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A Fatal Appraisal Molly Appleby loves her job at Collector’s Weekly covering auctions and estate sales all over the South. When her latest assignment takes her to Richmond, Virginia, to interview the staff of the hit TV show Hidden Treasures, she’s expecting a quick, fun trip. But when one of the show’s appraisers is found murdered, Molly realizes that once again she’ll have to put on her detective’s cap until the culprit is captured. As Richmond locals flock to the show hoping their family heirlooms turn out to be valuable antiques, Molly’s busy behind the scenes interviewing the show’s staff and tracking down clues. When yet another staff member is gruesomely murdered and Molly herself is threatened, she’s determined to discover which of the expert cast members of Hidden Treasures might be hiding a sinister secret, because no matter how priceless, she knows that no antique is literally to die for.
Beyond the Page Books are published by Beyond the Page Publishing www.beyondthepagepub.com This is a fully revised edition of a book that was originally published under the name J. B. Stanley, copyright © 2006 by Jennifer Stanley. Revised edition copyright © 2015 by Jennifer Stanley. Material excerpted from A Deadly Dealer copyright © 2007, 2015 by Jennifer Stanley. Cover design and illustration by Dar Albert, Wicked Smart Designs ISBN: 978-1-940846-39-2 All rights reserved under International and PanAmerican Copyright Conventions. By payment of required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this book. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented
without the express written permission of both the copyright holder and the publisher. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
For my grandfather, Louis C. Winters It’s been over twenty years since I sat on your lap and we wrote a story together on that old typewriter, but I still feel your hands beneath mine each time I reach for the keys.
Contents Prologue Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 A Brief Note on Secret Hiding Places in Antique Furniture Excerpt from A Deadly Dealer Books by Ellery Adams About the Author
Indeed there can be no more important branch of art than that which regulates the forms of the furniture among which our children grow up, for such forms, according to their good or bad taste, their harmonious or their crude lines, their satisfying or their poor proportions, their skillful or their careless craftsmanship, must inevitably leave their impress on the minds of the young people who develop under their silent, but nonetheless eloquent, influence. —Arthur De Bles, Genuine Antique Furniture
Prologue Williamsburg, Virginia, 1776 Thomas Fleming was bent over, robustly sanding a long yellow pine board with a piece of sharkskin until his forearms were flecked with wood dust. The boards were neatly joined using animal glue and thin wooden dowels until they had formed a perfect rectangle. This box would become the bottom case of Captain Tarling’s new slant-front desk. Thomas ran his hands over the smooth wood. He loved the large knots and the shadows of dark grain within the yellow pine. It was a wonderful material to build with, subtle and malleable, unlike the inflexible and short-tempered man who had commissioned the desk. As if summoned by Thomas’s thoughts, the silhouette of Captain Edward Tarling suddenly filled the doorway of Samuel Chauncey’s cabinetmakers shop. “Mr. Chauncey?” Captain Tarling called in his abrasive voice, as he swept a white-gloved hand in an arc as if leading a parade. “How is my cupboard coming?” Samuel put down the plane he was using to even out a thick plank of mahogany and turned to greet his client. “Coming along very well, sir,” Samuel answered amiably. “I’ve placed it first above all my other orders. The carcass is done and I am working on the doors myself.” Captain Tarling seemed mollified by this explanation. Samuel was the most sought after cabinetmaker in Williamsburg, and only colonists desiring fine furniture made in the latest styles placed their orders with Samuel Chauncey. “That is well indeed, but I need my desk completed now—even before the cupboard,” the captain announced with authority. “My wife and her china can wait. My business requires the desk most urgently.”
“Yes, sir. I will see that it is finished by the week’s end.” Samuel offered a slight bow and the captain responded with a grunt, after which he swept from the workshop and climbed ungracefully into his open carriage, pausing long enough for the carpenters to note the run in his fine silk stockings. A stunning pair of gray mares with braided manes and tails pulled the carriage forward in a cloud of dust, but not before a young lady with honey hair turned her fair face toward the workshop and smiled demurely. “His wig was crooked,” Samuel mused to himself as he tugged on his gray beard. Then he turned to Thomas, who was rooted to the ground gazing after the captain’s carriage. “Lad, never you mind that pretty face. Miss Tarling is well out of your reach. Now, as we have discussed, your apprenticeship has come to its end. I have nothing more to teach you, but before I let you go, I shall have you complete Captain Tarling’s desk. This is a rare opportunity, my boy, to illustrate your talents. You see, the captain has requested certain, ah, novelties be added to this desk.” “Novelties?” Thomas asked, uncomprehending. “He wants three secret compartments built large enough to hide— now what did he say?—ah yes, big enough to hide a handkerchief within.” Thomas raised his brows. “Three secret compartments to hold handkerchiefs? How odd. I’d wager that dandy of a man is only concerned with the cut of his coat. How can a man who grows rich trading in molasses instead of picking up a musket against the redcoats have any secrets worth hiding?” Samuel took up his plane and resumed his work on the mahogany. “People fight in different ways against the Crown, Thomas. Keep in mind how much we depend on our sea trade for life’s little luxuries. The captain has gotten ships through more than one blockade, providing our town with much-needed supplies.” “If I didn’t have this crippled leg,” Thomas muttered angrily for the hundredth time, “I’d do more than run some blockade! The captain could be attacking the British with his ships, not running to the West Indies for sugar cane and indigo. And it strikes me as odd that his are the only ships that return unharmed.”
