Antiques Fate (3 page)

We went in through the middle of three wood and glass double doors, and there the New Vic's similarity to the original ceased.

A marbled foyer with a small glassed-in ticket station was to the left, a concession counter to the right. Ahead were doors to the auditorium, curving staircases on either side leading up to the balcony. With the exception of one large ceiling fixture, a relatively recent addition, the only other lighting source was a few wall sconces.

Mother, whispering as if in church, said, “I wonder where we can find Millicent Marlowe?”

“Here I am, Mrs. Borne,” said a woman's thin voice, so close it startled us.

The owner of the voice—and the theater—had come up behind Mother, whose stature had hidden her. She was a tiny thing, rather frail looking, knocking on eighty's door at least, with white hair cut short in a curly perm. She wore a red sweater, navy slacks, and the kind of sensible shoes Mother puts on when her bunions are particularly bothersome.

The woman extended a bony hand to Mother. “Please,” she said, “call me Millie . . . all my friends do.”

Mother shook Millie's hand a little too gregariously and a bone or two made tiny cracks.

“My dear,” Mother gushed, “what a
divine
theater you have here.”

I was holding off on my opinion until after seeing the stage.

“Yes,” Millie bubbled, “you may have noticed that it's a replica of the Old Victoria.”

Told you.

She went on. “A bit smaller, of course. There have even been rumors of ancient tunnels, but that's probably an old wives' tale.”

“Merry ones, no doubt!” Mother said. “From Windsor!”

“No doubt!” Our hostess's eyes, which had been flitting nervously, settled on me like friendly insects. “And you must be Brandy.”

I didn't shake her hand, mine being full of Sushi. “Pleased to meet you,” I said with a smile and a nod, adding, “I'll be assisting Mother.”

“My daughter,” Mother said grandly, “is in charge of wardrobe and props.”

The wardrobe
was
props, but never mind.

“How delightful!” Millie said, clasping her hands. “A family affair. I can't believe you've never visited us before, Vivian!”

“Oh, well, it's always been something I meant to do. So many conflicts with my own acting schedule.”

I knew darn well why we'd never been here before—Vivian Borne wasn't going to support an area theater that didn't involve her.

Millie was saying, “I do appreciate you coming at such late notice, as do the trustees who put on the fete. They will be receiving the proceeds—after your payment, of course—the money going to help better the town.”

“How nice,” Mother said perfunctorily.

“Yes. I have a contract in the office for you to sign, but we can do that later. Right now I'd like to show you around. Unfortunately, you'll only have a few days to rehearse.”

“Not to worry,” Mother chortled. “I'm an old pro.”

That was the only context in which you will ever hear Mother refer to herself as an “old” anything. I preferred to think of her as a well-aged ham.

“Oh, I know you are a
wonderful
, creative actor,” Millie said to Mother. “I saw you perform once, at the Iowa State Fair.”

Mother's eyes got larger than even those lenses could handle. “You did? Why, I wish you had come backstage and spoken to me afterward!”

“Well, there
was
no backstage, really. And there was quite a crowd.”

Mother beamed. “Ah yes, I recall. I pulled quite an audience that afternoon.”

I was frowning. “When did you perform at the Iowa State Fair?”

“When you were living in Chicago, dear. Now, then, Millie—”

“Now wait,” I said. “What play were you in?”

“It wasn't exactly a play, child. A play is only one kind of theatrical exhibition.”

“Well, what was
this
one?”

Her hand fluttered like a butterfly. “I read poems submitted by school children. They had a shared subject.”

Millie was nodding, smiling admiringly. “Oh, yes. ‘Ode to a Butter Cow.' ”

“Now,” Mother said, “about my dressing room—”

“You mean,” I said, “you gave dramatic readings by schoolchildren standing next to the cow carved from butter?”

“That's one way to put it,” Mother sniffed.

That was the only way to put it.

Millie was radiant. “It was a transcendent performance. You'd have been
proud
of your mother.”

My mouth was dry, but I couldn't transcend it, so I asked, “Is there a vending machine around?”

