My visit with the chief could have gone better.
But Vivian Borne is not one to buckle under even the greatest pressure, and the unfairest persecution…and the day was still young….
I hoofed it over to Main Street, five blocks of regentrified Victorian buildings housing quaint little bistros and shops, accentuated by old-fashioned lampposts and wrought-iron benches.
Hunter’s Hardware was my next destination, a uniquely Midwestern aberration: the front of the elongated store—which hadn’t changed an iota since I was in bloomers (figuratively speaking—I’m not old enough to have actually worn bloomers). The place retained the original wood floor and tin ceiling yet sold everything one might expect from a modern hardware outlet.
The rear, however, contained a small bar area that offered hard liquor to its customers, a practice called into question after one man got too loosey-goosey imbibing, then went home with his new nail gun and affixed his foot to the floor. (The most disturbing thing, reported by the man’s wife, was that the nailer alternately screamed and laughed about his mishap. Men can be strange.)
I breezed into the store/bar, weaving in and around various displays, successfully managing to avoid Mary, coowner of the store, who could talk your ear off about the most unimportant things, wasting precious time.
Mary was a squat lady, who wore a prosthesis ever since losing a leg some years back in a freak accident while visiting the Jaws attraction at the Universal theme park in Florida. Soon after, she and her husband, Junior, bought the hardware store with the money she got from the settlement. Always a silver lining!
I found Junior in the back, where he was polishing glass tumblers behind the scarred mahogany bar. Sixty years ago, his nickname had accurately described him, but now he was paunchy and balding, with a puffy face and dark circles under his eyes.
The bar was deserted at this morning hour, the only other customer being Henry, a barfly who was as much a fixture in Hunter’s as the old ceiling fans.
(Just so you know, the following sentence originally began, “As a matter of fact,” but I deleted it to save precious word space.) Henry was the reason I was here, as Junior was a terrible gossip—and by “terrible” I mean the old fool couldn’t retain and retell a good story if his life depended upon it.
Henry, however, sitting quietly in his cups all these years, absorbed town gossip like a bar-sponge does a spilled Blatz. He was my number one informant, and not one the chief could take away from me.
Junior spotted me first, serving up his usual buck-toothed grin. “Vivian! Nice to see you!”
“Must be nice to be open again.” I slid up on a well-worn leather stool next to Henry. “Any water damage?”
“We got some in the basement. Just a block closer to the river, it’s still a foot deep, first floors.”
“Terrible tragedy. We all do what we can.”
“Well, you sure do!” Junior snorted. “I heard that was one wild party you threw over at the Catholic church.” He chuckled. “I always say, wherever there’s a catastrophe, Vivian Borne’s gonna be right there on the front line.”
“Why, thank you. Very sweet of you, Junior.”
Henry swiveled toward me. “Hello, Vivian.”
I did a double take (double and triple takes are part of my comic bag of tricks for stage performance, and I must admit a touch of theatricality has tended to creep into my off-stage persona—just a tad).
My surprise was due to this not being Henry’s usual slurred, “’lo ’ivian,” ending with a hiccough.
The one-time surgeon had famously (or infamously) taken to drink after losing his license many years ago, upon removing a patient’s gall bladder instead of the intended appendix. Now he was sitting in a bar—stone-cold sober!
No longer was Henry the rheumy-eyed, mottled-nosed, and sickly-complected barfly we all knew and loved. Instead of his regular tumbler of whiskey, he was having the only thing I ever ordered—a Shirley Temple!
“Huh…Huh…Henry!” I sputtered. “You’ve finally done it! You’ve finally kicked the monkey off your back!”
For years I had tried, in my simple Christian way, to get Henry off the sauce, always to disastrous results. The latest in a long line of failed attempts to dry Henry out had been to take him to a hypnotist. But susceptible Henry had been sitting in the hypnotist’s reception area and overheard instructions intended for a heavy smoker. Apparently, the hypnotist had been at an early stage of therapy when telling the subject that cigarettes would begin to taste terrible to him, because Henry arrived at Hunter’s the next day and, between drinks, smoked cigarette after cigarette, snuffing them out, and making terrible faces and loud comments about the horrible taste. You see, Henry hadn’t smoked before.
