Antiques Disposal

by Barbara Allan

  The puffy eyes narrowed skeptically. “ ‘Our’ Anna? You mean, you’re related?”

  I glanced at Mother—wondering why she had implied as much—and waited for her next move. She was the actress—let her do the improv.

  Mother raised a hand to her forehead, moaning, “Ohhh, I feel faint ...”

  I couldn’t remember Mother ever claiming to feel faint before, at least outside of a melodrama at the Playhouse—not even when we’d stumbled onto the occasional corpse.

  But taking her cue, I slipped an arm around her waist, and asked the neighbor, “Could we come in for a moment? I’m so sorry to impose, but Mother needs to sit down... .”

  The man hesitated, but then Mother’s pitiful if put-on state turned his suspicion to compassion, and he replied, “Why, certainly, ladies.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” I said. But I wasn’t sure I liked being thought of as a “lady” by a guy twenty years older than me.

  He stepped aside, and I assisted the apparently distressed Mother (overplaying her part but apparently getting away with it) across the threshold and inside, revealing much if not most of a tidy apartment—a small parlor and large bedroom separated by a lattice archway.

  The neighbor motioned to a brown leather couch—the only modern furniture among Victorian antiques—and as we sat, Mother asked ludicrously, “Could I trouble you, dear sir, for a glass of water?”

  “Of course,” he replied graciously. “I’ll only be a moment.”

  When he had disappeared through the bedroom, to a room beyond, Mother whispered, “Just so you know, dear, not wanting to alarm you ...” And this she mouthed: “I’m faking.”

  “What a relief,” I whispered. “Here I was ready to find the nearest ER.”

  She brightened. “Really?”

  “Give me a little credit, you big ham.”

  She ignored that and went on sotto voce: “We must get as much information as possible out of our benefactor during our short stay. I believe he’s rather taken with me.”

  I shut my eyes, wishing for a swift, merciful death.

  He was returning.

  “Follow my lead,” Mother whispered.

  “Like I have a choice.”

  Our host came over and handed Mother the glass of water, which she downed no more greedily than some desert nomad stranded for days on the sands of the Sahara. Four glugs later, she handed the empty glass back with a great sigh and a brave smile.

  “Thank you, Mr. uh—?”

  “Anderson. John. I own the house.”

  “Well, it’s a lovely old structure,” Mother said. “I do so admire Stick architecture.”

  He brightened. “Yes. It’s unique. I’m happy to have the chance to restore it.”

  She sat up straight, a little too quickly, reality edging out performance. “Then Anna was your tenant?”

  He nodded. “That’s right. Place is half-empty because I’m gradually getting rid of my tenants.”

  Mother blinked at him. That got my attention, too.

  His smile was warm and embarrassed. “Forgive the poor choice of words. I’m just not renewing leases. You see, once the outside renovation is complete, I plan on turning this wonderful old place into a bed-and-breakfast.”

  Mother clapped, once, making me jump a little. “What a delightful idea!” she burbled.

  His eyes narrowed again; perhaps he was just a trifle suspicious, thanks to Mother’s miraculous recovery. “I’m sorry... . You are ... ?”

  “Oh, how silly of me!” Mother gushed. “How rude! I’m Vivian, and this is my youngest daughter, Brandy.”

  She left “Borne” off, though I wasn’t sure why. Possibly she feared our prior escapades might have made the local news, since Serenity was only thirty miles south of the Cities. Or maybe she was just reluctant to leave a trail.

  Mr. Anderson, taking an old wood-and-leather captain’s chair opposite us, asked, “And how are you girls related to Anna?”

  We were girls now, not ladies. I was fine with that.

  His smile took a little of the edge off, when he added, “I’m afraid I don’t recall her ever mentioning you.”

  Mother shifted on the couch. “Oh, we’re distant relatives. . . from a shirttail branch of the family tree.”

  I crinkled my nose, and tried to smile cute—I was a “girl,” remember. “More like a twig.”

