“Probably because he didn’t have time after you came along.”
“Oh. Right. Duh. Then . . . what now?”
“Now we go to the editing suite,” Mother said, “and talk to Phil about all of this. Give him a chance to explain himself.”
“I don’t know about that, Mother. If our producer friend did murder Camilla, and we confront him, who’s to say we wouldn’t be putting ourselves in harm’s way?”
Mother thought a moment. “We’ll take some protection along.”
“What? A rolling pin from our kitchen? We certainly don’t own any guns.”
“No,” she said, with the kind of twinkle in her eye that could mean trouble, “but we do have Rocky and Sushi.”
Actually, that wasn’t a bad idea at all. Rocky was a trained attack dog who had once come to our rescue, and Sushi’s little teeth were sharper than a Ginsu knife.
I started the car and pointed it in the direction of home, where we stopped only long enough to pick up the two dogs, who typically were both eager to be leaving the house. And I didn’t collect a rolling pin or a Ginsu knife, either.
The editing suite where Phil worked was located in a residential area four blocks from the downtown proper, in a turn-of-the-last-century school that had originally been built for grades K through 12. Over the years, as the town grew, the austere three-story tan-brick school with bell tower had been appropriated as a middle school, then a high school, and finally a community college, and ultimately, it had been abandoned when a new complex of higher learning was built on the west side of town.
The old school, having fallen into disrepair, had been slated for demolition when Mother and her cronies from the Serenity Historic Preservation Society approached a few pillars of the community. They successfully made a proposal to turn the former school into office space using the original classrooms, thus saving the building’s internal structure. Today, Serenity City Center, as it is now called, is home to a wide variety of small businesses, including a beauty salon, insurance agency, chiropractic office, music store, jewelry repair outlet, coffee shop, gift store, and, of course, editing suite.
The suite was on the second floor, room 202, and Mother and I, with Rocky and Sushi on respective leashes, climbed the wide wooden staircase, whose old floorboards creaked with our weight, echoed by the creaking of Mother’s knees.
As we approached the room, Phil’s voice could be heard behind the closed door, and Mother, not standing on ceremony, walked right in.
Our producer/director, in his standard attire of plaid shirt, jeans, and running shoes, was seated at a station of high-end computer monitors, cell phone to an ear. One of the screens had a frozen picture of me shoving Camilla at the tool auction.
Startled by the intrusion, Phil ended his cell phone call with “I’ll talk to you later,” then came out of the chair, hands open in greeting.
“Brandy,” he said with a big smile, “I heard you’d been released. Wonderful news!”
My eyes were still riveted on the computer screen.
Phil glanced back at it, then at me. “Ah . . . now that the charge against you has been dropped, we can use the footage. . . which, of course, makes the network very happy.” He laughed, not terribly convincingly. “The suits were more than a little nervous after you were arrested. Really, I thought they might cancel us, like that crazy little beauty-pageant kid or that ever-growing family with the sex scandal. But now, well, we’re in a good position to get picked up for a second season . . . especially with all the publicity we’ve been getting.”
Phil had a lot riding on our show, which was the first series he’d produced after many years as a cameraman. His reputation was on the line. His career, too.
I forced a smile. “Lot’s been going on. Kind of surprising you haven’t been in touch.”
He made an embarrassed face. “Well, I should have been, to show support, but I figured the show was the last thing on your minds right now.” He took in the two dogs. “Well, Sushi! Our little star. And who’s her friend here?”
“This is Rocky,” I said, nodding toward Mother and the animal on its leash. “The chief’s dog. We’re taking care of him while Tony’s away.”
“The chief’s away? Oh, of course . . . the funeral.” Phil came over slowly and extended one hand down for Rocky to sniff, which the dog perfunctorily did. Sushi, meanwhile, was shamelessly pawing at the producer’s slacks for the treats he usually gave her on set.
Phil bent down to pat her head. “Sorry, girl. Don’t have any goodies for you here.”
