At the base of the stairs I pushed open another panel, and reappeared in the kitchen behind a cart of pots and pans. Once a dark, claustrophobia-inducing place, the kitchen had been completely remodeled since I’d snuck my last piece of cake. Now it seemed huge—all bright white and shining chrome, with modern, restaurant-quality appliances.
I stood unnoticed as the room swirled with people in motion, coming and going as they added more and more food to the already-overflowing counters. The mixture of smells was dizzying—at once wonderful and horrible—but one really stood out: the inviting aroma of Mrs. Mulligan’s stew.
She stood a short distance away, at the oversized stove, stirring her famous concoction in a large vat with a long wooden spoon. (She wasn’t in the vat—the spoon was.)
As I approached, she glanced up from her task, and said, “Well, well…I’ll be a monkey’s auntie…. If it isn’t Brandy Borne.”
And she did look like a monkey’s aunt—a orangutan to be exact, with her short Lucille Ball-red wig (a little off-kilter), facial hair, and close-set beady eyes. She had the kind of unpleasant appearance that made it difficult to think kind thoughts even in church.
Mrs. Mulligan was well-known in Serenity as the town gossip, running rings around Mother. Unlike Mother, this woman was indiscriminate in her scandalmongering; she didn’t care if the gossip was true or not, or who it hurt. Still, that hadn’t stopped Mother from going over to Mrs. Mulligan’s, once or twice a week, and not for stew.
With a nod, I said, “Mrs. Mulligan.”
An eyebrow arched, she replied, “I can’t say I approve of any woman renting out her womb….”
At first I thought she had said “room,” Elmer Fudd-style, but then her ball-bearing eyes drifted to my stomach.
I said, “It’s rent-free. My best friend couldn’t have a child and I’m helping her out.”
But then, the town gossip knew all this.
Mrs. Mulligan raised another eyebrow, a lecturing one. “Our bodies are God’s temple and should not be used other than for his purpose.”
“Funny. I thought helping out a friend was a Christian thing to do.”
She sniffed and shrugged. “Still, what’s done is done….” She frowned. “You look terrible, dear.”
“Thank you for your concern.”
“How about some of my famous stew?” she asked, returning her attention to the cauldron.
It did smell good. She might have been a horrible woman, but her stew was legendarily wonderful; sometimes I suspected she was the original Mulligan. My mind said “Yes,” and I waited for my stomach to concur.
To my surprise it growled a long, loud affirmative.
“I’d love some,” I said. “Is it done?”
Mrs. Mulligan smiled proudly. “Oh, yes—I made it yesterday and it’s just reheating.”
I retrieved a bowl from a cupboard, and a bent soup spoon from the silverware drawer, and Mrs. Mulligan used a ladle to fill my dish.
I ate two bowls—it was that delicious.
MRS. MULLIGAN’S SPICY BEEF STEW
Ingredients:
2 Tbl. olive oil
1 ½ lbs. lean chuck roast, cubed
¼ cup flour
1 can (14 oz.) beef broth
1 cup beer or dry red wine
1 onion, chopped
1 clove garlic, minced
1 Tbl. brown sugar
1 tsp. dried thyme
1 tsp. sage
½ tsp. cumin
½ salt
1 Tbl. mild chili powder
6 medium potatoes
4 large carrots
4 stalks celery
Preheat oven to 350 degrees. In Dutch oven, brown beef cubes over medium-high heat. Remove beef and stir in flour. Add all other ingredients, including beef, and bring to a boil. Cover and transfer to oven. Cook for 2 hours.
After eating the stew, I thanked Mrs. Mulligan, who responded warmly (suddenly she didn’t seem so bad), then left the kitchen for the dining hall area where I sat in a folding chair next to a bathroom. After fifteen minutes or so, satisfied that my stomach wouldn’t change its mind about the spicy meal, I headed upstairs to the lobby to begin trolling for bargains…
…and what I found was that there were none to be had!
Every team, in every location, had priced their antiques and collectibles way too high. Understandably, many of the items were family heirlooms going on the block for a worthy cause; but unless dealers—a significant part of the crowd—could make a profit in resale…well, basically, the only sales the teams had made so far were to each other.
