Dealer of Antiquities

by Lloyd B. Abrams

Graham Farnsworth bought, sold and collected antiquities. That he was a purveyor of said items was embossed in gold on his business card. But every local knew him as just another junk dealer fleecing the summering rich who meandered over to his antique shoppe slash warehouse slash barn on dreary days when neither the beach nor the boutiques in town were the place to pass the time.

Dug in far below the sawdust-strewn floor was a soundproof fallout shelter left over from the early 60s when having a reinforced concrete shelter alleviated the nuclear scare from that horrid Red Menace. Built by his father and uncle, it had its own electric generator, chemical toilet, recycled air-supply system, furniture and shelves of supplies – all the creature comforts of a home away from home. His father and uncle never lived to see it used other than a place “to be quiet and alone,” as they put it. Now, only Graham knew of its existence. There were no building plans on record, no permits, no paper trail whatsoever. And in this below-ground bunker, another sort of antiquity was about to be stored.

Graham knew Melinda Gilbert by sight when she sashayed into his emporium. He knew about her marriage problems, her multiple affairs, her suicide attempts, and her stints in renowned rehabilitation centers. After all, juicy news about the Melinda Gilbert was the best fodder for gossip in his closely-knit town. When she came through the door jingling the hanging brass bell, with her bleached-blonde hair, her Botoxed face and wearing her silky bathing suit cover-up, he decided he just had to have her.

“May I help you with anything?” Graham asked, in his most pretentious voice.

“Nah. I’m just looking.”

That’s what they always say, he thought. Just looking. As she drifted by tables of lanterns, scrimshaw, antique clocks, picture frames, dinner plates and silver-plated candlesticks mismarked “925" or “Sterling” – those always sold well – she found herself caught in the maze of aisles and displays that he purposely arranged to funnel customers to the rear of his shop so they’d have to again weave their way past his wares back to the entrance. He watched carefully as she picked up and examined a creamer from a faux Wedgewood tea set.

“Quite beautiful, is it not?” he asked as he approached.

“Yep. It sure is.”

“All the embellishments are hand-enameled. The gold trim, you see, is still impeccable. You certainly do have a discerning taste.”

The price tag strung to the teapot was illegible, as most were. “How much?”

“Ordinarily, a set like that would fetch at least five hundred dollars retail. But today, and just for today,” he chuckled, for his phony-salesman’s come-on had always been part of his charm, “you could have it for three seventy five.”

“How ’bout three hundred?”

“Oh, I don’t know, ma’am. I do so much want to stay in business.” He knew he’d still clear at least a hundred and twenty-five.

Graham made a pretense of deliberating. He took out his calculator and punched in some numbers. “Hmm ... I don’t know. But if you’re truly interested in Wedgewood heirloom pieces, perhaps you’d like to examine several more sets. Some are even more exquisite. And for those I can, and just for you, allow a deeper price adjustment. Please come with me.”

He gently touched her arm and guided her to the staircase hidden between hanging Persian rugs, tapped the floor switch to turn on a string of fluorescents, and beckoned her to follow him down the creaking wooden stairs. When he felt her demur, he said with a laugh, “Come on ... I won’t bite.”

As they got to the bottom of the stairs, he hit a switch. The lights shut off. He whirled around, seized her arms, threw her to the concrete floor and pounced on her. He grabbed her neck and strangled her until her body became limp.

When he no longer felt the flutter of a pulse, he went upstairs, flipped around the OPEN/CLOSED sign, locked the door, and turned off the overheads. He returned to her, chortled and said, “Oh, you’re still here, aren’t you?” and dragged her body over to a ceiling-high bookcase filled with leather-bound books. He unlatched a hidden deadbolt and swivelled the bookcase on its pivot to reveal the bomb-proof entrance.

He dialed the combination, and yanked open the steel-encased lead-core door. Because of the aged filtration system, the air was dusty and stale, but still breathable. He grabbed her under her arms and hauled her through. He remembered her macrame beach bag and the sandals that she kicked off in the struggle and he went back to get them.

He lifted her up into a sitting position on the almost pristine Castro convertible sofa. As he took off her azure cover-up, he smiled and said “Nice ... nice,” then brushed her hair back with his hands. “We wouldn’t want you looking disheveled, would we?” From her stash of cosmetics in the bag, he applied lip gloss and just a touch of rouge. He pinched her eyes shut, blended in eye shadow and penciled on eye liner. Then he flicked her eyes open wide and brushed on mascara. He caressed her cheek and said, “Ahh ... so pretty. But wait here. I shall return.”

Carrying the cover-up, sandals and beach bag, he slammed the door behind him, reset the combination lock, and repositioned the bookcase.

He put her things in a brown Trader Joe’s bag and left his shop. He made sure that no car was around; hers would have especially complicated matters. Whistling a tune from South Pacific, he strolled three blocks to the beach. He tried to be as inconspicuous as possible – just a guy out for some exercise.

When he got to the top of the wooden walkway over the dunes, he scanned up and down the beach. On this gray day, he could see no one, which was a relief. Near water’s edge, he took out her towel, flattened it on the sand, set her sandals on two corners, then placed the bag next to it. He tiptoed towards the surf, just enough to make small footprint indentations in the wet sand, then retraced his steps backwards to the towel. He took his paper sack and walked back to his shop.

The jingling bell made him smile after he unlocked the door. He re-locked the door and made his way down into the bunker.

“Hmm ... you’ve waited for me. I’m so happy.” He drew her face towards him, touched his lips to hers and said, “I closed up our place for the day, just for you. Now we’ll have all the time in the world.”

Up to the beginning of the story

Rev 5 / January 27, 2010 .. Rev 6 / November 19, 2014

-- Appeared in Grassroot Reflections Issue 19, May 2011

-- Appeared in Flash Fiction Anthology, Long Island Flash, 2015

Up to the beginning of the story

January, 2010…Copyright © 2010, Lloyd B. Abrams