Antiques Fate (21 page)

Brenda said, “So you haven't figured everything out to your satisfaction.”

Mother's eyes flared with epiphany. “Wait, I think I have it. Chad must have noticed you going backstage and followed you through the tunnel. I can see by your expression, my dear, that
that
is exactly what happened! When you eventually stand trial, you will simply have to work up a better poker face.”

“You need to work up a better reason for me supposedly killing Chad.”

“How about this? Chad wanted money for his silence. So you set a meeting in the tunnel, and for protection, he brought what you thought was a gun, so you silenced him for good—then made it look as if he'd left town.”

I said, “It was
you
driving Chad's car, loaded down with his belongings, who tried to run us down!”

Brenda's features were placid, expressionless. Had she not been so plain, that face of hers might have made a worthy cameo for the museum.

Finally she said, “Quite a story, Mrs. Borne. It has its wild elements, but someone might take it seriously. It's too bad for you that no one else will hear it.”

Grimacing, she fired the pistol at Mother, point blank.

There was a
flash
.

A
bang
.

And a scream.

The scream did not come from Mother, or from me, rather Brenda herself as the antique pistol backfired, exploding in her hand, barrels peeling back like a blossom as a flower of red and orange and blue emerged and hung in the air before dissolving.

Mother and I stood there, momentarily stunned, then she expressed what I was thinking, “Well,
that
was certainly a piece of luck.”

Brenda had dropped to her knees, the dress around her like a cake that had fallen. She was clutching the wrist of a hand that was a terrible gushing scarlet thing to see.

“Dear,” Mother went on, “we'd best apply a tourniquet or the woman will bleed to death.”

By “we” she meant me, and I went to the whimpering Brenda, ripped a sleeve from the dress—the ancient fabric tearing easily—and wrapped it tightly around her arm just below the elbow.

I had just finished tying the makeshift tourniquet when Sushi came running into the room, followed by an out-of-breath Sheriff Rudder. Lassie hadn't quite saved Timmy, but at least she'd brought the authorities.

Sushi, noting that Mother and I were all right, started barking at the wounded Brenda, but I silenced her with a single, “No!” No need to be smug about it. We had won, thanks to the volatility of ancient gunpowder.

Rudder demanded, “What happened here?”

“All in good time, Sheriff,” Mother replied archly. “Right now, I suggest you summon the paramedics for this poor soul. In this instance, unless you are extremely sluggish in your response time, calling the EMTs would not be a waste of county resources.”

 

 

Special caution should be used when firing antique guns containing old ammunition because they might explode and cause serious injury. Do I need to provide an example?

Chapter Twelve

All's Well That Ends Well?

A
fter a sedated Brenda, in the company of a deputy, had been transported by ambulance to the hospital in nearby Selby, Sheriff Rudder himself wanted a brief accounting from Mother and me of what had happened. We sat in the museum's parlor and did so.

Rudder pulled over a Chippendale chair while we sat on a not-so-comfortable Victorian couch with walnut-carved back, Sushi on my lap.

“All right,” he began. “Who wants to fill me in?”

Naturally, I deferred to Mother.

“Starting at what time, Sheriff?” she asked. “So much has happened today.”

Rudder closed his eyes and sighed. “Start anywhere you like, Vivian.”

“Very well.” Mother took a deep breath. “This morning I went to church by myself—Brandy didn't, because she wanted to sleep in. There was difficulty in getting just the right seat in just the right pew, in order to properly surveil the suspects. But Father Cumberbatch was quite understanding, and his sermon, what I heard of it before dropping off, was quite compelling. Then after the service, I had the most delightful lunch with the Juliets. They're a group of local Old York women who meet every—”

“Mrs. Borne, please,” he interrupted, touching his forehead as if taking his own temperature. “Only what's pertinent to the death of Chad Marlowe, and the injury of Brenda Starkadder. You'll both give formal statements later at the station. For now, anyway, I beg you to be succinct.”

Mother drew herself up. “Well, beg all you like, but that just won't do! I must lead up to those two events, to create the proper context, to set the stage, so to speak. A bare stage, after all, is an empty, useless thing—one exception, of course, being my unique rendition of”—she leaned forward and whispered—“the Scottish play.”

The sheriff's weary eyes looked pleadingly at me.

Helping him out, I said quickly, “Mother and I went to the theater around noon to get our check from Chad, but he wasn't there, and it looked like he'd skipped town. Sushi led us to a door backstage that took us down into a tunnel where we found Chad's stabbed body. We called you and, while we were waiting, followed the tunnel to the museum, where Mother discovered that Brenda Starkadder, with Fred Hackney's help, had been substituting antiques for fakes. Brenda overheard us discussing this, and tried to silence us with an old gun, but the pistol backfired. The end.” I raised my eyebrows—
succinct enough?

