Free A Killing in Antiques by Mary Moody Page A

stuff out of the truck and display it. What if it’s raining? I’ve got Frankie’s paintings and my rugs to display. I have jewelry to show. Am I supposed to do that in the rain, with a crowd piling up in front of me? This place will be a mud hole in five minutes.”
    “Well, the same rules apply to everyone.”
    “Well, I’m not everyone.” He had been pacing back and forth in front of me, and now he threw himself back into his lawn chair. “I can’t do it, and I can’t afford to have a helper. I can barely make it myself, and antiques are supposed to be my livelihood, what I’ve committed to.”
    He looked miserable. “What made you choose antique shows, Coylie?”
    “I’ve noticed,” he said, holding up a hand and counting on his fingers, “that you can get into the antique business without having any diplomas. That you don’t need to pass any tests. That you don’t need a license, and you don’t need a lot of cash to get started.” He raised his eyebrows and looked at me for verification.
    I nodded; everyone thinks they can be an antiques dealer. “That’s technically accurate, but it’s not exactly the whole story.” This business is loaded with people who jump in without experience. Then jump out soon after, when they’ve had “bad luck.”
    “You’re thinking about experience? Reputation?” he asked. “I figure I’ll gain plenty of experience following the flea market circuit, and I can build a good reputation, too. Not only that, I can look around, see if there’s anyplace I’d like to settle, when it comes time to settle down.”
    It sounded like a plan. I wondered if the kid had an interest in a particular type of antique, or had just decided, out of the blue, to be in the antiques business.
    “What kind of antiques do you like?” I asked.
    “That’s easy,” he said. “I like old Navajo rugs, and I like Navajo jewelry. As a matter of fact, I like just about any kind of Indian jewelry. The old stuff, mostly, but I occasionally pick up something new, if it has a particularly good design.”
    “I like jewelry myself,” I said. I’m not too familiar with Indian jewelry, but I know people who love it and collect it. “Anything else?” I asked.
    “I pick up punched tinware when I can find it, especially lamps and lanterns.”
    He thought a moment and told me that he collected other things as he came across them, with leanings toward rustic furnishings.
    “The jewelry is a particular problem,” he said. “Some of it is valuable, and most of my bankroll is tied up in it. I’m afraid to turn my back on it while I set up the rest of my inventory.” He looked deflated.
    “How would it be if you did have a helper?” I asked.
    “I told you, I can’t afford a helper,” he said.
    “I heard you, but if I volunteered to help you out, at least during the unpacking and setting-up stage, would it help?”
    “God, I can’t ask that,” he said. His face flushed and he looked embarrassed.
    “You’re not asking me. I’m volunteering,” I said.
    I gave him my best smile, a pillar of innocence, hiding, I hoped, the hidden agenda that had instantly occurred to me. There’s a rule against dealers selling to anyone, including other dealers, before a field opens. But enforcement is tricky, and if buyer and seller are subtle enough, a few quiet deals can be made without fear of trouble.
    Coylie was overjoyed. I savored the moment. I’d be inside the field before it opened, before legitimate buyers were allowed in. I couldn’t believe my luck. Sure I’d help the kid.
    “So what’s your moving problem?” he asked.
    Startled out of my selfish reverie, I turned my attention to the problem of moving the furniture.
    “I have some furniture stashed around the fields. Things I’ve bought and paid for. There’s too much to fit in the van. When I don’t have my regular helper with me I usually hire one of the movers that hangs out here. I have him cart it over to a friend’s barn