Antiques Fate (5 page)

Celia sat down. No chairs were offered us.

Mother said in her faux English accent, “I'm most honored to meet you all, gentle people,” and I gave her a little kick below the table line. That would be enough of that.

Only then she gave the trustees an obsequious bow—with hand gesture!
Salami, salami, baloney.

Their expressions ranged from bemused to appreciative.

Me? I wanted to crawl under that table and maybe suck my thumb.

Mother went on, minus the faux Britishness. “I understand there may be some hesitance among you in proceeding with the performance Saturday night . . . but I am here to share with you Millie's last words to me . . . her final words to anyone, on this mortal coil.”

Everyone sat forward. Well, me, I just stood there, arms folded. This would be good. Which is to say, would be bad.

“As I held her in my arms, the lovely lady looked up at me, and somehow she summoned a smile . . . and she said . . .” Mother's voice turned raspy and she gasped for breath. “The . . . show . . . must . . . go . . .
on
!”

Roll your eyes if you must, but as for the eyes of the trustees, a few tears flowed in response and even a chin or two quivered. Shameless.

“That is
so
Millie,” Celia said, sniffling, and then blew her nose into a tissue. Kind of a honk. How do people do that?

Flora, dabbing under her eyes with a lacy hanky, said, “Millicent was so dedicated to that theater—keeping it afloat all these years, lately out of her own pocket. We simply
must
honor her wishes.”

Barclay didn't seem so sure. “We could be perceived as being unfeeling—more interested in the box-office proceeds than being respectful of Millie.”

“
What
proceeds?” Digby snorted. “That event has always lost money—broken even at best.”

Mother cleared her throat. “Excuse me, but, ladies and gentlemen? I
do
have a contract with the New Vic . . .”

Which she hadn't gotten around to signing.

“. . . that would have to be honored whether I perform or not. So you might as well have me perform, and take the opportunity to honor Millie with a precurtain eulogy.”

The trustees exchanged looks. Then spokeswoman Celia said, “Good points, Mrs. Borne.”

Father Cumberbatch, who'd been quietly listening, now spoke. “I would be happy to give a short benediction honoring Millie before the play begins. That is, if anyone is concerned about appearances or propriety.”

“Bless you, Father,” Mother said.

“A splendid suggestion,” Barclay said.

Nods all around.

Celia asked, “Shall we vote on proceeding with the play?”

It was unanimous; the show would go on.

Just as Millie had asked . . .

Mother clapped her hands like a birthday girl being given a pony. “I promise you to deliver the most unforgettable performance of my theatrical life!”

A tall order, if this one really did beat her tumbling into the orchestra pit during a musical version of
Everybody Loves Opal
and getting her foot stuck in the tuba.

The door to the Community Center opened, and a slender figure blew in—Chad Marlowe. He had exchanged his black T-shirt and jeans for a suit—also black. Tie, too.

He strode right up to the table of trustees.

“Why wasn't I informed of this meeting?” he demanded. “As my grandmother's only living relative, I am entitled to take her place on the board.”

The trustees exchanged wary glances.

Finally Celia spoke. “Chad, we did not wish to intrude at this sad moment. But we would like to offer our sincere sympathy in the death of—”

“Skip it,” he snapped. “Why wasn't I
notified
?”

“Dear boy,” Barclay intoned pompously, “as Celia has indicated, we did not want to bother you at this difficult time. Besides—”

“Oh, I'm
sure
that's it,” Chad replied caustically.

“I was
going
to say,” Barclay went on huffily, “that your appointment to the board isn't official until our next regular meeting, which is on Wednesday, at which time you will be duly installed and granted all of the rights and privileges of
any
trustee.
That
is our procedure.”

“Oh . . .” The young man shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other. “Then . . . you'll be contacting me about the time of the meeting and what to expect?”

“Certainly,” said Celia.

No one offered anything more.

Chad turned to leave, then swung back. “One other thing. You might like to know my position on incorporating the town.” He paused for effect. “It may surprise you, since all of you know I'm personally in favor of a better future for York. But just the same, I plan on honoring my grandmother's position
against
incorporation.” He smiled, and what lay behind it was unclear. “Why? Because I know she would have wanted me to.”

After hearing Chad grouse about the lack of innovation at the theater, for which he very much blamed his grandmother, I found his decision surprising, to say the least.

