Antiques Swap

by Barbara Allan

  “Lovely,” I said. “Did you do the decorating yourself?”

  “Yes,” she said with a proud little smile. “If I love it and I want it, I get it.”

  She said this lightly, jokingly, but I sensed it was her credo in life.

  We walked on, passing a formal dining room with a sparkling chandelier and expensive oriental rug, into a kitchen as big as our living room. Bigger.

  The kitchen was one of the new additions. It had a slightly Southwestern feel with its terra cotta–tiled floor, colorful wall tiles, and bright floral curtains. A center island had its own sink and oven, over which hung copper pans of every size and style.

  I walked over to the breakfast nook that looked out over a swimming pool and tennis court.

  “You’re just a nine-hole golf course short of a country club,” I kidded.

  Behind me Vanessa, stone serious, said, “Funny you should mention that—I’m negotiating with the people in back of us. Shall we take the elevator?”

  “There’s an elevator?”

  She gestured with a hand. “Over there—so much easier for older relatives and friends . . . and the caterers, when we entertain downstairs.”

  In a corner of the kitchen, we took the elevator to the lower level, stepping off into another gigantic room, this one filled with every kind of home entertainment imaginable : huge wall-mounted TV, pool table, vintage pinball machines, an old jukebox, as well as a well-stocked wet bar.

  Party Central!

  Behind the bar was an etched mirror of a nude woman with flowing long hair, which, along with the black walls and blood-red carpet, gave the room a slightly disturbing San Francisco bordello feel.

  Vanessa asked, “Would you like to see our latest acquisition?”

  “Sure.” Nothing would surprise me now. Monorail? Teleporter?

  She walked me over to a door, and we entered a darkened room.

  She flicked on the lights.

  “You have your own movie theater!” I gasped.

  “Uh-huh. Like it?”

  What was not to like? The huge silver screen, the red theater curtains, ceiling-mounted projector, wall-mounted speakers fore and aft, recliner-like theater seats on graduated risers, the movie-reel print carpet . . . and the midnight-blue ceiling even had twinkling electric stars....

  It’s good to be the king. And queen.

  Not quite knowing what to say, I blurted, “You certainly have everything.”

  “No one does, really,” she said with a wistful shrug, but didn’t elaborate.

  Filling the awkward silence, I asked, “Where are the beer signs? Not that I expected them in here . . .”

  “Oh. Yes. Wes’s man cave. Follow me.”

  Ah, the mystique of a male’s private domain.

  We went through a door next to the bar into a “cave” that didn’t really contain extravagances on the order of the rest of the house, but was undeniably comfortable-looking. A brown leather couch and matching recliner were positioned in the center of the room in front of a medium-size flat-screen TV on a stand. To the left a large, round oak table with four chairs, and to the right were various storage cabinets. The carpet was an old-fashioned rust-colored shag.

  The focal point of the room was a brick fireplace with wide mantel, on which rested a collection of beer steins made of porcelain or pewter, each depicting different woodland scenes, like running stags or grazing boars.

  On the wall surrounding the fireplace hung the vintage neon beer signs. While most were familiar even to a non-beer aficionado like me (Budweiser, Pabst Blue Ribbon, Miller High Life), others seemed rather obscure (Kronenbourg, Schoenling, Almus).

  Vanessa said, “Some of these go back to Wes’s Columbia days, when he was decorating his frat room at Delta Sigma. Turned into a collection.”

  Those were memories that went way back. “You’re sure he wants to sell them?”

  She nodded. “He’s into buying autographed sports jerseys now—here, let me get something to show you. . . .”

  While I took in the beer signs, Vanessa walked away for a moment, then returned with a large frame, turning it toward me so I could see the stretched and mounted shirt under the glass.

  “This was Mickey Mantle’s,” she said, pointing to the signature below the familiar New York Yankees’ logo.

  “Wow,” I said. “That is impressive.”

  She made a you’re telling me face. “These frames take up a lot of wall space. Wes also has jerseys from DiMaggio, Ted Williams, and Barry Bonds.”

