Antiques Bizarre

by Barbara Allan

  Have I mentioned I was off the Prozac?

  Leg Bone Kaufman was patting the air. His expression was conciliatory as he said, “I’m afraid—what’s your name again?”

  “Brandy Borne. You can call me Brandy. We’re all friends here, right?”

  Kaufman’s smile was as crinkly as wadded-up paper. “I’m afraid, Brandy, meaning nothing personal, that we all feel that way about your mother, and the incompetent way she conducted this event. There should have been more security.”

  “As is all too obvious after the fact,” Ninja Turtle Richards said, his British accent as crisp as Sergei’s Russian one was thick. “You and your mother knew that you had a precious object that would go for hundreds of thousands of dollars. You should have known what kind of people that would attract—and you should have known what kind of sideshow the auction would create.”

  It seemed to have attracted a roomful of self-righteous snobs, who were having ice cream at the carnival.

  Candlestick Katherine snorted in a most unfeminine manner for such a beauty. “Come on, guys—we all craved the publicity. Even for the losers, it created attention for our clients.”

  “Clients?” I asked. I was still just standing there. For some reason, no one had invited me to sit down at the table with them.

  “Yes,” the sophisticated yet down-to-earth brunette said. “We aren’t employees of Christie’s or Sotheby’s or Forbes. We’re independent agents, who took on these roles as freelancers. Any publicity brought to our clients would be viewed as positive, whoever won the bid.”

  “Not just any bloody publicity,” Richards said snappishly. “This kind of publicity—people retching, people dying, the precious art piece poached…. This is hardly the kind of event that will lead to further assignments.”

  “It’s not the kind of event,” I said, “that Mother and I planned or intended. When can you go home?”

  “When the police give us the go-ahead,” Kaufman said with a pitiful shrug. “Whenever that is.” The good-looking blond seemed the least combative of the lot.

  “Then—you’ve not given your formal statements?”

  Katherine shook her head. “Just preliminary ones, at the church. We’ve been dealing with small-town police and they are horribly understaffed and in over their heads. They were hardly expecting anything like this.”

  “Somebody was,” I said.

  This sank the little group into gloomy silence. The Russian Cootie Head returned his attention to his melting dessert, regarding it like a sculptor who didn’t know what to do next.

  Their silence said I’d been dismissed, but I had more to say.

  “I guess most of you are out a hefty commission,” I said.

  The agents for Christie’s and Sotheby’s exchanged glances.

  Katherine said, “In an auction situation, my dear, there is always that strong possibility. We receive a flat fee and expenses for our trouble, and a potentially high commission is the brass ring we all reach for…knowing only one of us can snag it.”

  “I see.”

  “But we’re all suffering, because this job, this auction, is over…and we’re captives here in Podunk-land. Prisoners. It’s hard to imagine a more bitter fate.”

  “Not that hard,” I said with a shrug. “There’s dying of food poisoning, or falling from a high place. Were any of you poison victims at the church, by the way?”

  No one said anything.

  “Well?”

  Head shakes all around.

  “None of you?”

  Kaufman said, “We ate together at our hotel, before going to the auction. None of us wanted to take, uh…”

  “Potluck?”

  “Yes.”

  Richard pitched in. “One never knows what is in the food at such functions.”

  “I guess not,” I admitted. “But it’s interesting to note that this group, one and all, did not partake of food that no one knew would be off. Maybe you were psychic.”

  Or maybe this really was the cast party of Murder on the Orient Express. This little knowledgeable group would have known full well the extreme value of that egg to a private collector—a million or more dollars would divide up handsomely among a handful like this.

  One of them might have poisoned a certain dish at the potluck dinner, or even provided a doctored dish…and another could have been assigned the task of snatching the egg from the winning bidder. Perhaps the group had inside knowledge that Martinette intended to outbid them….

  But these thoughts I did not share with them. At the same time, I knew I had best not do so with Mother, either, or she would really be off and running. Make that flying. Maybe I’d have the chance to share my notions with Chief Cassato, somewhere along the line.