And it obviously shocked the trustees, as well, only this was not unanimous: Celia, Digby, and the priest wore frowns, while Flora and Barclay were smiling.

“See you at the meeting next week,” Chad said with mock cheer.

And he was gone.

Digby growled, “That means we'll still be stuck in deadlock.”

“Three for,” Celia muttered, “three against.”

Father Cumberbatch sighed, “And nothing in Old York will change.”

The informal meeting concluded, everyone slowly filing out, except for Celia, who stayed behind to lock up.

Rather than cut across the village green to the inn, Mother and I decided to take the sidewalk, going left out of the center along Brighton Street, then right on Manchester, stopping every now and then to gaze in a storefront window.

We were crossing a narrow alley between a haberdashery and a pub when I happened to look down that alley.

Beneath a security light were Digby and Chad, conducting their own private meeting.

 

 

Keep valuable prints and watercolor paintings where the sunlight won't fade them. This includes indirect sunlight, which, over time, can also cause damage. That's why Mother once hung her favorite watercolor in a closet, enjoying it only when she put on or hung up her clothes.

Chapter Four

O, What May Man Within Him Hide

D
earest ones!

This is Vivian (aka Mother) taking a turn at the wheel (metaphorically speaking, since I am currently navigating life's highways sans driver's license). I am thrilled to my toes that my chapter has been placed so early in this tome, allowing us to get to know each other better sooner.

Usually the chapter I've been allotted is unfairly positioned midpoint, by which time my daughter Brandy's through-her-end-of-the-telescope view of the One Who Raised Her may have unfairly colored your opinion of
moi
. She is a lovely girl, very smart, often helpful, but I'm afraid somewhat lacking in imagination.

Unfortunately, I will have to forgo my usual rebuttal of Brandy's occasionally inaccurate and often exaggerated accounts of what she terms as my “antics,” because doing so would cut into my editorially imposed word count (five thousand per chapter).

I feel I must, however, sacrifice precious wordage to correct Brandy's highly exaggerated account in which she has me supposedly taking a tumble off the stage during a musical production of
Everybody Loves Opal
and getting my foot stuck in a tuba. That is patently absurd! (It was a trombone.)

It is vital, when an author is given a word count limitation, to get immediately to the point, and in order to accomplish this goal, one must carefully choose the perfect words and assemble them in just the right order.

Toward that end, I truly relish using forgotten words . . . like
inveigle, jingoistic,
and
imbroglio
. The dumbing-down of our language has resulted in a tragic loss of our syntactic heritage! You would-be writers out there, please note that I will occasionally be peppering my writing with “five-dollar” words—but not to worry! Should a meaning elude you, you need not traverse this chapter with Daniel Webster by your side—you will have Vivian Borne to guide you! To provide you change for your five.

This reminds me of the time we presented my modernization of “The Devil and Daniel Webster” at the Serenity Community Playhouse, in which I played the title role. No, not the devil—“Diane” Webster. I must have had a dozen audience members go out of their way after to tell me they'd seen nothing like it before.

Where was I?

Yes! The need to stay on point.

Friday morning, while Brandy and Sushi slept in, I arose with the dawn and, after a Spartan (austere) breakfast of coffee and scone in the inn's dining room, I set out to perambulate (walk around) the town.

As I stepped out of the inn into the zephyr (soft, gentle breeze), our innkeeper Seabert was reconfiguring the latest prankster anagram on the outside stand. The sepulchral (gloomy) man frowned at me and remarked querulously (complaining/whining), “I'd like to get my hands on whoever keeps changing our sign.”

(
Editor to Vivian
: Okay . . . this isn't working. Please stop.)

(
Vivian to Editor
: What isn't working?)

(
Editor to Vivian
: Using little-known words, then defining them parenthetically, which slows down the pace of the narrative. Also, it's condescending to the reader.)

(
Vivian to Editor
: What if I don't define the words?)

(
Editor to Vivian
: What if the reader doesn't know them?)

(
Vivian to Editor
: Now, who's being condescending?)

Well, doesn't that take the wind out of my spinnakers (sails)! I hadn't even gotten around to
inchoate, attenuate,
or
punctilious
. Well, no one can say I'm obdurate or recalcitrant. And to those of you who know the meanings of some or even all of those words, let me say (in the spirit of Old York), “Jolly good show!”