Sushi’s lower lip went over her teeth, her loyalty tested.
The producer/director straightened. “You’re uncharacteristically quiet, Vivian. Something troubling you?”
“Yes, dear,” Mother said. “I was wondering exactly what papers you took from Camilla’s shop. And I do think you owe us something of an apology for your loutish behavior.”
Phil’s eyes widened, and his mouth dropped open. “Excuse me?”
I said, “We know it was you the other night.”
“You wear a most distinctive cologne,” Mother told him. “Hugo Boss, isn’t it? You should probably wear a little less of the stuff, dear. Particularly when you’re pulling a caper.”
Phil returned to his chair, sat heavily, leaned back, and looked at us woefully. “I won’t lie to you. It was me, all right. And I do owe you an apology, a big one. And I’m sorry I pushed you two. I hope neither of you was hurt.”
When we didn’t respond to his apology, Phil went on, “I really was going to tell you, you know, come clean now that Camilla is . . . gone.”
“You mean dead,” I said.
He sighed, gestured with a hand. “I had to get a document back that she and I had signed.”
“What kind of document?” Mother asked.
He shrugged. “A contract. You see, after the ratings of Antiques Sleuths turned soft, I needed to jazz things up a little. So I hired the Cassato woman to cause trouble . . . paid her to run bids up on you and, you know, generally be the bad guy.”
Mother asked, “How much did you pay her?”
“Five thousand a week.”
“That’s more than you’re paying us!”
He shrugged again. “Not total.”
I wasn’t concerned about that. I was angry about something else. “You were afraid that contract would surface and word would get out that our ‘reality’ show was faked!”
Phil straightened in the chair and said defensively, “Nobody thinks these reality shows are really reality! Do people think wrestling isn’t fixed?”
Mother blinked. “Wrestling is fixed?”
Phil ignored that. “Look, ladies, I was just doing my job, trying to make Antiques Sleuths an entertaining program. We all have a lot riding on this.”
“Enough riding,” Mother said, “for you to kill Camilla?”
He came out of the chair. “What? No!”
Rocky stirred.
Mother raised one eyebrow. “Didn’t Camilla approach you after the auction and tell you she wanted more money? And didn’t she threaten to go public about the contract if you didn’t give her that raise? Didn’t you then go to her shop, see the corn husker on the counter, pick it up, and hit her with it?”
“No!” Phil said. “None of that happened!”
Rocky, hearing the volume and tone of the producer’s voice, emitted a low growl. Sushi was cutting Phil more slack, still hoping for a treat.
Phil reduced his timbre. “I was right here, in the editing suite, the entire afternoon she died.”
“Can you prove that?” I asked.
“I used the restroom in the hall. Others in the building may have noticed me. And, also, I made a few calls.”
“On your cell,” Mother said. “There’s no landline here. Which means you could have made those calls from anywhere.”
Phil pointed a finger at us, then quickly withdrew it when Rocky again growled.
“Vivian, Brandy,” he said so
ftly, “I’m not the one who broke into Camilla’s shop. You did. I had a key.”
Mother harrumphed. “That doesn’t make your actions any more legally acceptable than ours!”
Phil raised an eyebrow. “Really? What if I hold the lease on the shop?”
“You’re bluffing.”
“No I’m not. I pay the rent and utilities. And I furnished the shop with all those antiques.”
Mother and I stared at him. So did Rocky and Sushi.
I sputtered, “Don’t tell me that you . . . you . . . brought Camilla to Serenity?”
Phil shook his head. “She was already in town, looking to start an antiques business to rival yours. That much was true. But she needed capital, and she needed merchandise.”
“And you,” I said, “needed to boost our ratings.”
He didn’t deny it.
“We were doing all right,” Mother insisted, more than anything offended by his disparagement of the show.
“Doing all right isn’t enough in this business,” Phil said. “Again, think about wrestling—the good guys and bad guys. Our show needed a conflict—someone for the viewers to hate. While rooting for you, of course.”
