Antiques Fire Sale

by Barbara Allan

  When shopping for antiques online, it’s best to buy from a respected, established dealer’s website. But if you use eBay or other such sites, check the seller’s reputation and feedback, then use your own judgment accordingly. And read the listings carefully. Before she got wise, Mother ordered an antique chair that turned out to be a miniature one for a dollhouse. No wonder she thought she’d gotten quite the bargain.

  Chapter Two

  In Which Vivian Flies the Coop And Brandy Calls Foul

  I watched in horror as the burning house toppled into itself in a cacophony of splintering wood, glass, brick, and mortar. Seconds crawled by, and I was chewing my fist, trying not to scream. Then, like a mirage out of the smoke, Mother staggered and collapsed onto the lawn, leaving fuming remains behind.

  I ran toward her, but the female firefighter grabbed my arm and held me back. “Let the paramedics do their job,” she said, firm but not unkind.

  Even though I knew she was right, I still tried to wiggle out of the woman’s grasp.

  “They’re her best chance now,” she insisted, meaning the EMTs, and I stopped struggling.

  I stood by helplessly as two paramedics bent over Mother—her clothes smoldering—making a quick assessment of her burns. Soon an oxygen mask was attached to her soot-smeared face, and they wrapped her in a silver blanket. Quickly but gently, she was placed on a gurney and delivered to the open doors of a waiting ambulance.

  Then, with lights flashing, siren wailing, the vehicle disappeared into the night. Or was that morning?

  I stood frozen in the heat. It had all happened so fast and yet, at the same time, in slow motion.

  “Do you need a ride to the hospital?” the female firefighter asked, her face coming into focus.

  “No, I . . . I have the sheriff’s car.”

  “Are you sure you’re up to driving?”

  I nodded numbly, managed to mumble my thanks, and walked away.

  At Serenity Hospital, despite my protestations, I was not allowed into the ER exam room to see Mother. Instead, I paced the emergency waiting room, alone, muttering to myself, my emotions swinging wildly from fury that she had taken such a stupid risk to fear that I might soon be without her, and back again.

  The door to the ER hallway opened, and I stopped in my tracks, hoping, yet dreading, to see a doctor emerge with news.

  But Tony walked in—our chief of police, and exactly the right person to give me much-needed comfort. He was in his late forties with graying temples, steel-gray eyes, bulbous nose, square jaw, and just happened to be the big, strong man I was dating. Of course, right now he looked like someone who’d been dragged out of bed in the wee hours of the morning, which was the case.

  “I just came from the fire,” he said, coming to stand in front of me. “It’s contained, but a complete loss of the house and its contents.... How is Vivian?”

  I leaned against that barrel chest of his and let the tears finally flow.

  * * *

  After a while, he led me to a chair, then sat beside me.

  I managed to speak. “I don’t know anything yet.”

  Tony took my hand. “The doctors will do everything they can,” he said, adding, “And the fact that they haven’t air-lifted her to the burn center in Iowa City is a very good sign.”

  I suppose that should have made me feel better, but it did nothing to abate my anxiety. But his presence was reassuring in itself.

  Sounding more like the police chief than my boyfriend, Tony was asking, “What were you doing there?”

  I could almost hear the tacked-on “Ms. Borne.”

  I composed myself and told him about our visit yesterday to the Wentworth mansion regarding a grant the Historical Preservation Society might get to help Mr. Sutter with repairs. And when someone called our house with the news of the fire, Mother had insisted on going.

  Frowning in concern, he asked, “So how did she get hurt?”

  “Mr. Sutter was still inside.”

  Aghast, Tony said, “And she ran into a burning house to save him?”

  My laugh was involuntary. “I know!”

  Tony shook his head slowly, then sighed his response: “Vivian has done more than her share of bone-headed things in her time, but . . . sorry.”

  “No apology necessary.” I shrugged a shoulder. “All I can figure is that she may’ve had a previous history with Mr. Sutter that prompted her to action . . . if you get my drift.”

  He did. He knew of Mother’s youthful indiscretions. And some not so youthful ones too.

