Antiques Swap (16 page)

“There's really only one way to get at the truth here.”

I made her ask.

And then I answered: “I'll just have to infiltrate the Eight of Clubs. They're short a member, after all.”

 

The following evening, I had dinner with Tony at the Serenity Country Club. The two-story cream brick-and-stone structure with wide pillared portico was located on the outskirts of town, on a prime patch of real estate almost certainly brokered by Travis Thompson.

Tony didn't belong to the club—even when he was chief, his police salary couldn't cut that—but Mother and I had a limited membership not including golf (neither of us knew how to play anyway). But it gave bridge-playing privileges to Mother, allowing her access to the local hoity-toities, a key source of gossip (or “intel” as she called it). Me, I could make use of the pool, a real blessing on hot summer days (and a challenge to keep my figure in swimsuit shape). Both of us could dine at the club's restaurant, which served the only food in town that you could classify as “cuisine.”

Tonight was prime rib, and the expansive linen-and-fine-china dining room was at capacity. I was lucky to have landed a last-minute reservation, since just about anybody who was anybody in our little burg was present: bankers and businesspeople, politicians and physicians, many with their families.

As Tony and I were escorted to our table, I noticed the Eight of Clubs (now seven) seated at their usual round table by the window overlooking the Olympic-size swimming pool. Emily, Megan, and Tiffany were dressed to the nines, with Travis, Brent, Sean, and Wes in sharp, tailored attire. Nothing the group wore could be purchased in Serenity.

Maybe our apparel paled in comparison, but Tony and I didn't look too shabby—he was in a nice navy Men's Warehouse suit with light blue shirt and yellow tie, and I had on a Kate Spade black cocktail dress with jeweled accents around the neck, a pair of her pink patent-leather pumps, carrying a clutch purse that looked like a transistor radio—all bought at a nearby outlet center for forty percent off, and another thirty percent off because it had been Presidents' Day.

Tony ordered the prime rib and I opted for the filet of sole—not being much of a red meat eater.

And my date was not much of a talker, tonight certainly no exception.

“Don't care for it?” I finally asked, after watching Tony pushing the rare beef around his plate.

“It's fine. Just not very hungry.”

Half of my delicious fish was gone already.

“Brandy.” He paused, choosing his words. “I wish you'd rethink this . . . I know I said that I'd—”

“No. Trust me. It'll work.”

He sighed, then nodded. “All right then—go ahead.”

I raised my voice a little. “Really? Do I need your permission? Maybe I'm getting tired of you telling me what I can and can't do!”

“I wouldn't have to,” he shot back, almost booming at me, “if you had the common sense God gave a goldfish.”

My eyes flared at him. “Are you calling me . . .
stupid
?”

“No, Brandy. You're bright, all right. It's your judgment that's dim.”

I threw my napkin down. “That's all! That's plenty! Don't call me, don't text me, don't come by the house.”

“Got it,” he said coldly, and returned to his food.

I huffed at him, got no response, stood abruptly, and stalked out, feeling eyes on me all around the dining room. I went into the adjacent, more intimate bar, where I took a seat at the counter, ordering a Scotch on the rocks from the bartender.

I was on my second drink when Wes slid onto the stool beside me. He was wearing a light gray suit, black shirt open at the collar, and his cologne smelled good. Good and expensive.

“Little lovers' quarrel?” he asked, with a tiny smile.

I stirred my drink with a swizzle stick. “More than a little, I'm afraid.” I sighed. “But it's been a long time coming.”

Wes caught the attention of the bartender, gestured to my drink and said, “The same.” Then to me: “I never could quite see you two together.”

“Right now? I can't either.”

“What is he? Ten years older?”

“Twelve. Maybe I was looking for a father figure.”

“Sounds a little kinky.”

“More like needy.” I sighed. “He
knows
my mother is a handful. That I have to . . . spend a lot of time just keeping track of her. He can't seem to handle that.”

“Family is important. He should know that.”

I shrugged. “Well, I admit she gets into his business. She has this ridiculous
Murder She Wrote
hobby, which means I really have to keep on top of things with her. She's bipolar, you know.”

“I
heard
she was . . .”

“Nuts?”

“. . . eccentric.”

I laughed a little, took a sip from my tumbler, then asked, “Won't your friends miss you?”

