Mint Condition Murder

By Ellery Adams and Parker Riggs

In the world of antiques and collectibles, it helps to have a sharp eye for quality, a good ear for gossip, and a nose for murder.

When the female antiques dealer she was meant to interview turns up dead, Collector’s Weekly reporter Molly Appleby can’t help but wonder why anyone would kill a woman so new to the area. Before she can spend much time pondering means or motive, Molly discovers that the father she never knew is keen on a reconciliation. And while it seems unlikely that his sudden interest and the death of the dealer are connected, Molly soon learns otherwise.

As she begins digging into the past of the victim, Molly realizes that the woman was not at all what she seemed. Not only did she possess a stash of rare coins linked to an unsolved murder, but she also engaged in illicit affairs with multiple married men. With suspects galore and a reunion with her long-lost father looming, Molly will have to uncover crimes both old and new before the secrets that refuse to stay buried turn fatal . . .

“A wonderfully written, captivating cozy novel with likeable main characters and an interesting plot!” —Goodreads review on A Treacherous Trader

About the Authors:

New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Ellery Adams lives in Chapel Hill, North Carolina, with her husband, two children, and three cats. She’s written multiple series including the Supper Club Mysteries, the Book Retreat Mysteries, the Secret, Book, and Scone Society Mysteries, and more.

Parker Riggs is also the author of the mystery novels A Treacherous Trader, A Devious Lot, A Killer Keepsake, and A Bidder End (all with Ellery Adams), along with a stand-alone mystery, Finding Jessica. She lives in New Hampshire with her husband.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Beyond the Page Publishing
• Release date: Apr 20, 2021
• ISBN: 9781954717176

Ellery Adams

Ellery Adams has written over forty mystery novels and can’t imagine spending a day away from the keyboard. Ms. Adams, a native New Yorker, has had a lifelong love affair with stories, food, rescue animals, and large bodies of water. When not working on her next novel, she reads, bakes, gardens, spoils her three cats, and rearranges her bookshelves. She lives with her husband and two children (aka the Trolls) in Chapel Hill, NC. For reading guides and a list of bibliotherapy titles, please visit ElleryAdamsMysteries.com.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Molly Appleby was on her way to pick up her mother. As senior staff writer for Collector’s Weekly, she was always looking for a good story, and since she had arranged to interview the owner of a new antiques store, she thought her mother would love to shop while she conducted the interview. When she was done, she would treat her to lunch.

It was a bright October day, and with the sunroof open, crisp, cool autumn air filled the car. Molly thought about how much her life had changed over the last three and a half years. She had married her husband, Matt Harrison, moved to Vermont, and had a baby, Tyler, who had turned two in September. Living in New England had been an adjustment, as Molly had never lived anywhere outside of North Carolina, but after all these months, she couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.

Pulling up to the curb where her mother was waiting, Molly felt excited about their little outing, although she was a little unsure about the enthusiasm level of the woman she was going to meet. She had only spoken to Charlotte Blair, the owner of A Checkered Past, on the telephone, and thought her rather unfriendly and dismissive. This was very unusual. Antiques dealers were always thrilled to have Molly visit their shop, take photographs, and write a feature piece about them for the magazine.

Clara Appleby got into the passenger seat, clicked her seat belt, and barely mumbled a Good morning. Molly knew right away something was wrong. Her mother was always cheerful when they were about to go shopping.

How are you this morning? Molly asked.

Fine, Clara said.

Oh, boy, Molly thought. Monosyllables were not her mother’s style either. Clara loved to talk, but as they headed out of the city, she continued to be silent. After a few miles had gone by, Clara changed the radio station from light jazz to the eighties. She sat back in her seat, looking out the window, but in another minute, she reached over and turned the station again, this time to the big hits of the sixties. This station lasted about a minute before she did it again, and again, stations switching so fast they never made it through a single song.

Ma, please! Pick a station and stick with it. Molly was getting exasperated. All this fiddling with the car radio is making me crazy.

Clara settled on the seventies station. The Bee Gees were singing How Deep Is Your Love, which Molly thought was fitting, considering how her mother was testing her patience. What’s bothering you?

