She sighed. “It’s really been embarrassing for me, living so close to the Ashlands.” Her eyes traveled to another half-mil-plus monstrosity down the street.
I followed her gaze. “Is that where they live?”
She nodded, “Clifford and Angelica. Lovely, isn’t it?”
So now the real Peggy Sue was back, worried about what the neighbors might think, concerned about her own community standing. Old habits die hard. Actually, they don’t die at all.
“You know,” I said, “I hear Ashland’s aunt left all her money to St. Mary’s and her Russian church in Chicago.”
“I’ve heard the same. Wonderful people, the Ashlands. So many brokers are doing poorly in this economy, but Clifford is thriving. Smart, conservative investments. Bob and I have done very well with him.”
“So it’s not likely he’d kill his aunt for her money.”
Her eyes widened in horror. “Brandy! He’s a millionaire many times over, and his aunt’s wealth doesn’t go to him in any case. Don’t say such terrible things. Not all rich people are evil, you know! He’d be the least likely suspect….”
That gave me a sick feeling as I walked to my battered Buick. I’d read enough Christie and Stout to know all about least likely suspects, and was suddenly hoping the garden path I’d sent Mother down wasn’t a thorny one.
A Trash ‘n’ Treasures Tip
Examine auction items before bidding, using the same scrutiny you would for any purchase that can’t be returned for a defect. (If I forget to bring along a magnifying glass, I just use Mother’s glasses.)
Chapter Seven
Cracked Egg
In my previous accounts, I have always allowed Mother her own chapter, which seemed only fair—after all, she is privy to certain information that I am not. Besides which, I make certain comments and even accusations about her along the way that might seem to warrant an opportunity for her to respond.
But on our previous outing, Antiques Flee Market, she wheedled me into giving her two chapters. And in an effort to make sure she does not view that practice as a precedent, I am limiting her once again to a single chapter. As usual, The management is not responsible for, nor necessarily in agreement with, the following content, and therefore will not be held accountable.
Ah, my dear ones!
How wonderful it is to have your collective ear once more. My darling daughter is precocious and well-meaning, but she does occasionally reveal an unflattering point of view where her mother is concerned, and I am grateful for the chance to straighten all of you out.
We’ll begin just after Brandy left the house to visit Peggy Sue. That was when I flew into action, with not a moment to lose, because due momentarily to pass by the house was Serenity’s gas-powered trolley—my only form of transportation other than Brandy and her car (or my own car in an absolute emergency. And assuming I could get the tires back on).
It is basically true that I have lost my driver’s license due to some silly infraction involving a tractor and a cow, which I won’t go into right now, not because I couldn’t defend myself, but due to Brandy limiting my word count.
And my sincere thanks to all you who wrote to sympathize with me after the ungrateful child cut me off in mid-sentence last time around. I had just been about to share with you an account of the time Billy Buckly (the town’s little person, grand-nephew of one of the original MGM Wizard of Oz munchkins—talk about a local celebrity!) had been sitting on my lap, not out of affection but due to a shortage of seats, when the trolley inexplicably braked. Unfortunately I must reserve the exciting conclusion of that tale for a later time, when I’m not so carefully watching my word count and staying on point.
Super-heroine quick, I changed into navy slacks and sweater, and put on my most comfortable walking shoes, then grabbed a tan trench coat, as the spring weather was still a little nippy, and of course that’s what all true detectives wear, particularly this time of year.
I knew I needn’t worry about putting Sushi outside one last time, because Brandy had installed a small doggy-portal in the back door—I tell you, that animal has to relieve itself more than I do! I could ascertain, however, that Sushi was miffed at being left alone again, by the way she stuck out her lower teeth, much as Marlon Brando did in The Dogfather (typo: Godfather).
