The middle-aged auction-house man gave the appearance of a distinguished college professor, sporting wire-framed glasses, a well-trimmed beard, a three-piece brown tweed suit, and his trademark argyle socks.
With his infectious smile, and deeply resonant voice, Michael had rapidly expanded his Iowa City-based business to outlying areas, chiefly by undercutting the competition, taking the lowest percentage of sales in eastern Iowa.
‘Vivian,’ Michael said, an amused twinkle in his eye, ‘I thought you might wrangle an invite.’
‘You know me all too well, dear.’
Which he did, having once offered to combine our businesses, and more than once to merge not just our company names. But somehow I just couldn’t see myself darning argyle socks.
I said, ‘I’m a bit surprised you took this one on.’
He gave me that smile, the one that meant business but not the antiques business, if you know what I mean. Let’s just say it conveyed a certain charm, making me wonder if I’d made a mistake spurning him. After all, a girl could always just discreetly buy new argyles …
‘Viv, you know my motto,’ he said. ‘Every estate has its rewards.’ Then he leaned in to whisper, ‘But I may regret the time that went into this one.’ He straightened and his voice returned to a normal level. ‘On the other hand – did you know Colette Dumont made the trip down here?’
I sucked in air. ‘Do tell!’
He nodded, gestured toward the back. ‘Last I saw her, she was in the kitchen.’
I had long wanted to meet the elusive, still-single lady, who owned an upscale antiques shop, also in Iowa City, but seemed to spend much of her time abroad. The few opportunities I’d had to drive to her store in hopes of catching her there – back when I had my driver’s license, of course (as far as you, and Brandy, know) – I’d invariably been greeted by an underling.
‘What’s on offer here,’ Michael said, ‘seems a trifle mundane for the likes of Colette herself Dumont. What does she know that we don’t know, Vivian?’
‘Probably a good number of things, my dear.’
‘No argument there.’
‘As nice as it is to see you,’ I said, quietly, ‘can we suspend the chitchat till I’ve had a chance to get a look around? Much of the competition has beaten me to the punch already.’
He gave me that smile again. ‘I understand – the thrill of the hunt. I should circulate, anyway, myself. One client leads to another, after all.’
I patted his arm, then made a beeline for the kitchen, on the way spotting Skylar talking to Ruth’s son-in-law, Jared Wallace. Skylar was in his typical western wear, if a little spiffier than usual, though Jared was strictly Harley T-shirt and old jeans. So I wasn’t the only townie interloper among the out-of-town dealers.
The legendary Colette was seated at an oaken table, an example of modern early American style, certainly too gauche for la Grande Dame Dumont to be interested in. As she held court, other dealers gathered around her, standing behind chairs they dared not take themselves.
This was a rare public appearance, after all. Colette was a unicorn among horses, not to mention a few jackasses.
I could only admire her poise and beauty, reluctant though those feelings were. She was an extremely well-conserved fifty, her lovely Elizabeth Taylor-like face due to excellent genes perhaps, or maybe a skilled plastic surgeon (possibly both – I wonder who hers was?), her chin-length bob black and sleek, her attire expensive, most likely Parisian couture.
Colette was saying, ‘And then when my father died, I took over his business, though I had not an iota of knowledge about antiques. My indoctrination came rather quickly when I let a Ming Dynasty vase go for less than half its value, not realizing the rarity.’ A musical laugh. ‘I never made such an abecedarian mistake again – about anything.’
Titters and grins all around. I was not grinning, however – her pretentious manner of speech I found insufferable!
‘Would you like some coffee, Ms Dumont?’ Tiffany interjected. The late Ruth’s daughter had been standing apart from the group near a coffee station, sipping from a ceramic mug with a kitty on it.
Colette gave her a warm smile. ‘It does smell delicious, Tiffany. But I must decline. I monitor my caffeine carefully.’
Not one to stand on the sidelines, I muscled my way to the table to ask bluntly, ‘You’re well known for your shop, Ms Dumont. But don’t you operate as a picker, as well? Does that explain why you’ve honored us with your presence?’