Mother, eyes narrowed, was nodding. “Makes sense.”
“Mother!” I said.
“Phil makes a good point, dear,” she said. Then to Phil, she exclaimed, “What if for season two we intersperse solving Camilla’s murder with segments about antiques!”
“I’m getting out of here,” I said with disgust. “Come, Sushi.... Mother! Bring Rocky.”
But when I glanced back to see if Mother was coming, she was giving Phil a “Call me” gesture.
On the drive home our conversation was limited, to say the least.
I said angrily, “I can’t believe that after what Phil pulled, you still want to work with him!”
“Dear, I was merely trying to placate the man. At the moment, remember, he is our number one suspect! On the other hand, my idea for the second season does have merit.”
“If I have anything to say about it, there won’t be a second season!”
When we entered the house, Rocky and Sushi were the first to notice something was wrong. They began prowling around the living room, sniffing the air, the furniture, the rug, as if another dog had been here, encroaching on their mutual territory.
Mother, in the foyer, removing her coat, asked, “What’s bothering those two?”
I gave the room a hard stare. Everything seemed to be there, but on closer look, a few things appeared to have been moved.
“Someone’s been here,” I announced.
Mother took a few steps into the room. “Good gracious, I think you’re right! We’ve been burgled while we were gone.”
For the next half hour we checked over the house to see what had been taken—me upstairs, Mother down—then reconvened in the living room.
Mother, hands on hips, announced, “The back door was forced open, but nothing seems to be missing down here. Well? Anything gone from upstairs?”
“All my good jewelry is still in the case—even my wedding ring.” Yes, I had kept it after my divorce. Only fools throw diamonds off bridges.
“I couldn’t find anything missing, either,” Mother said, puzzled. “Even our sterling silver flatware is secure.”
“Something was destroyed, though,” I said.
“Good heavens, what?”
“That large needlepoint picture hanging in your room, the one with the ornate frame. I found it on the floor, pulled apart, almost as if someone trashed it in anger.”
Mother was frowning. “Dear, are you sure you don’t remember seeing that frame anywhere in Camilla’s shop? The one she bought at Klein’s?”
“I’m sure it wasn’t there.” Then, “Why would the burglar think we had it?”
“No idea,” Mother admitted. “But you were in her store that afternoon. Perhaps our intruder thinks you took it.” She put a finger to her lips. “I wonder what’s so important about that frame. . . .”
I glanced around at our mildly invaded home. “Mother, do you think we should call the police?”
“No, dear. This is our case, after all.”
“But what if the burglar comes back?”
“We have the dogs. I’m sure we’ll be safe.”
Maybe so—but I kept the house lights burning all night.
A Trash ’n’ Treasures Tip
When hiring an appraiser, tell him or her the reason for the appraisal and whether the item or items will be used for tax purposes, as a charitable contribution, or as a gift. The purpose of the appraisal can affect the outcome of the assessment, as certain rules and conditions apply. Mother’s affection for a paperweight made from the ashes of Aunt Olive had little impact upon its appraised value.
Chapter Eight
Darkest Before the Don
A side to reader from Brandy: Today I’ll be helping Joe out at the shop, because Saturdays tend to be very busy. Mother, without a doubt, will be taking advantage of my absence to do her own investigating, which she’s always been very secretive about, either leaving her cell phone at home or turning it off.
But today I’ll know exactly where she goes!
Several weeks ago, I was looking for a little bathroom reading (if you’ll forgive the indelicacy), and the only material I could find at such short notice was the current issue of Mother’s AARP magazine, a periodical she claims not to be old enough to be receiving, but never mind.
Anyway, in the magazine was an article about gadgets designed to assist “seasoned citizens,” and among the gizmos listed was something called a PocketFinder. Basically, it’s a little GPS disk that can be slipped into the pocket of anyone you wish to keep track of with the help of a computer or cell phone. This comes in handy particularly when a loved one with Alzheimer’s or dementia might go wandering off. And while Mother certainly doesn’t have Alzheimer’s, she is clinically demented and, boy, does she go wandering off.
