Antiques Wanted

by Barbara Allan

  She frowned. “You haven’t called one, have you?”

  My cell phone was poised in my hand. “Not yet.”

  “Don’t,” she said firmly. “I’m fine. Let’s not waste Medicare’s money—they say it’s going to run out in twenty years unless we’re more frugal, and I plan on still being around.”

  Only Mother could worry about such things at a time like this.

  Mr. Burnett appeared at the top of the embankment, as white as a ghost and as startled as if he’d just seen one. He came scurrying down toward us.

  “My goodness,” the overweight manager exclaimed, out of breath. “I saw the accident from my office window. Mercy sake! Has an ambulance been summoned?”

  I rose from my crouch. “She doesn’t want one.”

  Hands on hips, like a plump, capeless Superman, Burnett looked down at Mother. “Now, Mrs. Borne, you need to get checked out at the hospital.... We must make sure your feet weren’t injured.”

  “My feet were well-protected in their casings,” she retorted. “Furthermore, I feel fine—except for my posterior. There should have been more padding in the seat. Fortunately there was sufficient in mine.”

  To break the stalemate, I asked Burnett, “What if your head nurse examined her? And if she sees anything troubling, I’m sure Mother would agree to go to the hospital.”

  The man touched his chin. “Well . . . Joan is quite competent, so, yes—I would accept her evaluation.”

  “Mother?” I asked the still seated traveler. “Will you?”

  She nodded.

  This was Mother at her most devious. If the evaluation meant a trip to the ER, she would surely claim she’d never verbally agreed, and that her nod had been misinterpreted.

  Burnett was saying, “I’ll go make arrangements with the transport van.”

  As he huffed and puffed up the incline, possibly more in need of transport than Vivian Borne, I sat down in the grass with Mother.

  Sushi had joined us, having heard the fuss (including Mother’s voice), obviously disobeying my order by jumping out the car’s open window. I pulled the little scoundrel onto my lap.

  “Mother?”

  “Yes, dear?”

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “But, of course.” She stretched a hand out to pet Sushi, who made a sound as close to a purr as a canine can manage.

  I squinted at her, as if that would help bring Vivian Borne into focus. “What were you thinking when you came sailing down the driveway and rolled across the road?”

  “Well, I didn’t do it on purpose, dear.”

  “No, I mean—what was going through your mind? I would have been screaming hysterically and my brain would have been filled with oh-my-God, oh-my-God.”

  “That does sound like you. Why do you ask?”

  “Because you were smiling.”

  She beamed at the sky. “I believe you’re right. I was thinking, if these are to be my last few minutes on earth, I may as well enjoy the ride. Just like the first time I jumped from an airplane and my parachute failed to open. Was I going to spend those final moments screaming in terror? I should say not! Why not know what it’s like to skydive? Of course, then I remembered the emergency chute.”

  I had never heard this story, and had no idea she’d ever jumped from a plane, whether for fun or her life. But that didn’t mean it didn’t happen. I just wasn’t going to go into it with her right now.

  The transport van arrived and the two Manor men whose job was to take patients to medical appointments placed Mother on a stretcher, then hauled her up the embankment. Yes, she was smiling again. Another new experience!

  Sighing (I do that a lot around Mother), I returned to my car with Sushi and followed the van back up the driveway to Sunny Meadow.

  This time, when I parked, I made sure the car’s windows were only cracked open as I locked Sushi in.

  I found Mother in her room, in bed, being examined by Nurse Joan Lindle, who took Mother’s blood pressure, listened to her heart and lungs, checked eye movement and reflexes, and looked for broken bones and bruises.

  The nurse’s conclusion was that Mother appeared to be okay, but she recommended she go to the ER just to be on the safe side.

  Naturally, the patient declined.

  “Very well, I can’t make you go,” the nurse sighed. A lot of people sighed around Mother. “But I’m going to report my assessment to Mr. Burnett.”

  “Well, when that local doctor who makes afternoon rounds stops by, I’ll fill him in. And tell Mr. Burnett I would sign off on anything he might require, to satisfy any fear of reprisal.”