  “You should be happy,” I said, looking at Top Hat Woods, the Yuppie-ish magazine publisher, “because now your publication won’t have to cough up any matching funds.”

  “Your mother must not share all her responsibilities with you,” Woods said patronizingly. “If she did, you’d know our commitment to match auction funds was capped at $100,000. That was in writing, Ms. Borne. But you’re correct that we are now no longer obligated, since the artifact will surely be returned to the estate, and the auction, if there is another, will start from scratch at some other time and date.”

  “And what about you?” I asked the Russian Cootie Head. “How disappointed are you not to return to Mother Russia with the Tsar’s grade A egg?”

  He pushed his banana split aside, the dessert having gotten the better of him, the contents of the dish looking like Vincent Price at the conclusion of a sixties horror film.

  “I am disappointed,” Sergei said with strained dignity. “But if this foul egg is mine? I not return it to Russia.” He made a fist with one bearish paw. “I crush the shell in my hand…like this!”

  That revelation left me slack-jawed. But the collective eye-rolling from the others around the table told me the Russian’s plan was anything but news to them.

  Kaufman explained, “Sergei’s great-grandfather died in prison, thanks to the Tsar.”

  “Brother,” I said, “do you Rooskies hold a grudge!”

  The Russian’s chin rose and he oozed pride, much as his dish oozed melted ice cream.

  “Let me get this straight,” I said. “If you had won the egg, Sergei—you’d have destroyed it?”

  “Da.”

  The Brit with the dark-framed glasses sniffed at that. “That’s an easy claim to make, when the egg is not in one’s grasp. I have enough faith in what remains of the Capitalist system to think anyone at this table would do the right thing…and sell the damned bauble to the highest bidder!”

  “But that,” I reminded them all, “was Louis Martinette. And where did it get him?”

  I was my Mother’s daughter—I knew a curtain line when I heard it, and got off stage.

  Back at the booth, Tina was miffed by my long absence, which I deflected by telling her I’d run into some friends, and then giving her the news about an online-only sale on Kate Moss Topshop.

  Soon, we split the check and left.

  The next hour was spent in the baby department of Ingram’s department store, and I have to admit, I was miserable, although I tried hard not to show it. You may have already discerned that I am not the most noble human on the planet, and I admit that the person I really love to shop for most is…you guessed it…moi.

  What was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I share in my best friend’s joy? Was I putting up an emotional wall of protection, since the baby wasn’t mine? Or wouldn’t be, after I delivered? Or was I just being my usual selfish self?

  No answers are required—these are what we call rhetorical questions. You don’t need to post at Amazon about what a bad person I am.

  Thankfully, our baby shopping excursion came to an end, and we hauled our purchases—mostly little unisex outfits the size of doll clothes—out to my car.

  After dropping Tina off, I drove home in a funk. I felt I’d
made a fool of myself in front of that room of suspects, right down to thinking of them that way. I was no more Nancy Drew than Mother was Jessica Fletcher. Couldn’t I get real?

  But my thoughts screeched to a stop when I spotted Chief Cassato’s unmarked car parked in our drive. Why was he here? To get our official statements maybe? Or had Mother gotten into (more) trouble…?

  As I wheeled into the drive, Mother rushed out the front door and down the porch steps.

  I got out, and met her halfway on the sidewalk.

  “What is it?” I asked, alarmed.

  Mother was breathing hard, her face flushed. “Dear, he insists on seeing you. I’ve told him you shouldn’t be interrogated in your tender condition…. She’s expecting, you brute!”

  I looked behind her to where the roughly handsome fortyish, barrel-chested chief now stood on the porch, having followed Mother out. His arms were folded, his expression probably the same as Sitting Bull surveying the aftermath of Custer’s Last Stand.

  “Interrogated about what?” I frowned. “I gave a statement at the church. What more can I tell?”