(Editorial comment from Brandy Borne: Please understand that you are not expected to believe everything Mother says. I’m told she is what’s known in literature as an “unreliable narrator,” and if you feel this particular tall tale is just too much, you are not alone. Now we return you to Mother’s chapter, already—unfortunately—in progress.)
Henry’s smile was unfamiliar—his mouth no longer lopsided! “Been dry a whole month, Vivian.”
“Well, I’ll drink to that!” I replied.
Junior, who had begun making my nonalcoholic concoction (with extra cherries) the moment he saw me, placed the drink on the counter. I picked it up and clanked glasses with Henry, and then we both took sips.
“How did you do it?” I asked.
“I went back to that hypnotist—wasn’t really her fault a few signals got crossed—and anyway, this time she got it right.”
“Tilda Tompkins, you mean.”
“Yes. Have another session with her this afternoon, at three. Once a week and works like a charm.”
“Well, congratulations,” I beamed, glad that I had played at least a small role in his transformation.
Henry frowned. “But Tilda says I can’t have even a single drop of liquor. Otherwise, I’ll fall of the wagon and hit real hard.”
By this time I’d heard quite enough of Henry and his success story, itching to get to my reason for dropping by.
“Henry,” I began, “what can you tell me about Clifford Ashland?”
The ex-surgeon took a moment before answering. “He’s wealthy and runs an investment firm.”
“Well, I know that! What else?”
Henry shrugged. “I don’t know anything else.”
I found that hard to believe. But I moved on. “What about Father O’Brien? Tell me all about him—surely he must have some deep, dark secrets…?”
Henry’s eyeballs rolled back in his head, as if searching for information in his brain, or maybe reliving an exorcism his hypnotist had stirred up. When his eyes reappeared, they were somewhat crossed. “Well, all I know is, Father O’Brien is the priest at St. Mary’s.”
I was beginning to get peeved.
“Henry,” I snapped, “you know everything there is about everybody in this town—past and present!”
He shook his head, then slowly, soberly said, “Not anymore, Vivian.”
“What do you mean, ‘not anymore’?”
His shrug was elaborate. “I don’t remember much of anything since before I got cleaned up.”
Well, dear reader, I nearly toppled from my stool! This bit of news meant utter disaster. Henry was my go-to-snitch, my snitch of snitches, the Snitch-a-tola of Serenity. He was where I went when I wanted, when I needed, sensitive information.
“Henry, I’m working on a case, and I really need your help. Would you consider falling off the wagon just for this afternoon, and I’ll pick up the tab on all your future hypnotherapy?”
Henry’s eyes popped. “Vivian—how you can suggest such a thing?”
Junior seemed to be thinking my idea hadn’t been bad at all.
“I’d love to help, if I could,” Henry said, and shrugged again, less elaborately. “What are you working on? The theft of that egg? The murder of that fellow Marti
nette?”
Now my eyes popped. “You may have forgotten your yesterdays, but you’re certainly up on current events, Henry.”
“I read the paper. Watch the TV. Anyway, I was there. I was at the church—I got pretty sick. I had some of that bad stew. Really something about Mrs. Mulligan dying, too. Is that another murder?”
This was way off base—Henry asking me questions. The world had really gone topsy-turvy today.
“Funny thing,” he was saying, studying his nonalcoholic beverage somewhat wistfully, “that fellow Martinette? I’m sure I’ve seen him before.”
“I don’t think so. He came in from Chicago as a bidder.”
“No,” Henry said forcefully. “I know I’ve seen him before. Maybe more than once.”
“Where? When?”
Henry turned his palms up. “I’m sorry, Vivian. I just don’t remember.”
Beyond frustration, I addressed Junior, “Where are the Romeos having their lunch today?”
