Antiques Roadkill (9 page)

Her eyes danced with excitement, her smile as mischievous as a North Pole elf who just short-sheeted Santa’s bed.

“I have something to report,” she said with grand formality.

“… Report?”

Her eyes flared, and with the magnification of those lenses, it made two small conflagrations. “We now have several suspects in the Clint Carson murder case.”

“… Murder case?”

Mother frowned but there was a smile in it, her eyes narrow now behind the thickness of glass, her hands waving like Al Jolson singing (what else?) “Mammy.”

“Oh my, my dear, it’s a
murder,
all right.” The frown had held on for a whole four seconds, and the delighted child’s smile took its rightful place on her cheerfully demented mug. “Would you like to hear my story?”

“Do I have a choice?”

I did not.

And neither do you: what follows is Mother’s story. She
has written the following section herself, as she doesn’t trust my memory or my ability not to interrupt her tale with sarcasm.

Hold on to your red hat.

After I left my dear darling daughter—poor thing was simply exhausted after our ordeal with Serenity’s forces of law and order—I strolled to the corner to wait for the Traveling Trolley to take me downtown.

The old trolley-car—financed by the downtown merchants to encourage folks to do their shopping with them instead of those ubiquitous malls and the dread “super” Wal-Mart—had been converted from electric to gas, and anyone could ride for free, as long as they went downtown, of course.

Mrs. Roxanne Randolf—she had worked at the library, at the Help Desk, until a large world atlas on a high shelf had gotten away from her, the poor woman conked on the head and off a ladder—had fully recovered and was now driving the trolley. Her husband ran a business out of their home (making ceramic lighthouses), and the local gossips insisted he was having an affair with a neighbor young enough to be his daughter, but apparently Mrs. Randolf didn’t know about the tryst, and
I
wasn’t about to tell her … although somebody certainly should, because we of the weaker sex should stick together (except for those who are trysting with our men).

But I digress.

Mrs. Randolf dropped me off at Hunter’s Hardware, which hadn’t changed since I was a dewy-eyed girl back in the forties. The store was long and narrow, typical of the marvelous old buildings of the late eighteen hundreds, and still retained the original hardwood floor and high tin decorative ceiling, not to mention a certain bouquet common to retail stores of days past.

Not typical of a hardware store, however, was the bar located in the back, an ingenious bit of marketing. A husband could actually say to his wife, “Darling, I’m going down to Hunter’s for a screwdriver,” and still be telling the truth, even when the only do-it-yourselfing he had in mind was imbibing vodka and orange juice.

The downside, of course, was selling ball-peen hammers, actual screwdrivers, and chain saws to patrons who’d had one or two or three or four too many.

I walked in, skirting the racks of wrenches, displays of paint and brushes, and the usual array of tools, to the antique walnut bar in the back. Business was light this time of morning—it wouldn’t pick up until the farmers came to town midafternoon to buy seed and grain (albeit already processed into beer)—with only myself and one other patron to keep the bartender company.

Henry (the patron; the bartender was Junior … more later) was a poor soul who’d become a fixture in the place, a barfly since I was in petticoats. Once a prominent surgeon, Henry had—under the influence of his own prescription of bourbon—famously removed a patient’s gallbladder, an operation that went off smashingly with the small detail that he’d been scheduled to perform an appendectomy.

Once upon a time, I had put Henry in one of my plays (I act
and
direct); believing as I did that art must reflect life, this typecasting seemed not unkind but merely apropos.

Unfortunately, Henry went on the wagon in order to bring his full facilities to the role, and his stone-sober performance as a town drunk was so over-the-top and unconvincing that our local drama critic praised the production but panned Henry. But therein lies a happy ending: stung by criticism, Henry promptly fell off the wagon, and his subsequent performances were perfectly realized, although perhaps too much so on the final performance (he passed out in the middle of the second act).

But I digress.

The proprietor of the store, Junior, was polishing tumblers behind the scarred counter; in spite of his youthful name he was about my age (which is none of your business, and you shouldn’t believe everything Brandy tells you). Balding, paunchy, and wearing a short-sleeve white shirt with red, white, and blue suspenders, Junior had a winning if buck-toothed smile.

