Antiques Roadkill (24 page)

“Nothing good.”

“Nothing good,” she affirmed, and returned her attention to her cup of coffee.

Later that evening, Peggy Sue and Bob drove Mother to her play practice on their way to the Serenity Country Club. Ashley was, typically, out with friends.

I played with Sushi for a while, then wandered around the house, taking an inventory of furniture that would never gain value as antiques, no matter how many hundreds of years passed. As dusk set in, the restlessness became unbearable, and I went out to my car, leaving Sushi penned up and with water (Peggy Sue didn’t want her to have the run of the house, and I couldn’t blame her, even though Soosh already had the Hastings layout down pat).

After driving around the streets for a while, I wound up in Weed Park—I think I mentioned that the land had been donated to the city by a family named Weed. And as long as there was still a Weed rooted in Serenity, the city didn’t dare change the park’s name to something more inviting.

The park had once been home to a small but wonderful zoo. There was an elephant named Candy, and an assortment of ill-mannered monkeys, including a tattered old gorilla that looked like a person wearing a cheap costume in an Abbott and Costello movie. The orangutans were especially nasty; you couldn’t stand too close because they could spit a country mile, and make the most obscene gestures. I’m sure the endless parade of teasing kids made them that way.

Most memorable at the zoo, however, was the vile-smelling log cabin snake house, home to a variety of slithering reptiles, which were truly frightening, not to say gross—watching the python eat his mouse dinner was enough to put you off your own meals for a week—and the rattlesnakes would strike at your hand on the glass, which was scarier than a Freddy movie.

As a kid, I felt sorry for the caged creatures … and apparently I wasn’t the only one.

One sultry summer night someone released all the animals, snakes included, and major panic issued. The seemingly docile elephant, in a mad dash for freedom, overturned parked cars, knocked down phone lines, and trampled anything
else in its path. The monkeys, taking no interest in making a break for the state line, ran roughshod over the downtown, smashing windows, scattering trash, swinging from the lampposts, terrorizing the riverside apartment dwellers.

Word spread like wildfire that the town was under siege. I happened to be at Mia’s for a sleepover, and when we heard about the snakes getting loose, Mia grabbed baby Juan’s toy rattle, and we sneaked out of the house.

Now, I can’t say whose idea it was—back then Mia and I seemed to think with one collective, mischievous mind—but we ran through the neighborhood, crouching in bushes beneath bedroom windows, and shaking the toy loudly. We could hear the people behind the glass, rustling around in fear, sometimes screaming for their lives.

Eventually, through the long night, most of the animals were captured with the help of the National Guard … but for one holdout.

The gorilla climbed on top of one of our taller buildings—three whole stories, I believe—where he swaggered around and occasionally clung to a TV antenna like a low-rent King Kong. A photo made it onto the A.P. wire, and he was instantly, if briefly, famous all over the world. But by noon the next day, the gorilla was tired and hungry and came down with the bribe of a few ripe bananas.

One thing was clear to the town after the Great Zoo Escape: those animals were angry at us. After that, the zoo was dismantled, leveled, and turned into flower gardens … … with one exception: the snake house.

Mother went before the city planning commission to plead for its life; I was in the seventh grade, and was along for the ride—this was one preservation cause I could sink my little fangs into. Mother produced old letters that proved the log cabin had been used as a secret way station for slaves heading north, and therefore had historic value. As for me,
I regaled the council with such wonderfully poignant memories as the time Tubby Calloway got locked in there all night on a dare, and the tarantula got loose, and by morning his brown hair had turned white. (The white hair part wasn’t true, but it really sold the story.) (The Underground Slave Railroad yarn somehow seemed to carry a little more weight with the council.)

As I drove slowly past the former snake house, the cabin looked forlorn and forgotten in the shadows of a park street-lamp.

How could I have been so wrong about Mia?

Now some things that had made my brain hurt previously were suddenly making sense: Mia’s warning to stay away from Todd at the club, as we’d discussed; but also the sad, almost apologetic look she’d given me when I left the Octagon House; and her meeting with a cop who might have been
(was,
I now knew) Brian Lawson out at Wild Cat Den.

What a dope I had been, blundering in the world of dope.

