Antiques Swap (6 page)

As a police interviewee of long standing, Mother was well versed in the necessary preparations for a grilling.

I waved that off. “Thanks but no thanks. I won't be there that long.”

“Don't be so sure, dear. Brian Lawson is likely to give you the third degree for dumping him.”

“I didn't dump him.”

We'd split up over my decision to be a surrogate mother.

“And anyway,” I said, “that's not why I'm being called down to the station.”

“Just the same,” Mother said, “it's better to be prepared—like a good scout!”

“That's the Boy Scouts, and anyway, I was a Brownie.”

“Don't say you weren't warned!”

I just shook my head, gathered the car keys, and went out so quickly Sushi didn't have time to do her little take-me-along dance.

The police station was located in the heart of downtown, or maybe the spleen. Anyway, it was next to the new county jail, across the street from the old courthouse. A person could get arrested, brought to trial, and remanded to the clink all within a one-block radius. Talk about efficiency!

Night was descending like a bad simile as I parked the Caddy in the station's lot, then entered the one-story redbrick building.

I strode up to Heather, the female dispatcher behind the bulletproof glass. She had reddish-brown hair and red glasses, and was Mother's latest snitch in a long line of snitches, all of whom had either been fired or transferred for revealing inside information. Heather had not benefitted from her predecessors' experiences.

Mother was a master at exploiting the weakness of any perceived stool pigeon. Some examples of her bribes include: offering a part in one of her plays; obtaining an autographed photo of a favorite movie star (which Mother signed); or, as in Heather's case, a promised appearance on our upcoming cable show, which of course wouldn't be coming up unless the pilot sold.

“Hi, Heather,” I said. “Would you tell Brian I'm here?”

“Sure, Ms. Borne. Shame about Mrs. Sinclair. . . . Where's your mother?”

Natural assumption. This was a murder case, wasn't it?

“She didn't get invited,” I said.

Heather laughed. “Bet she loved that!”

As Heather swivelled to a phone, I retreated to a corner chair next to a drooping rubber tree plant. The plant's continued existence depended on Mother and me administering much needed TLC anytime either of us cooled our heels in the station's waiting room.

But I didn't have time to do anything more than remove a few dead leaves before the steel door to the inner sanctum opened and Brian stepped out, wearing a light blue shirt and navy slacks, his chief's badge attached to his belt.

In his midthirties, Brian was boyishly handsome, with brown hair and puppy-dog brown eyes.

But those eyes looked more pit-bullish now as he summoned me with a scolding parent's crooked finger.

I followed him down the familiar beige hallway, where photos of long-ago policemen hung crookedly on the walls (Mother often paused to straighten each one), then was led into one of several small interview rooms.

Hey!
It was
freezing
in there, and the windowless room was claustrophobic, the furniture consisting of two bolted-down metal chairs with a table between.

Brian gestured for me to sit, and my bottom settled onto a chair that was harder than a cement slab.

I asked for some, and Brian brought me a Styrofoam cup of black liquid with an oil-slick surface.
Yuck!
Why hadn't I taken that tote?

Brian settled into the chair opposite me, placed a small recorder on the table, and turned it on. “Interview with Brandy Borne,” he said, followed by the date and time. Then: “Why were you at the Sinclair residence this afternoon?”

“Vanessa called the shop wanting to sell some beer signs.”

“Uh-huh. Maybe you should start with the fight you had with her at the swap meet.”

I shifted in the uncomfortable chair. “It wasn't a fight. Just a brief verbal scuffle. A misunderstanding.”

“That right.”

“That's right. She saw me talking to Wes, and jumped to the wrong conclusion.”

“Then you're
not
having an affair with Wes Sinclair?”

“What?
Affair?
No! Vanessa apologized when she called me about the beer signs. I think it was a kind of . . . peace offering.”

Brian shut the recorder off, stood, then left the room.

After a few long minutes, he returned and resumed the interview, switching the recorder back on.

“I've just spoken to Wesley Sinclair,” Brian said, “and he doesn't know anything about selling those beer signs. Furthermore, he said he never agreed to do so.”

Was Wes in one of the other interview rooms? And was he trying to implicate me? Despite how cold it was in there, I began to sweat.
Really
could've used a tissue . . .

A Brian who seemed colder than the cubicle was saying, “Vanessa embarrassed you at the swap meet, in front of dozens of people, and you went over there to have it out with her. You just invented the story about the beer signs.”

“No! That's ridiculous.”

“Brandy, no one's saying this was premeditated.”

“You argued with her and things got out of hand.”