I asked Seabert, “Have you no surveillance cameras to help you catch the scallywag?”

He shook his head. “There's a village ordinance against any mounted cameras—they say it detracts from the architecture.”

Had the man been more pleasant, I would gladly have informed him of the Internet spy site I frequent that specializes in tiny undetectable cameras. On the other hand, I must admit I was rather keen to see what our mysterious jokester would come up with next (inveterate Scrabble fan that I am).

So I kept that to myself and merely bid Mr. Falwell a fond farewell.

While it was too early for the shops to be open, I could think of one place certain to have its doors unlocked: the Episcopal Church. As they say, the house of God is always open for business.

When Brandy was a little girl, she and I did a Sunday morning sampling of every church in Serenity, to give the child a broader view of the rainbow of religious possibilities. So I knew a little something about the Episcopal Church.

Organized in the States after the American Revolution, the Episcopalian sect had broken away from the Church of England, which required allegiance to the king (George III, at the time). The church might be viewed as a somewhat unlikely combination of Catholic and Protestant, retaining certain trappings of the former but embracing the latter's lack of allegiance to the pope and the ability of its clergy to marry.

Old York Episcopal was located behind the inn, just a short walking distance down a verdant path called Canterbury Lane. As the ancient stone structure came into view, nestled in a grove of thick oak trees, I took a quick intake of air. The church seemed at once sinister and beautiful—sinister by way of disrepair and decay, beautiful thanks to simplicity of design.

While I would categorize the building's architecture as Gothic—due to its tall, narrow, pointed windows and single tower with spire—its lack of ornamentation had roots in the Anglo-Saxon period. A graveyard positioned behind the church fanned out conically, older headstones in front, mostly leaning, newer ones in back.

I approached the old oaken door with its rusted hinges, gave the iron handle a tug, then stepped into a small, dark vestibule. Immediately I heard the flapping of wings—no, not angels—as a bird flew over my head, and I ducked as it soared out. I waited a moment to see if any more feathered friends might be seeking freedom before I closed the door with a thud.

A soothing male voice said, “They're coming in through the bell tower, I'm afraid. Turning into some of my most regular parishioners.”

I turned to Father Cumberbatch, the handsome young priest attired in a traditional black suit with white clerical collar, not the more casual garb some younger clerics assume between services.

“I hope you don't mind, Father,” I said, “my dropping by for a visit.”

His smile was pleasant. “Mrs. Borne, a pleasure. Are you Episcopalian?”

As I say, in my quest for a perfect spiritual fit, I'd attended Methodist, Presbyterian, Baptist, Catholic, Episcopal, Jehovah's Witnesses, among other churches, including Serenity's synagogue. But I've never worn the label of any.

“I'm still seeking, Father. One day, perhaps, I shall find.”

“Seeking is a most worthwhile pursuit.” He was clearly accustomed to having a tourist stop by for a look at a house of worship right out of the English countryside. “So, then—you're here to see the church.”

“No. Well, yes, of course—it's lovely. But I'm really here to see
you
.”

A curious smile formed. “Oh? Well, I'm happy to see
you
, Mrs. Borne.”

“Perhaps we could sit in a pew and talk?”

“Yes. Let's.”

I followed him into the church's austere interior where we sat in a hard-back pew. Down front, a scaffolding had been erected in the apse, the cracked, paint-peeling ceiling badly in need of repair.

“What's on your mind, Mrs. Borne?”

“Was Millicent Marlowe one of your parishioners?”

“Ahh . . .” He tilted his head back. “You do jump right in, don't you?”

“I'm not sure I understand, Father.”

His smile was slight but winning. “Mrs. Borne, I'm well aware of your reputation for solving murders here in Serenity County. I would imagine everyone in Old York is. But I can assure you that Millie's death was just—and I don't mean to diminish it—but just a tragic accident.”

“You believe she accidentally, forgetfully, took too many pills?”

“I do, yes.”

“Why, Father?”

He crossed his legs while gauging his answer.

Finally, thoughtfully, he said, “I've known Millie my whole life—I grew up here. And yes, she was a member. Very regular in her attendance. But only recently I noted a deficiency in her memory. Slightly so, but she
was
forgetting things.”

“For example?”

He shrugged. “What time service is held. Now and then, she couldn't remember my name—even though, I grant you, it is unusual.”

