Antiques Swap (14 page)

She studied me, eyes condescending and insolent. “How's this for ironclad? I was in Chicago on a shopping trip that Saturday, and didn't get back until Sunday.”

“You
and
your husband were away?”

“No—Sean stayed home to play golf with Brent and Travis . . . as I'm sure you already know, Miss Marple. Now, I want you
out
of here! Or do I call the police?”

“On my way, dear, on my way. Oh! Would you mind just one teensy-eensy last question . . . and I promise you it's not about Vanessa or the murder.”

“What is it?” she snapped.

“Well, I understand you and your friends have a bridge club—the Eight of Clubs?”

“Yes. So what?”

“I used to be a whiz at it, years ago, and have taken it back up lately, and find myself simply floundering.”

“How sad.”

“Maybe you could tell me—if a declarer were to open one spade, what would the next person's bid have to be?”

For a brief moment, Tiffany's eyes glazed, then the cold patronizing gaze returned.

“Unless I'm actually playing,” she replied, “it's difficult for me to say. Sorry I couldn't answer your question.”

“Oh, but you did, dear,” I said with a sweet smile and an attitude at least as condescending as her own.

(Answer: one no trump or two of clubs.)

I bid her a cheerful good-bye.

It was with some trepidation that I arrived home, late afternoon, knowing that Brandy would be perturbed about me taking the Caddy.

I got out of the car, then went around the front to retrieve my purse on the rider's side floor, when I caught just the barest glimpse of someone darting out of the hedges that bordered the driveway.

Pain exploded into a starry sky inside my skull, Vincent van Gogh coming back to do one last painting.

And that's the last thing I remember.

 

 

 

Clothing bought at a swap meet cannot be returned, so if the vendor doesn't have a makeshift dressing room—or won't allow you to try the item on in a nearby bathroom—don't buy it. Can you imagine how frustrating it would be to have a pair of jodhpurs you can't get into?

Chapter Nine

Knockout

 

 

 

I
n the emergency room at Serenity General Hospital, an unconscious Mother lay pale and still while a female nurse in green scrubs, nametag
NANCY
, checked her vitals. The paramedics who responded to my 911 call had already applied a head bandage to stem the bleeding, along with a neck brace.

I was waiting for the doctor working tonight's shift to finish with another emergency down in another ER room—according to Nurse Nancy, a young man who'd been in a motorcycle accident—and the fifteen minutes or so that had already passed might have been an hour.

I could only stand next to the examining table, feeling helpless, holding Mother's limp hand, stroking it gently.

“Dear,” Mother once joshed, “if I should ever become a vegetable, please don't pull the plug till I'm down to a size eight.”

At the time, that had made me laugh.

At the time.

The doctor finally appeared, a distinguished if mildly harried-looking middle-aged man with silver metal-frame glasses, hair gray at the temples, and a bit of a paunch beneath his white lab jacket. Nametag: DR. WARNER.

“Status,” he said to Nurse Nancy.

“Head trauma—unconscious, but breathing on her own.”

The nurse filled his extended hand with her clipboard. He studied the white sheet on top. Looked up at me. “Did you see what happened, Ms. Borne?”

I shook my head. “I found Mother on the driveway near our car.”

Dr. Warner leaned over his patient, unwrapped the head dressing, then carefully examined the wound.

Straightening, he asked, “You found her on her stomach?”

“Yes.”

He lifted an eyebrow, set it back down. “This wound wasn't caused by a fall. With blunt-force trauma like this, someone must have hit your mother a severe blow on the back of the head. Would take that to knock her out.” He paused. “She'll require stitches—we'll have to shave off a fair-sized patch of her hair. Then we'll run a CT scan to look for bleeding within the brain, and excess pressure.”

I posed the question he'd been asked so many times: “Will she be all right?”

“I'll let you know as soon as I can,” he replied, an answer he'd given so many times. “Make yourself comfortable in the waiting room, please.”

I nodded, then leaned over and kissed Mother's cheek, finding it reassuringly warm.

If there is a hell, there's a good chance it will be an ER waiting room, where the coffee is bitter and cold, the magazines ancient and dog-eared, the wall hangings purposely mundane, and your only company other anxious folks, each lost in their own terrible thoughts.

And that's where I was now.

Detaching a little, I wondered how many deals with the Man Upstairs had been made in this room—and how many had been kept, from either side of the bargain.

