Free Antiques Fate by Barbara Allan Page A

theme—a receptionist’s metal desk, vacant, a few straight-back chairs along the walls and lots of framed pictures (with written descriptions beneath) of properties in Old York.
    The door to the office beyond was shut.
    I knocked.
    â€œYes?” came an impatient, borderline nasty male voice.
    â€œMr. Lancaster? Vivian Borne. Might I have a word?”
    A long pause preceded the eventual, “Come in, come in.”
    I did so and took the waiting client chair. Digby Lancaster, who did not rise, was in a rust-color sports jacket over a green polo shirt, a considerable contrast to Barclay Starkadder’s three-piece suit. He was plump and pale and his hair was cut short, as if perhaps his barber of choice was at a military base; his bulldog features made no attempt to compose themselves pleasantly for me.
    â€œSomething I can do for you, Mrs. Borne?”
    â€œWell, first let me thank you for allowing the show to go on,” I said. “Judging by your attitude at the board meeting, I thought you might be a naysayer.”
    He shrugged. “When you’re outnumbered, why not be generous? I’m sure you’ll do fine. I’ll be there. It’s kind of required.”
    I smiled through the insult. “Well, a lot is required in Old York, isn’t it?”
    He rolled his eyes. “Tell me about it.”
    â€œHave you lived in the village long, Mr. Lancaster?”
    â€œI grew up here, and I got out in a hurry.”
    â€œWhat brought you back, if I might ask?”
    He shrugged. “My dad passed on and left me property.”
    â€œHow much property? Again, if I might be so bold.”
    â€œI own a number of buildings, and some undeveloped land. And, of course, I’m a realtor. I do all right. I could do better.”
    â€œYou mean, if incorporation came in.”
    He shrugged, but then nodded. “This little bump in the road is a potential gold mine. Tourists eat this kind of stuff up. I have some land on the outskirts but within the village territory, as defined in our charter?” He shook his head. “Oh, what I could do with that hunk of real estate, given half a chance.”
    â€œWhat could you do with it,” I asked gently, “given half a chance?”
    He smiled, the bulldog happily going after the bone I’d tossed. “Imagine a big motel playin’ up this Brit angle. Imagine a strip mall with English-type names for the stores, you know, Ye Olde Smoke Shop, Ye Olde Launderette, Henry the Eighth Burgers, that kind of thing. But a lot of these locals wouldn’t stoop over to pick up money in the street.”
    I shook my head sadly. “They’re misguided, Mr. Lancaster. Progress is always inevitable.”
    â€œIsn’t that the truth.”
    â€œYou must have been surprised to hear Chad say he intended to honor his grandmother’s wishes and vote against incorporation.”
    â€œUh, yeah. That was disappointing, all right.”
    I smiled innocently. “Is that what you were telling him last night? I noticed you two talking, after the meeting.”
    He got even paler. “That was nothing. I was just giving him my, you know, condolences.”
    â€œDid you know Millicent well?”
    â€œNot really. I’ve only been back a year. She was one of those theatrical types, you know, one of those small-town divas. Kind of pitiful but harmless.”
    That was certainly not called for, but I did not react. Acting is largely reacting; but not when you’re grilling a suspect in a murder case. Speaking of which . . .
    â€œDo you buy that Millie’s death was accidental, Mr. Lancaster? Doesn’t it seem awfully convenient, coming when it does?”
    He pawed the air. “I don’t mean to sound callous, Mrs. Borne, but it’s not coincidental or shocking or anything else for a senior citizen to pass away.”
    â€œIs that what you were doing? Waiting for her to pass away?”
    He