Samuel’s weatherworn face wrinkled sternly. “Mind what you say about Captain Tarling. His hat may be worth more than my entire shop, but his finery conceals a sharp mind and a long memory for those who insult him. And he’s a patriot, else he’d have run back to England with the rest of the cursed Loyalists.” “Not all of them went back,” Thomas muttered under his breath and returned to his sanding. He worked long after the others had gone home, as he was a bachelor whose only love was for the wood he crafted. The weak light of two candles set in shallow bowls allowed him to work in blissful solitude. “You’re the last piece I shall make beneath another man’s sign,” Thomas whispered to the desk case. He retied his loose ponytail of ginger-red hair with a leather string and began to place the dadoes inside the case. Using a hacksaw, chisel, and molding plane, Thomas spent several peaceful hours attaching the bearer rails and drawer runners. He tightly clamped the pieces of glued wood and then straightened, examining his work. Today’s labors had created the frame for the four graduated drawers, which Thomas would fashion tomorrow out of black walnut. Flipping through the book containing Mr. Chippendale’s most popular designs, Thomas decided to replace the desk’s typical ball and claw foot with a simpler style. Captain Tarling had asked for an unadorned, functional desk and, despite his dislike of the wealthy patron, Thomas approved of the captain’s willingness to allow the beauty of the wood to speak for itself without gaudy carving. As Thomas sketched the plain curve of what he thought the foot should look like, he found his eye wandering to Chippendale’s drawings of pigeonholes. The possibilities for adding hiding places among the pigeonholes were numerous. What did Captain Tarling have to hide? And from whose eyes? Thomas shrugged aside such aimless musings and prepared to leave for the night. First he would head home to the boarding house for supper and then perhaps grab a pint in the tavern afterward. After all, there was cause for celebration. In a fortnight, he would be the proprietor of his own shop in Fredericksburg and men the likes of Captain Tarling would become an insignificant memory.
Chapter 1 Fewer and fewer Americans possess objects that have a patina, old furniture, grandparents’ pots and pans—the used things, warm with generations of human touch . . . —Susan Sontag, On Photography It wasn’t every day that Molly Appleby found herself driving behind a dilapidated brown pickup with a bumper sticker reading Eat my grits. A minefield of rust patches on the truck’s body gave it a diseased look as it rattled noisily forward. The rear window of the old Chevy was covered with the washed-out design of the Confederate flag. Molly had spent the last two hours on Interstate 85 heading north for Richmond while staring straight through the faded film of red and blue at the back of the heads of two men in baseball caps. In between them perched a large dog with long, floppy ears who occasionally stepped over the man in the passenger seat so that he could stick a furry head out the window, his pink tongue wagging ecstatically in the wind. Molly glanced down at her speedometer. She was doing eighty, fifteen miles over the speed limit. Apprehensively, she slowed down to seventy-five, craning her neck to see if the gap in the trees would reveal a state trooper waiting to pounce upon unsuspecting speeders. The highway stretching from the North Carolina border to Petersburg, Virginia, was a notorious speed trap. The niche in the trees was fortuitously empty, so Molly picked up speed again, unable to resist getting closer to her canine friend in the pickup. Molly turned up the radio and sang along to “Son of a Preacher Man.” Unlike most thirty-year-olds, she loved oldies and knew the lyrics to almost every song that came on her favorite station. As Molly bobbed her head in time to the music, she wondered what her trip to Richmond would be like. She was driving the two and a half hours north of her home base in Durham, North Carolina, in order to spend a week documenting the hit TV show Hidden Treasures.
As a staff writer for Collector’s Weekly, Molly regularly covered the auction beat, visited tag and estate sales with high-quality items, and interviewed collectors living mostly in Virginia and North Carolina, but she sometimes traveled to Tennessee or South Carolina as well. Her region covered a triangular area. Nashville was the western point, Alexandria, Virginia, marked the northern border, and Charleston, South Carolina, formed the Southern point. Molly felt as though she had spent the last month in her car. First, she had driven to Charlottesville for a well-established antique show featuring country furniture. The exhibit on loan at this year’s show had been called “Southern Quilts: Stories in Thread.” Molly had interviewed booth dealers, customers, and the show promoter before paying a visit to an elderly woman named Nancy Coleridge, who had loaned a portion of her quilt collection to the show. In addition to her generous loan of fifty quilts, Mrs. Coleridge still had over two hundred vintage Southern quilts as well as numerous coverlets displayed in her mansion on the outskirts of the city. Molly had spent a pleasant afternoon sipping powerfully strong mint juleps on Mrs. Coleridge’s veranda as the older woman told tales of the different places she had purchased her quilts. From garage sales to some of the most distinctive auction houses throughout the country, Nancy Coleridge’s hunting ground reached far and wide. After filling up the last line in her small notebook with the woman’s stories, Molly finally excused herself and wobbled back to her hotel room, where she collapsed in a heap on the creaky bed. The two articles she had planned to begin that evening, one on the show followed by a second article about Mrs. Coleridge’s breathtaking collection, remained unwritten. She had only been home in Durham for a few days before her boss, a cantankerous, overweight man named Carl Swanson, called her into the office to send her packing to cover an auction in Charleston, South Carolina. “Can’t anyone else cover it?” Molly had pleaded. “I still have to write up the two Charlottesville pieces. I’m only halfway through the Southern quilts article.”
