Antiques Flee Market (11 page)

I bundled myself in a plaid woolen robe and slipped into slippers, taking a brief side trip to the bathroom to brush my teeth and gargle. I even brushed my hair a little, but didn’t bother with makeup. That would have been a lost cause.

Anyway, Brian had seen me in my migraine state any number of times, and I was secretly glad to be able to show him I hadn’t been faking.

My sandy-haired fella stood from where he’d been sitting on the sofa as I came down the staircase. I came over and gave him a little kiss, and we sat.

“I was worried about you,” he said. He was in a sweatshirt and jeans, and I admit it was a relief not seeing him in his blue uniform.

“Mother said you were checking up on me.”

“She doesn’t like me much, does she?”

“I think she likes me unattached.”

“Because your marriage
bruised
you or…?”

“No. She doesn’t want to lose her driver.”

That made him smile. His puppy-dog brown eyes were troubled, though. “You okay?”

“It’s beaten back,” I said, referring to the migraine monster, a beast Brian knew all about. “Sorry about tonight.”

“No problem. Listen…I just wanted to say, I hope you and your mother will just stay out of this Yeager mess. I heard you were at the arraignment.”

“That was dropped. The judge set her free.”

“Right, on a technicality. She’s still our best suspect, and I don’t trust that boy friend of hers, either. That’s who stole that money you returned, right?”

“I plead the Fifth.”

“Brandy, I’m asking you not as a cop, but as your friend.”

“Oh, we’re friends now?”

“Please stay out of this. That Chaz and Ben, they’re a bad pair. But if you do talk to Chaz? Tell her not even to
think
about skipping town.”

I folded my arms and stared at him. He didn’t seem as cute to me suddenly. “Well, I can’t begin to tell you how nice it is that you dropped by to see how I was feeling. But if you don’t mind, I think my migraine just crawled back out of its cave.”

“Brandy, I just…”

“We’ll talk when I’m feeling better.”

I walked him to the door, and he made a little move to kiss me, but I gave him a frozen smile and kind of, well, pushed him out and shut the door on him.

He had his nerve.

But then so did I, not telling him about Joe Lange….

Sunday morning arrived, and even though I had slept for thirty-six hours, I still felt tired—if headache-free—when Mother traipsed in about nine o’clock in her house robe.

“And how are
we
today?” she asked.

I didn’t know how she was, but I felt okay, and told her so.

Mother said cheerily, “Good! Church is in an hour.” And she traipsed back out before I could protest.

Since she had gotten me those Popsicles, I guessed I could go along with her on this. So I sighed and headed for the shower.

A little backstory about how we landed at New Hope Church might be called for. Throughout much of my childhood, Mother and I would visit various churches in town, Mother looking for just the right heavenly fit for us earthly creatures. I do believe we tried them all: Presbyterian, Methodist, Episcopalian, Baptist, Lutheran, Catholic, Jehovah’s Witness, and Mormon. We even went to synagogue (and, after a potluck dinner, we were ready to convert to Judaism for the matzoh ball soup alone).

Then Mother heard about Pastor John Tutor, who—when informed by his church elders that he would have to uproot his wife and two kids for a pulpit in another state—told those same powers-that-be to stick it. (In more Christian terms, I’m sure—send thy wishes to a holy place, maybe?) Anyway, Pastor Tutor resigned from said church, and formed a new one, taking half his old congregation with him.

For almost a month now, regular services at our church—located in a reconverted old fire station—had been suspended, ever since an ancient boiler had broken down and been deemed unrepairable, and a whole new heating system had had to be installed. Pastor Tutor, rather than close down the church for the duration of this upgrade, concocted a rather interesting, if unconventional, way of keeping his flock from wandering away to some other shepherd.

Remember the “flash mob” fad of a few years back? When text messaging on cell phones was a new phenomenon? People would contact their friends to meet at a certain place, and at a certain time, and then create a sudden crowd on a street corner (or wherever), only to disappear and confound everyone else in the immediate area.

Cell phone owners have, thankfully, found better uses for text messaging these days, but the prank did inspire Pastor Tutor to try something similar…however, our “flash mob” performs a not-so-random act of kindness, aiming to accomplish a good work before we disappear…supposedly.