On the other hand, Mia might really have gone down the wrong road;
anybody
can—drugs are a potent force, and once hooked, a person can change from good to bad.

As I caroused around Weed Park, my thoughts gathered into possibilities, and suddenly my aimless driving took on a purpose.

I steered my pee-colored Taurus out a back road, which connected to the river road.

Dusk had given way to darkness when I pulled into the Haven Motor Hotel, the cluster of small cabins tucked back a discreet distance from the road.

I parked next to the main, much larger cabin, which was also the residence of the owner, and went into the front office, an old-fashioned bell on it jangling as I did.

I doubt that anything much had changed here in fifty
years. I stepped up to a chest-high pinewood counter behind which hung an old wooden board with rusty hooks for real keys. A thin young man in his early twenties looked up from a
Maxim
magazine. He wore a short-sleeve white shirt with a red bow tie that was apparently his night clerk uniform; a badge identified him as Ron.

Not a bad-looking kid, but life had somehow put him behind this desk in a short, short haircut (Army Reserve?) and nature had provided a heavy five o’clock shadow, crooked teeth, and enough pimples to make his probable sex life revolve around a magazine with Pamela Anderson on the cover … a bitter irony, considering the constant thought of illicit sex taking place behind every closed door of the facility he was tending. Ouch.

“Sorry,” he said, “we’re full up.” He seemed a little shy, and he obviously thought I was pretty cute. No Pam Anderson, but cute enough.

Piece of cake.

Giving out my prettiest smile, I said, “I don’t need a cabin … just need a little help.”

“Oh … sure.” He closed the magazine. “I have a car jack, if that’s—”

“No! No, no, thanks, that’s generous.… I’m a reporter with the
Sentinel.”

A mild look of alarm took over his pleasant, tortured features. “Oh … well, I’m sorry, but we respect the privacy of—”

“This isn’t a current client—it’s actually a deceased one. Maybe you’ve already talked to the police about him.”

That really alarmed him. “Who do you mean?”

“Clint Carson. The antique dealer who was killed not long ago? Not far from here?”

Relieved that this pertained to a past client, he said, “Yeah, sure. I knew that guy. He came out here once in a while.”

I leaned an elbow on the counter; was that Old Spice? Probably. “Was he here with the same woman every time?”

That question he didn’t like much. “Ahhh … I don’t know.… He’d come out here by himself, and check in.… I didn’t really see who he was, uh, hooking up with.…”

“Not even a glimpse?”

“Well …”

I fluttered my eyelashes; yes, I did, so sue me. “Do you think it was different women … or just one? The same one?”

“Lady …”

Bad sign. I’d gone from a potential Pam Anderson replacement to a “lady.”

But I kept trying: “For example, did she have red hair? Or was she a brunette, maybe?”

I was losing him.

And then the well-worn curtain separating the back living quarters from the office jerked open, metal rings clanging.

This was a relative of Ron’s, and I didn’t have to be Nancy Goddamn Drew to figure that out: he was a twenty-years-older, no longer skinny and badly acne-scarred version of Ron, probably his dad, also wearing the white shirt and red bow tie … a real professional.
Rob,
his name tag said.

“What does the little lady want, Son?”

Now I was a
little
lady. Was that a demotion, or a promotion?

“Just some … you know, information, Pop.”

Ron’s pop, Rob, frowned at me. “Lady, we specialize in
not
giving out information … and we’re all booked up tonight.”

I mumbled a “sorry,” and threw in a “thanks” for good measure, and beat a hasty retreat.

Frustrated, I lingered outside in the glow of the Haven’s
yard light to collect my thoughts, and my eyes drifted to my car.

That was funny.

I looked from my Taurus to the light and back again.

Under the lamp’s reddish bulb, my yellow car looked almost orange.

And then I knew.

Knew it all, knew damn everything.

But most of all, I knew the real color of the SUV the mystery woman drove, Clint Carson’s companion that night at the Haven when Ashley had been there, too, the woman with whom he’d shacked up and argued and, just maybe, provided with a motive for his own murder.

A Trash ‘n’ Treasures Tip

Estate “tag sales” are generally overpriced, so don’t go until the last hour of the last day. Greedy relatives will be forced to take your offer, or face up to hauling the leftovers to the Dumpster.

