Antiques Flee Market (10 page)

First of all, Mother never “peeked” at anything—especially our page in the accounts payable register. She studied, analyzed, dissected, and agonizingly scrutinized, but peeked? No.

And second, she was breaking protocol by asking to see how much Ray owed us before we’d restocked and straightened our booth. It was kind of like asking your parents for an advance on your next week’s allowance when you haven’t cleaned your room this week.

But Ray complied with Mother’s request, reaching under the counter and producing his oversized accounts book, which he placed on the glass top, making room among the sewing machine parts and his current Coke bottle.

I had been holding the heavy box all this time, and so I finally set it down, to be able to peer over Mother’s shoulder as she quickly leafed through the register to locate our page.

The long list of antiques and collectibles that we had sold so far this month brought a grin to my face—half of the money being mine—so Mother’s reaction took me by surprise.

She blurted, “Shit!”

Then she added, “Shit, shit, shit!”

Mother doesn’t swear or curse lightly, but the above does represent her expletive of choice.

A lone female browser who had just come through the end of a nearby aisle gave us a dirty look.

I hissed at Mother. “Shhhhhh!”

She glared back defiantly and said, “Shhhhh-
it
!”

“What’s the
matter
with you? Can’t you see how much we’ve sold?”

“To other
dealers!
” Mother snapped.

I stared at the page.

She was correct: nearly every item had a dealer discount deducted from our original price, in addition to the percentage that Ray took.

Mother seemed more upset than mad. “That means we’ve been underpricing!”

Which was a seller’s conundrum. Should you price low enough for an immediate return on your investment, or price high and risk the item possibly never selling? (Splitting the difference didn’t seem to occur to Mother.)

“Oh, look,” I said, pointing to a line on our page, “the smiley-face clock finally sold!”

The kitschy bedside collectable had been with us for over a year, an impulse garage sale purchase by yours truly, for which I’d paid way too much. Mother had grown tired of seeing the grinning clock in our booth month after month, that smile a seemingly gleeful reminder of her daughter’s misstep, and we’d set about to rid ourselves of the thing, trying everything from shining a spotlight on its face to featuring the clock on a fancy doily.

We’d even placed it precariously on the edge of a table so some poor browser might knock it off to the floor, bringing “you break it you bought it” into play. (I did not approve of this last sales tactic of Mother’s.) (But desperate times require desperate measures.)

Mother smirked. “The clock
did
sell, all right…to a
dealer
!”

I couldn’t win.

Sighing, I bent and picked up our box of restock, then headed to our booth, which was nicely positioned to the right of the front door entrance (and which no other dealer had wanted because it was number thirteen—the Borne girls flying in the face of adversity and superstition).

Mother soon joined me, and we went through our usual routine: I unpacked and dusted the items; she positioned and tagged them. After I’d finished my tasks, I went back to talk to Ray, but found him engrossed again with the sewing machine, so I decided not to bother him.

The accounts book remained out on the counter, however, and I began leafing through it, to see how we had fared compared to the other dealers. Behind the counter, a vintage eight-track tape player was emitting Christmas tunes, with the Andrews Sisters doing “Winter Wonderland” only to be interrupted halfway and mid-phrase by the weird eight-track channel changing.

Booth twelve, next to ours, and rented by Mr. Beatty, appeared to be the top moneymaker this month; he stocked old comic books and collectable toys, the latter bringing in good sales at Christmas.

The Deasons, booth three, featuring mostly glassware, had a big run on Jadite Fireking dishes, putting them in the second spot. (Have you ever dropped one of those? Wow, talk about a thousand little pieces…. )

Then I noticed a new renter in booth five, with a familiar moniker: Harry Potthoff. His page was nearly blank, save for the sale of a few inexpensive books.

Interrupting Ray, I said, “This Mr. Potthoff…when did he start renting?”

Without looking up from his work, Ray answered, “Beginning of the month.”

“Hasn’t sold much,” I noted idly. “Bad location?”

Mother and I had turned down that booth opposite the badly ventilated bathroom, taking our chances with our unlucky number.

Now Ray looked up. “Prices too high.”

“Then how does he make any money?”

The old gent shrugged. “I don’t ask…as long as he pays his rent on time.”

I shrugged. “Maybe he has money, and this is a hobby with him.”

Ray shook his head. “Said he was a retired teacher.”

“Wealthy wife?”

“Not married.”

“Girlfriend?”

