Free Antiques Bizarre by Barbara Allan Page B

that would attract—and you should have known what kind of sideshow the auction would create.”
    It seemed to have attracted a roomful of self-righteous snobs, who were having ice cream at the carnival.
    Candlestick Katherine snorted in a most unfeminine manner for such a beauty. “Come on , guys—we all craved the publicity. Even for the losers, it created attention for our clients.”
    “Clients?” I asked. I was still just standing there. For some reason, no one had invited me to sit down at the table with them.
    “Yes,” the sophisticated yet down-to-earth brunette said. “We aren’t employees of Christie’s or Sotheby’s or Forbes. We’re independent agents, who took on these roles as freelancers. Any publicity brought to our clients would be viewed as positive, whoever won the bid.”
    “Not just any bloody publicity,” Richards said snappishly. “This kind of publicity—people retching, people dying, the precious art piece poached…. This is hardly the kind of event that will lead to further assignments.”
    “It’s not the kind of event,” I said, “that Mother and I planned or intended. When can you go home?”
    “When the police give us the go-ahead,” Kaufman said with a pitiful shrug. “Whenever that is.” The good-looking blond seemed the least combative of the lot.
    “Then—you’ve not given your formal statements?”
    Katherine shook her head. “Just preliminary ones, at the church. We’ve been dealing with small-town police and they are horribly understaffed and in over their heads. They were hardly expecting anything like this.”
    “Somebody was,” I said.
    This sank the little group into gloomy silence. The Russian Cootie Head returned his attention to his melting dessert, regarding it like a sculptor who didn’t know what to do next.
    Their silence said I’d been dismissed, but I had more to say.
    “I guess most of you are out a hefty commission,” I said.
    The agents for Christie’s and Sotheby’s exchanged glances.
    Katherine said, “In an auction situation, my dear, there is always that strong possibility. We receive a flat fee and expenses for our trouble, and a potentially high commission is the brass ring we all reach for…knowing only one of us can snag it.”
    “I see.”
    “But we’re all suffering, because this job, this auction, is over…and we’re captives here in Podunk-land. Prisoners. It’s hard to imagine a more bitter fate.”
    “Not that hard,” I said with a shrug. “There’s dying of food poisoning, or falling from a high place. Were any of you poison victims at the church, by the way?”
    No one said anything.
    “Well?”
    Head shakes all around.
    “ None of you?”
    Kaufman said, “We ate together at our hotel, before going to the auction. None of us wanted to take, uh…”
    “Potluck?”
    “Yes.”
    Richard pitched in. “One never knows what is in the food at such functions.”
    “I guess not,” I admitted. “But it’s interesting to note that this group, one and all, did not partake of food that no one knew would be off. Maybe you were psychic.”
    Or maybe this really was the cast party of Murder on the Orient Express . This little knowledgeable group would have known full well the extreme value of that egg to a private collector—a million or more dollars would divide up handsomely among a handful like this.
    One of them might have poisoned a certain dish at the potluck dinner, or even provided a doctored dish…and another could have been assigned the task of snatching the egg from the winning bidder. Perhaps the group had inside knowledge that Martinette intended to outbid them….
    But these thoughts I did not share with them. At the same time, I knew I had best not do so with Mother, either, or she would really be off and running. Make that flying. Maybe I’d have the chance to share my notions with Chief Cassato, somewhere along the line.
    “Yo u should be happy,” I said, looking at Top Hat Woods, the