Antiques Flee Market (5 page)

She swallowed hard and nodded.

Mia pressed on. “Who found the body?”

Mother, rocking in the recliner that squeaked, raised her hand like a student in the back of class and piped up, “That would be
me
, dear.”

Mia turned hooded eyes toward Mother. “As briefly as possible, Mrs. Borne….”

Mother, rocking, squeaking, looked shocked. “Why, Mia…I’m
always
succinct. I
never
waste words. Brandy, don’t I always say, why use two words where one will do? Why give a big speech when a concise statement will suffice? Why—”

“That will do
and
it will suffice,” Mia snapped, adding, “and would you
stop
that rocking!”

(I was staying out of this, knowing that anyone who tried to limit Mother’s verbalizing would be off
their
rocker soon enough.)

Nonetheless, Mother stopped rocking and gave Mia the same kind of appraising look she gave to an antique she was considering for purchase. “Too much caffeine in the morning, my dear? And I see that you’re still grinding your teeth.” She shook her head, her expression the soul of concern. “Why, when you were a little girl living across the street from us, I though you might gnash those little choppers down to
stumps
….”

Now I felt I had to come to the aid of my outmatched childhood friend.

“Mother,” I said, “Mia is just trying to get the facts straight. You know—like Joe Friday?”

Mother looked at me as if I had spaghetti sauce smeared on my face. “Don’t you think I
know
that, dear? And your interrupting is not helping the process. Now where was I? Ah, yes. Brandy and I came to give Walter—Mr.
Yeager
—some information about a valuable book in his possession, and when we arrived, Chaz was walking toward us from up the road.”

Chaz interjected, “I was at me mate’s last night. Ben Adams, yeah? ’E ’as a caravan up the road.”

Mia frowned over her notebook. “A what?”

“Caravan, miss. A…what you call it, a
trailer
, yeah?” Then the tears began to flow again. “If I ’adn’t been over there with Ben, I woulda been ’
ere
for me gran’dad….”

Mother picked the story back up. “While the girls were talking outside the trailer, I went on in—the door being open—and discovered Walter on the floor in the kitchen. I tried to administer CPR but, well, I’m afraid I quickly came to the inevitable conclusion the poor man had been dead for some time.”

One of the paramedics entered the living room, and Chaz jumped to her feet. “Me gran’dad?” she asked anxiously.

The paramedic, a young man with a face made old by his job, said, “I’m sorry. There wasn’t anything we could do.”

Chaz sank back down on the couch and covered her face with her hands.

The paramedic went on: “Based on the medication we found on the kitchen counter, death may have been due to a heart attack…but without an autopsy—”

Chaz cried, “No! I won’t have me gran’dad cut on!”

Officer Munson had joined us from the kitchen, and he said sympathetically to Chaz, “I understand how you must feel, miss, but the coroner will decide whether or not there will be an autopsy.”

Mia looked at Munson. “Has he been called?”

Munson nodded.

I distracted Chaz by putting an arm around her shoulders and asking, “Would you like to stay with us tonight? You really shouldn’t be alone.”

Chaz shook her head somberly. “Thanks. But I’ll go back round to Ben’s, yeah?”

Mia, slipping her small tape recorder into a jacket pocket, said, “I’m done with the preliminary interviews, but there may be follow-up…. Our condolences, Miss Doxley, on the loss of your grandfather.”

Mother rose from the rocker, which made one last squeak. “I assume that at some point someone will be wanting to take our
fingerprints
,” she stated, eyes flaring behind the magnifying glasses.

Everyone stared at her, stupefied. Then Officer Munson asked condescendingly, “And why would we do
that
, Mrs. Borne?”

Mother raised her eyebrows. “Why, to eliminate us as suspects, of course!”

Mia almost smiled. “Suspects in
what?
”

“The murder of Walter Yeager, of course! Aren’t you people
police?
”

A Trash ‘n’ Treasures Tip

Flea market vendors can be eccentric and difficult, so tread lightly when handling their merchandise, and don’t insult them by lowballing their already low prices. If you must bargain, be sly, saying, “What a wonderful item! You have a great eye, sir (ma’am). It’s a fair price, just a little out of my price range.” That will work—once in a hundred tries.

