Antiques Disposal

by Barbara Allan

  “Oh, sure, assume it’s my fault. I must have done it. Not the person who originally packed the darn things.”

  With Mother, the best defense is offense.

  That, and changing the subject.

  “What are those?” I asked, pointing to a stack of letters.

  A hand fluttered. “Oh ... just some old correspondence. Not important, I’m sure.”

  “Mind if I take them?”

  Mother raised her eyebrows.

  I cocked my head. “They could shed some light on who the owner was. Maybe we can trace that Superman drawing, or even your new trumpet.”

  “Cornet.” She shrugged. “Help yourself.”

  Rather than hear Mother’s knees crack again, I retrieved the letters off the rug, only to have my knees pop. Heredity is a harsh mistress.

  Speaking of which, Peggy Sue appeared in the archway of the French doors, damp hair pulled back in a ponytail, face freshly scrubbed with just a hint of make-up. She was wearing a plaid shirt and jeans—clothes from my closet.

  Noting my displeasure, Sis said, “You told me to put on old clothes.”

  My displeasure deepened. “They aren’t old—I just bought them.”

  Sis looked down at herself in astonishment; whether this was a ploy to irritate or actual ignorance on her part, I couldn’t say. “Really? The shirt is frayed, and the jeans are torn... . That spells old to me.”

  “They’re supposed to be that way.”

  Peggy Sue laughed, then saw my serious expression, and her forehead frowned while her mouth smiled. “You actually bought torn clothes? On purpose?”

  “It’s the style,” I said defensively.

  “Then”—she shrugged—“why didn’t you just rip up clothes you already had?”

  “Because they can’t be person-ripped ... they have to be factory-ripped.”

  Long lashes batted at me. “There’s a difference?”

  “The difference,” I exclaimed, “is that the former is trash, and the latter is fashion.”

  “In your case,” Sis sniffed, “the former is the latter.”

  “And in your case,” I snapped, referring to her taste in clothes, “the latter is the former.”

  Mother interceded, which was a good thing, because I was getting mixed up about which was which.

  “Girls, girls, please! You’re giving me one of my sick headaches!” She turned to Peggy Sue. “Dear, I understand that you are hurting after your recent, uh ... setback ... but being unkind to Brandy isn’t going to make anything better.” Then she turned to me and raised a teacherly forefinger. “And Brandy, you should know better than to bicker. It’s up to you to set a good example!”

  Me set a good example? My lot in life was to provide a terrible warning to others about what fate might await them, if they did follow my example... .

  Mother clapped her hands, as if a performance had just ended; maybe it had.

  “Girls, the afternoon is slipping away, and there are more treasures to be unearthed!”

  Peggy Sue said, “Huh?”

  “I refer, of course, to more boxes that need hauling home from our storage unit.”

  “What boxes?” Peggy Sue asked. “What storage unit?”

  This was what happened around the Borne homestead; if you risked sleeping in, the world could pass you by.

  Briefly I filled Sis in, taking the lead, knowing Mother wouldn’t have been brief... .

  When I’d concluded, Sis gestured to the clutter. “Is that what all this is? The contents of your mystery boxes?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Treasure?” Her pert little nose turned up. “Looks like trash to me.”

  “That trash might be worth something,” I said.

  “That’s right,” Mother chimed in.

  I told Peg about the Superman drawing by its creators, mentioning that it was dated 1946.

  Arms folded over my bosom, I Dream of Jeannie style, I said, “I’m pretty sure that piece of ‘trash’ is valuable.”

  Suddenly Peggy Sue seemed interested. “How much?”

  I let Mother reel her in. “A great deal, from what our preliminary research indicates. And that’s just one item! Who knows what other treasures might be in store?”

  “Well, what are we waiting for?” Sis said. “Let’s go.” Then: “Do I get a percentage? There’s a new Burberry jacket I have my eye on.”

  Peggy Sue was getting back to normal.

  Then I had an idea—not surprisingly, an idea that would make my work easier.

  “If we take both cars,” I suggested, “we can get done quicker.”