Swanson, irascible as ever, chewed frantically on his nicotine gum and howled, “No! You’re going and you’re going now.” Molly beat a hasty retreat, grateful to get away from Swanson’s fetid breath and crimson face. Ever since her boss had decided to quit smoking, he was more intolerable than ever, yelling at anyone who crossed his path and snacking feverishly on Krispy Kreme donuts, cheese crackers, or beef jerky followed by several squares of nicotine gum. His temper was intimidating, but the odor of his sweat-stained clothes and foul breath was almost deadly. After her escape, Molly barely had time to pop her head into Marketing Director Matt Harrison’s office and explain that she was leaving town again. Matt had just returned from a sales conference and they had plans to spend the weekend together. Since June, their schedules had only allowed for three dates, two of which were wonderful, romantic dinners, and the third a quick lunch before Molly hit the road again. Now, autumn was upon them and Molly felt that despite her efforts to call Matt nightly from the road, their relationship wasn’t developing the intimacy that either of them sought. After entering his office, Molly immediately closed the door. Though some of the Collector’s Weekly staff knew about the romantic nature of her relationship with Matt, Molly preferred to be discreet. She’d rather not have Carl Swanson making cynical remarks about her love life. Molly seated herself in one of the two chairs facing Matt’s desk, nervously smoothed her long cotton skirt, and quietly told him that she was leaving for Charleston and would have to cancel their plans for dinner and a movie. “We can’t seem to get a break,” Matt had sighed, running his fingers through his sandy brown hair. His light blue eyes showed only a moment’s disappointment before his customary shy and utterly charming smile returned. “Don’t worry”—he stood and enveloped Molly in a quick but tender hug—“I’ll be here when you get back.” Molly gazed up at him as he tucked a strand of her shoulderlength, dark brown hair behind her ear. She felt a sense of
desperation welling up inside of her. How long could they put their relationship on hold? Instead of clinging to Matt and professing how much she longed to stay with him, Molly smiled weakly and fumbled for something to say. She wanted to ease the tension, to exchange some light banter and coax a laugh from the man standing before her. Matt searched Molly’s slate gray eyes, which were framed with a sweep of dark lashes, for any indication of what was going on in her mind. He longed to kiss her lush, pouting lips, but they were at work, so he unwillingly released his hold on her. Yet she was clearly reluctant to let go. With her hand resting on his arm, she sensed his desire to kiss her and her body responded in kind. But she knew that if she kissed him now, she’d never want to leave. “Okay, then,” Molly had finally blurted, her heart thudding like a drum in her chest. “I’d better get going. I’ll . . . I’ll call you.” Conscious of Matt’s eyes on her as she walked out of his office, Molly wished for the millionth time that she was a slim size six instead of a full-figured size fourteen. Her cheeks grew warm and she felt as though every staff member was staring at her curvy hips, full breasts, and thick legs as she hastened around the cubicles and out to the lobby. The sensation made her long for the comfort of an iced cappuccino and a plate of shortbread cookies. During the weekend in Charleston, where the muggy weather had necessitated three changes of clothes per day, Molly sat under a stifling tent taking notes through two days of lot after lot of Chinese export porcelain and heavily ornamented oak furniture until she thought she would swoon. Molly left Charleston as soon as the hammer fell on the final lot. Driving well over the speed limit on the way back to Durham, Molly had called Matt at home, hoping to make a last-minute Sunday night dinner date. His answering machine picked up, and after listening wistfully to his soft, mellifluous voice, Molly left a hasty and slightly stilted message saying that she had missed him and to call her soon. The next day, his office remained empty and Molly received no communication from him at all. Reluctant to ask Swanson to explain
Matt’s absence, Molly approached the only person who catalogued every detail about each employee’s life, both personal and professional, and wouldn’t hesitate to share. Clayton, the self-titled “Queen of Classifieds,” was the staff’s most flamboyant dresser and was cattier than a sorority girl. He imbibed copious amounts of coffee and though he was constantly eating, never gained an additional ounce. Molly adored him. “Darling,” Clayton cooed, smoothing down a wave of his carefully styled salt-and-pepper hair as he sat opposite Molly in the break room. He flung the tail of a pink-and-white-checked scarf around his neck and reached for her hand. “Where have you been?” “Miss me?” Molly asked, her flawless complexion lighting up with pleasure. But her delight was short-lived. The image of Matt’s empty office and the lack of messages on her answering machine prompted a glum sigh. “I’ve been everywhere but where I want to be,” she moaned, letting her head sink onto the white laminate surface of the table. “You mean you’d rather be in the arms of that dashing man down the hall?” Clayton gestured in the direction of Matt’s office. “Kind of hard to date a guy when you never see each other. Matt hasn’t even shown up for work today. Do you know where he is, Clayton?” Molly asked. Clayton examined his neat nails and pretended not to hear her question. “Do you think clear nail polish is gay?” he asked. “No. And if it is, so what? You are gay,” Molly snapped, narrowing her gray eyes at her friend. “Are you hiding something from me?” “Well, I’m certainly out of the closet so, no, I’m not hiding anything,” Clayton said mischievously and avoided looking at Molly. He liked to take his time whenever he had a juicy tidbit of gossip to share. He helped himself to an orange from the bowl in the center of the table and began to meticulously peel the fruit, filling the room with its citrus scent. Finally, he popped a segment into his mouth and chewed with deliberate slowness. When Molly didn’t react, he sighed. “Fine, you win. No suspense for Miss Molly.” “Just spill.”
Clayton rolled his eyes. “Matt had to fly to Ohio. Something to do with his brother.” “Is he all right?” Molly was instantly alarmed. “The brother? I heard something about a car accident. Even though I had my ear pressed to your man’s office door, I couldn’t get all the details.” Molly nodded, brows creased with worry. “I have no way of reaching Matt in Ohio. I don’t even know what town his brother lives in. I hope he calls me before I leave for Richmond in a few hours.” “Richmond?” Clayton grimaced. “Ugh. Not a good place to be gay. Too, too conservative. Still, they have some fabulous restaurants there. Better than the barbeque and chicken-fried steak crapola posing as restaurants around here. You’ll just love eating in Carytown.” “Sure, but who am I going to eat with?” Molly felt depressed. “I am tired of being on the road. See you in a week,” she said glumly, scooping up her coffee mug. Now here she was in Virginia, twenty miles south of Petersburg following a sputtering pickup and singing the bittersweet lyrics of Simon and Garfunkel’s “Scarborough Fair.” She hadn’t heard from Matt before leaving town and was beginning to feel that obstacles were going to continue popping up to prevent them from becoming a real couple. Suddenly, flashing blue lights appeared in the rearview mirror of her seven-year-old silver Jeep. The lights belonged to a state trooper. “Damn it!” Molly yelled as she pulled over to the shoulder. The pickup sped merrily onward as Molly turned off her radio and rolled down her window, preparing for the worst. Even though she was paid a respectable salary to do what she loved most, Molly had little money left over at the end of the month. She was always surprised by how much of her check was eaten up by utility bills and the mortgage payment on her tiny house. Any extra cash went into her “Antique Investment Fund,” which consisted of a roll of bills stashed inside a vase. Right now she was saving to buy a chest of drawers for her bedroom, and a hundred-and-fifty-
dollar speeding ticket coupled with a hike in insurance payments would take a big bite out of her cache. The trooper approached the door of her Jeep in a spotless and pressed uniform with knifelike creases on his dark brown pants and a pair of black boots that shone like glass in the midday sun. He was short and stocky with thick arms and legs. Dark stubble framed his leathery, tanned cheeks and his brown hat covered up most of his hairless head. Removing his mirrored sunglasses, he looked at Molly with dark, stern eyes and an unsmiling mouth. “License and registration,” the trooper demanded, carefully examining her front windshield. Molly followed his gaze and noticed that her inspection sticker was expired. Her shoulders drooped as she remembered that she had chosen to hang out at a bookstore instead of getting her car inspected the day the tag had expired. Thinking of her evaporating antique fund, Molly handed the officer her license while she continued searching her glove box for her registration. “I’ll find it,” she assured him, noting that his gleaming name tag read Jim Johnston. Officer Johnston frowned. “Do you know how fast you were going, miss?” Molly hated that question. Of course she didn’t know the exact speed. Obviously, she had been going too fast, but the trooper didn’t need to rub it in with his rhetorical question. “No, Officer,” she answered, deciding she had best be polite. “I clocked you at seventy-seven miles per hour. This is a sixty-fivemile-per-hour zone. Did you happen to notice that?” “Not really, sir,” Molly said meekly. “What’s your rush then?” he asked emotionlessly. Molly finally found her registration and handed it to the trooper. “Honestly, my mind was just wandering. I didn’t even notice how fast I was going. I do have to be someplace by three o’clock though,” she added feebly. “Oh? And where’s that?” Johnston spotted the issue of Collector’s Weekly on her front seat and displayed a trace amount of curiosity. His upright composure seemed to relax a fraction.
