“Yeah, nowt like the usual rubbish.” Cyril Mackey, the English curmudgeon who ran the salvage yard, sidled up alongside us. He nodded to Joe, but ignored Martha and me. As usual, he wore a flat cap and a tweed jacket that had seen better days. He was a Yorkshireman of indeterminate age and background, and as tough as the heather clinging to the moors in a bitter gale blowing off the Pennines.
Martha sniffed at the sight of Cyril. “Apparently the physical evidence points to Angus as the culprit. His fingerprints are all over the murder weapon—a heavy barn beam.”
“They were drinking together in the pub last night,” Cyril continued, addressing Joe. “You know how Angus likes to shoot his bloody mouth off. Everyone heard him crowing about those damn pens. He were right proud of the fact that he had summat decent to sell for once.”
Joe nodded at him. “Go on.”
“He had one beer and one whiskey too many, so Jimmy took his keys and drove him home. The keys to the auction house were also on that key ring, which is how the coppers think Jimmy managed to pinch the stuff.”
Martha glared at Cyril. “As I was saying, in the morning, Angus must have noticed the pens were missing. He realized Jimmy had the keys and went over to his house. There was some sort of argument, and he hit him with the beam.”
“Angus couldn’t have lifted something like that,” I said. “He’s in his early sixties, for God’s sake. Joe, how much do you think a barn beam would weigh?”
“Not sure. Probably well over a hundred pounds. Maybe one-fifty.”
“You ever see him haul some of this merchandise around?” Cyril spat a stream of tobacco juice onto the parking lot, perilously close to Martha’s yellow sandals. “Steamer trunks, mahogany furniture, boxes of books? The man’s still as strong as an ox.”
“Oh my God, here comes poor Betty.” Martha grabbed my arm as we saw Angus’s wife being helped out of the auction building.
Betty had recently had hip surgery, and was still walking with a slow, painful gait. While Martha stayed behind as roving reporter on the scene, Joe and I brought Betty over to the house. Joe rummaged around in the kitchen and made tea while I got her settled in an armchair in the living room, propped up with some cushions.
“He didn’t do it, Daisy. No matter what they’re saying.” Betty murmured her thanks as Joe gave her a cup of tea.
“Of course he didn’t.” I sat down on a faded cotton love seat with a cabbage rose design.
“Angus was too drunk for me and Jimmy to get him indoors, so we left him in the glider out on the porch. The big oaf was snoring like to wake the dead. I heard him come in later this morning and take a shower. My neighbor took me shopping, but I didn’t see him or speak to him before I left. I was still too mad.”
Shopping to calm down. I could appreciate that. Retail therapy always worked for me.
“So where are these pens? Do the police have them?”
“No, they’re gone. The police searched Jimmy’s place, the barn, the auction building. They even went through everything in the house, too. Everything. It was so embarrassing.”
A tear trickled down her wrinkled cheek. Joe handed her a box of tissues from the coffee table.
Angus and Betty had befriended us when we first bought a house in Millbury, a neighboring village about five miles away. Betty and I made a joke of the fact that while she was named Betty Backstead by marriage, I’d never quite been able to call myself Daisy Daly. I’d kept my maiden name of Buchanan. And yes, in case you’re wondering, my sainted mother was a huge F. Scott Fitzgerald fan.
“You know how Angus carries on when he’s been drinking,” she said. “He talks your ear off. Anyone in that pub could have had the idea to steal them. I’m not even sure Jimmy did it.”
“But what does Angus say?”
“He can’t remember anything past leaving the bar. He can’t remember how he got home.” She took a sip of tea. “It’s the drinking, Daisy. It’s been getting bad lately. He has blackouts. Loses whole chunks of time. I’ve begged him to get help, but he wouldn’t listen. And now this . . .”
She blew her nose again. “He forgets things all the time. He even forgets where he’s going. I do the driving now or we’d end up in Pittsburgh.”
Twenty minutes later, after straightening up the house, Joe and I took our leave of Betty. I promised to stop by the next day.
Joe and I were both silent as we pulled out of the lot and back onto Sheepville Pike. I stared out of the car window at the rolling road, flanked by trees and fields on either side. We passed the riding stable, The Paddocks, with its white corrugated metal buildings, horse trailers, and red barn with grassy bank leading up to the main door. A split rail wooden fence stretched the length of the property, and a red cart wheel was propped up at the entrance.