Antiques Fire Sale

by Barbara Allan

  Nodding, Mother said, “I knew someone was doing that kind of work there. I didn’t realize it was you.”

  He shrugged. “Have to bring in some extra money when we’re between productions at the Playhouse.” A sigh. “I suppose now I’ll have to deal with Sutter’s estate to get paid. Several hundred dollars’ worth of my painting supplies went up in smoke! Good thing I kept the receipts.”

  “I’m sure you’ll come out all right,” she said, which would sound sincere to most people, but not to me.

  The stage manager shifted in the chair. “If there’s anything I can do for you, Vivian, while you’re recuperating, do please let me know.” Which also sounded sincere, but not to me.

  “There’s nothing I can think of,” Mother replied pleasantly, “but if I come up with something, I’ll let you know.”

  That I believed.

  Miguel cleared his throat, and I figured he was about to get around to the real reason for the visit, since Mother’s welfare was probably not it.

  “As you know, the tryouts for the new play are tomorrow night,” he said, “and seeing as how you’re in the hospital, I’d be happy to step in.”

  I looked at Mother, knowing that he’d already stepped in . . . it.

  “No need,” she chirped. “I’ll be there with bells on.”

  He eyed her bandaged arm. “Are you sure?”

  “Tut tut. This is merely a superficial wound—a flesh wound, as they used to say in the old westerns. Nothing worse than one might get from a hot stove.”

  A hot stove in a burning house with the grand stairway engulfed in flames.

  She went on: “Your concern is most heartwarming, but not, I assure you, necessary. And thank you for the flowers. Rarely has a bedpan been graced with such beauty.”

  Dis-missed!

  The stage manager stood, smiled wanly, nodded, then strode out.

  “The snake!” Mother muttered. “Why, he can just smell the directorship!”

  “Maybe it’s just the smoke.”

  Something had been bothering me about her various varying recitations of heroism, something that went beyond her usual embellishments. Mother was downright fibbing.

  I moved to her bedside. “You weren’t really trying to save Mr. Sutter, were you? You may be fond of your old flames, but none of them are worth burning over. Are they?”

  Her eyes avoided mine.

  “Are they?”

  She looked at me languidly. “No, dear. Memories last forever, but old loves fade away. Anyway, I’m neither that brave nor foolish.”

  I felt my chin crinkle as my face drew in upon itself. “It was that ugly Tiffany vase you wanted to save! Wasn’t it?”

  “No comment.”

  My frown softened into a quizzical look. “But you didn’t come out with it.”

  “That’s certainly true.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, the truth is the truth, isn’t it?”

  “That’s rich, coming from you. Quit dodging. Why didn’t you save the life of that vase?”

  “Simple. Because it wasn’t there, dear.”

  “Where is it, then?”

  “Now that’s an excellent question. Get me the gauze and tape in that drawer.” She gestured impatiently toward the nightstand.

  “What for?”

  “Must you question everything?”

  If I didn’t, I’d really be in trouble. But I carried out her orders nonetheless, placing the requested items in her outstretched palm.

  Mother made a thick square from the gauze, tore off a stretch of tape, then reached for the clamp on the IV tube.

  Alarmed, I asked, “What are you doing?”

  “What does it look like? Shutting off the drip.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m getting out of here.”

  “But you haven’t been released!”

  “I’m releasing myself on my own recognizance.”

  She clamped the drip, placed the gauze over where the IV entered her skin, then pulled the needle out. She needed my help in affixing the tape over the gauze, which I did, even as I threatened to call the nurse.

  “Don’t you dare!” she snapped, and threw back the covers, revealing legs that were splotched with red here and there, and shiny with ointment, but were not bad enough to require bandaging.

  Mother got out of the bed and stood before me. “I’ve got something of vital importance to do, and time is of the essence. Now, go watch the hallway while I get dressed, and we’ll go when the coast is clear.”

  She snatched up the bag of clothes and disappeared into the bathroom.