Molly followed his gaze. She picked up the paper and held it out. “I work for this paper. I’m going to cover the taping of Hidden Treasures in Richmond.” Officer Johnston’s face lit up like a Christmas tree. “I love that show! I’ve been dying to bring some of my collection in for their experts to appraise.” “What do you collect?” Molly asked, surprised by the man’s instant change in demeanor. Would his interest in collectibles get her out of a ticket? “A bunch of things,” Johnston answered proudly. “Coca-Cola advertising, Hot Wheels, Lionel trains, and tobacco tins.” “Well,” Molly began, thinking furiously, “I’m sure I could get you into the show.” She handed him her business card. “That’s my cell phone number. Give me a call and I’ll try to get someone to look at one of your collections. I don’t think you can bring everything you own though,” she added hesitantly. “The appraisers prefer to examine a choice piece or two instead of a boxload of things.” “I’ll just bring my best Hot Wheels,” Johnston said, looking extremely pleased. He took his own card out of his wallet and handed it to her. Then, he seemed to remember his duty. His face clouded and the sternness returned, setting his jaw and transforming him into an unmistakable authority figure. “Look,” he said. “I’ve already called in your plate, so I’ve got to give you a ticket for something. I’ll write you up for your expired inspection if you promise not to speed in my state anymore.” “I promise!” Molly exclaimed, sinking back into the seat with a sigh of relief. She wiped her clammy palms on her pants and exhaled loudly. As she waited for Officer Johnston to fill out the paperwork in the comfort of his cruiser, she turned the radio back on. The Temptations sang “Heard It through the Grapevine,” and Molly hummed along, deciding not to share this anecdote with her mother, who would certainly berate her for almost receiving another speeding ticket. Her mother, Clara, also wanted Molly to invest in antiques. She never failed to offer her opinion when Molly purchased
something Clara deemed a complete waste of money, such as an Ann Taylor sweater set or a spa pedicure. She could almost hear her mother saying, “Now, if you had gone on to be a lawyer like I thought you should be, it wouldn’t take you a year to save up money for one piece of furniture.” Officer Johnston returned, holding out a clipboard so that Molly could add her name to the signature line, acknowledging the receipt of her ticket. She noticed that the fine for an expired inspection was only twenty-five dollars. “Thanks so much,” she told Johnston gratefully. “See you at the show, miss.” He tipped his cap. “And don’t let me catch you speeding on your way home to North Carolina,” he added firmly. “No, sir!” Molly started her engine in time to Van Morrison’s “Brown-Eyed Girl.” Before pulling back onto the highway, she glanced gratefully at the folded copy of Collector’s Weekly and smiled. “Thank god for collectors,” she said aloud in jubilant relief and once again headed north for Richmond. Molly pulled up in front of a stately brick row house in the heart of Richmond’s Fan District. A wooden sign reading Traveller with a painted silhouette of Robert E. Lee on horseback welcomed guests to the quaint bed-and-breakfast. The front of the house had gleaming bay windows topped by small, horizontal panes of multicolored stained glass. An orderly garden filled with English ivy, red and yellow dahlias, fuchsia coneflowers and budding chrysanthemums was alive with the frantic hum of bees and a cluster of skittish monarch butterflies. Molly lifted the brass horseshoe door knocker and rapped twice. The door was quickly opened by a short, plump woman rubbing flour-encrusted hands on a polka-dotted apron. Her light gray hair was cut in a bob, accentuating full, pink cheeks and two dimples that sprang into place as she smiled. “Mrs. Hewell?” Molly asked. “That’s me, dear,” the woman drawled in a genteel Southern accent. “Come in, come in. You must be Molly.”
“Yes,” Molly replied, looking away from the friendly woman to inspect the sunny hall. Her eyes fell on a Victorian coat rack decorated with vintage hats. Nearby was a porcelain umbrella stand filled with antique wooden walking sticks. Photographs and framed prints of Lee and his famous horse, Traveller, lined the walls. “You’re in luck.” Mrs. Hewell bustled her forward. “I’ve just finished making my famous cinnamon scones. We have teatime here at the Traveller. Don’t let it be said that Richmond doesn’t have class. Let me show you to your room first.” Mrs. Hewell led her up a curved mahogany staircase to a wide hall with two doors on each side and one on the end. “How many bedrooms do you have?” Molly asked. “Five. Mr. Hewell and I live out back in the converted garage. That’s where you can find us if you ever need anything,” Mrs. Hewell chirped, opening the second door to the right. A placard on the door read The Flow Blue in delicate script. “All the rooms are named after porcelain,” Mrs. Hewell explained. “I’ve been collecting for years and it seemed like a good theme for the guest rooms. I do like displaying my goodies for everyone to see. There’s no point in having them locked up inside some china cabinet. Besides, no guest has ever broken a single piece, and we’ve been running this place for twenty years.” Molly stepped into her room. The first thing she noticed was a large four-poster bed covered in an off-white quilt with a cobalt and white plaid coverlet folded neatly over the bottom half of the bed. Dark blue and white toile curtains with sheer shades allowed soft light to fall upon a large and plump blue floral side chair sitting next to a cherry drop-leaf side table. Above an antique chest of drawers, three plate racks held Mrs. Hewell’s collection of Flow Blue dinner plates. Rimmed with deep cobalt, the plates had pink and yellow rose designs blooming in the center. Above the small mahogany writing desk was another set of plate racks holding serving platters with the same pattern. A thick indigo and cream plaid rug covered most of the hardwood floors. “The Flow Blue in the bathroom is just a reproduction set, so don’t worry about how you handle it,” Mrs. Hewell said.