Letting Mother out without the leash I usually provided was a big mistake. She was a bright, energetic woman, but she was, let's face it, on bipolar medication. She needed supervision. For the most part, my participation in her sleuthing had been to keep her out of (or at least limit the extent of) trouble.

Out of harm's way.

This time, under a little pressure from a man I cared about, I'd abandoned her to the fates. If she didn't make it, how would
I
be able to?

I was seated near the door to the ER. The loved ones of the motorcycle victim—a young wife or girlfriend, an older couple who were either his or her parents—had taken seats at the far end of the room. When Dr. Warner came through the ER door, we all stood, eyes filled with hope and dread.

His expression unreadable, the doctor moved by me to the others, spoke softly, and the trio began to sob and hold on to each other.

I quickly left through a second door that led into the hospital lobby. Mostly I did this to give the bereaved their privacy, but some weak part of me didn't want their bad luck to rub off on me.

I used my cell to call Wes but got sent to voice mail. I left a quick report about what had happened to Mother, saying it was probably a robbery, but that if he needed me for anything, I'd be at the hospital through the morning, most likely.

Finding a vending machine, I got myself a bottled water, then returned to the waiting room, where the bereaved had been ushered away, off to sign insurance papers, or make funeral arrangements, or whatever happened when a loved one didn't make it in the ER. I was fuzzy about that.

I hoped that it wouldn't soon be coming into focus.

Seated again, I was relieved to see Tony, in uniform, come in through the ER door. His smile was small and sad and supportive, as he came toward me.

Sitting beside me, shoulders hunched, hands loosely clasped between his legs, he looked over at me sideways and asked gently, “How is she doing?”

“Still unconscious. Breathing on her own.”

He sighed. “I left Mrs. Fowler's as soon as I could.”

“Thank you for coming.”

“Do you know what happened to Vivian exactly?”

“Not exactly, no. Just that somebody hit her on the head when she got home from doing . . . what she does. I found her purse on the ground, but the wallet was missing . . . so it may have been a robbery.”

“May have.” He could hardly have sounded less convinced—not that I'd sounded terribly convinced, myself.

I said, “A thief
might
have thought Mother was carrying a lot of money—you know, because we made that pilot show? Been a lot of publicity. Somebody waiting for her in the bushes by the house?”

He shrugged. “Possible.”

“But not probable, in your opinion.”

“Is it in yours?”

My turn to sigh. “No. I think this happened because of something she did today. Poking around Serenity.”

“Do you know where she went?”

I shook my head. “She was none too happy about me telling her I was ‘off the case.' So she shared none of her plans, and frankly I didn't ask her to.”

I told him about Mother taking the Caddy.

His dark eyes widened momentarily. “I'll pretend I didn't hear that. . . .”

“Usually, when she goes off investigating, Mother confines herself to her downtown haunts . . . but with a car? She could have gone anywhere and seen anybody.”

He shook his head once, eyes hooded with concern. “And we won't know where and who till she wakes up.”

“
If
she wakes up . . .” I blinked through tears. “And it's . . . it's all
my
fault.”

He put a hand on my arm. “How is it your fault?”

I pulled in a breath and let it out, trying to control my emotions, but not doing a great job of it. “I told Mother I wouldn't help her this time, but she went off anyway—unchecked. I knew she would, but still didn't try to stop her, much less go with her.”

His smile was a rumpled thing. “Would I be out of line thinking you blame me for that?”

“I blame myself for agreeing to what you asked. From where you sit, it was a reasonable request—understandable, logical, responsible. But Tony, I share a house, and a life, with Vivian Borne, and she's none of those things.”

He half-smiled in acknowledgment of the truth of that.

I went on: “But I'm officially breaking my promise. Who was it said, ‘This time it's personal?' Somebody tried to kill Mother. And I'm going to do everything I can to help find out who.”

Tony nodded, still wearing a supportive little smile, though it was edged with weary resignation. “All right, Brandy. Since I can't stop you, I might as well aid and abet.”

I looked sharply at him. “You
know
something?”

“Yes, and I'll share it with you . . . but there's a condition. If you're out there doing this amateur detective thing of yours, you have to promise to keep me apprised of what you're up to. I can't be at your side—I have my own duties—but I want it understood: we're in this together.”