“She was alive when I left.”

“Can anyone corroborate that?”

“I don't know! No one else was there. Maybe a neighbor? Have you asked?” I pointed to the recorder. “Will you turn that damn thing off!”

Brian sighed. Then did.

“Why on earth are you treating me like this?” I demanded. “You know very well I didn't kill Vanessa. Whatever I am, I'm no murderer. Come on!”

The door opened and Mia stuck her head in. She didn't look at me. “A second, Chief?”

He stood and abandoned me to the cold again, and I could hear him and Mia talking in low voices out in the hall.

When Brian came back, he said curtly. “You can go.”

“That's it?”

“Yes. You're no longer a suspect.”

I folded my arms. “For the
record?
”

Brian sat back down, turned the machine on. “Brandy Borne is not a suspect
at this time.
A neighbor, Gladys Fowler, saw Ms. Borne leaving the Sinclair home while Mrs. Sinclair was standing outside.”

He shut the machine off.

“Thank you,” I said.

He leaned back in his chair. “I'd still like an explanation about the beer signs.”

“What's to explain? Since Wes said he didn't know anything about Vanessa selling them, she must have been doing it out of spite. But I didn't sense anything phony about her friendliness.” I shrugged. “Anyway, the beer signs don't have anything to do with the murder.”

He thought about that. “All right. You can go.”

“Is that how it is between us now?”

“Brandy,” he said, and as impassive as his face was, the sadness in his eyes was something he couldn't hide, “there isn't anything between us now.”

I had no sooner arrived home than Mother called out from the music/library room, “Dear! Do come tell me about your interrogation.”

I dutifully went in where I found Mother hauling out the old schoolroom blackboard on wheels that she kept behind an ancient standup piano. The appearance of the blackboard—on which she invariably compiled her list of suspects—signaled the music/library room had just become (once again) an incident room.

I plopped down on the piano bench. Neither one of us could play the old out-of-tune upright, with the exception of “Chopsticks” and “Heart and Soul.” But the collection of trumpets, displayed on a bookshelf, was a different matter. I had played the silver 1940s King in band throughout high school, and Mother could blat out a (somewhat) recognizable “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy of Company B” on the old coronet.

I asked, “A little soon for the blackboard, wouldn't you say?”

“No I would not. Never too early to revisit an old friend, dear. Now spill.”

I recited chapter and verse.

Mother, in full I-told-you-so mode, looked down her nose at me. “Didn't I
say
you'd receive the third-degree treatment from that man? Hell hath no fury like an interim chief spurned.”

“Yes, Mother, and I wish I'd had a sweater, and a cushion, and some tissue, and brought my own coffee, and all I could think of was that I hoped someday to learn that I should always listen to you.”

She smiled, ignoring the sarcasm underlying the last phrase. “And the recorder necklace?”

“I skipped that accessory.”

She frowned, just a quick one, then more pleasantly asked, “Are you going to tell Tony about how Brian gave you the Abu Ghraib treatment?”

I shook my head. “Already too much tension between those two.” I pointed a finger. “And don't you dare tell Tony! That's one place I can't have you overstepping.”

Brightening, she said, “That reminds me! Tony called and said he'd be coming over anytime now. You must've had your cell phone turned off.”

“I did. Thanks. I'll talk to him here in the living room. Ah . . . do you mind if we have a little privacy?”

“But of course, dear. I am bone-tired after a long day!” She yawned and stretched, not terribly convincingly for a diva.

After Mother disappeared upstairs in a staggering manner that sent “The Song of the Volga Boatmen” playing in my brain, I got up and turned on the porch light. Then I returned to the Victorian couch and tried to make myself comfortable with Sushi and a blanket.

Soosh heard Tony's car pull into the drive before I'd completed that task, and gave a sharp bark. I rose and went to open the front door, and when Tony stepped in, still uniformed, looking a little tired himself, I leaned against his chest, his strong arms holding me, and finally let out some tears. Tears over Vanessa's brutal murder; tears over how cruelly Brian had treated me; tears because I really
was
bone-tired.

Tony walked me over to the couch where we sat, and he held my hand until I'd finished blubbering and sniffling.

“Better?” he asked gently, offering me his handkerchief, one of many of his I'd collected over time.

“Yeah. I'm . . . I'm okay now. Sorry.”

“No need to be. As rough days go, you've put in a whale of a one.” He gave me a tiny smile. “You know, I'd forgotten just how uncomfortable this couch was.”

“Shall we move to the floor?”

He nodded.