Millie pointed a slightly twisted finger toward the box office area. “You'll find several down that hallway, dear.”

I nodded. “You two go ahead with the tour—I'll catch up.”

Mother looped arms with the woman, as if they had been friends forever, and as they moved toward the auditorium doors, I went in search of caffeine, figuring our afternoon here might stretch into early evening, Mother most likely wanting to do a run-through. When you're in charge of hats, you have to stay on top of things.

I had just gotten a strong-tasting coffee when a young man in his twenties exited the box office. His shoulder-length hair was as black as the rest of his outfit—T-shirt, jeans, high-top tennies—but his complexion was so white it was startling, especially the skin around his multiple tattoos. His face was angular, nose thin and long, mouth wide, and each earlobe had been stretched with a circular earring making a hole you could see through.

“I'm Chad,” he said blandly, “Millicent's grandson and the New Vic's artistic director.” He showed no particular interest in me, his grandmother, or the position he'd just mentioned, for that matter.

“I'm Brandy Borne—Vivian's daughter and assistant.”

Sushi, transferred to one hand while I held the coffee with the other, took an immediate dislike to Chad by way of a low growl.

Filling an awkward pause, I said, “Mother is grateful for the booking.”

He shrugged again. “We had no choice.”

I nodded. “Because that New York company cancelled.”

He closed his eyes and opened them again, bored with me, and life. “There
wasn't
any New York company.”

I frowned. “I don't understand. . . .”

He sighed, burdened as he was with having the weight of the world—or this theater, anyway—on his shoulders. “You
will
understand, Ms. Borne, after you have a look around. Everything is so outdated and antiquated that I can't get anyone of any importance at all to appear here.”

I didn't appreciate the obvious insult to my mother. Like all children, only I have the right to make snide remarks about my parents.

So there was a little edge when I said, “So update the theater. Or is it a matter of money?”

His laugh could not have sounded more hollow if he'd done it down a well. “Money in part. Grandmother once had quite a pile, but over the years it got sunk into this monstrosity. Not that it did much good.”

“No?”

He shrugged. “We've been running in place for years. Strictly Shakespeare. Other theaters in tourist-trap towns do musicals and murder mysteries and other crowd-pleasing stuff. But Grandmother is on the board of—”

“Don't tell me—the good ol' board of trustees. Keepers of the status quo, circa a couple hundred years ago.” I tilted my head. “How many of these darling people are there?”

“Six.”

“And they're steadfastly against change?”

“Three of them are. And that makes for a stalemate on every subject, meaning nothing gets done.”

What made me think of Washington, DC, all of a sudden?

I asked, “Where does your grandmother stand?”

“She thinks the New Vic is just fine as it is, even if attendance
has
fallen off terribly.”

“I can understand your frustration,” I said, rolling my eyes.

He narrowed his. “It was Grandmother who booked your mother—something about a one-woman show? And I assume it has something to do with Shakespeare.”

“Yes to both,” I said, but offered no more details, not wanting Mother to be tossed out by the artistic director on her artistic rear before curtain time.

He nodded. “Well, it's
something
anyway. Got to have some damn thing onstage for this weekend.”

Such enthusiasm.

Realizing at last that he might have been just a touch rude, he said, “I'm sure it will be fine.”

“Well, I promise it'll be memorable,” I said with a smile. Especially if I mixed up the hats.

Mother was rushing along the corridor toward us.

“Young man!” she said, flushed and out of breath. “Young man, would there happen to be a hospital here in Old York?”

Alarmed, I said, “Mother, aren't you well?”

“Tickety boo, dear.” Her eyes returned to Chad. “
Have
you a hospital?”

“No, no . . . but there's one in the next town over.”

Mother put hands on hips. “All right. Well, what do you use in the village for a morgue? Perhaps there's a funeral home.”

Chad, frowning, asked what I was thinking: “What in the world do you need a morgue for?”

Mother flapped her arms like a goose before takeoff. “Not me, my good man . . .
Millie!
She seemed to be taking an onstage bow and then just went all the way down. I do believe she's dropped dead.”