  Mother knew her rights as a patient to refuse medical attention, even in a facility like this.

  The nurse nodded in defeat and left.

  I dragged the recliner up to the bed, and sat. “Well?”

  “Well, what, dear?”

  “What happened?” I asked, exasperated. “What were you doing?”

  Mother told me about the anonymous note someone had given her, wanting to meet her in the garden, and said blithely that the only way she could get there in the wheelchair was by way of the steep drive.

  I shook my head, rolled my eyes (I do a lot of both of those around her, too). “And you didn’t think to test the brakes beforehand?”

  “Dear, I assumed the chair had been inspected before it was assigned to me. And, until then, I’d had no need to use the brakes in any meaningful fashion. Not a lot of steep slopes in a nursing home hallway!”

  An unhappy-looking Mr. Burnett entered the room. “Mrs. Borne, I understand you’re ignoring Joan’s recommendation to go to the hospital.”

  “It was a suggestion,” she said, “not a recommendation. And I said I’d sign off on whatever you deemed necessary.”

  “That’s splitting hairs, Mrs. Borne,” he said. “You’re breaking your promise not to go gallivanting around, bothering the other patients.”

  Mother shrugged. “Why, did I nearly run one down?”

  “Never mind that,” I said to Burnett. “I want to know how my mother came to be given a wheelchair with defective brakes. And nobody’s signing off on that.”

  Burnett put hands on hips again. “Miss Borne, your mother insisted on using that lightweight, extra-mobile chair, instead of one of our regular ones, even after I advised against it.”

  Extra-mobile was right. “You think that lets you off the hook?”

  “Dear, stop badgering the man,” Mother said. “I already did sign off—Mr. Burnett generously provided a paper absolving Sunny Meadow of any legal ramifications in order that I might use that wheelchair.” She went on. “Besides, I’m tickety-boo. What occurred was merely happenstance.”

  “Well, you’re not using that wheelchair again,” I told her firmly. “Even if it gets fixed.”

  “No chance of that,” Mr. Burnett told me. “It’s been set out for the trash.” And to Mother, “You’ll be given a standard one that will require someone to push you.”

  No more gallivanting.

  “What about crutches?” Mother asked. “My doctor told me I could use them if I wanted.”

  The latter sounded credible, but it was untrue. Mother had a “tell,” before uttering a lie: her eyes looked briefly to the right. (Left-handed fibbers look to the left.)

  Burnett crossed to the window, looked out, paused, then turned, slightly distracted. “Very well, Joan can get you some crutches.”

  “That aren’t defective,” I said.

  Burnett’s smile oozed sarcasm. “I’ll try to find a pair with limited moving parts.”

  When he’d gone, I asked Mother, “Was it an accident? Or did your snooping make someone so nervous they gave you that note, and tampered with the chair, knowing you’d likely get hurt—or worse?”

  “Dear, you’re letting your imagination get the best of you. I’ve learned very little on my unofficial rounds, certainly nothing that might make anyone nervous, let alone encourage a saboteur.”

  Another “te
ll,” this one before being evasive: an everso-slight pursing of her lips.

  I said, “Your very presence here is enough to cause concern for anyone who’s got something to hide.”

  “Balderdash.”

  “Such language. But if what you say is right, you shouldn’t mind telling me what you’ve been up to.”

  Mother sighed. “Very well, dear. This morning I went to see Mrs. Goldstein—she gave us the Vuitton suitcase, you’ll recall.”

  “Yes, I recall. Go on.”

  “Well, she served up the most delicious chocolate babka I’ve ever had in my entire life. Not too sweet, with just the right amount of lemon zest in the cake. And the fudge filling contained bittersweet chocolate, milk chocolate, and cocoa—imagine that. Perfection! Although, personally, I would have cut down a little on the kosher salt.”

  “All right. So you threw your diabetes paranoia to the wind. But what did you talk about?”

  Her eyes darted to the right. “Oh, not much . . . this and that.

  “Where did you go after that?”