  Tony Casatto, stony-faced, moved to take my arm. “It’s not called interrogation anymore, Vivian—it’s a simple interview. But you do need to come with me, Brandy.”

  I gaped at him. What had I done? Or what did he think I had done? Good Lord, had the birthday party called and complained about me harassing them? Can you call the cops and complain about civilian harassment?

  We were moving toward the unmarked car, his hand on my elbow, Mother on our heels. This was what walking the Last Mile must have felt like for Death Row inmates. (Well, okay, that may be a bit of an exaggeration….)

  “Is she being charged?” Mother demanded indignantly. “Is she a material witness?” To me she said, “Dear, don’t answer any questions without talking to our lawyer.”

  Our attorney happened to be around ninety, and most likely was in bed asleep right now. If he wasn’t in bed, he was still likely to be asleep.

  Chief Cassato opened the back door of the vehicle, saying over his shoulder to Mother, “She’ll be back in a few hours.”

  Then he deposited me inside.

  Just another confused perp.

  A Trash ‘n’ Treasures Tip

  Charity bazaars can turn up unexpected treasures, like the time Mother bought a coat, and found a hundred-dollar bill in one pocket. The Christian thing would have been to return the money to its rightful owner, but in Mother’s mind “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you” is trumped by “Finders keepers, losers weepers.”

  Chapter Five

  Good Egg or Bad Egg?

  Chief Cassato’s unmarked car lacked the mesh screen separating front and back that squad cars have, so it wasn’t like I was a prisoner, right? I mean, on TV and in movies, you see bad guys in back with no door handles and no way to roll windows down or anything, making escape impossible (or anyway hard, because—on TV and in movies—they often do find a way to escape).

  Not that I was thinking of escaping. But if this wasn’t official, if I wasn’t some kind of witness if not suspect, why had he deposited me in back? We were friends, weren’t we? Why wasn’t I sitting up front with Daddy?

  I was just telling myself there was nothing sinister about my backseat banishment when we drove past the police station, and before long were heading out the river road.

  I leaned forward. “Ah…Chief? Tony? Where exactly are we going?”

  He eyed me in the rearview mirror. “You just sit tight, young lady.”

  Young lady! Normally, a thirty-one-year-old woman being called “young lady” might be viewed as a compliment of sorts, left-handed maybe but reassuring on some level. But there was nothing reassuring going on in my Prozac-free mind. The chief might not have been speeding, but my brain was shifting into overdrive, concocting all sorts of scenarios—none of them good.

  Good Lord, what if Serenity’s top cop was actually involved in either the murder of Louis Martinette or the theft of the Fabergé egg? Did he think that I had seen, or heard, something that could implicate him in one or both of those crimes?

  All of this was ludicrous, of course, and such thoughts would never have gone running wild in the canyon between my ears if I hadn’t shared DNA with Vivian Borne. And the silly paranoia was not aided by the chief turning off the scenic blacktop highway onto a secondary country road, the tires kicking up gravel and dust.

  I leaned up. “Where are you taking me?”

  But this time he didn’t even reply. Not even a glance from his steel-gray eyes!

  “Look, you can’t just throw somebody in the back of your car and go riding off without explanation. This is America! This is Iowa! Just because you’re the chief of police—”

  “Relax,” he cut in gruffly. “I’m not going to bury you in the woods or anything.”

  Good to know!

  And over the next fifteen minutes or so, the car twisted and turned along remote backroads, making my fantasies of jumping out a door and rolling to freedom seem as silly as they sounded, and then suddenly the vehicle veered into the mouth of a private lane, nearly obscured by a row of thick bushes.

  We bumped down a long narrow strip of gravel before coming to an abrupt stop in front of a rustic structure, a slightly oversized log cabin, as dust settled around us like smog.

  What was this place, and why were we here? Was this the backwoods equivalent of a dank secret cell in the basement of the Serenity police station, where suspects and uncooperative witnesses were given the Third Degree? And what were the First and Second Degrees, anyway?

