Antiques Flee Market

by Barbara Allan

  “Huh?”

  “…among your father’s old photography equipment. I’ve saved everything for years…even the old chemicals. You know how sentimental I am, dear.”

  I frowned at her. “You mean cyanide is used in photography?”

  Mother shook her head. “Not these days. Deemed too dangerous. You know, your father nearly died once when he got it on his hands.”

  “When was this?”

  “Oh, a long time ago, dear…when he used to develop his own pictures.”

  We were finally home, after a long, trying day…

  …that wasn’t over yet.

  I should have known that something was wrong when Sushi didn’t greet us at the door as we came in, stomping the snow from our boots, signaling our arrival to the sharp-eared pooch. I called her name, then went into the kitchen, expecting to find the dog sound asleep in her fluffy little bed.

  And Sushi was there, all right, in her bed, but motionless, her pink tongue lolled out. I ran to her, dropped to my knees, and picked up the limp dog.

  “Mother!” I screamed. “Something’s wrong with Sushi!”

  Mother rushed in, and bent over us.

  “Oh, my,” Mother said, fingers to her cheek, eyes huge behind the lenses. “She doesn’t look at all well. I wonder if…?”

  “What do you wonder?”

  “I wonder if I gave her the correct amount of insulin.”

  “How much did you give her?”

  “Now, let me think….” Mother put a fingertip to her lips.

  “How much, Mother?”

  She nodded crisply. “Sixteen units. Just like the instructions on the bottle said.”

  “That’s six units, Mother! Only six!”

  “Oh, dear me…I’m at fault, then. I simply must get these glasses checked.”

  I was sobbing. “She’s overdosed.” Cradling Sushi, I rocked her back and forth. “She’s dead…she’s dead, Mother, and you killed her!”

  A Trash ‘n’ Treasures Tip

  Before heading out to a flea market, prepare a list of items you’re looking for, with notations on how much you’re willing to pay. Share this list with friends…only make sure they understand the “willing to pay” part. One eager pal went ahead and bought me the Bakelite bracelet I desired, and I still owe her two payments.

  Chapter Five

  Arrested Development

  As I sat on the kitchen floor with a limp Sushi in my arms, Mother said, “We must act quickly! I know a home remedy we can try that might bring her around. Once, an aunt of mine gave herself too much insulin and—”

  “Antidote, Mother, not anecdote! For God’s sake, just do it!”

  I watched through tearful eyes as Mother rummaged in the cupboards, tossing food items left and right; then, finding what she was looking for, she dropped down on the floor beside me.

  “Open her mouth, dear,” Mother commanded, uncapping a bottle of Kayo Syrup.

  I gently pried Sushi’s lifeless jaws apart.

  Pouring the sweet syrup on her fingers, Mother proceeded to rub the sticky goo on Sushi’s gums, upper mouth, and tongue.

  We waited.

  Nothing.

  Mother tried again.

  “Oh, please, please…” I prayed, searching for any sign of life.

  Suddenly, Sushi’s little tongue flicked.

  I let out a whoop!

  “We’re not out of the woods yet,” Mother warned, raising a wiggling forefinger. “But this will help until we can transport the little darling to the vet. I’ll go phone ahead now….”

  As the minutes passed, Sushi began to come slowly around, as her body absorbed the syrup, which in turn raised her blood sugar.

  I could hear Mother on the phone in the living room, and after several endless moments, she returned. “Dr. Tillie said to bring her out right away. I’ll go find a small blanket.” She turned to go do that.

  “Mother?”

  Looking over her shoulder, her expression remarkably sane, and seeming in complete control of herself, me, and the conversation, she said, “Yes, dear?”

  “I’m sorry I snapped at you.”

  “I was a stupid old woman, not being more careful about that dosage. It won’t happen again.”

  “I said you killed her, but really…you saved her.” After almost killing her….

  Mother smiled sweetly. “Why, what would this place be, without our precious little guard dog?”

