Antiques St. Nicked by Barbara Allan Page A

Tony in his job.
    â€œI would’ve come to the station,” I said, “but they said you were out, so I sent you that text. . . .”
    Crooking a finger for him to follow, I went over to where both photos lay on the counter.
    When Tony saw Mother’s crime-scene shot, his face turned a Christmassy red. “Where the hell d’you get that?”
    This time you would not have to be his girlfriend to pick up on the irritation.
    â€œMother took it with her cell—you can deal with her later.”
    Tapping the other photo, I explained the difference in the suits, and the theory that Simon had actually been killed at the beginning of the Stroll.
    Red fading, Tony nodded. “That makes sense. Indicates why our interviews with eye witnesses don’t jibe with the preliminary autopsy report.”
    A little bell tinkled, telling me I’d forgotten to relock the front door, and someone came in—some customer I’d have to turn away.
    Only it wasn’t a customer—rather, it was Dumpster Dan, in the too-big tattered overcoat he’d worn at the Stroll, moving toward us, face flushed.
    â€œI know you’re closed,” he apologized breathlessly, “but I saw the lights on and just couldn’t wait.”
    The man’s bloodshot eyes went to Tony. “And I’m glad you’re here, too, Chief Cassato . . . because I want you to know that I found this in a Dumpster . . . and finders keepers, right?”
    Dan held up a clenched fist.
    Tony, who had a certain fondness for Dan, said gently, “Well, that depends. Sometimes things get thrown away accidentally.”
    â€œOh.” Dan seemed to deflate.
    â€œBut if that is the case,” Tony went on, “there might well be a reward.”
    â€œOh!” Dan filled right back up.
    I asked, “What do you have there, Dan? Something special?”
    â€œI think so.” He opened his palm, and the moment I saw the shiny silver object, I knew what it was.
    So did Tony.
    â€œMind if I see that?” Tony asked evenly, so as not to spook the man.
    Dan handed over the rare silver dollar.
    Examining the coin, Tony asked, “Where did you find this?”
    â€œIn a Dumpster behind Hunter’s.”
    â€œWhen?”
    â€œThis morning.”
    â€œAny more money? Newer money?”
    Dan looked down at his feet.
    â€œDan,” Tony said patiently, “any more money?”
    â€œWell . . . there were some bills, small ones, and a buncha change, too—but I didn’t have time to get much of it before the Dumpster truck rolled up. Guess I can’t keep any of the money, huh?”
    â€œSorry, no,” Tony said.
    Dan sighed. “Afraid of that.” A pause. “But is it okay if I keep that Santa suit?”
    Actually, it wasn’t.
    And after Tony had left with Dan to take him to the station for further questioning, I called Mother on her cell and told her what had just transpired.
    After the expected gasp, she announced, “So! . . . Simon’s death was not about someone stealing the coin for monetary gain!”
    â€œThen what was it about?”
    â€œThat’s what we’re going to find out—come and get me at Boonie’s. I think it’s time we pay a visit to the old orphanage.”
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    With Mother giving directions, Sushi in her lap listening intently, I drove out in the country 5.7 miles, then turned down a snowy narrow lane, coming to a stop in front of an austere, multi-gabled Gothic structure of red sandstone.
    â€œThe orphanage was once the manor of a wealthy pearl button manufacturer,” Mother said, “himself an orphan who grew to success and wealth.”
    We were seated in the car, gazing out at the decaying edifice.
    â€œAnd,” Mother continued, “when the manufacturer died in the early 1920s, childless, a widower, he left the mansion to the county on the condition that it be used for an orphanage. Then, when it