Antiques Roadkill (21 page)

Mother patted my hand. “Go, on, dear.… Your line was, ‘It’s become crystal clear that …'?”

“It’s not a ‘line,’ Mother—it’s real life!”

“I know, dear. Our house exploded. I was there.”

I gave her a disgusted smirk. “Well, keep that in mind. Because what’s clear is that I’m somebody’s target.”

“Target? For what?”

“For what else, Mother? Harm!” I leaned closer. “What if I really
was
meant to drive out to Carson’s house that night, straight into a murder frame-up?”

I was immediately sorry I’d used the words “murder frame-up,” because her eyes went wide at a term her Red-Hatted League had encountered many a time in the pages of Agatha Christiean unreality. And I needed her to focus on the reality of the threat that she herself had pointed out, days ago, and that I was increasingly convinced of, myself.

She clasped my hand, too tight. “What has brought you around to my way of thinking, dear?”

The notion that I had come around to her way of thinking was unsettling.

“Oh, I don’t know—maybe … our house blowing up?”

Mother’s eyes narrowed behind the magnified glasses, as much as they could, anyway. “Good point.”

“And what if it was
me
who was supposed to die last night? Not Linda Taylor.”

Mother shook her head, waved that off. “Brandy, that poor woman died from complications of her operation. It was her time, that’s all.”

I lowered my voice. “What if it was supposed to be
my
time—what if it wasn’t God or the Devil or the Guy with the Scythe who came around that hospital room, last night, looking for Linda Taylor … rather, Clint Carson’s
murderer
looking for
Brandy Borne?”

The eyes were huge and buggy now. “How is that
possible?”

“It’s ridiculously possible, Mother—and
I
caused it.”

“You?”

“I traded beds with her. Trying to be nice.”

Mother was shaking her head. “But wouldn’t the … the
murderer
have recognized his own victim?”

Now I shook my head. “The room was darkened, Mrs. Taylor sleeping, covers pulled up around her face. I was in the next bed, sleeping, not looking like me. It was something that had to be done quickly—would have been easy for the murderer to be interrupted, so haste was unavoidable.”

Mother still wasn’t getting it. “Why didn’t
you
look like you?”

I gestured with open hands, in frustration and bitter amusement. “Tina had come in and given me a hospital room makeover, to improve my spirits—straightened my hair.… Don’t you see?”

Mother’s expression went from disbelief to realization in three seconds flat. “Oh my …”

“And after they took Mrs. Taylor out, they moved me … up to the next floor, in a room by myself, right across from the nurses’ station …
and didn’t put my name on the door.”
I shook my head. “Everyone was acting so
weird.”

Mother said, “Well, they had just lost a patient, after all.”

Shaking my head firmly, I said, “No, it was more than that … it was lots of things, including the way the nurses were whispering. Once, in the night—I couldn’t sleep—I came out of the room and they were like, ‘What are you doing? Get back in there! Keep that door
shut!’
and all. Not mad,
concerned.
And not just concerned, but … spooked.”

“Oh dear.”

“‘Oh dear’ is right, Mother. Those hospital types, nurses and doctors, they’ve seen it all—since when do
they
get spooked over a death in the night?”

“Seldom, I would say.”

“I would, too. And I thought I heard Officer Lawson’s voice out in the hall, but was too doped and sluggish to go have a look … besides thinking those nurses would jump on me again.”

Mother was frowning in alarm. “The police came?”

“Well, I’m not positive about Lawson. But I am about Cassato.”

“The chief himself?”

“That’s right. No minor underling like Lawson this time, oh no. Chief Tony Cassato, Serenity PD numero uno, started asking me lots of questions, like about who I remembered came into the room that night and when.”

“What did you tell him, Brandy?”

“About who came in?” My frown made my chin crinkle. “That’s just it, Mother … I don’t remember who all came in. That’s the downside of that pain medication—and you can even hallucinate on the stuff, so my memories aren’t reliable.”

“When you spoke to Tony—Chief Cassato—did you learn anything? Get anything out of him?”

I shook my head. “Bubkes. Not that I didn’t try—but you know Tony, half professional, half enigma. He was typically tight-lipped.”

Mother’s voice was soft and unnervingly sane. “And what did you garner from his reluctance to share information about your own dire situation?”