Now I smiled—first time that evening. “That's a promise I
can
keep.”

“Okay,” he said, and his smile went away. Businesslike, he said, “Pathologist found blue silk threads imbedded in the skin of Mrs. Fowler's neck.”

“From a woman's scarf, maybe?”

“Yes, or possibly a man's tie. And a recent bank statement I turned up at Mrs. Fowler's house showed a ten-thousand dollar
cash
deposit that was made into her checking account.”

Not so easy to trace.

I said, “You heard what Wes said about the Fowler woman offering to change her testimony for that exact amount . . . but he sent her packing. She must have blackmailed someone else. The
real
killer.”

He nodded. “That does make sense. And whoever he or she is, the murderer decided just to get rid of her.”

Dr. Warner came through the ER door, his expression again unreadable.

But as he neared us, the doctor did give us a barely perceptible smile.

I was on my feet. Tony, too.

The doctor said, “The results from the CT scan look good. No internal cranial bleeding or excess buildup of pressure.”

I sighed in relief, then asked, “Is she still unconscious?”

“Yes. But I'm optimistic that your mother will come around—possibly tonight, maybe tomorrow, or anyway in a few days. Of course, each case is different.”

Left unsaid was the possibility that Mother might never regain consciousness.

Tony said, “Doctor, I'll be investigating the assault. When Mrs. Borne comes around, what are the chances she'll remember what happened, after a blow to the skull like this?”

His head went slightly to one side. “Hard to say, Chief.”

The doctor was clearly local, because everybody in Serenity still called Tony “Chief”—except for Brian Lawson, of course.

The doctor went on: “Often with a head trauma, the person will have short-term memory loss that they may never regain. This frequently happens in the case of a car accident, as you probably know, Chief.”

The doctor's eyes moved from Tony to me. “Ms. Borne, I'd like to put your mother in a private room on the third floor.”

This alarmed me. “Wouldn't she be better off in Intensive Care? Wouldn't it be safer?”

Dr. Warner frowned and looked back at Tony. “Is she still in some danger from her assailant?”

Tony said, “This may not have been a mugging. It could have been an attempt on her life relating to an ongoing murder investigation.”

Tony didn't clarify whether he meant the department's investigation or Mother's.

“I see,” Dr. Warner said, punctuating that with a nod. “Still, I recommend a private room. Situated across from the nurses' station, Mrs. Borne should be well positioned for both safety and care.” His eyes returned to me. “You would be able to stay with her, if you like . . . whereas, in the I.C., that wouldn't be possible.”

I wanted to be with Mother when she came to, so I agreed to the private room.

Dr. Warner nodded again. “I'll make the arrangements. Ms. Borne. Chief.”

And he was off to deal with other patients and families. How men like that held up, I would never know.

Tony took my hand. “I'm off-duty now, sweetheart. I could stick around. If you wanted a nap, I'd be there in case of any trouble.”

I shook my head. “I'll be all right—couldn't sleep now, anyway. And if whoever hit Mother comes around, I'll hit him in the head with a bedpan. Repeatedly.”

Tony ignored that and squeezed my hand. “Call me if you need me.”

“You know I will.”

In spite of my good intentions, I did fall asleep in the chair next to Mother, where she lay hooked up to various monitors, her partly hairless head bandaged.

I was having a dream where I was being chased but could not run, with some unknown figure bearing down on me. Then, before the figure could jump me, I was startled awake by someone singing, “
Praise the Lord and Pass the Ammunition.
”

I jumped out of my chair. Sun was streaming in the windows—morning already. I went to her bedside.

“You're awake! You've come out of it.”

She turned her bandaged head to look at me curiously. “But of course. Do you suppose I sing in my sleep?”

I leaned over her. Despite her half-scalped head, she looked normal. Using that term loosely.

I asked, “Do you know who I am?

She squinted. “You
do
look familiar.”

I put her glasses on her, but she still didn't seem to know me.

I asked, “Do you know who
you
are?”

“Haven't the foggiest.” Her expression turned serious. “How's the war going?”

I frowned. “In Afghanistan?”

“
Where?
No, no, no, I'm talking the Pacific Theater. European Theater. Double-you double-you two! By the by, where am I exactly?”

“In the hospital.”

“Well, I
know
that! But
what
hospital?
Where?
Paris, is it?”