Antiques Swap (3 page)

After smiling a good-bye to Jena, I made my escape. Mother never missed me. Anyway, there was a purchase I wanted to make. It wasn't for the shop, but my stomach.

I made a beeline back to the fried butter stand.

Yes, I knew it wasn't good for me. That it was impossible to look pretty or dignified or to maintain any other respectable state of human appearance while eating a fried stick of butter.

Which is why I retreated with my treat behind the stand, to an old oak tree, where I sat, Indian-style, with plenty of napkins in my lap.

I was about to bite into the hot, gooey confection, when another carnival-food addict—also seeking cover—rounded the tree.

Caught yellow-handed, we both laughed.

“What would your wife say?” I asked.

“What would the stockholders say?” Wes Sinclair responded. He wore a pale yellow polo shirt, tan Bermuda shorts, and expensive slip-on shoes, sans socks.

I laughed again (more of a snort). “I can practically hear the market price dropping on your company.”

He settled next to me in the grass, a literal wealth of Serenity money and history right next to me, eating fried butter.

Wesley Sinclair III was a fourth generation blueblood, or anyway his was as blue as blood got in Serenity, Iowa. His great granddaddy had founded the corn processing plant south of town, which recently became a Fortune 500 company (493, but who's counting?) under Wesley's savvy leadership, the thirty-two year old having taken over as CEO after his father's death.

Wes and I were the same age, and had dated a few times at community college after his partying too much got him flunked out freshman year at Columbia University. He came to his senses after his sophomore year and went back to Columbia, graduating with honors.

With that easy manner and a great sense of humor, and with his reddish-brown hair, boyish face, and well-toned body, Wes was a guy I could have easily fallen for. But back then, he had a self-destructive recklessness that made me nervous, the only part of him that said “rich kid”—that he was somebody untouchable from harm. Besides, I never would have been accepted by his (obviously) socially prominent parents.

He was saying, “Haven't seen you around much, since you got back in town.”

“That's because you and Vanessa don't eat at McDonald's and shop at Walmart.”

Vanessa was the sorority beauty he'd met at Columbia and married upon graduation.

“Sometimes we do,” Wes said with a grin. “Vannie and I don't
always
eat at the club, you know.” He meant the country club, where they didn't serve fried butter, which was maybe why he bit so greedily into his, squirting himself and me with the melted liquid.

“Hey!” I said, laughing but a little irritated. “This was a spotless shirt.”

“
Not anymore,
” he said in an Inspector Clouseau accent. We'd gone to a couple of those movies together, back in the day.

Trying not to laugh, I slugged him in the arm.

Rubbing the spot, pretending it hurt, he said, “So send me the dry-cleaning bill.”

“Don't think I won't. Some of us aren't independently wealthy.”

“Low blow. Aren't you making any money from those books of yours?”

“Enough to afford a stick of fried butter.”

We ate for a moment in silence. Eating fried butter takes concentration.

Then, Wes, wiping his glistening chin, said, “What's this I hear about you dating Tony Cassato, now that he's back in town?”

“We'd just started dating before he suddenly left,” I said with a shrug. “We're kind of picking up the pieces.”

I didn't care to add anything more—early days for Tony and me, after our time apart.

Wes was saying, “Well, that's great. That's fine. Tony's a good man.”

“Yes he is.”

“Serenity is lucky to have him back on the force, even if he's no longer chief of police. Is it true he was in Witness Protection for a while?”

I nodded.

“Rumor is he testified against some mobsters in New Jersey, where he's from,” he said, watching me carefully. “And there's a really crazy rumor that your mother had something to do with resolving his differences with . . . I mean, it's nutty, but . . . some godfather back there? I mean, come on—that's crazy, right?”

“Sure is.” See
Antiques Con.

“So . . .” Wes gave me a sly sideways smile. “. . . Will his presence cut down on the murders you and your mother have been getting involved in?
Solving?
I read the
Sentinel.
”

I gave him an embarrassed smile. “Honestly, it's not our fault. It's ridiculous, isn't it? I mean, what are the odds that a town our size has had so many, uh . . .”

