Antiques Bizarre (11 page)

I bid Mother good-bye—she barely noticed—and went out to my car.

Sis, along with her accountant husband, Bob, and college-student daughter, Ashley, lived in an exclusive subdivision on the outskirts of Serenity, meaning I had to cross the treacherous bypass. But at least there was a light at the intersection now, thanks to a ten-car pileup a while back, and soon I was entering the upper-class housing addition, where the homes ran half-a-mil and up, even with housing prices down.

At Sis’s mansion (to me it was), I turned up a wide cement drive to a three-car garage, which stood open, revealing Peggy Sue’s white, gas-guzzling Caddie Escalade. Bob’s hybrid was gone—indicating he was working today at his office instead of at home—as was Ashley’s sporty red Mustang, which my lucky niece had taken with her to college.

Just to be obnoxious, for a few moments I let my battered Buick rumble and belch—recalling the old VHS tapes of Jack Benny shows Mother used to play, where his famed Maxwell would come to a long-shuddering stop.

Then I Dorothy-ed up the yellow brick road to the Emerald City, where I rang the bell, which was no louder nor any more pretentious than Big Ben.

Peggy Sue answered right away, her chin-length dark brown hair perfectly coifed, her attractive face fully painted; she was dressed head-to-toe in Burberry plaid, an outfit
that could pay a month’s rent for a family of four, and give me eyestrain for a week.

She greeted me somewhat sheepishly as I trooped by, heading down the gleaming floor hallway, passing a living room on the right and formal dining room on the left that were worthy of an
Architectural Digest
spread, and on into a state-of-the art kitchen Rachael Ray would kill for.

There, I settled into a modern, black-lacquered chair at a square glass-topped table with real flowers in the center.

Sis, her back to me, busied herself at one of the endless marble counters, filling two china cups from a combo espresso-latte machine, then delivered them on matching plates, along with almond biscotti.

She took the chair next to me, asking, “How are you, Brandy?”

I answered by opening my small L.A.M.B. purse (couldn’t afford the bigger one) to produce a folded white piece of paper. This I placed in front of her, clearly in a mode of accusation.

Peggy Sue picked up the note, read it, then slowly put it down again.

“Well?” I asked. “Is it true? Is my real father a senator?”

Her troubled eyes met mine. “It’s true.”

“But you told me my father was a
grease monkey
you had a one-night stand with, who died in Vietnam in a helicopter crash!”

“I know what I said.”

“
Well?
”

“Well…I’m sorry. I did it to—”

“To what? Deceive me?”

“No. Protect
him
.”

“What’s his name?”

Peggy Sue looked pained. She sighed. She looked everywhere but at me.

I gave her the evil eye. “If you don’t tell me, I’ll start
contacting every senator in the state, and every man who has been a senator in this state since—”

“
Not
state senator, Brandy. United
States
senator—Senator Clark? Edward Clark?”

My jaw fell as if the hinges had come loose. The media was buzzing about the veteran senator from our state making a gubernatorial run, as a prelude to an eventual presidential try. Suddenly, I was a mutt with a pedigree!

“Does he…
know
about me?”

Peggy Sue shook her head. “I never told him I was pregnant.” She looked down. “He…he was married at the time. I’m sure he would have done the right thing, but I didn’t want him in my life. I didn’t want an abortion. I wanted
you
.”

Wasn’t that flattering?

“Did he take advantage of you?” Dirty old man—or dirty
young
man, back then.

“No! The attraction was mutual.” She paused, then went on. “The summer after high school, I worked for his campaign—it was his first election, and we grew…close.”

“I’ll say.”

Sis took deep breath, let it out slowly. “I guess I was lonely and starry-eyed, being around such a handsome, powerful man. I’d just broken up with…anyway…and of course Mother was…difficult. I had dreams of marriage, even though he was already…”

The sentences just wouldn’t come together for her.

Finally she said, “Brandy, I was just a stupid kid.” But there were tears in her eyes when she added, “I really
did
love him….”

