Antiques Disposal by Barbara Allan

Author:Barbara Allan
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Kensington Publishing Corp.
Published: 2012-03-19T22:00:00+00:00

Mother’s Trash ‘n’ Treasures Tip

Usually, the best items in a storage unit are in the back, often hidden from view—that’s why I bring a floodlight and stilts.

Chapter Seven

(A.K.A. Chapter Six)

Wayne Ekhardt occupied an office atop the venerable Laurel Building, an eight-story Art Deco edifice just a hop, skip, and jump away from the Riverview Café. (Figuratively speaking, that is—not much literal hopping, skipping, and jumping these days, with these artificial hips!)

At one time, the successful trial attorney had owned the entire shootin’ match, using all but the first floor for his flourishing practice (although he’d never taken on a partner, Wayne’s world had once swarmed with legal secretaries and interns). Then just as the city’s most famous criminal attorney seemed to be easing into semiretirement, Wayne sold the building to an engineering firm with the stipulation that he be granted a lifetime lease of the eighth floor at one dollar a year—possibly the worst business deal the engineering firm ever made, considering that Wayne was still practicing at nearly ninety.

I entered the refurbished lobby, took the modern elevator up (whatever happened to those original Deco fixtures?), then stepped off on the eighth floor ... and back into time.

While the other floors had been remodeled into typical office building sterility, this one retained its original flavor: scuffed black-and-white speckled ceramic-tiled floor, scarred-wood office doors with ancient pebbled glass, antique scone wall lighting, even an old porcelain drinking fountain (still functioning).

One could imagine Philip Marlowe in a trench coat and fedora pausing halfway down the hall to light up a Philip Morris! (Or is that Philip Morris pausing to light up a Philip Marlowe? Afraid I’m no expert on the hard-boiled detective field.)

Wayne—long since a one-man operation—had retained only a few choice clients (myself included) and perhaps ten years ago had pared his business hours back to only one afternoon a week, which luckily enough happened to be today.

As I walked down the long corridor to his riverview corner office, I tried the doorknobs of the ancient offices on either side of the hall.

Curses!

Still locked and inaccessible. One day Vivian Borne would get inside those treasure caves and find a trove of antiques: rolltop desks, oak swivel chairs, coat trees, ancient typewriters, banker’s lamps and who-could-say what Art Moderne booty.

Arriving at Wayne’s office, I rapped on the pebbled-glass door; receiving no answer (nor having expected to), I tried the knob, which turned, then went on in and found the inevitable.

Wayne was seated behind his grand old desk, head tilted back, eyes closed, mouth open, looking even more frail than usual in a suit that had become too large. More than once this sight had given me a start, as I assumed my friend had finally passed into that Great Court of Last Resort. But I could see his nostrils quivering, so I still had representation.

I coughed loudly, and when Wayne didn’t stir, I simply said, “Ah-hemmm!”

His eyes fluttered open, and he struggled to focus on his guest.

He tried to speak. Coughed. Coughed some more.

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