I say “supposedly” because the first time we tried this, it was an unmitigated disaster—thanks, of course, to Mother. She had heard through one of her various, overripened grapevines that a widowed member of the church (name withheld) wanted her living room remodeled, but couldn’t afford it.

Taking a cue from the BBC show
While You Were Out
, our congregation swooped in when Mrs. Name Withheld was away for a weekend, and repainted and recovered and rearranged the room. Well, when Mrs. N.W. returned and saw what we had done, she threatened to sue the church unless “every last stick” was put back just the way it was! (My theory is that she specifically didn’t care for the red-and-orange color scheme.) Anyway, since then, Pastor Tudor has always cleared whatever “good deed” we’re about to do beforehand with the owner or proprietor in question.

This morning the cell phone–savvy members of our church got this text message: Plz B at Suny Sde Up, 10, wk clths, pnt brshs, CUL8R, Pstr Tutr. Meanwhile, the e-mail-educated got: Please be at Sunny Side Up Nursing Home at 10 am. Wear work clothes and bring paint brushes. See you later. Pastor Tutor,:-) And finally, the computer illiterate (mostly older folks) received a personal phone call from the pastor with even more detailed information, plus an offer of a ride if need be.

A quick sidebar about Sunny Side Up.

The nursing home made the national news about ten years ago when a crackhead held the staff and elderly residents hostage at gunpoint, demanding money that none of them had. But what this home-grown terrorist didn’t realize was that Sunny Side Up had recently taken in transfers from a nearby veterans’ home, and I mean, these were ex-combat soldiers who’d been in the Battle of the Bulge, and fought at Bloody-Nose Ridge, and survived the beaches of Normandy! Well, those grizzled, old veterans dispatched that crackhead in short order, beginning with a crack on the head with a crutch, followed by a wallop in the groin with a walker, ending with a busted kneecap by a bedpan.

End of sidebar.

On this particular morning, we were giving the recreation room at the nursing home a fresh coat of paint (color
approved
by management), so after feeding Sushi and giving her some insulin, I wolfed down a plate of boysenberry pancakes. Then Mother and I donned our Jackson Pollock-splattered paint clothes, threw on our raccoon coats, and headed out to the Buick, each carrying a few old brushes whose bristles were stiff with dried paint.

The weather was sunny and surprisingly warm for December; most of the snow was melting, and it made for sloppy driving as we headed out Cedar Street to the nursing home, located just this side of the treacherous bypass (good call).

Sunny Side, housing about fifty residents, a modern, single-floor building with white siding, was designed in a U-shape, with a courtyard in the center. What with the usual Sunday visitors, plus the onslaught of New Hope Samaritans, the parking lot was full. I dropped Mother off at the entrance, then parked on an adjacent street and tromped back in the slush.

When I arrived in the lobby of the nursing home, some commotion was already going on in the recreation room, and we hadn’t even started painting yet. It seemed—according to one henna-haired lady supported by a walker—that many of the residents were none too happy about being thrown out of their common room, depriving them of their normal Sunday morning activities.

But Pastor Tutor handled the crisis with his usual aplomb, assuring the unhappy ones we would be finished in an hour, at which time they could return to the big-screen TV, and checkers, and whatever else they did in there to occupy their time.

Then Pastor Tutor gathered his flock around—thirty or forty of us sheep—and led us in the Lord’s Prayer, which was followed by a minute of silent prayer. (My personal plea to the Almighty? That we
would
finish painting in an hour…. )

What happened next is a sad commentary on the overrated intelligence of the human race, throwing into question how we got to the top of the food chain in the first place. Complete and utter chaos ensued as everyone tried to organize how to proceed with the painting.

Except me—I stood to one side, waiting for the dust to settle, and that was when I noticed that someone else was absent, someone who was usually in the thick of the fray:
Mother
.

I set my paintbrush down and began the hunt.

For the next ten minutes, I wandered the antiseptic-smelling hallways, peering into the open rooms—where sometimes the hospital beds were occupied, and other times not—and listening at the doors that were shut.