  “Must’ve cost a lot,” I said stupidly, feeling like a lowly flea in the company of a magnificent ant.

  Her eyebrows went up and down. “You don’t want to know. Anyway, I told him the beer collection had to go.”

  I held up a cautionary palm. “And Wes agreed? Just . . . I want to make sure. . . .”

  When I was in high school, Mother sold my collection of Barbie dolls without telling me, and I’ve never forgiven her. (Number #317 on the list.)

  Vanessa nodded. “Reluctantly, I’ll admit. But even he says it’s time to let them go.” She cocked her head. “We could reach him on his cell, if you like—he’s at his office, catching up on some work.”

  “No, no, no,” I responded quickly, not wanting to give the impression that I didn’t trust her. “Anyway,” I added, “it’s a moot point till we come to terms on a price.”

  For the next five minutes or so I used my digital camera and snapped the beer signs both from a distance and up close. Then I told Vanessa I’d be back with Mother after five, and we’d make her an offer.

  Like the ones she’d made her neighbors, hopefully ours would be one she couldn’t refuse.

  Vanessa led me through a man cave door into the garage, where a white Mercedes minivan was parked.

  “When you come back, go on in through the garage,” she instructed. “I’ll have it open.”

  We walked around to the front of the house where my Caddy was parked.

  “Great wheels!” she said. Finally I’d managed to impress her.

  “Thanks. But, really, it’s Mother’s.”

  “You know . . . I heard a strange rumor about that car.”

  “Oh?”

  “That it belonged to a godfather. You know . . . the Sopranos kind?”

  “Well, isn’t that ridiculous?” I said pleasantly. Mother was such a blabbermouth.

  “Even more so, since what people are saying is that your mother got this ‘godfather’ to cancel a, uh, contract on Tony Cassato . . . and that’s how our ex-chief of police was able to come back.”

  “So absurd.” Antiques Con wasn’t out yet.

  She touched my arm, smiling a little. “I guess you’re glad he’s back. If you don’t mind my saying.”

  I smiled back. “I am. And I don’t.”

  “You know, I really do admire you, Brandy.” Darned if she didn’t seem to mean it.

  “Really? Why is that?”

  She smiled again, shrugged a little. “Takes a special kind of person to be a surrogate mother for her best friend.”

  Vanessa was referring to the baby I carried last year for my BFF Tina and her husband Kevin—Tina hadn’t been able to conceive after her bout with cancer.

  “Was that . . . difficult for you?” she asked.

  “Well, pregnancy is no picnic.”

  “I mean . . . giving up the baby.”

  “Well . . . yes,” I admitted.

  Which was why I had avoided seeing their baby much.

  She said, “I could use a friend like you.”

  I laughed nervously. “Hope you’re not in the market for a surrogate . . . ’cause that’s a definite been-there, done-that kind of deal.”

  She laughed just as nervously. “Goodness, no. I still have options open.”

  I turned a hand over. “Well, seriously . . . if those options don’t pan out, I could give you the name of the doctor who—”

  “I have my own specialists,” she responded sharply.

&nbs
p; I’d overstepped with my new friend. “Oh, sure . . . of course you have.”

  Her voice softened. “But . . . thank you, anyway, Brandy.”

  “Okay.” I shrugged. Grinned. “Well, I guess I’ll head back and show Mother the photos. Hit the Internet. See you a little after five.”

  At the shop, I transferred the photos to the computer, and for the next hour, I googled similar beer signs, Mother hovering over my shoulder.

  Most examples had a value ranging from four to five hundred dollars, but the sign from France—Kronenbourg 1664—was rare. I found only one for sale on eBay.

  “It’s worth thousands,” Mother said excitedly.

  “Doesn’t mean anyone’s going to pay that much. Prices are always inflated on eBay. And with only one of ’em posted, we don’t have enough to go on.”

  Mother nodded. “You’re right, dear. On Pawn Stars, the customers are always wanting eBay prices—makes The Old Man furious!”

  The bell above the shop door tinkled, and a rumpled little guy in his sixties came in wearing a wrinkled shirt and slacks. Perhaps five foot two, with wispy white hair, he wore old-fashioned adhesive-repaired plastic-framed thick-lensed glasses that diminished his eyes to raisins.