“His clamming up only confirmed my belief that my roommate’s death was suspicious.”

“He didn’t confirm that, directly? Didn’t tell you what it was that caused Mrs. Taylor’s death?”

“No. Oh, I asked, and he said only, ‘Autopsy will tell.’ When it does, though, I bet
he
still won’t.…”

Mother stood suddenly and began to pace in front of me, like a lawyer in front of a jury box, during summation. But Mother wasn’t summing up; she was still questioning—me.

“Dear, whoever would want to harm
you?”

I said, “Honestly, I can’t think of anyone—a few people have grudges against me, but nothing that justifies murder. And I haven’t been home long enough to make any new enemies.”

“Then why you?”

“Maybe it isn’t me, personally, so much as something I …
we
… have stirred up.”

Mother nodded. “You could be right, dear.” Then she asked, “Who did come to see you in the hospital? That you can remember?”

I shook my head. “Coming up with a list of visitors is pointless, Mother.”

“Why?”

“It’s a hospital, not a prison—visiting hours or not, anybody can get on any elevator in that place and come up to whatever floor he chooses. Anybody who walked by my door could see my name, and what bed station I had been assigned.”

She planted herself suddenly and her eyes blossomed hugely behind the glasses. “Some of the Romeos were at the hospital!”

“Really?”

“Yes, yes—the day after you were admitted—Harold and Marvin. You were still unconscious, but they came in while I was with you and—”

I cut her off: “What significance could
that
have?”

“Well, both gentlemen had serious run-ins with the murder
victim. Neither exactly shed a tear when Clint Carson went to that great flea market in the sky … or, more likely, rummage sale down below. What if one of them killed him?”

I was shaking my head again. “And, what? Tried to pin it on me, and when that didn’t work, attempted to murder me? I could see one of them waging a vendetta against Carson, but involving me, in that convoluted fashion? And sacrificing
you,
who were also in the house when that gas was turned on? That doesn’t make any sense.”

Mother sighed, obviously disappointed that her old friends hadn’t wanted to kill her. “You’re right, of course, dear. Anyway, Harold and Marvin were probably principally at the hospital to lend support to Floyd Olson, who was in Short Stay for a colonostomy.”

Little in town got past Mother.

She said, “Well, it becomes painfully apparent that you need protection, Brandy. Why don’t we go see that nice young handsome policeman—Officer Lawson? Is he married, by the way?”

“Mother …”

“Tell him our concerns. Perhaps he can help.”

“No. Absolutely not.”

She frowned. “Why ever not?”

“Because I don’t trust him.”

And I told her about Lawson possibly being seen with Mia at Wild Cat Den.

Wearily, she plopped down next to me on the daybed. “How terrible. Seems you can’t trust anyone these days.… Why didn’t you
tell
me about your Wild Cat Den adventure before?”

I hadn’t wanted to encourage her in the amateur sleuth area, but I said, “I wasn’t sure I’d come up with anything pertinent.… Anyway, why didn’t you tell me about my
old friend Mia? Clue me in about this whole police-force drug scandal?”

Knowing Mother, she’d have followed every aspect of the case in the local media down to the smallest detail.

“Because you and Mia were friends, once,” Mother replied, “and I didn’t want you getting involved with her again. A good parent doesn’t want a child running with a rough crowd, you know.”

My eyes popped. “Mother! I think I’m old enough, and wise enough, to make that decision myself.”

She raised an eyebrow, eloquent in its reminder that my life had recently fallen apart and I’d had to come running home to, yes, Mother.

We fell silent, lost in thought.

After a moment, I expressed mine. “And Mia was seen recently with Ginger.…”

Mother’s brow knit. “Who?”

“Oh—that clerk at Carson’s store … that’s how I think of her—Ginger, not Mary Ann.”

“Tanya, dear. Her real name is Tanya, or at least that’s what she uses. Who knows if anyone in Clint Carson’s life is what he or she professes to be!”

I let that pass, and got back on point: “Tanya could be the key to this whole mess. Can you think of anyone who’d know more about Carson and his business?”

And we both knew that the call that had begun all this, left on our answering machine, was left by either Tanya or someone claiming to
be
Tanya.