I was seeing Peggy Sue in a new light—vulnerable and sad, compassionate and caring. She had made mistakes—like me.

“I’m sorry, Brandy, that I made up that other story—
please don’t hate me for it. I didn’t want Edward’s career to be ruined. I
still
don’t.”

“I understand,” I said. “But that
did
happen a long time ago.”

“It could still hurt him. I was only seventeen, although I became of-age a month later.”

Oops—even a long-ago whiff of statutory rape could feed the twenty-four-hour news cycles for a good long time….

Peggy Sue snatched up the note. “Who’s been sending these awful things?” I wasn’t used to seeing that much anger on her face. “First, telling you that I’m your mother, and now
this!
”

I smirked. “Who do you think? Connie Grimes.”

Connie Grimes—nastiest of Peggy Sue’s snotty gal pals, with whom I’d had several run-ins lately. It made sense that that mad cow would go after her revenge.

Peggy Sue was shaking her head, the perfect hair swinging. “But how would
Connie
know?”

I shrugged. “Where was
she
thirty years ago? She didn’t work on the campaign with you, did she?”

She frowned. “Yes, she did. But—”

Something was forming in Sis’s mind, but then she shook her head. “I don’t know. If it
is
her, I could
strangle
that witch!”

I tried to get the conversation back on track.

“About Mother,” I said. “We agreed before that I didn’t want her to know that
I
knew about you….”

“And now you don’t want her to know that
you
know about
him
.” Peggy Sue nodded. “I agree it’s for the best.”

“Let’s maintain the status quo.”

“Let’s.”

She warmed up our cold coffee, which we sipped as our conversation turned to more pleasant subjects, like how
my pregnancy was going, and what courses Ashley was taking at college, avoiding any discussion of the botched bazaar.

When we’d run out of things to say, Peggy Sue gathered up the cups and leftover biscotti, then walked me to the front door.

We stood out on her expensive inlaid stone stoop, in the cool, spring air, and Sis said, “I don’t suppose there’s any way you can keep Mother from attending Nastasya Petrova’s funeral….”

“Not a chance.”

Sis pursed her pretty lips. “I can’t believe she’s in the middle of a murder again. How can that keep
happening?
”

“Just lucky I guess.”

“You
have
to rein her in. You have to promise me that. Is she taking her medication?”

“Yes, but she’s pretty keyed-up over all this. Don’t worry, Sis—I’ll do what I can to keep her under control.”

She sighed. “It’s really been embarrassing for me, living so close to the Ashlands.” Her eyes traveled to another half-mil-plus monstrosity down the street.

I followed her gaze. “Is that where they live?”

She nodded, “Clifford and Angelica. Lovely, isn’t it?”

So now the real Peggy Sue was back, worried about what the neighbors might think, concerned about her own community standing. Old habits die hard. Actually, they don’t die at all.

“You know,” I said, “I hear Ashland’s aunt left all her money to St. Mary’s and her Russian church in Chicago.”

“I’ve heard the same. Wonderful people, the Ashlands. So many brokers are doing poorly in this economy, but Clifford is thriving. Smart, conservative investments. Bob and I have done very well with him.”

“So it’s not likely he’d kill his aunt for her money.”

Her eyes widened in horror. “Brandy! He’s a millionaire
many times over, and his aunt’s wealth doesn’t go to him in any case. Don’t
say
such terrible things. Not
all
rich people are evil, you know! He’d be the
least
likely suspect….”

That gave me a sick feeling as I walked to my battered Buick. I’d read enough Christie and Stout to know all about least likely suspects, and was suddenly hoping the garden path I’d sent Mother down wasn’t a thorny one.

A Trash ‘n’ Treasures Tip

Examine auction items before bidding, using the same scrutiny you would for any purchase that can’t be returned for a defect. (If I forget to bring along a magnifying glass, I just use Mother’s glasses.)

