“Unfunny and unkind, dear,” Mother replied. “No, my intention is to solicit items from the assisted-living residents for our white elephant sale.”
“That doesn’t seem very likely to succeed.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Well, anybody living there has left their homes behind and most of their belongings.”
Mother twisted toward me. “Dear, have you ever been inside any of those apartments?”
“Well . . . no.”
“If you had, you’d know that the units are indeed rather small, but are usually crammed with more possessions than the residents should ever have brought along with them.”
“Not to be crass,” I said, “but what makes you think you’ll get anything of value?”
“Because, dear, only the very well-off can afford to live in those apartments, with all of the extended services. So they’ve undoubtedly brought along their best things—things that have meaning, but might by now have become burdensome.”
“Like a silver tea set,” I reasoned, “that needs constant polishing.”
“Bingo.” Then she lowered her voice: “I really should avoid saying that, since that particular game is almost certainly going on in the commons area.”
I took my eyes off the road momentarily. “So your plan is to weasel these well-off senior citizens out of their best things?”
Mother’s laugh was musical, if irritating. “Oh, my, no. They’ll practically beg me to take them.”
I remained skeptical, but in such matters, she was usually right.
I turned off the bypass, then drove west into a countryside of Grant Wood–esque rolling hills comprised of freshly planted fields dotted with the occasional oak or maple tree. Sunny Meadow Manor itself was perched on one of those hills, up a sharp incline, and surrounded by evergreen trees whose boughs gently swayed in the breeze.
I had been to Sunny Meadow Manor several times, having visited Mother there when she was recovering from her double hip replacements—that went back about eight years, when I was still married to Roger and living in a Chicago suburb.
So I was familiar with the layout, which hadn’t changed any—the first floor devoted to assisted-living apartments, the second given over to usual nursing home fare, with the third the Alzheimer’s Unit. Any higher floor than that would have pearly gates.
As I drove up the incline, Mother said, “Now, I’ll do all the talking, dear.”
Which I’d planned on, anyway. I was willing to aid but not abet.
I wheeled into the front parking lot, and we exited the car. A wide cement walk took us to double glass doors, which we passed through. To the left was the visitor waiting area, unchanged since Mother’s stay: same couches, chairs, and wall prints in soothing pastel colors. The decor did seem a little shopworn now—the fabric on the furniture threadbare in spots, wall prints faded, fake floral arrangements outdated. Still, the section was pleasant enough.
To the right yawned a hallway leading to the administrative wing, muffled voices emanating toward us from various offices. Straight ahead was a reception area consisting of a mahogany desk and chair, the kind of setup a concierge might have in a nice hotel.
No one was behind the desk at the moment, but Mother moved toward it anyway, then bent and picked up a pen tethered to its holder (did the residents here have kleptomaniac relatives?) and proceeded to sign us in to the register.
She had just finished and straightened when a voice rather sternly called, “Mrs. Borne!”
We turned.
Rushing toward us from the administrative hallway came a rotund man, pushing fifty, with thinning brown hair, mustache, and wire-framed glasses. He wore a navy business suit, white shirt, plain blue tie, and shiny black shoes. (Or would you prefer to imagine him naked? To each his/her own.)
Planting himself in front of Mother, he said, “Mrs. Borne, I hope you’re not on these premises with the intention of collecting more Vivian-Borne-for-sheriff signatures from our residents! I’ve received several complaints from relatives whose loved ones are in the Alzheimer’s Unit.”
“Oh, goodness, no,” Mother gushed. “I’ve collected all the signatures I needed to file for my candidacy. We’re here just to visit.” She gestured to me. “This is my daughter, Brandy. Brandy, this is Mr. Burnett—the new managing director of this lovely facility.”
“Nice to meet you,” I said, and smiled.
Burnett acknowledged my presence with a curt nod. Then he said, “Fine . . . as long as you two really are here just to visit.”
“We are,” I said. Which was true in a way.
The manager nodded again, then turned and headed back to the administrative wing, a chugging little engine minus its train.