Mother perked up. “Shall we go talk to her?”

I laughed humorlessly. “Oh, sure. We’ll go do that right away—only, we don’t know where she lives, or if she’s even still around town. She could’ve blown this pop stand, particularly if she was involved with Carson’s meth biz.”

Mother was thinking again; not always a good sign.
“I’m not so sure, dear. Remember, I ran into her at Carson’s store, not so long ago.”

“Sure, but that was right after … You’re not saying the store is still
open,
are you?”

Mother explained patiently: “Not ‘open,’ per se. But some of the merchandise was on consignment, and therefore not part of Carson’s estate—I understand Tanya has been contacting those people to come by and pick up their antiques.”

I just looked at her. “How do you know these things?”

Mother seemed shocked. “Dear—I’m Vivian Borne! What goes on in Serenity that I
don’t
know about isn’t
worth
knowing.”

Maybe Peggy Sue could sew that on one of her samplers. I looked at my wrist and realized my watch was one of the many casualties in the house explosion.

“Mother, what time is it?”

Mother checked her watch, which (like her) had survived the blast intact. “Two
PM.”

I stood. “Well—what are we waiting for? We’re the Snoop Sisters, aren’t we?”

“I prefer to think of us as the Borne to Win Detective Agency.… I’ll just get my hat and parasol.”

“Do you really need those?” I asked, wincing as I took in the items hanging on the end of the clothes rack—the wide-brim hat smaller than a tractor wheel (just), loaded with faded silk flowers of every variety and color, and covered with white netting. The parasol was pink and was, well … a parasol!

“Of
course,
dear,” Mother said, grandly patient. “The hat
makes
the outfit, and, anyway, I heard it was going to rain.”

I sighed. “Well, all right … but hanging around with you, I feel underdressed.…”

My eyesore of a car—my only insured possession, and unharmed in the blast (damn!)—was hidden away in the Hastings family’s third garage. I told Peggy Sue that Mother and I were going out to run a few errands, which she was fine with as long as we weren’t late for supper. So now my older sister had taken on the role of my mother and her own mother’s mother.
Please God, make our stay here short.…

The warm, sunny morning had surrendered to a cloudy, dark afternoon, cool wind whipping in from the north. Big drops of rain had begun to fall, just the occasional warning pellet, but enough to prompt turning on the car’s wipers, which sounded like fingernails dragged across a chalkboard. When we cruised slowly by Carson’s store, I noted that the heavy wooden and very much tightly shut front door wore a
CLOSED
sign, visible behind its etched glass.

I swung my Taurus around the corner, then drove down a narrow alley behind the building, where a sky-blue Mercedes sat in an alcove adjacent to the back door of the shop.

Mother and I exchanged raised-eyebrow looks.

“Tanya must be doing well,” said I.

“Very well, indeed,” said she.

I parked, purposefully blocking the Mercedes; then we got out and went to the door. I knocked.

Nothing.

I knocked again, really, really loud.

Really, really nobody answered.

“Might be unlocked,” Mother said.

“Isn’t that breaking and entering?”

“It’s entering,” she said with an innocent little shrug, “but not breaking.”

The door, indeed, was unlocked, almost as if Mother had willed it so.

The air within was oppressively dust-laden as Mother and I climbed a flight of wooden steps that led to the first floor.
We arrived and promptly announced ourselves by sneezing three times each (mine: chipmunk; Mother’s: moose in labor).

After this unintentional proclamation of our presence, I expected a glaring Tanya to greet us as we emerged onto the main floor, perhaps with a weapon in hand, to ward off intruders; but neither woman nor weapon appeared.

In fact, as we moved deeper within the first floor of the venerable building, Tanya was nowhere in sight.

The shop was still full of antiques, primarily furniture but also occasional display cases of collectibles; here and there outlines in the dust spoke of consignment items that had been carried off by their owners.

I walked over to the raised cash-register island and peered over the counter. A computer monitor had gone into screensaver mode, indicating that Tanya had been away from it for at least a while. Resting by the feet of the office chair was a brown Gucci hobo bag. So the woman hadn’t left the store. Briefly I had a flash of that tale of the woman declared missing because her purse had been left behind; suddenly it seemed less ridiculous.…