Back when I was still a legal licensed driver, I would sometimes offer to take Junior’s wife places because she had a wooden leg. But it kept falling off, and I didn’t want to be responsible. Again I digress.…

Junior spotted me and grinned his patented grin. “Well, hello, Vivian. Haven’t seen you for a while. Your usual?”

I slid onto one of the torn leather counter stools, next to Henry. Putting a stool between us would have seemed rude.

“Please, Junior.” I waggled a scolding forefinger. “And don’t forget the cherries this time.”

I could tell immediately that Junior, a terrible busybody, had not heard about his antique dealer neighbor down the block; otherwise he’d have started in on me.

For once I had the jump on him.

“I suppose you’ve heard,” I said, “that Clint Carson is now deceased.”

Junior, in the process of assembling my Shirley Temple, spilled a little on his otherwise spotless counter. “No! What the heck happened?”

Even Henry perked up in his permanent daze, and took notice.

Casually, I said, “Struck by a car.”

“Really! Who was driving?”

Just as casually, I said, “I was.”

Junior’s mouth made an O. Henry’s rheumy eyes made two Os.

“
But
—he was already dead.… Somebody murdered him before I ran into the speed bump he’d become.” I took a dainty sip of my Shirley Temple and let that sink in. Timing is everything, you know.

Junior was shaking his head, and I would swear I perceived a rattle. “You don’t say!”

In fact, I believe I just did.

“Oh, but I do.”

“Murdered
how?”

I leaned forward. Traded conspiratorial looks with my two companions. “Possibly … poisoned.”

I thought that was being truthful, or at least truthful enough. After all, as Officer Lawson said, the tox report wasn’t back yet.

“Pizened,” Henry said, nodding reflectively.

“Whaddya know,” Junior said, and it wasn’t a question. He made a clicking in one cheek. “Well, I can’t say I’m surprised.
Nobody
liked that horse’s patute. Especially the Downtown Merchants’ Association.”

Junior was referring to a local retailers’ group associated with the chamber of commerce.

I gazed over the rim of my Shirley Temple. “And why is that, pray tell?”

Junior frowned. “Prayin’ don’t have a damn thing to do with it, Viv. That buzzard refused to have anything to do with the rest of us. We’d hold meetings, you know, to discuss things? Like when to hold the watermelon toss, and what hours we should all stay open Christmas season.”

“Coordination between merchants. A reasonable goal.”

“Carson
didn’t think so! He said he didn’t give two hoots in hell about watermelons, and that he’d set his
own
damn hours! Arrogant SOB, you ask me.”

I sucked on a cherry and waited; once Junior got started, he couldn’t stop gabbing. Conventional wisdom is that women are the big gossips, but we know better, don’t we?

“As a matter of fact,” Junior continued confidentially, “a fella came in here just last week, askin’ about Carson. A real rough customer.”

Delicately removing the stem from the second cherry, I asked, “Who was he?”

Junior shook his head. “Never saw the bozo before. Every second word was the ‘f’ one, and he had tattoos and lots of hair and a black leather jacket.… Like I said, he asked where he could find Carson. I gave him directions down the block to the antique store, and he vacated. Didn’t even buy anything.”

So then he was “rough” but not actually a “customer.”

I asked, “What do you supposed he wanted?”

“I was curious, too,” Junior admitted, “and followed him out … pretended to sweep the front walk. The fellow got in a red convertible with Colorado license plates.”

I frowned. “Somebody from Carson’s past.”

“Funny thing was,” Junior continued, “the fella drove off in the opposite direction of Carson’s shop … didn’t even go the way I told him to!”

Interesting.

By this time I’d finished my cocktail, as well as this source of inquiry. “Junior, would you happen to know where I can find the Romeos on Saturday?”

Junior’s bushy eyebrows climbed his forehead like a couple of ambitious caterpillars. “Let’s see … kinda hard to keep track of their schedule, some place different every damn day. They was in here, Thursday.”

“Best guess?”

Junior shrugged. “Check the Riverside.”

The Romeos—Retired Old Men Eating Out—were sequestered in the back of the Riverside Restaurant, which specialized in the kind of fattening old-fashioned meals the old boys had grown up on, and which none of them should any longer be having. Lunch hour was well under
way, with not an empty table to be had in the popular eatery, which was frequented by professionals and farmers alike.