  Dr. Tillie, a stocky, older man with a kind face and a gentle demeanor that had served him well, minimizing getting bit over the many years, had saved several of our pets’ lives. Once upon a time, a twelve-year-old Brandy played a mean trick on Bluto, giving the bulldog a whole cooked turkey—seemed the dog had stolen the little girl’s breakfast while she was off answering the phone—and Dr. Tillie had successfully pumped the dog’s stomach. Then another time, Pippi, our one-eyed parrot (actually our only parrot, one-eyed or otherwise) got loose and attacked a rooster, and yet the ever-reliable vet managed to save her life, too.

  Even though it was way past closing time for the animal hospital, Dr. Tillie—whose house was behind the kennels—was waiting for us just inside the unlocked door when we arrived. He took a cursory look at Sushi, who I held swaddled in a little pink blanket, and said, “Bring her in back.”

  We followed Dr. Tillie through the disinfectant-scented waiting room and then down a tiled hallway to one of several examination rooms. Here I placed Sushi-in-the-blanket on a gleaming steel table.

  Sushi, conscious now, kept struggling vainly to stand on the cold, slippery surface, so I gently restrained her, as the vet listened to her heart, checked her eyes and mouth, then drew some blood for testing. She was frightened, and it broke my heart (the Prozac could only blunt so much emotion).

  “Will she be all right?” I asked anxiously.

  “I believe so,” Dr. Tillie said. “But I’d like to keep her here under observation for at least twenty-four hours.”

  Still the picture of sanity, Mother asked, “Will there be someone checking on her through the night?”

  Dr. Tillie nodded. “One of my nurses comes in twice to monitor the animals in intensive care, which is where I’ll put Sushi.” His smile was kind and there was nothing manufactured about it—he really cared. “We’ll call you if there’s any change.”

  I gave the vet my cell number, and Mother’s, along with our home number, and thanked him for all he had done. I kissed Sushi, she granted me a lick on the nose, and then Mother and I left.

  It was almost ten at night by the time we arrived back home, the house feeling cavernously empty without Sushi. Funny how such a small creature could fill up so big a space. While Mother tidied up the mess she had made earlier in the kitchen, I made myself a bed on the uncomfortable Queen Anne needlepoint sofa, to be near the downstairs phone in case Dr. Tillie’s nurse called.

  Then Mother trundled upstairs to sleep, but not without saying what she used to say to a little Brandy while tucking me in: “Good night, sleep tight, don’t let the bedbugs bite. If they do, take a shoe, and beat them till they’re black and blue.”

  Did I ever mention I’ve had chronic nightmares since childhood?

  I slept fitfully, waking several times imagining—not bedbugs—but the sound of Sushi’s little toenails clicking on the parquet floor. Once I even thought she was up on the couch with me, curled up in her usual spot in the crux of my bent knees, but the little lump was only a wad of blanket.

  Finally, around four A.M., I drifted off into a deep sleep. I had several dreams, the last of which was at the flea market, where I walked endless aisles, spotting great bargains and going off to find Mother, only to bring her back to a table arrayed with completely different, unappealing, overpriced items. Joe Lange was in the dream, too, up ahead of me in the aisle—I would call out to him and he would walk faster, pretending he hadn’t heard me. Then someone gripped my shoulder and scared the what’s-it out of me…

  …but it was only Mot
her, rubbing my arm.

  “Come along, dear,” she said, “we must act quickly.”

  The “act quickly” made me bolt upright. “Is it Sushi? Is something wrong with—”

  “No, dear,” Mother interrupted soothingly, “the little darling is expected to make a full and complete recovery. I just spoke with Dr. Tillie, who says his patient is doing spiffily. You may call him back if you like, but he said we can pick her up at closing time today.”

  My sigh of relief only made me realize that my mouth tasted like an old gym sock—not that I’ve ever tasted one. “Then why all the excitement?” I asked.

  Mother sat next to me on the sofa. “Important news has just come from my top-secret contact within the police department….”

  I once asked Mother who this “top-secret contact” was, but she refused to tell me, claiming she didn’t want me to be culpable. But I was almost positive the PD leak was Wanda, the night dispatcher, forever grateful to Mother for helping land her a job as an extra in Field of Dreams; unmarried Wanda kept her autographed photo from Kevin Costner on her desk where most people showed off family photos.