Molly loved her room. The soft light combined with all the whites and blues made her feel immediately cozy. “It’s wonderful!” She turned to her hostess. “What are the other rooms like?” “Take a look for yourself,” Mrs. Hewell beamed. “A gentleman is staying in Wedgwood, but the guests staying in Limoges and Blue Ridge haven’t checked in yet. I believe all three guests are appraisers on that lovely TV show about antiques. The doors are all unlocked, as I’ve been misting the rooms with some delightful hyacinth-scented room spray. The Majolica suite, the big room at the end of the hall, isn’t being occupied until tomorrow. Come down when you’re all settled in and have some tea.” “Thanks.” Molly smiled. She was so glad she had persuaded Swanson’s secretary to spend the extra twenty-five dollars a night to book Molly at the Traveller instead of the humdrum chain hotel originally chosen for her. Molly had insisted that if she stayed at quaint bed-and-breakfasts, she might discover material for another article. Digging her digital camera out of her suitcase, she knew that her hunch about staying at the bed-and-breakfast had paid off. She decided to write a short piece on Mrs. Hewell’s charming establishment and thought she should quickly photograph the other rooms before their occupants checked in. The room directly across from hers was the Wedgwood room. Completely forgetting that it was supposed to be occupied, Molly opened the door and was surprised to see such a room entirely different from her own. The bed was a tall sleigh bed made of deep mahogany with a scrolled headboard and footboard. The coverlet was smoky green and a fluffy white shag blanket was folded at the base, nestled up against the footboard. All of the furniture was more ornate than the furniture in hers. Heavy, dark pieces with an abundance of decorative carving gave the room a more masculine air. Racks covered every wall, displaying Wedgwood plates and platters in pale olive greens and grayish blues. Molly peered closer at the classical figures embossed in white on the plates. Most were of cherubs or couples kissing.
A Wedgwood vase on the dresser showed the procession of a group of harpists wearing togas. A thick bunch of dried lavender tied with a purple ribbon scented the room. Molly took several pictures and then looked around once more to see if she had missed anything. “Beautiful,” she sighed. “From where I’m standing, I would agree,” said a deep male voice with an English accent. Molly jumped and turned to see who had snuck up behind her. She came face-to-face with a man of equal height with sun-streaked hair, honey-brown eyes, and thin lips pulled aside to reveal a neat row of square white teeth. He looked to be in his mid-thirties and had a healthy tan. His lean body was clad in jeans, a white buttondown shirt, and a red tie patterned with fleur de lis. “Inspection complete?” he asked, grinning. “Shall I do a twirl?” Heat rushed to Molly’s face. She had been scrutinizing him as if he were another attractive object in the room. She dropped her eyes to the leather tote bags in his hands, noting that they were vintage Louis Vuitton and probably worth more than her car. “I’m sorry. Is this your room?” she asked, still flush with embarrassment. The man put down his bags and held up a set of keys. “Right-O. Mrs. Hewell is setting up for tea, so I told her I’d find my own way,” he said, glancing around the room quickly before his eyes settled back on Molly’s face. “And you must be Ms. Appleby, the talented writer for Collector’s Weekly.” “How did you know that?” Molly was startled once again. Instead of answering, he smiled enigmatically and presented a strong, square hand for her to shake. “My name is Garrett Huntington. I’m one of the researchers for Britain’s Hidden Treasures. I’m here for a few weeks to observe the American version of our show,” he said teasingly. “And it’s a pleasure to meet such a lovely Southern belle straightaway.” “It’s nice to meet you as well.” Molly returned his easy smile and shook his hand. Garrett held hers for a long moment. He exuded a
powerful aura of sexual intensity and electricity that seemed to surge through his fingers. Eventually, Garrett dropped her hand and moved toward the bed. He tossed his bags carelessly on the coverlet. Every movement of his body spoke of confidence and effortlessness. He turned a grinning face toward the mirror and examined his reflection. “You see, we’re trying to figure out how to make ours a true road show. For the moment we’re based in the London area. We do a few episodes in Birmingham and Edinburgh to spice things up a bit, but things have turned rather stale. And . . . speaking of stale”—he gallantly proffered his arm—“let’s not allow those delicious scones to cool. Shall we go down to tea?” The tantalizing smell of cinnamon filled the dining room as Molly poured Garrett a cup of tea. Trying to reclaim some poise after being bedazzled by the Englishman’s magnetism, Molly averted her eyes from him and focused on the charming dining room. Other than a walnut sideboard the room’s only other furniture consisted of two gateleg tables, each surrounded by armless upholstered chairs. Only one table was set for tea with a linencolored lace tablecloth and an ivory and pink floral Limoges tea set. Delicate silver-plate utensils with roses spiraling up the handles sparkled in the afternoon sun. Molly’s fork parted the warm, flaky layers of her scone and a waft of melted butter caressed her nose. She dreamily noticed the generous drizzling of cream cheese icing before delighting her salivating taste buds with a sugary bite of scone. “Splendid,” said Garrett appreciatively. “I could eat a dozen of these.” He patted his flat stomach. Molly had been thinking about helping herself to a second treat, but one look at Garrett’s trim waist reminded her that not everyone in the room was in perfect shape. Instead, she poured another cup of tea and helped herself to two raw sugar cubes using sterling silver tongs. “Do you know the rest of the crew?” Molly paused. “Or, I guess I should call them appraisers.”