  I knew him only as Dumpster Dan the Pop-bottle Man (as kids had for years taunted him). He was a fixture around town, cheerfully pushing a shopping cart through alleyways, sifting through Dumpsters for discarded bottles and cans for return deposit. Mother told me he’d once been a brilliant research chemist at Sinclair Consolidated, but at some point had had a nervous breakdown.

  “Well, Dan,” Mother said, greeting him, “and how are we faring on our rummage quest today?”

  He came toward the counter with a little spring in his step. “Fine, Mrs. Borne, just fine.”

  “Oh, Dan, Vivian, please.”

  The man smiled shyly, showing perfect, perfectly yellowed teeth. “Vivian, you’re kind.”

  “I strive, dear, I strive. Now, what can I do ya for?”

  Dan was carrying a dirty, frayed-cloth shopping bag, and he reached into it. “I can do something for you. Here’s a treasure I found in the trash that I think you might be interested in.”

  “What is it?” Mother asked excitedly. She loved surprises and was a grab-bag aficionado.

  He placed a porcelain floral teapot on the counter.

  Mother picked it up. “Yes, this is lovely,” she said, studying the pot. “But Dan, dear, besides having no lid, I’m afraid there’s no value . . . you see, it’s cracked. A hairline, but a crack.”

  The man leaned forward. “Oh . . . I didn’t notice that.”

  That I could understand, with those glasses.

  “You know,” I interjected, “even as is, it would be perfect for holding pens here on the counter . . . don’t you think, Mother?”

  “Why, uh . . . yes, yes, dear, I agree. Just what we were looking for, now that you mention it.”

  “Would you take four dollars for it?” I asked Dan.

  His raisin eyes grew grape-size. “Four dollars!”

  “All right, five.”

  “Huh? Oh, yes! Absolutely!”

  And I fished in the change drawer and withdrew a fin, as we detectives call a five-spot.

  As a beaming Dumpster Dan departed, Mother turned to me. “That was a good deed, dear.”

  “Hmmm. I hope we didn’t just set a precedent with Dan that we’ll come to regret.”

  Mother smiled. “Well, you know what they say . . . no good deed goes unpunished!”

  I gathered the counter pens and put them in the teapot, which was so shallow that they all fell out. Punishment had come in a hurry.

  At five, we closed up the shop, turning on the alarm; then Mother, Sushi, and I got into the Caddy at the curb, and soon were driving beneath the iron archway of Xanadu—me at the wheel, not Mother. Or Sushi.

  “Now, let me do the negotiating, dear,” Mother said.

  To which I agreed: she was the consummate horse trader. No ancient Arab merchant in a bazaar stall was shrewder.

  I stopped the Caddy in front of the opened garage, and we exited the car, me holding Sushi. I hoped bringing the little devil along with me would be all right with Vanessa. After all, with doggy, there’s always a chance of doody.

  Next to the white minivan was a pile of cardboard boxes and packing materials that Vanessa had gathered since my earlier visit.

  We went through the door leading into the man cave, where the beer signs had been gathered on the large round oak table.

  Mother, examining them, said excitedly, “These are even better than your photos, dear! Not to belittle your photographic skills.”

  “I’ll see if I can find Vanessa.”

  The door to Party Central was open, but she wasn’t in there, and I didn’t feel I should take the elevator up and wander around, so I returned to Mother.

  “I’m sure she’ll be back soon,” I said, and put Sushi down, trusting she’d stay out of trouble.

  But the little mutt immediately disappeared behind the couch.

  I went to fetch her, and said, “Oh!”

  Mother asked, “Oh what, dear?”

  “She’s . . . she’s already here . . .”

  Vanessa, on her back, her beautiful dark hair caked with blood, stared at the ceiling with those violet eyes wide, yet seeing nothing.

  A Trash ‘n’ Treasures Tip

  When attending a swap meet, arrive early if you want a good parking place. One enterprising person I know used to park her car in a choice spot the day before and use a friend to take her home then back again. A word of warning: last year when I tried that, I got towed.