Finally, I heard Mother’s voice coming from behind a closed door that bore, in a little tag holder, the name
GRACE CRAWFORD
.

I pushed the door slowly inward and saw Mother standing next to the slightly raised bed, in which the elderly, frail-looking Grace was propped, her shoulder-length white hair splayed on the pillow.

Mother was saying, “My favorite Bible verse is, ‘There but for the grace of God go I.’”

Which was weird in a number of ways, starting with the other woman’s name being Grace.

Obviously, Mother would rather pontificate than paint.

Grace responded in a feeble voice, “
Mine
is, ‘Do unto others as they do unto you.’”

“Don’t you mean, ‘As
you would have them
do unto you’?” Mother corrected. Then she spotted me in the doorway. “Ah, Brandy, come meet a dear old friend of mine….”

Now, Mother had at least five hundred “dear old friends,” as her Christmas card list attested to, so I was bound to run into a few I hadn’t met.

I joined Mother beside the bed. Grace’s frail body seemed skeletal beneath the covers, but her blue eyes were surprisingly bright.

Grace said, “So this is your lovely daughter….” She held out a bony hand, which I clasped.

“Hello, Grace,” I said.

The woman looked at Mother with a yearning expression. “You were so lucky to have another child so late in life.”

Wasn’t she
, I thought with a bitterness at odds with doing good works.
A miracle, even
.

Mother turned to me. “Grace’s daughter and I were in high school together—she was a year ahead of me.”

As I mentioned before, who wasn’t?

“Oh, that’s nice,” I said. “Where’s your daughter now, Grace?”

Sadness dimmed the blue eyes. “Gone, I’m afraid. Dead these many years.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said quickly, then made things worse by following with, “Do you have any other children?”

The woman sighed. “No. Ella Jane was my only child.”

I gave Mother a “thanks for getting me into this” look, but to her credit, she said, “Well, we must be get back to our painting.”

As if Mother had ever begun!

To me, Grace said gracefully, “It was nice to meet you, Brandy.”

I muttered the same; then Mother and I left, closing the door behind us.

As we walked down the hallway, toward the recreation room, I said to Mother, “Why do I think that the reason our church came here today was so that
you
could see that particular old lady?”

Mother scoffed, “Why, that’s absurd, dear…. You have a devious mind.”

“Runs in the family. What was that about, anyway?”

“It was about doing the Christian thing and visiting an old friend, when I noticed her name on the roster of residents here. My visit with Grace was
strictly
unintentional.”

I smirked. “You never do anything unintentional, except maybe get me in hot water.”

Mother merely smiled.

I asked, “So what happened to her daughter?”

Mother shook her head and did her tsk-tsk number. “A month after the girl went off to college, she hung herself—or is it hanged? I’m never certain of the usage.”

I had stopped short in the hall. “
What
? Why?”

Mother also halted, and faced me. “The rumor back then was that poor Ella Jane discovered she was pregnant. And in those days…well, my dear…there weren’t as many options open for an unmarried woman.”

Mother walked on, but I stayed put, thinking about the better option Peggy Sue had taken, when something bumped rudely into the back of my legs.

I turned to see the henna-haired lady with the walker, and she had a mean look on her face. She looked like an ancient version of Lucille Ball who’d just heard her show was canceled.

“Can I help you?” I asked politely, ignoring the fact that she had run into me.

“Yes!” she snapped. “You can help me by painting the frickin’ room. I’m missing the gosh-darn Game Channel!”

Only she didn’t say “frickin’” or “gosh-darn,” either.

I
could
have tipped her over with one finger, but remembering the Golden Rule, hurried to catch up with Mother.

A Trash ‘n’ Treasures Tip

Bringing along a few useful tools to a flea market can save you a lot of time and heartache. These include a notebook, tape measure, magnifying glass, tote bag for small items, plus packing material and sacks for breakables.

Mother once put a delicate figurine in her coat pocket, thinking it to be safe, then got in the car, and sat on it. (Go ahead and smile—I did.)