I
hardly said three words to Mother on our drive home from Mr. Yeager’s. Finding the old gent dead was bad enough, but Mother had outdone herself, upsetting Chaz so much by saying the girl’s grandfather was murdered that Officer Munson had yelled at Mother (and me, guilty by association), demanding we leave forthwith, which is police code for get the hell out of here before you cause any more trouble.

Officer Munson had escorted us out to my car—not out of politeness, rather to make sure we left—and I took the opportunity to give the officer the bank bag, instructing him to pass it along to Brian, who would know what to do with it.

Officer Munson had likely been tempted to ask what it was all about, but seemed to know better. His mission was to get rid of us, and he had.

Actually, come to think of it, I did say three words to Mother on the way home: “You’re a troublemaker.” To which I got no response, neither dismissive nor indignant. Which was bad—that meant Mother was serious in her belief that Mr. Yeager had been murdered, and the last thing we needed right now was for Vivian to go air-Borne on another amateur sleuthing binge.

At the house, Sushi had piddled in the living room, on the wood floor, fortunately, and not the Persian rug. But the puddle was close enough to the edge of the carpet to send the message that she
could
have peed on the rug
should
she have
wanted
to, and maybe next time she
would
if we ever left her so long again. Remarkable aim for a blind pooch….

I put Soosh out the back door anyway, but she just stood on the frozen stoop with her pug nose in the air and her spooky white eyes turned my way, as if to say, “You’re kidding, right?” She made no move to go down the steps, so I brought her back inside.

Then I trooped upstairs to my bedroom, where I found the little devil had dragged a single shoe out of the closet—a Donald Pliner black suede loafer that I’d waited and waited to get further reduced in the sale room of Ingram’s, until finally on one hot July day I hunted down the manager of the shoe department and complained, “Come
on
! These Pliners have been out since last winter! Who
else
is gonna buy suede loafers in the middle of summer?” And he’d discounted them to seventy-five percent off, out of a sense of fairness.

Or maybe just to get rid of me.

Anyway, the left shoe in the middle of the bedroom was another message from Sushi meant to inform me that she
might’ve
turned it into a chew toy with her sharp little teeth and left me with only the right, right? Sushi sure was getting cranky these days…but then, being diabetic and blind got a dog cut a lot of slack around the Borne estate.

Returning the shoe to its mate in the closet reminded me that the big sales once held in January were now in December, and Tina—my BFF—and I were due for some serious Christmas shopping. I speed-dialed her on my cell at the Tourism Office downtown, where she worked part-time convincing outsiders to visit our fair city, and we set a date for the next day.

As I left my bedroom, I heard Mother weeping behind her closed bedroom door.

I knocked gently. “Mother…are you all right?”

When she didn’t respond, I asked, “May I come in?”

There was a muffled sniffle, then a loud, clown-car
honk
as she blew her nose, before she answered, “Yes, dear.”

I turned the knob and pushed the door open. Although it was only three in the afternoon, Mother was already in her pink nightgown and under the covers, her head propped up with several pillows. She had a tissue in one hand and was dabbing at her eyes.

I recalled my earlier, caustic remark and said, “I’m sorry I called you a troublemaker.”

Mother sniffled, “That’s not why I’m crying, dear. I
know
I’m not a troublemaker.”

That made her a majority of one.

I sat on the edge of the bed. “Then what’s the matter?”

She heaved a sigh. “I was thinking of Walter.”

So that was it.

“Sometimes a shock doesn’t hit us until later,” I said philosophically, “after a crisis has passed. So it’s okay to feel the way you do.”

“
That’s
not it, dear,” Mother replied. “My goodness! Death is an absolute. No one escapes the Grim Reaper. And sadly, some of us, like poor Walter, are fated to depart this world under less than happy circumstances.”

