Eat Healthy or Die, operated by two aging hippies (the wife did the cooking; the hubby ran the counter), was not very busy for the lunch hour. This might have been farm country, but sprouts remained an acquired taste.
Still, I did indeed find the Romeos (Retired Old Men Eating Out) sequestered at a table.
Usually full of piss and vinegar, today the quartet was settling for vinegar and oil, and appeared sullen and unhappy about it, thanks to the (mostly uneaten) rabbit food in front of these aging carnivores.
But I knew their presence was about more than just checking out a new local restaurant.
Vern, a former chiropractor, had recently gone through a triple bypass; Harold, a retired army captain, was diabetic; former hog farmer Randall had high cholesterol; and Ivan, our onetime mayor, was being treated for polyps. Despite what Junior had said, clearly the gents were being less adventurous than trying more to keep the grim reaper at bay.
The way the Romeos perked up at my arrival told me that—unlike Junior—they knew not only the scuttlebutt about Mrs. Norton, but that I had played a major role in the drama.
Normally, women were not welcome at the Romeos’ table—welcome to stop and chat for a moment and move on, yes, but not to actually pull up a chair and sit. But these old codgers were always hungry for gossip, and while I have never been one to carry stories myself, I didn’t mind humoring the Serenity Rat Rack with what local tidbits I might have happened to pick up. After all, I was their Shirley MacLaine!
Harold was the first to wave me over. He had a face like an old rottweiler’s—barked like one, too. After his wife passed away, I went out with Harold a few times, but didn’t cotton to taking orders from the retired captain, so I mutinied. We remained friendly, though.
I took the chair that Vern confiscated from a nearby empty table. The former chiropractor reminded me of an English setter, with his big nose, square face, and curly hair.
“How have you been, Vivian?” he asked, dark eyes twinkling knowingly, the outrageous flirt.
“Fine . . . fine. Trying to stay out of trouble.”
“But not succeeding, I trust,” said former farmer Randall, a Boston terrier with a pug nose and wide-set eyes.
“Maybe I’m not trying very hard,” I answered coquettishly.
I waved the waitress over, then ordered a soy burger and carrot juice.
When she’d departed, Ivan—the ex-mayor, who had droopy jowls like a Saint Bernard (but more hound than saint, I assure you)—implored, “Come on, Vivian! You know what we want . . . give!”
I sighed, feigning reluctance, making these old dogs beg for my new trick.
After another prodding or two, however, I repeated my performance for Junior and Henry back at Hunter’s . . . only this time adding a few revisions to the script—like me jumping up on an antique icebox as the pit bull snapped at my heels . . . and being roughed up (just a little) by Serenity’s finest when I insisted on them sparing the animal’s life.
I still kept my tingle of suspicion to myself—not to be stingy, rather to give myself time to develop a theory better than Brandy’s silly two-pit-bull one.
Vern, Ivan, and Randall seemed utterly enthralled by my one-act play.
But Harold asked impertinently, “Why the hell would you want to save that son-of-a-bitch dog, when it tried to kill you, too?”
Annoyed that my motivation had been called into question, I huffed, “Well, first of all, ‘son-ofa-bitch dog’ is redundant, isn’t it? And second of all, Harold, it’s not the dog’s fault he’s that way, is it? Any more than it’s your fault for being born the brute you are? Why should he be punished for not fitting in to a human being’s world?”
The above was accompanied by ooooo’s and oooooh’s and laughs and nudges Harold’s way from the rest of the audience.
Ivan, ever the politician, abruptly changed the subject. “I hear you’ve retired from showbiz, Vivian,” he said.
The waitress arrived with my soy burger and carrot juice. I managed to contain my enthusiasm.
I said, “If you mean by that remark, Ivan, have I stepped down from the Serenity playhouse stage, that is correct.”
“Mind telling us why?” Randall asked.
I took a bite of the soy burger, which had all of the taste and texture of an old shoe tongue between two pieces of cardboard.
