Antiques Flee Market (2 page)

What if I’d still been inside the thing?

As I stepped into the safety of the building, shivering with more than the chill, it finally dawned on me that the
coat
was what the dogs had been after—drawn by the smell of the hamburger grease.

And the scoreboard reads: Mother, one; Brandy, zero.

The flea market preshow was in full swing, and I was a little surprised by the good quality of the merchandise—these were some high-class fleas! (I’d been to some where I really had gone home with fleas.) There were at least one hundred dealers hawking their wares—furniture, china, pottery, vintage clothes, jewelry, books, toys, and assorted collectibles. The sight was dizzying, the sounds deafening, as a sea of winter-clad shoppers scurried about, trying to beat the other guy out of an early bargain.

I took a moment to gather my thoughts. Before we’d left home, Mother and I had devised a game plan and divvied up the money. Since she was the expert on glassware—that is to say, more expert than me (which isn’t saying much)—Mother was to look for such items. I, on the other hand, had more knowledge about collectibles (which also isn’t saying much) and was to cover that ground.

And because our booth already had enough furniture to sell, we agreed to ignore anything along those lines, particularly if bulky—unless the item was a steal, of course.

Antiques dealers—like all store retailers—depend on good pre-Christmas sales in order to make money. It can mean the difference between dealers keeping their heads above water for the entire year, or going under. But trying to figure out what tickles the public’s fancy around Christmastime is difficult; buy the wrong thing, and not only has a dealer laid out good money, he’s stuck with the item.

But before jumping into the frenzy and fray, I first had to find a new coat…because, in spite of the number of people in the building, it was freezing inside! I doubted there was any heat going at all.

I zeroed in on a table of women’s fur coats that shared space with a collection of Annalee Christmas dolls, and seeing so many of the Elves and Mice and Santas grouped together with their demented expressions was decidedly unsettling.

I pointed to the fur coats that were piled on top of each other like a bunch of sleeping critters, and asked the middle-aged lady attending the zoo, “How much?”

She studied me through her outdated, oversized round glasses, the bottom halves of which were tinted a pale pink so she didn’t have to wear blush (who came up with
that
dumb idea?).

“Twenty-five dollars each,” she said.

I showed disappointment in my face.

She held her ground.

I stood mine.

Then she must have taken pity on me—anyway, on my dripping wet hair and shivering body—because the woman said, “I…I do have one other fur that I didn’t put out because I’m sure it wouldn’t sell….”

“How much?”

“Oh, you can have it.”

I brightened. “I’ll take it! Whatever it is….”

The lady bent and rummaged under the table and then dragged out the freebie: a ratty raccoon coat, bald-patched, moth-eaten, and nearly identical to Mother’s.

I reached for my karma gratefully and thanked her.

It wasn’t until two hours later that I finally crossed paths with Mother. She was standing by a table of old toys and memorabilia, multiple bags of her flea market finds dangling from each arm while she chatted with a pudgy middle-aged man wearing a plaid coat.

As I approached, it became clear, however, that their exchange was more confrontational than conversational.

Mother was saying, “That book of Mr. Yeager’s is worth
far
more than one hundred dollars! That’s a famous title and it’s a first edition. Clearly, he didn’t know what he had, and you are simply out to take advantage of him.”

Mr. Yeager, I deduced, was the elderly frail-looking gentleman in a black parka, seated behind the table, and looking increasingly uncomfortable at the unfolding drama. On stage and off, Mother was famous for creating memorable scenes.

Pudgy tightened his grip on the item in dispute—a hardcover book that said
Tarzan of the Apes
on its dust jacket, and featured its branch-swinging hero in silhouette.

“It’s marked one hundred dollars,” he snapped at Mother, “and that’s what I’m going to pay for it!” Then he looked pointedly at Mr. Yeager, saying, “There
are
certain rules that dealers have to abide, you know.”

I butted in. “Just a moment…has Mr. Yeager accepted any money yet?”

Mother turned to see me, gave my raccoon coat a double take, but wasn’t thrown enough to stop her performance. (Once, when Mother was doing
The Vagina Monologues
, some unfortunate woman in the front row was so rude as to have a heart attack and keel over, and the paramedics came, performed CPR, then carried the revived lady out of the theater on a stretcher, while Mother never missed a line.)