Rudder's jaw muscles tightened. “All right, that will do for now. Be in my office first thing Monday morning.”

Mother frowned. “But I have something
else
of importance to tell you about
today
, something Brandy wasn't privy to.”

I glanced at her. What could that be? We'd never been separated throughout the ordeal.

He shook his head as he stood. “It'll keep till Monday morning.”

She rose and gave him a half smile and half nod. “All right, my good man, if that's the way you want it. I merely thought you might want to listen to a certain recording I made.... Come, Brandy.”

Mother took a step toward the parlor door, but Rudder stopped her with a traffic-cop hand. “
What
recording that you made?”

That's what I wanted to know!

She gave him a smug smile. “I recorded the entire confrontation with Brenda on my cell phone. Of course, the sound quality is a little iffy because it was in my pocket, but I'm sure any crack technician will be able to enhance it. You can send it to Des Moines or wherever the real detectives work.”

Rudder burned at that remark while I looked up at Mother in surprise. “How did you manage that, while you were holding on to the fake tea box?”

Mother glanced down at me on the couch, where I still sat; Sushi stared up at her, as if she too would like an answer.

“Dear, neither holding on to a tea box nor secretly recording a conversation takes two hands. As soon as I spotted Brenda, I got that phone recording.”

Rudder, forcing himself to be conciliatory, asked her, “May I have that cell, please?”

“Most certainly. Everything's there, Sheriff—explanations of all the murders, and Brenda's part in them, and her confession. Plenty to put her away for a good long while!” She produced it from her right slacks pocket and presented it to him like a medal he'd won.

Rudder, taking the cell, said, “Thank you, Vivian. This could prove helpful.”

“You're quite welcome,” Mother replied magnanimously. Was that her faux Brit accent creeping in?

A female deputy stepped into the room. “Sheriff, forensics is here.”

Rudder gave her a nod.

Mother raised a forefinger. “Might I make a small suggestion? Your CSI team should check the knives in the museum's weapons room as a possible source for the instrument used on Chad—in light of the antique pistol Brenda tried to use on us. She may have wiped it clean and put it back. Might I suggest spraying any possibilities with luminol, for examination under UV light?”

I would swear I could
hear
Rudder cringe.

Mother's forefinger remained aloft. “And one more thing.... I left my purse at the theater, Sheriff. I know the forensics men will be there soon, so why don't I just tiptoe backstage and snag it before I'm in the way?”

Shaking his head, he said, with a singsong sweetness that wasn't any more fake than a plastic rock with your house key in it, “Someone will bring your purse around to you at the inn within the hour. Is that satisfactory?”

“Quite,” she said.

“Good-bye now.”

“Good-bye!”

Mother, like any seasoned actor, knew when to exit, and we did. I was watching her closely because the only time she was more keyed up than after a stage performance was at the conclusion of a murder investigation. No pharmaceutical lab on earth could ever come up with a drug to tamp down this mood of Mother's.

Speaking of keyed up, when we returned to the inn, an unusually animated Seabert bounded up to us as we stepped into the small lobby.

“Is it true that Chad Marlowe is dead,” he said in a rush, “and that Brenda is the prime suspect?”

“Yes,” Mother said, but before she could elaborate, her mouth hanging open in midair, Seabert turned his back and got on his cell phone.

“Celia,” he said, “Mrs. Borne has confirmed the rumor.. . . Yes, absolutely.... When will the meeting be over? . . . All right.”

He clicked off the cell and turned back to us with an obsequious smile. “Sorry. Does this mean you dear ladies will be staying another night?”

“What meeting?” Mother demanded, ignoring the innkeeper's query.

“Oh. Well. The trustees have gathered for an emergency meeting at the Community Center.”

She frowned. “In order to pass incorporation?”

“Uh, yes. That's right.”

I said to him, “Because Chad and Brenda are out of the picture now?”

“Well, yes. But surely you understand that it's the right way to go, that it's what Old York so desperately needs.”

Mother said, “Mr. Falwell, in all things, there's a right way and a wrong way. But there's also a third way. The Vivian Borne way. Come, Brandy.”

“No. First let me deposit Sushi in our room. She needs a nap. She's had a busier day than we have.”

“Agreed. But make haste.”

I made it, and soon Mother and I were cutting straight across the village green to the Community Center.

“What's the Vivian Borne way?” I asked her, as we strode briskly along. “I mean, I know there's
always
a Vivian Borne way, but what is it in this instance?”

“Dear, we—that is,
I—
must make an impassioned plea.”

She elucidated no further.