W
hen I awoke the next morning—roused by a wet-nosed Sushi—there was a Post-it from Mother stuck to the coffeepot (the first place I go), telling me that she would be gone for most of the day “on business.” Which of course meant sticking her nose into other people’s business.

That gave me an excuse to enjoy a lazy day of peace and quiet, and provided time to catch up on some important reading I’d been putting off—namely, my fashion magazines.

After feeding Sushi, then giving her a shot, followed by a dog biscuit (the promise of which made her actually
want
to get stuck), I made myself some burnt (on purpose) cinnamon toast, which I nibbled between gulps of strong hot coffee. Then I went back upstairs to bed, not to sleep—I’d had my morning coffee, remember?—but to work on perfecting laziness as an art form.

Sushi soon joined me, jumping up on the rumpled covers, wanting to play, so I set aside the latest issue of
In Style
, slipped my hand under the blanket, and pretended my arm was a stalking snake. Soosh was pretty good at sensing where my fingers-shaped-like-a-python’s-mouth would strike next, and more than once I went “Ouch!” when her sharp little teeth pierced through the cover.

The downstairs phone interrupted our fun, and I went out into the hallway and stood at the top of the stairwell to listen to the message that was already coming in on the answer machine below. (If it was for Mother, I never picked up; why subject myself to her later endless interrogation over what “exactly” the caller had said? Let the tape tell her.)

But when I heard the quavering voice of Mrs. Lange, I rushed to pick up the extension by the upstairs bathroom. Instant guilt poked through the layers of Prozac and indolence—I had never followed up on Joe having been spotted at the trailer park the night of the murder.

“This is Brandy,” I said.

A sigh of relief flooded the line. “Oh, thank goodness I
reached
you—”

“What is it, Mrs. Lange?”

The words tumbled out: “I’m so worried about Joe—he hasn’t been home for over a week!”

That was alarming, all right, but to counteract her distress, I said calmly, “Is that really so unusual?”

“Oh, yes, and he’s
completely
off his medication. But even so, he always comes back home.”

“To see how you’re doing,” I said.

“For food and water!” The woman rushed on, “You see, I normally set out his favorite food on the kitchen counter every few days, wrapped sandwiches or maybe Lunchables and bottled water and a thermos of hot coffee, and then in the morning, they’d be gone.” Her voice cracked in a sob. “But last week’s food is
still there
!”

This was yet another deviation from Joe’s pattern, which could spell trouble. So could a week, even with a wrapped sandwich.

I said, “He’s probably camped out in Wild Cat Den.” If he’d gone full-throttle survivalist, he’d be having squirrel-kabobs and the like. No need for her, or me, to panic. Right?

Right?

“Wild Cat Den’s where he usually goes,” she was agreeing, “but he’s never gone off his medication in the winter before.” A little sob escaped. “And it’s
freezing
out now!”

I said gently, “I’m sure he’s fine. He’s trained himself to withstand all kinds of conditions…. Have you tried contacting the park ranger?”

“Yes, but I didn’t get an answer, so I just left a message.”

It was time to please Mother and displease Brian and do some Nancy Drewing. “Would you like me to go out there and see if I can find Joe?”

“Oh,
would
you?” she asked. “That would be wonderful.” She paused, adding tentatively, “Otherwise, Brandy, I don’t have any choice—I’ll have to contact the sheriff, and that will mean filing
commitment
papers again, and—”

“Let me try to bring your son home first.”

“Thank you, Brandy. You’ve always been a good friend to Joe. How I wish you two kids could have settled down together.”

“Let me get back to you,” I said, really wishing she hadn’t shared that last thought with me.

In my bedroom, buried in the back of the closet, was a ski outfit that I’d only worn once, probably because it was a neon lime green. I’d purchased it since it seemed only fair warning, letting others see an out-of-control Brandy-on-skies coming at them. I climbed into the insulated pants and jacket, then sat on the edge of the bed to lace up my waterproof hiking boots.

That’s when Sushi went ballistic, dancing and yapping in front of me like a puppet operated by a puppeteer having a seizure. You see, I only put on those boots when I take her out to Wild Cat Den. What tells the blind pooch I’m putting on those particular shoes—the smell of the rubber? The sound of the laces?

