Antiques Maul (11 page)

He nodded, his brown eyes sympathetic. “I’ve seen my share of animal-attack aftermaths, and you never get used to it.”

I shook my head, shuddered. “Horrible to think a trusted pet could turn on you like that.”

Brian said, “I remember a drug bust where there were three pit bulls on the premises. Two, I used mace on, but the third took four bullets before it stopped charging.”

I shuddered again. “What
will
happen to the pit bull?”

“He’ll go to the animal shelter…for now.”

“And then?”

He shrugged.

I nodded.

However docile he had been after Mother scolded him, Brad Pit Bull remained a potentially deadly animal.

Brian touched my arm. “Listen, Brandy—if you like, I could, you know, come by later? See if you and your mother’re okay?”

I managed a smile. “I’d like that. Hey, it’ll give you a chance to meet my son, Jake…. He’s staying for the week.”

Brian didn’t
exactly
look like he’d been smacked in the face with a dead mackerel, but he did register some surprise.

Which surprised
me
.

Even though we hadn’t gone beyond the flirtation stage, I had taken the initiative to find out that his busted marriage had produced two girls who lived with their mother in Wisconsin. He was a cop, a detective of sorts—hadn’t he bothered to look into my past?

“I
would
like to meet Jake,” he said, and smiled, redeeming himself a little; and then he walked me to my car.

As I drove down the now-deserted alley, I glanced in the rearview mirror and saw Brian putting yellow tape across the back door of the building.

Crime scene
, it said. Was it one? Wasn’t this just an accident?

I said to Mother, “You were a little hard on him, weren’t you?”

“Who, dear?”

“You know very well who…Brian.”

“Yes, dear, I guess in a way I was.”

“What’s the idea, putting him through the wringer like that?”

She shrugged grandly, the excitement of the morning having restored her diva status. “Brandy, any man who’s interested in
this
family—and by ‘this family’ I mean you, dear—ought to know exactly what he’s getting himself in for.”

I steered the car toward home. “Don’t you ever get tired of being right, Mother?”

“Does any mother?”

By noon Mother and I had arrived back home, where we found Jake curled up on the living room couch (Sushi, too), dressed in his usual attire of T-shirt and cargo jeans. He was using his BlackBerry, probably text-messaging his father about how off-the-hook Mother and I were.

Mother suddenly made herself scarce, leaving it to me to tell Jake about Mrs. Norton’s demise.

I didn’t know where to begin, always inclined to shield my son from such unpleasantness.

I said, “Some sad news at the mall.”

The tone of my voice, as much as my words, told Jake to put down the BlackBerry, his blue eyes asking me what this was about.

“You know that lady you met yesterday? Mrs. Norton? The one who runs the antiques mall?”

He nodded.

“Well…your grandmother and I found her in the store this morning, on the floor. I’m afraid she was dead.”

Jake’s eyes grew large. “What, was she shot or something?” he asked, alarm in his voice.

I frowned. “Why would you think that?”

“I…I don’t know. It just kinda popped into my head.”

A result of playing violent video games?

I said, “No. She wasn’t shot…I’m afraid her dog attacked her.”

“You mean Brad Pit Bull?”

I nodded.

“Oh.” His eyes left mine to stare out the front window. “That’s too bad.”

How could I help him process this? For a kid his age, the day after he encountered that pit bull and the nice woman who ran the mall, to suddenly hear one had killed the other?

“I…I just hope you won’t be too upset about it.”

“Okay.”

“And if you ever want to talk about it…” I patted his knee. “…I’ll do my best to answer your questions.”

“I do have one question, Mom.”

“What’s that, honey?”

“What’s for lunch?”

A Trash ’n’ Treasures Tip

Broken porcelain, pottery, and crystal can be repaired. Check with a reputable mender to determine the cost versus the depreciation of the item once fixed. Don’t try to do it yourself with epoxy glue like Mother.