I
n my previous accounts, I have always allowed Mother her own chapter, which seemed only fair—after all, she is privy to certain information that I am not. Besides which, I make certain comments and even accusations about her along the way that might seem to warrant an opportunity for her to respond.

But on our previous outing,
Antiques Flee Market
, she wheedled me into giving her two chapters. And in an effort to make sure she does not view that practice as a precedent, I am limiting her once again to a single chapter. As usual, The management is not responsible for, nor necessarily in agreement with, the following content, and therefore will not be held accountable.

Ah, my dear ones!

How wonderful it is to have your collective ear once more. My darling daughter is precocious and well-meaning, but she does occasionally reveal an unflattering point of view where her mother is concerned, and I am grateful for the chance to straighten all of you out.

We’ll begin just after Brandy left the house to visit Peggy Sue. That was when I flew into action, with not a moment
to lose, because due momentarily to pass by the house was Serenity’s gas-powered trolley—my only form of transportation other than Brandy and her car (or my own car in an
absolute
emergency. And assuming I could get the tires back on).

It is basically true that I have lost my driver’s license due to some silly infraction involving a tractor and a cow, which I won’t go into right now, not because I couldn’t defend myself, but due to Brandy limiting my word count.

And my sincere thanks to all you who wrote to sympathize with me after the ungrateful child cut me off in mid-sentence last time around. I had just been about to share with you an account of the time Billy Buckly (the town’s little person, grand-nephew of one of the original MGM
Wizard of Oz
munchkins—talk about a local celebrity!) had been sitting on my lap, not out of affection but due to a shortage of seats, when the trolley inexplicably braked. Unfortunately I must reserve the exciting conclusion of that tale for a later time, when I’m not so carefully watching my word count and staying on point.

Super-heroine quick, I changed into navy slacks and sweater, and put on my most comfortable walking shoes, then grabbed a tan trench coat, as the spring weather was still a little nippy, and of course that’s what
all
true detectives wear, particularly this time of year.

I knew I needn’t worry about putting Sushi outside one last time, because Brandy had installed a small doggy-portal in the back door—I tell you, that animal has to relieve itself more than
I
do! I could ascertain, however, that Sushi was miffed at being left alone again, by the way she stuck out her lower teeth, much as Marlon Brando did in
The Dogfather
(typo:
Godfather
).

On one occasion, after we’d had the little door put in, Brandy and I happened to be away for a very long after
noon of yard-sale snooping in the neighborhood. When we depart on foot, Sushi expects to be part of the group, but our expedition that day would have been too much for her (she is
blind
, if she doesn’t know it). On our return we discovered that the little demon had gotten hold of Brandy’s car keys and buried them in the backyard. This had taken detective work on our part because the animal might have hidden them
anywhere
, but her paws were filthy and signs of fresh digging out back led us to the treasure (although I was
still
late for rehearsal at the Playhouse). Sometimes that dog can be very vindictive. Wherever does she get that?

But I digress.

I caught the trolley just in time, hopping aboard an already-f car. You see, the ride is free,
if
you’re going downtown, presumably to spend your hard-earned money, a service underwritten by the merchants who compete with the mall. These days, though, with high-flying gas prices and low-riding economy, many folks who work downtown join shoppers in taking advantage of the free ride.

“Hello, Shawntea,” I bid the young, attractive African-American woman at the wheel.

I had met her in Chicago last summer when four of us Red-Hatted League gals drove into the Windy City for a Cubs game and lost our bearings, ending up with a flat tire somewhere called Cabrini-Green.

Shawntea, who had just disembarked a bus, enlisted help from her brother Trayvon, who belonged to a young men’s club called Gangsta Disciples (apparently something on the order of the fine boy’s clubs we set up during the Depression to keep the young ’uns out of trouble). Trayvon changed our tire and I, in exchange, offered to change Shawntea’s life with a new start in Serenity, where, a few months later—to my complete surprise—she arrived on my
doorstep with two little boys in tow. But Vivian Borne never makes a promise lightly, and I managed to find her this job.