  “I paid Louise Rockwell a visit. She’s the one who gave us—”

  “The clock, yes . . . stop stalling.”

  “Well, she was wearing the loveliest frock—red-and-white checked material with white zigzag trim.”

  “Fascinating. What else?”

  “Was she wearing?”

  “Did you talk about!”

  Mother’s shrug would have seemed overstated in the farthest back-row reaches of the Playhouse. “We discussed the weather, and while we were doing so, young Blake Ferrell—he’s the janitor—came in and emptied the kitchen garbage can. A rather taciturn bloke.”

  She wasn’t going to give me squat, and bloke meant her faux Brit accent was threatening to break through—another facade for her to hide behind.

  “Where did you go after that?” I asked.

  “To see Arthur Fillmore, who—”

  “Don’t say it.”

  Mother huffed, “I wasn’t going to say ‘who offered us that car.’ I was going to say ‘who told me something important that I didn’t know.’”

  I sat forward. Finally. “Really? What?”

  She smiled girlishly. “Apparently Art has had a wild crush on me for years. In fact, this morning he tried to make a date with me for this evening, if you get my meaning.”

  I stood and, yes, sighed. “All right, Mother, keep your secrets. But I want you to come home. I can take care of you there, perfectly well. And Joe Lange can run the shop for a few weeks.”

  Joe was a friend I’d made during my one-year stint at Serenity Community College, an ex-marine who still lived with his widowed mother. Although suffering stress disorder from combat in the Middle East, he was competent enough to help us out from time to time.

  “Speaking of the shop,” Mother said, gesturing for me to sit back down, “how was your day?”

  I just stood there. “Changing the subject won’t help.”

  “Tell you what, dear. To ease your mind, why don’t you leave Sushi with me for protection tonight? She’s better than a can of mace and a rape whistle rolled into one. That Arthur, he was pretty darn frisky, earlier.”

  I tried to visualize what a mace-rape-whistle would look like. Better make sure to blow on the right end.

  Actually, leaving Sushi with Mother wasn’t a terrible idea. The little darling had come to our rescue more than once—Lassie in a smaller, cuter package. And I had trained her how to elude hotel staff when staying in “no pets” rooms, including scurrying under the bed. The circumstances here weren’t much different.

  Plus, if Mother got caught with a dog, Burnett would kick her out, and she’d be home where I could watch her.

  “All right,” I said. “I’ll leave Sushi, and pick her up in the morning about eight.”

  Mother seemed pleased with herself. “Now, dear, I really am interested in your day at the shop.”

  I wasn’t about to tell her anything, either, not when all I had was suspicions. Getting her thinking about the possibility of the Judd Pickett murder having some connection to Harriet’s death would be like giving Sushi a single dog biscuit and thinking that would cover it.

  “It was uneventful,” I said, sitting back down, scratching my chin casually.

  So I spoke of the lack of customers, plus the report I compiled showing we should buy more miniature oil paintings, cast-iron doorstops, and vinyl records; and shun fine china, figurines, and Bakelite jewelry.

  Then, as we were running out of conversation, Mother seemed to be getting drowsy, and I thought it best to go. I went out to the car, got Sushi, made sure she piddled, got a blanket from the trunk, covered her with it, and returned to smuggle her in.

  Sushi was ecstatic to be with her second mistress, who sleepily tucked Soosh away beneath the covers.

  I kissed Mother on the cheek, told her I’d call later, and left a little before five.

  But instead of heading straight for home, I drove around to the back of the building where a large dumpster sat. Piled next to it were the remains of the busted-up wheelchair.

  I exited the car.

  I could only examine the one brake on the tire that was still attached to the frame. And the bolts were indeed loose—not drastically so, but enough to make the contact of the metal tab against the tire ineffective.

  On closer inspection, the bolts were also rusted, and some of the teeth on the screws looked stripped; so the mechanism could have come loose simply by Mother using the chair.

  So it was maybe an accident, maybe not.

  Cloaked in a feeling of unease, I got back into the car and drove away.

  * * *

  My darlings! Vivian is back. Yes, with another (half) chapter—what a lovely surprise, don’t you think? Where shall I start . . . ?