T
he next morning I was to meet my BFF, Tina (short for Christina) at Gloria Jean’s Java Hut coffee shop at the Indian Mounds Mall. We’d set the shopping get-together up a week before, and despite a certain lingering discomfort over finding Mrs. Norton mauled like that—melancholy tinged with unease—I didn’t cancel. Me shopping wouldn’t do Mrs. Norton any harm, and it might help get me out of this funk.

As usual, I was in a quandary over what to wear. Tina and I don’t try to outdo each other with our fashion finesse or anything, but we did strive to look our best out of a mutual respect for each other (and also to pay homage to the Shopping Mall Goddess for good luck and low prices).

Finally I put on a BCBG tan jacket with epaulets and military buttons, Rock & Republic jeans (rolled up), and a pair of distressed brown Frye boots. To counter the armed forces look, I picked out a girly pink Betsey Johnson rhinestone-encrusted hobo bag and matching hip-slung belt.

Do you ever bemoan the fact that you never have any extra cash for a shopping spree? Here are some ways to save a little money:

• (1) Ditch the bimonthly trip to the nail salon for fakes. You’re not even fooling the men these days…who only wonder what
  else
  might be fake. Keep your nails filed short (they’re in these days) and slap on a little clear polish. (Savings: seventy dollars a month, plus gas and a sitter.) P.S. Do you
  really
  enjoy breathing in chemicals in a place where nobody gossips? (In English, anyway.)
  
• (2) Stop the monthly visits to the hair salon and go only four times a year. Get a really good
  short
  cut, and let it grow out; you’ll have several different looks over time. And if you’ve been having a salon color your locks, learn the suicide approach: Dye by your own hand…. The salons use the same stuff found at drugstores, but charge three times the rate. (Test a strand first, though. I once ended up with green hair—great for St. Paddy’s Day bashes, a downer otherwise.) Savings: approximately forty-six dollars a month.
  
• (3) Stay away from the cosmetics counters. Don’t you have enough, already? Use it up! Or throw it out! And this goes for all those hotel amenities of shampoo and conditioner you’ve been hoarding in the bathroom closet, unless you’re actually prepared to
  use
  the darn things. (Savings: twenty to thirty dollars a month.)
  
• (4) This is a touchy one, because I know you’re as serious as I am about losing ten pounds and getting back into all those expensive party clothes languishing in the back of your closet…. But let’s face it, unless you’re scheduled for a root canal, it ain’t gonna happen. Why not take those lovely things (before they’re completely out of style) to a resale shop and get some extra cash? (Savings: estimated forty-seven dollars.) P.P.S. Do you know what the worst thing is about a root canal? The
  bill
  !
  
• (5) Are you still buying fashion magazines off the stand? Fool! You can save up to 75 percent with subscriptions to your faves. (Savings: twelve dollars a month.) Okay, that’s stretching it…but you get the point.
  

Now you’ve got two hundred dollars for shopping, and can come along with Teen and me!

Indian Mounds—so named because of an adjacent Indian burial ground—was situated on gently rolling hills just across the Treacherous Bypass (this much commerce had bought the intersection a traffic light). That the Mounds was an outdoor mall, which is unusual considering our cold winters, didn’t seem to deter shoppers. I, myself, love going in and out of the stores in all types of weather, preferring it to stuffy enclosed shopping centers where you get hot and crabby in your coat and draw in the same kind of recycled air that makes so many old people get sick after taking a cruise.

Laid out asymmetrically with winding walkways, the Mounds had lots of benches on which to rest those poor tired little doggies, flower gardens to stop and enjoy color and fragrances, and spurting fountains to gape at in childish wonder. Seated on some of the surrounding benches were hyperrealistic, fully painted statues of humans, so hyper and so realistic that newcomers would sometimes stop to ask them the time.

Which was 9:00
AM
when yours truly, the early bird, pulled into the vast, nearly empty parking lot, taking a prize worm of a spot right up front…although, even if it had been midday, at the mall’s busiest, I
still
would have snagged a close space.

