Antiques Fire Sale

by Barbara Allan

  Serves 4

  I was just popping the dish into the oven when I heard the front door open.

  I left the kitchen and found Mother in the library/ music/TV room, which made an olfactory cocktail out of musty old books, stinky ancient cornets (she used to play one), and the piney bouquet of air freshener.

  Behind a turn-of-the-century-before-last stand-up piano, Mother stored an old-fashioned wooden chalkboard on wheels, which she was in the process of rolling out. The board was used to compile her suspect list on our cases.

  From the open French doorway, I asked, “Shouldn’t you wait for the pathologist’s report?”

  She looked at me. “It’s never too early to get the little gray cells working.”

  I moved to the piano bench and sat. No stopping her, once she starts quoting Hercule Poirot.

  Mother picked up a piece of white chalk from the lip of the board and wrote JAMES SUTTER SUSPECT LIST. Below that she put three headings: NAME, MOTIVE, OPPORTUNITY. She wrote GAVIN SUTTER, MONEY, and ? in the respective columns.

  She stepped back and surveyed her work. “It’s a start.”

  Over to you, Brandy, to throw the cold water on. “It’s not your investigation, Mother.”

  “Whose is it, then?”

  “Tony’s. Stay out of it.”

  Not looking at me, she said, “I’ll be discreet.”

  “When were you ever?”

  Mother turned away from the board. “Dear, there wouldn’t be an investigation if it weren’t for me. A killer would have gotten off scot-free if I hadn’t taken the initiative to call for an autopsy.”

  She wasn’t wrong.

  I said, “And I’m sure Tony is grateful. Now let him do his job.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Are you friend or foe?”

  “I’m a foe-for-your-own-good on this one.”

  Looking hurt (or pretending to be), she moaned, “Oh, ‘how sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have a thankless child!’”

  She loved to trot out that Shakespearean nugget—I’d heard it a kazillion times. But it gave me the segue I needed.

  “Speaking of plays,” I said, “you’ll never guess who dropped by the shop this afternoon.”

  “Who?”

  “Gladys Gooch.”

  “Who?”

  Doing her owl bit now, was she?

  I said, “The bank manager from Antiqua?”

  “Good Lord. Whatever did she want?”

  “What do you think?”

  Mother’s face paled. It had all come back to her.

  “Scoot over,” she said, and joined me on the bench.

  She stared into her fate. “I thought that overgrown waif would forget all about it. What does Gladys look like?”

  My arms were folded, my smile smug. “The same.”

  “Then I’m ruined,” she said.

  “Not necessarily. In fact, a curvy woman in the part of Olive might be refreshing. That is, if she can act.”

  Mother’s sigh came up from her toes. “No experience whatsoever.”

  “She’s spoken in front of banking conferences.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  I sighed. “If only you’d promised her an audition, and not the part. C’est la vie.”

  I was having too much fun at her expense, and almost felt a twinge of guilt. Emphasis on almost.

  “Why don’t you update the play?” I suggested. “Set it today instead of during World War II, and modernize the dated dialogue?”

  Mother twisted toward me. “You may have something there.” She sucked in air. “Perhaps turn it into a musical.”

  I frowned. “Where would you get the songs?”

  “I’d write them myself.”

  “But you’re opening in a month,” I said. “Even Sondheim can’t compose that fast.”

  Mother was positively giddy. “All I need are some new words! I’d use old standard tunes that are in public domain, like . . .” She thought a moment. “ ‘Beautiful Dreamer.’ Just apply new lyrics to them.” And she sang, “ ‘The voice of the turtle is calling to me. . . .’”

  Ye gads!

  “What if Gladys can’t sing?” I asked.

  Her smile was mildly crazed; it was early yet. “Then maybe she’ll drop out. Anyway, I’ll worry about that tomorrow night. When’s supper? I want to get started on some lyrics. Possibly ‘Danny Boy’—‘Oh Danny boy, the turtle, the turtle is callin’” . . . ‘The Star-Spangled Banner,’ perhaps—‘Oh, say can you hear, the voice of the turtle?’”