“Murders? Pretty outrageous.”

“So it's gotta end some time, right?”

He grinned. “If not, you should contact Guinness.”

We fell silent for a few moments. Maybe we were both thinking about how our lives might have been different if our casual dating in community college days had become serious. Of course, I wouldn't change anything, not for all the tea in China or Wes Sinclair's money. My marriage had gone awry, but my ex and I had a great son, Jake, who means everything to me.

Maybe Wes had gone through similar calculations, because he sighed and said, “Well, I should go find Vanessa.”

“And I need to locate Mother.”

“Probably shouldn't have seconds on fried butter.”

“Probably not. Unless you've got a defibrillator handy.”

He chuckled and stood, offering me a hand, which I took. But my legs had gone numb and tingly from their crossed position, and as I rose I fell against him, and he grabbed me, and I grabbed him, both of us laughing, and then a woman asked, “Having fun?”

A woman named Vanessa Sinclair.

The dark-haired beauty stood with hands on hips, wearing a pink floral sundress more befitting an afternoon wedding than down-home swap meet.

Having regained my balance, I said, “Oh, hello. We were just—”

“I have
eyes,
” she snapped, her anger shimmering like heat off asphalt.

Wes spread his hands. “Honey, you remember Brandy. We're old friends from community college.”

“Hey,” I said, wiping butter off my hands with a paper napkin, “this is innocent.”

“I'll just bet it is,” she said with a sneer, distorting her pretty features. She was talking to me, but looking at Wes.

I took a step forward and said, “Honestly, Vanessa, I lost my balance and fell—”

“Into my husband's arms!”

I shut my trap.

Vanessa turned on her husband. “Isn't it enough that I joined your stupid
bridge
club? How would you like me to
quit?
”

That was a strange threat—is that where an angry wife drew the battle line? Over a card game?

She poked his chest with a French-manicured finger. “This is the
last time
you embarrass me in public, Wesley Sinclair the
Third
. Do it again, and I
promise
you, you'll regret it!”

And Vanessa wheeled in her jewel-encrusted sandals, and strode off.

Wes, chagrined, ashen, turned to me. “I'm . . . I'm so sorry, Brandy. You didn't deserve that.”

“Neither did you.” I looked over his shoulder at the small crowd that had gathered. “
All over, folks!
Nothin' more to see here.”

And the gawkers dispersed, exchanging frowns and muttering comments.

“Thank you for standing up for me,” Wes said.

“For us,” I said, and shrugged. “Anyway, so she doesn't want to be in your bridge club. So what? Mother tried to teach me that game, but it was way too hard.”

He sighed. “It's not that. Vanessa
enjoys
the club. It's a social thing.”

Status, he meant. Now maybe I understood the threat.

“That's Vanessa all over,” he said, shaking his head. “Funny thing is, by the time we get home, she'll have forgotten all about this.”

I doubted that; the woman seemed pretty po'd.

He lowered his voice. “She's under a lot of stress lately. You'll have to forgive her.”

“Pretty stressful existence, huh? Being rich and beautiful.” My response came out cattier than I meant it to.

“No, it's . . .” We were still standing under that tree, alone at the busy swap meet. Very softly, he said, “Brandy, we're trying to start a family, and it's . . . tough going.”

“Oh. I'm sorry. It's none of my business. Had no idea.”

I don't know why I said that. Everyone in town knew, thanks to certain big-mouth gossips—one of whom lived in the same house as me.

He went on, very quietly, almost inaudible. “She's been taking a lot of hormone pills, and, well, let's just say . . . just about
anything
sets her off.”

I was waving both hands at him, like I was guiding somebody backing up a car to stop. “Really, Wes. You don't have to explain. . . .”

“But you
deserve
an explanation.” He took my hand. “We've been friends a long time, Brandy, and that means a lot to me.”

“
Really?
” It just came out. I mean, I already had a boyfriend. But not a boyfriend who was maybe the richest man in town.

