Antiques Fate (8 page)

As the diners began abandoning their tables, I told Mother I'd meet her in front of the inn, then hurried back to my room to get Sushi, knowing she would enjoy the spectacle.

Back when Soosh was blind, I would lug her along with me, strapped to my chest in a leopard-print baby sling, and I'd brought that carrier knowing I'd be taking her to the fete—better than putting her on a leash where the little mutt could get herself stepped on. (So from now until the end of this chapter, just remember that the little fur ball is affixed to my front like a cute fuzzy goiter.)

Soon, beneath a bright blue sky, Sushi and I joined Mother on a curb already lined with tourists and locals alike, just as the band of bagpipe players in uniforms (not kilts, darn) marched playing a Scottish tune.

Next came a half-dozen men wearing white shirts, green vests, black short pants, high white socks, and black shoes, each holding a stick in his hand. What was that about?

Mother answered my unspoken question, shouting right in my ear: “They're called Morris dancers, dear!”

What
didn't
that woman know?

The green-vested six stopped for a minute to perform a folk dance, hopping and skipping and tapping the sticks together, the bells strapped to their shins jingling. It was at once absurd and exhilarating and impressive.

Following the Morris dancers were two floats, one arrayed with people dressed in medieval costumes and, in the other, folks in colonial attire. Court jesters and Pilgrims walked alongside their respective floats, throwing small candies into the crowd.

Bringing up the rear was a vintage white Cadillac convertible driven by Digby Lancaster, wearing a nice suit and tie for a change. Seated next to him was Celia Falwell, in her best out-of-fashion frock, and in back, Flora Paxton in a low-cut dress sandwiched between Father Cumberbatch and an impeccable Barclay Starkadder.

The trustees waved royally to the crowd as the car crawled by. Most bystanders smiled and waved back, while others stood stony faced, even frowning; not all the subjects in the little kingdom of Old York seemed happy.

As the parade concluded, the crowd en masse began to move toward the village green for the fete, a tide that swept Mother and me (and Sushi) along.

We stepped onto grass that couldn't have been greener in 1950s Technicolor, while vivid banners strung between poles around the perimeter flapped in the cool autumn breeze, as if waving hello, and an orchestra in the band shell welcomed one and all by striking up a lively march.

While Mother and I began to wander the colorful tents and open tables—each offering a game or event for a modest fee—I received a text from Tony telling me he'd arrived and was waiting at the fortune-teller's booth.

Mother raised a finger to her lips. “Just imagine our chief of police having his fortune told.
That
I would love to see, and hear.”

“You're welcome to come along. Murder-talk isn't.”

“Thank you, but no, dear. There's a table selling antiques that I'd like to check out.”

And Mother struck out on her own. Always a relief—at first.

Tony, casually dressed in a sport coat, polo shirt, and jeans on a rare day off, was waiting in front of a red and white striped tent, a sign above its entrance reading: H
ILDA'S
H
OUSE OF
F
ORTUNES
, $5.00.

We kissed briefly, an attention-seeking Sushi trying to insert her nose between us.

“All right, okay,” Tony laughed, petting her head. “I'm glad to see you, too.”

“Can you stay over?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Sorry, I have to be back this evening. I have three men out sick. Something going around.”

Hiding my disappointment, I squeezed his arm. “Well, we'll always have Paris . . . and this afternoon. Come on, let's hear what Hilda has to say about what the future holds.”

“I'm going to guess the future has a woman with oversize eyeglasses in it.”

“Well, let's see what else it holds.”

“Why not?”

We were the first to enter the tent, where a woman in her seventies decked out in garish gypsy garb, head scarf, earrings and all, sat at a little cloth-draped table, a crystal ball in its center.

With a bony, ring-encrusted hand, she gestured to a single folding chair in front of her, which I took, Tony standing beside me.

“I am called Hilda,” she declaimed with a melodramatic intensity worthy of Mother. “Your
hand
, my child.”