“Well,” I said, after managing to swallow, “you might as well hear it from the horse’s mouth.... It’s because I feel that I would have best served the playhouse as its director, not Bernice. After all, I’ve been long associated with the playhouse, and she’s only been in town a few years and, quite frankly, doesn’t have the background or abilities for the job.”
Vern said, “I thought Bernice was pretty good in Arsenic and Old Lace.”
“What was I?” I ejaculated. “Chopped liver?”
Eyeing his own soy burger, Ivan muttered, “What I wouldn’t give for chopped liver. . . .”
“No, no, no, of course not,” Vern said, backpedaling, “you were good, too.”
“Good,” I said. “Why, thank you. How could I survive without such lavish praise?”
“Great, I mean,” Vern said. “Wonderful. Hilarious?”
“Besides,” I said, “Bernice just might be too busy these days to direct new productions, what with her new paramour. . . .”
That elicited a few raised eyebrows . . .
. . . and an outright flinch from Ivan.
“I didn’t know Bernice had been seeing someone since . . .” Randall began, then stopped dead, avoiding Ivan’s stare.
Harold asked, “Who is he?”
I shrugged. “Haven’t the foggiest. Thought you boys would surely know. But I can tell you this much . . . that ‘man’ is young enough to be her own son!”
“That,” Ivan said quietly, “is because he is.”
Well, dear reader, you could have knocked me over with a cigar store Indian’s feather!
Blinking, feeling the same rush of panic I had on the three occasions in my career when I’ve momentarily gone up on my lines, I said, “I, uh, I didn’t know Bernice had children. She never mentioned any to me.”
“She never mentions much of anything about before she came here,” Ivan said with a nod. “She has two sons . . . one dead. The other, Lyle, came to live with her recently. And let me tell you, the kid is no prize.”
So that was the reason Ivan stopped seeing Bernice. He and Lyle didn’t get along. And from what Brandy witnessed, neither did mother and son.
“Ivan,” I said lightly, “you remember that Indian statue you were eyeing at our mall stall, the other day?”
“Of course.”
“You remember that it was marked ‘sold,’ and I couldn’t let you have it?”
“Surely.”
“Well, the buyer was—”
“Bernice,” he interrupted. “I knew all about her wanting to get that Indian back, Viv—though I wasn’t aware you girls had come to an agreement over it. Didn’t know you were even speaking.”
But apparently Ivan wanted to be speaking with Bernice again; elsewise he wouldn’t have wanted to surprise her with that statue.
I checked my watch. “Oh dear . . . you boys will have to excuse me. I have a very important appointment at the antiques mall!”
“So antique males aren’t enough, then?” Vern said.
“Nothing antique about your evil mind,” I mock-scolded.
But when I reached for my check, it was not Vern, rather Harold, the sweetheart, who beat me to it. I leaned over to give him a peck on the cheek, but he turned his head so my kiss landed on his lips.
The old dog.
And those other mangy mutts all laughed and laughed.
A few minutes later I arrived at the four-story Victorian building on Main and Pine where Mrs. Norton had met her fate (and where Brandy and I had our booth).
Another dealer, Gene Stubbs, was on his way out, squinting at the bright sun like a mole who’d popped ill-advisedly
out of his hole. He had the booth across from ours consisting mostly of worn-out old tools.
“Any word on whether the mall will reopen?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Even if it does, I’m moving out.”
“Why?” I asked, surprised.
“Who’s going to want to shop in there after what happened?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “A little mishap like that wouldn’t scare me off, either as a seller or a buyer.”
“Besides,” Mr. Stubbs went on, “some of my tools are quite valuable, and I want a place that has security cameras going twenty-four-seven . . . not some homicidal hound. I’m tired of getting ripped off!”
With that, he turned and strode to his truck parked at the curb.
Mr. Stubbs did have a point. Theft of antiques in shops was increasingly common these days, in particular small items that could easily slip into pockets or purses. And antiques malls were the most vulnerable because of the obscured view of the booths.
I entered the building, expecting to be greeted by a trustee of Mrs. Norton’s estate, since the late teacher had owned the building. Instead I was met by Mia Cordona, a female police detective. Mia was a childhood friend of Brandy’s; back in the day, the pair got into their share of mischief.
