“Not that kind of professional help,” I growled. “Somebody who knows something about the antique business.”
He put his hand back on the wheel. Chuckled with relief. “I know Joseph Lambright, if that’ll do you any good.”
“It might if I knew who Joseph Lambright was.”
He squeaked with disbelief. “What? You’ve lived in Hannawa all these years and you don’t know who Joseph Lambright is?”
“No, I don’t know who Joseph Lambrigh is.”
“I can’t believe you don’t know who Joseph Lambright is.”
Now my brain was in a twist. “Jesus Christ, Ike! Who is Joseph Lambright?”
Ike’s fingers tightened around the steering wheel. “Somebody who doesn’t use language like that on a Sunday, far as I know.”
Ike had just come from church. Changed into walking shorts and that khaki shirt of his with the epaulets. Bought those chips and submarine sandwiches for us. I bit my tongue and started over. “This Mr. Lambright knows the antique business, does he?”
“I can’t believe you don’t know who Joseph Lambright is!”
We were sitting at a red light now-but I would have done the same thing even if we were speeding along at eighty miles an hour. I grabbed his chin and twisted his face toward me. I purred like a saber-tooth tiger. “Unless you want a 12-inch turkey sub sticking out your ear, you will kindly accept my ignorance and tell me who Joseph Lambright is.”
Ike pried my fingers off his chin. Kissed the back of my hand. “He owns that shop on German Hill.”
“You mean Joey Junk?”
“I guess some people call him that.”
“Even he calls himself that. Heaven’s to Besty, Ike, sometime you make me mad enough to scream.”
“Please don’t do that.”
“Then take me there-now!”
And so, we delayed our happy afternoon at the park and drove straight to Joey Junk’s Treasure Trove. It was located right there on West Apple, just three blocks east of Meriwether Square, on Herders’ Hill. The area was named after the Scotch-Irish farmers who grazed their sheep on the slope back in the 1800s. Those picturesque days are long gone, of course. Today it’s a sad strip of low-rent apartment buildings, empty storefronts, gas stations that sell more beer and lottery tickets than gas, and one ramshackle motel that rents rooms by the hour. Because of that motel, snooty suburbanites call it Herpes Hill.
Joey Junk’s Treasure Trove is one of Hannawa’s most familiar landmarks. You can’t help but twist your neck when you drive by. The worthless crap stuffed inside pours right out the front door. It fills the sidewalk and half of the parking lot on the side. Old claw-foot bathtubs and bathroom sinks, chairs missing a leg or two, yellowed wedding dresses on chipped plaster mannequins, rusty iron beds, and gaudy living room lamps that should never have been made. I’m sure you’ve got a place like that in your town.
Ike pulled into the parking lot. Parked alongside a twisted pile of old bicycles. We went inside. It was bric-a-brac heaven in there. The musty air immediately made my eyes itch. Joey spotted us. He stepped across a box of old magazines and waddled toward us. “Maddy Sprowls and Ike Breeze! Don’t tell me you two know each other!”
“For too long,” I said.
I’d known Joey for a long time, too. He was about my age. Overweight and sloppy. Happy as a clam. He’d had his shop there since the sixties. Every once in a while I drop in to see if there’s anything I don’t need but can’t live without.
Joey wanted to pursue my relationship with Ike. I cut that touchy subject off at the pass and got right to business. “Ike thought maybe you could help me learn something about the antique business.”
Joey froze. Like a bull walrus caught in the headlights. “You’re not thinking of opening a shop are you? It’s not as lucrative as it looks.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “You’ve got Herders’ Hill all to yourself. I’m looking into Violeta Bell’s murder and thought maybe you could give me some idea how she did business.”
Joey dug his hands into the pockets of the shiny pair of suit pants he was wearing. “She was one tough woman to deal with.” He rubbed his neck again. “Like you without the compassion.”
Ike liked that-too much. I shushed him. “Deal with, Joey? You did business with her?”
“She came in all the time,” Joey said. “Twice a month maybe. And she bought a lot of stuff. I knew she’d probably turn right around and sell it for a lot more than what she paid.”
“That bother you?” I asked.
Joey smashed his lips together. Shook his head no. “She had a lot more knowledge about the value of things than I did. And a lot more connections. And I always got a buck or two more for the things I sold her than what I paid. That’s all the matters to me.”
Ike wandered off to look at Joey’s collection of political memorabilia. I charged ahead. “She had a pretty exclusive shop. Who exactly were her customers?”
“Hannawa’s la-de-das mostly.”
“Mostly?”
“Junk dealers like yours truly sell anything we can get our hands on. But real antique dealers tend to specialize. They buy from other dealers.”
“Where’s the money in that?” Ike asked from across the shop. He had his nose in a box of old campaign buttons.
“There’s plenty of money in that,” Joey explained. “Say I’m a dealer in Ohio and I get my hands on some fancy old French chair that maybe Napoleon himself sat in. But I specialize in 18th century coo-coo clocks. Which means my customers aren’t going to pay top dollar for a chair, no matter whose ass once graced it. But I know so-and-so in Timbuktu who could sell that chair for a ton of money. So I give it to him for a pretty good price and he turns around and sells it for an even prettier price.”
“How about Violeta Bell?” I asked. “Did she specialize?”
Joey smashed his lips together again. This time he nodded. “Big pieces mostly. Furniture and the like. Some European but mostly American. Nineteenth century. Early twentieth. Art Nouveau. Biedermeier. Arts amp; Crafts. She absolutely went schizoid over Art Deco.”
I was impressed. I remembered some of those names from Detective Grant’s list. “For a mere junk dealer you know your stuff.”
Ike loudly reprimanded me. “His shop’s full of junk, not his brain.”
I smiled apologetically. Joey smiled back, somewhat grimly. “I gather she was big into old fireplaces and stoves.”
“They do bring a pretty penny,” he said.
“You ever sell her any?”
“I come by a few now and then-so I suppose I might have.”
Maybe it was imagination, but Joey seemed to be getting a little nervous. “Where do dealers get their antiques, other than junk shop owners and other dealers?” I asked.
“A good fisherman fishes many ponds,” he said. “Antique malls, auctions, estate sales, classified ads, garage sales, tree lawns on garbage day.”
I knew I was going to make him really nervous now. “And where would a dealer who isn’t exactly on the up and up get her stuff?”
Joey got less nervous instead of more. Downright steely in fact. “You’re saying Violeta Bell dealt in fakes?”
Ike appeared at my side wearing a big “I Like Ike” button on his khaki shirt. “She’s not saying that, Joseph. She’s just trying to figure out why somebody might have popped her.”
I asked my next question before the conversation shifted to the Eisenhower button. “You think it’s possible she could have been selling fakes?”
“There isn’t a dealer alive who hasn’t sold a fake or three,” Joey answered. “The antique business is lousy with reproductions being passed off as authentic pieces. Sometimes it’s almost impossible for dealers to tell. Even if they’re an expert in that particular area.”
“I guess I’m taking about knowingly selling fakes.”
“There are a few unscrupulous dealers who do that.”
I asked a final question. “Do you think that Violeta Bell could have been one of those few?”