Antiques Frame

by Barbara Allan

But I figured I knew: this had to be about my confrontation with his estranged missus.

  He confirmed that. “I just spoke to Camilla.”

  “Oh,” I said, too casual. “Really?”

  “You may be relieved to hear that she won’t be pressing assault charges against you.”

  I made a noise that I pretended was a laugh. “That’s big of her—considering she faked that fall.”

  His frown was frustrated, not angry. “Brandy . . .”

  “Phil showed you the playback, didn’t he?”

  “Yes. He did.” His shrug was frustrated, too. “But it’s not entirely clear she fell down on purpose.”

  I bristled, and it showed. “So you’re taking her side?”

  He let out a weight-of-the-world sigh. “I’m taking nobody’s side. Well, really, your side.”

  “My side?”

  “I convinced Camilla the tape was ambiguous and that she shouldn’t bother going after you legally. Brandy, I’m just trying to keep you out of hot water.”

  I glanced at the crying girl Keane print; her great big left eye blinked.

  I folded my arms. “Did you tell Camilla to stop harassing us? Because then you really would be on my side.”

  He gestured with both hands. “Brandy, Camilla hasn’t done anything wrong. She’s an antiques dealer, like you and your mother, and she’s been outbidding you at auctions. Want to do something about that? Bring more money.”

  I fixed a stare.

  “All right,” he said, and he raised a single hand of surrender. “I’ll admit she does seem to have a grudge against you.”

  “Thank you for recognizing the obvious.”

  He fixed a stare. “But my advice to you and Vivian is to go out of your way to avoid her . . . and if you can’t, just don’t antagonize her. Follow me?”

  With a shrug, I said, “I guess.”

  “No guess about it, Brandy.” He shook a scolding finger. “If there’s a repeat of what happened on Saturday, I won’t be able to persuade her again.”

  “Okay.”

  My hand had been resting on the counter, and he put his over it, his eyes softening. “Do you think I like having to get in the middle of this?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Do you know that I miss you?”

  “I miss you, too.”

  “Maybe we could—”

  The bell above the door sounded, and Tony quickly withdrew his hand.

  “Maybe we could,” he’d started to say. But apparently we couldn’t, whatever he’d been about to suggest—not if he still felt the need to downplay our relationship.

  Two middle-aged women in stylish coats entered, and Tony said stiffly, “Ah . . . thank you, Miss Borne, for your cooperation.”

  “You’re very welcome, Chief Cassato,” I returned curtly.

  He turned away, nodding to the women as he left.

  As the pair, one plump, the other trim, approached the counter, I said, “Welcome to Trash ’n’ Treasures. Let me know if I can help you find anything.”

  (Sidebar rant: Why can’t every salesperson acknowledge a customer that way? Why must they ask you the question “Can I help you?” Which makes us all go through the lame “I’m just looking. Thanks” routine.)

  The plump woman burbled, “We wanted to tell you how much we love your show!”

  And the trim woman cooed, “We think it’s the very best reality show on basic cable.”

  Hearing such high words of praise, Mother scurried in from the living room, blinking the eye she’d been overusing.

  “Why, thank you, ladies!” Mother said, adding, “Perhaps you’d be interested in one of our T-shirts? They come in all sizes, small to XXL!”

  After making this not so subtle reference to the girth of the plump potential customer, Mother pointed to two red shirts hanging behind the counter. The front of one read I ♥ VIVIAN; the other, I ♥ BRANDY. We also carried a third shirt, I ♥ SUSHI, but it was sold out.

  The women silently consulted each other.

  “Free,” I added.

  Mother shot me a disapproving look, and I gave her a one-shoulder shrug. Even with the show’s local popularity, we were having trouble getting rid of the swag. The non-Sushi variety, anyway.

  “No thank you,” the pair spoke in unison.

  See what I mean?

  Mother could barely hide her irritation. “Well, then, if there’s some particular item you’re looking for—”

  “Oh, no,” the trim one interrupted. “We just wanted a peek at what we’ve seen on TV. We have no real interest in antiques.”

  For a long moment, Mother and I just stared at them. Then I asked, “Then why do you watch our show?”