Her violet eyes turned to me. ‘You’re Vivian Borne, aren’t you?’ Which was presented more as a statement, than question. A slender, manicured hand never introduced to dishwater came toward me.
I extended one that knew dishwater well, and we shook. Legend meets legend.
‘In the flesh,’ I said.
Releasing my hand, she enthused, not just to me but to the dealers paying her homage, ‘I’ve long been wanting to meet the gifted Mrs Borne!’ Then, to me, she said, ‘I’ve admired your talents ever since I trekked to the Serenity Community Theater and witnessed your artistry in You Can’t Take It With You.’
Good Lord! I hoped that wasn’t the performance where I accidentally set the curtains ablaze after insisting on using real fireworks.
Colette went on, ‘In my opinion, your portrayal of the Grand Duchess Olga surpassed Elizabeth Ashley’s in the Broadway revival of some years ago.’
I’d thought so, too, even though I had never actually seen that performance. But I half-bowed and did a roll of my hand as if addressing a sultana, and demurred, ‘How kind of you.’
I had obviously misjudged this woman. She was clearly a creature of exquisite taste and perception.
‘And, of course,’ she went on, ‘you are equally adept as an author. When traveling, I always download your latest mystery on my tablet, and … if I’m not overstepping to say so … I find the chapters you’ve written yourself far more compelling, far better-written, than those of your daughter’s, however well-meaning a child she might be.’
Such discerning taste!
(Note to Mother from Brandy: She didn’t say that last part.)
(Note to Brandy from Mother: Are you calling me a liar?)
(Note to Mother from Brandy: Very perceptive, Mother. And discerning.)
(Note to Vivian and Brandy from Editor: Ladies, I must insist that you please settle this matter before we go to the proof stage. Corrections then!)
(Mother and Brandy: Always.)
I began, ‘Ms Dumont—’
‘Please … call me Colette. And might I call you Vivian? … Good. Thank you.’ Her smile was dazzling. ‘I feel as though we’re going to be great friends.’
What an honor!
‘But Colette,’ I began, ‘if you might answer my question? Which in retrospect I believe may have been indelicately phrased.’
‘Not at all, Vivian. You are correct. I do act as a, shall we say, “personal shopper” for certain select clients – but “picker” is such a vulgar word, don’t you think?’
‘I do,’ I said, but I didn’t really. I always thought ‘vulgar’ sounded just like what it described.
She continued: ‘As a seasoned globe-trotter, I have found that adding the service arrow to my quiver, so to speak, is beneficial to business.’ She leaned forward with an amused smile and all but whispered, ‘After all, it makes travel deductible.’
What a clever woman!
Vivian Borne, I told myself, you’ve never misjudged anyone so thoroughly.
Colette pushed back her chair and stood; unlike Liz Taylor, she was tall and slender as well as lovely.
‘And now I must go,’ the esteemed antiques dealer pronounced. ‘I have an auction to attend this afternoon.’ The crowd parted, Red Sea-like, as she crossed over to Tiffany, granting her a smile.
‘Has my purchase been loaded into my car, Mrs Wallace?’
Tiffany, who appeared intimidated by the sudden close proximity to the woman – as if in the presence of
royalty – responded, ‘Yes, Ms Dumont. Jared has already taken care of it.’
That justified wearing T-shirt and jeans to his late mother-in-law’s tag sale – not that I figured he’d have dressed any differently in other circumstances.
Tiffany concluded the exchange: ‘And thank you for coming, Ms Dumont.’
‘Most happy to.’
Colette departed, leaving behind a gaggle of admirers, myself included, frankly. I’d been so wrong about her.
I wandered back into the living room, looking for something to buy to justify my presence without it costing much. In the process of doing so, I bumped into a woman I recognized as Skylar’s wife, Angela – literally bumped into her. We had never formally met, though I’d seen her once at The Trading Post, dropping something off to her husband.
After apologizing for not looking where I was going – I do get distracted on murder cases, even just potential ones – I introduced myself, and said, ‘You and your husband have such an interesting shop. A very nice addition to Serenity’s antiquing family.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Borne.’ She was a dark-haired, curvy beauty as compared to her fair-haired, slender husband, lending credence to the adage that opposites attract. ‘But I’m hardly ever there. I stick to teaching.’