  Even so, I had trouble swallowing just how big, and ridiculous, a risk she had taken. Mother placed Mother above everyone else and was not generally inclined to self-sacrifice.

  The door to the ER’s inner sanctum opened and a male doctor in a white coat approached, his expression unreadable. I recognized him as the Eastern Indian physician who had once treated me here, after Mother accidently tased me (Antiques Frame).

  “You’re Mrs. Borne’s daughter?” he asked, apparently not remembering me. “Brandy, is it?”

  I nodded and stood, knees wobbly.

  He said matter-of-factly, “Your mother has sustained second-degree burns on her arms and legs, and—”

  I interrupted. “Will she have to be taken to the burn unit?”

  “No.”

  As relief swept over me, the doctor went on. “The injuries aren’t life-threatening, but she did inhale a good deal of smoke, and for that reason I’d like her to stay overnight.”

  “Can I see her?” I asked.

  “She’s having a lung X-ray right now,” he replied. “I suggest you go home and come back in the morning.”

  Then, apparently not having a smile to spare, he went back the way he came.

  When I hadn’t moved, Tony touched my arm. “She’ll be just fine. And so will you, after a little sleep.”

  I nodded my agreement.

  Tony said, “Come on . . . I’ll follow you home.”

  He was well aware I wasn’t supposed to drive the sheriff’s vehicle without Mother present.

  We left through the ER entrance into the still of a starry night, the chilly autumn air feeling like a cool drink of water.

  When we’d reached the SUV, Tony said, “Brandy, this may not be the best time to get into this . . .”

  No, it wasn’t! Whatever “this” was.

  I turned to him, weary and wary.

  “Try to keep Vivian out of the fire investigation,” he said. “That’s the job of local and state authorities.”

  “Well, she is the sheriff.”

  “Yes, but if their conclusion points to arson, then that puts the matter on my patch.”

  My stare caused him to raise a protective palm.

  He added, “I’m just anticipating a potential problem.”

  I said wryly, “We know two things. First, no one can anticipate what Mother will do. And second, there will be a problem.”

  He grinned. “And third, maybe the sun will rise and set. Just see what you can do, Brandy. That’s all I ask.”

  I poked his chest with a finger. “Okay, but don’t put this all on me. If she does get out of hand, you’ll have to rein her in.”

  “Will do. Unless the bronco bucks me off.”

  As he turned toward his vehicle parked a few spots away, I touched his arm. “Tony . . . thanks for coming.”

  He shrugged. “It’s my job.”

  “No. You were concerned. About me and Mother. That means a lot.”

  He gave me a nod, paused as if considering whether to give me a kiss, and instead threw me a smile.

  We got into our respective vehicles, and he trailed me home. We exchanged waves as I pulled into the drive.

  Inside the two-story stucco white house with its wraparound porch, Sushi was waiting in the entryway. I scooped her up with every intention of trudging upstairs to bed, but I made it only as far as the Victorian couch, where I flopped on my side, the little darling curled up beside me.

&nbs
p; * * *

  I awoke about four hours later with a kink in my neck and figured the only way to work it out was to get up and moving, so I might as well head back to the hospital and see how Mother was faring. I fed Sushi, put her out, and then resisted her urgings to accompany me, since most hospitals aren’t big on furball visitors.

  I arrived around eight-thirty, arms laden with a cardboard tray of two vanilla lattes and pumpkin cake donuts, plus a bag of clothes for Mother, including another of her sheriff’s jump suits.

  In the hallway leading to her room, I encountered her second-in-command, Deputy Charles Chen, crisply attired in pressed tan uniform. He’d just departed her chamber and seemed vaguely amused.

  This played into the slight irritation I felt, knowing he’d seen her before I had.

  “How is she?” I asked.

  In his late thirties, Deputy Chen had an interesting background. In 1980, to improve American–Chinese relations, Serenity had begun a sister/city program, adopting a town in China—Hebi—that was relatively the same size as ours. Our mayor and city council members invited a delegation of Hebi’s citizens to visit our town, to be squired around and learn about local farming.

  Chen’s parents, who were part of that delegation, fell in love with Serenity and never returned home. Charles was born a year later, and his parents eventually became U.S. citizens.

