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Authors: Barbara Allan

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BOOK: Antiques Swap
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He placed a porcelain floral teapot on the counter.
Mother picked it up. “Yes, this
is
lovely,” she said, studying the pot. “But Dan, dear, besides having no lid, I'm afraid there's no value . . . you see, it's cracked. A hairline, but a crack.”
The man leaned forward. “Oh . . . I didn't
notice
that.”
That I could understand, with those glasses.
“You know,” I interjected, “even as is, it would be perfect for holding pens here on the counter . . . don't you think, Mother?”
“Why, uh . . . yes, yes, dear, I agree. Just what we were looking for, now that you mention it.”
“Would you take four dollars for it?” I asked Dan.
His raisin eyes grew grape-size. “Four dollars!”
“All right, five.”
“Huh? Oh, yes! Absolutely!”
And I fished in the change drawer and withdrew a fin, as we detectives call a five-spot.
As a beaming Dumpster Dan departed, Mother turned to me. “That was a good deed, dear.”
“Hmmm. I hope we didn't just set a precedent with Dan that we'll come to regret.”
Mother smiled. “Well, you know what they say . . . no good deed goes unpunished!”
I gathered the counter pens and put them in the teapot, which was so shallow that they all fell out. Punishment had come in a hurry.
At five, we closed up the shop, turning on the alarm; then Mother, Sushi, and I got into the Caddy at the curb, and soon were driving beneath the iron archway of Xanadu—me at the wheel, not Mother. Or Sushi.
“Now, let
me
do the negotiating, dear,” Mother said.
To which I agreed: she was the consummate horse trader. No ancient Arab merchant in a bazaar stall was shrewder.
I stopped the Caddy in front of the opened garage, and we exited the car, me holding Sushi. I hoped bringing the little devil along with me would be all right with Vanessa. After all, with doggy, there's always a chance of doody.
Next to the white minivan was a pile of cardboard boxes and packing materials that Vanessa had gathered since my earlier visit.
We went through the door leading into the man cave, where the beer signs had been gathered on the large round oak table.
Mother, examining them, said excitedly, “These are even
better
than your photos, dear! Not to belittle your photographic skills.”
“I'll see if I can find Vanessa.”
The door to Party Central was open, but she wasn't in there, and I didn't feel I should take the elevator up and wander around, so I returned to Mother.
“I'm sure she'll be back soon,” I said, and put Sushi down, trusting she'd stay out of trouble.
But the little mutt immediately disappeared behind the couch.
I went to fetch her, and said, “Oh!”
Mother asked, “Oh what, dear?”
“She's . . . she's already here . . .”
Vanessa, on her back, her beautiful dark hair caked with blood, stared at the ceiling with those violet eyes wide, yet seeing nothing.
 
 
A Trash ‘n' Treasures Tip
 
When attending a swap meet, arrive early if you want a good parking place. One enterprising person I know used to park her car in a choice spot the day
before
and use a friend to take her home then back again. A word of warning: last year when I tried that, I got towed.
Chapter Three
Beer Card
(The seven of diamonds.)
 
 
 
