Antiques Bizarre (12 page)

The chief escorted me into his annoyingly uncluttered office—annoying, because it revealed nothing about the man, no personal papers lying around for me to eyeball, or to surreptitiously slip into my handbag.

He offered me the padded chair in front of his desk, but instead of going around and taking a seat himself, he perched on the desk’s edge, looking down at me over his somewhat crooked nose.

And suddenly his smile didn’t seem so friendly.

I cleared my throat. “You said you were about to call me—which is good because I have a few theories about the death of Mr. Martinette—”

He cut me off with “Not interested,” his smile disappearing altogether. “I wanted to see you to give you a piece of good news.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I’ve decided not to press charges against you.”

I was speechless. (Really.) (I tell you, I was!)

“Mrs. Borne, you left the scene of a crime last night. A woman at the scene was dead, and we have no way of knowing whether she was still alive when—don’t inter
rupt! When you first found her. Instead of calling 911 or the police, you went home and gathered your daughter. Now, the coroner feels Mrs. Mulligan was probably deceased when you arrived. But nonetheless this is unacceptable, possibly criminally negligent behavior. Because of your age—do not interrupt! Because of your age, and because your daughter did in fact promptly contact the authorities, that is, me, we are willing to overlook this lapse in good judgment and display of bad citizenship. There is one condition—you must henceforth stay out of this police matter. Otherwise, I will cite you for obstructing our investigation.”

“I want to see my lawyer.”

“Do it on your own time.” The chief pointed a finger at me as if aiming a gun at my poor head. “And
stop
involving Brandy in your nonsense. You’re putting her
and
the baby at risk.” He withdrew the finger. “That’s all.”

“That’s all?”

“Just one other thing.”

“What?”

“Get out.”

What a
terrible
way to speak to his future mother-in-law!

Shocked, unable to find the words to properly express my outraged indignation (or perhaps my indignant outrage—hard call), I rose, summoning every ounce of dignity within me, then headed slowly to the door, stumbling only once.

“Oh!” he said to my back. “There
is
one more thing.”

I rotated my head to look at him, my chin up, nose high, my displeasure on display. “What is it, Chief Cassato?”

“The next dispatcher who gives you sensitive police information will find herself out of a job. Understood?”

I nodded numbly, and made my way into the corridor, numb as a dead gerbil. (There is a gerbil story that you
must simply remind me to tell, but not at this time. Not when I’m watching every word.) (Richard Gere not involved.)

My visit with the chief could have gone better.

But Vivian Borne is not one to buckle under even the greatest pressure, and the unfairest persecution…and the day was still young….

I hoofed it over to Main Street, five blocks of regentrified Victorian buildings housing quaint little bistros and shops, accentuated by old-fashioned lampposts and wrought-iron benches.

Hunter’s Hardware was my next destination, a uniquely Midwestern aberration: the front of the elongated store—which hadn’t changed an iota since I was in bloomers (figuratively speaking—I’m not old enough to have actually worn bloomers). The place retained the original wood floor and tin ceiling yet sold everything one might expect from a modern hardware outlet.

The rear, however, contained a small bar area that offered hard liquor to its customers, a practice called into question after one man got too loosey-goosey imbibing, then went home with his new nail gun and affixed his foot to the floor. (The most disturbing thing, reported by the man’s wife, was that the nailer alternately screamed and laughed about his mishap. Men can be strange.)

I breezed into the store/bar, weaving in and around various displays, successfully managing to avoid Mary, coowner of the store, who could talk your ear off about the most unimportant things, wasting precious time.

Mary was a squat lady, who wore a prosthesis ever since losing a leg some years back in a freak accident while visiting the
Jaws
attraction at the Universal theme park in Florida. Soon after, she and her husband, Junior, bought the hardware store with the money she got from the settlement. Always a silver lining!

I found Junior in the back, where he was polishing glass tumblers behind the scarred mahogany bar. Sixty years ago, his nickname had accurately described him, but now he was paunchy and balding, with a puffy face and dark circles under his eyes.

The bar was deserted at this morning hour, the only other customer being Henry, a barfly who was as much a fixture in Hunter’s as the old ceiling fans.