  What had I unleashed?

  Vivian’s Trash ’n’ Treasures Tip

  The higher the quality of the item, the greater longevity the piece will have. I look for antiques that will last at least another twenty years, because that’s how much time I figure I have left.

  Chapter Four

  In Which Vivian Can’t Stand the Heat

  And Brandy Gets Out of the Kitchen

  After the chicken casserole supper, which was a little soupy because I took it out of the oven prematurely, Mother left the cleanup to me—which broke our rule of whoever cooks doesn’t have to do the dishes.

  But she had disappeared into the library, and began plunking away at the piano while singing another public domain ditty—“I’m Just Wild About Harry,” changing Harry to William, the male lead in The Voice of the Turtle.

  Which was more out of tune, the piano or Mother? Tough call.

  Anyway, I had to get out of the house or lose what was left of my sanity, so I texted my BFF, Tina (short for Christina), to ask if I could hang out at her place for a few hours, immediately hearing back that she’d love to see me.

  I abandoned the dirty dishes in the sink, scrawled a note as to where I would be, and—since Sushi was in with Mother and seemed to be enjoying the caterwauling—slipped out.

  Tina; her husband, Kevin; and their two-year-old daughter lived in a white ranch-style house just outside of town on a bluff overlooking the Mississippi River, a spectacular year-round view. Nothing was more relaxing to me than spending an hour or two on the back patio with a glass of bubbly—Tina always kept a bottle of champagne on hand—chatting with my friend. We would lazily watch the traffic on the water—mostly speedboats, but also cargo-laden barges, heading toward the lock and dam to continue their travel downstream.

  But right now dusk blanketed the bluff, and a chilly fall wind was blowing, so I doubted we’d be outside, even with the gas fire pit going.

  A year younger than me, Tina had become my fast friend in high school, when yours truly came around a hall corner after school and found some senior girls picking on her. I’d let them know how I felt about bullying in the kind of no uncertain terms that would make the most seasoned sailor blush. Later, Tina and I both attended Serenity Community College, and—after we’d finished our two-year stint—I’d put a crimp in our friendship by marrying Roger, a broker in Chicago I’d met, who was ten years my senior.

  While I truly did love Roger, I had another agenda, too, which was to get away from Mother. Our union produced a wonderful son, Jake (now fourteen), who has lived with his father since the divorce but comes to stay with Mother and me during school breaks. Jake has been known to get caught up (along with me) in Mother’s investigative shenanigans, enjoying the experience more than I do.

  I won’t go into how I busted up my marriage by way of a poor decision at a Serenity High class reunion, fueled by how miscast I’d been as the wife of a big-time financial broker. Let’s leave it at this: Roger has since made peace with me, and I with him, and he’s now married to a strong, smart woman who is just the kind of partner he needed.

  As for Tina, she married Kevin, a terrific guy who worked for a pharmaceutical company, and they stayed in Serenity, intending to start a family, but then life threw them a curve. Tina got breast cancer and, while aggressive treatments gave her the highest chance, they also made Tina infertile. So I’d offered to be their surrogate, using Tina’s eggs harvested before the treatments began. Ni
ne months later came an adorable little baby girl they named Brandy.

  The porch light was on, and Tina answered the bell, looking as beautiful as ever—trim but shapely in a black cashmere sweater and skinny jeans, her lovely features framed by natural blond hair that fell to her shoulders like liquid gold, her wide smile revealing perfect teeth. I know, I should hate her.

  “Hey, stranger,” she said.

  I smiled back at her, if less perfectly. “Sorry it’s been so long.”

  “Well, you’re here now. That’s what counts.”

  “And you’re here for me when I need safe harbor from Mother, and that really counts.”

  I stepped inside, and she took my hand.

  Immediately I was accosted by a tiny cherub attired in pink, with a crown of yellow curls, brown eyes, and a button nose. She was clutching a book half her size.

  “Be-be, read me,” she squeaked to me, not quite yet able to pronounce “Brandy.”

