8 Antiques Con

by Barbara Allan

  For a moment—as I watched in fascination—it seemed that Eric could fly, even without monkey wings, the rising air from the courtyard below creating a vortex, keeping him momentarily aloft, like some crazy cartoon character who’d run off a cliff and hadn’t yet realized there was only a long fall under his feet.

  Then the swirling vortex dissipated, and Eric dropped from view, followed by a terrible sound, a whump punctuated by brittle breakage.

  Suddenly Robert was helping me up, and Mother’s comforting arms were around me, holding me tight, my pitiful sobs lost in the wind.

  “There, there, little Brandy,” Mother soothed. “There, there. No need to cry now.”

  But it was my party and I’d cry if I wanted to.

  And I wanted to.

  A Trash ‘n’ Treasures Tip

  Most comics conventions have an “artists’ alley,” where cartoonists sell and sign their work. In addition to offering original comic book pages, the artists often do sketches, frequently for bargain rates. You can ask for a drawing of your favorite character. That’s what Mother does—she has a whole portfolio of caricatures of herself.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Con Tinued

  Having no desire to learn of the wonders of a Manhattan emergency room, I declined a hospital visit, instead camping out on the unfolded-out couch in our suite. I traded the monkey costume for a baby blue velour Juicy Couture tracksuit, finally shedding those darn wings. Bandages had been provided by someone at the hotel, and my mummy-wrapped hands looked like a burn victim’s. Otherwise I was all right. But this long night was not over. A rumpled, bleary-eyed Detective Sal Cassato showed up around five a.m., and I gave him my account of Eric’s attack, which he collected by way of a handheld recorder. A keenly interested and atypically subdued Mother, with a concerned Sushi in her lap, looked on.

  When I had finished, Mother admitted to holding back the partial ballots found in Tommy’s room that had led us to theorize that Violet had killed Tommy.

  “And of course,” Mother said, “the rest is history.”

  “Not quite history yet,” Detective Cassato said sharply. “You were withholding evidence, Mrs. Borne. That’s a very serious matter.”

  Mother gave him a languid Southern belle shrug (perfected in a Serenity Community Playhouse production of The Little Foxes). “Well, I suppose technically you’re correct, Detective, but we didn’t realize the ballots had any kind of evidentiary value, not until late in the game.”

  She do declare.

  Detective Cassato was reddening. “If you’d handed over those ballot sheets, I’d have come to the same conclusion about Violet myself. Tampering with evidence, removing evidence from a crime scene, obstructing our investigation . . . you could be charged, you know.”

  Mother touched her bosom, poor-little-old-me style, saying, “Yes, and we’re terribly sorry for any inconvenience, Detective Cassato. And we do hope that you will find it in your heart not to charge us, as we’ve already been through so very much.”

  The detective, face set like stone, wasn’t buying Mother’s flummery. “You do realize,” he replied, glaring at her, “that had you been forthcoming, your daughter’s life might not ultimately have been put in jeopardy.”

  Actually, what ultimately put my life in jeopardy was stopping to finish a piece of half-eaten cake.

  Mother shifted effortlessly into Diane Keaton lah-de-dah mode. “Of course, if you want to arrest the mother and daughter who solved the case for you . . . the daughter, as you rightly point out, having been nearly killed by the perpetrator of the second murder . . . well, I’m sure this will all make for fascinating reportage by the local media.”

  She pronounced “reportage” in the French manner.

  I yawned, partly from lack of sleep, but also because I’d been through many a dressing down at the conclusion of an investigation.

  “And if I might add,” Mother said humbly, “we have learned our lesson here in the metropolis. We will never, ever withhold evidence again.”

  She intoned this with the utmost sincerity, and I just about believed her.

  Just about.

  “I have your assurance of that right here, you know,” Cassato said, clicking off the small recorder.

  Mother gave me a little glance that said: But not under oath.

  The detective sighed. “There will be no charges.”