“Less than happy circumstances” was an interesting way to describe being murdered, if indeed Mr. Yeager
had
been murdered…which I didn’t believe was the case.

Mother and I had been involved, or rather she had gotten us involved, in two murder mysteries already this year, and another would strain not just credulity but my sanity. (Mother’s sanity didn’t enter into it, since Mother and sanity rarely came up in the same sentence.)

“No,” Mother was saying, “that’s not why I’m crying.” She paused dramatically, as if waiting for me to say my line.

Trouble was, I was still poised patiently in the wings, only a bit player in Mother’s production.

So Mother pressed on: “I was merely thinking of my senior high school prom and how
I
was Walter’s
first
that night.”

I nodded. “His first prom date, you mean.”

Mother shook her head. “No, dear…his first sexual conquest, although I admit to being rather more cooperative than most vanquished nations.”

I blinked at her a half-dozen times. “You mean, Walter was
your
first?”

Mother’s eyes widened, huge even without her glasses. “Certainly not! By then I was already quite sexually active. Don’t you think you’re rather stepping over the line, dear, with these prying questions about something so personal?”

I probably had the expression of somebody slapped with a good-size wet fish. Mother had overloaded my meager mind with TMI (too much information) and somehow simultaneously had placed the blame on my shoulders.

Mother was plowing on….

“You see, many of the boys were going off to war after they graduated that summer—Walter was enlisting in the Army Air Force, who were helping the British RAF fight the Germans bombing England.” Mother paused, then said in a hushed voice, as if someone else might be listening, “The dear boy was a virgin, you see, and naturally, I wanted to give him a
nice
send-off.”

“Yes, well, I don’t really need to—”

“Brandy!” Mother’s eyebrows chased her hairline. “What do you mean, taking such a high-and-mighty attitude!”

Me? I didn’t recall taking any attitude other than abject shock, but high-and-mighty wasn’t it; who was I to judge? I’d been sexually active at her age, too. I just prayed she and I would never discuss it.

Mother was saying, “Many of the girls felt as I did…old taboos falling away like autumn leaves in wartime….”

I almost commented to Mother that autumn leaves did not fall in the summer, but I restrained myself.

Her expression had turned thoughtful. “Although, looking back with the wisdom of age, I do have my doubts about our behavior in those days. Oh, not my own! But I’m fairly sure a few of the young men may have taken advantage of their dates that night.”

“Date rape? Back then?”

“Boys will be boys.”

I wanted to get off this subject ASAP, so I asked, “What happened to you and Mr. Yeager? Were you an item, after that? Were you engaged…?”

“Heavens, no! It was a fling, a mercy—”

“Mother,
please!
”

“…mission. Anyway, out of sight, out of mind.” Mother shrugged pragmatically. “After Walter left for England that summer, I began dating your father…but then
he
went off to war, too.” She sighed and her expression grew distant.

I didn’t let her off the hook. “Did you give
Dad
the same ‘nice’ send-off?”

Mother’s nose hiked up and her eyes looked down. “I hardly see how that is any of your business. It’s completely irrelevant to this discussion!”

It seemed to me that relations with the man who was my father (or at least who was supposed to be my father) were more my business than her mission of mercy with Walter Yeager. But Mother had her own rules regarding relevancy.

She gazed out the bedroom window, where Jack Frost had skated across the bottom of the pane, making an intricate icy pattern on the glass. “You know, I’ve never told another living soul about Walter and me,” she murmured, serious and not at all arch. “Not even your father.”

Mother closed her eyes, and I tucked the covers up around her, then tiptoed out.

Just another typical warm-and-fuzzy conversation between Mother and me, involving ancient sexual shenanigans and assorted secrets.

But I was worried about Mother…not her melancholy mood over Walter—that would pass. What really concerned me was her imagining that Walter had been murdered, and her desire to have it so. Despite the two incidents she and I had been involved in, murder was hardly the norm in a small town like Serenity.