  I scooped my little namesake up and held her close, taking in the scent of her hair and her baby-powdered skin, feeling the smoothness of her cheek against mine.

  Have to be frank with you. Being around the toddler was both joyous and painful for me. You see, I was not only her surrogate mother, I was her natural mother, too. When all Tina’s harvested eggs had been tried, with no results, the doctors took some of mine.

  Kevin materialized in T-shirt and jeans, a hunk of a guy with sandy-blond hair and a handsome, almost too-good-to-be-true face.

  “Brandy,” he announced. “You need a bath.”

  “Me or her?” I asked.

  “I’ll let that one pass,” he said with a smirk, and reached for Be-Be, who put up a fuss until I promised to read to her afterward.

  Then Kevin hoisted his daughter up onto his shoulders and hauled the giggling girl off to the bathroom.

  Tina, watching from the sidelines, smiled and said, “That will take a while, so we’ll have plenty of time to talk. Be-Be loves a bath, once she gets in there with all her toys, and Mr. Bubble does his magic.”

  “Mr. Bubble! They still make that stuff?”

  “Oh, yes. Kevin likes it too.”

  “A luxury I never enjoyed.”

  Mother had used dishwashing detergent to make bubbles for me, as if I were a dirty pan. Of course, sometimes in childhood I did have a dirty pan. No wonder my skin always itched.

  My friend curled a finger. “Come with me. You can pour your heart out while I pour champagne. I take it that’s the main reason for the visit.”

  “You know me too well.”

  In the modern kitchen, I sat in the dining area at the round un-modern oak table while Tina rummaged in the fridge, then brought over a bottle of bubbly. We preferred the cheap stuff—expensive champagne gave us both stomachaches.

  Returning to a cupboard for two flute glasses, she quipped, “Bette Davis once said, ‘There comes a time in every woman’s life when the only thing that helps is a glass of champagne.’”

  “Only lately,” I said, “there are lots of times in my life when that kind of help is needed.”

  Standing at the table, Tina popped the cork, then poured the sparkling beige liquid into both glasses and handed me a brimming flute glass. I took a sip, the bubbles tickling my nose. Bette Davis was right; I immediately felt better.

  “Unload,” she said, sliding into the chair next to me.

  I did, beginning with my continued servitude as Mother’s chauffeur, her modus operandi of overstepping her authority as sheriff, the strain on my relationship with Tony, and finally the inattention given to our antiques shop, which (should it continue) could put us out of business.

  “Wow,” Tina said. “You do have a lot on your shoulders. Have you talked with your therapist?”

  “Not lately.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re a lot cheaper. Plus, champagne.”

  She smiled. “Glad to provide gratis therapy, as long as you’re satisfied with the cheap bubbly prescription.”

  “What is your therapeutic guidance, Doctor?”

  “Stay on the Prozac.”

  “That’s what my therapist always says.”

  Tina cocked her head. “Is there anything else bothering you? Not that all of that isn’t plenty.”

  “Saved the best for last.”

  “Let’s have it.”

  “It’s pretty heavy.”

  “I can take it, Brandy. Shoot.”

  I threw up my hands. “The fall fashions suck! Where are the cute clothes?”

  “I know!” she said. “I don’t see anything in the stores or online that’s better than what I already have.”

  We trashed the fashion industry for a while, then Tina said, “I think we’re about due for a road trip, don’t you?”

  “Absotively,” I said, and clinked my glass with hers.

  Tina and I were serious veterans of the shopping wars, sustaining battle scars—me, a black eye; Tina, a sprained finger—during hand-to-hand combat with the enemy (fellow shoppers). Our skills had been honed over the years, enabling us to avoid enemy lines (by using the checkout in the men’s department), target the sales (usually in the back of the store), and uncover other combatant’s subterfuge (hiding items in a different section for later retrieval). Once, Tina and I infiltrated nine shopping centers in the greater Chicago area in a single day! Now that was a decisive victory making D-Day pale in comparison.