  Which, no matter how tired I might have been, was a relief to hear—our last investigation garnered us thirty days in our county jail, where I gained five pounds from the starchy food. And I’d already packed on a few New York pounds from the excess cheesecake. Stay tuned for Antiques Diet.

  “You are a gracious and generous man,” Mother gushed. “The Borne girls do not easily forget the kindness of strangers.”

  “Yeaaaaaah,” Detective Cassato said, rising. “I’ll be needing formal statements over at the precinct house. Brandy, you may be required at Eric’s inquest. I’m afraid you’re going to have to stick around town for a while.”

  Mother rose. “We were planning to stay on through the week, anyway. We haven’t really had time to do much sightseeing. Do let us know when and where you need us.”

  He grunted, “Thanks,” at this unusually compliant response from her.

  While Mother walked with the detective to the door, I stretched out on the couch. I fell fast asleep in seconds, a deep, dreamless state approaching hibernation.

  Suddenly Mother was shaking me gently. “Wake up, dear. Wakey wakey.”

  I pushed up on my elbows, blinking. I was in the big bed now, Sushi nestled nearby—how I’d gotten there I didn’t know.

  “What day is it?” I asked groggily.

  “Still Sunday.”

  “What time is it?”

  “About noon.”

  “Wasn’t our panel scheduled for this morning?”

  “They cancelled all morning activities, dear, out of respect for the dead. Not every comic con has three deaths by violence, you know.”

  I sat up. “But what about the auction?”

  She waved off my concern. “The auction is in an hour, dear. Do you think you can sufficiently rouse yourself? Or perhaps you’d like to stay here.”

  I did not. If we didn’t sell that Supe drawing for a fat wad of cash to finance our new shop, we’d be in the soup. It was the main reason we’d come to this ill-fated affair, and I wasn’t about to miss it.

  I eased out of bed, and headed to the shower, initially bent over but evolving from Neanderthal to Homo sapiens in under thirty seconds.

  The auction, in the Gold Room on level C, was under-attended, much to our dismay. We’d seen many attendees bailing, after the costume party killing, and with the events of the morning cancelled, many other attendees had taken their early leave, as well.

  But those who remained were a die-hard lot (too soon?), and when our vintage Superman drawing—drawn by Joe Shuster and signed by him and by cocreator/writer Jerry Siegel—came up, a heated bidding war broke out. Three collectors in the room vied with a pair of pickers attending by cell phone, driving the price upward, finally selling in the high five figures. Joe Lange had predicted we might fare this well, and we were thrilled.

  Earlier, on the long drive to New York, Mother and I had discussed what to do with the money, should Joe be right. After Uncle Sam got his share, Mother intended to treat herself to tooth implants, tired of having her bridgework fall into her dinner; I/we needed a new car, now that the Buick had passed on, was no more, had ceased to be, expired, gone to meet its maker, etc.; and we would stake Sushi to a promising, experimental eye surgery technique so she could see again (if it worked for Soosh, maybe Mother could give it a go).

  The rest of the cash would go into our antiques shop, at the moment painfully understocked with the contents of our former antiques-mall stall. Oh, and we held back five hundred bucks that we hoped would cover the damage to the broken monkey wings.

  After the auction, Mother and I returned to the suit
e, where we slept until late morning, Monday. Leaving Sushi in the hotel room, la Diva headed out to troll the antiques shops in the Village while I took a cab up to Norma Kamali’s on West Fifty-sixth, where I bought one of her fabulous summer swimsuits. That evening, we had a lovely dinner (or is that supper?) at a Village bistro with Ashley and her beau (cute and nice).

  On Tuesday, we returned the Wicked costumes, our $500 check pinned to the monkey costume, leaving the bundle with the Gershwin stage door manager. Like any other good tourists, we purchased tickets for that evening’s performance, which proved thoroughly enjoyable. True to our word, we did not bother Vikki backstage. We did, however, stand outside the stage doors, behind the metal barricades, where the actress who played Wicked Witch Elphaba autographed Mother’s Playbill.