I reported back to Mother.
“This is not good,” she responded, dismayed. “Everything will hinge on the auction, and we have our proverbial eggs in one basket.”
“Egg. Just one egg, Mother.”
I will now fast-forward through the luncheon (which I didn’t attend, having already eaten), and get to the auction itself.
To say that the sanctuary was filled to capacity is an understatement—people were packed into the pews like the Pope was speaking, and there wasn’t even standing room left. There were many familiar faces, including such cronies of Mother’s as various members of her Red Hat social club, lovely African-American Shawntea, who drove the local gas-powered trolley, and local barfly Henry Something-or-other, looking surprisingly sober. The church was definitely in violation of the fire code, but no one seemed to care, since Our Heavenly Father apparently didn’t.
At the back of the sanctuary, the media had set up camp, which included several TV camera crews—local affiliates that would no doubt be sending their feed to national channels. But a few renegade reporters had sneaked up to the front where the bidders were sequestered in the first pew, the press squatting in the aisles, their camcorders at the ready.
Mother and I sat in the two celebrant’s chairs next to the lectern (stage left), while Father O’Brien stood stiffly at the pulpit (stage right).
He cleared his throat and a pin-drop hush fell over the crowd. The white-robed priest—a slender, middle-aged man with receding hairline and ruddy complexion, his shoulders hunched, perhaps by the weight of the world—raised a benevolent hand and gave a benediction.
Was a blessing really necessary today? I think the priest probably provided one in response to criticism from certain of his parishioners who reportedly felt the sanctuary should not be used for raising money, even if for a worthy cause. Christ throwing out the money-lenders had been cited. But what did these Christians think collection plates were all about?
After the benediction, a stirring at the back turned heads, and the standing crowd parted for Nastasya Petrova—looking elegantly regal in a long-sleeved, high-necked royal-blue evening dress—carrying the surprisingly unprepossessing Fabergé egg on a small red-velvet pillow.
Two policemen followed close behind her: tall and gangly Officer Munson, and sandy-haired, brown-eyed handsome Brian Lawson, my once and maybe future boyfriend. Our relationship was on hiatus while Brian tended to a personal matter with his ex-wife (their daughter was battling an eating disorder), and while I had Tina and Kevin’s baby.
The presence of police security, by the way, was a Mother touch, to heighten the suspense of the auction; but considering the value of the egg, their presence wasn’t just stagecraft.
All eyes followed Madam Petrova as she made her slow, royal walk down the center aisle, trailed by the two officers, whose expressions suggested they were none too happy to be a part of Mother’s theatrics.
Brian spotted me in the celebrant’s chair, and we exchanged looks—his, exasperated; mine, chagrined.
At the communion railing, the little procession parted ways—Officer Munson taking a spot to the right of the pulpit, and Brian to the left of the lectern—while Madam Petrova ascended the two steps of the inner sanctuary and placed the pillow on the altar table. She then crossed over to the lectern and stood behind it, her head barely visible to the audience.
Mother jack
-in-the-boxed up, rushed over, and bent the microphone neck to accommodate the tiny woman, in the process making a loud, amplified THUNK!
After mother returned to her chair, and I did my best to crawl inside my skin, Madam Petrova—looking even more frail than she had during our visit—began to speak, sharing with the attendees the history of the Fabergé egg and how it came to be in her possession, much as she’d related to us at her home.
Honestly, I didn’t hear much of what she said, caught up in anticipation about the potential disaster that would soon follow in the form of auctioneer Mother. Would her performance find its way onto YouTube, I wondered, and/or Keith Olbermann’s “Oddball” segment on MSNBC’s Countdown?
I looked slowly down the row of bidders, seated near me in front of the lectern. Resting on my lap was a legal pad with their names written down, along with a column for their bids, so that I could prompt Mother if (make that when) she got lost in the process.