  * * *

  Around noon, I steered the SUV into a parking spot in front of the courthouse. On the way, Mother had been tight-lipped, other than giving me my marching orders. We exited the vehicle, went up a few cement steps, then followed the long sidewalk that cut through an expansive manicured lawn dotted with ancient oak trees and beds of colorful autumn mums to where double glass doors awaited.

  Our destination turned out to be the office of the coroner, one of about a dozen small rooms on the second floor, encircling the upper rotunda occupied by various city officials.

  Mother approached a wood and pebble-glassed door that read HECTOR HORNSBY, COUNTY CORONER, and without knocking, she—we—barged in.

  The coroner’s office was even smaller than the commissioner’s. No secretary at the gate, just Hector behind a metal desk—a middle-aged, round, balding, round-faced, bespectacled man who appeared deer-in-the-headlights startled upon seeing her.

  “Oh,” he said. “You’ve been released from the hospital, I see.”

  Behind Mother, I said, “More like escaped.”

  Hector asked, “Something you want, Vivian—er, Sheriff?”

  “Yes. An autopsy performed on James Sutter. Toot sweet.”

  Hector’s eyes bulged behind the spectacles. “Whatever for?”

  Her chin lifted. “I suspect foul play.”

  He sat back, the chair creaking, then folded his arms and rested them on a protruding paunch. “On what evidence?”

  “For the moment, I’d rather not say.”

  His frown, on that round face, had a pasted-on look. “Sheriff, I can’t spend the taxpayer’s money without a valid reason for the autopsy. As you well know, James Sutter’s death was due to the fire.”

  Mother closed in on the desk. “He was examined?”

  “No need. I’ve seen countless deaths by fire.”

  “I see. Let’s not count this one out just yet. What if, because of your negligence, someone gets away with murder? That would be dereliction of duty.”

  The chair snapped forward. “Are you questioning my competence?”

  “I merely think it would be prudent to have the medical examiner look at the body. It would be terrible to end so stellar a career on an oversight.” She paused, adding, “Especially when you’re up for reelection this year.”

  Hector regarded her with silent hostility, then opened a drawer, withdrew a paper, and slapped it on the desk.

  “All right,” he said. “I’ll authorize your autopsy.” It sounded like he really did mean her autopsy. He picked up a pen. “But if the medical examiner doesn’t find anything to back up your claim, yours will be the authority I cite!” He waggled the pen at her. “And you’ll be up for reelection sometime too.”

  “Where is Jimmy?” Mother asked. “In the hospital morgue?”

  Hector began filling out the form. “Neither. His stepson, Gavin Sutter, had him transported to the funeral home.” He paused to give Mother a smug little smile. “I believe the body was to be cremated. You may want to hurry.”

  * * *

  The aptly named Dunn Cremation and Burial, a modern facility on the edge of town, had put Serenity’s other long-standing funeral home out of business, as more and more folks opted for “ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”

  But not Mother. She wanted to be coifed and adorned, laid out for display in a white coffin wearin
g a dress she’d already picked out and designated in her closet, and intending to be interred in a crypt she’d purchased in the big above-ground marble mausoleum along with Serenity’s highest society.

  Mother ordered me to drive around to the back of the facility and park by the awninged entrance where the deceased were discreetly delivered.

  As per usual, Mother jumped out before I’d shut off the engine, and hurried inside, in a way few customers here did.

  I followed, catching up to her at a door labeled CREMATORIUM, which she flung open wide. I followed tentatively.

  The room was all white and stainless steel. Straight ahead was a roller belt and on it a mahogany casket moved inextricably toward a yawning chamber, whose mouth danced with hungry flames.

  Mother shouted, “Stop the presses!”

  The funeral owner, Mr. Dunn—impeccably dressed in a dark gray pin-striped suit, his white hair parted on one side and perfect—was standing at the controls watching the procedure. Startled, he turned to her.

  “Is that James Sutter?” Mother bellowed.

  “Yes. . . . What—?”

  Striding toward him, she commanded, “As sheriff of Serenity County, I order you to halt the procedure.”