On one occasion, after we’d had the little door put in, Brandy and I happened to be away for a very long afternoon of yard-sale snooping in the neighborhood. When we depart on foot, Sushi expects to be part of the group, but our expedition that day would have been too much for her (she is blind, if she doesn’t know it). On our return we discovered that the little demon had gotten hold of Brandy’s car keys and buried them in the backyard. This had taken detective work on our part because the animal might have hidden them anywhere, but her paws were filthy and signs of fresh digging out back led us to the treasure (although I was still late for rehearsal at the Playhouse). Sometimes that dog can be very vindictive. Wherever does she get that?
But I digress.
I caught the trolley just in time, hopping aboard an already-full car. You see, the ride is free, if you’re going downtown, presumably to spend your hard-earned money, a service underwritten by the merchants who compete with the mall. These days, though, with high-flying gas prices and low-riding economy, many folks who work downtown join shoppers in taking advantage of the free ride.
“Hello, Shawntea,” I bid the young, attractive African-American woman at the wheel.
I had met her in Chicago last summer when four of us Red-Hatted League gals drove into the Windy City for a Cubs game and lost our bearings, ending up with a flat tire somewhere called Cabrini-Green.
Shawntea, who had just disembarked a bus, enlisted help from her brother Trayvon, who belonged to a young men’s club called Gangsta Disciples (apparently something on the order of the fine boy’s clubs we set up during the Depression to keep the young ’uns out of trouble). Trayvon changed our tire and I, in exchange, offered to change Shawntea’s life with a new start in Serenity, where, a few months later—to my complete surprise—she arrived on my doorstep with two little boys in tow. But Vivian Borne never makes a promise lightly, and I managed to find her this job.
“’lo Viv.” The young woman smiled, flashing perfect white teeth. “Been a while.”
“Nice to have the trolley running again, my dear.”
The service had been shut down for several weeks because of the flooding, but the downtown was open for business again, with the exception of River Drive, which was still waterlogged.
A young man seated just behind Shawntea stood to give me his seat.
I bowed to him. “Thank you, young man! It does a mature person’s heart good to see that, in these trying times, chivalry among the younger generation is not dead!”
He gave me a odd look—probably embarrassed by the praise—and the trolley stopped and he got off. Perhaps I’d jumped the gun a trifle on the kudos.
Seated now, I returned my attention to the driver. “And how are Kwamie and Zeffross?”
“Oh, fine, Viv, fine. They love school! Isn’t that something?” Her eyes were on the road.
“And how are your educational efforts proceeding, my dear?”
“Gee, Viv, I feel terrible I didn’t call you! I finished school, completed my GED! You are bein’ chauffeured this morning by a high-school grad.”
“Why, that’s wonderful, dear! I knew you were up to the challenge.”
“That’s just the start, Viv—why, I’ll be attendin’ community college in the fall.” She paused, adding, “Thanks to you, sweet thing.”
I lifted my chin in all modesty. “I’m sure I had nothing to do with it.”
She risked a glance back. “Come on, now—I know you musta had something to do with the full scholarship I landed!”
“I’m sure you accomplished that all by yourself, young lady.”
On the other hand, my recommendation to the foundation board might well have been taken to h
eart. Several of the members have minor indiscretions in their past that could prove embarrassing should they come to light. Brandy calls this approach blackmail, but I insist it’s just good citizenship.
We had arrived downtown at the trolley’s first stop, where I always get off, and I gathered myself.
Shawntea said, “Viv…Miz Borne…?”
That struck an ominous note. “Yes, dear?”
“I’m afraid…afraid I won’t be driving the trolley anymore, not after next week.”
“Oh, no! Give me your boss’s name and I’ll have a word with him! There is no room in this modern world for that kind of—”
“No, no, Viv, ain’t nothin’ like that! I have a new job, at the Children’s Care Center.” She beamed proudly at me. “That’s what I want to do, you know—run a preschool someday.”
I summoned my sweetest smile. “How nice, dear. How wonderful for you. And you will be splendid at it, I’m sure.”
“Thanks, Viv. Couldn’t have done it without ya.”
