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Authors: Barbara Allan

BOOK: Antiques Disposal
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I dreamed my teeth were falling out. First the front ones, then all the others. I was trying to shove them back in their sockets, when I forced myself to wake up.
Okay, so I
was
overdue for my yearly dental checkup ... but did I
have
to do
that
to myself? What was wrong with just dreaming I needed to make an appointment? Or maybe having an angel appear to remind me?
Then I heard a terrified scream.
Was I still dreaming?
I felt for Sushi, but she was gone.
I jumped out of bed, ran into the hallway, where I met Mother, coming out of her room.
“What was that?” she asked, also alarmed.
I dashed into Peggy Sue's room, where I found her bed empty.
From below came a pitiful canine yelp.
“Sushi!” I yelled.
I raced past Mother, taking the stairs down, two steps at a time.
On the lower landing, despite the darkness, I could make out a prone form ...
. . . Peggy Sue!
On her stomach by the entryway, arms stretched out, blood oozing from the back of her head.
Just like Big Jim Bob.
Mother had reached the phone in the alcove, and was calling for help.
I checked Peggy Sue for a pulse, found one, but she was unconscious. I tore off my shirt, used it as a bandage, applying pressure to the wound on her head.
I glanced over my shoulder. “Sushi?”
“She's by the front door.” Mother knelt beside me. “You best check on her, dear. I'll take over here... .”
I went to Sushi, who was lying on her side, and put a hand on her chest, feeling for the rise and fall of her rib cage. Finding no sign of life, I lifted her chin to straighten out her neck, then, with one hand holding her mouth shut, I put my mouth over her nose, and blew gently. When her chest expanded, I waited until the air left her lungs, before going through the process again.
“Please God,” I said. “Please God... .”
After the longest minute of my life, Sushi stirred, and began to whimper.
“She's hurting!” I called to Mother. “I've got to get her to the vet, right now.”
“Go, dear. Take her.”
“What about Peggy Sue?”
“The paramedics are on the way—there's nothing more either of us can do.”
“Is she going to be all right?”
“She's breathing steadily. Now
go
.”
I ran for a new blouse, then came back and picked up Sushi, grabbed the car keys off the entryway table, and my cell phone, and hurried out the door to the car.
I drove and phoned with one hand, having arranged Sushi on the rider's seat. The cell phone took me to an answering machine, but that wasn't going to stop me.
Once, Dr. Tillie had saved Sushi's life. Afterward, he told me that if she was ever at death's door again, to bring her to him, no matter what time of day or night.
I was taking him at his word.
He lived on the edge of town, by himself, in a small ranch home behind the clinic. I drove there at a reckless speed, Sushi lying still—but breathing—beside me. My hand would find her coat and gently stroke, and I'd speak words of encouragement, though I doubted she heard me.
As I pulled down the gravel lane to Dr. Tillie's house, the porch light came on—perhaps he'd heard my call on the machine—and before I could bring the Buick to a stop, he was out his front door, coming toward me, pulling a robe on over his pajamas.
As I hopped out of the car, Dr. Tillie—a stocky, older man with a kind face and whose gentle demeanor often kept him from getting bitten—opened the passenger door, quickly picked up Sushi, then turned and headed into the clinic, while I followed, sobbing uncontrollably.
Inside, he carried Soosh back to an examining room, placing her on an aluminum table, immediately checking her eyes and gums.
“What happened?” he asked.
I told him about the intruder.
When his fingers probed her side, Sushi whimpered.
“Bastard,” the gentle man muttered.
This startled me. “What?”
“She's been
kicked,
” he said. “I'll need X-rays.”
I had stopped crying. “Do you think she'll be all right?”
“If there's no internal bleeding.”
I swallowed. “I know I ... know I should be with Peggy Sue right now, but I don't want to leave Sushi.” I couldn't help crying again. “I'm a terrible person!”
“Sushi is part of your family, too, and your mother is taking care of your sister. As for Sushi, I'll do everything I can. Why don't you go join them now ... at the people hospital?”
That phrase got an involuntary smile out of me. “Okay, Doc. I'll do that.”
I gave him a kiss on the cheek, and raced out of there, my heart breaking at leaving the little thing behind.
At the people hospital, I expected to find Mother pacing the long corridor of the ER, but she was in the waiting room, sequestered with Mia in a corner, the officer making notes on a small pad.
Mother stood as I rushed forward.
“Peggy Sue?” I asked.
“She's having an MRI,” Mother responded.
“Still unconscious?”
“Yes—and the doctor may keep her that way ...
if
there's swelling in the brain.”
“Oh my Lord. When will we know?”