I approached the men—who were a small group today, four seated at a table for six—and asked if I could join them until something opened up; they had been served drinks, and were awaiting their Blue Plate Specials.

Normally, this club of retired widowers does not take kindly to the inclusion of a woman. But I had a feeling that, unlike Junior, they had already heard the scuttlebutt about Carson. As I’ve said, men are just as hungry for gossip as women, though sometimes more subtle about gathering it.

“Sure thing, Vivian,” Vern said. One of Serenity’s oldest established chiropractors, he looked like a
Misfits-era
Clark Gable, which is to say his ears stuck out, and he had painfully obvious false teeth. Vern had been forced into retirement when a stack of
National Geographic
magazines caught fire in the back room and burned his office down, and him underinsured. (I couldn’t feel sorry for him, having warned him not to be such a pack rat.)

“Sit over here, Viv,” said Harold, a retired army captain with Bob Hope’s nose but not his sense of humor. He leaned over and pulled out an empty chair next to him. A real taskmaster, Harold had probably driven his wife to her early grave by demanding his meals on time and his socks freshly laundered and set out for him. I once had had a dalliance with the widower, but soon came to my senses. Still, Harold looked pretty darn foxy for a fellow who’d just had a colostomy.

Randall—a former hog farmer who reminded me of a homelier Ernest Borgnine (it’s possible)—asked slyly, “And what mischief have you been up to, Vivian?”

Before Randall sold his pig farm, you wanted to stand downwind from him, but he was safe enough now. Of
course, he did have glaucoma, and could only see you from straight on, and had to swing around and focus on you somewhat disconcertedly. And he had an unsettling way of smiling at you with a “what’ll she bring in at market?” way.

“Yes,” chimed in Ivan, Serenity’s onetime mayor, a Jimmy Stewart type, only not quite as handsome (but then who ever was?). “What wickedness have you been sowing, you naughty girl?”

Ivan’s once boisterous personality had never quite returned after his wife’s death, though he always made an effort with me; it was common knowledge his wife’d had Alzheimer’s, although for a while Ivan had enjoyed the way he could make her laugh with his same tired handful of jokes. Ivan’s health was pretty good, except for a few precancerous moles removed from his face, which he probably got from too much time on the golf course.

I thanked the gentlemen for their hospitality and sat next to Vern. A waitress appeared with their lunches (the Blue Plate Special was meat loaf with mashed potatoes and corn) and I ordered iced tea and a bowl of chicken noodle soup.

Four pairs of attentive eyes stared my way. At their age, that might have represented curiosity or horniness, hard to say. Unfortunately, probably the former …

… and if rumors were going to fly, they might as well come from the horse’s mouth.

“Not
much
mischief,” I said, and sipped my iced tea and smiled innocently. “I just ran over Clint Carson, is all.”

Two forks clanked against plates, and four mouths yawned open, and a different kind of plate clanked in a mouth or two.

“But it didn’t hurt anything,” I said.

A narrow-eyed Ivan managed, “Really? Just a fender-bender?”

“Oh, my fender is fine. Carson, however, is dead as a doorknob.”

Randal, jaw still slack, said, “Don’t you mean doornail?”

“Either way, I mean ‘dead'—but he was
already
dead, when I happened along.”

And, while the Romeos ate, I launched into a dramatization of last night’s events, culminating with the morning’s visit from Officer Lawson. I omitted only Brandy’s admission of guilt in her misguided attempt to cover up for me (while I was nobly covering up for her).

When my performance reached curtain, Vern was the first to speak.

“I never knew Carson, really,” he said, eyes tight. “But I seem to remember
one
of us did.” Vern glanced around the table, eyes landing on the former mayor. “Ivan … didn’t
you
have some dealing with Carson?”

The ex-mayor’s mouth formed a tight line. “I should say I did.”

A few moments passed, tension palpable in the air.

Ivan seemed reluctant to speak, but then at last he said, “This past summer, just before Mary passed away? I came home to find she’d sold nearly
all
our antiques—things that she and I had collected for years, from keepsakes to valuable pieces of furniture we’d carefully selected together … each with its own special story.”