Antiques Maul

by Barbara Allan

  “You mean after you’d already removed the gun,” I said.

  “Well . . . yeah. But it still wasn’t a lie, right?”

  “Not technically,” I said. “But you misled me, on purpose, which is the same thing.”

  Jake shot back, “Well, you did take my paint gun away!”

  “Son,” Roger said sharply, “you know a real gun is hardly a paint gun.”

  “Well, yeah. Sure. I just . . . it was an impulse, okay? I know I shouldn’t have done it, but after I did it, what could I do about it?”

  That, too, was the kind of bewildering but at heart utterly accurate statement that only a ten-year-old could make.

  His father said, “Your mother did the right thing, taking that paint gun away—you shot it inside, at that helpless dog, didn’t you?”

  Jake’s eyes were starting to tear up.

  I gave Roger a look, and he said to his son, “Jake . . . I’m not going to beat up on you. All I ask is you reflect on one thing—that none of this would have happened if you hadn’t taken that weapon.”

  His chin crinkling, Jake said, “You mean you’re not gonna beat up on me except saying that everything’s all my fault!”

  Mother jumped to her grandson’s defense. “Just a moment . . . let’s not forget who is really to blame—a certain Lyle Wiley, who hid the gun in the statue in the first place, believing it to be a safe hiding place.... And imagine his surprise when, after his recent return from a stay up the river, he discovered that not only had his mother, Bernice, given me that statue, but Brandy and I had put it in our booth to sell.”

  I said, “So your suspicions were right, Mother—Lyle Wiley killed Mrs. Norton.”

  My sister’s forehead creased. “Didn’t a pit bull do that?” she asked. “How can a mauling by an animal be a murder?”

  Mother was shaking her head. “Lyle broke into the antiques mall to retrieve the gun, only to have Mrs. Norton interrupt him in the act. He killed the poor woman by hitting her on the head with an antique iron—which he snatched from nearby booth number twelve. Then he used an old hand rake—from booth fourteen—to make it appear as if the bit bull had mauled her to death.”

  “My God,” Roger said.

  “How awful,” Peggy Sue murmured.

  “The Scarlet Claw,” I said.

  Everybody looked at me curiously, except Mother, whose smile was knowing.

  I said, “Last night Mother referred to The Scarlet Claw—it’s an old Sherlock Holmes movie with Basil Rathbone. You see—”

  “Spoiler alert!” Mother blurted.

  I sighed and went on: “The murderer used a garden implement to imitate the claw of a Baskervilles-type hound, and divert blame and attention from himself.”

  Peggy Sue mused aloud, “Whatever was Mrs. Norton doing there so late at night?”

  Mother waved a dismissive hand. “Maybe she was still somewhere in the building and had never gone home that evening. She was a workhorse, cleaning and putting up signs and generally being a benign mother hen . . . or perhaps someone called her about seeing a light on in the building and she went to investigate . . . we may never know. Have you learned anything on that score, Officer Lawson?”

  “No,” he admitted. “But Mrs. Norton was known to work there late at night, doing just the sort of things you said. It was a new business and she was putting her all into it.”

  Roger asked, “Then why didn’t the dog attack Lyle?”

  Jake, his tears a memory, popped in with a possible answer. “I saw this movie once? Where a bad guy got past a guard dog by feedin’ ’im a steak.”

  “Very astute,” Mother said proudly to her grandson. “But in this case the bribe of food was not just a temporary distraction. Lyle drugged whatever-it-was that he fed Brad Pit Bull.”

  Peggy Sue asked, “Is that a guess, Mother?”

  “No. Jane at the animal shelter stated that the dog had been sedated before he was brought to her. And Brandy and I saw how sluggishly he acted when we discovered Mrs. Norton’s body—mutilated by the most vicious animal on earth—a human being.”

  Mother paused for the melodrama to sink in; then she smiled slyly at Brian. “How am I doing, Officer Lawson?”

  Brian, a piece of sausage halfway to his mouth, paused to say, “Fine, Mrs. Borne. Very impressive performance, so far.”

  Mother’s smile broadened as she basked in the praise. Then she frowned. “But what I don’t understand is the importance of the gun. . . .” Her eyes were trained on Brian. “Perhaps I need to share the stage with you for a moment, Officer.”