“Soon, I hope... . How's the little doggie?”
Was Mother that concerned about Sushi? Or was she just trying to divert my thoughts from the possibility of Peggy Sue having brain damage?
I sighed, shaking my head. “We won't know about Soosh for a while, either.”
Mia stood. “I think I've gotten everything I need for the time being... .”
I jumped her. “You're not leaving
now,
are you? Whoever hit Peggy Sue probably killed Big Jim Bob, too ... and if Peg got a look at him, her life is still in danger.”
Mia gave me a “calm down” gesture. “No, I'm not leaving—your sister will have police protection as long as she's here.”
“What about us?” Mother asked. “That intruder could come back!”
Mia said, “Officer Munson is at your house right now investigating the break-in—he'll stay on, parked in his car out front.” She patted my arm. We'd once been close friends, remember. “Try not to worry, Brandy... . Now, I've got to see hospital security... .”
Mother and I hung around the waiting room a while longer, hoping the doctor might come and give us an update on Peggy Sue; but when that didn't happen, I worried that Dr. Tillie might try to reach me at home.
So after making sure the receptionist had our contact information, Mother and I slipped out, just as an ambulance pulled up and the ER turned frantic.
Dawn was breaking as we arrived home, and I was relieved to see a squad car parked at the curb. I pulled into the drive, and up to the garage. We got out, me heading to the porch, Mother going back to speak to Officer Munson.
I had forgotten what awaited me inside: Peggy Sue's blood on the floor, now dark and crusty-dried and ominous, some smeared where we had walked through it.
I sidestepped the scene, then flopped onto the couch, closing my eyes.
Then Mother was nudging me awake.
I bolted upright. “What's happened?”
“No word yet, dear, about either Peggy Sue or Sushi ... but come with me.”
I rose unsteadily, then followed Mother into the music room, where the storage unit items were still spread out on the floor.
“What's missing?” Mother asked.
“Not the Superman!”
“No. What's missing, dear? Think!”
“I'm still Watson?”
She nodded.
I didn't feel like playing her game; but I looked anyway.
Then I shrugged. “I don't know what's missing... .”
“Nothing, dear. It's all here ... and yet, the intruder
was
searching for something, because he—for purposes of discussion, we'll assume it's a he—went through the boxes I had repacked with the wrapping material.”
She pointed to the scattered newspapers and bubble wrap.
“So,” I said, “he didn't find what he was looking for. Then, on his way out, he encountered Peggy Sue.”
“That's right. She probably heard something. And so did Sushi.”
“Mother?”
“Yes?”
“Something
is
missing from this room.”
Her eyes bugged out behind the glasses. “
What
, dear?”
“Your old horn—
not
the one from the sale. I took that one out to the garage.”
Mother's eyes flitted around the room. “Good gravy Marie! You're right.”
“Maybe because he thought it
was
the one from the sale.”
We stared at each other. Then we both said, “What's so important about an old cornet?”
Well, she said “cornet.”
I said “trumpet.”
 
A Trash ‘n' Treasures Tip
 
When viewing a storage unit, look for clues as to the value of the contents. Are the boxes store-bought, or scavenged? Contents listed, or left unmarked? Carefully stacked, or tossed in? The former indicates a higher value, the latter a bad risk. As Mother says, “Even a pig in a poke should have decent grooming.”
Chapter Four
X Marks the Spot
T
he next day, I arose midmorning, after only a few hours of rest. I probably should have slept till at least early afternoon, but the moment I woke, thoughts of yesterday's troubles kicked in and I couldn't have gone back to sleep short of somebody conking me with a big cartoon hammer.
I had just gotten out of the shower—washing the long night away—when Dr. Tillie called with an update on Sushi.
“She's doing fine,” he assured me. “Undoubtedly she's a tad sore, but there's been no internal bleeding.”
I sighed with relief. “Oh, thank you, Doctor.”
“I would like to keep her for another twenty-four hours, for observation. Better safe than sorry.”
“Can I come out and see her?”
There was a slight pause. “I know you're anxious to visit the little angel, but right now I'd prefer you didn't. Best to keep her quiet—no undue excitement.”
“I understand.”
“Call at the end of the day, if you like.” His tone was upbeat. “Otherwise, we'll see you tomorrow morning.”
I began thanking him effusively, particularly for having let me interrupt him in the middle of last night, but when I could tell I was embarrassing him, signed off.
As I hung up the phone, I thought of Peggy Sue, hoping she was faring as well as Soosh.
Wondering if I was the worst daughter in the world, when my first concern seemed to be my dog... .