Allow me to explain.

Mother, during one of her “spells” some years ago, bestowed upon me a spiritual Indian guide that she dubbed Red Feather, since Mother was under the impression that red was my favorite color (it’s not; yellow is). Mother’s guide is Pink Feather, even though she doesn’t
own
anything pink.

The purpose of these Native American spirits, according to Mother, is to help guide our lives, since “sometimes the Big Guy Upstairs can’t be bothered with trivial matters like finding a good parking space” (her words, not mine—I’m just reporting here).

Pink Feather, when called upon by Mother, does all kinds of good things for her; I’ve actually witnessed some of these…like the time we went into the mall bookstore and Mother asked for the newly released
Miss Marple
DVD box set and the sales clerk said they were sold out and Mother called on Pink Feather to get her one, only to have the clerk say, “
Wait
a moment! That’s funny…there
is
one here….”

Red Feather, on the other hand, seems to be only good at getting me parking places…but, hey, I’m not complaining. A premiere parking spot along Michigan Avenue in Chicago during the Christmas rush is golden!

Among the mysteries associated with this process is Red Feather’s willingness to find me a spot to park at a mall that had the bad taste to appropriate the name and general area of a Native American burial site.

As I entered the coffee shop, breathing in the delicious aromas, I spotted Tina, who’d beaten me there, laying claim to the chrome table for two that we felt was “ours” along the bank of windows. Tina always seemed to be able to snag that table for us—maybe she had her own Indian spirit guide (I never raised the issue).

At this hour, Gloria Jean’s Java Hut was the only store open, its line of patrons at the counter mostly people who worked in the other mall shops, grabbing a scone and a quick cup of hot joe before reporting in.

Tina had thoughtfully already purchased our drinks: cinnamon mocha frappés with whipped cream and candy sprinkles. (We needed shopping energy, didn’t we?) (And don’t you dare mention those ten pounds I’m trying to lose!)

She gave me our usual greeting, “Hi, honey!” (à la Judy Holliday in
Born Yesterday
), and I tossed it back with the same lilt.

As I pulled out the other chair, “Heart of Glass” morphed into “Disco Inferno.” We were both suckers for old eighties tunes and Gloria Jean’s serving up both disco and cinnamon mocha frappés kept us coming back for more.

Tina was wearing an olive-green cropped jacket with three-quarter sleeves, Earl jeans (also rolled up), and
her
Frye boots. (Honestly, we didn’t plan it…just great minds thinking alike.)

Teen was a tad taller than me (five seven; me, not her), also blond like me (natural; her, not me), with lovely fair skin and features speaking to her Norwegian ancestry. With my own Danish/German background, we were often mistaken for sisters (and I just as often wished we were, but I’d never been given any option except Peggy Sue).

Tina and I first met in high school—she was a junior, and I a sophomore—when some skanky senior girls were picking on her in the hallway and I ran up and told them to lay off in the kind of no-uncertain terms that would make a sailor blush.

We’d been friends ever since.

I asked, “How’s Kevin?”

Teen’s husband worked for a pharmaceutical company; he was a peach of a guy, always nice to me, never jealous of our close friendship.

“He’s not gonna be traveling as much,” she said with a smile. “And I’m already looking forward to this winter, cozy evenings by the fire….”

Teen and Kev had been trying to have a baby for a couple of years now; no luck yet, but they seemed to be having a good time trying. She kept herself otherwise busy working at the Serenity Tourism Office, which allowed her flexible hours (like now).

Tina took a sip of her frothy drink, then asked, “And how’s the new antiques business going?”

She obviously hadn’t heard about the death of Mrs. Norton, so I recapped the events of yesterday morning, going light on the antics of one Vivian Borne.

Tina shook her head. “How awful…how terrible. Poor woman…. She was a great teacher. I had her, too, you know. Really liked her. Strict but fair.”