“If it weren't for you, I . . . I wouldn't have gone back to Columbia.”

I smirked. “You saw yourself stuck here in Serenity, with some girl from the community college, you mean.”

“Don't be silly. Don't you remember? It was
you
who told me to get my act together.” He took my hand and squeezed it. “That night you read me the riot act? Remember?”

I frowned. “Uh . . . over shots at the Brew?”

He nodded.

“I kinda remember. Sorta kinda. Maybe.”

Suddenly embarrassed, Wes released my hand. “Well, I better go find Vanessa.”

“Good luck,” I said.

After he'd gone, I sat back down in the grass, mulling the unpleasant scene his wife had made.

Was there something different I could have done? Maybe reached out for that tree, caught myself, and not tumble into Wes's arms? I hadn't done that on purpose.

Had I?

Either way, I figured Vanessa would have been furious; just seeing us together would have been enough.

And I had another strong feeling—that her promise to Wes that “he would regret it,” sounded more like a threat.

Or maybe it
was
a promise....

 

 

 

At a swap meet, you can find everything and anything under the summer sun—from antiques to auto parts, household cleaners to clothing, darning needles to diapers. One vendor was doing brisk business selling discounted male enhancement drugs before the swap meet association shut him down, making him dysfunctional.

Chapter Two

Kiss of Death

 

 

 

I
wandered the swap meet vendors looking for Mother, and finally found her in a stall buying a book—the
Better Homes and Gardens Blender Cook Book
, its front copy promising “Tasty blender recipes for every course.” Circa early 1970s, I guessed, judging by the greenish-tinged cover photos of unappetizing dishes. Sickening! Hilarious!

Imagine—an entire meal made easy in that wonderful glass gizmo with sharp blades, helping propel a lucky lady libber out of the confines of her kitchen and into a meaningful (if low-paying) career. I hoped Mother was planning on selling the cookbook at the shop, as opposed to trying the recipes out on me.

Note to self: hide the blender
.

Mother, laden with plastic-bagged finds, asked, “Dear, where have you been off to?”

“Can I have an antacid?”

“
May
I have an antacid, and I gave the last one to Phillip. Are you all right, child? Your face looks as green as this book cover.”

“Don't feel so good.” And it wasn't just that cookbook cover.

Her concerned expression turned accusatory. “Don't tell me . . . you ate that disgusting
fried butter,
didn't you? For shame.”

“Okay, I won't tell you.”

She sighed. “Come along, dear. It's time we got back to the shop, anyway. Don't want to leave G.I. Joe in charge for too long. Besides, my bunions are killing me.”

Mother also had corns and tarsal tunnel syndrome.

I relieved her of some of the bags, and we made our way slowly through the crowd toward the car-show area, to retrieve our Caddy.

Our San Diego day had disappeared, replaced by we-have-a-problem Houston: hot and humid. Which only added to my butter-churning discomfort. And at the next plastic-lined trash receptacle, I made an undignified deposit, by way of saying adieu to the fried confection.

“I wonder, dear,” Mother said, with a minimum of
I told you so
in her tone, “if you'll remember this unfortunate aftermath the next time we encounter a fried butter stand?”

Having cleared the immediate vicinity of shoppers, I straightened in embarrassed relief. “I wonder, too,” I admitted.

The car show was winding down, the crowd having thinned due to the sudden heat. But one hardy person was hovering around our convertible, a middle-aged man with obviously dyed brown hair, his shirt and jeans too tight, as he tried with scant success to hold on to his youth.

“This baby yours?” he asked.

“Yes, indeedy,” Mother said, smiling proudly. “Isn't she a beaut?”

“Certainly is. Classic lines. Would you consider an offer?”

Mother and I answered at the same time: “Yes!” (me), “No!” (her).

“Well, I'm having trouble sorting through those mixed signals,” he said. “Which is it, girls?”

“No,” Mother said emphatically.