  Peggy Sue had a Cadillac Escalade, the only possession she’d managed to hold onto out of the financial debacle her late husband had bequeathed her. Well, she did hang on to her clothes and jewelry, too. The sheriff didn’t exist who could pry those from my sister’s clutching fingers.

  “Capital idea, Brandy,” Mother said, beaming. “And let’s bring along the push broom from the garage. Peggy Sue and I can load boxes while you sweep out the unit.”

  After the broken Haviland cups, Mother didn’t trust me with handling the boxes anymore.

  “Fine by me,” I said, then reached for the old horn that Mother was still holding as if it were an Oscar she’d won. “But this goes out to the garage until you promise to clean it.”

  With a sigh worthy of Camille on her deathbed, Mother handed over the trumpet. Cornet. Whatever.

  Outside, with an early-evening fog settling in, I retrieved the broom from the garage, tossing the cornet on one of the many scrap heaps. Soon Mother and I were climbing into the Buick, with Peggy Sue set to follow us.

  As I drove, Mother sat uncharacteristically silent—her mind most likely buzzing with thoughts of further valuable discoveries—which was fine with me, as the twisty river road took all my concentration, having become nearly obscured by fog.

  Suddenly Mother wheeled toward me, her face clenched in anguish, and she pleaded, “Dear—please don’t turn me into a paperweight.”

  Now even for Mother, that was a doozy of a non sequitur.

  “Sure,” I said. “I promise not to turn you into a paperweight. Might I ask one small question?”

  “Certainly, dear.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Eyes on the road, dear.”

  “I’m waiting.”

  “For what, dear?”

  “An explanation!”

  “Careful, dear, don’t slow down too much or Peggy Sue might ram you.”

  Peggy Sue, impatient as always, was indeed tailgating me—particularly dangerous under these conditions—so I tapped my brakes to put a little scare into her. She honked at me, to put a scare into me.

  Finally, Mother said, “It’s my aunt Olive, dear. You remember her.”

  “Vaguely.”

  “Well, she’s lost.”

  “I don’t get it. Didn’t she die a couple of years ago?”

  At the ripe old age of ninety-five. At the time, Mother was having one of her “spells,” and I was in the midst of a divorce, so neither of us attended Olive’s funeral out in Ohio.

  “So, what, then?” I asked. “Was she a sinner and you figure she’s lost in the throes of hellfire damnation or something?”

  “Don’t sound ridiculous, dear.”

  “Yeah. I wouldn’t want to sound ridiculous. So. Don’t turn you into a paperweight?”

  Mother’s nod was barely perceptible, as if taking a cue from offstage. “After Aunt Olive was cremated, her daughter had the ashes turned into a paperweight.” She sighed. “I suppose it was comforting, still having her mother around the house ... but something tragic happened.”

  “It broke?”

  “No. Much worse. The paperweight accidently got sold in a garage sale.”

  I might have laughed if Mother hadn’t sounded so distressed.

  “And now?” she said to the car’s ceiling. “Now, poor Aunt Olive is in some stranger’s house, gathering dust.”<
br />
  “Maybe she’s being put to practical use. Sitting on top of a stack of bills or something. Wasn’t she a math teacher? That would be kind of fitting.”

  Mother was ignoring my comments. “Or worse—thrown in the trash, to be buried in a landfill along with the rest of the disgusting garbage!”

  “Don’t worry,” I said, too kind to point out that she had just classified Aunt Olive as garbage, and disgusting garbage at that. “You won’t end up as a paperweight, Mother, or anything else. You’ll have a proper burial, somewhere I can visit you, and weep.”

  Mother touched my arm. “Thank you, dear. That’s reassuring.”

  “I was thinking of a storage unit.”

  And to her credit, Mother laughed rather heartily at that.

  “Good one, dear,” she said. “Good one.”

  By now, the fog was so thick I almost missed the entrance to the storage facility, and when I made a sharp left turn, Mother slid into me, as far as her seat belt would allow.

  “Nice save, dear.”