  First of all, I have to say how very excited I am about driverless cars, such as the Chevrolet Bolt—buy American! —which General Motors has been testing in Detroit, aka Motor City.

  The autonomous vehicle will be especially helpful to those who have lost their driver’s license (mostly through no fault of her own), and who will no longer have to resort to begging rides from friends, strong-arming lifts from relatives, or having to stoop to using unreliable forms of public transportation.

  But I do have a few questions about the car.

  1) Let’s say, I’m in the self-driving car and it makes a violation all by itself. Will I be held responsible if I was busy putting on lipstick and not paying attention?

  2) What if I give the car directions, and then, as we sail past Ingram’s Department Store, I should happen to see a HALF-OFF SALE sign in the window. Just how quickly can the car make a U-turn?

  3) Again, suppose I’m in the car and I mistakenly give it wrong directions, and we end up in a farmer’s pasture, hitting a cow. Who pays for the cow? General Motors or an innocent driver who should have been protected by some technological fail-safe device? And if I do have to pay for the cow, can I have it transported to a meat locker facility?

  (Note to Vivian from Editor: Perhaps your queries would be better directed to a General Motors customer service representative.)

  (Note to Editor from Vivian: You could be right! But someone out there reading this might already have the answers, and you know how difficult . . . nay, impossible . . . it is to get a real, live customer service representative from any firm on the phone. And should it be a rep working out of India, my question about the cow could prove upsetting.)

  (Note to Vivian from Editor: Back on point, please.)

  I hated to keep pertinent details of my investigation from Brandy, but I didn’t see how the young woman could be of any use to me at this early investigative juncture. And, if I leveled with her about suspecting the wheelchair had been tampered with, no telling what rash if well-meaning action she might take.

  Besides, I knew Brandy was keeping something from me, when I asked about her day at the shop. She has a certain “tell” when she’s not being truth
ful: she scratches her chin.

  Thankfully I have no such telltale mannerisms.

  Anyhoo, after Brandy brought me Sushi, and I’d tucked the fluffy darling away beneath the covers, I continued the pretense of sleepiness, encouraging the girl to go home.

  I had my dinner in my room, which came about five-thirty—Sushi undetected now, beneath the bed—and I shared the meat loaf dinner with her. Or, to be more precise, she shared it with me.

  Afterward, a knock came to my door—Sushi jumping from the bed to her hiding place beneath it—and Nurse Wanda entered, pushing the pill cart, making her evening rounds; she looked a little down in the dumps.

  “Pain medication tonight, Mrs. Borne?” she asked rather numbly, as if she were the one medicated.

  “No need, dear,” I said.

  I really was aching from the “mishap,” but didn’t want anyone to know, for fear I’d be shipped off to the ER.

  “I heard about your accident,” she said with all the enthusiasm of a waitress working the graveyard shift. “Glad you’re all right. How about something to help you sleep?”

  “I am a bit keyed up, at that,” I admitted. “But leave it with me—I’m not ready to retire so early. There’s a mystery movie marathon on the Hallmark Channel.”

  With a flinch of a smile, Wanda placed a little white paper cup with two blue pills on the nightstand, then departed.

  A little before seven, Nurse Joan came in—Sushi again scurrying beneath the bed, and just in time—bringing a pair of crutches, which she adjusted for my height, then set them against the wall right next to the bed.

  “I’m off-duty now,” she told me. “Wanda will be here during the night should you need anything.”

  I frowned. “Does that mean the poor girl will be doing a double shift?” Which would explain her less than cheerful demeanor.

  Joan shrugged. “Yes. Can’t be helped. Mr. Burnett is having trouble finding qualified nurses willing to work here at the rock-bottom pay he’s offering.” She sighed, then went on, “And when he does hire someone, they usually won’t stay long—just until a better opportunity comes along.... Now, Vivian, you didn’t hear that from me.”

  “Locked away in the vault, dear!” I cocked my head. “You and Wanda have been here quite a few years. I would imagine you both could have found a better opportunity.”