Ray had close to an irritated look on his usually placid face. I was interrupting his work.

Oh, well, what did I care
where
Pudgy got the hard cash for the expensive David Yurman watch? Or who he was giving it to?

But Mother would.

A Trash ‘n’ Treasures Tip

When spending the day at a flea market, go prepared. Wear comfortable shoes and layers of clothing that can be shed. Bring an umbrella for rain, and protective lotion for sun. Pack water and snacks, aspirin and Band-Aids. It’s a jungle out there.

I
had been inside the secondary courtroom of the Serenity Courthouse several times, thanks to various traffic violations Mother had racked up over the past few years. (As of now, Mother will not be eligible to drive again until the ripe old age of one hundred and nine, a birthday she has every intention of reaching, by which time, with any luck, the planet will have run out of fossil fuels.)

In the mornings, this room was used for traffic court, when herds of ensnared citizens were processed in a quick, noisy cattle call to justice. Afternoons, however, were reserved for felony arraignments, and the atmosphere was strikingly different: quiet, somber, and depressing, perhaps in part due to the loss of the morning sunlight.

At the moment, the only people waiting for Chaz’s arraignment to begin were Mother, myself, Mr. Ekhardt, and Chaz’s boyfriend, Ben Adams. We were seated in the right front pew, with the county attorney across the aisle, a middle-aged man in a dark gray tailored suit—no off-the-rack stuff for our CA, who had family money that could see to it his frame was properly draped, and that was good, because he was fond of eating and the resultant shape was unlikely to be found on any rack, outside of a Big, Tall, and Weirdly Bulging men’s store.

I won’t go into what the rest of us were wearing, except for Ben, seated next to me, because he looked so radically different than the scruffy young tough who’d run past me the night of the flea market preshow. To show support for Chaz, he’d gone all the way: a navy suit, a black necktie, his dark hair neatly combed, slender face free from stubble. You’d think
he
were the accused, trying to make a good first impression on the judge, who had yet to arrive.

I whispered to Ben, “It’ll be fine,” although I was in no way sure it would be. “Mr. Ekhardt’s a legend.”

Ben turned his worried eyes to me. “What, like Bigfoot? Get a load of the old geezer.” He gestured with his head toward the celebrated attorney. “He’s asleep!”

I looked down our row, where, on the other side of Mother, our frail-looking local Perry Mason snored softly, his chin resting on his pin-stripped vest. I would have yelled, “Boo!” if I hadn’t been afraid it would give him a coronary.

The CA seemed to have overheard Ben’s harsh remark, and he made a smug
harrumph
.

Which Mother overheard.

She leaned forward, turned her critical eyes toward Jabba the County Attorney, and sneered. “Wipe that smirk off your face, young man…. You’re not worthy of carrying Wayne Ekhardt’s sweaty jockstrap out of the gym!”

Well, folks, that was by and large the most startling thing Mother had ever said in a courtroom, and I’d heard her say plenty of shocking things before. Her comment conjured up two very disturbing images for me: scrawny senior citizen Mr. Ekhardt in a sweaty jockstrap; and the corpulent CA in gym shorts tiptoeing out the door carrying said strap by a dainty thumb and middle finger.

The CA smirked again, but before Mother could retaliate, I touched her arm. “Let’s not make an even bigger enemy out of him, Mother.”

“Could we have a ‘bigger’ enemy?” she asked.

Good point.

But amazingly, Mother heeded my advice. “Still, dear, you’re quite right—one should be respectful in a court of law.”

“You’re doing fine so far,” I said.

Mother reared back. “When have I
ever
behaved in a manner less than dignified in a serious situation such as this?”

“You want them chronologically, or in alphabetical order?”

While we were waiting, an unsettling thought came to me: Young Ben had spruced himself up for Chaz today, just as he’d stolen that flea market money bag for her the other night. What else might he have done for Chaz? Kill her grandfather?

The side door next to the judge’s bench swung open, commanding our attention, and a beefy male bailiff strode in, taking his place next to the standing American flag, hands fig-leafed before him.

I had been expecting, even hoping for, the sadistic, gum-chewing lady from traffic court for a little comic relief; but apparently, for felony arraignments, a more formidable bailiff was required. Any comic relief would have to be handled by Mother, which was enough to make me plead “Guilty!” and I wasn’t even accused of anything.