The well-attired players were: handsome, businesslike Don Kaufman, representing the Forbes family, owner of eleven of the Imperial eggs; attractive gray-business-suited brunette Katherine Estherhaus, New York, representing Christie’s Auction House; slender, dark-haired, bespectacled John Richards, here for Sotheby’s of London; stocky, solemn Sergei Ivanov, wealthy Moscow industrialist; and white-maned, distinguished-looking Louis Martinette, the private dealer (and collector of other Fabergé works), who had originally appraised the egg. The dark-eyed Martinette had an oval face with half-lidded eyes and deep grooves of character or anyway experience.
Also seated among the players was the publisher of American Mid-West Magazine, Samuel Woods, a relatively young man in a dark pinstriped suit; he seemed a bundle of nervous tics, sweating profusely, most likely contemplating the next stockholders’ meeting where he would have to explain a drop in profits due to having to match today’s winning bid.
Madam Petrova ended her ancestral story to thunderous applause (I noticed, however, that the Russian attendee wasn’t clapping) and then she traded seats with Mother, who approached the lectern to start the auction.
I, too, had broken out in a cold sweat, knowing what disaster likely awaited, wishing I could be anywhere else—Mars or Kentucky or maybe that island on Lost. And yet—like a bystander at a bad accident—I couldn’t take my eyes off Mother….
She began by leaning toward the microphone and blurting ridiculously, “Is this on?” So loud that everyone jumped a little.
The reps of Christie’s and Sotheby’s, seated next to each other, exchanged wide-eyed looks. They had come to Podunk in the middle of Flyover Country expecting just about anything—anything but Mother, that is….
I grinned to myself. You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.
Mother straightened her shoulders, produced a gavel from beneath the lectern, and banged it.
“The bidding for the Fabergé egg will begin!” Mother announced.
A cheer went up from the audience, echoing in the sanctuary.
Mother said crisply, “Bidding starts at three. Do I have three?”
Earlier, at our kitchen table, Mother had created some homemade bidding placards, using recycled cardboard and old Popsicle sticks; but I’d convinced her it would be more dignified if the bidders simply used their heads or hands.
And the first bidder—a chubby, local thrill-seeker—now did so, waving his hand wildly like a kid in class who had to use the bathroom.
Mother, flushed with excitement, said, “I have three hundred thousand dollars—do I have three-fifty?”
The Russian nodded his bucket head, and the thrill-seeker appeared relieved to be off the hook for three hundred grand when he may have thought she meant three thousand or even three hundred.
“Three-fifty—do I have four?”
The Forbes rep, Don Kaufman, nodded.
“That’s four…four…. Do I have four-fifty?”
Christie’s Katherine Estherhaus raised a red-nailed finger.
“Four-fifty—do I have five?”
John Richards from Sotheby’s nodded.
Mother picked up the pace; the crowd stayed with her, their excitement mounting.
“Five hundred thousand dollars! Do I have five-fifty?”
Sergei Ivanov swiped the air with a bear paw.
“Five-fifty! Six? Do I have six?”
Don Kaufman nodded.
“Six hundred thousand! I have six hundred thousand. Is there six-fifty?”
The audience began egging the bidders on with chants of “More! More!”
John Richards aimed a forefinger at Mother.
Mother, red-faced, shouted, “Do I have seven?”
When none of the bidders twitched, Mother looked pointedly at Katherine Estherhaus, and asked incredulously, “Are you going to let your cousin across the pond win the bid? Have you so soon forgotten the Boston Tea Party?”
I was squirming in embarrassment, but darned if Estherhaus’s red-nailed hand didn’t fly up, and the audience cheered.
“I have seven hundred thousand! Do I have seven-fifty?”
Louis Martinette, until now silent, seemingly bored with the proceedings, intoned, “One million,” drawing gasps and shouts of exultation from the crowd. The white-haired gent appeared as casual as somebody ordering a cheeseburger. Or in his case, maybe, a filet mignon.
But suddenly, strangely, there were other sounds emanating from the crowd: cries of alarm, and fear.
Mother, oblivious to anything but her own performance, shouted in her best Dr. Evil style, “One million dollars! Going once…going twice…sold!”
And she banged the gavel.