Dressed in a simple white blouse and navy blue skirt, Mia was a lovely young woman with long dark hair, flashing eyes, and an hourglass figure, the kind they now call “curvy.”
“Mrs. Borne,” Mia acknowledged me, businesslike.
“Mia, my goodness . . . why are you here? Is this a police matter?”
Ignoring my questions, she consulted her clipboard. “Your booth is number thirteen. . . .”
“Yes. Over there, just about where Mrs. Norton bought the farm . . . that is, I mean, where the poor dear woman was found.”
Mia rolled her eyes (what was that about?) and turned on her navy blue pumps. I followed her the short distance to our booth, near which a confiscated, leftover piece of the new gray carpet discreetly covered the stained spot where the body had been.
“Mrs. Borne,” Mia said, “I want you to examine your booth, carefully, and tell me if anything is missing. You understand, of course, that some items have sold—I have a list of those obtained from Mrs. Norton’s records.”
I frowned. “So if you already know what has sold, and what money is owed to us, why do you need me to—”
Mia interrupted, “Mrs. Borne, I’d appreciate your cooperation. The sooner we get this done, the sooner you can leave.”
The fallacy there was assuming that I wanted to leave.
But I said, “Of course, dear . . . always glad to help the Serenity boys . . . and girls . . . in blue.”
She winced at that (what was her problem?) and I turned my attention to the booth. My eyes searched over its displays like the beacon in my ceramic lighthouse (before it quit working).
And what I saw got me boiling mad.
“It’s a crime!” I said.
Mia frowned. “What is? Mrs. Borne, what—”
“Why, it looks like a tornado went through here!” I declared, taking in our most untidy booth.
“We had nothing to do with—”
“Oh, I know you didn’t, dear. It’s the customers ! Why don’t people have the common decency to put things back the way they found them? Have they no manners? No couth?”
“Mrs. Borne—”
“No consideration for the owner of the booth, who spends hours—”
“Mrs. Borne! May we please continue?”
“Sorry. Mia, dear, I know you’re working and are trying hard to sound all, all . . . official. But I’ve known you since you were in rompers. Is it really necessary for you to be so stiff and formal?”
Mia said nothing. Her half-lidded eyes gave her a most unflattering sullen look.
I shrugged. “Oh well.... Now, let’s see . . . yes, there’s an amber vase that’s gone. . . .”
Mia rifled through the papers on the clipboard. “That item sold.”
I stomped a foot. “Shit! Pardon my French, dear. Actually French would be merde, but I knew I priced that vase too low! To whom did it sell?” I was at her side now, looking over her shoulder, helping her with the clipboard. “Another dealer? You can tell by the discount—”
“Mrs. Borne!” Mia snapped, drawing away. “I’m not here to give you that kind of information! Now, may we please proceed?”
Disappointed in my daughter’s old friend’s bad behavior, I turned back to the booth. “Well . . . the lyre banjo clock is missing.”
“That sold as well.”
I clapped my hands hard enough to bring Tinkerbell back to life. “Oh, goodie!” Then I froze. “Goodie, that is, unless it went to another dealer . . . and then I priced that too low, too. Oh, this business can drive a person simply insane!”
“So I’ve noticed. Is anything else gone?”
My eyes swept the booth in another inventory. “No. But I can tell someone was interested in the rolltop desk.”
“Why do you say that?”
I pointed. “Because they moved our cigar store Indian out of the way to get a closer look. Does that count?”
“No. I’m not concerned about that.”
I asked, slyly, “What are you concerned about, Mia? What’s really going on here? You can tell me. Ask anyone—Vivian Borne is the soul of discretion.”
The clipboard slapped down to her side. “Thank you, Mrs. Borne. Give my best to your daughter.”
“Well, certainly, dear.”
“That’s all we’ll be needing for now. You may go.”
“Do you mind if I use the bathroom first? We seniors do the bladder’s bidding, you know.”