Clara pulled down the visor and checked her reflection in the tiny mirror. Molly favored her mother in looks. They both had thick dark hair and slate gray eyes. The differences were in the way they dressed. Her mother always wore designer clothes, while Molly favored off-the-rack clothes at bargain basement prices. Clara checked her lipstick in the mirror. I told you, everything is fine, dear.

Clara drummed her manicured fingernails on her pants leg. Between the changing of the radio stations and the drumming fingers, she seemed nervous. How much coffee have you had this morning?

My usual cup. She glanced at her. As I said, nothing is wrong, everything is perfectly fine.

There it was again, the word fine. Molly didn’t believe her. Did you have a fight with Sean, is that it? Clara and Sean Murphy been married for two years, and although Molly had never seen them have a single argument, she supposed there was a first time for everything.

We did not have a fight.

Oh, come on. What’s up? Is it something to do with my interview?

No. Why would you think that?

Because I told you Charlotte didn’t seem all that interested in talking to me. Do you think I’m wasting my time?

Clara shrugged. You won’t know until you actually sit down and talk to her. Molly frowned. She really wasn’t going to tell her what was wrong. I looked her up on the Internet, after you invited me to come along today. Considering the move she’s made from Boston to open a new store, I would have thought she’d be grateful to have you feature her in the magazine. Did she say why she’s opening a second store here?

She didn’t want to talk on the phone, Molly said. But from what I can gather, it’s a completely different store, with a new concept. Her Boston shop, Pockets of Time, sells high-end antiques. A Checkered Past’s website has photographs of shabby chic furniture, folk art, and industrial antiques.

Well, I’m certainly looking forward to having a look around while you’re interviewing her.

Was she? From her flat tone of voice, Molly thought her mother didn’t sound excited at all. Are you sure you don’t want to talk about whatever’s bugging you?

Clara glanced at her. I told you—

"Right, I know, everything’s fine."

Molly was getting nowhere. She knew better than to press her mother for answers. Eventually she would tell her what was on her mind, because they told each other everything. In the meantime, she would ignore her and enjoy the scenery, and hope that her mood would get better. But after ten more minutes of seventies music, Clara said in a touchy tone of voice, I feel as if we’ve been driving forever. Are you sure we’re heading in the right direction?

A good mood was going to be elusive. Yes, Ma. Molly pointed to her car’s GPS screen. We’ll be at A Checkered Past in about five minutes.

Well, if you ask me, no one is going to want to drive this far out from the city to go antiquing. What was she thinking, opening a new store out here?

Molly laughed. Are you kidding? We’ve driven hundreds of miles to go antiquing. And this is nothing. We’re fifteen miles from downtown. Besides, this area has other attractions to draw people in. It’s known for its apple orchards and farms. Look around. Isn’t it pretty? Molly shot her mother a sideways glance. Clara was still frowning. You know, Ma, you’re really being a Debbie Downer.

Clara turned sideways in her seat. All right. There is something we need to talk about, but not now. We’ll do it later.

Okay. Molly was stunned by her tone, which sounded hesitant. She hoped her mother wasn’t ill. Was this going to be a scary talk?

Tell me more about Charlotte Blair, Clara said.

I don’t know that much about her, only what I could get off her Pockets of Time website. I know she opened the Boston store with her business partner, Rene Flores, about fifteen years ago, on Newbury Street, no less, and they made quite a success of it. What’s really interesting is that they were both so young at the time, only twenty-one. I want to ask her how they managed to do it. I know a lot of my younger readers, who are aspiring entrepreneurs, would love to know.

Did Rene come to Vermont, too?

As far as I can tell, she’s still in Boston. Her GPS announced their destination was ahead, and Molly slowed her speed. Your destination is on the right. She saw a mailbox at the end of a narrow road, and a makeshift sign stuck into the ground beside it. A Checkered Past was written in big red letters with an arrow pointing down the road. Molly made the turn and cringed as the gravel road kicked up rocks under the tires. She hoped they didn’t cause any damage.

The road was bordered by trees, but as it angled upward, the trees began to thin, and a house came into view in the middle of a grassy field. It was a two-story dwelling of white clapboard, black shutters, and a wraparound porch with a cross-gable roof.

Clara said, This is a pleasant surprise. The house reminds me of those Sears kit houses that were popular in the early 1900s. I’ve seen drawings of them in old magazines.