  Visibly rattled, Dunn nevertheless did as he was told, turning back to the controls, preventing the coffin from meeting the waiting flames.

  Off to the side was a glassed-in observation room reserved for relatives of the deceased to view the procedure if they wished. Inside stood three people: a man and woman, both about forty, and a younger version of the woman, perhaps twenty.

  The man flew out of the room and descended upon Mother like an avenging angel.

  A six-footer with short-cropped sandy-colored hair, he had an angular face that may or may not have been handsome—I couldn’t tell, because it was contorted with anger. He wore a gray suit and black tie.

  He demanded, “What in God’s name are you doing?”

  She regarded him coolly. “Nothing in God’s name. What I’m doing is in the name of the law. I’m stopping this cremation.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re Jimmy’s stepson?”

  He looked at her in dazed confusion. “Yes. Gavin Sutter.”

  “Well, I’m Sheriff Vivian Borne, and I’ve ordered an autopsy.”

  “You have to be joking!”

  “I never joke.”

  She doesn’t. Really. No sense of humor whatsoever. You laugh at her, not with her.

  Mother was saying, “I have good reason to believe your stepfather was murdered.”

  She climbed way out on that limb. And me without a saw.

  “That’s insane!” Gavin said. He turned to Dunn, looking for help or perhaps a ray of sanity. “Can she do this?”

  The funeral owner shrugged. “This kind of thing doesn’t come up that often.”

  Gavin rotated back to Mother. “Well, as next of kin I won’t give my consent.”

  “Your consent isn’t necessary,” Mother told him, producing the paper given to her by Hector. To Dunn she said, “Please transport Mr. Sutter to the hospital morgue.”

  Mother turned abruptly and left, me trailing after her.

  In the SUV, I said, “You could have handled Gavin with a trifle more compassion, you know.”

  “I suppose,” she allowed. “But I prefer to apologize later . . . if I can eliminate him as a suspect.”

  A Trash ’n’ Treasures Tip

  To protect your identity and money, look for secure payment options such as Auction Payment Network (APN) and PayPal, or places that have current fraud protection software to ensure only trustworthy sellers. I thought a website that offered a bargain-priced Chanel bag was legit, but it wasn’t—the site or the bag, which I still have (please don’t rat me out).

  Chapter Three

  In Which Vivian Flames Out And Brandy Gets Burned

  Dearest ones!

  This is Sheriff Vivian Borne taking over the narrative because Brandy is simply too squeamish to accompany me to the late Jimmy’s autopsy.

  But you aren’t, are you? You’re certainly curious about what a medical examiner can possibly discern from a burned body.

  Me too!

  But lest you worry, let me assure you this won’t be visually graphic like some episodes of CSI or Criminal Minds, or even the mild-mannered Murdoch Mysteries series. Of course, the printed word often can conjure up disturbing images in one’s mind that outdo more literal depictions on screen—just consider of the works of Edgar Allan Poe. “The Tell-Tale Heart” can still make me shiver! Buh-bump-buh-bump-buh-bump. . .

  Uh-oh . . . I can sense that a few faint-of-telltale-heart readers may be on the verge of bailing—well, no harm, no foul! I won’t think any less of you, even though Jimmy himself is well beyond buh-bumping at this stage of things. Just pick up the story line with the paragraph beginning, “Dear Reader.”

  All others who wish to be enlightened, ye of stout telltale hearts, come along.

  (Note to Vivian from Editor: Are you sure this is a good idea?)

  (Note to Editor from Vivian: I gave readers a “skip to,” didn’t I? Options are always a positive!)

  (Note to Vivian from Editor: All right, but keep it clinical—no gore!)

  (Note to Editor from Vivian: Roger Wilco. No gore, as the Supreme Court once said.)

  The autopsy room, in the lower reaches of the hospital (isn’t that more dignified than saying “bowels”?), was similar to a regular operating room except that it contained different procedural apparatus, and coolers for the bodies.