  Brian rested his fork on his mostly clean plate. “I suppose this is where I sing for my breakfast.”

  Mother said sweetly, “A brief but telling solo, if you don’t mind.”

  He sighed. “Well, I guess I can limit myself to a supporting role . . . but only because these are the best crepes I’ve ever eaten.”

  Everyone waited with boysenberry-crepe-bated breath.

  Brian, dabbing his mouth with a napkin, sat back in his chair. “The gun was very important to Lyle—easily important enough to risk kidnapping Jake here, to get it back. You see, Lyle had used it to kill his partner after a bank robbery some years ago, and if the weapon was found, it could tie him directly to that murder, a crime on which there is no statute of limitation.”

  Murmurs all around.

  Brian went on, “After the robbery, the getaway car was traced to Lyle’s mother’s home in Kansas City. But before law enforcement could apprehend him—and with his mother nowhere around—he had a chance to hide the gun where he thought it would be safe until he could retrieve it again.”

  “In the secret compartment in the cigar store Indian!” I said. I leaned an elbow on the table and rested my chin in my hand. “Then Bernice must not have known the gun was in the statue .

  . . or else she would never have given it to Mother!”

  Peggy Sue said, “So Lyle didn’t trust her? His own mother?”

  “Possibly,” Brian said. “Or maybe he felt it wise that she not know where the gun could be found, and thus implicate herself.”

  Sis muttered, “The lengths parents will go to, to protect a child.”

  Roger and I looked at each other; the irony was not lost on either of us.

  Eyes tight with thought, Mother said, “There may be another reason for Bernice’s ignorance of the gun’s hiding place—her son never had the chance to tell her. She was not home when he was apprehended, and any visits they had at the prison were monitored, just as all mail was censored.”

  Jake asked, “What happened to the money stolen from the bank robbery? Maybe it’s in the statue, too—in another compartment—and it’s finders keepers!”

  Brian laughed and shook his head. “Sorry, Jake, the cash was recovered years ago, in Lyle’s possession—he took it all after double-crossing his partner. And, uh, by the way—finders keepers doesn’t exactly work like that, in bank robbery situations.”

  I asked, “So what happens to Lyle now?”

  Brian said, “He’ll be charged with murdering his partner, and with kidnapping your son.” He sighed deeply and frowned. “But there’s one unresolved aspect about that robbery . . . the identity of the person who waited in the getaway car, while Lyle and his buddy went into the bank. A witness passing by claimed it was a middle-aged woman.”

  Mother slammed both palms on the table, causing everyone to jump and every dish to rattle. “Bernice!”

  Once again, all eyes were on her.

  “That’s what poor Henry meant! Remember, Brandy? He told me at Hunter’s that he’d seen Bernice at the post office before she came to town, which I felt was merely one more of Henry’s rambling drunken manglings of the King’s English. He must have recognized Bernice from a wanted poster in the post office lobby!”

  Roger asked, “Then why didn’t this Henry come forward, when he thought he’d spotted a wanted woman?”

  Brian said, embarrassed, “I, uh . . . believe that he did.
She only moved to Serenity a few years ago, and I seem to recall that Henry stumbled into the station spouting a bunch of what we thought was drunken nonsense. We sent him on his way with the city’s thanks.”

  Peggy Sue made a scoffing sound. “Surely the police who picked up Lyle at his mother’s house would’ve quickly tracked Bernice down. They would have had descriptions of the female bank-robbery accomplice.”

  Mother raised a gently scolding finger to her older daughter. “You forget, Peggy Sue—Bernice Wiley, if indeed that is her real name, is an actress, albeit not a very good one, and a terrible ham.”

  No one at the table gave in to the temptation to say, Takes one to know one.

  Mother was saying, “Bernice could quickly change her looks with a wig and stage makeup.” She shrugged. “And besides, folks don’t usually think of someone’s mother being a wheelman at a bank heist . . . even though Ma Barker made the Ten Most Wanted list in her day, with great regularity.”

  “Well,” I said, “it certainly explains why no one in Serenity seemed to know anything about Bernice’s past.”