‘Skylar did mention that.’ I cocked my head. ‘Then I’m surprised you were able to attend the preview this morning.’
‘Spring break.’
‘Ah! A godsend to both students and teachers.’
‘I’m only along in case Skylar buys something and needs help loading and unloading.’ She smiled, said, ‘Nice to meet you,’ and moved on.
A collection of Snowbabies figurines arranged on an accent table near the front window caught my eye. While examining them, I happened to glance outside. At the curb, standing next to a silver Jaguar, Colette was speaking to Skylar. Since his back was to me, and she was blocked by him, I could draw no conclusions about the conversation.
I kept examining the figurines until Colette got into her expensive ride and drove off, while Skylar returned inside.
‘You’ve met Ms Dumont before?’ I asked as he was passing by.
‘Never had the pleasure,’ he said, with just a touch of western drawl and a sideways smile. ‘Nice gal. Knowledgeable, too. Pardon.’
And he kept moving.
Having no reason to extend my stay further, I selected a Snowbaby, paid one of Michael’s minions for it at a table near the front door, and returned to the kitchen to remind Tiffany of Tilda’s one o’clock death class.
Upon entering, I found the recently crowded kitchen now empty but for two people: Ruth’s daughter in the arms of Skylar. My, this cowboy did get around! Not his first time at the rodeo …
‘Pardon me!’ I said, and began to back out.
‘Oh … Mrs Borne,’ Tiffany said, extracting herself from the young man, her eyes red and a little puffy. ‘It’s … not what it looks like.’
‘None of my business, I’m sure.’ Admittedly, that’s not something I often say.
She went on: ‘I didn’t think the sale would affect me so much, and Mr James just happened to be the nearest shoulder to cry on.’
‘It’s a nice enough shoulder,’ I said.
Skylar asked Tiffany sympathetically, ‘Would you like me to get Jared for you?’
‘No!’ she responded sharply. Then, softer, ‘I’ll be all right. It just … took me by surprise, is all. The rush of emotions.’
I asked, ‘Why don’t we sit down and I’ll keep you company a while. Maybe you can have some coffee and relax a bit.’
My offer was accepted, and – as I led Tiffany to the oak table – Skylar slipped out.
‘Don’t berate yourself, my dear,’ I said, once she and I had settled. ‘Your mother was a trying woman, self-centered, boorish, and rude. But that doesn’t lessen the loss, does it?’
Always adept at consoling, with a peerless instinct of just what to say, I seldom need to speak but a few sentences before the troubled person claims to feel better now, and that I needn’t say more.
‘I’m all right, Mrs Borne,’ Tiffany responded.
I rest my case.
But I continued, ‘Because of your relationship with this difficult woman, I think it’s vitally important that you attend Tilda’s session this afternoon, so you might finally confront your feelings, and put them to rest.’ So to speak. ‘Otherwise, they’ll fester like a boil, growing larger and larger, only to burst later, when you least expect it, projecting purulence all over everything.’
Thank you, Neil Gaiman!
She nodded slowly. ‘You’re right.’
‘Perhaps it would be helpful if we went together.’ I didn’t want her backing out at the last minute.
And if you’re thinking that my attempts at consolation were actually just an effort to manipulate her into attending that class of Tilda’s, well, don’t you think I’m capable of doing two things at once?
‘Thank you, Mrs Borne, but I have my car, and I’ll leave from here after the sale.’
I stood. ‘Then I’ll see you at Dunn’s at one. Oh! And you’ll need to bring a framed photo of yourself.’
I gathered my small purchase and exited the kitchen. On my way out the front door, Skylar and Angela were on the porch in the midst of what appeared to be a tense, no, intense conversation, which abruptly ceased upon seeing my shining face.
Could the couple have been fighting over Tiffany?
Could Tiffany have been leaning on more of Skylar than just a shoulder?