  “Stellar performance, my dear,” Mother informed her. “But might I suggest one simple addition?”

  The actress smiled with her mouth but frowned with her forehead. “Yes, of course.”

  “You might try using a Western accent, my dear. Are you not, after all, the Wicked Witch of the West? A little Southwestern twang would not only be distinctive, but make that point.”

  After a frozen second or two, the actress said, “Well, I’ll take that under consideration. You wouldn’t happen to be in local theater back home, would you?”

  “Why, yes! How could you tell?”

  “Come on, dear,” the real witch said to the pretender. “We actors know another actor when we see one.”

  This thrilled Mother to no end, and the encounter became an anecdote she shared far and wide, though she didn’t seem to understand why it always got a laugh.

  Wednesday morning, a little gold box was delivered to our suite with a small tag reading, Vivian. It was as if a Manhattan admirer had sent her an engagement ring.

  But rather than a diamond, the box contained a set of car keys, along with a note reading, Penn Plaza Parking, #112.

  Puzzled, I looked over Mother’s shoulder as she dangled the keys like a single earring she was considering wearing.

  I asked, “What’s that about?”

  She frowned. “I’m not sure, dear.”

  Leaving Sushi behind, we got into our coats and walked the half block to the parking garage, where, in stall 112, we found a car.

  But not just any car—a 1960s black Cadillac convertible with tail fins and a blood-red interior.

  Mother, squealing with delight, rushed with the keys to the driver’s side door.

  “You don’t have a license, remember?” I warned, shivering at the thought of her driving in New York City traffic.

  Mother put hands on hips. “There’s no law against sitting behind the wheel, is there, Little Miss Buzz Kill?”

  “No. Plant your keister if you like, just don’t go anywhere.”

  With an indignant sniff that was quickly replaced by a gleeful smile, she unlocked the car with one of the keys, then slid in behind the wheel. To make sure she kept her word, I came around and got in on the other side.

  We just sat there admiring the pristine interior with its chrome wheel, deep front dashboard, and boxy panel with simplistic gauges. Best of all, the vintage car had new car smell!

  “Whose car is this?” I finally asked.

  “Mine, I think,” she said slyly. “Look in the glove compartment, dear.”

  I did. All I saw at first was an owner’s manual in protective plastic. But under it was a white business-size envelope with Mrs. Vivian Borne written in a shaky hand.

  “Open it,” Mother ordered.

  I did, removing a letter, along with the title of the vehicle.

  “Now read it, dear.”

  I unfolded the letter. “Dearest Vivian,” I said, “Please accept this gift in gratitude for clearing Gino. And on that other matter, be assured I will keep my word. I never had a better Scrabble partner.”

  I looked at the signature. “Good lord! Isn’t he . . . is that . . . ?”

  “He is that. Indeed.”

  “The Godfather?”

  “Of New Jersey, yes.”

  “When the heck did you see him?”

  “After my little visit to the Badda-Boom. I dropped by his nursing home.”

  I turned in my seat and glared at her. “Mother! You’re not keeping this car. We’re talking about the monster who sent those hit men after Tony—and he and I were almost killed.”

  “Yes . . . and the old sweetie is very sorry about that.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Yes, apparently some of his minions, well . . . overstepped.” She touched my shoulder. “Dear . . . this is not your decision. The car is mine, not yours.”

  “Well, I won’t ride in it—and I’m not even going to sit here one second longer.”

  I moved to open the door, but Mother took my arm.

  “Brandy, the ‘other matter’ the Don mentioned in the letter was that he would remove the contract on Tony if I proved that his relative, Gino, was innocent.”

  I looked at her, stunned.

  “I kept my part of the bargain,” she said. “And he will keep his. This car is just . . . a sort of tip.”

  “And you believe him?”

  “Yes, dear, I do. These people have a code. His word is his honor.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me—”

  “I did not want to raise your hopes. We needed to find a killer first . . . actually, we found two, didn’t we? And we needed Gino not to be one of them. No, I couldn’t tell you until I knew the outcome. Now, I think in due course you’ll find that Tony Cassato will be back in your life.”