  Brian, who was looking at Mother with the same expression many an audience member had (a sort of appalled admiration), said, “Mrs. Borne, I think your theory that Bernice was involved with her son in that robbery just might have validity.... And if it does—”

  “There’ll be a reward?” Jake interrupted.

  Brian laughed. “I was going to say ‘You’d have the sincere gratitude of the Serenity PD,’ but I can see where money would be better. But the bank’s cash was returned, and I’m afraid no reward was posted.”

  The doorbell rang. Which made sense, coming at the end of Mother’s Nero Wolfe charade....

  Mother jumped up from the table, announcing, “Ah! Just in time . . . our cozy little family of three expands to four.”

  I didn’t like the sound of that; neither did Peggy Sue, and we exchanged alarmed looks.

  Quickly I got up from the table and followed Mother to the front door, which she opened onto a trim, middle-aged woman with short brown hair and casual clothes. The lady looked pleasant and unpretentious enough to join our little party, but I wasn’t enamored of the idea, particularly since I didn’t know why she’d been invited.

  Then my eyes traveled down from her face to her navy blue sweater, to the brown slacks, and the Nike-clad feet . . . where Brad Pit Bull, on a leash, sat patiently, his tongue lolling.

  Mother was saying, “Brandy, this is Jane from the animal shelter.”

  And Jane was smiling. “Hi, Brandy. I want to thank you and Vivian for your willingness to—”

  “Mother!” I spewed. “We’re not . . . he’s not.. . you haven’t . . . ?”

  Mother said cheerfully, “Now, dear, we’re not adopting Brad Pit Bull . . .”

  “Thank God!”

  “. . . merely pet-fostering the misunderstood creature until Jane can find a more permanent family.”

  I was aghast. “What about Sushi? You know she’ll have a conniptions fit.”

  “Nonsense,” Mother said dismissively. “The little darling will get used to having a big brother around. And you will, too, dear. You also never had a big brother.”

  “But will he think of Soosh as a little sister?” I asked with trepidation. “And, if so, will he have incest on his mind?”

  Jane said, “Brandy, Brad’s been fixed. Not to worry.”

  Mother put hands on hips. “Brandy, you have a pet . . . why shouldn’t I? Even if it’s only temporary.”

  During this entire exchange, Jane from the animal shelter remained steadfast, smiling pleasantly, sure that the outcome would be in Mother’s favor. Brad Pit Bull wasn’t so sure, his head tilted, his expression pitiful, as he listened intently during the determination of his fate by a species deemed to be superior to his (though sometimes I wonder).

  And Sushi?

  By now she had smelled Brad, and come running from the dining room, trotting right up to our guests. The two dogs faced each other and began doggie-speak. This is my best translation:

  SUSHI. What are you doing here?

  BRAD. Bitch, I was invited. (“Bitch” meaning female dog, of course).

  SUSHI. Well, you’re not staying, if that’s what you think!

  BRAD. Don’t get your cute little tail tied up in a knot.... Say, what’s wrong with the peepers?

  SUSHI. I’m blind, you moron.

  BRAD. Gee, that’s a tough break. Maybe youse could stand a strong dog around.

  SUSHI. I already have a dog-friend!

  BRAD. Funny. Don’t seem to see her around.

  SUSHI. It’s a he, and he works for the police station, and it just so happens he’s crazy about me.

  BRAD. Okay. I ain’t askin’ you to have my puppies. I got a bad feelin’ I’m shootin’ blanks, anyway. Hey, I just want us to be pals.

  SUSHI. Well . . . maybe . . . as long as you put it that way . . .

  BRAD. As long as I’m here, cutie-pie, why don’t ya show me around the joint?

  SUSHI. All right . . . but keep your paws to yourself. And if I catch you tryin’ to mark my territory . . .

  BRAD. Sure, sure, sweet-cheeks, whatever you say.

  SUSHI. We’ll start right here—this is the living room. Keep off the needlepoint furniture....

  While Sushi took Brad Pit Bull on a nickel tour, Mother and Jane moved to the couch, where the latter gave the former instructions on her role as foster pet parent. I stepped out onto the porch for some much-needed fresh autumn air.

