Antiques Swap (19 page)

Then there it was, off to the right: Serenity Municipal Airport.

For years it had been only a Quonset-hut main building with a single hangar, plus one landing strip with wind sock, a facility used only by small-plane aficionados. But after Wes Sinclair bought his Learjet, a modern brick main building suddenly replaced the Quonset hut, several other hangars were added, and the runway was extended. But the wind sock remained.

I wheeled the Caddy into the small parking lot near the main building, and Mother and I got quickly out.

Everything was dark and quiet, buildings locked up, runway lights off.

I said, “Guess maybe we were wrong about Wes coming out here.”

“It would appear so,” Mother admitted. “But that private jet of his is the logical way for him to make his escape.”

We were about to get back in the car when the landing strip's lights popped on, bright as daylight. After hours, this could only be directed from a pilot coming in . . .

. . . or taking off.

“Mother—hear that?”

“Yes, dear, that cuts through even my ear-wax buildup!” She pointed. “Over there—that hangar door is open.”

Excitement ran through me like chills. “What should we do?”

“I don't know, dear—
something
. The fiend'll get away otherwise. Some foreign land, and with his money—”

“Get in the car,” I said.

We got in the Caddy and I tooled it out of the parking lot and along an access road leading to the hangars, with the main runway looming beyond.

The Learjet had exited its hangar, making its way to the strip. I caught up with the plane, then zoomed ahead of it, continuing on out to the runway.

Mother said, “If you're about to do what I think you might, I am quite in agreement. It's a bold move and I'm proud of your reckless abandon!”

“Thank you.” Her praise in that regard meant a lot to me. Who knew more about reckless abandon than Vivian Borne?

Halfway down the lighted strip, I slowed the car, then swung it sideways with a screech of tires so that the Caddy was blocking the runway.

We got out and stood by the car in a sort of two-woman challenge to the man who thought so little of our sex that he used and swapped and killed them.

The Learjet was poised for takeoff.

The answer came quickly as the high-pitched engine noise increased, and the jet rolled toward us, picking up speed.

“Run, Mother!” I yelled. “
Run!
”

I grabbed her hand and we sprinted to the adjacent field, dropping down to the ground, twisting our necks around to see the jet, engines screaming, bear down on the Caddy.

A second before impact, the jet's nose jerked upward, its front wheel clearing the car. Wes was making a break for it and there was nothing to be done, our best effort, however reckless, a failure....

Then a back wheel caught the underside of the Caddy's cloth-and-metal-frame convertible top, lifting the car off the ground. Then the top snapped off, the Caddy dropping back to the runway, roughly, as did the jet ahead of it, off-balance and out of control now, careening down the remainder of the runway and coming to an abrupt halt, its nose shoved in the dirt like a bullied child.

Sirens screamed, distant at first but quickly upon us, and more lights cut across the runway, headlights, as a trio of police cars sped toward us.

Helping Mother to her feet, I said, “I'm afraid the godfather's car's a goner, Mother.”

Mother adjusted her brown wig which had gone askew, and—smiling through misting eyes—replied, “A sacrifice worth making, dear. A sacrifice worth making.... I wonder if we're insured in case of aircraft collision?”

The rest was anticlimactic—Tony emerging from a police car, gun in hand, as a slump-shouldered Wes Sinclair came down out of his plane without incident, hands up, his face a slack-jawed mask of defeat. As Tony led him to a vehicle flashing red and blue, Wes didn't even glance our way. We were unimportant now, Mother and I, just two women who, like all women, didn't matter to him at all.

 

 

 

Smart shoppers haggle. The amount listed on a price tag should be the starting point for negotiating a better deal. And if you have the ability—as does Vivian Borne—to really wear down a seller, a world of bargains awaits you.

Chapter Thirteen

Late Play

 

 

 

W
hen thoughts become actions, those actions can have consequences—sometimes good, sometimes bad.

It was August now, and two months had passed since Wes

Sinclair was pulled out of his bunged-up Learjet, to be charged with the murders of his wife Vanessa and of blackmailer Gladys Fowler.

This time around, Wes didn't do so well at the preliminary hearing—turned out there
was
usable forensic evidence on the beer stein (maybe Mother and I should start watching
CSI
), and a silk blue tie found beneath the front seat of Wes's Jaguar matched microscopic fibers imbedded in Mrs. Fowler's neck.

So Wes, now with a very expensive out-of-town lawyer at his side, got his original wish—he
would
be going to trial, this time facing two first-degree murder charges.

Sean Hartman got six months for assaulting Mother—a relatively light charge, taking into consideration that this was the broker's first offense. But his real punishment would be disgrace and a ruined business.

Travis Thompson received an even lighter sentence for his breaking and entering, the district attorney unable to substantiate that the real estate developer had prior knowledge of either murder, or that the beer stein he was dispatched to retrieve was evidence. Travis stuck to his story that he was doing an ill-advised favor for a friend without knowing the reason behind that favor.

I know—lame. But Travis's real estate partners forced him out, while wife Emily sued him for divorce, moving with her daughter into a condo. Tiffany Hartman filed for a divorce, as well, packing up a U-haul and heading back east, to wait for her share of community property.