I gave Mother a hard stare.
“What, dear?” she asked.
“You filed your intent-to-run papers with signatures from Alzheimer’s patients?”
She shrugged. “Only a few. And only when they really did recognize me. The temptation was to use them more than once.”
“That’s not funny, Mother.”
She patted my arm. “I know, dear. I’ll most likely get the disease myself—it runs in the family.”
So I had that to look forward to, too, along with bad hips, glaucoma, and bunions. Heredity is such a wonderful thing.
We headed back to the wing of apartments, which totaled twelve in all, where I was soon to discover that Mother had been correct about the residents having brought along too much stuff with them.
Mother’s MO for each stop was a cheery ten-minute visit spiced with juicy gossip, followed by a sales pitch for unwanted items for her white elephant sale to finance her campaign for sheriff. Then, when an item was offered, she got an assurance that said item was not on the wish list of any of the giver’s relatives.
So as not to take up pages detailing these many visits, here is a recap of what was collected over the next few hours.
Mrs. Rockwell gave Mother a large vintage 1960s sunburst clock by Welby, about two feet across with alternating brass and wood rays, and a black-and-gold face. The reason the woman unloaded the clock: the dial had become too hard for her to read. Interest from relatives: none. Reason for their rejection: the clock didn’t fit their decor; the clock was ugly. (It was. But a discreet check on my cell phone turned up a similar clock for sale on eBay for four hundred and fifty dollars.)
Mrs. Goldstein donated a Louis Vuitton suitcase, circa 1980, medium-sized (the suitcase, not Mrs. Goldstein), brown, with the famous LV logo. Reason for unloading: she didn’t travel anymore. Interest from relatives: none. Reason for their rejection: not a complete set; too large for baggage carry-on; too small to use for a long trip; might get stolen at the airport. (eBay value for similar suitcase: between five and eight hundred dollars.)
Mr. Fillmore—to our astonishment—offered to give to the cause his ten-year-old Buick Century with tan leather interior, and mileage of only fifty-plus thousand. Reason for unloading the car: after several near accidents, he had stopped driving, yet was still paying for a parking spot at the facility. Interest from any relatives: none, although a sixteen-year-old grandson who had just gotten his driver’s license had expressed interest until he saw the car. Reason for grandson’s rejection: he’d never get a girlfriend by driving a “geezer car.” (Internet value: three thousand to five thousand dollars.)
Not all of the donations were treasures; some were more in the trash area—like a collection of mostly broken and glued-back-together Hummel figurines, and costume jewelry missing stones. Still, Mother accepted these offerings with the same effusive gratitude as the good stuff.
All in all, it had been a highly successful trip to Sunny Meadow, and I had gotten my daily exercise making multiple trips to and from the C-Max with our loot. (Mr. Fillmore’s Buick I would pick up later, as he had to find the title to the car.)
After my final foray outside, I rejoined Mother just after she’d exited the Hummel lady’s apartment.
She burbled, “I’d call this a bona fide success, wouldn’t you?”
I gave her a simultaneous shrug and nod. “You were right about coming here.”
We were heading in the direction of the front entrance when we passed an apartment whose name-plaque read: MRS. HARRIET DOUGLAS.
“Hey, you missed her,” I said.
“I didn’t miss her, dear.”
“She’s not a friend, huh?”
“No, Harriet’s a good friend, but she happens to be the aunt of Deputy Daryl Dugan, my only competition in the race for sheriff.”
“Ah,” I said, eyebrows flicking up. “Best not to put her on the spot.”
“Quite astute, dear.”
We were moving away from the apartment’s door when it suddenly opened, startling us both into a little dual jump.
Framed in the doorway was a diminutive, plump woman with short, permed white hair and wire-framed glasses. She wore a blue cotton housedress with white bric-a-brac trim, and tan slippers. Standing slightly behind her, a constant companion, was an oxygen tank on wheels, a thin plastic tube running up and around the woman’s head to both nostrils.