  With a little laugh, the deputy said, “Nothing can keep that woman down. She’s already holding court in there!”

  “I’m not surprised. Anyone in particular, or just entertaining the nurses?”

  “Oh, it’s that woman from the Historical Preservation Society.”

  “Mrs. Snydacker?”

  He gave me half a grin. “That’s the one. Just don’t ask me to pronounce it.”

  I leaned in a little. “Listen, uh, Deputy . . . I really appreciate everything you do for Mother. Must not be much like working for Sheriff Rudder.”

  His eyebrows went up. “Well, every day is a new adventure!”

  “Tell me about it. Anyway, I’m grateful to you.”

  He gave me a little embarrassed smile, and a salute. “Bye, Brandy—I’ve got a full day ahead of me.”

  “Good luck,” I said.

  And off he went.

  I had wanted to spend time alone with Mother before the well-wishers and gossips descended, to vent my unhappiness with her (now that I knew she’d be okay), but that would have to wait.

  She was cranked up in bed beneath the thin covers in her private room, wearing one of those dreadful hospital gowns. Her left forearm was bandaged, and her right hand had been stuck with an IV. An oxygen tube snaked up into her nose.

  Upon spotting me, Mother said hypercheerfully, “Ah! Brandy! You know Evelyn Snydacker.”

  Well, her painkiller must be working, anyway, I thought.

  The midfifties smartly dressed, red-haired Mrs. Snydacker—proud owner of one-too-many face-lifts—had recently traded her position as president of the League of Women Voters for the Historical Preservation Society post.

  I nodded at the woman, who was at Mother’s bedside, taking up the only chair, which she did not vacate for me. She did offer me a patronizing smile.

  Mrs. Snydacker said, “Your brave mother was just about to tell me of her valiant effort to save poor Mr. Sutter.”

  Either that or how my valiant mother made a brave effort to save poor Mr. Sutter.

  Mother, eyeing my tray, asked eagerly, “Is that for me, darling girl? They’re late with breakfast.”

  “Glad to see your appetite is doing well.” I dropped the bag of clothes on a small counter, then handed her a Styrofoam cup of latte and a donut.

  Mother took a sip from the lid. “Yummy. Skim milk, I hope.”

  “Oh, yes.” It wasn’t, but why bother having a latte at all if it doesn’t contain at least whole or two percent?

  Mrs. Snydacker prompted, “Please continue, Vivian, and don’t stint on the details.”

  Mother never stinted on a detail, or anything else, really.

  “Well, if you insist,” Mother replied, hauling herself up straighter in the bed. “Anywho, there I was, on the sidewalk, watching that magnificent building going up in flames, when someone said that Jimmy was still inside!” She interrupted her melodramatic reading with a chomp on the donut. She chewed. Swallowed. “Pumpkin! My favorite.”

  We waited.

  “Well!” she continued, with the enthusiasm of a gossip getting ready to share the dirt, “I couldn’t simply stand by and not do my best to mount a rescue—Jimmy and I were old friends, after all.”

  Friends? Is that what she called it?

  “So I ran to the front door,” she went on, “despite the billowing smoke, then turned my head and took a deep breath—I used to be on the high school swim team, you know, and could swim underwater for over three minutes—and inside I went!”

  And another bite of donut went inside her.

  “I rushed toward the grand staircase—it was like something out of Titanic, only fire not water—and was about to start up when the flames came rushing down at me . . . the stairs completely engulfed in flames! It was as if Dante’s Inferno itself was manifesting to swallow me up!”

  She swallowed up a sip of latte.

  Frowning, she asked me, “Are you quite sure this is skim? Where was I?”

  I said, “About to get swallowed by Dante’s Inferno.”

  “Ah, yes. So. I had run out of breath . . .”

  A rare occurrence.

  “. . . and, rather than gulp in any foul smoky air, I held my breath just a little longer and sidestepped falling beams and burning furniture, navigating a veritable fiery obstacle course, until I was able to make it back outside.”

  Without Jimmy Sutton. Something smelled and not of smoke.