He shrugged. “We were done with dinner. They'll be along for a nightcap . . . here they are now.”

Travis and Emily Thompson came in, followed by Brent and Megan Morgan, then Sean and Tiffany Hartman, in a brittle cloud of laughter and conversation. If there were better-looking couples in town, I hadn't seen them.

As the group congregated at the bar, Wes asked me, “You know everyone, don't you, Brandy?”

“Sure . . . hi.”

Brent Morgan, looking good in a navy pinstripe suit, came over and put a hand on my shoulder in a way that might have been appropriate if we'd known each other better. The tall, dark-haired, chiseled-featured president of Serenity Bank asked with practiced concern, “How is your mother? I heard she was in the hospital.”

“She's home now, but just very confused.”

Brent's wife Megan leaned in, frowning sympathetically. She wore a chiffon pastel floral dress, her brown hair pulled up into a French twist.

“What happened, anyway?” Megan asked. “Word around town is she was mugged!”

Brent said lightly but not flippantly, “Doesn't sound much like Serenity.”

I said, “Apparently it
was
a mugging. Everybody thinks we're rich since we made that TV pilot. We wish.”

Travis Thompson joined the group gathering around me. The real estate developer was apparently comfortable enough with his rugged looks—and station in life—to dress down a little. His navy sports jacket and tan slacks probably only cost a grand.

He asked me, also at least feigning concern, “Don't know what this town is coming to. Was anything taken?”

“Yes,” I said, nodding. “Her wallet was stolen.”

“Identity theft is the
real
worry,” Emily Thompson said, “in a sad situation like this.” She was in tight green silk slacks with a matching sleeveless blouse that complemented her loosely waved strawberry-blond hair.

Sean Hartman, compensating for his heft and lackluster looks with a killer black suit and gold Rolex, asked, “Did your mother get a look at this mugger?”

I shook my head. “She doesn't even remember getting hit on the head. She's had short-term memory loss and is
really
addled. The doctor who treated her thinks she may never remember.”

A
what a terrible thing
look passed between Sean and his wife Tiffany, but if there was any subtext, I couldn't discern it.

Tiffany, in a strapless pink dress, her white-blond long hair worn straight, remarked cryptically, “Perhaps it's a blessing. Sometimes memories can be too traumatic to handle.”

“You might be right,” I admitted.

Wes said, “You should really take her to the University Hospital, to a specialist.”

“We'll see how she does the next few days.”

“Shouldn't mess around with that, Brandy.”

Megan shivered. “Why do they keep it so damn
freezing
in here? . . . Let's have our drinks over by the fireplace.”

The group moved in that direction.

At first I wasn't sure if I was included in the invitation, but then Wes took my elbow, easing me off the stool, escorting me over to join the others in a corner of the bar where several couches and overstuffed chairs formed a semicircle in front of an unlighted gas fireplace.

The shivering Megan flipped a switch on the wall and flames sprang to life behind the glass, then joined Emily and Tiffany, who had claimed one of the couches.

Brent, Travis, and Sean took the other couch, leaving Wes and me side by side in overstuffed chairs. The otherwise boys-together/girls-together arrangement said something about this group. Maybe it was just me, but I couldn't help but feel the wives were an adjunct to these frat brothers, interchangeable parts where the husbands remained as one.

The bartender came over and took drink orders, Wes putting everything on his tab. I already felt tipsy from the Scotch—I am
not
a world-class drinker—so I ordered a diet cola.

The three women immediately settled in to a huddled conversation, making me feel the outsider. Perhaps that was why Brent leaned my way, friendly.

“Say, Brandy.” From his manner you'd think we socialized all the time. “When will you know if that TV show of yours is a go?”

“By the end of the summer, they say.”

Travis asked, “What about your mother? I have a hunch her personality has a lot to do with how that show came to be. What kind of curveball will it throw, after what's happened? I mean, if her memory's not better.”

I shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe she'll be even more entertaining.”

“How's that?” Sean asked with a half smile.

I launched into a spirited account of Mother in the hospital, how she thought she was in the USO over in France entertaining the troops with Bob and Bing. This prompted Wes to share the hour he had spent with her, in which she had regaled him with backstage stories of her experiences behind the lines with Jane Russell and the Andrews Sisters.