“Certainly. I’ve been to the American set lots of times before this.” Garrett took a sip of his tea, the floral teacup looking fragile in his wide hand. “The major players are Victoria Sterling, the host, Frank, who appraises furniture, Jessica who does jewelry, Borris is books, Alicia is the art matron, Clarke is china, Lindsey is linens, and Tony is the Toy Man. There’s also the managing director for the show, another Brit named Alexandra. Of course there are loads of assistant appraisers, but you won’t need to interview them, as they never get camera time. And don’t worry about last names. Nobody bothers with them.” Molly laughed. “There’s an awful lot of alliteration in that group. Are any of those real names?” “Just Victoria, Jessie, and Borris. Jessica and Borris are staying here, too, by the way.” Molly dabbed at her mouth with a cloth napkin, trying her best to appear dainty and feminine, two traits she had never mastered. Determined, impatient, and strong-willed were more her line. As much as she would like to spend the remainder of the afternoon gazing at Garrett’s Adonis-like features, she was scheduled to meet with Victoria Sterling at 3:30 and so she placed her napkin to the side of her plate and smiled at the Englishman. “I’d better head over to the set,” Molly said as she began to stand, unaware that the hem of her long skirt was pinned under the chair leg. Trying to straighten, she ended up flouncing back into her chair with an ungraceful thud instead. “Oh, my, too much tea?” joked Garrett, his manner so relaxed and casual that she had to smile. Then he suddenly leapt from his chair with the grace of a jaguar. “But where are my manners? Forgive me. Milady?” He lifted the chair leg off of her skirt and raised her up by the hand. As they stood facing one another, Garrett gave her another deep stare and asked, “Could I give you a lift to the set?” Molly was feeling overwhelmed by his attention. She was unused to flirting, especially with such a bold, intense, and confident man. She was used to Matt. Sweet, shy, adorable Matt. Thinking about Matt made her feel guilty about being so attracted to Garrett and
she averted her eyes so that he couldn’t see the effect his looks and demeanor were having on her. “Thanks, but no.” Molly smiled, feeling as though the room had suddenly shrunk in size. “I’m sure I’ll see you there.” Garrett performed a deep bow. “Until then,” he said, then grabbed a scone from its china platter and took an enormous bite out of it. His cheeks were completely stuffed with pastry as he gave her a closed-mouth grin. In the blink of an eye, he had transformed from a debonair gentleman into a mischievous scalawag. The man was quite a chameleon. Molly didn’t know what to make of him. Hidden Treasures would be calling the Richmond Science Museum home for the next week. Formerly a railroad station, the building had turn-of-the-century architecture on the outside, complete with dated cornerstones and wide arches for entryways. Enormous red and white banners announced the museum’s current exhibit, “Science and Medicine of the Civil War.” Inside, the cavernous halls were incredibly spacious, well lit, and modern—everything seemed to be made out of white plastic or chrome, a true contrast to the thousands of antiques that would soon be filing through its doors. Workmen wearing black Hidden Treasures T-shirts were busy placing signposts, which would soon be used to direct the large crowds. Doors wouldn’t open to the public until Wednesday, but Molly was told by one of the producers that the crew would use Monday for setup and Tuesday to film some high-quality pieces from local antique dealers or established collectors as a security measure. “We can’t have an hour-long show filled with junk,” the producer had scoffed over the phone a few weeks ago. “And believe me, you’ll see plenty of that. We have to make arrangements to film a few real antiques ahead of time, just in case Local Joe doesn’t bring any.” Molly took out the Hidden Treasures ID badge that had been mailed to her and showed it to a man creating a queue using brass stanchions and velvet rope. When she asked for Victoria, he pointed down a long hall leading off to the right. Passing by bright cloth banners depicting Civil War medical instruments and a variety of
weapons, Molly entered a large space sectioned off into a collection of screened areas. It looked like a massive beehive. In one of the white-screened areas, a group of cameramen were testing the lighting. They studiously focused on the object before them—a woman in an office chair. As the woman gracefully swiveled the chair around to face the cameras, Molly recognized Victoria Sterling. On television, Victoria always looked immaculately groomed. Her ash-blond hair was pulled back into a controlled French twist and her subtle makeup drew attention to her catlike green eyes. Her thin frame was always dressed in what Molly and her mother decided were the worst couture suits available but at prices that undoubtedly left great dents in Victoria’s bank account. Molly could never tell if Victoria was tall or short, as most of her television shots were closeups. After getting the thumbs-up from the cameramen, Victoria began recording a sound byte for the opening scene welcoming the viewers to Richmond. Her rose-colored suit featured a white vintage blouse whose sleeves poked out several inches beyond the suit jacket. The high neck rose in a series of pearl buttons, opened to reveal an attractive cameo brooch made into a necklace. A black-and-whitestriped scarf dangled from the suit pocket and gold filigree drop earrings finished off the ensemble. Molly sat down off to the side and waited while Victoria repeated her lines a dozen times. Each repetition sounded exactly the same. The famous television host looked utterly bored. “That’s a wrap, Ms. Sterling,” one of the men said and moved his camera off to a different location. Victoria barely issued him a nod before turning to Molly. “And you are?” she asked coolly, her green eyes stagnant as an algae-covered pond. “Molly Appleby, with Collector’s Weekly.” Molly extended her hand. Victoria slipped a limp, cold hand into Molly’s and then let it flop back down against her body like a dead fish. “Well, I guess I’ll start by introducing you to the rest of our head appraisers.” Molly hustled alongside Victoria. She noticed that her host was quite tall, almost six feet in fact, and strode forward with a quick,