“My daughter has a point,” Mother snapped back at Pudgy. “The transaction has not yet been completed, and therefore can be taken off the table, so to speak,
if
the dealer wishes it.”

All eyes turned to the elderly Mr. Yeager, who said in a frail voice, “I…I…
do
want to withdraw the book.”

“Well!” huffed Pudgy, his fat fingers still clutching the object of his desire. “This is quite unheard of, and I feel compelled to report your conduct, sir, to the organizers of this flea market.”

Now might be a good time to mention that Mr. Yeager had a helper seated beside him behind the table. She was about twenty, wearing all black, which extended from her jeans and leather jacket to her short, spiky hair. Her elfin features were not unattractive, though certainly not helped by multiple piercing (ears, eyebrows, nose) and a tattoo of barbed wire that encircled her neck.

At the threat of discrediting the old man, Goth Girl bolted out of her folding chair and flew around the table to face Pudgy.

“Oy!” she shouted in a thick Brit accent, her dark tinted lips peeled back revealing the metal grillwork on her front teeth. “You ’eard me grandad! ’E don’t wanna sell it!”

And she snatched the book out of Pudgy’s hands.

Pudgy’s mouth dropped open, closed, then opened again. “I…I’m going to report you
both
!”

Goth Girl, who was a good foot shorter than the portly man, shouted up into his red face, “That’s a load of bullocks, you dodgy ol’ punter! Now
piss
off!”

Pudgy backed away, turned, and fled, pushing his way through a number of folks who had gathered in the aisle drawn by the impromptu skit.

Impressed by Goth Girl’s moxie, I stuck out my hand. “Hi. My name’s Brandy.”

She extended one black nailed hand. “Chaz.”

Mother beamed royally at the young woman, and said, “And I’m Vivian, my dear, Brandy’s mother. You handle yourself
quite
well…. Have you ever heeded the siren song of the footlights?”

Chaz screwed up her face. “Put me foot
where?
”

“Theater,” Mother explained, pronouncing it
thee
-ah-tah. “I’m the current director of the Playhouse and wish to know if you’ve ever acted.”

“Oh, yeah, sure,” Chaz nodded. “This one time, I did the Artful Dodger at Holloway’s, innit?”

Mother frowned curiously. “Holloway’s? I’m not familiar with that theater…. Is it in the West End?”

“Naw,” Chaz said, “Islington.” She made a face like she’d sucked on a lemon. “Place is a pile of piss, man…full of rats and cockroaches.”

Mother gave a short laugh. “Well, many of the older buildings are like that…but still, they do have their charm.”

Chaz made the face again. “Eh? Wha’ you on about?”

I intervened. “I believe Holloway is a women’s prison, Mother—isn’t that right, Chaz?” It pays to watch BBC America.

Chaz smiled, showing the metal grillwork. “That’s right, Bran…. Mind if I call you that, luv?”

Chaz didn’t wait for my reply before going on. “Anyway, when I got outta that dump, I come straight to the States to find me granddad, yeah?” She beamed back at Mr. Yeager, who had remained seated behind the table.

Mr. Yeager nodded, smiling shyly. “That was three months ago,” the old gent said softly, “and Chaz has been living with me ever since.”

The gawkers had moved on, now that the conflict had ended, except for a man Mother’s age named Ivan Wright, who had once been mayor of Serenity, and was among the many old boys in town who Mother was convinced had the hots for her—or anyway, the warms.

Ivan interjected himself into the conversation. “Wasn’t that quite a shock, Walter?” the ex-mayor asked Mr. Yeager, his friendly tone taking the edge off his words. “I mean, having this young lady show up on your doorstep claiming to be your granddaughter? How did that happen, exactly?”

Chaz, annoyed by the intrusion—and perhaps the negative content of what Ivan said—snapped, “Well, ’e shagged me grandmum
exac’ly
, didn’t ’e? That’s ’ow it ’appened, innit?”

I stifled a smile. Mother didn’t, letting a grin blossom; she had something like admiration in her big eyes.

“Very succinctly put, my dear,” Mother told our newfound friend.