  His eyes remained narrowed and suspicious, but his voice took on a surprisingly gentle, oddly tentative tone. “So, then ... you didn’t know about Anna?”

  Mother seemed about to say, “Line!” to someone offstage, so I said, “Know what about Anna? Is it something to do with that crime scene? Was she robbed?”

  Following my cue this time, Mother managed, “I certainly hope she hasn’t been injured!”

  “Much worse, I’m afraid. I hate to be the bearer of bad tidings, ladies... .”

  Ladies again.

  “... but Anna passed away recently.”

  Genuinely surprised, Mother said, “Oh my!”

  “ ‘Passed away’ is, I’m afraid, a misguiding euphemism. She was ... murdered. I had assumed you knew.”

  “Goodness no!” Mother said.

  “We’ve been out of the country,” I offered. “Italy.”

  Which would have been fine, if Mother hadn’t simultaneously said “Russia.”

  “First Italy, then Russia,” I revised. “It was a tour. One of those special packages?”

  He was trying to make sense out of that when Mother asked, “Mr. Anderson, when did this happen?”

  Our unlikely tour forgotten, or at least shelved, he said, “About a month ago.”

  I sat forward. “But the crime scene tape—why is it still there? Surely after that much time... .”

  Mr. Anderson shrugged. “I left it in place as a deterrent. A good number of Anna’s things are still in the apartment. She died intestate, and my attorney is working to see how her estate might be settled. You’re the only relatives who’ve shown up.”

  This may have explained why he’d viewed us with some suspicion, after Mother implied we were related to the late Anna. And it put us in an awkward place right now... .

  Maybe I wasn’t an actress, but I didn’t want to leave this to Mother’s improvisational skills, which would have her drawing on everything from Agatha Christie novels to Gaslight.

  So I said, “We’re only relatives by marriage, and distant at that. I can’t imagine we’d have any claim. We only looked Anna up a few years ago because we’d wound up in the same part of the country.”

  “Yes,” Mother said too eagerly. “Same part of the country.”

  Was I just digging the hole deeper?

  “Well,” he said, “before you go, I’ll give you my attorney’s contact information. You might as well put in for the stuff. There are a few nice pieces. I believe there are some other things, probably of no particular value, in a storage unit somewhere.”

  With too much expression, even for her, Mother said, “Really? Isn’t that interesting.”

  What was interesting about it?

  “Well, it’s a shock to hear about Anna,” Mother said. At least she had the sense to get us off this track and back on the other. “Simply terrible. I hope she didn’t suffer. I had heard this area became infested with crime, but I thought it was under control as of late.”

  Mr. Anderson sighed. “We’ve made significant strides—with the help of watch groups and the police—but that kind of thing can’t be completely eradicated.”

  I asked, “Was it a burglary?”

  He nodded, and his expression grew overtly sorrowful. “And Anna woke up. Hard not to—just not that big an apartment.”

  Mother asked, “How did the burglar get in?”

  Something close to anguish crossed Mr. Anderson’s face. For a long moment, he didn’t answer.

  Finally he said, “The scaffolding ... for the remodeling? It was beneath her window at the time.”

  “Oh, my,” Mother said sof
tly.

  His pain was palpable, and I felt compelled to comment. “You mustn’t blame yourself.”

  “But I do... .” He stood abruptly, walked over to a watercolor picture of the house framed on the wall, and stared at it. “You see, Anna and I ... we were going to run the B and B together.”

  This last was spoken so softly, it might have been to himself. Had he been in love with his neighbor?

  Mr. Anderson turned with a sigh. “I don’t think she suffered. Apparently she heard sounds, and went to see what they were ... perhaps she was headed to the door, to come get me. I’ll never know.”

  I asked, as gently as possible, “She was ... struck a blow?”

  He nodded. “From behind. You hear that phrase all the time on television and in film—a ‘blunt object.’ When the police used those words, I almost smiled at such a cliché.”

  Somehow I knew he hadn’t smiled.