I disembarked, then stood on the sidewalk in front of the courthouse, somewhat miffed, watching the trolley depart.
Honestly! You do something nice for someone, and this was how they repaid you!
Oh, well, as Scarlett O’Hara put it, tomorrow was another day. After all, it wasn’t like I couldn’t train the next driver to break the rules and take me off the beaten trolley path where and whenever I wanted.
I turned and gazed at the magnificent courthouse, a white sandstone study in Grecian architecture with a wonderful clock in its tower. The apple and cherry blossom trees, dotting the lush, manicured lawn, were in full bloom, their sweet scent lifting my mood. Just because Shawntea had been selfish didn’t mean I had to be….
The courthouse was the heart of our small downtown, with City Hall (down a block) acting as the lungs, the police station (kitty-corner) as the kidneys, and the new county jail (across the street) as the liver. The heart pumps life’s blood, the lungs take in air, the kidneys purify, and the liver deals with unwanted bile. It’s so simple, isn’t it?
Every once in a while, however, a few nincompoops over at the lungs want to cut out the heart and replace it with a new one. I’m all for adding a stint or a pacemaker, for efficiency sake, but I will not tolerate tearing down a beautiful courthouse just to make way for some nondescript soulless pancreas of an edifice. That’s when I march on the lungs, and sometimes end up in the liver….
(I hope you appreciate the lengths I’m going to to add some literary value to these presentations, i.e., the previous lovely extended metaphor. Brandy has a certain bounce to her prose, but she lacks a classical sense.)
I power-walked over to the police station, a modern though inoffensive red brick building that also housed the fire department. Upon entering the small lobby, I strode up to an unfamiliar female dispatcher (short red hair, severe features) who was sequestered behind glass, working at a bank of computers and monitors. I wondered where the regular dispatcher was—Mona the Mole, I called her. (But not to her face.) Every great detective needs his or her system of informants and snitches, you know.
While it is common to have a high turnover in dispatchers—due to the stress of the job—I was dismayed that once again I would have to spend precious time cultivating the friendship of yet another one, to gain access to inside information.
However, I buoyed myself in the knowledge that I had a certain amount of influence now, due to the chief’s budding romance with Brandy. (My daughter may not have realized it was a romance yet, but after she’d recounted their evening in starry-eyed detail, I knew things were about to change in the way our local chief viewed the Borne girls and their amateur sleuthing ways.)
I spoke through the microphone embedded in the glass. “I need to see Chief Cassato, please. Tony.”
The dispatcher looked up. “And you are…?”
“Why, Vivian Borne.” I smiled. I thought everyone employed by the department knew me! Sotto voce I added, “But you’ll learn that soon enough, dear.”
“Excuse me?”
“I said, I hope you’re earning enough for such an important job. Now, will you please inform Chief Cassato that Vivian Borne is here to see him.”
She arched a skeptical eyebrow. “Is it important?”
I laughed once. “Would I take time out of my day for something trivial?”
She didn’t respond, but then it had been a rhetorical question, so she wasn’t necessarily being rude, even if her expression did seem to further sour as she turned to use an interoffice phone.
After a moment, she looked at me, somewhat taken aback. “Well—I guess he’ll see you now. He said to go right on in.”
Well, dear reader, in all candor, I admit to being mildly surprised myself. Even in the best of circumstances, before seeing me, Serenity’s chief usually sentenced me to half an hour of cooling my heels in the dreary waiting area, where I would pass the time removing dead leaves from the corner rubber tree plant.
This was proof positive of my new, improved status with the chief—my stock had indeed risen! (Unlike everyone else who had invested in the market.)
The dispatcher was saying, “You can go on through,” nodding her red head toward the heavy steel door at the end of the short hall.
“Thank you, dear,” I said sweetly. “And I feel quite certain this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”
She did not respond, just gave me a wide-eyed, frozen stare, before shaking her head, as if to clear the cobwebs, and turning her attention back to the monitors.