Harriet clasped her hands and said to Mother, “Oh, good! I’ve caught you. I was afraid you’d leave without seeing me.”
Mother replied, “Harriet, darling, I didn’t want to impose upon you because—”
“Yes, yes,” the woman interrupted impatiently, “I know why you’re here. All of us oldies but goodies text each other. But, please, come in—I’d like a word.”
She and her tank moved to allow us passage, and I followed Mother inside.
We were in another cramped living room, which might have been otherwise were it not for all the furniture. The decor was formal in nature: floral chintz couch and matching chair, leather recliner, large tube television, cherry-wood accent table with a Tiffany-style lamp, coffee table, big corner hutch displaying collections of antique plates, glass paperweights, and small crystals (probably Waterford) running on the religious side, like angels and crosses, but with a few animals thrown in.
The air had a strong scent of room freshener, beneath which I detected cigarette smoke, and I hoped Harriet wasn’t lighting up around her companion, Mr. Oxygen Tank.
Our hostess said cheerily, “Please, sit.”
Mother and I moved to the chintz couch while Harriet took the recliner, parking the tank alongside.
“How are you doing with the emphysema, my dear?” Mother asked sympathetically.
“Getting worse all the time, I’m afraid,” the woman sighed.
And yet she still smoked.
Harriet seemed to have read my mind, saying, “I only smoke occasionally, when I’m upset, and then I go outside. . . without my tank.” Our hostess began to cough, and we waited awkwardly for the attack to end.
Then Mother asked, “Was there something in particular that you wanted to see me about, Harriet?”
“Yes,” Harriet said, as winded as if she’d just run a race. “I wanted to tell you that—while you and I are old friends—I’ll be supporting my nephew in his run for sheriff.”
“Well, naturally,” Mother said. “I wouldn’t have expected otherwise.” She added graciously, “You must be very proud of him.”
That was her best piece of acting in some time.
Harriet made a face. “. . . Yes. I guess I am. Blood being thicker and so on. Still, I do cherish our long friendship, Vivian, and so I’d like to quietly, anonymously contribute to your white elephant sale.”
Mother smiled, pleased. “How wonderful, dear. And my lips will be forever sealed on the subject.”
Harriet gestured to the accent table nearby. “I’d like to give you this Tiffany lamp—it’s not an original, of course, but a replica made by the Dale Tiffany Company.”
I knew about that company, founded in the late 1970s, and their reproductions were highly respected and sought after. And this particular lamp was exquisite: the glass shade showing ruby red peonies, with green, yellow, and blue accents, and an Art Nouveau bronze base.
I could tell the lamp had Mother excited, too, by the way her eyes sparkled behind her lenses.
I asked, “Are you sure you want to part with it?”
Hand on her heart, Mother said, “Yes, my dear, are you quite sure?” But I knew she wanted to kick me.
“I am,” Harriet said, nodding to each of us in turn. “I can’t read by it, so it’s no good to me. And before you ask if anyone in my family wants it, the answer is no.”
“Does that include Daryl?” I pressed. I didn’t want any further conflict between Deputy Dawg and Mother.
“Especially Daryl,” Harriet laughed, which got her coughing again. Then she added, “Daryl and his wife, Candy, have contemporary tastes—besides, I bought the darn lamp, and I can do with it as I please. But if you don’t want it . . .”
“We want it!” Mother and I said in unison. Perhaps a little too eager.
“Good,” Harriet said. “That’s settled. Now. There’s something else I’d like to give Vivian.”
Mother and I glanced at each other, in shared wonder about what fabulous treasure might be bestowed upon us next.
Harriet was waving a bony hand at the corner hutch. “It’s in the first drawer, right on top.”
When Mother started to rise, the woman snapped, “Let Brandy get it—that’s what daughters are for.”
Brother. Would I be that crabby at her age? Probably, if I were tethered to a tank. Who wouldn’t be?
I got off the couch and crossed to the hutch, opened the top drawer, and looked in. Staring back at me was a toothlessly grinning bearded old goofball in a floppy hat.