The Romeos—Retired Old Men Eating Out—were friends of long standing who had sometimes been helpful with information for me, when I was cracking a mystery. But they were a dwindling group, Father Time catching up with them.
Junior frowned. “Haven’t you heard?”
I hated it when a) this simple soul knew something I didn’t, and 2) when he made me ask him, “What?”
I asked, “What?”
“They’re on hiatus,” Junior said. “Not enough of ’em around to get together anymore, between death and Florida.” He paused, adding, “And they kinda lost heart after what happened to—”
“Yes, I know,” I cut him off, holding up a “stop” palm, not wanting him to spoil Antiques Flee Market, for those of you who haven’t read it (yet).
Pushing my Shirley Temple aside, I demanded, “Give me a whiskey, Junior. Neat!”
Junior’s eyes widened. “Are you sure? What about your medication? And do you even know what ‘neat’ means?”
“You’re not my doctor, or my conscience. Just serve it up! Uh…what does ‘neat’ mean, in this regard?”
“Straight, Viv. No mixer.”
“Fine!”
Junior hesitated, then poured amber liquid into a tumbler.
I downed it. “Another one,” I demanded.
Henry reached a hand out. “Don’t do it, Vivian.”
“Another one.”
Junior sighed. “Okay, Viv. But no more.”
I sat glumly with the second drink untouched, wondering what my next move might be, when Mary appeared and asked her husband to move a large box.
When Junior left, I turned to Henry.
“Maybe you should lend a hand, too,” I suggested. “We don’t want Junior having a heart attack, now do we?”
Henry nodded, climbed off his stool, and sauntered off to help.
After Henry had gone, I studied his glass. Who would ever know if I poured my whiskey into his tumbler? He’d kicked it once. Surely he could kick it again, and I would gladly guide him back to sobriety.
But it must have been the whiskey talking, or anyway thinking. I couldn’t do that to my old friend, my loyal one-time snitch. Yes, my better nature and my conscience got the better of me, and I refrained from such sabotage.
Please don’t judge me too harshly—remember, I had a killer to catch.
When Junior and Henry returned, I paid my tab, then slid unsteadily off my stool—that whiskey packed a wallop!—but I soon found my land legs.
Outside the establishment, I stood for a few minutes, breathing in the fresh air, though nasty river smell still touched it; finally the world stopped spinning, and I headed to my next destination.
At the end of the business section of Main Street was a unique Victorian four-story building with an ornate facade and corner-set front door. The old structure—yet to be refurbished—had a checkered past, several former owners having died under unusual circumstances. But the current owner, Raymond Spillman, had the building blessed by Father O’Brien and, ever since, the Grim Reaper had kept its distance.
An antiques mall occupied the entire first floor (the others currently not in use) and Brandy and I rented a booth there—number thirteen—which was situated to the right, just inside the door.
A quick word about the number thirteen (I think I deserve one small digression). I’ve always considered thirteen to be lucky—it’s only unlucky if you think it is. Our booth—the best location in the shop because most people turn right when they enter a store—had been available thanks to silly superstitious renters. Doesn’t that prove thirteen’s a lucky number? So don’t shy away from the number thirteen—that’s all feeble-minded nonsense…
…unless it falls on a Friday, and then look out!
I hurried over to our booth, my eagle eyes searching out any missing objects—occasionally something might have been shoplifted, but mostly empty spaces meant our pockets would be filled with some extra cash.
S word!
Everything was still there—including that smiley-face clock that I had cautioned Brandy not to buy. She claimed it was the perfect retro piece for a certain age group. Apparently that age group didn’t have a measly three dollars to spend, because that’s how far we’d marked it down.
My dears, forgive me, but I absolutely despise tax time, when people act responsibly, and hold on to their money to pay Uncle Sam, instead of blowing it at our booth.
I marched over to the center circular counter, where Ray—as everyone called him—was working on an old sewing machine, parts laid out like instruments for a surgery.
Ray was a small, spry man in his late seventies, with a slender build, thinning gray hair, bright shining eyes, bulbous nose, and a slash of a mouth. Out of the corner of an eye he caught me coming, but before he could utter a greeting, I said, “Please don’t tell me you’re going out of business!”