Walter Yeager said proudly, “My granddaughter may be blunt, Ivan, but she’s also correct. I met Elsie, her grandmother, when I was stationed in England during the Second World War. After I came back home, she wrote me that we had a son…but since I’d married, and Elsie had also found someone, we decided to keep our love child a secret.” He paused, then added, “She and I stayed in touch for a while, through the mail…but, well, as they say, time marches on….”

Chaz had gone back around the table to stand next to her grandfather; she put one black-nailed hand on his slight shoulder. “I located Granddad from some old letters in a trunk, yeah?”

Yeager looked up adoringly at the girl. “Now that my wife has passed on,” he said, “I’m thankful Chaz and I—a couple of lost souls—have found each other.” He gave her arm a squeeze. “And I’m relieved that the secret I’ve carried with me for so many years is finally out.”

Ivan smirked, just a bit. “Well, in your case it worked out, but sometimes secrets are best kept secrets…especially when nothing good can come of it.”

The remark reminded me of something that had been troubling me for weeks on end, thanks to an anonymous letter that had questioned my own parentage. I sneaked a glance at Mother.
Was she keeping a secret from me?
But her face looked placid, even serene.

Walter shook his head. “I used to think that way, Ivan…but not anymore…not since this little bundle from Britain appeared on my doorstep. Now I want to make it up to her, give her things I couldn’t before…and that takes money. That’s why I’m selling all my old collectibles—memories, if you will.”

Ivan’s smirk morphed into a smile. “Well, hell, I’ll buy this Hopalong Cassidy coffee mug, Walter…if that will help. A friend of mine has a son who grew up on Hoppy who’ll get a kick out of this.”

Yeager smiled. “It’s a start….”

The ex-mayor brought out his wallet, but the transaction was interrupted by a commotion nearby, punctuated by shouts of
“Thief!”
and
“Stop him!”

Sprinting toward me came a young man in torn jeans, a navy sweatshirt, and with a stocking cap pulled down low to right above wild wide eyes. While everyone else jumped out of the young man’s way, I positioned myself so I could, at just the right moment, stick out my foot and trip him.

But the second I lifted my leg, Chaz whispered out sharply, “Bran!” and I hesitated just long enough to miss my chance.

The thief whisked by, shoving patrons out of his way, some clearing the path on their own volition—and no other would-be heroes (or heroines, either) risked tripping the kid or tackling him or otherwise keeping him from bolting out the front door. Which he did.

I frowned at Chaz, more in confusion than irritation.

She shrugged. “Sorry, Bran…thought ’e might ’urt you, mate.”

Or that I might hurt
him?

In short order, the floor manager had called the police, and in less than ten minutes, a uniformed officer arrived. I wasn’t surprised that the representative of Serenity’s finest who answered the call was none other than my boyfriend, Brian Lawson, who worked the Serenity PD night shift.

As soon as Brian stepped inside, he spotted me and Mother, and shook his head as he approached us down the aisle.

“I might have known,” he said with a tiny, wry smile forming on that handsome mug. “If the Borne girls aren’t in the middle of trouble, they’re bound to be somewhere on the fringes….”

Among those who stood shivering in the blast of cold air that had come in with Officer Lawson were Chaz and the dealer who had been robbed—a gray-bearded, potbellied guy in a plaid shirt and jeans who ran a local antiques shop. Mr. Yeager remained back at his table, and Ivan had moved along.

Brian asked our group, “Who’s making the complaint?”

“Complaint, my foot!” the dealer fumed. “I want to make a charge! And I want you to actually
do
something about it!”

Complaint, his foot? Funny he should say that, because I’d never seen this guy on his feet before. Whenever you entered his shop, he was sitting in a rocker, reading a newspaper and letting his wife handle the customers. I figured he was more irritated about having to exert himself than getting robbed.

“All right, settle down,” Brian said, not unkindly, patting the air with a hand, “I’m here to help.” He withdrew a small tape recorder from his jacket pocket. “Let’s start with your name, and then tell me what happened.”

The dealer took a deep breath. “I’m Claude Anderson and I have one of the dealers’ tables over there…” He pointed. “…and I’d just turned my back for a second when that punk stole my money!”

Brian asked, “He came around behind the table?”

“Yes! I had the money in a plastic zipper bag—you know, like the bank gives you….”

“And where was the bag?”

“On the seat of my folding chair. I’d gotten up to make change for a customer…”

Wow, the guy was going all out all tonight.