Gabby Hayes. An autographed photo of the old-time sidekick to cowboy stars in the movies of the thirties, forties, and fifties. The signature had a surprisingly flowing flourish to it.
I picked up the framed black-and-white photo, and turned to Mother and our hostess. “Is this what you mean?”
“Yes, yes!” Harriet said. “Give it to your mother!”
I did, then sat back down.
Mother studied the studio still with delight. “Oh, and it’s signed, too.”
“Yes,” Harriet said, nodding, “and there’s a letter of provenance in the back of the frame.”
Mother looked from Gabby to Harriet, whose smiling expressions were similar, although the latter was wearing dentures. “How did you know George Hayes was my favorite cowboy character actor?”
Harriet smiled. “You once mentioned to me that you’d learned a lot about acting watching Gabby Hayes display his dramatic skills. It made an impression, and I never forgot it.”
Now I could never forget it, either.
Our hostess went on, “But you must promise to keep the photo, and not sell it in your white elephant sale.”
“Why, I wouldn’t dream of doing such a thing!” Mother exclaimed.
And she meant it, too.
“Good,” Harriet said. “Because I got it from Daryl—he has quite an impressive collection of western memorabilia—I don’t want him to know that I asked him for it to give it to you. It would hurt his feelings. It was from the Judd Pickett collection!”
I said, “Ooooh,” as if that meant anything to me.
Mother crossed her heart. “I promise to keep and cherish it, and never to tell.”
Antsy to leave, I said, “Well, uh, we should get going. Thank you, Mrs. Douglas, for the lovely lamp.”
“And the fabulous photo!” Mother added.
“You’re welcome, girls,” Harriet replied, then told me where I could find newspapers and a box. Since packing things up was what daughters were good for.
While I wrapped up the lamp, and Mother and Harriet were saying their good-byes, Harriet suddenly said, “There is one thing I would love to have from you two.”
“What’s that, dear?” Mother asked.
“One of your books.”
“Which one?”
“Oh, the latest, please,” Harriet repli
ed.
“Hardcover or paperback?”
“Hardcover.”
“Regular or large print?” Mother asked.
I was holding the box now, and it was getting heavy.
Harriet said, “Large print would be better.”
Mother said, “We keep copies in our car for just such requests, and I’ll send Brandy back with one.”
“Thank you, Vivian. I’ll leave the door unlocked.”
We made our exit.
In the reception area, the sign-in desk remained vacant, and we didn’t bother to sign out because I was holding the heavy, oversize box, and Mother was staring admiringly at Gabby Hayes in her hands, who stared back at her with a rakish, toothless grin.
Outside, the sunny sky had been replaced by ominous dark clouds, the air heavy with the smell of rain soon to come.
In the car, I found a place in the backseat for the box while Mother retrieved our current tome from the trunk. As I hoofed it back to the main entrance, large drops of rain started falling, but I made it to the overhang just before the downpour came.
I stood for a moment watching the deluge, wishing I’d grabbed an umbrella from the car. Then I entered the building, went by the unattended desk, and proceeded down the hallway to Mrs. Douglas’s apartment.
I was reaching for the doorknob when an explosion within blew the door off its hinges, and flung me back against the corridor wall like a rag doll.
A Trash ’n’ Treasures Tip
Celebrity autographs are easily forged, so buy only from a reputable dealer who will assure its authenticity with a money back guarantee. My heart sank like the Titanic when Mother pointed out to me that the signature on my Leo DiCaprio eight-by-ten was spelled DeCaprio.
Chapter Two
The Lone Danger
Mother’s face slowly came into focus.
“You’re going to be all right, dear,” she said soothingly.
“Where . . . what . . . ?”
“You are in the emergency room, child, and you must lay still. Thrashing about is not an option!”
I couldn’t thrash or for that matter turn my head, even if I wanted to, on a table strapped to a board as I was, a brace around my neck.
Antiques Wanted Page 2