Between the two of us, we had everybody howling with laughter. Mother may have disparaged my acting skills, but tonight I was a hit. Thanks to a little Scotch, anyway.

Then, wanting to leave on a high note, I announced that I had to leave, having been away from Mother for too long.

“Caregiver and all that,” I said with a smile and a shrug.

Everybody gave me warm good-byes, then Wes walked me out.

At the Caddy, I was about to get in when he drew me close. I was expecting this, and had already formulated how to handle his kiss. Not too passionate, not too tepid. Just promising enough.

When we parted, he asked, “How would you like to go to a party tomorrow night?”

“What kind of party?”

Wes gave me a wink. “Let's call it a . . . swinging affair.”

“Hummm . . .” I smiled, hiding the combined glee and dread that were jumping up and down within me like naughty twin children. “Sounds interesting. But with Mother in her current state . . . could I meet you there?”

“Sure.”

He gave me the details.

In the Caddy, I dialed a familiar number on my cell.

“Well?” Tony asked.

“I'm in,” I said.

 

 

 

Most swap meet vendors start shutting down their tables midafternoon, so go early in the day. But stick around for last-minute bargains from sellers who don't want to cart their unsold wares back home. Their aching backs may put a smile on your face.

Chapter Eleven

Danger Hand

 

 

 

A
fter dinner next evening, I was seated at the Art Deco dressing table in my bedroom, putting the finishing touches on my makeup, when Mother came in and sat on the foot of the bed, leaning forward, hands folded. I could see her behind me, in the huge round mirror, gazing at me somewhat oddly.

Part of that oddness might be explained by her hair, a chin-length red bob with bangs, one of a variety of wigs a fellow thespian had dropped off after plundering the Playhouse wardrobe for means to disguise Mother's half-shaved head. With her big round glasses, she looked like an older version of Scooby-Doo's pal Velma, another amateur sleuth with a dog in her life.

“Dear,” Mother said, brow furrowed, “I simply must express my qualms about this evening. Do you have even the remotest idea exactly what kind of sybaritic bacchanal you may be attending?”

“No. I don't even know exactly what either of those two words mean. Probably not potluck dinner.”

Her eyebrows went up over the big lenses of her glasses. “Actually, you're rather
close
. . . .”

I was to meet Wes at eight o'clock at the Grand Queen Hotel on the river front, specifically on the top floor near the ballroom.

“I'll be fine,” I said. “Nothing will be behind closed doors. I'm a newbie, after all. Anyway, I assume Wes is taking me to the VIP Club.”

The VIP Club was an exclusive key-card bar on the same floor as the ballroom, frequented by the likes of Wes and other well-off Serenity citizens.

Mother said, “I can live with it, as long as you don't wind up rendering unto Caesar in the Roman Spa.”

She was referring to an ancient Rome–themed suite with a Jacuzzi that probably didn't date back quite as far as Cleopatra. A decade ago, the Grand Queen Hotel had been slated for demolition, but the wealthy publisher of the
Serenity Sentinel
stepped up to save the Victorian edifice, which got a much-needed three-million-dollar face-lift. Now people came from all around the state to stay in one of the Grand Queen's many “theme rooms,” like the aforementioned many-columned playground, a way-out moon room complete with space-capsule bed, and a King Arthur Suite with suits of armor and an even more unlikely hot tub.

(Originally there had been a Tarzan Suite with a bed in a tree, until a honeymooning couple fell out, breaking various limbs—the tree's mostly, but one each of the bride and groom's. The room has since been remodeled into a Valentine's Suite.)

Mother was asking, “So, dear—what's your plan? Your investigative agenda?”

I looked at her in the dressing table mirror; she so hated that she was not coming along. Me taking the lead was driving her batty. Battier.

I said, “I'm hoping the other members of the Eight of Clubs will be there, and, well, we'll just see how it plays out.”

“See how it plays out,” she said.

“Yes. How it plays out. Like, maybe someone will let something slip while in his or her cups.”

“That
is
a plan of sorts.”

“Thank you.”

“A plan for catastrophe. A recipe for disaster.”

“Mother. I . . . will . . . be . . .
fine
.”

She took in a sharp breath. “You must stay on top of your game. You dasn't drink too much.”

“I ‘dasn't,' huh? You know I'm not much of a drinker . . .”