 
Half an hour later, Mother and I headed to the hospital. La Diva Borne, too, had managed precious little sleep, but it didn't seem to have done the old girl any harm. She was chipper in her favorite Breckenridge emerald green slacks and top, while I wore a black cashmere sweater and DKNY jeans.
Jeaggings
—really? Skinny jeans weren't skinny enough? How much more torture must the female sex endure at the hands of the fashion
fascista?
And while I'm at it, here's my take on the correct jean cotton-to-spandex ratio:
100% cotton:
girl, you rule! Unless those jeans get unbuttoned after every meal.
99% cotton, 1% spandex
: the best; that touch of stretch will keep you from strangling the next passerby, or yourself at the waist.
98% cotton, 2% spandex:
a deal with your inner devil to gain five pounds.
97% cotton, 3% spandex:
admit it, honey—you just don't care.
The intensive care unit was located on the hospital's top floor, and when Mother and I arrived at the nurses' station, we were given the good news that Sis had regained consciousness. Seemed her vital signs were strong enough that she'd been moved to the floor below. Apparently, with each improvement a patient was transferred downward, until,
woosh
, out the door. Then came the bill, which was enough to
woosh
you back in again.
Peggy Sue had a private room at the end of the hall, and, as Mother and I stepped off the elevator, we could see a uniformed police officer seated just outside her door.
As we walked closer, the identity of that officer was another pleasant surprise.
“Mr. Grady,” I said, approaching. “I thought you had retired some years ago.”
The former sergeant—neat as a pin in his uniform, albeit the shirt buttons straining at his midsection—stood to greet us, beaming. Pushing seventy, medium-height, Sergeant Grady had a silver crew cut and light blue eyes that had a twinkle. Over the years, whenever Mother hit one of her “rough patches,” he'd been helpful and kind.
“Yes, Leonard,” Mother asked, “have you gone back on the job?”
“On the job” was police jargon Mother had picked up from TV. I had no idea whether real officers used the term in Serenity or anywhere.
“Only occasionally, Vivian,” he said. “When the PD's overstretched, I'm back in harness.” He winked at me. “Or anyway, I
try
to squeeze into it.”
Uniformed officer or not, Sergeant Grady was good enough a detective to have caught me glancing at his midsection. I blushed at that. Yes, I can feel shame.
Mother tossed her head, girlishly. “Nonsense, Leonard! You look fit as a fiddle.”
What's so fit about a fiddle, anyway? And where would we all be without the likes of Mother to keep these mysterious old homilies in play?
Mother was saying, “We're delighted
you
are guarding our precious Peggy Sue. Aren't we, Brandy?”
“Uh-huh.”
I was pretty sure that just because he was retirement age—actually past retirement age—Sergeant Grady wasn't likely to be fooled by a killer masquerading as a doctor, or a nurse, or an orderly. That only happens in movies and on TV.
Right?
“Well, dear,” Mother said, turning to me, “let's see how our patient's doing.”
Quietly, we entered Peggy Sue's room. Though the window blinds were closed, light filtered in, slashing white across Sis's form in the slightly cranked-up bed. Her eyes were closed, an I.V. stuck in one hand, oxygen tube lodged in her nose. One temple had been sheared to allow tending of her wound, including bandaging.
I whispered, singsongy, “She's not going to be
happy
about her
hair
.”
Mother whispered back, not singsongy, “Well, she could stand a new hairdo, at that.”
“I dunno,” I replied, “another year or two, that pageboy
could
come back in style. Stranger things have happened.”
Peggy Sue's eyes popped open like a mad killer at the end of a slasher movie, and both Mother and I jumped.
“I
can
hear you, you know,” she said.
“Uh, hi, Sis ... you feeling all right? They treating you okay?”
“Yes, darling,” Mother purred, “do tell us how you're holding up.”
Peggy Sue pulled herself upright a little, supported by a pillow. “You mean after suffering the insults of my loving family?” She didn't wait for any lame response, but went on defensively, “And there's not a
thing
wrong with my hairstyle—I get compliments on it
all
the time.”
Dr. Tillie's voice played in my head:
Keep her quiet ... no undue excitement
... .
“I'm sure you do,” I soothed. Best not point out that the side of her head was shaved like a prisoner headed to the hot squat.
But Mother chirped, “And don't worry about how hideous it looks now ... it'll grow out in a month or two! At which time, why, I could even style it for you! After all, remember the nice job I used to do, cutting Brandy's hair when she was a little girl?”
Peggy Sue and I traded looks. Mother would have been fired from a military base barber shop for undue cruelty to recruits. Her assaults on my head of hair were an indignity I put up with till I was old enough to fight her off.