“No, girl, you can’t go,” I said, adding ridiculously, “This is business.” Surely she would understand.

Well, for sure she understood the word “no,” and in a flash of brown and white fur, the dog disappeared into my closet, and in moments was backing out, dragging the Stuart Weitzman black loafer by her sharp little teeth, and—with a great deal of effort, which I could only grudgingly admire—placed the shoe right front of me, then flopped on top of it, her jaws opened, ready to munch.

I stood, hands on hips, and looked down, and growled at her.

She growled back.

“Soosh, that’s
blackmail!
”

With a further little growl, she dug her fangs into the expensive soft leather.

“All right!” I hollered. She did not make empty threats. “All right! I’ll take you.”

Sushi released the loafer.

I waggled a finger as if she could see it. “But it won’t be as much fun as in the summertime,” I warned her. “And you’ll have to wear that
coat
you hate, to keep warm.”

I left Soosh to think that over.

In the kitchen I packed some leftover meat loaf, stale potato chips, and rebottled faucet water in a small backpack, in case I found a malnourished Joe. We didn’t keep Lunchables around.

Sushi was waiting by the coat closet, apparently agreeable to my terms, and I got out the small red doggie jacket that had five legs because I had knitted it while watching a cable showing of the original
Night of the Living Dead
, and perhaps wasn’t paying attention to what I was doing.

But Sushi couldn’t see my five-legged mistake, or else interpreted the extra opening as if intended for her tail, and I received nary a yip nor a yap as I stuffed her into the coat. Then, not wanting Soosh to get too overheated, I quickly wrote Mother a note telling her where we were going (didn’t want Mother getting overheated, either), and left it on the downstairs toilet seat lid, the first place
she’d
go when home from her day of snooping.

Soon Sushi and I were tooling along the River Road, me enjoying the snowy, woodsy landscape, and Soosh enjoying the warmth of the sun bathing her through the windshield. I had one of those “Cocktail Christmas” CDs going in the dash player, with the likes of Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin and Lena Horne doing seasonal standards in a swinging way. They served to help lighten my mood, since I was both a little afraid and somewhat guilty about Joe’s potential status in the wilds of Wild Cat Den.

After about fifteen miles, a well-worn sign pointing to the state park appeared, and I turned onto a blacktop road. A few more miles later, I glided by the old Pine Creek Grist Mill, situated on the banks of a now-frozen stream, the mill’s giant wooden wheel motionless for the season.

Then a small log cabin home came into view. This was where Park Ranger Edwina Forester lived. That’s right—Forester. Deal with it.

No? Then let’s discuss for a few moments the correlation of a person’s name and his or her personality and/or destiny. I knew this guy in high school whose last name was Rushing, and honestly, he was always in a big hurry to go nowhere in particular. Then there was this girl at community college I was friends with for a while, but had to drop, because she drove me bananas taking so long to make up her mind about even the simplest of things. Her last name? Mull. So, is it just a coincidence that Edwina Forester became a park ranger? I think not. If you don’t believe me, check with that old dickens Charles.

“Eddie” to her friends (Miss Forester or Miss Park Ranger to me) was fortyish and wirily muscular, a former Marine and one-time truck driver, who was tough but fair with the park-going public, unless she caught someone with alcohol, at which time she went all Marine Corps on their behind. (I still regretted bringing that the bottle of champagne along on that one picnic.)

Since I didn’t see the ranger’s Range Rover (beginning to see a pattern here?), I thought I’d leave the woman a note on her door, explaining that I was poking around the park (usually fairly unpopulated this time of year) looking for Joe. Hastily, I scribbled my message on a Dunkin’ Donuts napkin with an eyeliner pencil, because I didn’t have a real writing implement.

Sushi—who had jumped out of the car as soon as I’d opened my door and followed me up the stone-lined walk—also left the park ranger a little something on her front stoop: a tiny brown turdlet, which I kicked snow over because I didn’t have another napkin to pick it up with.

Back in the car, I asked, “Did you
have
to do that?”

Sushi, seated in profile next to me on the passenger side, had her lower jaw set in a pout.