I made a mental note to speak to the chief about her attitude. If she treated Vivian Borne in this unacceptable fashion, how did she behave for your average routine taxpayer?
I entered the inner police station sanctum, and strode confidently down a long beige hallway, where photos of policemen of bygone days broke the boredom of the tan walls.
The chief’s office was at the end of the hallway, and as I neared, he stepped out to greet me.
Anthony Cassato was not a tall man, but I wouldn’t call him short—blessed with a barrel chest, bucket-shaped head, full head of dark hair, and the kind of rugged face some woman find attractive. Not me—I’m more drawn to the Errol Flynn type (before he got pickled, at least).
The chief wore his usual attire of starched white short-sleeve shirt, blue tie, dark gray slacks, and black Florsheim shoes. But there was something different about him—today he wore a smile.
“Vivian,” he said, “I’m glad you’re here. I was just about to call you.”
So!
Tony Cassato had finally decided to take me seriously, to view me as a resource, a valuable asset, belatedly coming to the realization that my sleuthing was not trifling, but real, honest-to-goodness, effective detective work. Hadn’t I handed him three killers on a platter (well, respective platters) (three platters) over this past year or so?
I was certainly in the cat-bird seat now!
(For you younger folks—are you listening, dear?—this refers to an Australian bowerbird, a.k.a cat bird, known for the extraordinary lengths that the male will go to in order to…. Perhaps you should look it up yourself. I have my chapter length to consider, and can’t just go off yammering about anything.)
The chief escorted me into his annoyingly uncluttered office—annoying, because it revealed nothing about the man, no personal papers lying around for me to eyeball, or to surreptitiously slip into my handbag.
He offered me the padded chair in front of his desk, but instead of going around and taking a seat himself, he perched on the desk’s edge, looking down at me over his somewhat crooked nose.
And suddenly his smile didn’t seem so friendly.
I cleared my throat. “You said you were about to call me—which is good because I have a few theories about the death of Mr. Martinette—”
He cut me off with “Not interested,” his smile disappearing altogether. “I wanted to see you to give you a piece of good news.”
“Really?”
“Yes. I’ve decided not to press charges against you.”
I was speechless. (Really.) (I tell you, I was!)
“Mrs. Borne, you left the scene of a crime last night. A woman at the scene was dead, and we have no way of knowing whether she was still alive when—don’t interrupt! When you first found her. Instead of calling 911 or the police, you went home and gathered your daughter. Now, the coroner feels Mrs. Mulligan was probably deceased when you arrived. But nonetheless this is unacceptable, possibly criminally negligent behavior. Because of your age—do not interrupt! Because of your age, and because your daughter did in fact promptly contact the authorities, that is, me, we are willing to overlook this lapse in good judgment and display of bad citizenship. There is one condition—you must henceforth stay out of this police matter. Otherwise, I will cite you for obstructing our investigation.”
“I want to see my lawyer.”
“Do it on your own time.” The chief pointed a finger at me as if aiming a gun at my poor head. “And stop involving Brandy in your nonsense. You’re putting her and the baby at risk.” He withdrew the finger. “That’s all.”
“That’s all?”
“Just one other thing.”
“What?”
“Get out.”
What a terrible way to speak to his future mother-in-law!
Shocked, unable to find the words to properly express my outraged indignation (or perhaps my indignant outrage—hard call), I rose, summoning every ounce of dignity within me, then headed slowly to the door, stumbling only once.
“Oh!” he said to my back. “There is one more thing.”
I rotated my head to look at him, my chin up, nose high, my displeasure on display. “What is it, Chief Cassato?”
“The next dispatcher who gives you sensitive police information will find herself out of a job. Understood?”
I nodded numbly, and made my way into the corridor, numb as a dead gerbil. (There is a gerbil story that you must simply remind me to tell, but not at this time. Not when I’m watching every word.) (Richard Gere not involved.)
Antiques Bizarre Page 11