W
hile Mother used her cell phone to call the police, I went outside with Sushi to await their arrival, knowing full well that Vivian Borne would use the time to examine the body and crime scene.
I felt particularly shaken—not because I had any emotional feelings toward Vanessa, as I barely knew the woman.
But I had just been with her
. And she had been so friendly, and open, and . . . alive. It was an upsetting reminder of just how quickly a life could be snuffed out.
When, after only a few minutes, a siren-blaring squad car pulled into the drive, I was relieved to see Tony behind the wheel. That relief was undermined when I realized the officer beside him was Mia Cordona, with whom I'd had a rocky relationship of late.
Mia and I had been close childhood friends, but drifted apart over the years. I always sensed that Mia was disappointed in the direction my life had taken—or maybe that was indirection. And she was probably justified in feeling that way.
Tony reached me first, and that he had to hold back touching my arm or shoulder was apparent. I still wasn't used to seeing this former chief in a patrolman's uniform.
He said, “You're all right?”
“Much as can be expected. I was just
with
her. . . .”
“That's a tough one.” He glanced around. “Where's Vivian?”
“Inside.” I pointed to the door toward the rear of the garage. “The body's in Wes Sinclair's, uh, you know . . . man cave.”
Mia—dark-haired and attractive, her uniform not entirely concealing her curves—said, “That mother of yours better not've disturbed the crime scene.”
I shrugged. I suppose I could have been offended, but she had a point. And Mia was understandably even less enamored of Mother than of me. After all, Mother had once, however unintentionally, blown an undercover operation of hers.
“Go on, Mia,” Tony said. “I'll be there in a moment.”
As she disappeared into the garage, I said, “Tony, someone should find Wes. Vanessa told me earlier he was at his office.”
Another nod. He seemed to be working hard at being all business. “I'll send a patrol car over there with the news. Nasty way to hear, but beats a phone call. You gonna be all right here?”
“Sure.”
Then he headed inside, too.
The paramedic truck arrived, its siren summoning any remaining neighbors out onto their porches to rubberneck and gawk. Human nature sometimes isn't my favorite thing. That was enough to send me retreating farther into the garage, where I confiscated two folding chairs for me and Mother, since she'd be ejected from the crime scene any moment now.
The door to the man cave opened and Mia shoved Mother forward, a little harder than I'd have liked, with a “And
stay
out!”
“
Well!
” Mother intoned, in her best Jack Benny huff. (Younger readers who don't know the name are free to google.) “I was
only
trying to help. How many murders have
you
solved, young lady?”
As two paramedics hurried past Mother toward Mia, still poised in the doorway, Mia said, “This time your help won't be needed!”
The paramedics froze, misunderstanding, and Mia shook her head, muttering, “Not you, sorry,” and gestured for them to enter.
A disgruntled Mother strode over to me, gathering the shreds of her dignity about her like a tattered cloak. I was seated holding Sushi, and the spurned sleuth plopped into the chair next to me. “Those Keystone Kops will only contaminate the crime scene.”
I said, “Mother, Tony's in charge. It'll be fine. It'll be very professional. We really
aren't
needed.”
Mother responded to this with eye-rolling skepticism.
A second police car arrived, bringing a two-man forensics team, and Mother rose and pointed the way like Babe Ruth gesturing to the centerfield fence.
After they, too, had disappeared into the man cave with their equipment, Mother said, “She was still warm, dear. No rigor mortis. Couldn't have been dead more than a few hours.” Brightening, she went on: “You may have been the last one to see her alive! Apart from the killer, that is.”
“That's what worries me.”
And I told her about the altercation at the swap meet, which could make me suspect numero uno.
“Dear,” she said, with a dismissive wave, “I think it likely that a woman of Mrs. Sinclair's social standing had many others in her life with far more valid reasons to kill her than you. Yours was just the freshest.”
“Oh, I'm
so
relieved,” I said with a smirk. “But what do you mean by—”
I was interrupted by the squeal of a silver Jaguar pulling into the drive, weaving around the emergency vehicles as if they were cones in an obstacle course, finally coming to an abrupt, sod-tearing stop in the lawn.
Wes jumped out and ran toward the open garage. When he saw me, his wild eyes had an accusatory look.
Good Lord! Did
he
think
I
had killed Vanessa?
Stunned, I shook my head, and his expression softened into a putty mask.
“In there,” I said, pointing.
He nodded, drew in a breath, then hurried in through the garage.
The coroner arrived, the caboose on this train, and Mother called out cheerfully.
“Well, hello there, Hector!”
The roly-poly, bald, bespectacled man winced, nearly dropping his black bag.
“Ah . . . hello, Vivian,” he mumbled. Sighed. “Where is the victim?”
This time a beaming Mother pointed the way.
After he'd vanished within, Mother tsk-tsked. “Poor man is rounder than ever. Been dating the Hamilton widow, who's clearly been plying him with home cooking. Mark my words, some day that coroner's going to be his own best customer.”
I turned to look at her. “Would it kill you to be a little more respectful?”
She raised her eyebrows. “Phrasing, dear. Anyway, don't blame me, blame Mrs. Hamilton.”
“I'm not talking about being respectful to our coroner. His weight problem is his own . . . problem. I'm talking about a woman being killed.”
“Dear, I understand the sentiment, but it's misplaced. Respect won't do Vanessa Sinclair any good, but catching her killer will. Well, actually, it won't, since she is, after all, dead. But her family and friends would appreciate seeing the perpetrator brought to justice, I'm sure.”
Mother's phlegmatic reaction at a crime scene was not uncommon; on some level, I suppose it's a protective mechanism, because she's not really a cold person. But she does have a cold hard streak of Danish pragmatism.
Tony was coming toward us.
“Brian Lawson wants to see you down at the station,” he said, lifting his cell phone.