  I believed she believed this . . .

  . . . but could I believe it?

  Could I take the word of a notorious organized crime figure?

  And . . . Scrabble?

  Unbidden, my mind started whirling with the possibility of a real future with Tony. I didn’t want to think about that, I really didn’t; but I couldn’t stop myself....

  The contract on Tony cancelled.

  Could it be true?

  Wednesday afternoon, Mother and I returned to the Midtown Precinct, where we spent several hours giving our formal statements to Detective Cassato in his small office. I would not be needed at an inquest because Robert Sipcowski’s statement indicated Eric had fallen accidentally to his death.

  The detective, in a crisp light blue shirt, navy tie, and pressed gray slacks, looked rested, and was typically businesslike though treating us cordially.

  He even shared added information about the murders, specifically his interview with Eric Johansson’s widow, Helena.

  “Apparently,” Detective Casatto said, “she was unaware how deeply Eric had become involved with Violet to further his career.”

  Mother asked, “Then, Helena had no idea Eric had gone back to the ballroom?”

  Cassato nodded. “She said Eric told her he had some business to attend to, and she should wait for him down in the lobby bar. We believe she’s innocent in Violet’s murder.”

  “Poor girl,” Mother said.

  I wasn’t sure if she meant Helena or Violet.

  “Well,” I said, “at least Eric will finally be getting the notoriety he craved.”

  There was a moment of silence before the detective cleared his throat. “Now, one final matter. We need to discuss the fraudulent way you got in to see Brad Webster—”

  “Oh, my!” Mother interrupted, checking her wristwatch. “Look at the time! We have an appointment across town with our book editor—and you know how New Yorkers simply hate people being late.”

  We’d have plenty of opportunity to be on time, because our meeting wasn’t till tomorrow.

  Mother, smiling sweetly, was saying, “Perhaps we can discuss this at a later date, Detective Cassato.”

  “Ma’am,” he said dryly, “there will be no later date, else you and me are going to have a problem.”

  She waved a flirtatious hand. “Oh, I just know there’s no problem that the two of us can’t solve, if we just p
ut our heads together.” She smiled at me. “Doesn’t Detective Cassato have a colorful way of putting things, dear? So very NYPD!”

  Not seeming quite so rested now, the detective escorted us from the interview room and down the corridor toward the precinct’s waiting room. With Mother in the lead, he caught me by the arm, gently, and whispered, “Tony would like to see you tonight.”

  And I whispered back, “Where?”

  “He’ll come to your room. Around seven.”

  “Fine. Tell him fine.”

  As soon as Mother and I had returned to our suite, she began redoing her makeup, fussing with her hair, and laying out a new outfit on the bed.

  I didn’t need to ask her where she was going. After she’d spritzed on perfume, I had a pretty good idea. And I bet you do, too.

  You know how thoughtful Mother is when it comes to visiting old friends at nursing homes....

  With a final glance in the long mirror, Mother chirped, “Don’t wait up, dear!”

  “I won’t. I know these Scrabble games can go on and on. . . .”

  It wasn’t until later, while playing with a much neglected Sushi, that it occurred to me to check on the Cadillac keys.

  They were gone. She had taken them. She might yet find her way into an NYC slammer. The only question was whether it would be for driving without a license or conspiring with a known criminal.

  At a minute past seven, a knock came at the door, and I did something very dangerous in the big city: I didn’t bother to look through the peephole before flinging the door open. And then flung myself into Tony’s waiting arms.

  We backed into the room, and he kicked the door shut, still entwined.

  “You’ve heard?” I asked, my words muffled against his barrel chest. “That the contract is off?”

  He was trembling, too, something rare in this wonderful beast of a man. I drew back to look into his moisture-pearled eyes.

  “It seems to be real, Brandy. It’s apparently true, unless . . . unless some horrible trick is being played on me. On us.”