My eyes were on Brian, who—along with Officer Munson—had been standing at parade rest during the auction. Brian’s body tensed as he, too, became aware of a disturbance in the crowd, beginning with those standing in back.
Here and there, people were moaning, some keeling over, while others cried out for help. The audience was falling ill, a response apparently not inspired by Mother’s performance, which by her standards had been remarkably tame.
Brian moved quickly up the center aisle to aid those who were sick, but his effort was impeded when a gentleman toppled from a pew into his path, and lay curled and convulsing.
Mother, frozen at the lectern, added to the unfolding drama, when the microphone picked up her astonished words, “Dear Lord, what is this? Anthrax?”
Well, maybe not remarkably tame….
Panic ensued as the crowd tried to flee, moving en masse toward the back of the sanctuary, pushing and shoving, and jumping over those who had fallen. Did everybody have morning sickness?
My plan of escape was via the rear of the room, which is to say the front of the sanctuary, through the chambers located behind the tabernacle. I turned to gather Madam Petrova, still seated in the other celebrant’s chair.
She was leaning back, staring straight ahead, though she seemed not to be looking at anything.
“Mother!” I called out, alarmed.
Mother rushed over, then knelt, her knees making a popping sound. She peered into Nastasya’s face, and felt for a pulse in the woman’s neck.
She shook her head somberly. “She’s gone, dear.”
“Are you sure?”
Behind the big lenses, her eyes were wild. “Don’t you think I know a corpse when I see one?”
The question was both blunt and rhetorical: Mother indeed had firsthand experience with dead bodies since I’d returned home and gotten unwillingly caught up in her amateur sleuthing.
I asked pitifully, “Isn’t there anything we can do?”
I was specifically thinking about finding Nastasya’s nephew, Clifford Ashland, but the last I’d seen him, he was standing at the back of the sanctuary, and would likely have been swept out into the lobby by the current of the panicking crowd.
Mother stood, supported by the arm of the celebrant’s chair, her knees now making a grinding noise.
“The best thing we can do, my dear, is to get out of here
…out into the fresh air…until we know what is happening.”
The stench of sickness was in both our nostrils. Could Mother have been right—could it be Anthrax? Or Legionnaire’s Disease?
I said, “There’s an exit door in the furnace room.”
Mother shook her head. “You know it’s locked, dear…. Security.” She raised a finger. “But the spiral staircase can take us up to the bell tower, where we can go across the walkway to the front of the church, and down the stairs into the vestibule.”
It sounded like a plan. But when I hesitated, looking at Madam Petrova, Mother said softly, “Come, dear, she’s in God’s hands now. We must think of ourselves—and your little forthcoming bundle from above.”
With Mother in the lead, we fled to the arched wooden door behind the tabernacle, then on through to the choir room, where white robes, hanging like limp ghosts on a clothes rack, flapped their arms as we hurried past.
Through another door we entered the dim, dreary maintenance room, greeted by a water pipe dripping somewhere. We skirted around the ancient metal furnace, shut down for the season, and Mother suddenly stopped short; I stumbled into her, nearly losing my balance.
Father O’Brien was on his knees near the spiral staircase, bent over as if praying, and perhaps he was; if so, it was inspired by the sprawled body of Louis Martinette, who lay on his back, eyes staring upward, head cracked open like an egg, spilling not yellow, but a bright terrible red.
A Trash ‘n’ Treasures Tip
When attending a church bazaar—where money is being raised to help the disadvantaged—leave your price haggling at the door. Don’t be greedy about the needy.
Chapter Three
A Curate’s Egg
We didn’t arrive home until late evening, because Mother felt a responsibility to linger at St. Mary’s Church until the last of the sick had been transported to area hospitals.
Before you attribute caring compassion to Mother’s various traits, keep in mind that the diva also wanted to find out as much as she could from the authorities about what had caused the sudden illness of over one-hundred-plus people, with the only fatality an ironic, especially tragic one—Madam Petrova herself, whose Christian spirit of generosity had been rewarded most bitterly.
Antiques Bizarre Page 4