(Just so you know, the following sentence originally began, “As a matter of fact,” but I deleted it to save precious word space.) Henry was the reason I was here, as Junior was a terrible gossip—and by “terrible” I mean the old fool couldn’t retain and retell a good story if his life depended upon it.

Henry, however, sitting quietly in his cups all these years, absorbed town gossip like a bar-sponge does a spilled Blatz. He was my number one informant, and not one the chief could take away from me.

Junior spotted me first, serving up his usual buck-toothed grin. “Vivian! Nice to see you!”

“Must be nice to be open again.” I slid up on a well-worn leather stool next to Henry. “Any water damage?”

“We got some in the basement. Just a block closer to the river, it’s
still
a foot deep, first floors.”

“Terrible tragedy. We all do what we can.”

“Well,
you
sure do!” Junior snorted. “I heard that was one wild party you threw over at the Catholic church.” He chuckled. “I always say, wherever there’s a catastrophe, Vivian Borne’s gonna be right there on the front line.”

“Why, thank you. Very sweet of you, Junior.”

Henry swiveled toward me. “Hello, Vivian.”

I did a double take (double and triple takes are part of my comic bag of tricks for stage performance, and I must admit a touch of theatricality has tended to creep into my off-stage persona—just a tad).

My surprise was due to this not being Henry’s usual slurred, “’lo ’ivian,” ending with a hiccough.

The one-time surgeon had famously (or infamously) taken to drink after losing his license many years ago, upon removing a patient’s gall bladder instead of the intended appendix. Now he was sitting in a bar—stone-cold sober!

No longer was Henry the rheumy-eyed, mottled-nosed, and sickly-complected barfly we all knew and loved. Instead of his regular tumbler of whiskey, he was having the only thing
I
ever ordered—a Shirley Temple!

“Huh…Huh…
Henry!
” I sputtered. “You’ve finally done it! You’ve finally kicked the monkey off your back!”

For
years
I had tried, in my simple Christian way, to get Henry off the sauce, always to disastrous results. The latest in a long line of failed attempts to dry Henry out had been to take him to a hypnotist. But susceptible Henry had been sitting in the hypnotist’s reception area and overheard instructions intended for a heavy smoker. Apparently, the hypnotist had been at an early stage of therapy when telling the subject that cigarettes would begin to taste terrible to him, because Henry arrived at Hunter’s the next day and, between drinks, smoked cigarette after cigarette, snuffing them out, and making terrible faces and loud comments about the horrible taste. You see, Henry hadn’t smoked before.

(
Editorial comment from Brandy Borne:
Please understand that you are not expected to believe everything Mother says. I’m told she is what’s known in literature as an “unreliable narrator,” and if you feel this particular tall tale is just too much, you are not alone. Now we return you to Mother’s chapter, already—unfortunately—in progress.)

Henry’s smile was unfamiliar—his mouth no longer lopsided! “Been dry a whole month, Vivian.”

“Well, I’ll drink to that!” I replied.

Junior, who had begun making my nonalcoholic concoction (with extra cherries) the moment he saw me, placed the drink on the counter. I picked it up and clanked glasses with Henry, and then we both took sips.

“How did you do it?” I asked.

“I went back to that hypnotist—wasn’t really her fault a few signals got crossed—and anyway, this time she got it right.”

“Tilda Tompkins, you mean.”

“Yes. Have another session with her this afternoon, at three. Once a week and works like a charm.”

“Well, congratulations,” I beamed, glad that I had played at least a small role in his transformation.

Henry frowned. “But Tilda says I can’t have even a single drop of liquor. Otherwise, I’ll fall of the wagon and hit real hard.”

By this time I’d heard quite enough of Henry and his success story, itching to get to my reason for dropping by.

“Henry,” I began, “what can you tell me about Clifford Ashland?”

The ex-surgeon took a moment before answering. “He’s wealthy and runs an investment firm.”

“Well,
I
know that! What else?”

Henry shrugged. “I don’t know anything else.”

I found that hard to believe. But I moved on. “What about Father O’Brien? Tell me all about him—surely he must have some deep, dark secrets…?”