  The plump lady replied, “Well, frankly . . . we’re just waiting to see if you finally bop that interfering Camilla Cassato on the head the next time she outbids you.”

  Then, giggling like schoolgirls, offering up tiny childish waves, our noncustomers turned and left.

  “Well,” I muttered, “at least they won’t be disappointed by the final episode.”

  “Should be a crowd-pleaser,” Mother agreed.

  Then she went back to her dusting, while I sulked at the counter.

  Fifteen minutes dragged by, and Mother returned, a tad too cheerful.

  “Dear,” she began, “Christmas is coming, you know.”

  “It usually does.”

  “Well, don’t you think it’s about time we put out our Christmas merchandise? After all, we don’t have much left over from last year.”

  I could sense an errand coming.

  “Why don’t you run over to Klein’s and see what they have in the way of Yuletide goodies?”

  I made a face. “I’m not really in a Christmassy mood.”

  “Thanksgiving’s over, child. Most retailers were in a Christmassy mood weeks ago! Anyway, all this moping around of yours is a real bringdown.”

  Since a brought-down Mother was even worse than a brought-down Brandy, I capitulated, sliding off my stool. “Anything in particular I should buy?”

  She put a finger to her lips. “Let me see.... We do quite well with vintage tree lights, especially in their original boxes. Just make sure the cords aren’t frayed.”

  We’d learned that the hard way when our own real tree at home caught fire from a bad vintage cord.

  Mother was saying, “And anything with Sundblom’s Coca-Cola Santa always sells—trays, ornaments, Christmas cards. But no repros! Oh, and get a nativity scene. The only one we have doesn’t contain the baby Jesus.”

  Not my fault. She’d bought it without noticing the guest of honor was missing.

  I asked, “What’s my ceiling?”

  “Don’t go over a hundred . . . and try to worm more than our ten percent dealer’s discount out of them. The Kleins are tough bargainers, though. Just do your best.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” I said with a salute that was nearly sarcasm free.

  Sushi sensed that I was leaving and appeared at my feet, dancing for attention. Then when I reached for my black wool peacoat and bag, that confirmed her suspicions, and she began yapping to go along. So I plucked her up. She was good company.

  Soon we were tooling along in the C-Max up Mulberry, a main artery leading from the downtown out to the treacherous bypass. I called the four-lane highway treacherous because it had only a handful of stoplights to accommodate the traffic heading across it to and from an ever-growing number of housing additions. At the intersections where there were no lights, numerous accidents had happened—some fatal—because the four-lane had no center island where a driver could hole up if he or she miscalculated his or her crossing.

  But Mulberry did have a light, and Sushi and I zoomed safely across. I drove on about a quarter of a mile, then turned into a gravel driveway that led to a modern one-story warehouse with tan siding. A large red sign with black letters above the front door proclaimed KLEIN’S ANTIQUE STORE & AUCTION HOUSE, GERALD AND LORETTA KLEIN, PROPRIETORS.


  Only a few other cars were in the lot, and I snagged a spot near the entrance, then got out, Sushi in hand, my bag slung over one shoulder.

  I stepped into a vestibule designed to keep out the inclement weather and faced another door, which was covered with printed notices: SMALL CHILDREN MUST BE ACCOMPANIED BY AN ADULT; CHECK ANY LARGE BAGS; NO PHOTOS WITHOUT ASKING; NO ADMITTANCE FIFTEEN MINUTES BEFORE CLOSING; NO PERSONAL CHECKS; YOU BREAK IT, YOU BOUGHT IT. There were two new postings since I’d last been here: RESTROOMS FOR PATRONS ONLY and NO PETS.

  Clearly, the antiques biz was starting to get to the Kleins.

  Hmmm, I thought. If I made Sushi wait outside in a cold car, she’d only get back at me later. . . .

  WAYS SUSHI HAS GOTTEN BACK AT ME LATER

  (in order of vindictiveness)

  1. Asked to be put outside in the middle of the night and then didn’t do anything.

  2. Hid my purse under the couch.

  3. Chewed on an expensive leather belt.

  4. Peed on my pillow.

  5. Left a little “cigar” in one of my new shoes, which I didn’t find until I put it on, and which gave “exploding cigar” a whole new meaning.