 

 

Before purchasing an antique in a foreign country, research similar items from several different sources to determine a realistic price. Then don't forget to haggle. Mother knows how to ask, “Is that your best price?” in Danish, Swedish, German, French, Spanish, and Japanese. (If she knew Chinese, that Ming dynasty vase might not be a sore spot.)

Chapter Three

Death Is a Fearful Thing

A
fter Mother made the pronouncement to Chad and me that Millicent Marlowe had taken her final encore, the three of us hurried into the auditorium.

This was my first time inside the rather small theater, and my immediate impression was one of gloom. Mother always referred to any theater as “she,” much the way a captain speaks of his ship. Well, this lady really needed a makeover, including a new wardrobe. A little perfume to cover the musty smell wouldn't hurt, either.

As I headed down the center aisle with its red, threadbare carpet, I could see Millie's slumped form up on the stage, on her back.

A man knelt over her, holding one of her limp hands, almost as if he were proposing. Perhaps forty, he wore a denim work shirt and paint-splattered jeans, his average features distinguished by a pair of aviator-style glasses and a receding hairline.

Chad leapt up onto the apron of the stage in an almost theatrical flourish, which Mother and I did not imitate, taking the more sensible route of the short flight of stairs on the left.

The kneeling man looked up at Chad. “I'm . . . I'm afraid she's gone.”

“What on earth happened, Fred?” Chad asked, a slight tremble in his voice. “Were you here with her?”

Fred released Millie's hand, stood, gestured to Mother, as she and I approached. “Your grandmother was introducing me to Mrs. Borne when she suddenly just . . . went down.” The man shook his head sadly. “It really was almost like a bow or a curtsy.”

Mother whispered to me, “That's Fred Hackney. He constructs the sets and runs things backstage.”

I nodded, then whispered back: “That's Chad Marlowe, the grandson. Artistic director.”

Digging out his cell phone, Chad was saying, “I'll call for the paramedics.”

Mother asked, “Do you have local paramedics, Mr. Marlowe?”

He shook his head. “Next town over, fifteen miles away.”

“Then that would be a waste of resources.”

“What?”

Rather bluntly, Mother said, “Who you
should
call, young man, is the county sheriff.”

“The sheriff?” Chad asked, frowning. “Lady, my grandmother was eighty-two. She had a bad heart. Took medicine for it. Obviously she had a heart attack.”

Mother arched an eyebrow. “Did she, dear?”

His frown deepening, Chad took a few steps toward her. “What are you implying?”

“I'm not implying a single solitary thing, young man,” Mother answered. “But I have my reasons why I think someone with authority should be called here to . . . oversee. . . the aftermath of this tragedy.”

And that someone would be Mother's friendly adversary, Sheriff Rudder, since this was Serenity County and Old York was under his jurisdiction.

Chad snapped, “Well I think
that's
a waste of resources—isn't he in Serenity? That's sixty miles from here!”

But Mother had turned away from him, walking downstage to make the call on her cell—she had the sheriff on speed-dial.

Chad gaped at me. His long dark hair and angular face seemed appropriately theatrical as he gestured to the dead woman. “So my grandmother is . . .
what? . . .
just going to be left flung on the floor like a sandbag until the sheriff drives all the way here?”

I said gently, “If my mother has reasons why Sheriff Rudder should come, I can assure you they're valid.”

Usually. Sometimes. Probably. Maybe.

Fred, who'd remained mute through this exchange, touched Chad's arm. “I can get her a blanket—there's one in the dressing room.”

Millie's grandson sighed, then nodded.

Fred exited stage left while Mother rejoined Chad and me, having completed her call.

“We're in luck!” she said, inappropriately cheerful. “Sheriff Rudder is a mere twenty minutes away, working on something or other that's undoubtedly less important than this. And if I know that man, and I do, he'll be here sooner than later, because my calls are something he
always
takes seriously.”