I touched her arm. “Now, wait a second—let's at least hear what the gentleman is offering.”

“Well,” Mother replied, doubtfully, “I imagine that couldn't hurt. . . .”

He gave the car a careful look, walking around it, head cocked this way and that, rubbing his chin, then finally returned to say, “Five thousand.”

“Pish-posh!” Mother pish-poshed. “She's worth
three
times that, anyway!”

The man shrugged, reached into a pants pocket and withdrew a business card, then handed it to Mother.

“Offer stands, should you change your mind . . . unless I find a comparable one elsewhere, that is.... Ladies.”

And with a little salute, he walked away.

I turned to Mother. “You
know
we can't keep the car. Between high insurance and terrible mileage, it's costing us a small fortune.”

She frowned. “Dear, I don't entirely disagree. But I'm not going to give it away—
especially
to a complete stranger. If I ever sell, I have to
know
that person will love her as much as I do.”

“We are talking about a
car,
right? He wasn't offering to take me off your hands.”

Mother pursed her lips. “It's not just
any
car . . . but a gift from . . .” She lowered her voice. “. . . a very special admirer.”

A very special admirer who happened to be the semiretired godfather of New Jersey, in return for a favor she'd done him. Yes,
that
kind of godfather (
Antiques Con
).

I sighed. “All right, Mother. I give up . . . for now. But that buggy burns gas like, like . . .”

“Like someone who eats fried butter?”

I knew better than to try topping that one.

We began piling the packages in back, with me getting behind the wheel to drive us back to the shop . . .

. . . where a police car was parked out front.

“Oh, dear,” Mother said, fingertips to her lips. “We really shouldn't have dawdled. Appears Joe has gotten himself in a fix.”

How could he have managed that? We hadn't been gone long, and business would be slow the afternoon of the swap meet....

I parked behind the squad car, hopped out, and hurried up the sidewalk and into the house, half-expecting to find Joe handcuffed by the police, summoned by some hysterical customer who had been ordered to attention or about-face or something.

But my friend stood casually behind the cash register, trading military lingo with a uniformed police officer on the other side of the counter.

Patrolman Tony Cassato was saying, “Heard he'll be retiring to Camp Living Room, before long.”

In his midforties, Tony was barrel-chested, with a square jaw, bulbous nose, and steely eyes, handsome in a man's man kind of way. Also a woman's man kind of way, if I'm the woman.

“A two-digit midget,” Joe said with a nod.

At my sudden, wild-eyed entrance, both men looked at me quizzically.

Straightening, Tony asked, “Anything wrong, Brandy?”

Frozen in the doorway, I replied, “That's what I'd like to know.”

Mother, on my heels, bumped into me.

“Everything . . . all . . .
right
?” she asked, out of breath.

Tony gestured with a big paw. “Everything's fine. I just stopped by to ask how the filming went.”

Brightening, Mother said, “The pilot is wrapped, as we say in the biz. Now all we can do is hurry up and wait.”

Joe said, “That's what they say in
my
biz.”

I bent down and picked up Sushi, who had come trotting out from her bed behind the counter.

Joe, gathering his duffel bag, said, “Well, guess I'll be bookin' it. You Bornes need backup again, just call.”

“Just a moment, Joseph,” Mother said.

While she raided the till to pay our military-minded helper, Tony took my elbow and guided me into the parlor, which was vacant of customers at the moment.

“How about dinner?” he asked, gazing down easily from his six-foot frame. “The Sombrero, maybe?”

They had the
best
guacamole. “Good choice,” I said, scratching the head of the dog in my arms. “When's your shift over?”

“Seven. Pick you up at home?”

I nodded. “Any word on your chief of police application?”

After Tony's sudden departure last year, Brian Lawson had been installed as interim chief, which gave the younger man the inside track. And to complicate matters, Brian was my former boyfriend. To further complicate them, Tony (as you may recall) was my current one.

Tony shook his head. “Won't know until the end of the month.”

“How
are
you and the interim chief getting along?”