“’lo Viv.” The young woman smiled, flashing perfect white teeth. “Been a while.”

“Nice to have the trolley running again, my dear.”

The service had been shut down for several weeks because of the flooding, but the downtown was open for business again, with the exception of River Drive, which was still waterlogged.

A young man seated just behind Shawntea stood to give me his seat.

I bowed to him. “Thank you, young man! It does a mature person’s heart good to see that, in these trying times, chivalry among the younger generation is
not
dead!”

He gave me a odd look—probably embarrassed by the praise—and the trolley stopped and he got off. Perhaps I’d jumped the gun a trifle on the kudos.

Seated now, I returned my attention to the driver. “And how are Kwamie and Zeffross?”

“Oh, fine, Viv, fine. They
love
school! Isn’t that something?” Her eyes were on the road.

“And how are
your
educational efforts proceeding, my dear?”

“Gee, Viv, I feel terrible I didn’t call you! I finished school, completed my GED! You are bein’ chauffeured this morning by a
high-school
grad.”

“Why, that’s wonderful, dear! I
knew
you were up to the challenge.”

“That’s just the start, Viv—why, I’ll be attendin’ community college in the fall.” She paused, adding, “Thanks to you, sweet thing.”

I lifted my chin in all modesty. “I’m sure I had nothing to do with it.”

She risked a glance back. “Come on, now—I know you musta had
something
to do with the full scholarship I landed!”

“I’m sure you accomplished that all by yourself, young lady.”

On the other hand, my recommendation to the foundation board might well have been taken to heart. Several of the members have minor indiscretions in their past that could prove embarrassing should they come to light. Brandy calls this approach blackmail, but I insist it’s just good citizenship.

We had arrived downtown at the trolley’s first stop, where I always get off, and I gathered myself.

Shawntea said, “Viv…Miz
Borne
…?”

That struck an ominous note. “Yes, dear?”

“I’m afraid…afraid I won’t be driving the trolley anymore, not after next week.”

“Oh, no! Give me your boss’s name and I’ll have a word with him! There is no room in this modern world for that kind of—”

“No, no, Viv, ain’t nothin’ like that! I have a
new
job, at the Children’s Care Center.” She beamed proudly at me. “That’s what I want to do, you know—run a preschool someday.”

I summoned my sweetest smile. “How nice, dear. How wonderful for you. And you will be
splendid
at it, I’m sure.”

“Thanks, Viv. Couldn’t have done it without ya.”

I disembarked, then stood on the sidewalk in front of the courthouse, somewhat miffed, watching the trolley depart.

Honestly! You do something nice for someone, and this was how they repaid you!

Oh, well, as Scarlett O’Hara put it, tomorrow was an
other day. After all, it wasn’t like I couldn’t train the next driver to break the rules and take me off the beaten trolley path where and whenever I wanted.

I turned and gazed at the magnificent courthouse, a white sandstone study in Grecian architecture with a wonderful clock in its tower. The apple and cherry blossom trees, dotting the lush, manicured lawn, were in full bloom, their sweet scent lifting my mood. Just because Shawntea had been selfish didn’t mean
I
had to be….

The courthouse was the heart of our small downtown, with City Hall (down a block) acting as the lungs, the police station (kitty-corner) as the kidneys, and the new county jail (across the street) as the liver. The heart pumps life’s blood, the lungs take in air, the kidneys purify, and the liver deals with unwanted bile. It’s so simple, isn’t it?

Every once in a while, however, a few nincompoops over at the lungs want to cut out the heart and replace it with a new one. I’m all for adding a stint or a pacemaker, for efficiency sake, but I will
not
tolerate tearing down a beautiful courthouse just to make way for some nondescript soulless pancreas of an edifice.
That’s
when I march on the lungs, and sometimes end up in the liver….

(I hope you appreciate the lengths I’m going to to add some literary value to these presentations, i.e., the previous lovely extended metaphor. Brandy has a certain bounce to her prose, but she lacks a classical sense.)