  I tried looking at Mother straight on, but my neck was too stiff to turn, a hazzard from sleeping on the uncomfy couch. “And what news would that be?” I asked.

  “My worst fears have come true! My darkest suspicions are bearing fruit!”

  “What fears? What fruit?”

  “Our poor little Chaz has been charged with her grandfather’s murder!”

  I swiveled to face Mother. “That’s awful. You’re sure?”

  “My mole at the Police Department is utterly reliable.”

  Mother has more moles burrowed in and around town than the municipal golf course after a hard rain.

  I asked, “What can we do to help her?”

  Her chin jutted, her eyes narrowed. “Already done, dear.”

  “What’s already done? What have you done, Mother?”

  “Simply arranged the best possible counsel—Mr. Ekhardt himself has agreed to represent Chaz!”

  Mr. Ekhardt was the most legendary criminal attorney Serenity had ever known; but he was also just a shade older than the courthouse. His age, however, was not my foremost concern.

  “Can he?” I asked. “I mean, can he represent a British citizen?”

  “He can indeed,” Mother said, adding, “And we certainly can’t leave the poor girl’s fate in the hands of a public defender!”

  I could have. Some of the best lawyers in Serenity pitched in as public defenders; and the thought of the Borne girls winding up paying for Mr. Ekhardt’s expensive services made a night of Mother shopping on Home Network seem a trifling matter.

  Mother was saying, “We’re to meet him at his office in one hour—sharp.” She slapped my knee. “So, let’s the two of us just hippity-hop to the barbershop!”

  Okay, let’s all of us agree that some old expressions need to die with our generation.

  Mother rushing to call Mr. Ekhardt was no surprise, and not entirely because of his sterling reputation as a defense lawyer. Mr. Ekhardt had been our family lawyer since Peggy Sue was in diapers.

  He’d skyrocketed to fame around here in the 1950s when—so the local lore goes—he got a woman off for murder after she shot her philandering husband four times. In the back! (Accidentally, while cleaning her handgun.) No one believed her story, of course, but in a case that preceded by decades the Burning Bed and other cases of murdered abusive husbands, Ekhardt had introduced evidence showing the husband had regularly gone on drunken binges and beaten up his wife. Ekhardt had never offered this as mitigation for murder, sticking by his client’s story. But the jury did what the jury had to do, and set her free.

  Never before had the floral and candy shops in Serenity been so busy as after that trial’s surprise outcome, worried husbands all over town rushing to appease their wives to prevent the same thing from happening to them.

  The downtown sidewalks were shoveled and the city’s Christmas decorations were up, a scratchy sound system worthy of a carnival barker (“Crazy Ball, Crazy Ball, come play the Crazy Ball!”) somehow not defeating the various instrumental versions of the seasonal songs it bleated. Nothing religious, of course, just the likes of “Silver Bells” and “White Christmas.” As Mother had once commented, “What would Christmas be without all that wonderful music written by Jewish tunesmiths!”

  Mr. Ekhardt had an office on the top floor of the Laurel Building, an eight-story Art Deco edifice (built 1928) on Main Street. At one time the successful trial attorney had owned the entire building, using all but the first floor for his flourishing practice. But as Ekhardt eased into semiretirement, he’d sold the building to an engineering firm with the stipulation that he be granted a lifetime lease of the eighth floor for a dollar a year. (Bet they never thought he’d reach eighty-eight!)

  After finding a parking spot in front of the building, I hurriedly got out of the car so that I could beat Mother to the meter. Why? Because for some time now she had been depositing only slugs. (Mother had a long-running feud with the city council, trying to convince them to dispense with the meters, because nothing infuriates a shopper more than spending money downtown and receiving the warm thank-you note of a parking ticket.)

  I shared Mother’s sentiment, but her slugs invariably jammed the meters, and she would then leave a note saying that she had attempted to put coins into the “hungry maw of the meter, only to find it out of order, possibly by an Act of God.” She had done this frequently enough that her getting busted over nickels and dimes seemed an inevitability.

  We entered the refurbished lobby—Mother grousing about the loss of its antique fixtures (the building’s loss, and ours, for not knowing they were going to be auctioned off)—then took the modern elevator up to the top floor.

