Mother explains:
Back in the Middle Ages, a “pig in a poke” was a rat or cat in a bag that got passed off as a suckling pig to hungry suckers. It’s a perfectly good expression, and if my daughter encourages you not to use it any longer, please feel free to ignore her.
Chapter Four
Egg Poachers
In the kitchen, an unusually subdued Sushi sat by her bone-shaped dog dish (one side, food; the other, water), apparently still feeling guilty for moistening my pillow.
I opened a small can of Mighty Dog®, which was the only dog food she would tolerate, and dumped the contents into the dish. (Free crates of the aforementioned pet food will be forwarded to the author by the publisher.)
After wolfing down her breakfast, Sushi waited patiently while I prepared a syringe of insulin, then, pinching a fold of fat at her neck, I gave her a quick poke.
And she put up with this, why? As I indicated briefly in passing, after the shot, Soosh always got a special treat: today, a homemade cookie from Serenity’s own Doggie-Woggie Bakery Shop. (It’s just possible, by the way, that a bakery shop for dogs may be one of the Seven Signs of the Coming Apocalypse.)
Bribery transaction complete, I put Soosh out the back door on a long leash, left her to do her business, then hurried upstairs to get ready.
After a quick shower, I dashed to my bedroom and rummaged through my messy closet for something to wear that would disguise my skin and bones. I put on a bulky blue Free People sweater over a Three Dot tee, and retro flare-legged Joe’s jeans. (Effective now, unlike Mother, I’m dropping all trademark indicators.)
To detract from my sallow pallor, around my neck I wrapped a ghastly Technicolor designer silk scarf that my older sister, Peggy Sue, had given me, and which I’d never worn.
Then, seated at my Art Deco dressing table with its big round mirror, I piled on twice as much makeup as usual—going especially heavy on the blush—and moussed my hair to double its size until I looked like Chewbacca in drag. Makeup hadn’t gone on this trowel-heavy since the eighties.
Back in the kitchen, I retrieved the yapping-to-come-in Sushi, then bid Mother—who was still fussing over her cardboard church replica and her various pawns—a warm good riddance, I mean, good-bye. After grabbing my Betseyville purse, I headed out to the Buick.
Tina and her husband, Kevin, lived in a white ranch-style house on a bluff overlooking the Mississippi River. The view from their home was year-round spectacular, but never so much as in the spring, when the trees lining the riverbank were beginning to bud and flower, nature working with a soft-color palate of pink, lavender, yellow and green.
In the driveway, in white T-shirt and cut-off jeans, was Kevin—hunky, sandy-haired, early thirties—washing both of their cars (Tina, black Lexus; Kev, silver Mazda) and getting himself a good deal wetter than the vehicles. As I pulled in, I wolf-whistled out my powered-down window. If we’re ever going to even out this battle of the sexes thing, turnabout has to be fair play.
He grinned, shut off the hose, then jogged over, leaning in.
“Fries and a cheeseburger with everything,” I said. “Diet Coke with extra ice.”
“Sounds like you’re eating for two,” he said, his eyes drifting downward for any sign of a baby bump.
“Yeah, but I don’t look it, I know,” I admitted. “Won’t see anything for a while—too early.”
“But everything’s fine?”
“Everything’s fine.”
I hoped.
Kev glanced back at the house, where a beaming Tina was coming out the front door, no faster than somebody fleeing a burning building.
“Just a heads up,” he whispered. “She’s been looking at baby catalogs all morning—don’t let her spend too much.”
I nodded solemnly. “I’ll keep her in check.” As in, I would make sure she didn’t write any more checks than were left in her checkbook.
Tina and I, fast friends since high school, were a gleefully terrible influence on each other, where shopping for clothes was concerned. We had honed our fashion skills while at community college, often buying identical items independently, because we were so much alike in our tastes. We each considered the other a sort of fashion genius, the way a conceited fool stands admiringly before a mirror.