“Too bad life isn’t. Well, it’s strict. Just not fair.”

She frowned. “Why in the world would Mrs. Norton keep a vicious animal like that around? She seemed more like the Chihuahua type to me. You know, nervous energy attracting nervous energy.”

Dogs often did mirror their owners. (I’m not sure what that says about me and Sushi.)

“Tell you the truth,” I said, “it’s more surprising that the animal went after her that way. He seemed more bark than bite.”

“You’d run into the thing before?”

I explained that we had, setting up our booth.

“The mutt seemed devoted to her,” I said, “and vice versa. She said she was using the pit bull to protect the mall at night…instead of putting in a security system. But I have a feeling that was just an excuse. She liked having the company.”

“Certain breeds can turn on you,” Tina said with a shiver, “even when you’re pretty sure the animal loves you.”

“Kind of like men.”

Tina didn’t disagree. Her eyes narrowed and she leaned forward. “What’s going to happen to the antiques mall now?”

I shrugged. “I hope someone else will take it over. Mrs. Norton has relatives, though I don’t think in town. I was counting on that place to keep Mother out of mischief.”

Tina nodded sympathetically. “La Dame Borne is still reeling from the playhouse disappointment, I suppose.”

“Oh yes. She wanted to be director in the worst way, which I’m sure she would have been. But losing her best friend in the process put salt in a very melodramatic wound. Yesterday, when we found the body, and after?”

“Yes?”

I shook my head, sighed. “Mother misbehaved. Started spouting ‘murder’ again.”

“Oh dear.”

“Only Mother would look at a mauling by a pit bull and see visions of Agatha Christie.”

Tina’s smile went lopsided. “Well, hon—she’s had the playhouse stage taken away from her. That only leaves the streets of Serenity for her theatrics.”

I held up a palm. “Stop. I’ll scream or cry or something. Sometimes I think getting involved in that murder last year, however well things turned out, was the worst thing that ever happened to us. Put all kinds of ideas in Mother’s head, wackier ideas even than usual.”

Our conversation, thankfully, turned to more vital subjects, like the latest season of
Battlestar Galactica
, lawn prep for winter, and—exploring that most important of decisions—whether or not to buy gauchos.

The more trivial our talk got, however, the more distracted Teen seemed. Even as self-absorbed as I can be, I could always read her, so I asked, “You have something else on your mind, don’t you?”

She laughed. “I’m that transparent?”

“No more than Barbra Streisand’s 1970s Academy Award outfit.”

Tina said tentatively, “Well…maybe it’s none of my business.”

“And this has ever stopped you?”

She laughed. “It’s just…I really do wish you’d get off that Prozac.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Why? Most people prefer me mellow.”

“Maybe. But, sweetie, mellow is simply
not
you.”

I snorted. “And this is bad, how?”

She sighed and sat forward, asking, “How long have you been on that stuff, anyway?”

“Oh, I dunno…year, maybe.”

Her eyes were slits. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but aren’t antidepressants supposed to be used for getting someone through a bad patch? Since when is a
year
a bad patch?”

I shrugged. “Well, maybe I just have a lot of patches, and they’re all bad, and they’re sorta strung together.”

She shook her head. “Honey, you’re using that junk as a crutch.”

“For what, Teen?”

“You tell me.”

But I didn’t have to: The medication helped me not to feel anything. Numbed me from the disappointment dished out by Peggy Sue, protected me from the anger administered by Jake, and softened the loathing lobbed by Roger. If I weren’t on the stuff, I’d be crying into my pillow every night.

She reached across and took my hand and her eyes held mine. “I think it’s time you faced life, sweetie, even if it hurts a little. How else are you going to begin the healing process?”

“Same as always.” I jerked a thumb toward the door. “Retail therapy.”

Tina smiled sadly, squeezed my hand, then drew hers away. “I won’t mention it again.”