  Our host was gazing at Mother, his expression pleasant now. “You’re feeling better, I see.”

  “I ... I think so.”

  What was that about?

  He checked his watch. “I’m afraid I must ask you to go. I teach an adult education class in an hour, and have preparations to make.”

  Mother nudged me with her foot, which I took to mean stall.

  Feigning interest, I said, “Adult education. That’s such a positive thing.” That’s such a banal remark, I thought, then asked, “What is it you teach?”

  “Accounting.”

  Nowhere to go with that subject; my checkbook hadn’t been balanced for years. And if I said, Oh, that’s interesting, he’d know I was a liar. Even accountants know accounting is boring.

  Vamping, I said, “You know, this house seems strangely familiar... .”

  Actually it did.

  “You may have seen it on TV. Or somewhere in the local media.”

  “Really?”

  The owner of the Stick mansion smiled. “The old place is a landmark to folks around here.”

  “Why’s that?” I asked.

  Mother had quietly left the couch to go behind Mr. Anderson; I could see her snooping through his mail on a table by the door.

  He was saying, “This house was built by Charles and Louise Beiderbecke.”

  “Oh,” I said, and smiled unconvincingly.

  “Beiderbecke?” he prompted. This time I was the one who needed to be fed a line from offstage.

  Then I got it. Anybody who lived in this part of the world knew the name Beiderbecke, which belonged to one of the most famous jazz musicians of all time, and who was Davenport’s favorite son.

  This time I didn’t have to fake it when I said, “Oh! Were they Bix Beiderbecke’s parents?”

  “Grandparents. Bix grew up in a house on Grand Avenue, which is still there.”

  Bits and pieces of information from articles and short news stories on local TV came flooding in. “Is it true that his parents disowned him because he loved to play jazz?”

  Mr. Anderson was about to respond, but Mother cut in with, “Dear! I think you’ve taken up enough of this gentleman’s time—he doesn’t need to be pestered with all your foolish questions.”

  “Sorry,” I muttered. Just once couldn’t she be the shill?

  I rose, and our host said, “It’s really no trouble. I’m quite interested in Bix.”

  Mother came around and said, “As am I, and I can fill my daughter in without imposing on you any further, and making you late for class.”

  We thanked Mr. Anderson for his hospitality, then departed, heading down the grand staircase and out to the street.

  Behind the wheel of the Buick, I looked at Mother.

  “Russia?”

  “Dear, you know I’ve always wanted to go to Russia.”

  “Since when?”

  “Why, I’ve mentioned it many times. You know I’m fascinated by all those dolls within dolls. You just don’t listen. And for that matter, why Italy of all places?”

  Lamely, I said, “I do like pasta.”

  “Well, I admit that tour was a nice save, dear. All in all, quite a successful mission. Nice old gentleman.”

  John Anderson was easily twenty-five years younger than her.

  I said, “You sure took a chance implying we were related to Anna. You dug us quite a hole.”

  “Pish posh. Everyone is related if you go back far enough. Now, drive around the block, then pull over.”

  “What for?”

  “Because we’re going back as soon as Mr. Anderson leaves for that class of his.”

  “What for?”

  “Why, to search our late relative’s apartment, of course.”

  I twisted toward her. “I’m not climbing any scaffolding!”

  “No need, dear.” Mother smiled. “While you were keeping Mr. Anderson busy ... ? I found this.”

  And she waved a key attached to a round white tag that read “C.”

  We waited on a side street until Anderson—still in his distinctive yellow-and-navy sweater—glided by, apparently none the wiser of our lingering presence.

  “Mother,” I said, wide-eyed. “He’s driving a white van.”

  “Yes, dear,” she answered. “My glasses may be as thick as Coke bottles, but I can see that! You know, when Coca-Cola switched to plastic, they really ruined the flavor—their product tastes so much better in glass.”

  “Mother—could we stay on point? You do remember the white van at the storage facility? Possibly watching?”

  “If that was him yesterday morning, then he would have recognized us.”

