk trade,” he boomed.
    “Junk trade?”
    “Yes. Junk is the first level of the antiques business,” he said. “I, myself, find many beautiful objects that I bring to the auction houses and the antique shops. Yes, you people love to see me coming.”
    Well, well, well.