  Stepping off the elevator was like going back into time. While the rest of the floors had been modernized, the eighth floor retained its original style: scuffed black-and-white speckled ceramic-tiled floor, scarred-wood office doors with ancient pebbled glass, Art Moderne scone wall lighting, even an old porcelain drinking fountain.

  Mr. Ekhardt—long since a one-man operation, reachable by appointment only—occupied the river-view corner office at the end of the long corridor. As we walked along, snoopy Mother tried the knob of each door on either side of the hallway, disappointed to find them all locked.

  “Stop that,” I said.

  Mother shrugged. “Could be some incredible forgotten antiques in there, you know, just waiting to be discovered.”

  “Well, set sail on that expedition some other time, why don’t you?”

  We reached the last pebbled-glass door, where stencils applied many decades ago now read:

  Way e Ek ar t Atto ney At La

  Mother turned the round, worn brass knob.

  “Locked, too.” She frowned.

  I checked my Chico’s watch. We were right on time.

  Mother and I exchanged puzzled looks.

  “Do you think he’s forgotten?” I asked.

  As if in answer, the elevator dinged at the other end of the corridor.

  “Ah, there the dear boy is,” Mother said, beaming in satisfaction. “He hasn’t lost his faculties yet.”

  Misplaced a few, maybe.

  The elevator door whooshed open and the “boy,” a frail-looking Mr. Ekhardt, stepped off. While his clothes looked dapper enough—charcoal wool topcoat, tan-and-red plaid scarf, black homburg—he seemed to have shrunk inside of them.

  Mother and I watched silently as the lawyer shuffled slowly toward us. Remember Tim Conway’s old man on the Carol Burnett TV Show, moving endlessly forward? Slower. (I could have painted my nails in the amount of time it took. Two coats.)

  Finally, Mr. Ekhardt—somewhat winded from his long trip down the hallway, the bags under his eyes fully packed for a much-needed vacation—greeted us with a nod. Then, with shaky hands, he fished out keys on a chain, selected one, and unlocked the door and bade us en
ter in no more time than it took to write the first chapter of this book.

  I was starting to seriously wonder if the legendary defense attorney was still up to the job of representing Chaz, and looked at Mother to see if she, too, had reservations. But Mother merely smiled back with utter confidence. The only reservations this woman had were at her favorite Serenity restaurant, the Woodfire Grill, for supper.

  Mr. Ekhardt’s small, sparse office came as something of a shock—the only things keeping this from passing for Phillip Marlowe’s or Mike Hammer’s digs was the lack of a sexy secretary. Was there a bottle of Scotch filed away in a desk drawer?

  And where was the computer? Where were the law books? Or even a few dusty files on the well-worn desk, which was bare save for a solitary telephone? At least it wasn’t a candlestick phone.

  The lawyer, gesturing for us to be seated in two oak captain’s chairs opposite his desk, must have read my mind. “I conduct most of my work at home these days, Miss Borne,” he explained. “I just maintain this office for show.”

  I managed a smile. “And what show would that be…Peter Gunn?”

  The lawyer found that uproariously funny, but his laugh quickly turned into a hacking cough that weakened him further, and he dropped down into his swivel chair, gasping for breath.

  Mother shot me a scolding glance, as if to say, “If our lawyer dies on us, young lady, it will be your fault!”

  Mr. Ekhardt, exhausted, sighed and closed his eyes. I remembered Nero Wolfe in the Rex Stout novels Mother had insisted I read (one of her better recommendations); the corpulent sleuth would shut his eyes and do his best work as he became lost in thought. Perhaps Mr. Ekhardt was of that rare contemplative breed.

  Only, in another moment, he was snoring.

  Now I shot Mother a look, a withering, disenchanted one.

  “We can afford to let him rest,” Mother countered. “After all, he’s not a young man anymore. He needs to conserve his energy, and marshal his enthusiasm.”

  Wondering if this were a rest or a coma, I trained my eyes on my watch and waited. After exactly two minutes and thirty-eight seconds, Mother gave a certifiably fake, “Ah…ah…ah…choo!”