Tina, wearing an olive-green DKNY shrunken jacket and dark skinny jeans, skipped around the front of my car, then jumped in on the passenger side. She had a radiant glow—hey, who was the expectant mother around here, anyway?—with her prettiness framed by natural blond hair falling like liquid gold to her shoulders, her light blue eyes and fair skin reflecting her Norwegian ancestry.
I gave Teen the cheeriest smile I could muster.
“And how are we doing?” she asked, twisting in her seat to face me, her eyes flicking down and back from my still-flat belly.
I wasn’t sure if she meant me and her, or me and the baby, or me, her, and the baby. (I had ruled out Kevin, who was back to his husbandly hose duties.)
But I replied, “Just great! Couldn’t be better.”
Her eyes widened at the sight of my scarf. Her expression said she might indulge in some sympathetic morning sickness.
I shrugged. “Yeah, I know. Hideous doesn’t cover it. Peggy Sue. Last Christmas. Where Sis is concerned, there will always be a test later, and I have to be able to say truthfully that I wore it.”
“And be seen in public?”
“Witnesses may be called.”
She pursed her pretty pink lips. “Didn’t come with a gift receipt, huh?”
“Nope. Anyway, what would I say? The scarf didn’t fit?”
She made a clicking in her cheek. “A real pity….”
“Just be glad I didn’t regift it to you.”
I backed the car out of the drive; Kevin paused in his work to wave. We didn’t deserve him. (For the record, I didn’t get preggers for Tina by shacking up weekends with Kevin—I had gone the much more socially acceptable, if less entertaining, test-tube route.)
As we headed in the direction of the mall, I employed a trick I often use when I’m with someone and don’t feel so good: I get them talking about themselves.
“So,” I said, “Kevin says you’ve been poring over baby catalogs. See anything you like?”
This kept the ball in Tina’s court for a good five minutes (with me interjecting the occasional “uh-huh”) and long enough for us to arrive at our destination, which was the elaborate mall that conspired with its competition—the quaint shops of downtown Serenity—to make our little town a shopping destination for the greater area and weary travelers.
Indian Mounds—so named because of an adjacent Indian burial ground—was located on gently rolling hills, with pathways winding through an asymmetrical layout. That the Mounds was outdoors—unusual for our versatile climate—didn’t seem to deter shoppers in the least, even in the coldest of winters. Many people—myself included—preferred it to stuffy enclosed malls, where you can get all hot and crabby going around in your coat.
In recent months, a tasty tableau of new restaurants had sprung up around the mall, ranging from formal to family-friendly, and hitting just about every ethnicity.
Tina said, “Your turn to pick.”
My joke to Kevin about cheeseburgers and fries had stuck in my brain, and suddenly I had a craving for drive-in food. This was no doubt one of those pregnancy urges, and I saw no reason not to give in to it. Anyway, a fattening malt might do me good.
“How about the Corvette Diner?”
We had not yet eaten there, opting for healthier fare, and also waiting for the fuss to die down—when a new restaurant opens in Serenity, you need to wait a good two months before the crowds subside.
Tina smiled sideways. “Happy days! I was hoping you’d say that….”
Maybe Teen, who rarely veered from her salad sans dressing, really was experiencing a sympathetic pregnancy.
I wheeled into the parking lot, lucking into a nice close space, and we got out an
d headed toward the restaurant. If the outside decor—which featured a vintage Corvette embedded in the wall, its stylish tail toward us, as if the car had come crashing into the diner—was any reflection of the inside, we were in for a treat, or anyway a good time.
We opted for one of the red, plastic-padded booths instead of a round chrome table, our eyes taking in the assault of fifties memorabilia plastered on the walls and ceiling, while a jukebox blasted away, Elvis singing “Blue Suede Shoes.”
A waitress plopped down next to Tina, saying, “Shove over, honey—my feet are killin’ me!”
The woman, like the Corvette, had a lot of miles on the odometer, and was tricked-out to accentuate it: over-bleached hair (a wig), heavily-penciled eyebrows, false eyelashes, and goopy lipstick. Her white uniform dress was too tight, bursting at the bosom, and a button pinned on one shoulder announced TAKE ME FOR A RIDE.”