I power-walked over to the police station, a modern though inoffensive red brick building that also housed the fire department. Upon entering the small lobby, I strode up to an unfamiliar female dispatcher (short red hair, severe features) who was sequestered behind glass, working at a bank of computers and monitors. I wondered where the regular dispatcher was—Mona the Mole, I called her. (But not to her face.) Every great detective needs his or her system of informants and snitches, you know.

While it is common to have a high turnover in dispatchers—due to the stress of the job—I was dismayed that once again I would have to spend precious time cultivating the friendship of yet another one, to gain access to inside information.

However, I buoyed myself in the knowledge that I had a certain amount of influence now, due to the chief’s budding romance with Brandy. (My daughter may not have realized it was a romance yet, but after she’d recounted their evening in starry-eyed detail, I knew things were about to change in the way our local chief viewed the Borne girls and their amateur sleuthing ways.)

I spoke through the microphone embedded in the glass. “I need to see Chief Cassato, please. Tony.”

The dispatcher looked up. “And you are…?”

“Why, Vivian Borne.” I smiled. I thought everyone employed by the department knew me! Sotto voce I added, “But you’ll learn that soon enough, dear.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said, I hope you’re earning enough for such an important job. Now, will you
please
inform Chief Cassato that
Vivian Borne
is here to see him.”

She arched a skeptical eyebrow. “Is it important?”

I laughed once. “Would I take time out of my day for something trivial?”

She didn’t respond, but then it had been a rhetorical question, so she wasn’t necessarily being rude, even if her expression did seem to further sour as she turned to use an interoffice phone.

After a moment, she looked at me, somewhat taken aback. “Well—I guess he’ll see you now. He said to go right on in.”

Well, dear reader, in all candor, I admit to being mildly surprised myself. Even in the best of circumstances, before seeing me, Serenity’s chief usually sentenced me to half an
hour of cooling my heels in the dreary waiting area, where I would pass the time removing dead leaves from the corner rubber tree plant.

This was proof positive of my new, improved status with the chief—my stock had indeed risen! (Unlike everyone else who had invested in the market.)

The dispatcher was saying, “You can go on through,” nodding her red head toward the heavy steel door at the end of the short hall.

“Thank you, dear,” I said sweetly. “And I feel quite certain this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

She did not respond, just gave me a wide-eyed, frozen stare, before shaking her head, as if to clear the cobwebs, and turning her attention back to the monitors.

I made a mental note to speak to the chief about her attitude. If she treated Vivian Borne in this unacceptable fashion, how did she behave for your average routine taxpayer?

I entered the inner police station sanctum, and strode confidently down a long beige hallway, where photos of policemen of bygone days broke the boredom of the tan walls.

The chief’s office was at the end of the hallway, and as I neared, he stepped out to greet me.

Anthony Cassato was not a tall man, but I wouldn’t call him short—blessed with a barrel chest, bucket-shaped head, full head of dark hair, and the kind of rugged face some woman find attractive. Not me—I’m more drawn to the Errol Flynn type (before he got pickled, at least).

The chief wore his usual attire of starched white short-sleeve shirt, blue tie, dark gray slacks, and black Florsheim shoes. But there
was
something different about him—today he wore a smile.

“Vivian,” he said, “I’m glad you’re here. I was just about to call you.”

So!

Tony Cassato had
finally
decided to take me seriously, to view me as a resource, a valuable asset, belatedly coming to the realization that my sleuthing was not trifling, but real, honest-to-goodness, effective detective work. Hadn’t I handed him three killers on a platter (well, respective platters) (three platters) over this past year or so?

I was certainly in the cat-bird seat now!

(For you younger folks—are you listening, dear?—this refers to an Australian bowerbird, a.k.a cat bird, known for the extraordinary lengths that the male will go to in order to…. Perhaps you should look it up yourself. I have my chapter length to consider, and can’t just go off yammering about anything.)