Antiques Maul (24 page)

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.

“…and then put the bag down on it while I wrapped the purchase…and the next thing I know this thief is running off with it.”

“Can you describe him?”

Anderson said in frustration, “I only saw the back of him!” He pointed an accusatory finger at me—apparently the front of my face resembled the back of the thief’s head. “But that girl must’ve gotten a good look! He ran right past her!”

I started to say something, but shut my mouth because Chaz had moved close to me and surreptitiously took hold of my hand at my side and squeezed it. Hard.

Brian looked at me. “Well?”

“I really didn’t get
that
good a look,” I said. “He went by so fast—dark jeans, sweatshirt, stocking cap—that’s all I remember.”

Brian asked Chaz. “How about you?”

Chaz made an exaggerated frown and shook her head. “Seen one bloke you seen ’em all, innit?”

He turned to Mother. “What about you, Mrs. Borne? You’re generally observant.”

Mother gestured to her thick glasses, “Oh, well, I appreciate the compliment, Officer Lawson…but honestly, I didn’t see a thing…not with
these
poor old peepers.”

Brian sighed, hit the stop button on the recorder.

Mother added, “However, I do have one important question….”

Officer Lawson raised his eyebrows. “Which is?”

“Is there any truth to the rumor that you’re going to stop using the ten-codes like some other police departments?”

Brian gaped at Mother at this non sequitur; I stifled a groan and faded back behind Chaz.

“No, Mrs. Borne, we haven’t dispensed with them yet.”

“Good,” Mother said approvingly, tossing her head back. “It’s a most efficient system—if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it!”

Why did Mother care? Because Vivian Borne had her very own code number unofficially assigned by the Serenity PD; when the police radioed “ten-one-hundred” it meant that Mother was on the scene and to proceed with extreme caution.

Anderson said irritably, “Look, can we get back to my stolen money?”

Brian nodded, and told our little group, “All right, you can all go except for Mr. Anderson.” Then he took the dealer by the arm and walked him over to his table to finish the interview, leaving Mother, me, and Chaz.

Mother said to me cheerily, “Well, wasn’t that exciting? We haven’t been involved with a crime for
months
!”

“We’re
not
involved.”

“We’re witnesses, aren’t we?” She leaned close and whispered theatrically: “Incidentally, why are we covering up, dear?”

“What?”

“Why aren’t we telling your nice young officer what we saw? I was simply following your lead, dear.”

“Follow this lead,” I said, and made a “zip” gesture across my mouth.

I told Mother to wait while I went to fetch the car, then turned to Chaz with a forced smile. “Can I see you outside for a moment?”

She swallowed and nodded and we stepped out into the cold and stood under the scant protection of the tin awning, our breaths pluming.

Chaz spoke first. “Thanks for keeping your gob shut, Bran, and not grassing.”

I said testily, “I know you’re involved somehow in that theft.”

“Wha’? No way, man!”

I ignored her. “And if you don’t want me to ‘grass,’ that money better be returned to me tomorrow, or I’m gonna suddenly remember all kinds of details about that boy, and no doubt so will Mother—including the spider tattoo on the side of his neck.”

Chaz spat, “Bloody hell! I told
’im
to cover up that bugger!” She sighed resignedly. “You win, mate. I’ll make ’im give back the money. He just did it for me because—”

“I don’t want to know,” I snapped. “I’ve already lied once to my boyfriend, and I don’t want to do it again.”

Her eyes widened. “That screw’s your bloke?”

That sounded backward somehow.

But I said, “That’s right…so you know I mean business, ‘mate.’ I’ll come to your house tomorrow, around noon, and you’d better have that cash—every bleeding quid! Where do you live?”

“Grandad ’as a caravan at Happy Trails Trailer Court…Number 21. But I don’t want me grandad to know!”

“Don’t worry…I’ll bring some information on the value of that Tarzan book along, as an excuse.”

“Okay.” She cast her eyes downward. “Thanks, luv.”

“Why don’t you find some nice friends?”

Chaz looked up again. “Wha’? A ex-con with a funny accent like me? Who’s gonna wanna be mates with me?”

“Well…me, for one.
If
that money’s returned…and if you stay out of trouble, Chaz.”

“A posh lady like you?”

I snorted. “I’m not posh. Far from it. Take a closer look at this raccoon coat.” We were both shivering, so I said, “Remember, Chaz…noon tomorrow.”

She said, “I won’t let you down,” and her smile had a shyness at odds with the spiky hair, multiple piercings, and public theft.

She slipped inside.

I trudged into the snow to get the car, wondering if I’d done the right thing.

On the drive home Mother was a chatterbox, carrying on about her fabulous finds, interspersed with melodramatic rambling about poor Walter Yeager having to sell all his childhood memories. I concentrated on keeping the car on the snowy road, grunting every now and then to show I was listening, even though I wasn’t, really.

As we pulled the Audi into the garage, Mother suddenly asked, “Why did you cover up for Chaz, dear?”

I’d hoped we wouldn’t be returning to this subject, that I’d ignored her sufficiently to put it out of her mind. Out of her mind was right.

Mother sighed. “Well, I’m sure you have your reasons, and you know I’m never one to pry…. By the way, where did you get that wonderful coat? We could be twins.”

I shut off the engine and smiled nastily. “Yes, Mother, I feel like your twin…. And from no won, whenever I wear this coat, you should be afraid…you should be very, very afraid.”

Mother frowned and opened her car door. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you lately, Brandy…but I’m glad we’re both seeing our therapists tomorrow.”

“Me, too,” I said, meaning it.

Because Mother was keeping something from me that was way more important than withholding a little information from the police.

And Mother had been keeping her secret a whole lot longer.

A Trash ‘n’ Treasures Tip

Shopping can be daunting at a flea market, where treasures are often hidden among the trash—like the rare photo of Edgar Allan Poe some lucky buyer purchased for a pittance and then sold for thirty-five thousand. Bet that dealer’s kicking himself. So am I—I passed it up!

KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

Kensington Publishing Corp.
850 Third Avenue
New York, NY 10022

Copyright © 2007 by Max Allan Collins and Barbara Collins

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

ISBN: 0-7582-3615-8