“Yes, and keep that in mind! In this group, who knows what some miscreant might drop in your drink! And then, after your defilement, word will get around and everywhere you go, they'll be calling, ‘Hey there! Orgy Girl!' ”

I closed my eyes. “Mother, no one is going to slip me a roofie.”

“You don't know that!”

Drinking, date-rape drugs . . . was I back in college?

“Stop worrying,” I said. “If I get uncomfortable, I'll just book it, okay? I'm a big girl, all right? I'll have the car.”

Her sigh started at her toes. “Very well, dear. But I'd feel better if you took along my Taser.”

“Won't fit into my evening bag.”

“Mace?”

“It's a tiny purse.”

“What about using one of my surveillance gizmos?”

She got those by the dozen from spy sites on the Internet.

“For instance?” I asked.

“My voice-recorder pen.”

“What, and sit and doodle on a napkin? And hope people come around and just casually spill their guts? No.”

“The camera necklace?”

I shook my head. “Clashes with my outfit.”

She raised a finger, a gleam in her eyes. “How about my new self-sticking, motion-activated, clothes-hook hidden camera?”

“Only if you can say that three times, very very fast.”

Mother stuck her tongue out and made a
nah
sound. I had reduced her to that, and it felt pretty good.

But I also felt a little bad for her, so I pretended to be seriously considering these ridiculous suggestions, asking, “So if I take your clothes-hook camera—suppose someone actually hangs a coat on the hook, blocking it?”

“A definite drawback,” she admitted, frowning. “I
do
wish I could find a use for my hook-cam—it was terribly expensive. But now that you mention it, there are design flaws. . . .”

My makeup complete, I turned and looked directly at her. “Mother, I'll have my cell. Stop worrying.”

She frowned. She looked disturbingly cute in the red wig.

“You say your boyfriend, our esteemed ex-chief, has approved your participation in my investigation of these murders.”

“Yes. But of
my
investigation. You are on the bench, lady. Sidelined with injuries.”

“Be that as it may,” she said, brushing the air with dismissive fingers, “let me ask you—have you cleared tonight's exploratory incursion with your Tony?”

I shook my head. “No. Just isn't necessary yet. He knows I'm infiltrating, but . . .”

“Not that you have a date with Wes Sinclair.”

“No,” I admitted.

Her sigh was on a grand scale, her hands on her knees, her Velma wig shimmering under the overhead light.

“I have a suggestion,” she said.

Rut-ro.

“A suggestion that I admit pains me to make. You simply must call Tony Cassato and tell him what you intend. See what he thinks. If he clears it, I will clear it.”

I got up, smiled politely, and said, “I don't need permission from either of you. I'm a—”

“Big girl, yes.” Her expression was glum. “But a foolish one.”

 

At sunset I pulled the Caddy into the hotel's packed parking lot, the sky awash with color, a blaze of pinks and purples, as if the bold strokes of a master water-colorist.

I got out, entered the hotel via the back lobby, and took the elevator up, stepping off the eighth floor. There a sign on a metal stand greeted me, white letters on black.

WELCOME SWINGERS
!

Welcome swingers
?

What had Serenity come to? What had America, what had the
world,
come to? A swingers' convention in the ballroom of the Grand Queen Hotel—in our little burg? How had I not heard about this? Not that I would have been interested, other than to bemoan the state of affairs. So to speak.

Then I remembered. We had dropped the
Sentinel
after it gave Mother a scathing review for her version of Whoopi Goldberg's one-woman Broadway show. The theater critic (also the head sports writer and the obit guy) had found Mother's performance “wildly inappropriate.” He had a point, but it had been pretty entertaining, and for what it's worth, the African Americans in the audience laughed their heads off.

Still, I couldn't believe I was looking at a bold public announcement of a swingers' party like this. Nor could I imagine Serenity's conservative Christian mayor not putting a kibosh on this affront to those family values he was always going on about.

This thought had just crossed my mind when His Honor and his honorable missus, both beaming, stepped out of the elevator on its return trip, and walked past me arm in arm. They went cheerfully through the ballroom doors just as two of Mother's gal pals—Alice Hetzler and Cora Van Camp—emerged, faces flushed with excitement, giggling like high school girls during a sock hop.

If my mouth had been open any wider, somebody would have put a hook in it.

