Going Through the Notions(18)

“Have the pens been found yet?” she demanded. “How the hell could you people have been so careless?”

I stepped closer to Betty. “Excuse me, but who are you?”

“She thought I wouldn’t find out about her little scheme, but I did!” Her smile was triumphant. “That bimbo took great delight in telling me she was selling them, but wouldn’t tell me where out of spite. I heard through my connections that some valuable pens were up for auction out in the boondocks. And so here I am!”

“The bimbo?” I asked, feeling as though I’d tuned in on a movie that was already halfway through.

“My father’s new wife.” She took a deep, shuddering breath. “Those pens belonged to my father, David Adams, an avid collector. He recently passed away. Knowing how much I wanted them, knowing how important Daddy’s pens were to me, she put them up for auction. God, I hate that bitch.”

Betty’s mouth hung open, her tea untouched.

“I was even willing to buy them back, which is why I came all the way from New York, only to find out they had been stolen.”

I held up a hand. “Excuse me, but who are you?”

“Fiona Adams,” she snapped, impatient with the interruption.

“Well, I’m Daisy Buchanan, and this is—”

“This would never have happened at a reputable auction house like Sotheby’s or Christie’s. I have no idea why she would let important collectibles be sold at such a podunk place. It’s not as if we’re selling boxes of National Geographic magazines, for Christ’s sake.”

“Why do you think she sent them here?” My pulse accelerated. Was this the connection to the crooked estate liquidation company?

Fiona snorted. “Because she’s a stupid twit.”

“If she did put them up at Sotheby’s or Christie’s, you’d have had to pay a lot more to get them back.”

“That’s not the point,” she snarled.

Now that I studied her more closely, I saw that the elegance was tainted by the fact that her nose was rather hooked, and her teeth stuck out a shade too much, but in spite of that, she was still strangely attractive.

And how could she be so sure that the pens were hers?

She must have been thinking along the same lines as me when she turned to Betty. “I need to see the photos,” she demanded. “The full catalog description of the items.”

“I’m sorry,” Betty stammered. “But there aren’t any. Angus must have forgotten to do it. He used to be so meticulous.”

Normally auction items were cataloged, assigned a lot number, and photographed, but not this time, in yet another example of Angus’s recent absentminded behavior. Or was he involved in the shady scheme, too? I shook my head. I wasn’t going to let myself go down that road.

“I wasted most of Sunday trying to get some answers out of that moronic detective. And I came here again yesterday, but no one was around.” Fiona Adams glared at Betty, who mumbled something about being at her brother’s house for the day.

“Oh, for God’s sake. I don’t know how much more of this crap I can take.” She pulled out a long slim cigarette and was about to light it, when I stepped forward.

“You can’t smoke in here. Come outside with me, please.” Not only did I not want her smoking in the building, but Betty was getting visibly upset.

I walked out without looking back, but I heard her high heels strike the concrete floor as she followed me. I had to smile at the thought of this hyper woman haranguing Detective Ramsbottom, but I’d be damned if I’d let her bully poor Betty.

“Do you have any idea how much those pens are worth?” She shook her head and let out a thin stream of smoke once we were outside. “Never mind. You couldn’t possibly understand.”

I gritted my teeth. Hey, I was from New York, too. And a person didn’t live in the Big Apple, and teach there for years, without acquiring a little moxie.

“Look, I might not know much about fountain pens, but I do know something about antiques.” I rattled off a few descriptions of choice items at the store, and their impressive retail prices. I knew I was showing off, but I had to assert some control over the situation. Hands at your sides, class, facing front, eyes on me!

“I suppose I see your point,” she said stiffly.

“I want to find out what happened as much as you do. Then I can prove my good friend Angus didn’t kill Jimmy Kratz.”

“Mark my words. I’m going to find those pens, and that bitch is going to pay.” She threw her spent cigarette on the ground and stalked over to a silver Mercedes-Benz Roadster slanted across a parking space.