Tony shrugged. “We try to keep out of each other's way. We're professionals.”

“But the men are used to taking orders from you.”

Another shrug. “It can be awkward . . . but not really a problem. I do my best to stay out of the middle.”

Sushi, bored with the scratching, squirmed out of my arms, then trotted out of the parlor, passing Mother who was entering.

“Dear,” she said, “I hate to break up your little tête-à-tête . . . but we do have boxes to unpack.”

Tony touched my arm, whispered, “See you later.”

“Can't wait.”

I walked him to the door, almost traded kisses but settled on knowing smiles instead. Then Tony was gone and I was joining Mother by the counter where she was using a box cutter to open the considerably larger of two cartons.

“What's in those?” I asked.

“Swag, dear.”

“Like in curtains?” Our shop windows already had drapes.

“Not
that
kind of swag! These are T-shirts to sell when our show goes on the air.”

She held one up, displaying the front:
I
VIVIAN
, and on the back
ANTIQUES SLEUTHS
.

“Mother,” I said, wide-eyed, “what if the show
doesn't
go on the air? It's just a pilot! Then we're stuck with a bunch of shirts.”

She put hands on hips and raised her chin. “Dear, that's just the kind of negative attitude that keeps you from achieving your true potential.”

My response was a witty grunt. I nodded to the smaller box. “And what's in there? Vivian and Brandy bobble-heads?”

The slightly magnified eyes behind the lenses grew even larger. “No, but that
is
a fine idea!
Now
you're thinking! Uh, that smaller box contains
your
T-shirts.”

I lifted an eyebrow. “Obviously you're assuming I'll sell less shirts than you.”

“I'm just being realistic, dear. Television is about personalities! And I
have
one.”

I reared back as if just hit by a cream pie.

Before I could recover, the phone rang on the counter. I answered it, forcing my voice into pleasantness. “Trash ‘n' Treasures . . .”

“Brandy? This is Vanessa.”

Oh, crap!
Vanessa as in Mrs. Wesley Sinclair III.

In a rush of words, I said, “Vanessa, I want to apologize again for—”

“Brandy, I'm calling
you
to ask if you'll forgive
me
for my rude behavior today.”

Wait, what?

She went on, “I was
way
out of line. Wes explained the whole thing to me.” She paused. “I was wondering if you could come over to our house. . . .”

I didn't have the time or the wardrobe for that. “Vanessa, really, you don't need to apologize in person or anything . . .”

“No, no, that's not it. I have some collectibles that you might be interested in for your shop. You could buy them or I could even consign them. Just some things that need to go.”

“What are they?”

“Old beer signs, mostly—some going back to the nineteen-fifties. I understand a few of these are really quite rare.”

“Well, yes, I am interested. We could
use
some man-type stuff in the shop.”

“Great! Is there any chance you could come over now? You know where we live?”

“Oh, sure, of course.” The renovation of the Sinclair homestead had been a topic of town gossip for years.

“See you soon,” Vanessa said cheerfully, ending the call.

Mother, her interest piqued by hearing my end of the conversation, sidled over like a cat sensing a mouse. “Now whatever was that about?”

“Just a minor misunderstanding,” I said. And, sidestepping the swap meet incident, I said, “Vanessa Sinclair wants to sell us some vintage beer signs.”

“Whoa!” Mother's eyebrows climbed above her large glasses, threatening her hairline. “
Voon
-der-bar! Rich folks have high-end trinkets! I'll get my purse.”

I held up a
stop
hand. “Aren't you forgetting that someone needs to watch the store? Joe is off on maneuvers.”

Mother frowned. “Oh, horse doodle! I've always wanted to see the interior of that house.”

The Sinclair place was one of the few interesting homes in town she hadn't managed to invade. But so far, she hadn't been able to finagle her way inside.

Her usual ploy was to ring the doorbell collecting for some charity, pretending to feel faint before asking to come in for a glass of water. But either the Sinclairs had never been at home for her road-show production, or perhaps they had seen who was loitering on their doorstep.