Seated around a table in a meeting room at the Dunn funeral home, and ready to participate in Tilda’s first session as a death doula, were six people: myself; Frannie (my aforementioned friend and a former nurse); Vern, a retired chiropractor and member of the ROMEOS group (Retired Old Men Eating Out); Norma Crumley, Serenity’s foremost socialite and president of the local League of Women Voters; and two college-age girls, possibly here for a lark, or perhaps with genuine New Age leanings.
Thus far, Tiffany was a no-show.
Tilda, wearing her usual bohemian attire – white blouse with voluminous sleeves, long patchwork skirt, Birkenstock sandals – stood before a large blackboard. Exuding an aura of peace and calm, Tilda was a slender forty-something with long golden-red hair, translucent skin, and a scattering of youthful freckles across the bridge of her nose.
The guru addressed the class.
‘For those who don’t know me, I’m Matilda Tompkins – but everyone calls me Tilda.’ She paused with a somber smile. ‘I want to thank you for participating in the first session of “Appreciating Life Through Death,” which will be a new experience for all of us, myself included.’
The door opened, and Tiffany rushed in, looking a little flushed; she was carrying the requested framed photo of herself (Tilda had collected ours earlier) and slipped into the nearest empty chair. We locked eyes, and I smiled reassuringly.
Heads swiveled back to Tilda, who continued: ‘What does a death doula do? Many assist in the dying process, helping families cope with the passing of a loved one by recognizing it as a natural process.
‘Others work directly with the dying person, caring for their physical, emotional, and spiritual needs. They are, however, as I am, non-medical professionals – that is to say, not trained in the medical field – and prescribe no medicines.
‘It’s important to understand that death doulas – or end-of-life doulas – are relatively new to America, and represent an ever-evolving field.
‘I restrict myself to the area of spirituality and enlightenment of the living, to reintroduce joy back into the lives of those whose existence has become joyless, whether through hardship or hard-heartedness. And to remind them that life will come to an end, so they should make the most of the time they have left.’
My mind began to wander (as perhaps yours has, too).
Was Tiffany having an affair with Skylar, as was my initial impression?
‘My approach is nature-based
, supported by psychopomp, with a heavy dose of shaman …’
What was the conversation that passed between Skylar and Colette?
‘In a repressed society that avoids dealing with death, it’s important to become comfortable with it, to understand the natural conclusion of life …’
Could that really have been the first time Skylar met Colette?
‘To that end – pun definitely intended – I’ve taken a ceremonial approach, where my students will have an opportunity not only to confront death, but also detox emotionally, and reflect on how precious life is.’
What had Skylar and Angela been discussing?
‘When this class is over, I hope that each of you will have a new outlook on life, and no longer harbor a fear of death.’
And, finally, had I selected the right Snowbaby?
‘In order to simulate your funeral – or living funeral, if you like – Mr Dunn has been gracious enough to provide the coffins—’
Norma Crumley interrupted: ‘We’re not getting inside them, are we?’
‘Yes,’ Tilda answered. ‘I thought you understood the nature of this class.’
‘Not that part!’ the socialite exclaimed. ‘And we’re certainly not going to slide into the … the …’
‘Crematorium itself? No. The coffins are positioned on the floor nearby and will remain there.’ The guru put a finger to her lips. ‘Although, in future, that might be a nice touch – furnace off, of course.’
Norma persisted. ‘Surely the lids won’t be closed!’
‘Just for ten minutes,’ Tilda said.
And don’t call me ‘Shirley!’ Isn’t Airplane just the funniest film?
Tilda was saying, ‘Closing them for that long will give you time to reflect upon—’
Standing abruptly, Norma announced, ‘No thank you.’
In another moment she was gone.
Tilda, seemingly nonplussed, asked, ‘Anyone else unclear on the procedure? Or would like to reconsider?’ A pause. ‘You must trust in the ceremony – otherwise, having me just stand here lecturing you on how to better appreciate life won’t be nearly as powerful or effective.’
Silence.
Another somber smile from Tilda. ‘Excellent. And now, as a symbolic gesture, each of you will write a brief will.’ She began to pass out paper and pens. ‘Don’t worry, it’s not a real document. Not legally binding in the least.’
Antiques Carry On Page 9