Next, a female judge entered, black robe flapping, and Mother made an audible sound of approval, seeing who was going to be running the show. I, too, recognized the middle-aged African American woman from Mother’s last traffic court appearance, where Mother had launched into an impromptu monologue to defend herself, and the judge became so irritated and outraged that she banged the gavel down on her thumb.

The judge took her place behind the raised bench, gazed out toward the gallery, her eyes widening as she spotted Mother in the front row, smiling and waving. Fortunately, Mother stopped just short of yelling, “Yoo hoo!” but she did chirp, “Hello, Judge Jones…remember me from traffic court? I do hope your thumb is back to its normal size.”

Judge Jones’s mouth didn’t say anything, but the rest of her face spoke volumes; it would be a long time indeed before she’d ever forget Mother.

The side door opened for the third time and a female ponytailed deputy ushered in a handcuffed Chaz, who was almost unrecognizable in a plain gray woolen dress—its high neckline covering her barbed-wire tattoo—black pumps, her black hair in soft curls, face scrubbed clean of makeup, the various piercing hardware absent.

Chaz’s eyes darted furtively from Ben to me to Mother, then took on alarm at the still-snoozing Mr. Ekhardt.

“Oy!”
she said. “Your Honor, I want me a new solicitor! One that’s alive, yeah?”

The burly bailiff bellowed, “Quiet! This court is now in session, the Honorable Judge Jones presiding.”

The judge banged her gavel, and then, and only then, did Ekhardt’s eyes snap open, his body flexing, suddenly energized, a racehorse put out to pasture but still responding to the sound of the starting gun. He rose from the pew, tottering only slightly, and joined his client in front of the bench.

I knew from experience that arraignments were quick, the process being limited to a “guilty” or “not guilty” plea (Mother always pleaded “nolo contendere” just to be ornery). So I expected to be out on the street in no time.

Judge Jones looked at her notes, then said, “The State versus Charlotte Doxley. Does the defendant have representation?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Ekhardt said in a surprisingly commanding voice.

“For the record,” the judge noted, “Wayne Ekhardt is representing the defendant.”

I forgot to mention the court reporter in the corner, a woman with mousy brown hair and dark circles under her eyes, seated at her little machine, fingers flying, providing a faint percussive clicking in the background.

The judge looked at Chaz. “You are Charlotte Doxley?”

“Yes, mum,” Chaz responded weakly.

“You understand the process of this arraignment?”

“I guess I do.”

“Well, do you or don’t you?” the judge asked impatiently.

“Yeah, I do. Mum.”

Satisfied, Judge Jones stated, “You are charged with felony murder. How do you plead?”

Everyone waited for the expected “not guilty” from Ekhardt, who would speak for his client, but the words that he uttered were surprising.

“Your Honor,” the lawyer said measuredly, “I request a motion for dismissal of this charge against my client on the grounds that the search warrant was improperly issued—specifically it was issued
after
the officers entered the mobile home of Walter Yeager, making all evidence obtained on the premises at that time inadmissable.”

One could have heard the proverbial pin drop. Or a real one, for that matter.

The smug county attorney leapt to his feet in a flurry of fat. “Your Honor! I protest! Any objection to that search warrant is purely a matter of semantics, the warrant itself a mere formality, the victim being the sole owner of the mobile home!”

The judge addressed Ekhardt, her eyes narrowed. “You have a copy of the warrant?”

Ekhardt nodded. “
And
the detective’s report, which clearly indicates that the home was entered a full hour before the warrant was issued.”

The CA began to stutter. “A-a-again I protest, Your Honor—a search warrant was not strictly necessary for the home of the murder victim.”

“I disagree,” Ekhardt said. He held up another paper. “Mr. Yeager may have lived on those premises, but he was not the ‘sole owner,’ in fact not the owner at all. This is a copy of the transfer of title of that mobile home into the name of Charlotte Doxley—filed ten days
before
Mr. Yeager’s death. Miss Doxley should have been served with a warrant to search her
own
property. Therefore, I ask once again that this charge against my client be dropped, and she be released immediately.”

I said, “Wow!”

Mother said, “Hot damn!”

Chaz said, “Crikey!”

Ben said, “Yes!”

The CA didn’t say anything, although his mouth hung open as if he hoped some higher power would see fit to send some words on through.

“Order!”
Judge Jones banged the gavel. Carefully. “Mr. Ekhardt, I’d like to see that title.”

The judge studied the document for a moment, brow furrowed, then shot the county attorney a reproachful look.