“What’ll ya have?” the waitress asked, chewing gum, to boot.
I recognized her—Selma Lewis, one of mother’s chief competitors for eccentric gal parts in local theater. The waitresses and waiters here were not just hired but cast, and were either local theater types or area college kids from drama programs.
Playing along, I asked, “Anything good in this dive?”
She partially covered her mouth with a chipped, red-nailed hand, and said sotto voce, “Not the meat loaf…and I’m fresher than the cherry pie.”
Tina asked, “How’s the coffee?”
“What’s available right now, you could break a spoon on. Some fresh is brewin’, though, sweet cheeks.”
I asked, “And the burgers?”
“That’s what we’re famous for, honey! The cows come around and line up to participate. Ask for grilled onions, and you may experience true love.”
Tina and I ordered the same thing: cheeseburger with grilled onions, fries, and a vanilla malt.
Before the waitress left, she dropped character briefly to whisper, “How’s Viv doing?”
“Okay.”
“With the theater closed ’cause of the flood, she must be climbing the walls.”
“No, that would be me, living with her.”
Then back in character, she said, “I hear you, honey! I hear you!”
With that settled, Tina and I got down to the business of catching up—only amateurs do their visiting while they shop.
But before I had a chance to steer our conversation into placid waters—for certainly Tina had heard all about the fiasco at the church bazaar—my friend leaned forward and said, pleadingly, “Brandy…please tell me you’re not getting caught up in your mother’s latest shenanigans.”
“Shenanigans” was possibly the nicest way Teen could have put Mother’s penchant for involving herself in local crimes.
Teen rushed on. “When I heard that you could have had food poisoning like the rest of those people—well, I cried for hours. Honestly, Brandy, you might have died. And the baby!”
I reached for her hand, squeezed it, and said reassuringly, “Nothing is going to happen to me. I’m not going to do anything foolish. I know how much the baby means to you and Kevin.”
She was nodding, but her blue eyes asked, “Do you?”
The tenseness of the moment broke as a college-girl waitress flashed by on roller skates, throwing a handful of bubble gum on our table.
I let go of Teen’s hand, sat back in the booth. “Sweetie, you have nothing to worry about—the church thing was just a freak accident. Anyway, the chief has told Mother in no uncertain terms that she’s to stay out of the police investigation.”
Tina gave me a rumpled smile. “And since when has that stopped her?”
I leaned forward. “I admit I can’t always control Mother, but I most certainly can control myself. And I’m not going to get involved in anything that will jeopardize either me or the baby. I promise.”
She frowned at me. “You’re not…parsing words, are you?”
“Of course not!” I frowned at her. “What do you mean?”
“You stopped short of saying that you wouldn’t get yourself involved, or allow your mother to, either. And if the TV is to be at all believed, this was no ‘freak accident.’ That Chicago art dealer may have been murdered. And who’s to say the food poisoning was accidental?”
“You sound like you’re the one who’s involved.”
Her eyes flashed. She wasn’t cross with me, but she wasn’t fooling around, either. “I am involved, if you’re involved. You’re carrying our child!”
Again, whether “our child” referred to me and her, or her and Kevin, or me and her and…forget it.
“I’m sorry, Teen, but I’m already involved. I’ll try not to get any more involved, but you have to understand—these deaths, not to mention serious sickness among over one hundred people, all grew out of something Mother put in motion.”
“That stupid auction.”
“That stupid auction is going to raise a lot of money for flood relief in this town, so while Mother always has ulterior motives, her heart was in the right place. Teen, she was up all night, worrying about this.”
I didn’t go into detail—Tina hearing about Mother making a cardboard replica of the church and peopling it with game tokens would have hardly been reassuring.
“Well,” she said almost timidly, “just let the police handle it. Just you girls stay out of it.”
“That’s just it—we’ll be involved somewhat, because we were at the scene, and this was Mother’s idea in the first place, the auction. She ran it. I helped. We’ll be questioned and all that kind of stuff. Can’t be avoided.”
“I…I understand. I do understand.”