“Just because she wasn’t there to give you a bone,” I gently scolded, “doesn’t mean you have to try to get even.”

The jaw jutted out further giving her a comical, snaggletoothed look, and I had to laugh. She shot me a white-eyed look that let me know in no uncertain terms that her not getting a bone was no laughing matter.

Soon we were driving through the park’s main entrance, its steel gate halfheartedly open, inviting in only the brave and the idiotic on this icy, cold day. At a fork in the road, I slowed the car, contemplating my options: The road to the right led to the top of the park, while the one to the left went to the lower level. Since Joe, I felt sure, would most likely be holed up in one of the limestone caves located in between the two levels, and accessible only on foot, my options were to slip-slide down to him, or climb-claw up. I decided the latter would be easier on both Soosh and me.

The lower level of the park was deserted, the crusted snow showing only a few tire tracks from recent hardy (or foolhardy) visitors. I eased my Buick up to one of the wooden railroad ties that designated a parking spot.

Then, with my knapsack of food slung over one shoulder, and Sushi tucked inside my zipped-up ski jacket (her head protruding like a baby alien that had burst from my chest), I stood for a moment at the base of the high bluff, contemplating my route of ascent.

There were three paths from which to choose: “difficult,” a steep, rocky climb upward; “not as difficult,” a combination of steep and gradual; and “just give up, already,” a meandering trail akin to a wheelchair ramp.

Choosing the mid-level trek, I started up the snowy trail, but it wasn’t long before I was huffing and puffing, my breath coming like train-stack smoke. Upon reaching “Fat Man’s Squeeze,” a narrow fissure in the bluff wall that allowed an upward shortcut for the slender (that I hadn’t been able to use since the seventh grade), I flopped on a wooden bench to give my burning thigh muscles a rest.

After a few minutes, Sushi yapped that she was hot and wanted out of my jacket, and I had to agree, the sun now high in the sky, its rays slanting down like well-aimed arrows through the bare trees, hitting us with a warmth that was surprising considering how my breath still showed.

I put Soosh down on the path, which had only a dusting of snow, and she was immediately familiar with where she was, trotting on ahead on the trail we had so often taken during warmer months. I stood, then quickly caught up to her.

Since we were nearing the flattened-out portion of the bluff where the caves were located—and where I hoped to find Joe—I thought it prudent to announce my presence, because there’s nothing quite so heartwarming as surprising a jumpy ex-serviceman—and an unstable one at that.

To let him know I was a “friendly,” I began to sing a snappy version of “The Caisson Song”:

Over hill, over dale
as we hit the snowy trail
, (I took a liberty with ‘dusty trail’)
those caissons go rolling along!
(What’s a caisson, anyway?)
Then it’s hi! hi! hee!
in the field artillery
(Who knew war could be so much fun?)
shout out your numbers loud and clear!
For where ’ere we go
you will always know that those caissons go rolling along!

I realized that Joe had been in the National Guard, but since I didn’t know their official song—or even if there was one (I was in no position to Google it)—I segued into “The Marine Hymn,” which I basically knew from old Bugs Bunny cartoons:

From the halls of Montezuma
to the shores of Tripoli,
We will fight our nation’s battles
in the air, on land, and sea
.

Here, I lost my way with the words (“Da da da da da da
dah
da da!”) and finally trailed off, which was just as well because 1) we had reached the string of caves, and 2) Sushi had begun to sing along in a high-pitched howl that hurt my eardrums.

To get her to stop, I said, “Find Joe, girl! Find
Joe
, and we can have our lunch!”

Well, blind eyes were no obstacle for a twenty-twenty canine stomach, and she took off like a heat-seeking missile, sniffing at the mouth of this cave and that one, finally halting at an opening in the limestone cliff that I had never noticed before because it was partially hidden behind some large rocks that had fallen from the bluff above.

I joined Soosh and whispered, “Is he in there, girl?”

She yapped once. If I could play Nancy Drew, Soosh could damn well play Lassie.

Setting my food bag aside, I went over and dropped down on my knees in front of the hole, which was just large enough for a person to crawl through.