But I didn't have long to wait. When we arrived, Mother went over and planted herself in front of them— Celia, Digby, Father Cumberbatch, and Flora, all seated at their regular board-meeting table.

She asked, “Have you put the incorporation issue to a vote yet?”

They exchanged glances, and then the priest said, “We were just about to, Mrs. Borne.”

“Might I have a word before you do?”

Digby said, “We're having a meeting here, lady. You're not a trustee, in fact you're not even an Old York resident. I for one have heard more than enough of your opinions, and I think you should leave.”

But the others were shaking their heads, saying, “No,” and “Let her speak.”

Celia said, “As temporary chair, I recognize Vivian Borne. If you have something to say, Mrs. Borne, say it. I feel you've earned the right.”

“I believe I have, Mrs. Falwell. This board surely owes me some consideration for revealing the truth about these deaths—one accidental, and three that were cold-blooded murders—and in so doing removing any suspicion from the board's collective doorstep . . . and your personal ones.”

I was sitting where I had before, by the way, when I'd been taking notes on Tony's interrogation of the trustees and other Tombola suspects.

They exchanged looks.

Then spokeswoman Celia said, “All right, Mrs. Borne. But you're not going to change anyone's vote, if that's why you're here. And right now we stand three to one.”

“Oh, I don't intend on changing anyone's vote,” Mother replied, garnering puzzled expressions from the group. “I fully expect the vote to be as you say.”

“Then I don't get what you want,” Digby said.

Mother looked at him sadly. “I'm afraid you really don't, Mr. Lancaster.”

“Huh?”

“
Get
it. You see, it is possible to bring Old York into the twenty-first century without spoiling its quaint, Old English charm. But not by bringing in a tacky strip mall whose shops bear tasteless sobriquets—Ye Olde Laundromat indeed.”

Celia, seated next to Digby, swiveled to him. “Is
that
what you're planning on doing?”

Father Cumberbatch, on the other side of the land developer, reared back to look at him. “That's not the kind of thing
I'd
like to see, Digby.”

“Me, either,” Flora said brightly, her lone “no” vote giving her some hope.

Digby spread his hands. “Hey, I thought the majority of us wanted the same thing—
change
!”

And the four began arguing, talking over each other, getting nowhere.

Mother placed a finger and thumb in her mouth and blew an eardrum-rattling whistle. My ears were already covered.

“I do in fact have a suggestion,” she said, filling the startled silence. “If you care to hear it.”

Bewildered shrugs all around.

“By all means, good people, pass incorporation. But have your new city ordinance, or building code, or zoning regulations,
whatever
, define and limit the type of businesses that can occupy space around the village green and within town limits. That way, the quaintness of Old York—which brings in tourist trade, after all—can be preserved. No new business can open without board of trustees approval.”

Digby started to protest, but Mother raised a finger. “You
can
have your strip mall, Mr. Lancaster . . . but on the outskirts of town.”

Everyone waited for Digby's response.

Finally he spoke. “I guess I could live with that. My undeveloped land
is
on the outskirts, but I do own some buildings around the square, and I'm not wild about being told what I can or can't do with them.” He paused thoughtfully. “However, I can see the profitability in limiting what goes into those buildings. In maintaining a certain look and image for the town, and building the tourist trade.”

Mother smiled at him. “I thought I could count on your common sense, Mr. Lancaster—when it's spelled c-e-n-t-s, at least.”

That brought a few chuckles from the others.

Mother then addressed Flora. “As for you, dear, you shouldn't be afraid of a little competition. People get complacent without it. Competition makes one try harder. And, to be frank, your flowers
are
overpriced. But perhaps you can convince the board not to approve a similar business when the town already has one.”

Celia cleared her throat. “Ah . . . thank you, Mrs. Borne. We'll consider your suggestion of restricted businesses, around the green especially.”

But Mother wasn't about to be shuffled off the stage just yet. “I have one other small suggestion, which just came to me.”

“Yes?” Celia prompted.

“That you have me perform each year at your fete.”

Just
came to her?

“The audience's enthusiastic response to my one-woman show—
two
-woman, including my hat handler—indicates that an annual performance would be something looked forward to by one and all. And each year I would bring some new delight to life. For example, I am mulling a bang-up condensation of
Hamlet
in which I play all the parts, wearing different shoes.”

They were staring at her like Martians regarding Mount Rushmore.

I rushed forward and took Mother's arm.

“Thank you for hearing us out,” I said to the trustees. “Mother's offer is something you should obviously discuss among yourselves.” I turned to Mother: “I think it's time we left, and let the board get on with its vote.”

“Of
course
, dear,” she replied. She gave them a smile and a half bow.