We slid down onto the oriental rug, putting the needlepoint pillows behind our backs. Sushi, who adored Tony, settled on his lap. Good taste, that pooch.

Tony was saying, “I heard that a neighbor of the Sinclairs got you off the hook.”

“That's right,” I said.

He took my hand. “Brandy?”

“Yeah?”

“Promise me you'll stay out of this one.”

“You know I'd like to.”

“But you can't, huh? Because of Vivian?”

“You know Mother. She's already off to the hounds.” I nodded toward the blackboard. “Tony, I'll stay out of it. As for Mother, I'll do what I can to discourage her, but there's only so much one human can do.”

His lips formed a thin tight line, which barely broke to let out: “Her meddling could hurt my chances.”

“To be chief of police, you mean?” I hadn't considered that.

He nodded.

“Because you and I are seeing each other?”

His forehead creased. “Brandy, we already have my being a married man hanging over us.”

“Yes, but you and your wife are separated. . . .”

“It's a small town. People can be petty and mean. Everybody knows we're close. And I can't be put in a position where someone thinks I've given you or Vivian information on this case.”

I nodded. “If I explain that to Mother, I'm sure she'll understand.”

“Really?”

“. . . Pretty sure.”

Tony's cell rang. “Cassato.” He listened a moment, then straightened. “You've already got the warrant? . . . Good . . . Okay. See you over there.”

Ending the call, he stood, gazing down at me. I felt small, like I was six years old.

He was smiling. “I guess our little discussion about you keeping out of this case was premature. It's a moot point now.”

I gave him a quizzical look.

He explained: “We're arresting Wesley Sinclair for the murder of his wife.”

I was too stunned to speak.

But from the top of the stairs Mother called out, “I just
knew
he did it!”

 

 

 

A crowded swap meet is an ideal place for purse snatchers to operate, so leave your big bags at home. I wear a cross-body purse with a zipper that sticks.

Chapter Four

Insufficient Bid

 

 

 

T
he next morning, Sunday, I wanted to sleep in, but not surprisingly Mother had other ideas. She came into my Art Deco–appointed bedroom around nine-thirty, singsonging, “We're all in our places with sun-shiny faces!”

In other words, we were going to church.

Burrowing in deeper under the covers, I groaned. “Please, Mr. Custer,” I sang back at her, intoning an ancient pop song, “I don't want to go.”

“That's in very poor taste, dear. Rise and shine!”

“I . . . I had a rough night.”

And I had. A nightmare-ridden one. In the most vivid of them, a handcuffed, foot-shackled Wes was being hauled down a long dark corridor to an awaiting electric chair. I forced myself awake and then returned to slumber to look for better dreams, without success.

That I hadn't updated my memorable nightmare to lethal injection, or taken into consideration that our state didn't have capital punishment anymore, is just one of the things that drives me crazy about dreams. If I knew these things awake, why didn't I in the dream world?

Mother sat on the blond maple framed bed, springs squeaking, and a beneath-the-covers Sushi growled her displeasure.

“I've made coffee cake and scrambled eggs just the way you like them.”

She wanted to go to church in the worst way. And by worst way, I mean not to commune with the Lord, but to be the center of attention. This would be our first public appearance since finding Vanessa, after all.

I said, “I don't feel like going. Why don't I just drive you?”

“Then you'd already be there, dear, so it would be ridiculous not to attend. Plus, it would save you a trip back picking me up.”

True. And I could always sleep in our pew. Not exactly comfy, but what the heck.

She bolted to her feet, startling me, and exclaimed, “Now, chop chop!”

And waltzed out.

An hour later, in a pastel floral skirt and white blouse, I left the house with Mother, who wore a summery yellow slacks-and-top outfit. Sushi, apparently an atheist or anyway dognostic (sorry), had gone back to bed, as part of that dog's life you hear so much about.

We belonged to New Hope, a nondenominational church not bound by any hierarchy other than its own elected board, with an emphasis on the teachings of Christ (“Rather a novelty,” Mother once commented). The congregation was formed some years ago by displaced Methodists, Presbyterians, Baptists, Lutherans, Catholics, and others who had become disenchanted with their former churches—a Jewish family even attended occasionally—and I had long ago dubbed New Hope “The Church of Common Sense and Mild Scoldings.” If anyone wanted hell and brimstone, they needed to go elsewhere. This was more heck and pebbles.

But New Hope was really the Church of Pastor Tutor, a kind and gentle man, whose calming personality, good humor, and abiding patience held together the various former this-and-thats into one house of worshipers.