decisive walk toward the middle of the massive room. With her toneless voice and limp hands, she explained the layout to Molly. “This is where the filming will take place. We’ll select pieces from the Great Hall—that huge room you first walk in after entering the building—and bring the pieces, along with their owners, in here. The Great Hall is where the public will line up to meet with the regular appraisers. Only head appraisers and their crews will be back here.” As they approached another curtained section, Molly saw a short, balding man with thin strips of greasy black hair combed over to form the pattern of a garden rake snap a latex glove onto his right hand. Frowning, he pulled a respirator mask over his mouth and nose and bent over to examine the back of a Southern blanket chest. “This is Frank.” Victoria gestured languidly, as if the effort of raising her arm was too much trouble. Everything about her spoke of boredom and lethargy. “He’s head appraiser for furniture.” “Hello.” Molly offered a quick greeting, her eyes glued to the lovely dark brown patina of the blanket chest. “Walnut?” she asked the masked man. “Yes.” Frank drew down his mask, a pleased look appearing on his pallid face. He raised the lid of the chest and pointed to the unfinished interior wood. “With Southern yellow pine secondary.” “Of course.” Molly smiled. “Is it Virginia-made?” Frank looked at the piece thoughtfully. “This is an unusually deep blanket chest with an interior compartment for storage,” he began in a nasal voice, sounding exactly as he did on television. “The compartment has a hinged lid with the original hardware. The blanket chest rests on the original bracket feet. It is generally hard to find original feet in good condition and without restoration.” He paused. “I’d date this piece circa 1830 and give it a provenance of western North Carolina.” Frank turned to Molly, as if waiting for applause. “Why the mask?” she asked instead of gushing her approval. “Oh! I have terrible, terrible allergies. I’m allergic to so many things . . . dust, pet hair, pollen, peanut butter, milk—”
“Please, Frank. You are not allergic to milk,” Victoria interrupted crossly, finally demonstrating that she was capable of human emotion. “You just want to be allergic to everything and you aren’t happy without some new drama, so now it’s milk.” Frank stood over the blanket chest and put his hands on his hips defensively. “I am simply a sensitive person, unlike some people who could turn hot springs into ice.” Molly quickly interrupted the pair before their argument could escalate. She introduced herself properly to Frank and asked him to remove the mask so she could photograph him with the lovely chest. Victoria made a snort of disgust and walked away toward the cafeteria. Her purposeful walk was incongruous with the rest of her mannerisms, and she couldn’t seem to get away from Frank fast enough. So much for my guide, Molly thought. “This is certainly a prime piece to photograph.” Frank gestured at the blanket chest, unfazed by Victoria’s swift departure. “But I am going to start off my segment with a fabulous slant-front pigeonhole desk. Would you like to see it?” he asked. Molly nodded enthusiastically and Frank peeled off his latex gloves and dropped them on the ground in repulsion. Kicking them repeatedly with his feet as if they weren’t dust-covered gloves but a pair of scorpions, he managed to maneuver them away from the chest. He stuck his mask in the front pocket of his brown pants. “There are far too many English reproductions here in Richmond,” he said dismissively, leading Molly out of his cubbyhole. “I hope the local viewers learn something from this show.” Frank led Molly behind another curtained partition to an area cluttered with stands, bucket benches, cleaning materials, and unused spotlights. Here, a slant-front desk was positioned on a raised platform covered in gray carpet. Two men were rubbing the desk with soft cloths, pausing every now and then to reapply dabs of wax to their cloths. Molly immediately noticed how hot it was beneath the row of floodlights that the men had erected in order to perform their task.
“Randy and Chris,” Frank introduced Molly to the men. “They’re my cleanup crew. I simply can’t get near a piece until they’ve cleared off the dust and waxed it up. I can’t tell you how many brands of wax we went through until we found one I wouldn’t have a reaction to.” As Frank droned on about his allergies, Randy, a short, wiry man wearing a Nascar T-shirt with cutoff sleeves and black tattered jeans rolled his eyes at his partner. Chris, a smooth-faced man in his mid-twenties with a sculpted body and powerful-looking hands, returned Randy’s judgmental look with a shrug. Chris had shiny blond hair and aquamarine eyes that seemed so unnaturally bright that Molly wondered if he wore colored contacts. She was having a difficult time tearing her gaze away from the rippling muscles on Chris’s forearms as they carefully stroked the surface of the desk. “Gorgeous, isn’t it?” Frank asked expectantly, watching the men work. Molly thought he was talking about Chris and she was about to agree when she realized he was talking about the desk. Before she could answer, Frank suddenly threw his hands in the air and snapped, “Rub that evenly, Randy! It will look like garbage on camera if you don’t rub along the grain! How many times do I have to tell you that?” Randy shot Frank a menacing look. “Oh, just quit for now,” Frank said disgustedly and shooed the two workers away. “Go chew some tobacco or whatever it is you do when you’re not waxing furniture so ineptly.” A flush crept up Chris’s neck as he dropped his cloth and grabbed Randy’s skinny arm, leading him away from Frank. Randy shot Frank a look of pure venom before Chris was able to successfully maneuver his angry coworker out of the exhibit area. Molly stared after their sweat-stained backs in sympathy. There were some real divas in the antique world and it looked as though Hidden Treasures had its fair share. Relieved to have a distraction, Molly took a good look at the desk. The base was comprised of four graduated drawers with brass pulls. The center of each drawer had inlaid escutcheons made of delicate
bone or ivory. Molly pulled down the “slant front,” which created an instant writing surface when resting on the two slide supports, and drew in a breath. Opening the desk had revealed a dozen shaped pigeonholes—the small caches carpenters created in order for their patrons to store letters, ledgers, quills, or other correspondencerelated items. Some of these pigeonholes were simply empty spaces meant for stacking documents and some were filled with small drawers with the same inlaid escutcheons as the outer drawers. “And can you believe it? I have the original set of keys for the four drawers,” Frank whispered reverently. “Now, shall we talk about this unbelievable wood?” “It really glows.” Molly was impressed. “Is it cherry?” “No. Black walnut with yellow pine secondary. See? If we pull out a drawer you can see to the back.” Frank removed two of the top drawers. “The whole case is actually made of pine. Most Southern slant-front desks were made of walnut or mahogany, but this piece has the most gorgeous lines. All original hardware, original escutcheons, and nary a major repair in sight. It’s a killer piece. Probably Williamsburg-made, circa 1780.” “No major repairs?” She arched her brows at Frank. “I don’t even see any minor ones. Can you show me?” “Certainly.” Frank preened. “There’s nothing noticeable, fortunately. Here’s the first one.” He pointed at the back leg of the case. “Looks like someone broke off the bottom and replaced it with a newer piece of wood. It’s a good repair, though, and at least one hundred years old, so it won’t affect the value of this piece, which is significant.” Molly nodded, having no idea what Frank meant by significant. “And the second repair?” “That’s even older, I’d say,” Frank answered, sliding out one of the supports that held up the writing surface when the desk was opened. “There’s a square patch here, too. Not very big and it’s got almost the same patina as the desk. I can’t imagine what happened to damage a piece of wood that sits inside the body of the desk, but I guess we’ll never know.”