Anyway, I had my hands full just keeping Mother busy with healthy concerns, and off the murder-go-round.

The next morning when I stuck my nose out the back door, it practically got frozen off—the weather had turned bitterly cold, the wind whipping drifts around so much that snow still seemed to be falling on what was otherwise a clear day. I put Shoosh down on the back stoop and told her it was okay to take care of business right there, which she understood, and proceeded to do-do in record time.

Mother was already up, and must have been for quite some time, because she had baked her famous Christmas Kringle coffee cake; its delicious aroma hung in the kitchen making my mouth water—and Sooshi’s, too, the doggie doing a little begging dance at my feet. Since the Danish pastry didn’t have a note stuck to it, saying to keep my mitts off, I felt free to cut myself a piece (and a tiny one for Soosh), then poured out a cup of hot java, and joined Mother at the dining room table, where she was looking at various copies of plays that were spread out before her.

Seasonal sidebar
: We now interrupt this story to share with you Mother’s Kringle recipe (but be forewarned—they apparently had a lot of time on their hands back in Denmark).

In a large bowl, cut butter into the flour, sugar, and salt, to look like bread crumbs. Dissolve yeast in ¼ cup warm water. Add the yeast, milk, and egg to the batter and beat until smooth. Chill two hours.

On a floured surface, roll dough to a twelve-inch square; fold and roll twice more. Roll to 24 x 12-inch rectangle. Cut lengthwise in two strips (for two kringles) and spread each with filling. Roll to close and shape into ovals. Moisten edges and seal. Place seam sides down on greased baking sheets. Cover and let rise till twice its size, about 25 minutes.

Bake at 375 degrees for 25–30 minutes, or until golden brown. When cooled, drizzle glaze on top of the kringles.

I once tried to make that myself, but when I got to the “fold and roll twice more,” I gave up and threw the dough outside for the animals. Then, to add insult to injury, not even the raccoons—who’ll eat anything (don’t ask)—would go near it.

And now back to our regularly scheduled chapter….

Mother, in a much better mood, asked chirpily, “Which production do you think I should direct in February?”

The Playhouse was dark in January, as the local cast and crew took a much-needed break from the theater—and Mother.

I fingered through the pile, and selected one. “Why not Agatha Christie’s
Murder Is Easy?
” I wasn’t familiar with that particular play, but I’d never read or seen a Christie that hadn’t been entertaining. And I figured if Mother got involved in a murder mystery in the theatrical world, she might not be so inclined to create one for herself out in the real one.

Mother’s eyes danced. “Why not
indeed
! There’s even a small part for me.”

All the better to keep Mother busy, directing
and
acting.

Mother was saying, “I could play Lavinia Fullerton—even though she dies on page twenty. Of course I’d have to use heavy makeup to pass for such an elderly woman…but I
do
so love a death scene—”

Then Mother gasped, and I jumped in my chair, splattering coffee on the table. But she wasn’t demonstrating a death scene, just making a discovery on the play’s list-of-characters page.

“Why, there’s also a nice part for
Chaz
as the local village girl who aids the amateur sleuth,” Mother burbled. “She could give the play a nice ring of British authenticity.”

I asked skeptically, “Are you sure Chaz is up to it? I mean, what experience has she had?”

Mother pawed the air with a scoffing hand. “Why are you always so negative? The girl’s a
natural!
Besides, getting involved with the play will help take the poor dear girl’s mind off her grandfather’s murder.”

I didn’t bother to argue the murder point. And of course a comedy might be better suited for distracting Chaz from her gran’dad’s death. But Mother’s enthusiasm for Agatha Christie was unstoppable at this point.

Mother was on a roll. “Certainly some of the sets—like the train in the first act—will be challenging on our limited budget…. And wouldn’t it be grand if a
real
automobile could seem to run my character over right there on stage?
That
would sure put the audience on their feet!”

Vivian Borne, hit by a car onstage? If word got out, the house would be packed every night. Give the people what they want, and they’ll turn out….