I felt like the lead in a
Twilight Zone
episode who, just before Rod Serling came on for a final word, realized the quiet little town he was visiting was full of vampires.

As Alice and Cora entered the ladies' room, an elderly man came out the adjacent men's, adjusting his trousers. Then I recognized him as a Romeo named Harold, the ex-army sergeant who had once asked Mother to marry him.

Spotting me frozen by the elevator, Harold came over.

“Man, what a gay old time
this
is!” he said, the forehead beneath the white crew cut beaded with sweat.

That I refused to even think about.

He was saying, “Too bad Vivian couldn't make it.”

“Well . . . she's recuperating.”

“Yeah, everybody says she got herself clobbered. Damn shame. But hey, little girl—maybe you and me could go partners.”

My mouth was open, but nothing was coming out. I wasn't even breathing.

Harold went on, “But, then, what the hey—I bet you'll be wantin' somebody
younger
to hook up with.” He gave me a wink, then hurried back to the ballroom, change in his pockets jingling.

I shivered. Was I in some alternate universe?

Wes was nowhere to be seen, but my curiosity had the best of me—time to check the wild party out for myself....

Inside the ballroom, I stood near the back wall, surveying the boisterous crowd of several hundred, mostly senior citizens but a scattering of younger and even much younger, too, many standing with drinks in hand, others seated at a dozen or so round cloth-covered tables placed on the periphery of the dance floor.

Suddenly music blared from a DJ's speakers, and couples young and old flooded the dance area to boogie to Louis Prima's “Jump, Jive an' Wail.”

Oh!

That
kind of swing party.

I laughed at myself, sensing someone coming up alongside me.

“Brandy?”

Wes, looking sharp in a black sharkskin suit, white shirt, and skinny black tie, took my hand and pulled me out onto the floor, where the jitterbug steps Mother had taught me came in handy, him twirling me every once in a while, me wishing I'd worn Mother's old poodle skirt.

A young couple next to us had come in full array—he in a zoot suit, she in '40s-style dress with shoulder pads—and they really knew how to go truckin'.

The song ended, and a slow number began.

Wes held me close, though not terribly close, and asked with a smile, “Mad at me?”

“What for?”

“Playing this little joke on you. I know you're nervous about our group, and I thought a little swingers' joke might help.”

I smiled back. “You don't want to know what I was thinking, when I saw the mayor and his wife heading in here.”

He chuckled, and held me closer, as we swayed to Cole Porter's “Night and Day” sung by Sinatra back when he was still Frankie.

Later, as the Voice's voice faded away, Wes whispered in my ear, “Let's get out of here, shall we? Leave the swinging to the old folks and the kids.”

He took my hand and led me winding through the crowd, which dispersed onto the dance floor for “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy.” Couldn't get away from Mother even when she wasn't around....

Outside the ballroom, I asked, “Where to? VIP Club? I've never actually been in there.”

“Naw, we'll do that some other time. We've booked the Executive Suite—the rest of the gang's already there.”

No doubt meaning Brent and Megan Morgan, Travis and Emily Thompson, and Sean and Tiffany Hartman.

“Great,” I said, relieved we weren't heading to the Roman Spa for a sybaritic bacchanal.

One floor down, the Executive Suite was essentially a luxurious apartment—large sunken living area, full kitchen, dining room, and two bedrooms, each with a bath. I had been here before, just once, when Senator Edward Clark, my biological father, threw a party last summer for local campaign volunteers. (I apologize for not mentioning him earlier, but he has no function in this story. Or my life as of late, for that matter.)

Wes entered using a keycard. On a table in the entryway was a glass bowl with cell phones in it. Had cell phones replaced house or car keys as the new way of picking a partner? This might not be Rome, but a sybaritic bacchanal still seemed possible....

“You don't mind, do you?” he asked, putting his cell in with the others. “They can be such a nuisance when you're trying to have a good time.”

“Ah . . . no,” I said, adding mine to the mix.

But now if I
did
need Mother, or Tony, I had no life line....

Wes led the way to the anonymously modern living room, its lighting subdued. The couples, dressed casually if expensively, were in little groups of three. Brent and Travis were talking to Tiffany over by a big window with a magnificent view of the Mississippi. Just down from them, where the window ended, Megan and Emily were chatting with Sean. Everyone had a drink in hand, and several were smoking.