  Peggy Sue, having wisely put some distance between us, had no trouble pulling into the graveled drive, and she trailed our car up to the unit, where soon we were all standing while Mother fished around in a jacket pocket for the padlock key.

  Peggy Sue, having second thoughts, asked, “These boxes won’t get my car dirty, will they? I try to keep the Escalade clean, you know.”

  “Should be fine,” I lied. “Of course, there may be a chocolate sprinkle or two.”

  Sis frowned. “What?”

  I gave her a quick summary of Mother’s mouse dropping trick, and if I’d thought that would disgust her, I was wrong.

  “Ingenious,” Peggy Sue said admiringly. “The old girl’s got a head on her shoulders. Have to give her that.”

  That head was wagging side to side, as Mother was having trouble with the lock; but finally she gave it a good jiggle, and it snapped open.

  I grasped the door handle, pulling it up, revealing darkness; the ground fog swirled in as if seeking sanctuary from the night.

  Mother, poised for action, switched on her flashlight (retrieved from her jacket), aiming its beam inside, light-sabering it around.

  We stood and stared.

  “Empty,” Mother murmured.

  Sis asked, “Are you sure this is the right unit?”

  I stepped back, checked the metal number nailed to the outside. “Number seven. This is it.”

  Mother had gone on in. “I don’t understand,” she exclaimed in disbelief. “It was half full when we left this morning!”

  Peggy Sue pointed. “Looks like a rolled-up rug in the corner. Maybe it’s a valuable Oriental.”

  I took the flashlight from a befuddled Mother, and went deeper, for a closer look.

  “It’s not a rug,” I said after a moment.

  “What is it?” Mother asked.

  “Uh ... it’s your friend Big Jim Bob.”

  “Whatever is he doing in there?”

  “Not much.”

  A Trash ‘n’ Treasures Tip

  Before an auction at a storage facility, rules and regulations will be provided to prospective bidders. Such conditions vary with each site, so be sure you understand them before bidding—if you are required to clean up the unit after you’ve removed its contents, and fail to do so, the cleaning bill you receive may be no bargain.

  Chapter Three

  Calling All Units!

  I handed Mother my cell phone so she could be the one to notify the police, knowing how much making a call like that means to her. And she was very businesslike about it, though unfortunately that included using the fake British accent she sometimes affected to sound more important.

  “Vivian Borne here,” she said crisply, chin up. “There appears to have been a murder at the Lucky Four Leaf Clover Storage facility. River Road. Mind the fog.”

  I couldn’t make out the dispatcher’s response, but judging by Mother’s reply—“My dear, I’m always ‘for real’ ”—you can extrapolate it for yourself.

  I was tending to Peggy Sue, who had actually passed out or fainted or anyway melted into a human puddle, after I’d announced Big Jim Bob’s presence (and lack of a pulse).

  I was doing my best to lift Sis up off the gravel when the flutter of eyelids indicated she’d returned to consciousness. I helped her up, then walked her to the Caddie, and eased her into the front passenger’s seat, reclining it for more comfort.

  “Please,” she murmured.

  “Yes?”

  “Please take me home.”

  It was fairly pitiful. Did all the older women in my family have to be so childlike? When I was the most mature one around, we definitely had problems.

  “We can’t leave,” I told her. “Not until the police arrive. And then there’ll be questions.”

  “But I don’t want to get involved!”

  “You are involved,” I said. “You’re a witness.”

  “I didn’t see that man get killed!”

  “No, but you were here when I discovered the body.” Then I added, “I’ll do my best to keep you out of it.”

  Sis moaned. “Just when I thought my life couldn’t get any worse, I get dragged into another of your stupid murders.”

  My chin wrinkled in irritation. “First of all, it’s not one of my murders, stupid or otherwise. Second of all, we don’t even know if it’s a murder. You think I like this?”

  “No. But Mother is relishing it.”

  I couldn’t deny that.

  I patted her shoulder, cutting her some slack. The tragic way her husband had left this life really had been enough of a hardship for her. “You just try to rest... .”

  Inside the unit, I found Mother standing near the late Big Jim Bob, his prone form awash in the beam of her flashlight. The owner of the storage facility lay facedown, arms extended, the back of his head matted with blood.