I shrugged. “Not so unusual anymore.”

“Oh, you mean, the Sherlock Holmes actor? Well, with some of the younger people, maybe. Among our restrictions are indoor TV antennas, and we're still on Internet dial-up service. I'm afraid many Old Yorkians don't get around much, Mrs. Borne. We live in a kind of bubble here.”

“And I take it you wouldn't mind bursting it, judging by your pro-incorporation stance on the board of trustees.”

Gesturing to the scaffolding, Father Cumberbatch said tersely, “Isn't it obvious? Living in the past is one thing, but having the present crumble and fall down all around you is something else again.” He sighed. “Sorry, I didn't mean to sound defensive. It's terribly limiting, having such paltry funds to make even the simplest repairs.”

I nodded sympathetically. “I understand your frustration. Your church is central to the charm of this old English village, and yet the only support you have is the offering plate.”

“I would be content with that,” he said, twisting toward me, “if incorporation passed. It would mean growth for the town, and in turn, growth in the membership of this church.”

“You might need two offering plates.”

“It's not just that. The young people . . . they won't stay here. Many, perhaps most, grow up and leave as soon as they can. And what's a church without young people?”

“Eventually,” I said, “it's an empty building.”

“Maybe not even that, if it crumbles.”

“What's your vision for the future of this church?”

“
Of course
I'm in favor of maintaining its historic look. But we need modern facilities. The idea of building even a small, new youth center, hidden away behind the church, is viewed by many in my congregation as heresy.”

I gave him a gently encouraging smile. “You're a young man to be trapped in such old ways, Father. Surely you've thought of moving on.”

His grin came easily. “Well, vanity is one of the seven deadly sins, and I'm afraid I committed it by jumping at the chance to have my own church at a tender age, right here where I grew up. I'm blessed to be in a faith that will allow me to get married and raise a family, which I hope to do one day. But what kind of life could I offer a wife and children on my salary, and in this dilapidated church with birds flying around?”

The heavy front door slammed shut, echoing through the sanctuary, and Fred Hackney, in paint-splattered work clothes, appeared at the end of the aisle like a confused groom.

“Sorry I'm late, Father,” the man said, cap in hand, patting his comb-over back in place. “Got caught up in the doings at the theater.” He smiled and nodded at me. “Hello there, Mrs. Borne. Imagine we'll be seein' you later.”

“Hello, Fred. You certainly will. How are you on this lovely morning?”

“Good as can be expected, I guess. But I'll tell you one thing—the New Vic ain't gonna be the same without Millie.”

“No,” I said. “I'm sure it won't. Old York was lucky to have her, and I feel denied of the chance to commune with a kindred spirit. Her like shall not pass this way again!”

Fred blinked. “Suppose not.”

Father Cumberbatch said to me, “Fred's been patching up the ceiling in his spare time.” Then he asked the handyman, “Do you think you can be done by Sunday's service?”

“Give 'er the ol' college try.”

Yet somehow I didn't think Fred was a college man.

He was saying, “Has . . . has a date been set for the funeral?”

“Tentatively Monday,” the priest said. “But I'll have more information later, after I finalize arrangements with Millie's grandson.”

Fred's eyes found me. “Is there any chance rehearsal could wait till this evening, ma'am?”

My response was magnanimous. “Certainly. I know you have a lot on your plate, here and at the New Vic.”

“Would seven be all right? I already put the stage manager and lighting technician on standby.”

“Seven will be just fine,” I said. “Thank you for your efficiency and hard work, Fred.”

“Okeydokey, Mrs. Borne. See you then.”

And the handyman continued down the aisle toward the scaffolding.

Father Cumberbatch rose from the pew with a tight smile. “I suppose I should get to work, too. If there's nothing else, Mrs. Borne, I'll take my leave. I have Millie's eulogy to prepare.”

I stood, put a hand to my chest and assumed a spiritual gaze. “Is it permissible for me to stay on for a few moments?”

“You're always a welcome guest in the Lord's house,” he said warmly.

As Father Cumberbatch headed off somewhere, I wandered down to have a look at the altar, going as far as the scaffolding would allow. Fred was up on the wooden platform, applying a plaster patch to the dome ceiling, much as I do for my bunions, and I watched for a minute or two. Fred was methodical but not slow, a first-rate patcher-upper.