Because that’s how bad my day was going. I hadn’t had a day this bad since they canceled Magnum P.I. (don’t you just love that Tom Selleck?).
Ray looked stunned. “What are you, Vivian? A witch? How did you know that? I only came to that decision last night!”
My piercing scream was worthy of my performance with the Midwest Shakespeare Company’s 1982 production of Hamlet, as Queen Gertrude in Act V, Scene II. (All right, you smarty-pants out there who know your Shakespeare—she wasn’t really supposed to scream, just moan loudly, but I had spotted a few snoozing patrons in the audience, and needed to provide a wake-up call.)
A few shoppers poked their heads above booth walls to see what had happened, while Ray tried to calm me down.
“Vivian,” he said, patting the air with his palms, “I’m sure I’ll have no trouble finding a buyer.”
“In this depressed market? I highly doubt it!”
But I knew that once Ray made a decision, he stuck to it, like chewing gum to a shoe. Stubborn! Some of these older people are like that.
So I turned on my heel and left.
Outside, I decided that bold action was needed to salvage my day (and this chapter). At the curb, a young man with tattooed arms, wearing a worn T-shirt and torn jeans, had just dismounted his motorcycle.
“Young man,” I hailed, “would you be so kind as to help a lady in distress?”
“Huh?”
“I need a ride to St. Mary’s Church—mustn’t be late for confession—and I’m recovering from a sprained ankle, so walking is out of the question.” Anyway, I was still wobbly from the booze.
“Lady, this is a motorcycle.”
“I can see that—I’m not blind, I just have a sprained ankle.”
He shrugged. “Well, okay—why not? It’s a nice day. Hell—hop on.”
He straddled the bike, jumped up and down, and the motor came to life. Gingerly, I climbed on behind, thankful I was wearing slacks, and hooked my arms around his slender waist.
And we roared off.
“Wheeeeee!” I said. Actually I said it several times.
This was the most fun I’d h
ad in a very long time, flying along with the wind in my hair, feeling like a teenager again. This must have been how Isadora Duncan felt, right up to where that scarf snapped her neck.
The ride was especially gratifying when we sped by Mrs. Potthoff, out walking her Pekingese, and I yelled, “Hel-looow dearie,” startling both her and her little dog, too.
All too soon, however, my joy ride came to an end as the motorcycle raced up the steep incline of St. Mary’s, coming to an abrupt stop by the church doors, nearly sending me flying. Reckless lad—I might have sprained an ankle!
With some difficulty I dismounted—as out of breath as if I had walked the distance—and thanked the young man, despite the jolt of a stop. He nodded, spun the bike around, and was gone. Just another Good Samaritan whose deed had gone unrecognized. (If I’d thought to ask his name, I could have recognized him here.) (Not a suspect.)
I headed for the administrative building, a small one-story brick structure located next to the main sanctuary. There I found the church secretary, Madeline Pierce, working at her desk in cramped quarters.
“Hello, Mad,” I said. Hers was a nickname that suited her put-upon personality. Her features were as severe as her short dark hair and drab brown dress.
I assumed her startled expression was due to my windblown appearance.
“Why, Vivian,” the fortyish secretary responded curtly. “How can I help you?”
“Father O’Brien wants to see you right away,” I told her, gesturing vaguely. “He’s in his quarters.”
She frowned. “What about?”
“How should I know, dear? You’re his trusted secretary, not I—he just said for you to come.”
“I’ll get him on his cell.” And she reached for the desk phone.
“You can’t!”
“What?”
“His cell is dead, dear. That’s why he dispatched me.”
When Madeline hesitated, I said, “If anyone should call while you’re gone, I’ll be glad to take a message. You’d better hurry—he seemed quite agitated, especially for a holy man.”
She got out of her chair. “Well, all right,” she huffed. “But I don’t know why he couldn’t walk over here himself….”
Antiques Bizarre Page 12