“And the way Mother is reacting…I’ll admit she’s talking this amateur-sleuth silliness again, but the real reason is not that she’s delighted to have another crime to ‘solve.’ She blames herself. Holds herself responsible for the two deaths. And the churchful of sick people.”
“And you’re saying she’ll try to do something about it?”
“Teen, I’ll do my best to prevent that. But she’s going to make noise. That much we know about Vivian Borne—she is going to make noise.”
How could Tina argue with that?
And when Tina smiled in defeat, I segued into, “Have you thought about baby names?”
She nodded. “Both boy and girl.”
When she didn’t provide the prospective monikers, I raised my eyebrows in question. Anything went these days, as names for offspring; I just hoped it wasn’t anything too weird….
Tina smiled again, warmly now. “Kevin and I have agreed that…if it’s a girl…we’ll name her Brandy.”
“And…if it’s a boy?”
“Brandon, for a boy.”
Tears sprang to my eyes—heartfelt, not hormonal. “Oh, Teen,” I said softly, “that is so sweet. I’d be honored, of course. You are the best.”
She shook her head, a little embarrassed. “We always planned on doing that…even before the surrogate thing.”
Our food arrived, and I immediately took a big bite of the cheeseburger and swallowed before my stomach had a chance to know what hit it. Then I followed with a large dose of vanilla malt to show my tummy who was boss.
That tactic worked for a while, but then I had to quit eating, when my stomach warned of impending disaster, should I continue.
“Anything wrong?” Tina asked.
“Just had a big breakfast,” I lied. “This on top of that….”
While my gal pal worked on her fries, I excused myself to use the ladies’ room, because…Why do you think? I was pregnant! I had to pee a lot….
I used the bathroom, then took a different route back, passing a private dining room, where a small group of people were in the midst of a party, being serenaded by some of the female waitstaff. (Imagine alley cats meowing “Happy Birthday,” with somebody tugging on tails to help them hit the high notes.)
I stopped to watch the guest of honor, stocky Sergei Ivanov, blow out the ca
ndles on a huge, quadruple banana split sundae with all the trimmings, sending some of the whipped cream across the table. As solemn as a priest preparing to give communion, he grabbed up a spoon and dug in, not sharing with the other guests, although utensils and plates had been brought for them.
The other guests included his fellow Fabergé bidders, as well as American Mid-West Magazine publisher Samuel Woods. If I wasn’t going to be involved in this mystery, the suspects simply couldn’t go around having group meetings like this.
While I stood there gaping with the manners of a goldfish, they morphed into Mother’s game pieces: bald Sergei “Cootie Head” Ivanov; blond, slender, handsome Don “Leg Bone” Kaufman; curvaceous, sophisticated brunette Katherine “Candlestick” Estherhaus; boyish, bespectacled, British John “Ninja Turtle” Richards; and of course nattily-attired Samuel “Top Hat” Woods.
As the waitstaff filed out, I stepped in and said, “Well, I see someone has something to celebrate.”
And was greeted with a horde of hostile eyes.
“Brandy Borne?” I prompted. “I assisted my mother, Vivian, who brought all of you together?”
Cootie-Head Ivanov slammed down his spoon and flecks of whipped cream flew. “You!” His Russian accent couldn’t have been thicker if he’d been a local actor Mother was directing. “You have nerve to crash party!”
“Actually, no. I was just using the rest room. I wasn’t expecting to come upon the cast party for Murder on the Orient Express.”
This crack earned alarmed expressions from one and all, which they traded amongst themselves like kids swapping baseball cards.
Only birthday boy Ivanov wasn’t speechless: “You, Miss Borne, are reason we cannot return home! You and that stupid woman.”
I went on the defensive—nobody calls my mother stupid! Besides me.
“My mother and I aren’t the reason you’re still in Serenity, having birthdays and ice cream…. You know, you could share a little with the other children, Sergei. Has the Communist spirit totally died in you? Anyway, it’s the police who are keeping you here, because of at least one suspicious death. And it could be that someone in this room is the real person keeping you here—if one of you nice people shoved Louis Martinette over the staircase railing.”
Antiques Bizarre Page 6