  After a moment, the screen door swung open and Roger slipped out to join me. He placed his hands on my shoulder, and—to my utter shock—bent and kissed me, warm and sweet, like it used to be.

  When our lips parted he looked deep into my eyes and said earnestly, “Jake’s welfare and happiness are more important than anything that happened between you and me, understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where our son is concerned, we’re a team now . . . not adversaries.”

  I nodded. “I’m . . . I’m sorry I made such a mess of things.”

  His one-sided smile was melancholy. “Perhaps . . . you were too young. I’m not letting you off the hook, mind you . . . but, well, maybe our marriage was ill-fated because of the difference in our ages.”

  “The age difference didn’t stop us from producing a terrific kid.”

  “No, it didn’t. And Jake’s great. Not perfect, as we’ve seen, but considering the competition? We produced one of the good ones.”

  “Couldn’t agree more.”

  He put a finger under my chin and lifted it. “And, Brandy? We must do everything we can to make sure he has the best life possible.... And to do that, we have to be supportive of each other.”

  This logical side of Roger had been a lot of what made me fall in love with him, eleven years ago. I got on my tippy toes and kissed him back—on the lips, not passionate, just friendly, sealing the peace treaty.

  As I pulled back from Roger, I noticed Brian watching through the screen door. How long he’d been there, I didn’t know.

  Brain stepped out on the porch.

  He stood there awkwardly, eyes on Roger, then on me. “I, uh, have to report back to the station.”

  Roger went over to him and held out his hand. “I want to thank you, Officer Lawson, for everything you’ve done. I really do appreciate it. We made a pretty good team, I think.”

  “Me too. But we’re nothing compared to the Borne girls.”

  “No,” Roger admitted. “Nobody is.” Then he looked back over at me. “And I know when I return to Chicago, I’ll be leaving Brandy in good hands.”

  My ex was just being pleasant, of course. But something in and around his eyes told me it was okay that I move on. That first kiss had been nostalgia; and nostalgia just wasn’t what it used to be....

  I asked Brian, “Mind if I escort you to your car?”

  “I wouldn’t mind at all.”

  Roger headed back into the house, and Brian a
nd I went down the front steps together. As we walked I could almost hear what he was thinking.

  Does she still love him? Are they back together? And where does that leave me?

  To clear up the one dark cloud hovering over us in an otherwise cloudless blue sky, I asked, “Why don’t you come over some evening next week? Say, Thursday? Jake will be back home with his dad, by then . . . and Mother will be off to her mystery book club meeting.”

  Brian’s puppy-dog brown eyes seemed to like the bone I’d thrown him. “You mean it?”

  “Sure. I think we’ve been sniffing around each other long enough, don’t you?”

  He smiled, showing off his dimples.

  We were at his car. I put my arm in the crux of his. “Tell you what,” I said, leaning against him. “I’ll even cook for you.”

  The dimples deepened. “Well, I’d like that. Yes, by all means.”

  “Italian okay?”

  “It’s my favorite.”

  “Good. I have this yummy old family recipe for spaghetti. . . .”

  If Brian could stomach that, we might have a sporting chance together.

  Brian had barely driven away when another car pulled in, a black Mercedes.

  I was thinking, Who in the world . . . ?

  And then Troy Hanson, the antiques picker, stepped out and called, “Brandy—hi!”

  Well, my B-cup runneth over. Another hunky male had come calling....

  “Hi!” I called back.

  He was in a powder-blue polo and black slacks and Italian loafers, and he looked great, from his dark pomaded hair to the fashionable two-days’ growth of beard.

  He made a little jog up to the porch and joined me.

  “Hope you don’t mind my dropping by,” he said.

  “Not at all.”

  “I was in town checking out an estate sale, and wondered if you still had that rolltop desk.”

  Clearly he was using the desk as an excuse to see me again....

  “Well, we do. But I’m not sure when it’s going to be released to us by the authorities. Everything’s on hold, because of Mrs. Norton’s death.”

  “Yes. That was a shame. A real tragedy. Well.” He got a card out of his pocket. “Let me know if it comes available. I’ll make you an excellent offer, one nobody can beat.”