I held it out and her bony grasp settled around it, firm but gentle. She closed her eyes, opened them, then released my hand.

“Before year's end,” she pronounced, “your sweet little one there will have a brother.”

I gestured to Sushi. “Ah . . . this isn't a baby. It's a dog.”

She leaned forward, squinting. “Thank the stars! I feared you had brought me the hairiest baby in creation.”

I looked up at Tony, whose smile was doing its best to hold back a chuckle.

The gypsy went on. “My vision is flawed—that is, the vision of my eyes.” As an aside, in a voice drained of melodrama, she added, “Normally I wear glasses, but they take the edge off my costume.” The melodramatic tone returned. “Let me consult the crystal ball. . . .”

That
she could see. Well, it was a good size.

Hilda peered into the glass. She frowned.

“You will soon be in grave danger,” foretold the gypsy.

“I was kind of hoping for riches beyond my wildest dreams.”

“Aren't we all, my dear. But heed these words: beware the Cyclops!”

I frowned. “The only Cyclops I know is in that
Sinbad
movie.”

Hilda sighed deeply and sat back, exhausted. A one-minute reading really took it out of the old gal. “I'm sorry, the vision has faded.”

“Okay, well, good to know. I'll keep my
eye
out for a Cyclops!” Nobody laughed—including you.

I looked up at Tony. “Your turn.”

“Think I'll take a pass,” he said, not amused by this experience.

When I tried to pay Hilda her five-dollar fee, she waved two bony hands and said, “I will take no profit for ill fortune.”

Outside the tent, I said, “Okay,
that
was weird. Well, as monsters in Ray Harryhausen movies go, the Cyclops is better than Hydra or the Troglodyte.”

“Who's Ray Harry What's-It?”

“He did the best monsters. Tony, we may not be cut out for each other after all. Not if you don't love old movies, too.”

“I'm willing to be schooled, if you provide the popcorn.”

“Deal.” We were strolling. “I wonder what
your
fortune would have been?”

Tony slipped an arm around my shoulders. “I already found my fortune,” he said, and kissed my cheek. “How would you like me to win you a prize at one of these booths?”

I kissed his cheek. “I already won the big prize.”

We'll pause now for everyone to feel just a little sick.

Then I said, “But win me something anyway. Let's start with the Coconut Shy.”

“What the heck is that?”

The idea behind the Coconut Shy game (I get the coconut part, but not the shy) was to try to knock the hard round fruit off posts with a wooden ball. Sounded simple, but the coconuts were in wire holders and not so easily dislodged, as was attested by a twenty-something man whose three throws bounced off the coconuts and went into the back netting.

“Sorry young man,” said a mustachioed middle-aged barker sporting a candy-striped apron. “Anyone else? Three balls for ten dollars!”

I whispered to Tony, “That's a pretty high tariff. If you back out, I won't think any less of you.”

“How much less do you think of me now?”

I fake-punched his arm.

Tony motioned to the barker, who came over, collected my guy's engraving of Alexander Hamilton, then handed him the first wooden ball.

Tony wound up for the pitch, fired the ball, and struck out. Ditto for the second ball. But the third one—wow!—knocked a coconut off its post, along with the metal holder. My police chief always packs guns, even when he goes out unarmed.

The prize was a little stuffed bear, which Sushi immediately claimed for herself, and I tucked it in the pouch with her.

“What's next?” asked a puffed-up Tony.

“There's something called Wiggly Wire that looks interesting,” I replied, having noticed the game earlier. “Don't get too cocky. It's tough, too.”

“Lead the way.”

The crowd was getting thick now, and Tony and I held hands as we wove in and around people. As we walked by the Jumble tent (donated clothing for sale), I noticed Celia and Father Cumberbatch standing to one side, in conference. I just happened to catch a snippet of their conversation.

“How
much
?” the priest was asking.

“Twenty thousand
each
,” the innkeeper replied.

“I couldn't pay that if I wanted to!”

And that was all I heard . . . though it might be enough.