New Hope was located about a mile from our house and we used to walk there, on sunny days anyway, until Mother got her double hip replacement. The building had once been an old redbrick fire station, slated for the wrecking ball; but Mother and her preservation cohorts had once again ridden to the rescue of a local relic. Later Pastor Tutor and his followers raised the necessary funds to turn it into a church.

I found a place for the Caddy in the already-packed parking lot. We got out and headed toward the main door just as the old fire station bell sounded—a five-minute warning that service was about to begin.

Church for some years had started at eleven, but Pastor Tutor long ago noticed his flock getting antsy as noon approached, and noted as well the regular stampede when the service was over. All these good Christians wanted to beat other congregations to the local eateries for Sunday dinner. So starting time was changed to ten-thirty.

Then the Baptists at Calvary—who had the largest, most proactive membership in town—retaliated by moving their service to ten-fifteen. This shot across the bow took no casualties, as the Calvary pastor ran to the long-winded side. And while those poor souls were still on their knees getting saved, we still got to the restaurants first, claiming all the best tables not to mention wheelchair parking.

As Mother and I entered the sanctuary, a noticeable murmur rose among those already seated—some half-turning, craning their necks—word apparently having circulated quickly about Wes's arrest, and our connection to the murdered woman. No surprise, as the socially prominent Sinclairs were members of New Hope.

As the organ music began, drowning out the whispering, Mother and I took our usual place in a back pew, next to four of Mother's gal pals from the Red-Hatted League—a mystery book club offshoot of the Red Hat Society—who we always sat with. (More about these avid mystery fans later.)

When we first joined the church, I had been surprised that Mother preferred sitting way in back, but then realized she enjoyed being behind everyone. That way she could see who was there, keep track of who was playing hooky, what people were wearing, and whether their wigs or toupees were on straight, plus which ones bowed their head during the sermon, not in prayer, but slumber.

Several times Pastor Tutor tried mixing up the seating to encourage his flock to enjoy fellowship in the company of different members. But his sheep always strayed back to their pew of preference. And woe betide the person who sat in someone else's preferred pew. You don't want to cross a regular churchgoer.

After the opening hymn, I had trouble keeping my eyes open—yes, the back pew was my preference in case I needed to finish a sleep cycle—but I was alert during the Prayers for Members portion of the service. Plump Pastor Tutor—a short bespectacled man in a simple black robe with purple shawl—offered a few carefully chosen words about the Sinclairs, of the “our thoughts and prayers are with them” variety.

Then the choir performed a contemporary number, after which the sermon began, Pastor Tutor reading from Matthew 7:1-5 (
Judge not that you be judged
), and 19:19 (
Love your neighbor as yourself
).

Pastor Tutor had a wonderful manner of never looking at the congregation, but behind and above them, so that no one ever felt uncomfortable under his gaze, in case his teachings/scoldings hit too close to home. Nor did he mean to embarrass them had they nodded off.

Which I was getting ready to do, when Pastor Tutor segued into 1 Timothy 5:13, saying, “And they learned to be idle, wandering about from house to house; and not only idle, but tattlers also and busybodies, speaking things which they ought not.”

He was trying to head off the inevitable gossip about Vanessa and Wes, which was a valiant attempt, but about as likely as the second coming of Christ happening next Tuesday.

Knowing how close to home this hit, I looked sideways at Mother, who wore an angelic expression, the sun shining down on her from a skylight above in a halo effect. Who says God doesn't have a sense of humor? Everyone else seemed to be sliding down in their seats.

Pastor Tutor concluded his sermon, after which came the last hymn followed by the benediction. And it was a sheepish flock (couldn't resist) that filed out of the sanctuary, no one daring to acknowledge Mother and me with anything more than a simple hello-how-are-you. If Mother was disappointed by the lack of attention, she didn't show it.

In the hall outside the sanctuary, we stood in a quiet line to shake Pastor Tutor's hand, and upon our turn, he asked us to stay behind for a moment; we stepped to one side. Perhaps the pastor felt a need to further instruct us (that is, Mother) on the evils of gossiping.

Then, when everyone else had gone, he turned to us, clearly concerned. “I'm here for counsel should either of you feel the need to talk about what has happened . . . it must have been terribly upsetting for you both, yesterday. And of course Vanessa was one of our own.”

“Oh, we're just fine, Pastor,” Mother chirped.

Her cavalier attitude seemed to startle him.

Not me—Mother was not an unfeeling person, merely one who compartmentalized. Regarding another murder I accused her of being insensitive about, she had said, “Dear, blubbering won't help that poor victim. The best thing that can happen is to bring the killer to justice.”