  Okay, so maybe it was a murder... .

  “We have precious little time, dear,” Mother said brusquely.

  “For what?”

  “Evidence gathering. Appraising the crime scene.”

  “We’re not detectives. We’re a couple of unlucky females who have had the misfortune of getting involved in a couple of ... of—”

  “Homicides,” Mother snapped. “We have to complete our preliminary investigation before the boys in blue arrive and compromise the crime scene.”

  “Aren’t we compromising the crime scene?”

  “Not as long as we don’t touch anything.” She looked at me with her Mrs. Bug Goes to Town eyes huge behind the glasses. “Now, take notes!”

  “I don’t have a pad or pen.”

  Mother frowned. “You should always be prepared for this kind of contingency, dear.”

  “It’s not like murder is an everyday occurrence in our lives!” Even if it was starting to feel that way. “Why weren’t you prepared?”

  “Preparation is your job.”

  “Why my job?”

  “Because I am Holmes, and you are Watson.”

  “How do you figure that?”

  “It occurred to me when we began watching that new modern-day Holmes series. The BBC one?”

  She was standing over a corpse, the flashlight now dancing nervously against the wall of the unit as she extolled the virtues of a television show. How exactly did this become my life, anyway?

  “Such a brilliant idea!” she told Big Jim Bob and me. “Bringing that Victorian duo into contemporary London, with all the gadgetry of the twenty-first century! Holmes with a cell phone! Who’d have thunk it?”

  I wouldn’t have thunk it. Apparently Big Jim Bob, either.

  Mother is an actress who needs more than her share of prompting, so I said, “Precious time?”

  “Quite right, dear. Now, without writing utensils, you’ll just have to remember what I say.”

  “Okay ... because I’m Watson.”

  “Precisely.”

  “Which Watson?”

  “Not
following you, dear... .”

  “Which Watson? The buffoonish Nigel Bruce? The more intelligent Edward Hardwicke? Then there’s David Burke—he was a likable chap.” For just a moment I had fallen into Mother’s British accent. “Personally, I like Jude Law.”

  And not necessarily as Watson.

  “Whichever one you prefer,” Mother said impatiently. “Can we get on with it?”

  “Think of me as Nigel Bruce—less pressure.”

  “Brandy!”

  “All right! I’m ready. Go.”

  Mother took a deep breath, then her words came rapid-fire. “Note that Big Jim Bob—while wearing the same clothes as this morning—has on different boots. They’re dry, so he had to have come back here after the rain stopped.”

  She touched the corpse’s head with her flashlight beam.

  Ick.

  “Death blow delivered by a heavy, blunt object.”

  The light moved to his jeans.

  “No bulge in the back pocket, so his wallet would appear missing. Robbery? Possibly, but ... his expensive gold nugget ring is still on one finger. What does that tell us?”

  She turned for my answer, the flashlight coming along for the ride, its beam blinding me.

  I shielded my eyes. “That you’re getting pretty good at this?”

  “Thank you, but no. What does it tell us?”

  “The killer doesn’t dig bling?”

  Hey, I was Nigel Bruce—a bit of buffoonery came with the territory.

  “Nooooo,” Mother replied. “It tells us the crime scene was hastily staged to appear like a robbery.”

  “But it is a robbery,” I protested. “Otherwise, where are the rest of our boxes? And another thing ...”

  “Yes?”

  “Get that light out of my eyes!”

  She did. “Dear, I’m talking about the murder itself being staged to seem part of the larger overall—and very real—robbery. We can’t, at this stage, know for certain that the killer was the same person who emptied the unit of our remaining boxes. We could have two different crimes here.”

  I said, “Well, at least we know the murder weapon.”

  “We do?”

  “Big Jim Bob’s steel cutter?” Wasn’t I supposed to be Nigel Bruce? “It’s lying over there... .”

  Mother flashed the beam where I was pointing, the tiny spotlight suddenly showcasing the cutter, a few yards away, its steel jaws blackened with blood.