T
he next week was the longest of my life, or at least the longest since I’d broken up with my husband. My elation over figuring out what had really been going on was soon dashed on the rocks of Officer Lawson’s reaction, which was nothing compared to Chief Cassato’s.

“After everything that’s happened,” the chief had said, with that handsome ugly face set in its sternest mode, “you
still
went out sticking your nose in?”

“It was something I had to do.” We were seated in the chief’s office, Officer Lawson and me—Mother wasn’t along. “It was personal, and I won’t comment further on that.”

I wasn’t about to bring Peggy Sue into this.

Cassato said, “I don’t say there’s not merit in what you’ve told me—”

“Merit! I’ve just solved your murders for you!”

I heard Lawson sigh beside me, but Cassato remained an imperturbable blank slate. The chief sat behind his desk, hunkered forward, hands folded.

“Let’s suppose you have solved ‘em,” he said. “‘Solve’ in the sense that you’ve pointed us toward the person who very likely did commit these crimes.”

Perhaps too smugly, I said, “Let’s.”

His head shake was weary. “I can tell you right now that nothing we’ve turned up so far supports your theory.”

“But—”

He held up a traffic cop palm. “Put the defensiveness aside, Brandy—I think you’re right.”

I blinked. “You do?”

“I do. So does Officer Lawson here, and the detectives on the case, both my men and the BCI group from Des Moines. But here’s the problem—we could be weeks, perhaps even months away from having the forensics evidence we need to back your theory up.”

I was shaking my head. “I don’t care
how
long it takes you, just so—”

Another “stop” palm.

This time Lawson spoke. “Ms. Borne, we’re concerned—for your safety,
and
your mother’s. We have an individual, here … a killer who’s taken three lives and made several attempts on yours … who is clearly out of control.”

Cassato said, “We are frankly concerned about what this perpetrator might do between now and when we have our legal ducks in a row.”

Lawson again: “You’re going to have to play things very careful. We don’t want to tip our hand to the killer, and set off another murder or attempted murder or God knows what. This is
not
a stable individual.”

I sat forward. “How can I help?”

Cassato frowned. “Don’t you think you’ve done quite enough for us already?”

I had searched for sarcasm in there, but wasn’t good enough a detective to find it.

And now, a long week later—filled with sleepless nights and nightmares when I did sleep and stomach-churning concern for myself and my mother and my sister—I found myself stumbling out into the sunshine along Main Street’s
Pearl City Plaza with its pricey antique shops (Carson’s closed, however), cute boutiques, and restaurants.

Noon at the Grist Mill restaurant was hopping as usual. I entered via the front, through the antique and collectibles portion of the store, and stood in the arched brick doorway taking in the lunching patrons in the intimate eatery, hoping for a familiar face.

As it was, I saw nothing
but
familiar faces.…

At one of the larger of the many oak tables, with distinctive vases of silk flowers at every one today, a group of wine-drinking ladies of the Red-Hatted League chatted like magpies, some half crocked, a few fully loaded. At another, the Romeos hunched over cups of strong coffee and were having a serious discussion that I guessed to be political in nature, until the words “Cubs” and “this season” floated my way above the din.

Joe Lange was making a rare public appearance, dining with his middle-aged mother at a table for two. The pleasantly plump woman looked happy—pleased her son was back on his meds—he seemed uncharacteristically mellow, if typically uncomfortable in civilian clothes.

As for me, I was not at my best, and had definitely not walked right off the cover of
Lucky
magazine: I was wearing a pink blouse with coffee stains, a patchwork skirt with part of the hem hanging, and blue rubber flip-flops … and my grooming was not top-drawer, either, my hair straggly and with hardly any makeup on—I hadn’t even bothered touching up my dark sleep circles.

No one paid me any heed, except for Peggy Sue, seated alongside her viperous friend, Robin—who looked at me with obvious alarm, as if I’d just crawled out of a crashed automobile (which, the way I looked today, was an insult to accident victims everywhere). Perfect in her latest Calvin Klein’s, Robin followed Peggy Sue’s gaze with a smirk.
My state of dress and grooming confirmed every nasty opinion and suspicion she’d ever held about me.