  “Maybe he did.”

  “He didn’t appear to.”

  “Mother, people have been known to be deceptive when it’s to their advantage.”

  “When you make sarcastic remarks, dear, you wrinkle your brow, and that will have a lasting effect, if you’re not careful.”

  But I kept wrinkling. “If he knows who we are, why didn’t he out us? Why play games?”

  Mother shrugged. “For the same reason we pretended to be relatives of Anna’s—to gather information.” She opened her car door. “That class may only last an hour or so. Let’s get started.”

  Soon we were back at the Beiderbecke house, slipping in the front door, sneaking up the grand staircase.

  Quickly, Mother undid the crime scene tape across apartment “C,” then inserted the borrowed key in the lock, and we stepped into a dark, musty room.

  Groping for a light switch, I found one, and we stood surveying our surroundings.

  Anna’s apartment mirrored Anderson’s—combination parlor and bedroom—and was similarly furnished with Victorian antiques. Heavy drapes were drawn across the windows, except for one, which was boarded up. Where the burglar had broken in, obviously.

  I asked, “What are we looking for anyway?”

  Mother, already going through papers at a quaint writing desk, said, “Anything of importance.”

  “Like what?”

  When she didn’t answer, I walked over to an easel in front of the boarded-up window—sunlight bleeding through the cracks—and peered at the watercolor landscape Anna had been painting, and would never finish.

  Mother let out a low cry. “Ah! Now this is significant.”

  “What?”

  Again she didn’t answer, stuffing whatever she had found into her coat pocket.

  It was no fun being Watson, anyway the Nigel Bruce one.

  I wandered back through the bedroom area, where a closed door led to a modern kitchen—most likely another transformed bedroom. Unlike the messy parlor, the kitchen had been straightened—no dishes in the sink, or food on the counters; one area had been used as a workspace, with a laptop computer.

  I turned the machine on to check Anna’s e-mail, but when asked for a password, I got no further. And swiping the computer didn’t seem like an option worthy of pursuit, even if I did know somebody who might be able to plumb its depths.

  A quick search through a small wastebasket beneath the count
er—filled mostly with junk mail—did produce an interesting letter. Which I stuffed in my pocket.

  “Dear ...”

  I jumped.

  Mother, behind me, said, “Sorry, dear ... didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “What?”

  “My intuition tells me we must go... .”

  And Mother’s intuition was rarely wrong.

  I followed her back through the bedroom to the parlor where she stood for a moment looking around.

  “I think everything is how we found it... .”

  I asked, “You have the key?”

  She nodded.

  “How will we get it back to Anderson?”

  “You’ll see.”

  We slipped out, locking the apartment door behind us, Mother carefully replacing the crime scene tape, which had enough stick-’em left to do the trick.

  Just outside John Anderson’s door, Mother knelt down, then slid the key beneath, giving it a good push along the polished floor.

  “Think that’ll fool him?” I asked skeptically.

  Mother shrugged. “He’ll never know for sure whether we took the key, or he accidentally dropped it. Brandy?”

  “Yes?”

  “Small problem. I can’t get up.”

  I took Mother’s elbow and tugged, helping her stand. Nice when Watson could contribute to the cause.

  On our way down the staircase again, I commented, “There is another way the burglar could have gotten in to Anna’s apartment besides using the scaffolding, you know.”

  “Which is?”

  “That key.”

  Mother paused on the landing. “You mean our friend Mr. Anderson?”

  I nodded.

  “But, why, dear? He clearly loved the woman. She painted that watercolor of this place.”

  “Love’s a great murder motive. We’ve seen that enough. Could be unrequited love ... jealousy ... lover’s quarrel gotten out of hand. When love’s around, things can go wrong.”

  Mother had no comment, but her eyes were narrow with thought behind the thick lenses.

  On the porch, I said, “So this old house is connected to Bix Beiderbecke. Isn’t it a funny coincidence that an old beat-up horn was the only thing stolen at our break-in?”