In the game of Wiggly Wire, a contestant tries to pass a metal ring along a twisting wire without touching the ring to the wire and thereby setting off a disqualifying buzzer (a variation on the board game Operation). The line looked endless, so Tony and I watched for a few minutes, then moved on.

At the first-aid tent, Tony stopped in to give a professional hello to the two paramedics—male and female—who were on hand in the event of a medical emergency. They worked out of Serenity and he knew them both.

While waiting outside, I spotted Flora and Digby near the band shell, also in conference—or rather, having an obvious disagreement.

The florist pointed a finger in the realtor's face, to which he gave her a push-away “leave me alone” gesture, then stalked off.

The surviving board members seemed an unhappy lot, at odds with their smiling, waving parade appearance.

Tony emerged from the medical tent, and we began checking out other games, which seemed evenly divided between those for children (Bouncy Slide, Splat the Rat) and adults (Darts, Hoop Toss).

The big draw for adults was the Bottle Tombola, where a large crowd of over-twenty-one participants, as well as some kibitzers of any age, had gathered for the raffling off of alcoholic beverages.

Banquet-style tables had been strung together to hold several hundred bottles of beer, wine, and whiskey, each with a numbered card taped to it. On a separate table was a colorful metal drum with crank handle, and the word
TOMBOLA!
on its front.

I heard a familiar “Oh,
you
-who!”—unmistakably Mother.

Tony and I and Sushi squeezed through the throng to reach her.

“No luck at the antiques tent?” I asked, noticing her distinct lack of packages.

“
Terribly
overpriced, dear,” Mother sniffed. “But I do have tickets for the Tombola raffle.”

She reached into a slacks pocket and produced them.

I started to scold her—no alcoholic beverage of any kind was to be mixed with her meds—but she broke in, “They're for
you
, dear. That time I imbibed and wound up in Kalamazoo is still fresh in my mind. I thought you might win a nice bottle of wine for you and the chief to share later.”

“Well, that's very nice of you, Vivian,” Tony said.

Mother handed me five tickets, each one having two numbers.

“How does this work, anyway?” I asked.

“Well, dear,” Mother replied, “if the larger number on a ticket is called, you've won a bottle. The smaller number on that ticket indicates which bottle on the table is yours.”

The crowd suddenly went silent as Fred Hackney—out of his work clothes and into a sweater and slacks—stepped up to the drum, clutched the crank handle, and began to spin it, the tickets whirring inside.

Assisting Fred were local dignitaries Digby, Father Cumberbatch, and Celia.

Fred stopped cranking, opened a little door in the drum, withdrew a ticket, and handed it to Digby. Digby, in a booming voice, announced the winning number: 2,455.

A woman shrieked, rushed forward, and handed her ticket to Digby. Digby gave the woman's ticket, and the one drawn from the drum, to Father Cumberbatch, who made sure they were identical. Then the priest announced the smaller number on the tickets—275—and Celia found the bottle with the card 275 (white wine), which she handed ceremoniously to the excited winner.

It was a slow process, with several hundred bottles to go, meaning a long raffle.

The afternoon had become warm, which, with strapped-to-my-chest Sushi producing her own heat, was making me uncomfortable.

I asked Tony, “Mind if we go back to the inn?”

A tiny smile. “Hoping you'd ask that. I was just starting to long for a good old-fashioned ring toss or duck pond.”

I told Mother we were bailing, and tried to give her back the tickets.

Mother had a glazed look that indicated her precarious attention span was getting taxed, as well. “Dear, why don't we give them away? I'd like a little afternoon nap, what with the performance this evening.”

“I'm fine with that.”

She was looking around. “Oh! There's Barclay Starkadder with Brenda! I'd like to introduce you to her.”

“Now?”
I protested, but Mother had my arm and was dragging me away from Tony.

Soon she had inserted herself and me between the uncle and niece.

“Brenda,” Mother said, having to speak up over Digby, who was announcing another winning number, “this is my daughter, Brandy.”