  I unbuttoned my peacoat and tucked Sushi inside, with only the top of her head, eyes and nose, peeking out. Then I went through the door of a thousand notices and latched onto one of the store’s red plastic baskets just inside, which I used to hide Sushi’s cute face.

  About twelve feet or so to my left, beyond a grouping of large stoneware crocks too heavy to be easily swiped on the way out, was a display case/checkout counter where a young man was tending to a customer. The young man I’d never seen before, but the customer was Mrs. Crumley, a gossip worse than Mother, which is saying something. Her purchase was a ceramic garden gnome that wasn’t quite as ugly as the nasty news she loved to spread.

  Of course, I noticed all of this in a nanosecond before making a right turn down a row of high glass cases, disappearing from view with my smuggled canine.

  The Kleins’ vast store wasn’t that much different from your typical antiques mall; there were wide aisles (identified here by state names so you could remember where you saw something) and booths separated by Peg-Board walls. But because the Kleins owned all the merchandise, they had decided to group like items together—bedroom sets, dining-room tables and chairs, china, and so on—which made it easy if you were looking for something in particular. But I felt this format took the charm out of the surprise of discovery when you stepped into different dealers’ booths containing a variety of merchandise.

  Still, this arrangement meant I knew just where to go for Christmas decorations: a booth toward the back, near the vacant area where the auctions were held.

  Into my red plastic basket I plunked a framed Christmas tree fashioned from gaudy buttons glued on green felt; a wreath made of real fruitcake that had been thankfully lacquered; and a tall green Styrofoam cone with dozens of old toothpicks, on which could be stuck little cooked weenies—the perfect centerpiece for a loopy holiday party. Sushi seemed to regard all these selections with understandable skepticism.

  This should teach Mother not to send me out for Christmas items.

  I was heading toward the front of the store when I spotted Camilla, of all people—wearing a camel coat over black slacks, a Burberry plaid bag slung over one shoulder, standing in the mouth of a booth devoted to antique picture frames. She was holding a large ornately carved one, examining it closely.

  The frame had a “sold” tag taped on it, along with a separate price tag, and I watched in disgust as she casually removed both tags, stuck them on a similar but not as nice a frame . . . then put the price tag of the lesser frame on the one she wanted!

  My initial thought was to rat Camilla out, but then I remembered Tony’s warning to avoid contact with her, so I backed out of sight. How could Tony ever have been with such a wretched creature?

  Trying to allow Camilla enough time to pay for the frame and take her leave, I wandered the back booths for a while. Only then I rounded an aisle and ran right into her.

  She gave a startled “Oh!”

  I murmured, “Camilla,” and moved past her with my basket of kitschy treasures and Sushi.

  “Brandy,” she called to my back. “Could we speak for a moment? Please?”

  Warily, I turned. “Yes?”

  My nemesis came closer, the ornate frame hooked on one arm like an absurdly oversize bracelet.

  Inside my coat, Sushi, sensing my apprehension—or perhaps noticing the increase of my heartbeat—emitted a soft growl.

  Camilla said, “I’d like to apologize for my behavior of late.”

  “You would?”

  She nodded. “I’ve been following you to auctions with the purpose of outbidding you, and it was petty and vindictive of me, and I’m really sorry.”

  I couldn’t have been more surprised if she’d said she was ready to give Tony that divorce.

  Camilla tilted her head. “Still . . . you shouldn’t have pushed me down.”

  She wanted an apology, and in the name of peace and goodwill (Christmas was coming), I gave it to her.

  “Didn’t mean to hurt you,” I said.

  Pleased, Camilla said, “I’d like us to be . . . friendly, Brandy, if not quite friends. And to show you I’m sincere, as a peace offering, I’d like you to have that corn-husking tool I bid you out of. Strictly as a gift.”

  “Okay. That’s generous.”

  Her smile seemed genuine; she was really very pretty, even though her eyes were rather close set. “Can you come by my shop later—say, four o’clock?”

  “Well . . . sure. All right.”

  “Great!” Her eyes traveled to my basket. “What did you find?”

  Embarrassed by the tacky Christmas items, I said, “Not much,” then nodded to her picture frame. “That’s a lovely find.”