With a pointed look at Mother, I said, “Let's move past the warm family reunion to what happened last night. I want to know what Peggy Sue can remember.”
Mother tilted her head at me and gave me a mildly scolding look. “We are here visiting your sister because of her injury and to show her our support, and there's no reason to upset her by rushing into all of that unpleasantness.” Then to Sis, she said, “What
do
you remember about last night?”
Peggy Sue shrugged. “Not much. I recall going downstairs for a sleeping pill.”
Mother prodded, “And?”
“And ... that's about all.”
I asked, “You don't remember being slugged?”
“Really, I don't. Just waking up here. What
did
happen?”
I let Mother reconstruct what we knew about the attack, which she described with considerable melodrama and great theatrics. I will spare you. Don't say I never did anything for you.
After the curtain had come down, a tight-lipped Peggy Sue glared at me. “Let me get this straight... . I'm lying on the floor, unconscious, bleeding to death, and
you
leave
me
to take Sushi to the vet?”
Put that way, perhaps my actions did seem a little questionable. And even then, I'd known I would pay for it, for a long, long time.
Still, my response was eloquent and to the point: “I ... ah ... I, uh ... I... .”
Her chin rose. With her bandage and I.V. and nose-threaded oxygen tube, she looked like the survivor of some major disaster. “You chose a
dog
over
me?
”
Mother came to my defense. “Now, darling, it wasn't at all like that.
I
was there tending to you. And the little doggie
had
been hurt.”
An eyebrow arched—Leonard Nimoy couldn't have done it better. “As bad as me?”
Now I rushed to my own defense. “Hey! Sushi had stopped breathing. And, don't forget, she got hurt protecting you!”
“There were two victims,” Mother said grandly, “and two of us. Do the math, dear!”
Peggy Sue lowered the eyebrow. “Okay ... maybe I am being overly sensitive.”
“No, sweetheart, you just weren't awake to understand the needs of the emergency. And Brandy only took the dog to the vet when I commanded that she do so.”
“Okay,” Peggy Sue said.
But I was clearly still in the doghouse. So to speak.
Mother placated: “Didn't everything turn out all right? Both you and the little doggie are going to be just fine.” She patted Peggy Sue's shoulder. “Now, get some rest, dear—you could have an important visitor, you know, any time now!”
“
Who?
” Sis and I blurted simultaneously, if with different intonations—her, interested; me, alarmed.
What had The Madwoman of Chaillot cooked up this time?
“I called Senator Clark,” Mother announced proudly. “I thought he should be aware of what transpired.”
“What!”
Sis and I said—this time we were both on the same alarmed wavelength.
“Mother,” I moaned. “Why did you do that? You
know
the election is just a few weeks away—”
A livid Peggy Sue cut in, sitting up so straight now, she was pulling at the tubes. “What if the media finds out about our relationship? Edward might lose his seat in the Senate!”
Mother, on the defensive, said, “I thought he had a right to know that you had been seriously injured—in light of the fact that you and he produced Brandy.”
That sounded like I was a play.
In a reassuring tone even I didn't buy, I said to Sis, “Maybe he won't come. I could try to head him off—call him right away and say you're much better.”
Sis glared at Mother. “
Where
on earth did
you
get his private number?”
Mother folded her hands. Looked at the floor. Then sneaked a glance at me.
Eyes wide, I spread my arms. “
I
didn't give it to her! I
swear
. She must have gotten it off my cell phone.”
Mother's smile was girlish. She raised a single hand and said, “Guilty as charged.”
“Get
out!
” Peggy Sue shouted. “Both of you!”
And with her I.V.-free hand, she grabbed the pillow and threw it. The thing sailed between us and plopped off the wall onto the floor.
“
Out!
”
As Mother and I beat a hasty exit, a tissue box hit me in the back. (Could have been worse—could have been a bedpan.)
Out in the hall, Sergeant Grady gave us a quizzical look, as if we were two junior high kids who had turned up a block away from a storefront window breaking. “Everything all right, ladies?”
“Why, couldn't be better,” Mother declared. “It would appear that our darling Peggy Sue is back to normal.”
 
After dropping Mother off at the house, I steered the battered Buick downtown to keep my late-morning appointment with Brian at the police station.
Downtown proper was four streets, cut into a grid by four intersecting streets, containing just about every kind of business a modest community like ours might need. The main thoroughfare was (natch) Main Street, regentrified Victorian buildings with little bistros, specialty shops, and antique stores.
The modern redbrick building of the combination police station / fire station perched at the outer edge of the grid, kitty-corner from the courthouse, that grand old Grecian edifice Mother heartily defended whenever the powers-that-be threatened to tear it down.

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