Mother, who always relished the opportunity for a command performance with the interim chief, said, “We'd be most happy to comply.”
“
Just
Brandy,” Tony said, stone-faced.
“Well,
I
found Vanessa as much as my daughter did,” a miffed Mother retorted. “It was a two-person catch!”
“Just Brandy . . . for now.” Tony looked down at me. “That is, if you're up to it. Are you?”
“Not really,” I sighed. “Couldn't it wait until tomorrow?” I was upset and tired—it had already been a long, trying, upsetting day.
Mother turned toward me. “Dear . . . as my associate in certain endeavors, you know very well the need for witnesses to report while the facts are fresh. Better to get it over with.”
Tony touched my shoulder, breaking protocol. “Look, I'll tell Lawson you'll be at the station in an hour. Go home first. Get yourself together. Maybe have something to eat.”
I nodded. “Sounds like a plan. Will you be at the interview?”
He shook his head. “I'll be tied up here for a while.” He squeezed my shoulder before letting go. “You'll be fine. It's not like you're new to this kind of thing.”
An unspoken
unfortunately
hung in the air.
I nodded numbly.
As Tony returned to the crime scene, Mother and I, Sushi in my arms, returned to the Caddy. After doing some fancy maneuvering around the various vehicles, I managed to get the big black boat out into the street.
On the few minutes of our drive home, Mother—Sushi on her lap now—gave me her crime-scene analysis. I did not protest—I'd been involved in enough of these incidents with Mother to know that (a) there was no stopping her, and (b) my own curiosity would get the better of me.
“She'd been hit on the head, dear,” she said, as if reporting rain out a window. “Must have been quite a blow to produce all that blood. But I didn't see the weapon, so the killer must have taken it with him—or her.”
“It's a big house. You only had a look at the man cave.”
“Yes, but with the crime scene so near that open garage, it's more than likely he or she came in and went out that way. Now, I haven't searched the yard, but . . .”
“Maybe that's a job for the police.”
I could feel Mother's indignant eyes upon me. At least she didn't say, “Perish the thought!”
What she did say was: “Very well, but the more you know before your interview at HQ, the better prepared you'll be to avoid any clever trap.”
“Brian wouldn't do that to me.”
“Wouldn't he?”
We had arrived home, an old-fashioned two-story white house with a wraparound front porch and stand-alone garage.
Mother was saying, “Perhaps it would be wise to call Wayne and have him by your side.”
Mr. Ekhardt, our longtime lawyer, had himself been around a very long time. Nearly ninety, the semiretired criminal lawyer—who famously got a woman off for self-defense after shooting her philandering husband in the back five times—still hung on to a few clients like us. He'd been Mother's attorney long before I set foot on the planet.
I worked the key in the front door. “Mr. Ekhardt's probably already in bed.”
I held the door open for Mother, while a lagging-behind Sushi was sniffing the lawn, checking for signs of canine trespassers. Satisfied her domain had not been befouled—or was that disappointed?—she trotted up the porch steps and inside.
I loved the smell of our house, which always seemed to fade a few seconds after entering; it wasn't pleasant or unpleasant . . . just the scent of
home.
Mother, setting her purse on the Victorian table by the foyer, said, “Dear, why don't you have a little lie-down. I'll feed Sushi and give her her insulin injection. You can have a little something to eat after.”
I said I couldn't possibly eat or sleep, though a hot bubble bath might help. Then I trudged upstairs.
Sometimes when I was little, particularly after I'd been bad, Mother would lock herself in the bathroom for a long soak, and I would hear her cry out, “Calgon, take me away!” Just like in the old TV commercials. When I'd come back to live here after my divorce, I went looking for the bubble bath—turns out they still make it. So I tried the stuff. Relaxing, all right, but it never took me far
enough
away.
Half an hour later, feeling better if not exactly refreshed, I returned downstairs wearing a fresh pair of DKNY jeans and a floral silk Equipment blouse I'd snagged 75 percent off at Nordstrom Rack, my damp hair pulled back in a low ponytail.
Mother was in the kitchen, standing at the stove, stirring a pan, the aroma of Great Grandma Osher's Danish pea soup wafting toward me. Suddenly I felt like I could eat something.
About our kitchen—everything in it (except for the stove, fridge, and dishwasher) is 1950s vintage, purchased at garage sales and flea markets. Or almost everything. After Mother got shocked by an old waffle iron (“Yipe!”), we gave up the notion of being 100 percent authentic when it comes to small electrical appliances.
Mother pushed the step stool with its red vinyl seat over to the counter, and pulled out a recessed cutting board to use as a small table—just as she had done for little Brandy, who hadn't wanted to eat at the big table. Then she poured the steaming hearty soup into a green jadeite Fire-King bowl.
 
 
GULE AERTER
(Yellow Pea Soup)
 
2 cups yellow split peas
1 quart chicken stock
1 pound chopped Canadian bacon
2 stalks chopped celery
3 chopped leeks
3 chopped carrots
3 chopped medium potatoes
1 chopped large onion
1 pound chopped Vienna sausages
salt and pepper to taste
 
Combine all ingredients in a large pot and simmer one hour.
Serves 4 hardy Danish men, or 6 dainty Danish women.
While Mother left me alone to slurp my soup with a red Bakelite-handled spoon, Sushi stood watch below, hoping for a bite of sausage (and, yes, her vigilance was rewarded).
Finished, I put the empty bowl in the sink and went to join Mother in the living room, where she was seated on our particularly uncomfortable Queen Anne needlepoint couch.
“Dear, I've put together some things for you to take to the interrogation—I mean,
interview.
”
“Like what?”
She gestured to the tote bag at her feet. “Everything you'll need—a cushion for the hard chair, tissues, a sweater . . . they keep it so cold in there . . . and a thermos of coffee, because theirs is undrinkable swill. And of course, my secret recorder necklace to record what
they're
recording.”
BOOK: Antiques Swap
6.28Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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