The gavel banged again, and the judge said, “The charges against Charlotte Doxley are dismissed.” She gathered her papers from the bench, and then swished out the side door, her robe waving good-bye. Or maybe good riddance.

Chaz turned to Ekhardt. “Is it true? I can
go
?”

Ekhardt, smiling sagely, just nodded.

She gave the lawyer a big bear hug, which he seemed to enjoy, despite the sounds of bones popping.

The CA walked over to our stunned but happy little group, now crowded around Chaz, and said tersely to the defendant, “Congratulations, Miss Doxley…but my advice to you is not to go too far. We do have extradition agreements with Great Britain.”

And he tromped out of the courtroom, making minor earthquakes as he went.

Ben asked Ekhardt, “What did he mean by that?”

Ekhardt sighed. “He means he intends almost certainly to bring new charges against Miss Dockley. I’m afraid this isn’t over yet….”

Mother frowned. “How is that possible? This is America! What about double jeopardy?”

“It’s not applicable, Vivian,” Ekhardt said, “because we haven’t gone to trial. An arraignment doesn’t set the double-jeopardy exception into motion.”

Chaz’s face was screwed up with worry. “Wha’ should I
do
then, Mr. Ekhardt?”

The lawyer spread his slender arms out to encompass his small flock. “Let’s continue this discussion outside, shall we?”

A few minutes later, we gathered on the courthouse steps under a gunmetal gray winter sky. The distorted sounds of instrumental carols being bleated over cheap speakers, in the nearby downtown, provided a less-than-festive soundtrack. Ekhardt stood on the step above Chaz and Ben, like a preacher getting about to marry them, with Mother and me as bridesmaids below.

The lawyer looked at Ben. “Young man, do you have a relative or friend living out of state where Chaz could stay for a while? Just nod your head.”

Ben, puzzled, nodded.

Ekhardt continued. “Too bad I can’t suggest she go there, out of reach of local police. But that would be unethical—unlawful even—so I can’t do so.”

Chaz frowned. “Okay, guv…so I
won’t
, then, yeah?”

But Ben smiled, following Ekhardt perfectly. Mother did, too, her big eyes behind the glasses dancing with delight at the strategy of this sly old fox, and she said lightly to Chaz, “Have a safe trip, my dear!”

Inside my head, I was going, “La la la la la la la la la,” not wanting to be even an indirect party to circumventing the law. And I kept my own, probably unfair, suspicions about Ben to myself.

The next day, Saturday, I was down for the count with a migraine that wouldn’t let go even after several doses of my headache medication. I wasn’t sure why it came on: wrong food, hormones, stress, not enough sleep, too much sleep…. or maybe, yes, feeling guilty about being party to circumventing the law, encouraging two murder suspects to run off into hiding together.

But I
was
sure that Sushi had played a part, perhaps even praying to her shih tzu god for me to be put out of commission so she could stay in bed with me all day. While the little mutt snoozed peacefully on top of the covers, I had delirious dreams about going to jail for helping keep Chaz out of jail.

I was supposed to go out with Brian—it was his night off—with dinner and movie on the docket, but I had to call and leave word on his answer machine that a migraine had taken me out of the game. I tried to sound as sweet as I could, since the last time we’d spoken (at that mobile home) had been strained, and I didn’t want him to read anything into what was a genuinely migraine-motivated cancellation.

Mother knew enough to leave me alone in my darkened room for the duration, but about dinnertime, she tiptoed in.

“Brandy, dear, I asked my Red-Hatted League ladies to scour the town for Popsicles…and Frannie, bless her heart, found some…which, in the wintertime, is like finding Easter eggs in the fall.”

I slowly sat up, eyes trying to focus on what Mother held out in her hand. Sometimes a cold treat
could
chase my migraine away at the end of its cycle….

“What flavor?”

“Grape. And not to worry! I washed off the freezer-burn.”

Purple was not my favorite flavor, but I stuck the Popsicle in my mouth anyway, and even though it still smacked of the inside wall of a freezer, I couldn’t remember anything ever tasting so good.

I went though the whole box before the night was over.

Around nine, Mother came up and nudged me awake. “Your friend Brian’s here, Brandy, checking up on you! Shall I shoo him away?”

“No! No…. Tell him I’ll be right down.”

I
was
feeling better. The headache had subsided, but I was left with an all-over sluggishness that prevented me from suggesting Brian and I catch the late show or something.