  We discussed our road trip strategy for a while, and then Kevin appeared, saying, “Teen, she wants you to read first, then Brandy.”

  Tina smiled. “That way she can prolong bedtime. Take my place, Kev?”

  “Glad to.”

  She departed, and Kevin got a beer from the fridge, then joined me.

  “How’s the new job?” I asked.

  Kevin had left the pharmaceutical business, which required him to travel more than he liked, in favor of becoming an independent insurance agent, using many different carriers instead of just one, like State Farm, for instance.

  “Job’s going well,” Kevin said. “I’m mostly dealing with health insurance, which can be a real challenge nowadays. But in another year or two, I’ll be able to buy into a partnership.”

  “With Cliff Reed?”

  Kevin nodded. “He handles home and auto and business coverage right now. But I’ll be taking over some of that, because he’s going to be extra busy for a while.”

  “Oh?”

  He took a gulp from the can. “Cliff is knee-deep, dealing with the policies of both James Sutter and Benjamin Wentworth.”

  Now I nodded. “Coverage for the mansion, and the antiques. Big losses on both.”

  Another swig of beer. “Yeah, what a mess! Not so much the mansion, which is pretty straightforward . . . although the cause of the fire has to be determined before there’s a payout.”

  “In case it was arson.”

  “Right.”

  I leaned forward. “You don’t think James Sutter himself might have started it, do you? And couldn’t make it out of there in time?”

  He didn’t speak for a moment, then added cryptically, “All I can say is, there are people who are glad that the mansion is gone.”

  I didn’t press him. This was really none of my business, although I could almost hear Mother’s voice in my ear, egging me on.

  But without prompting, Kevin continued. “The real headache is with the antiques.”

  “Oh? How much coverage are we talking?”

  “A million.”

  I whistled. “The carrier holding that policy is not going to be thrilled.”

  Kevin shrugged. “Naturally, they’ll look for ways to avoid paying up. And even if they express a willingness to do so, it could take years, verifying all the antiques. They’ll stretch it out, hoping for a lesser settlement.”

  “That’s why our merchandise at the shop isn’t covered,” I said, with a humorless half smile. “Too much trouble.”

  “Your situation is different, Brandy. You can
easily get business coverage without costly appraisals, by listing and keeping track of your inventory. Things you’re already doing.”

  “I guess didn’t realize that. I’ll talk to Mother.”

  “You really should.”

  Tina popped into the kitchen. “The con is yours, Captain,” she told me.

  I left the table to read to Be-Be. Or I should say, for her to read to me, mostly, since she had the book completely memorized.

  * * *

  The following morning, Wednesday, I took Sushi and drove Mother in the C-Max to her office at the county jail, dropped her off, then parked a few blocks away in the lot of the First National Bank, where Cliff Reed had his office on the building’s top floor.

  The night before, after tucking myself into bed, I’d realized that something I owned, something very precious to me, was not insured: my rare 1930s bird’s-eye maple Art Deco bedroom set: head- and footboard, six-drawer dresser, pair of nightstands, plus a pedestal vanity with huge half-circle mirror spanning its length.

  Meaning to be gone just a few minutes, I left Sushi in the car, went into the bank, and took the elevator to the third floor. In the office I approached the receptionist—a young woman with strawberry blond hair and noticeable curves—and introduced myself. I was about to ask for an appointment with Cliff when the agent himself appeared.

  “Brandy, right?” he asked, with a mild smile. “I spotted you from the hall.”

  In his late forties or perhaps early fifties, Cliff Reed had light brown hair, a matching mustache, and an open face one could readily trust. He was wearing a white shirt with sleeves rolled back, paisley-patterned silk tie, dark gray dress slacks, and—for a touch of rebellion—Nikes.

  “Yes, hi. And you’re Cliff.”

  “I’m Cliff. Are you wanting to see Kevin or me?”

  “You. I already have health insurance.”

  The agent checked his watch, glanced up with the smile again. “I have a little time before my next appointment. Care to fill it?”