A detached garage sat twenty yards off the right rear corner of the house, and there was a blue SUV parked in front of it. Molly parked in the visitors’ lot. They were the only car there.

Molly switched off the engine. Clara opened her door and got out. Where was her purse? Molly had to search for it, since it had slid on the backseat floor mat behind the passenger seat. The vintage Chanel bag was a present from Matt. He had given it to her when he’d graduated from medical school, to thank her for all of the sacrifices she had made for him. It was the only designer item Molly owned.

By the time she got out of the car, Clara was already standing in front of the door. As Molly came up the steps, Clara pointed to the Closed sign hanging on the other side of the glass. I thought you said the store opened at ten. She checked her watch. It’s ten thirty-five, and she’s closed.

Molly reached around her mother and tried the door handle. It turned, and the door swung open. She smiled at her. Charlotte must have forgotten to take the sign down this morning. She held the door open, followed her mother inside, and flipped the sign to Open.

Yes, this looks exactly like the floor plans I’ve seen advertised in those old magazines, Clara said. The room on our right would have been the parlor, and straight ahead, the dining room. There should be a downstairs bedroom, too, and a kitchen at the rear of the house with a door to the back porch. Upstairs they had room for three bedrooms, and attic space.

What about bathrooms?

For the first time that morning, Clara smiled. I’m sure those were added on later, dear.

Molly shrugged. She didn’t care about the house. She was there to interview Charlotte. The register counter was in the room on their right, the original parlor. There was no one behind the counter or in the room. She thought the house seemed too still and quiet, as if it had been abandoned. There were no floorboards squeaking overhead, no voices coming from the other rooms, not even piped-in gentle waterfall music.

Let’s take a walk around, Molly said. Charlotte must be busy. Despite the woman’s lack of enthusiasm for an interview, Molly couldn’t believe she would ignore her. She had made the appointment and should have been expecting her.

Molly saw an Etienne writing desk in the corner, and immediately went over to it. The desk was painted a soft duck egg blue shade, and like the rest of the furniture for sale, was shabby chic. This wasn’t her preferred style, but she thought a distressed cabinet in creamy white and a retro chaise lounge in pale green velvet were pretty. She wondered if Charlotte was refinishing the furniture herself.

Clara checked the price tag on the writing desk. She’s asking two thousand. Seems a little pricey for a painted desk. I suppose time will tell if she can sell shabby chic in Vermont at Boston prices.

They entered the next room, where more shabby chic was on display, as well as a table piled high with American-made crafts, including a collection of glazed stoneware. Clara was drawn to it like a bee to honey. For many years, her mother had owned an antiques store in North Carolina, and had been a dealer in Southern folk art pottery. Since moving to New England, her collection had expanded to include Northern folk art pottery and design.

Molly strolled around the room, wondering if she should go searching for Charlotte. She could be in the garage. Maybe she was using it as a workshop. She noticed a narrow staircase in the hall with a sign strung across the banisters marked Private. She stood at the bottom of the steps and looked up.

What are you doing? Clara had come up behind her.

I thought Charlotte might live upstairs. Or maybe her office is up there. She might not have heard us come in. She’s late for our appointment.

You can’t go upstairs. There’s a sign. It would be rude.

Then I’ll call her. Molly was tired of waiting. She took her cell phone out of her purse and dialed the shop number. Almost immediately, they heard a phone ringing in the room down the hall. As soon as Molly walked in, the phone stopped ringing, but not before she saw it on the floor, under an iron glass-top table.

Behind her, Clara gasped. Molly, look. Over there.

Molly saw a woman on the floor, facedown, a pool of blood by her head. Molly went over to her and crouched down.

Is she alive? Clara called out. She hadn’t budged from the doorway.

Molly could see the back of the woman’s head had been struck by something hard. She had seen a photograph of Charlotte on her website. Mid-thirties, curly blond hair, blue eyes, a button nose. She couldn’t see this woman’s face, but she knew it had to be her. The hair was the same, except for the blood.

Molly took a deep breath and felt her neck to check for a pulse. She didn’t expect to find one. She’d seen enough dead bodies to know she was gone. Sitting back on her heels, she took a moment to observe her surroundings. The room had outdoor furniture for sale. Iron pieces, like the iron glass-top table, some metal bistro garden tables, and marble planters. Could she have slipped and fallen? It didn’t seem likely, not with the back of her head bashed in. This had to be deliberate. She noticed an antique French urn not far from the body. It was on its side, as if someone had thrown it there. Even at a distance, Molly could see the blood on it. She felt a little sick to her stomach as she got to her feet and walked back to her mother.