Henry’s eyeballs rolled back in his head, as if searching for information in his brain, or maybe reliving an exorcism his hypnotist had stirred up. When his eyes reappeared, they were somewhat crossed. “Well, all I know is, Father O’Brien is the priest at St. Mary’s.”

I was beginning to get peeved.

“Henry,” I snapped, “you know
everything
there is about
everybody
in this town—past and present!”

He shook his head, then slowly, soberly said, “Not anymore, Vivian.”

“What do you
mean
, ‘not anymore’?”

His shrug was elaborate. “I don’t remember much of anything since before I got cleaned up.”

Well, dear reader, I nearly toppled from my stool! This bit of news meant utter disaster. Henry was my go-to-snitch, my snitch of snitches, the Snitch-a-tola of Serenity. He was where I went when I wanted, when I
needed
, sensitive information.

“Henry, I’m working on a case, and I really need your help. Would you consider falling off the wagon just for this afternoon, and I’ll pick up the tab on all your future hypnotherapy?”

Henry’s eyes popped. “Vivian—how you can suggest such a thing?”

Junior seemed to be thinking my idea hadn’t been bad at all.

“I’d love to help, if I could,” Henry said, and shrugged again, less elaborately. “What are you working on? The theft of that egg? The murder of that fellow Martinette?”

Now
my
eyes popped. “You may have forgotten your yesterdays, but you’re certainly up on current events, Henry.”

“I read the paper. Watch the TV. Anyway, I was there. I was at the church—I got pretty sick. I had some of that bad stew. Really something about Mrs. Mulligan dying, too. Is that another murder?”

This was way off base—Henry asking
me
questions. The world had really gone topsy-turvy today.

“Funny thing,” he was saying, studying his nonalcoholic beverage somewhat wistfully, “that fellow Martinette? I’m sure I’ve seen him before.”

“I don’t think so. He came in from Chicago as a bidder.”

“No,” Henry said forcefully. “I know I’ve seen him before. Maybe more than once.”

“Where? When?”

Henry turned his palms up. “I’m sorry, Vivian. I just don’t remember.”

Beyond frustration, I addressed Junior, “Where are the Romeos having their lunch today?”

The Romeos—Retired Old Men Eating Out—were friends of long standing who had sometimes been helpful with information for me, when I was cracking a mystery. But they were a dwindling group, Father Time catching up with them.

Junior frowned. “Haven’t you heard?”

I hated it when a) this simple soul knew something I didn’t, and 2) when he made me ask him, “What?”

I asked, “What?”

“They’re on hiatus,” Junior said. “Not enough of ’em around to get together anymore, between death and Florida.” He paused, adding, “And they kinda lost heart after what happened to—”

“Yes, I
know
,” I cut him off, holding up a “stop” palm, not wanting him to spoil
Antiques Flee Market
, for those of you who haven’t read it (yet).

Pushing my Shirley Temple aside, I demanded, “Give me a whiskey, Junior. Neat!”

Junior’s eyes widened. “Are you sure? What about your medication? And do you even know what ‘neat’ means?”

“You’re not my doctor, or my conscience. Just serve it up! Uh…what
does
‘neat’ mean, in this regard?”

“Straight, Viv. No mixer.”

“Fine!”

Junior hesitated, then poured amber liquid into a tumbler.

I downed it. “Another one,” I demanded.

Henry reached a hand out. “Don’t
do
it, Vivian.”

“
Another
one.”

Junior sighed. “Okay, Viv. But no more.”

I sat glumly with the second drink untouched, wondering what my next move might be, when Mary appeared and asked her husband to move a large box.

When Junior left, I turned to Henry.

“Maybe you should lend a hand, too,” I suggested. “We don’t want Junior having a heart attack, now do we?”

Henry nodded, climbed off his stool, and sauntered off to help.

After Henry had gone, I studied his glass. Who would ever know if I poured my whiskey into his tumbler? He’d kicked it once. Surely he could kick it again, and I would gladly guide him back to sobriety.

But it must have been the whiskey talking, or anyway thinking. I couldn’t do that to my old friend, my loyal one-time snitch. Yes, my better nature and my conscience got the better of me, and I refrained from such sabotage.

Please don’t judge me too harshly—remember, I had a killer to catch.