And yesterday she had said much the same thing. Only this time the killer—Wes Sinclair—had already been arrested, with justice waiting around the corner.

Trying to smooth over the awkward silence, I said, “I thought today's sermon was very insightful, Pastor Tutor. I'm sure both Mother and I will find it very helpful.”

He nodded solemnly. “I felt it necessary to remind our New Hope family that careless words can be hurtful at a time such as this.” His sigh was deep, the weight of his congregation on his shoulders. “And when someone of prominence in the community dies—and another is incarcerated—tongues do tend to wag.”

“I agree,” Mother said, then raised a qualifying finger. “But
sometimes
wagging tongues can be constructive.”

“I must disagree, Vivian.”

“Really?” Adding cryptically, “Even if those wagging tongues lead to the truth?”

Tutor's frown was in contrast with his next words. “Perhaps even then.”

“As it says in the Good Book,” Mother sermonized, “truth will out.”

His eyes widened. “I believe that's Shakespeare, Vivian, not Scripture.”

“Oh, that's right!
The Merchant of Venice
. Well, you know the Bard is sacred to us thespians!”

Tutor seemed to be studying her, like a scientist looking through a microscope at a troubling slide. Then he said, almost to himself, “You know, before the tragic news reached me, today's sermon was to focus on the Tenth Commandment.”

“Ah!” Mother said. “An often undervalued teaching, if a tad politically incorrect by current standards.”

My stomach growled, and—not relishing a theological discussion between Mother and a real pastor—I said, “Well, okay, then—guess we'll be going.”

As we walked out to the parking lot, Mother said, “Little bit brusque, dear, weren't you?”

“I'm sure Pastor Tutor will forgive me.”

“I'm sure he will,” she said brightly. “Anyway, we were done.”

“What was all that about the Tenth Commandment, Mother? Which one is that, anyway?”

“The one about not climbing over fences to get at the greener grass, dear.”

I thought Mother might be miffed that there wasn't anyone left in the parking lot to talk to her about the murder, and her role in its discovery. But everyone had headed home or to a restaurant.

And she seemed uncharacteristically quiet on our drive downtown to the Button Factory, where we always ate post-church with her gal pals.

The eatery was located on the riverfront, in a refurbished building that had once been (ahead of me, are you?) a thriving button factory—one of half a dozen such businesses that sprouted up along the Serenity banks of the Mississippi during the mid-1800s because of the (then) abundant supply of clamshells. But then plastic came along and replaced the pearly white buttons, and the factories closed and all but one shuttered.

“The girls” were already seated at our usual round table in a little alcove set apart from the main dining area. The restaurant wasn't supposed to take Sunday reservations, but the management made an exception for the Red-Hatted League, because Mother had cast the owners' teenage stagestruck daughter in one of her theatrical productions at the Serenity Playhouse. The girl's performance did not rate a standing ovation, but Mother got a standing reservation.

Along with Mother and me, the group included Alice Hetzler, a former middle school English teacher, who still treated me like her eighth-grade student; Cora Van Camp, a retired court secretary, who knew everybody in town's legal business; Frannie Phillips, a part-time nurse at the Serenity Hospital, who specialized in giving the
worst
shots; and Norma Crumley, a socialite and world-class gossip.

Norma was at least ten years younger than the rest (myself not included), and was a newbie to the group. Shortly after the rumormonger's addition, I questioned Mother about it. I mean, with Vivian Borne in the group, who needed another gossip?

“Dear,” she told me, “after Norma's husband divorced her, all the poor woman's married friends crawled back into the woodwork.”

“Then they weren't really her friends, were they?”

“No. They were
his
friends. They only put up with the unpleasant woman because of him.”

“Then why do
you
want to put up with her?”

“Because dear, she's a font of information.”

“Even after her married friends abandoned her?”

“Plenty of widows and divorcées around, and Norma has social-circle connections to which I'm not privy. Or is that to whom?”

Had Mother purposely chosen these friends in their unrelated fields, so that she could tap their knowledge in solving her cases?

Absolutely. And I had to admire the deviousness and forethought.

The ladies were studying their menus; while the restaurant had a delicious Sunday brunch buffet, no one in the little group but me ever took it.

As Norma had once sniffed, “If I want to fetch my own dinner, I'll stay at home.”

A waitress appeared and took our orders, and I excused myself to head to the buffet to beat the long line that would soon be formed by other churchgoers now filing into the restaurant.