  “Yes, isn’t it! And a real steal at fifty dollars.”

  “Yes,” I said, “a steal.” I watched her face closely, but she gave nothing away. I raised the ante. “One might even think there was a mistake in the pricing.”

  Not a twitch.

  Still smiling, she said, “Well, I better get back to my shop. Since I’m the only one there, I have to close over the lunch hour. See you later, Brandy.”

  “See you later.”

  Watching her walk away, I pondered what her motive for being so civil to me might be. Simple human decency? Naw . . .

  I browsed a little longer, then made my way to the checkout counter, where the young man sat at the cash register, reading Wallpaper magazine. In his early twenties, he had short spiky brown hair, black plastic Buddy Holly–style glasses, and two days’ worth of stubble. He wore a vintage navy sports coat with shoulder pads over a gray-and-pink argyle sweater, and tight glen plaid slacks. I couldn’t see his shoes, but I bet they were Converse high-tops.

  Classic hipster dude.

  HOW TO BE A HIPSTER

  1. Be in your teens to thirties.

  2. Wear a mixture of vintage and modern clothes, paying no attention to colors or patterns.

  3. Eschew big-box stores in favor of the mom-and-pop retailer, even if it means paying a little bit more. (And bring your own reusable cloth checkout bag.)

  4. Be well educated, preferably a college graduate, majoring in liberal arts, graphic arts, or the fields of math and science, and owe a ton of student loan debt.

  5. Listen to alternative music, read offbeat magazines and books, and watch indie films.

  6. Be savvy in all aspects of social media, adopting new trends (if deemed worthy) before the curve.

  I set my basket on the counter and said, “Hi. Haven’t seen you working here before.”

  He put down the magazine and smiled a little. “Yeah, just started last month.” His eyes traveled to Sushi.

  I shrugged. “Sorry. Didn’t know about the new ‘no pets’ policy.” I stuck out a hand. “Brandy Borne. My mother and I own the Trash ’n’ Treasures shop.”
He shook it.

  “I recognize you from TV.” He tapped his chest. “Dexter Klein.”

  “You’re related to Gerald and Loretta?”

  He shrugged and pushed his glasses up. “Shirttail—but it helped get me a temporary job while I’m looking for one in my field.”

  “Which is?”

  “Graphic art. I know, I know.... Good luck with that around here!”

  As Dexter began removing my treasures from the basket, he deadpanned, “Well, now. I can see you’re a woman of good taste and refinement.”

  “Doesn’t everyone need a weenie tree?”

  That got a small smile out of him. “Apparently not, considering that that one’s been gathering dust here for, oh . . .” He checked the back of the price tag. “Three years.”

  “Shouldn’t that qualify me for more than my ten percent dealer’s discount?”

  Still smiling, he shook his head. “Sorry. I can’t make that call . . . and the Kleins’ll be out till mid-afternoon. Still want this gem?”

  I shrugged. “Where else would I find another one, at any price? Ring it up.”

  While Dexter tallied up my total, I contemplated mentioning Camilla the Tag Switcher but decided against it. Not a good way to start our new “friendly” relationship. And, anyway, wasn’t I Brandy the Dog Sneak?

  I paid for my items with cash, risked hipster wrath by asking for a plastic bag, then headed out.

  On my return to the shop, I found Mother cleaning the six-by-four-foot glass curio case just inside the front door. This was always reserved for seasonal items, and she was preparing for the bounty that I was bringing back.

  I almost felt bad over my tongue-in-cheek haul.

  I set Sushi down and put the plastic bag on the counter, along with my coat.

  “Well, let’s see what you came up with!” Mother said excitedly, coming over with a slightly demented smile.

  From the sack she removed the gaudy button Christmas tree glued on felt, the lacquered fruitcake wreath, and, of course, my Styrofoam weenie tree.

  I waited for my rebuke.

  Instead, Mother squealed with delight, clapping her hands, a little girl on Christmas Day who’d gotten every single thing she wanted. “Dear, your idea of getting such outré holiday items is simply brilliant! We’ll put them in the curio, along with a sign reading MERRY KITSCH-MAS!”