  “And that, my dears, is the last I remember until waking up in the ER, as if from a terrible, overwrought nightmare.”

  Yeah. Knew the feeling.

  Meanwhile, the final bite of donut disappeared into her mouth.

  “A remarkable tale.” Mrs. Snydacker sighed. “Like something out of Edgar Allan Poe!”

  I braced myself, fearful Mother might begin her famous recitation of “The Raven.” Make that infamous.

  Her guest was saying, “You really should receive a medal of valor.”

  Mother demurred. “That might be saying too much, Evelyn. I didn’t actually save Jimmy.” She paused. “But a citation for bravery would be nice. I’m sure the sheriff’s department has such a thing, and perhaps the fire department does as well.”

  Mrs. Snydacker rose. “Well. I will be sure to mention it to the mayor.”

  “Thank you, dear.”

  “But for now, I must be going. I’ve an appointment at nine with a reporter from the Sentinel who wants to do a story about the tragic loss of the Wentworth mansion.”

  “How nice for you,” Mother said. Which I thought was gracious of her until she added, “And should the reporter wish to interview me, I will not be hard to find, for the nonce.”

  For the nonsense, too.

  “I’ll mention that,” the woman replied.

  When Mrs. Snydacker had gone, I moved to the empty chair. “I thought you wanted nothing to do with the Sentinel.”

  This dated back to when their theater critic (who also handled obituaries and farm news) had given Mother a lackluster review of her one-woman performance of Libby Wolfson’s I’m Takin’ My Own Head, Screwin’ It on Right, and No Guy’s Gonna Tell Me That It Ain’t.

  Mother tossed a casual hand. “Well, dear, I’ve always said let bygones be bygones.”

  “Oh? When exactly was that?”

  She frowned and looked at me as if noticing my presence for the first time. “Now, Brandy, if you’ve come to belittle me, in my time of need . . .”

  I frowned back at her. “I’ve come to ask you what the h-e-double-hockey-sticks you were doing running into that burning house! You could’ve been killed. Didn’t you even think of
me?”

  “Well, that’s rather a selfish outlook, dear.”

  There was a knock on the doorjamb.

  “Hope I’m not intruding,” Miguel Ricardo said, then stepped into the room. Miguel, in his midthirties with dark wavy hair and an athletic build, was the stage manager at the Playhouse Theater.

  Despite his rather obvious charms, Miguel and Mother were not exactly simpatico, although they put on a good front, each needing the other. But she was firmly convinced that the stage manager lusted after her job as the theater’s artistic director.

  Mother all but purred, “You’re not intruding at all, my dear boy.”

  I suspected she was glad for the interruption.

  The stage manager came forward. “I heard what happened, just terrible, and thought this might cheer you up.” From behind his back, he produced a bouquet of flowers wrapped in clear plastic, like a magician performing an easy but nonetheless surprising trick.

  “Oh, you darling boy!” Mother cooed, accepting the gift. “How very thoughtful of you.” She took an exaggerated sniff, then passed the bouquet to me. “Find something to put these in, would you, dear?”

  A bedpan, maybe?

  I stood and went into the bathroom, where I indeed found a plastic bedpan, filled it with water, lay the flowers in it so that their stems were covered, and returned with it.

  Miguel looked taken aback as I placed the arrangement on the wide windowsill, but Mother seemed pleased, saying, “Very nice, dear. Excellent thinking outside the box!”

  Or within the pan.

  I was no competition for Mother in such things, of course. Once, during a manic repurposing phase at home, she filled an old enamel bedpan with floating candles and used it as a dining room table centerpiece.

  Like Mrs. Snydacker, Miguel—who had confiscated my chair, as I’d been on my feet raving and ranting at the patient—wanted to hear all of the details relating to Mother’s rescue attempt. In this version, she made it halfway up the burning staircase before it began to collapse, and she had to leap off, else be swallowed by flames.

  “Very noble,” Miguel said, “but foolish.”

  “Thank you.”

  “We would not want to lose you, Vivian. You know, I’d been working at the mansion myself, painting the upper-floor rooms. The place was something of a firetrap.”