  Jimmy was stretched out on his back on a stainless-steel examination table that had a perforated top for the drainage system, plus a small sink with faucets at one end. His badly burned body was black, purple, and gray, the flesh peeled back like the bark of a birch tree, his face nearly indistinguishable. A strip of white cloth discreetly covered his lower abdomen, possibly for my benefit.

  Tom Peak was the medical examiner, a tall middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair and a long, lined face. He had on a white smock with lapel microphone, blue latex gloves, and plastic goggles.

  I stood next to him on one side of the table, sans white smock but wearing the protective goggles that just barely fit over my own glasses.

  He said, “No interruptions, or you’re out.”

  “I’ll be as quiet as a church mouse,” I replied. Then, recalling that my church sometimes had some pretty noisy meeses, I added, “I won’t make a peep.”

  Which implied I planned to be quiet as a baby bird, and they aren’t really quiet at all, but . . .

  “See that you don’t.”

  Tom tapped the little microphone, gave his name, the date, and the location of the autopsy; then, consulting a clipboard with a printout, he continued, “The subject is James Sutter . . . male . . . length seventy-two inches . . . weight, one hundred ninety-six pounds . . .”

  “Oh, he was heavier than that,” I said, and immediately clamped both hands over my mouth, like one of the three famous see-no-hear-no-speak-no monkeys.

  Tom glared at me, and I made a “zip” sign across my lips.

  His attention returned to Jimmy and the microphone. “I will be conducting an external examination—”

  “Just external?” I blurted.

  Tom covered the mic with a latexed hand. “Vivian, I warned you!”

  “But . . . then you’ll proceed to an internal exam, correct?”

  “The external will determine whether an internal is warranted. Now, no more interruptions. Please.”

  Unhappy, I nodded.

  Tom continued with his evaluation. “The subject has been badly burned over ninety percent of his body.”

  He lifted the head and turned it slowly to one side and then the other. “There appears to be trauma to the back of the skull.”

  “Goodie!” I exclaimed. “Now you’ll have to do the internal.”

  He thrust an arm with pointing finger toward the door. “Out! Oh-you-tee!”
<
br />   Not taking this literally, I commented, “You’ll have to take a biopsy of the lungs and esophagus for traces of smoke inhalation.”

  “Leave!”

  Apparently it was literal. I started out, saying over my shoulder, “And if there isn’t any, Jimmy was killed before the fire.”

  “Thank you for that final insight, Sheriff.”

  “I’m going . . . I’m going. . . .”

  I went, but in a most self-satisfied fashion.

  Dear reader, I am so terribly sorry that we got thrown out of the autopsy room. (My first time, too!) (Not my first time getting thrown out of somewhere, of course.) But I’m sure in time another such procedure will come along, and I will keep you in mind.

  Nevertheless, I have created a problem for myself. Which is, what am I going to write for the rest of this chapter? I certainly don’t want to bounce the ball back to Brandy (alliteration is fun!), so I’ll tell you something that has really gotten my dander up lately.

  Normally, I would not talk about politics for fear of alienating readers, but since both the right and the left have been equally offensive in this matter, I feel compelled to rectify it.

  What is “it?”

  “It” is cable news guests and anchors referring to those who are judged to be (by one side or the other) “bad actors,” which is an insult to those of us who toil so nobly in the theatrical community. This abominable phrase is giving bad actors everywhere a bad name! Even worse is the usage of “bad-faith actors,” which is doubly offensive, mixing religion with politics, and with the thespian arts.

  So I say to politicians (and news commentators), stick to your own profession and stay out of others! You both have plenty of “bad” in your own backyards!

  * * *

  Brandy back.

  Boy, that was quick for Mother. She’s had half chapters before, but that was, what? A fifth of one? Maybe, considering the autopsy subject matter, you should have stuck with me—but not that much is happening on my end.

  Having no stomach for attending the examination of a badly burned cadaver, I dropped Mother at the hospital, then (technically doing so illegally) drove the sheriff’s car the short distance home, parking it in front of the house.