I’m pretty sure it’s Charlotte, and she’s dead, Molly said. I’ll call Lombardi.

Chapter 2

There was a wooden bench on the porch, and Molly and Clara sat there while they waited for Detective Anthony Lombardi to arrive. He was a good friend to Molly and Matt, and godfather to Tyler. With his jet black hair, olive tan complexion, and dark brown eyes, he was handsome enough to be a model but had chosen to be a homicide detective. She had worked with him on enough murder cases to know he was one of the best in his profession.

After he arrived, they gave him a short statement, which he jotted down in his notebook. The coroner’s van arrived, and another vehicle behind it, and he closed his notebook and tucked it into the pocket of his leather coat. He wore black jeans and Doc Martens leather boots. Molly knew he had a gun holstered under the jacket, and his cell phone was clipped to his belt.

The coroner’s here, and my forensic team, he said. I’m going to talk to them, and we’ll start processing the scene. Can you stay? I might have more questions. Or do you need to be somewhere?

Molly said, We’ll be here.

He nodded, and from that point, everything moved fast. Molly zippered her coat to her neck. Despite the sunny day, the temperature was autumn cool, and they were sitting in the shade of the porch.

Ma, since we’re waiting, do you want to tell me what’s on your mind?

Clara regarded her for a very long moment. I suppose this is as good a time as any. She took a deep breath and said, Your father is here. Or, I should say, he’s on his way. Molly stared at her. He’s driving up from New York today. He asked me to talk to you about meeting him. I know you’re surprised.

Molly couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Surprised? I’m shocked. Nathan McDaniel walked out on both of us when I was eight days old. Why is he calling you now? How did he even know where to find you?

Your father and I have stayed in touch. Not often, just a few times a year.

Stayed in touch? Molly’s cheeks were flaming. I thought you had nothing to do with him.

I don’t, not really. Clara sounded calm, and it was irritating Molly. How could she be calm? It was part of our divorce settlement. I agreed to send him photographs and updates about you, which meant we occasionally had to communicate.

Molly rubbed her forehead. A headache had suddenly taken up residency in her frontal lobes. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not a child anymore, and didn’t the agreement end when I turned eighteen?

Yes, but he continued to be involved.

Molly was confused. What do you mean, involved? It suddenly dawned on her. Oh, my God. When was the last time you sent him photographs and updates about me?

A month ago. Tyler’s birthday party.

Molly’s jaw dropped. So, you’re saying you’ve been in touch with my father, sending him updates and photographs about me my entire life? She was trying hard to stay calm. It wasn’t easy. And now you’re sending him information about Tyler?

Molly, please don’t be mad at me. I know it’s a shock, but—

She cut her off. It’s one thing to do it to me. But Tyler? Sending a perfect stranger information about him? It’s beyond the pale. You should have told me. He’s my son. You also should have told me what you were doing years ago. All that time, I thought my father didn’t even think about me.

I tried to talk to you about it, but whenever I mentioned his name, you would say you didn’t want to know anything about him. I respected your wishes.

I was a kid! Molly felt like her head was going to explode. And in case you haven’t noticed, I haven’t been a child in a really long time. She was shouting, and lowered her voice. I feel violated, knowing this man has seen photos of me, and Matt, and Tyler. How could you?

Clara bit her lower lip, and tears filled her eyes. This was something Molly had rarely seen. Her mother was an unmovable rock, always in control of her emotions. The only time she had seen her cry was at her wedding, but those were tears of joy.

The truth is, Molly, your father didn’t want anything to do with either of us. But he did want to make sure you were all right and had everything you needed. He paid alimony and child support on time, he contributed to your college education, and your trust fund.

Molly stared at her wide-eyed. What I needed was a father, not an ATM. What I wanted was a birthday card, or a phone call, or an in-person visit once in a while. And you and Grandma told me you paid for college, and created the trust fund. Now you’re saying Grandma was in on it, too? You both lied to me.

Your father didn’t want you to know.