There had been a time when the sheriff routinely ignored Mother's calls, but—thanks to her relentless persistence—Rudder had come to realize it was better to deal with them right now, and get it over with.

Fred returned with the blanket. He began to spread it over Millie, then stopped, eyes going to Mother. The man sensed, correctly, that she was in charge.

“I see no reason for her not to be comfortable,” she said, nodding approval.

Chad's back had been to this, but now he whirled to her.
“Comfortable?”
he mocked. “Maybe Grandmother would like a
pillow
?”

Shaking his head, he walked to the apron, jumped down, then took a front row seat, slumping there, arms crossed, his face long with sorrow and disgust.

Mother dispatched me to go wait outside to meet Rudder, and I did so, taking Sushi with me. I put her down on a little patch of grass and she blissfully took advantage of new territory, wholly unaware of the tragic circumstances. Sometimes it
is
a dog's life.

According to my Chico's watch, I had been waiting outside the theater doors for twelve minutes when Rudder's light blue car with its Serenity County Sheriff's door insignias pulled up. He was behind the wheel and alone; he got out and strode toward me with that sideways John Wayne walk of his. Maybe, like Mother, he had bunions.

Whatever the case, in that tan uniform, the sheriff made a tall, commanding figure, graying just a little at the temples. The walk wasn't the only thing that made Mother wistfully comment, from time to time, that Rudder reminded her of the middle-aged Duke.

The sheriff planted himself in front of me like a big oak tree. “What's this about a murder that your mother's going on about?”

“Call it a suspicious death.” I wasn't ready to commit to the
m
word yet. “Millicent Marlowe collapsed, while showing mother around. Miss Marlowe owns, or owned, this theater.”

Rudder frowned in recollection. “I believe I know her, or anyway met her—older woman? Why weren't the paramedics called?”

“Mother wanted you to see her first.”

He sighed. “She does have her own way of doing things. Damnit, this better not be a waste of time—I'm short-handed as it is. Where is she?”

“Mother?”

“The dead woman.”

“On the stage.”

“And your mother?”

“On the stage.”

Rudder winced.

Just before we moved inside, he asked, “What are you and Vivian doing here, anyway? Aren't you two a little ways off your beat?”

Briefly, I filled him in.

With Sushi in my arms, I had to hustle to keep up with the lawman's long stride as he crossed the lobby. Entering the auditorium, Rudder was met by an agitated Chad, who'd come rushing up the center aisle.

“Sheriff,” he said, as if making a point in an already long under-way argument, “my grandmother died from a heart attack, and that's
all
there is to it!”

Rudder held up a traffic-cop palm. “Let's back it up, son, and start with your name.”

“Chad Marlowe. Artistic director of the theater. As I said, Millicent is,
was
, my grandmother.”

The sheriff's eyes traveled past Chad to the stage, and the small form covered by the blanket. “Sorry for your loss. Please take a seat down front, Mr. Marlowe.”

Rudder stepped around Chad and proceeded toward the stage. I followed with Sushi.

From the stage, Mother called, “
Sheriff Rudder!
I'm so very pleased to see you. We're so fortunate you were in the neighborhood.”

This greeting was met with stony silence as the sheriff ascended the steps and went to the body, then squatted in front of it to slowly pull back the blanket. He checked the woman's throat for a pulse.

After a moment, he looked up at Mother. “Well, Vivian, you're correct that this woman is deceased . . . but what was the idea of calling me to the scene?”

“Isn't it obvious? Look at her arms, Sheriff.”

Taking Millie's nearest arm, Rudder noted the pushed-up sleeve of the red sweater, revealing a large purple area.

Rudder sighed, then stood. “Hematoma.”

Chad, in the front row, asked, “What did you say?”

Before the sheriff could reply, Mother did, calling out helpfully, “Hematoma, dear! Symptom of an overdose of blood thinner medication.”

Fred, who had been standing motionless near the stage-left wing, chimed in: “Dang it, anyway. Millie probably lost track of how much medication she took.”

Rudder's head swiveled, as if noticing the man for the first time, though I knew very well that the sheriff had taken everything in already. “And you would be?”