  Chapter Three

  Beer Card

  (The seven of diamonds.)

  While Mother used her cell phone to call the police, I went outside with Sushi to await their arrival, knowing full well that Vivian Borne would use the time to examine the body and crime scene.

  I felt particularly shaken—not because I had any emotional feelings toward Vanessa, as I barely knew the woman. But I had just been with her. And she had been so friendly, and open, and . . . alive. It was an upsetting reminder of just how quickly a life could be snuffed out.

  When, after only a few minutes, a siren-blaring squad car pulled into the drive, I was relieved to see Tony behind the wheel. That relief was undermined when I realized the officer beside him was Mia Cordona, with whom I’d had a rocky relationship of late.

  Mia and I had been close childhood friends, but drifted apart over the years. I always sensed that Mia was disappointed in the direction my life had taken—or maybe that was indirection. And she was probably justified in feeling that way.

  Tony reached me first, and that he had to hold back touching my arm or shoulder was apparent. I still wasn’t used to seeing this former chief in a patrolman’s uniform.

  He said, “You’re all right?”

  “Much as can be expected. I was just with her. . . .”

  “That’s a tough one.” He glanced around. “Where’s Vivian?”

  “Inside.” I pointed to the door toward the rear of the garage. “The body’s in Wes Sinclair’s, uh, you know . . . man cave.”

  Mia—dark-haired and attractive, her uniform not entirely concealing her curves—said, “That mother of yours better not’ve disturbed the crime scene.”

  I shrugged. I suppose I could have been offended, but she had a point. And Mia was understandably even less enamored of Mother than of me. After all, Mother had once, however unintentionally, blown an undercover operation of hers.

  “Go on, Mia,” Tony said. “I’ll be there in a moment.”

  As she disappeared into the garage, I said, “Tony, someone should find Wes. Vanessa told me earlier he was at his office.”

  Another nod. He seemed to be working hard at being all business. “I’ll send a patrol car over there with the news. Nasty way to hear, but beats a phone call. You gonna be all right here?”

  “Sure.”

 
Then he headed inside, too.

  The paramedic truck arrived, its siren summoning any remaining neighbors out onto their porches to rubberneck and gawk. Human nature sometimes isn’t my favorite thing. That was enough to send me retreating farther into the garage, where I confiscated two folding chairs for me and Mother, since she’d be ejected from the crime scene any moment now.

  The door to the man cave opened and Mia shoved Mother forward, a little harder than I’d have liked, with a “And stay out!”

  “Well!” Mother intoned, in her best Jack Benny huff. (Younger readers who don’t know the name are free to google.) “I was only trying to help. How many murders have you solved, young lady?”

  As two paramedics hurried past Mother toward Mia, still poised in the doorway, Mia said, “This time your help won’t be needed!”

  The paramedics froze, misunderstanding, and Mia shook her head, muttering, “Not you, sorry,” and gestured for them to enter.

  A disgruntled Mother strode over to me, gathering the shreds of her dignity about her like a tattered cloak. I was seated holding Sushi, and the spurned sleuth plopped into the chair next to me. “Those Keystone Kops will only contaminate the crime scene.”

  I said, “Mother, Tony’s in charge. It’ll be fine. It’ll be very professional. We really aren’t needed.”

  Mother responded to this with eye-rolling skepticism.

  A second police car arrived, bringing a two-man forensics team, and Mother rose and pointed the way like Babe Ruth gesturing to the centerfield fence.

  After they, too, had disappeared into the man cave with their equipment, Mother said, “She was still warm, dear. No rigor mortis. Couldn’t have been dead more than a few hours.” Brightening, she went on: “You may have been the last one to see her alive! Apart from the killer, that is.”

  “That’s what worries me.”

  And I told her about the altercation at the swap meet, which could make me suspect numero uno.

  “Dear,” she said, with a dismissive wave, “I think it likely that a woman of Mrs. Sinclair’s social standing had many others in her life with far more valid reasons to kill her than you. Yours was just the freshest.”