Antiques St. Nicked Read Free Page B

front door.
    â€œIt’s Tony,” I said, surprised that the officer sent to take our statements was the Chief of Police himself; but then, Tony Cassato was that “special guy” of mine I referred to earlier.
    As he came in, in his standard top-cop attire—light blue shirt, navy tie, gray slacks under an open topcoat—I felt my eyes fill with tears, my medication not providing the emotional filter of Mother’s.
    â€œAre you all right?” Tony asked with concern. In his midforties, he was about six foot, barrel-chested, square-jawed, with military short hair just beginning to gray at the temples.
    â€œWho would kill Santa,” I sniffed, sounding like little Brandy of yore, “for a few measly dollars?”
    Tony placed his hands on my shoulders and squeezed just a little. “There are some bad people in this world, Brandy—you know that as well as anybody. But trust me—we’re making a list, and we’ll be checking it more than twice.”
    â€œWhat about all his animals?”
    â€œAnimal Control has arranged with a farmer neighbor of his to look after them for now.”
    Taking my arm gently, he steered me over to the couch, next to Mother, who asked cheerfully, “Would you like some tea, Chief Cassato?”
    â€œNo thank you, Vivian.” He sat in a needlepoint Queen Anne armchair next to us, which was about as comfortable as a coach-class airplane seat.
    Sushi jumped into her favorite man’s lap and he gave her a few fond strokes, then, all business, set her back down on the floor where she dutifully curled in a ball at his feet.
    Tony removed a little notebook and pen from his pocket (a tape recorder being reserved for “formal statements”) and began. “What time did you find Mr. Wright?”
    I waited for Mother to answer, as she usually did in any police questioning, but she remained strangely mute.
    â€œAbout a quarter to nine,” I said, adding, “fifteen minutes before the Stroll ended.”
    Tony looked at Mother, and she nodded.
    He asked, “How did you happen to find him?”
    Again, Mother deferred to me.
    â€œWell, there’s not much to tell,” I said. “Mother and I went to Simon’s display, just to say hello, and when Simon wasn’t there, we looked in the shed to see if he was inside. That’s when . . . where . . . we found him.”
    â€œDid you see Mr. Wright any time prior to that?”
    â€œYes,” I said. “But not to speak to him—more just to wave hello. He was already dealing with a long line of children.”
    â€œWhen was that?”
    â€œWhen we first arrived at the Stroll, oh, about seven-thirty.”
    â€œVivian? That right?”
    Mother nodded.
    Tony scribbled in the notebook.
    He had a few more questions—had we noticed anyone loitering around Simon’s display on either occasion we’d seen him? Did we have any idea how much money might have been in the donation bag?
    To which we both answered, “No.” Well, I answered no and Mother just shook her head.
    Tony pocketed the notebook and pen, let out a sigh, and said, “That’s all for now. I’ll let you girls know if I need formal statements.”
    Mother stood. “Well, if there’s nothing more, I’d like to retire. The Stroll left me quite exhausted.”
    â€œCertainly, Vivian,” he said.
    As Mother headed upstairs, I saw Tony to the front door. He was frowning.
    He asked, “Where’s the Vivian who tells me how to go about my job?”
    â€œShe and Simon were . . . good friends.”
    â€œSo she’s taking his death hard, then.”
    â€œI think maybe she is.”
    â€œDoes that mean she’ll stay out of this, and let the professionals handle the investigation without her ‘help’?”
    â€œMaybe.” Not a chance.
    He put an unprofessional and very gentle hand on my cheek. “And how about you,