So I felt quite justified in sending for the device.
Last night, after she had gone off to bed, I sewed the two-inch disk into the lining of her coat, figuring she might find the PocketFinder if I slipped it in her pocket (even its name rather ambiguously suggests that result!). At any rate, now I’ll be able to follow Mother’s movements while I’m tending the till at the store.
I can’t wait to spy on her for a change!
* * *
Dearest ones, this is you-know-who back at the helm, and with Brandy at the shop and out of my way, it’s full steam ahead for the SS Vivian Borne!
When it comes to doing my own investigating, I’ve always believed in being an independent woman, relying on the kindness of strangers (or relatives) only when completely necessary. Therefore, when Brandy offered to drop me somewhere on her way to work, I declined. When I told her that if I decided to go anywhere today, I would get there myself, thank you, well . . . she had the tiniest self-satisfied smile on her face.
After the dear girl had gone her merry way (what was she so merry about?), and the sleeping dogs were happily entwined in a pool of sunshine on the living-room Persian rug, I shut down my cell phone, slipped it in my purse, grabbed my coat, hat, and gloves, and was out the door before you could say Jack Robinson—make that Jack Frost, considering the time of year. With my feet snuggled in a pair of Brandy’s warm UGGs, I hurried along the sidewalk, boots crunching on a thin crust of overnight snow.
The traveling trolley, my usual mode of non-Brandy transportation, made regular stops about a block away and was due momentarily. The old gas-converted trolley car was provided free by the Downtown Merchants Association to encourage denizens of our fair city to shop with them, rather than their competition, the Serenity Mall. Since my investigations often took me downtown, the trolley was convenient indeed. But on the off-chance occasion that I needed to go elsewhere, I was usually able to convince the driver to veer off his or her main route by using (first) flattery, (second) pleading, and (third) blackmai
l. The third method was the least palatable, if the most effective, which is why I made it my business to know everything I could about the various drivers.
For a while I had been banned from riding the trolley after a freak accident had been laid at my feet—the trolley had swerved off the road and had hit a telephone pole, which had tipped over on a dry-cleaning establishment, whose roof had burst into flames. Since I am still in litigation with the owner of the dry cleaners, I cannot comment further on my supposed culpability, other than to say that if a person riding behind the driver suddenly burst into “The Trolley Song” (Judy Garland? Meet Me in St. Louis?), the songbird/rider’s enthusiasm about the mode of transportation should not have unnerved said driver, however much clanging and dinging and zinging might have been involved. Anyhoo, thanks to the publicity and popularity of our TV series, the ban had lately been lifted off my trolley traveling.
The trolley arrived, and the doors opened to reveal a new driver (thankfully less nervous than the former one), and I was pleased as punch to see Vera Hornsby seated at the wheel. We’re talking about a divorcée with so many skeletons in her closet, she could haunt a house . . . and easily be persuaded by yours truly to take me to the dreaded mall itself, without my even dipping into the A material. Or even the B.
“Well, hello, Vera,” I said sweetly. “Lovely winter day, don’t you think?”
Vera was a bottled blonde somewhere in the thirties range, whose attractiveness was sabotaged by an abundance of makeup.
Eyeing me warily, she said only, “Vivian.”
Though this was hardly an answer to my friendly question, I headed past her toward the back of the trolley, where—should I have an uncontrollable urge to sing again—I would not likely inspire any alarm on the part of the driver.
I was the sole trolley rider at this hour of the morning, too late for downtown employees, who were at work by now, and too early for shoppers, who would find most stores not quite open yet and had no desire to wait out in the cold.
Taking a center-aisle window seat, I settled in for the relatively short ride downtown, then began to search my coat pockets.
Antiques Frame Page 12