“Fred Hackney. Carpenter, general handyman around here. I make the sets and props.”

Rudder approached him. “And your opinion that the woman overdosed herself—that's based on what exactly?”

Fred began studying his feet to avoid Rudder's stare.

“Well, sir, I've noticed that Millie hasn't been as . . . you know,
sharp
lately. Guess she was gettin' on at that.”

Chad stood at his seat and called up: “Grandmother
has
been awfully forgetful lately.”

Rudder moved to the edge of the stage and stared down at the young man. “You know what heart medication she'd been taking?”

Chad shrugged. “I'm not sure. It's not something we ever discussed. But they're these little pink pills she keeps in her purse.” He gestured behind him. “Her purse in the office—do you want me to . . . ?”

“No, I'll collect it later. Stay put, if you would. Thank you.”

Chad nodded, shrugged. “Okay. But I did see her take one of those pills, just this morning.”

“What time?”

“Ah . . . around ten, I think.”

Rudder's eyes narrowed. “Have you notified any other family members yet about your grandmother?”

Chad shook his head. “No one to notify. I'm her only living relative.”

I found that of interest; Mother did, too, judging by her slightly raised eyebrows.

Rudder turned toward Mother. “You and Brandy can go.”

“What's that?” Mother's expression was that of a woman who'd had water splashed in her face.

“I said,” he spoke tightly, “you both can go. Thank you for the call, Vivian. That will be all.”

Mother planted her feet. “Are you quite sure, Sheriff Rudder? Because, let me tell you—”

“Let me tell
you
, Vivian. Leave.”

Now she put her fists on her hips, Superman style. “Can you at least assure me that there
will
be an autopsy?”

The sheriff's endless arm stretched out as he pointed toward the rear of the theater, in a don't-darken-my-door-again manner.

She sighed, her body relaxing into defeat. “Very well. We're at the Horse and Groom Inn if you need us.”

Which garnered only a grunt.

Banished, Mother and I, with Sushi still in my arms, made our exit down the steps, up the center aisle, through the lobby and toward the front doors. That was when Mother made a sudden detour down the hallway where the vending machines lined a wall like suspects in a police lineup.

I figured she'd worked up a thirst telling the sheriff how to do his job, but then Mother veered into the office that was just before the vending machines and behind the box office.

Catching up to her, I whispered, “What are you
doing
? The sheriff has taken over, and this isn't even vaguely our business.”

“Of course it's our business, dear.”

The office was a glorified cubbyhole with a single metal desk with swivel chair, a few filing cabinets, a couple of metal chairs, and plaster walls hung with framed posters of past New Vic productions.

Mother had found Millie's purse on the cluttered desktop and was opening it.

“Dear,” Mother said, “if you don't want to be a party to what I'm about to do, you should leave.”

I stayed.

You may question my sanity—I certainly do, often enough—but allowing Mother to conduct a criminal investigation unsupervised is like opening the cabinets under the kitchen sink and setting down your two-year-old with a jaunty, “Have fun!”

Using a tissue from her pocket, Mother pulled out the prescription bottle, studied the information label for a moment, then removed the cap. She poured the round pink pills into a palm, counted them, then returned the pills to the bottle and the bottle to the purse, and the purse to where she'd found it on the desk.

Then we skedaddled.

“Well?” I asked, once we were in our car in the side lot. I was leaning on the wheel and I had not turned the key.

“The medication Millie was taking is indeed a blood thinner,” Mother said, “generally given to someone who has suffered a heart attack.”

“So Millie may have died from
another
heart attack.”

“I doubt that very much, dear.”

“Because of the hema thing, you mean.”

“That's certainly a factor. But a more important one is the date of the prescription, and the number of pills left in the bottle.”

Like an actress gone up on her lines, Mother loved prompting. “Yes? Because?”

Giving me a self-satisfied smile, she said, “The prescription for thirty pills was filled on September the fifteenth. Millie was to take one each morning. Today is October the first. Yet there were only ten pills left.”