“Thanks for sharing.” Mia sighed. “All right, all right, but be quick about it. I have another dealer coming in, in a matter of minutes.”
I headed down the aisle to the rear of the store where I opened the bathroom door and let it bang shut. Then I sneaked back along a row perpendicular to where Mia was standing, now talking on her cell phone.
“Yes . . . three more to go,” she was saying. “Okay, sure. Here’s the rundown to date . . . booth number one reported a gold watch worth three hundred dollars as missing.... Booth seven said some comic books totaling about fifty dollars were gone . . . booth twelve, missing an iron. No, used for ironing . . . and the dealer in fourteen claims a hand garden rake was stolen, but the matching trowel was still there.... I don’t know, how should I know? Maybe he already had one.... You tell me why the cash was still in the till!”
Try Midol, dear, I thought. It works wonders....
I tiptoed back to the bathroom and banged the door again. When I returned to the front of the store, Mia, off the portable phone now, had a wary look.
I said, “Thank you, dear . . . I needed that,” giving my girdle a realistic tug.
“Good-bye, Mrs. Borne,” she said with a smile as frozen as a Popsicle but not nearly so sweet.
Then she walked me to the front door, as if she didn’t trust me to leave. Nervy child.
By the time I caught the trolley in front of the courthouse, late afternoon had arrived. I asked Maynard Kirby for one of those aforementioned off-route “special requests,” and he acquiesced, dropping me at the Mabel Streble Animal Shelter, which after all wasn’t too far off his beaten path.
The modern one-story tan brick building with its landscaped lawn might well be mistaken for a medical complex or law office, if it weren’t for the assorted barking and meowing that drifted from behind the shelter, where dogs and cats frolicked on the green grass in spacious pens during most sunny afternoons.
These poor abandoned animals would still be languishing in the old run-down Quonset hut on the outskirts of town, if it wasn’t for me making an unscheduled visit to the Sunny-Side Up nursing home, some years back.
You see, I’d had a flat tire in front of the rest home, so I went inside to use their phone. (This was before I had lost my license for taking a certain shortc
ut, which was terribly unfair because farmers drive through their fields all the time and don’t get arrested. But, again, I digress.)
When the service station told me they couldn’t come to change my tire for at least an hour, I decided to drop in on some of the Sunny-Side Up residents to put a little good cheer into their day.
Mrs. Streble was one of several elderly folks I visited on that impromptu call. The widow was what we used to call filthy rich, though her husband had made his fortune in cleaning. Hardly anyone in town knew of her wealth, or the extent of it, anyway, because of the miserly way she lived.
When I entered her room, the poor dear was in such a state . . . crying about how her children and grandchildren never called or came to visit. She was particularly bothered by having been deprived of her pet cats when she’d been brought out to Sunny-Side Up, all of whom had been dispatched to the local pound and . . . dispatched.
So I said, in my cheerful conversational off-hand way, that if she were to leave all her money to the local animal shelter, why, that would teach those inconsiderate ingrate kids of hers a good lesson.
And that’s exactly what Mrs. Streble did.
The very day after my visit, she called in her lawyer and changed her will. And a week after that the poor woman succumbed to a heart attack.
Of course, the animal shelter was ecstatic about their considerable good fortune—or rather Mrs. Streble’s good fortune, which was considerable—and immediate plans were made for a new, no-kill facility to be built in the late benefactress’s name.
Mrs. Streble’s relatives, needless to say, weren’t too happy with me—apparently Mrs. Streble had let it be loudly known that I’d given her the notion to cut the relatives out of her will, and the dogs and cats in—and I received a number of death threats. People can be such animals, sometimes.
Anyhoo, I walked into the cheerful, spotless waiting room of the animal shelter, and approached the young girl behind the counter, whose name tag identified her as Beth. Beth was on the porky side and rather dim, but she loved animals, which was a big plus in this business.
“Why, hello, Beth,” I said. “Have you lost weight, my dear? You look wonderful! Simply wraithlike.”
The plain-faced, cow-eyed child beamed. “Five pounds, Mrs. Borne. Could you really tell?”
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