  Maybe Mother was right—maybe I did need to get back on the Prozac….

  Chief Cassato got out of the car, then came around and opened my door in a gentlemanly fashion.

  When I didn’t budge, he leaned in. “What’s the problem?”

  “What’s the idea of throwing me in the backseat and doing whatever you want with me?”

  That came out a little wrong….

  “If I’d put you in front,” he said, his tone bland, “your mother would have thought this was a date. Needed to make it look official, Brandy.”

  “Is that what this is? Your idea of a date? Drive me in the country and scare the daylights out of me?”

  “If I’d told you what I had in mind,” he said, “you might have said no.” Then he frowned, as that had also come out a little wrong….

  Finally I got out of the car, then stood with hands on hips and worked up a little indignation. “Do you mind telling me why I’m here?”

  He gestured to the cabin. “This is where I live. I don’t bring just anybody out here.”

  My eyes swept over the rustic home, finding nothing at all sinister about it. “You don’t?”

  “No. I keep kind of a low profile.”

  I knew that already—Cassato was Serenity’s resident Man of Mystery, which is partly why my paranoia got out of hand on the drive out here.

  “Then you weren’t trying to throw a scare into me….”

  His smile was small but wicked. “Maybe a little.”

  I pounded on his chest, once, with a fist. Not hard. “What did I do to deserve that?”

  “How about, help your annoying mother interfere in countless police matters over the past year? How about, put your own welfare and life itself stupidly at risk, any number of times?”

  “Well…besides that.”

  He chuckled, gave up half a grin. “You seem a little surprised by the Cassato homestead. What did you expect?”

  “I guess a condo, maybe—in a gated community, so you’d have a little privacy. And to keep Mother out.”

  He waved a hand at his place. “This is just as safe—unless you tell her where it is. I’m trusting you, Brandy.”

  “Yeah, I guess Batman doesn’t just show every chick the Bat Cave.”

  Everyone in Serenity knew Tony Cassato protected his private life—both past and present—like a bulldog does a ham bone.

&nbs
p; And speaking of dogs, a snarling canine with teeth bared was rounding the side of the cabin and making straight for yours truly. I grabbed on to the chief’s nearest arm as if I’d fallen from a cliff and needed a branch to cling to.

  The chief moved me behind him, stepping protectively in the path of the barking hound, then barked his own warning, stopping the animal in its oversized tracks.

  “Sit!” the chief said.

  “You talking to me or the mutt?”

  But the mutt—and it was a mixed breed critter, white and black and coming up to about his master’s knee—was sitting there dutifully, slobbering and wagging his tail (the dog, not the master).

  “I guess even a watchdog needs a watchdog,” I said.

  “He’s a good boy. Stays in his doghouse and gives trespassers hell. But he’s all bark and no bite.”

  Like his master, I wondered?

  “So what’s his name?”

  “Rocky.”

  “After the flying squirrel or Italian stallion?”

  “Stallone. I love the first of those movies.”

  “Me, too.” I pointed, gingerly, at the dog, not moving too quickly. “It does look like he got K.O.’d.”

  Rocky had a black circle around one eye.

  “You ever see The Little Rascals on TV?” he asked. “Or are you too young?”

  Loving the sound of seeming “too young,” I said, “Mother used to show us tapes of them—Spanky and Alfalfa and a dog who looked like Rocky, but smaller.”

  “Right. Go ahead and call to him. He’s friendly.”

  I’d had a taste of his friendliness already, but I called to the dog, and he trotted over for a sniff, his stump of a tail starting to wag once he’d gotten a whiff of Sushi on my clothes.

  Soon I was following the chief up a few wooden steps, and across a small porch where a log-wood rocker with a green cushion kept company with a few potted plants. He unlocked the front door, then stepped aside for me to enter, which I did, an impatient Rocky pushing past me (and letting me know who rated first around here), nails clicking on the floorboards.