“Any secret compartments?” Molly asked, intrigued. Her experience at auctions had taught her that desks with pigeonholes often had drawers with removable backs or sliding walls that revealed secret hiding places. A few years ago, Molly’s mother, Clara, was examining the lower drawer on a secretary desk she had purchased at auction to sell in her antique shop. Clara’s elbow had accidentally jarred into a rectangular strip of wood set above a pigeonhole. The thin piece of veneer broke loose and fell to the ground. Clara reached into the empty cavity to gleefully discover a signed note by the maker of the desk, a well-documented carpenter from Georgia. In that second, the piece of furniture she had just paid $2,500 for rose in value to over $15,000. “I haven’t gone over it completely yet,” Frank said. “It was just delivered here this morning and now I’ll have to wait until those two clowns are finished prepping it. I simply can’t take the dust. However, I have a feeling that this piece is going to be the star of the show. Shall we take some photographs of the blanket chest in the meanwhile?” Molly followed Frank back to the niche where they had first been introduced. She took out her digital camera and snapped a few pictures. Although the blanket chest photographed beautifully, its warm, molasses-brown patina glowing beneath the multitude of overhead lights, Molly had a difficult time finding a “good side” to Frank. She could see that he had earned his spot as a Hidden Treasures appraiser through his expertise, not his looks. The opposite might have been said for the next appraiser Frank introduced her to. Tony the Toy Man was an adorable, energetic man in his late twenties with a mop of brown hair, freckled cheeks, and wide, hopeful eyes. He was just shy of six feet tall and was wound like a spring. He practically leapt around the table to shake Molly’s hand, and as he did, a cluster of dimples sprang into his rosy cheeks. He looked like a grown-up Gerber Baby. Molly spoke to Tony briefly before he excused himself to unpack the box of toys he planned to open his spot on the show with.
Suddenly, she remembered that she had Officer Johnston’s card in her pocket. “Tony?” she asked. “Any chance you’d be interested in seeing someone’s Hot Wheels collection?” “Depends.” Tony grinned after examining the card. “Is this a ‘get out of jail free’ card?” Molly laughed guiltily and then told the amused toy appraiser how she’d almost gotten a speeding ticket. Tony amiably agreed to call the trooper during a coffee break. Frank led Molly around another barrier of white exhibit walls to an empty space with a lectern, where a man and woman were bent in deep concentration over an open book. “Jessica? Borris? This is Molly Appleby from Collector’s Weekly.” Frank introduced them, and then turned his head away to sneeze. “Ohhhhh,” he moaned, digging a wad of tissues out of his pants pocket. “That book must be filled with dust.” He turned to Molly, his eyes watering. “I’ll just leave you here. I can’t handle more than a few seconds in the book area.” And with a loud honk into the tissue, Frank scurried away. Borris had a square jaw and a Roman nose and bore a strong resemblance to a bust of Julius Caesar. He ran a hand through a thick mane of snow-white hair and shook his head quizzically. “Barely qualifies as a man, that one. Don’t know how he found himself in this business with all those allergies.” Jessica, a short, chic-looking woman with cropped, spiky gray hair, a hooked nose, and deep brown eyes, fingered the amber beads of her vintage necklace. She swatted Borris playfully on the arm. “Borris, what will Molly think of us? Don’t mind him.” Grinning at Molly, she pointed at her partner, and then at the book on the lectern. “He’s just disappointed that these botanicals aren’t handpainted.” Molly leaned over to examine a bookplate detailing the medicinal uses of lavender. “It’s still lovely,” she offered, but Borris made a very Caesar-like dismissal with the flick of his wide hand and turned his dignified shoulders away to dig for another book from a pile at his feet.
Jessica turned to Molly. “You have an unusual name for this day and age. Kind of old-fashioned. Is there a story behind it?” “Not a good one,” Molly laughed. “My parents were on their way home from a camping trip in the Smoky Mountains. The car broke down in this little two-horse town. I was conceived in a roadside hotel named the Molly Arms. This was a big surprise to my mom, who liked neither camping nor kids. My parents didn’t stay together long after that night, but I guess the name stuck with her, even though my dad didn’t.” “Sounds like a story I can relate to,” Jessica said bitterly. “Your mom was probably better off raising you alone.” Molly shifted, uncomfortable with the subject of her parents’ infinitesimal marriage. “So are you the jewelry appraiser?” she asked, hoping to turn the conversation back to matters at hand. “Sure am,” Jessica said proudly. “I come from a long line of Jewish jewelry experts. I’ll be opening the show with a marvelous set of vintage cat’s eye pieces. A ring, necklace, and earrings. A local dealer has had them on display for months with no luck getting them sold, and she’s hoping that getting the set on TV will help them sell.” “That’s nice of you.” Molly approved of antique people helping each other out. In fact, she liked both Jessica and Borris immediately. “Are the rest of the appraisers around here?” “No,” Borris answered. “They’ve already knocked off for dinner. We’re all supposed to meet at the Mexican place down the street. Want to join us?” “Sure. I love margaritas,” Molly said, happy to be included as another member of the show instead of an outsider. She often felt alienated when she was interviewing the close-knit groups of dealers exhibiting at shows. Borris beamed. “Finally, a woman I can drink with! Jessica here is strictly a Perrier gal. I always feel like the poster child for A.A. when I eat out with her.” “Not for A.A. You’re the poster child for crotchety, old bibliophiles,” Jessica teased.
“Let’s go.” Borris ignored Jessica’s jibe, though Molly could see the pair had a comfortable camaraderie that usually only developed between two people who have been friends for a long time. As Borris bent to retrieve a book from the floor, Jessica reached down at the same time to grab her purse. Their heads collided with a resounding thud. “Ow!” Jessica cried as she rubbed her temple. “Ow yourself.” Borris smiled, touching his own forehead. “You’d better stop abusing me. You’re treating me like Victoria treats Frank whenever he starts complaining about his allergies.” “Those two really don’t seem to get along,” Molly observed. “Don’t get along? That’s a polite way of saying they’d like to strangle one another at least once a day,” said Jessica laughingly. “Someday, one of them will figure out a way to bump the other one off,” Borris jested, making a goofy slashing motion across his throat. “But they’re just coworkers,” Molly mused. “How did they grow to dislike one another so much?” “As someone who’s survived a horrible marriage and a very nasty betrayal that led to divorce, I’ll give you a simple answer,” Jessica said as she opened the front door leading outside and gestured for Molly to pass through. “Their dislike does not stem from the fact that they’re coworkers. There’s absolutely no competition between them as host and appraiser. They want to kill one another for the best reason of all.” She paused, breathing in the crisp evening air. “They’re married. And marriage is no Disney fairy tale. Trust me, all married people fantasize about murder.”