After his, yes, sybaritic lifestyle came to light, Brent Morgan—at the urging of the board of the bank's directors—resigned as president of the Serenity First National. He alone of the Eight of Clubs men landed on his feet, however, relocating to the Chicago area at another bank, his wife Megan sticking by him. But somehow I thought the only swing set Megan might endorse at this point would be in their backyard for their two boys.

As for the Borne girls, we did not emerge from the experience unscathed, although Mother's hair was growing back nicely (she was still alternating various Playhouse wigs). Our involvement in bringing down the Eight of Clubs came with a surprising backlash: a number of folks were irked with us. As it happened, some Serenityites had long despised
both
Vanessa Sinclair
and
Gladys Fowler, and while no one said in public that those two women got what they deserved, the general feeling was that our meddling had ruined the lives of three prominent couples and disrupted the local economy along the way.

Mother took this in stride. “No good deed goes unpunished, dear! What's important is that the
bad
deeds of Mr. Wesley Sinclair are not going
un
punished.”

On this hot August morning, I was heading to the police station in our new blue Ford C-Max hybrid. Yes, our new car!

Remember the swap-meet/car-show guy who wanted to buy the Caddy? Well, he still wanted to, even though it had been dragged by a Learjet. Of course we did have to come down on the price quite a bit, and did not get anything out of our insurance claim except giving the adjuster a big laugh.

The C-Max took some getting used to. For one thing, I had trouble remembering the order in which to do things to start the thing. For another, every time I stopped at a light, I thought the engine had stalled, and tried to restart it. But it's good for the environment, so if you wreck your car on a landing strip when a Learjet tears its roof off, I can recommend the C-Max.

And despite not being used to the vehicle, I managed to make it to the police station with both it and myself in one piece (I guess that would be two pieces).

For once I was not stopping at the station to bail Mother out of a holding cell or otherwise deal with some aspect of an investigation of hers (ours). Not that this was any more pleasant: I was here to see Brian, who was leaving the department tomorrow, having taken a job in the Chicago area, after losing the top cop slot to Tony.

Things had gotten ugly when Brian accused Tony of dereliction of duty by running an “unofficial investigation with Vivian and Brandy Borne.” It hadn't gotten him anywhere, since the district attorney was in the local camp that
was
glad we'd brought Wes, Travis, and Sean to justice.

Still, Brian and I had meant something to each other once, not so long ago, and despite his carping about Tony helping us, Brian too had been helpful to Mother and me in several of our prior murder inquiries. So I very much wanted to say good-bye.

And very much didn't want to.

Inside the station, I walked over to the Plexiglas and asked dispatcher Heather to tell Brian I was here, and would like to see him. As per usual, the redhead with red eyeglass frames told me to take a seat in the waiting area, and also per usual I obeyed, sitting next to the ever-neglected rubber tree plant.

Too quickly, Heather called me back over.

“I'm afraid he's busy,” she said.

“Meaning,” I said, mostly to myself, “he doesn't want to see me.”

The dispatcher shrugged apologetically.

“Get him back on the line, would you?”

“Well . . . I don't know what good it would—”

“Tell Brian I have a picture of him in Superman undies that's going viral if he doesn't give me two minutes.”

The dispatcher smiled, turned away, spoke into a phone, nodded, then faced me. “What do you know? Now you can go through.”

When the steel door buzzed, I entered the inner police sanctum and followed the beige hallway with its framed vintage police photos all the way down to the last office on the left, where I paused in the doorway.

Brian, in a blue short-sleeve shirt, yellow tie, and navy slacks, was standing behind the desk, packing personal belongings into a cardboard box.

“Sorry I had to play the undies card,” I said. “But I wanted to say good-bye.”

Brian looked over with those puppy-dog brown eyes of his, his brown hair slightly tousled—like it was after I used to run my fingers through it.

But the boyish smile I remembered fondly was not in evidence.

“Good-bye,” he said flatly, resuming his packing.

“And I wanted to wish you the best in your new job.”

Could that sound more awkward? More stilted?

“Well,” he said, “now you can check that off your to-do list.”

What had I expected? A warm embrace, one last kiss?

“Well . . . just don't unfriend me,” I said, wounded nonetheless. “
That
I don't think I could take.”

I'd given it a shot.

I turned away.

“. . . Brandy.”

He came out from behind the desk and crossed over to me, eyes softening. “Sorry. Pouting isn't becoming on a guy, is it?”

“Not that great on a female, either.”

“I do appreciate you stopping by.”

I nodded, smiling weakly. “Look, I know you were disappointed about not being selected chief. But I heard you're going to be chief somewhere else, right?”

He laughed softly. “What did I expect? Tony has credentials way beyond mine. And it's my own damn fault, too, the way I jumped the gun on Sinclair's first preliminary hearing.”

Consequences.

I asked, “So where are you going to be chief now?”

“Naperville. And I'm not chief, exactly. Deputy chief. It's a big town. Bigger than Serenity, anyway.”

“And part of the Chicago Metro area and everything. Maybe I mentioned that Jake lives there with his dad.”

He gave me a wry smile. “Please tell me your son's not a crimestopper like you.”

I gave him one back. “Well, he's already helped out a few times. But if Mother and I come to visit, I promise we won't look into any homicides.”

“I wonder if I'll have to hold you to that? But will you promise to look me up?”

“Absolutely.” I touched his arm. “I just know you'll be happy.”

He shrugged. “I think I will. I'll be close to where my daughter lives, and my ex was almost friendly the last time I visited.” He cocked his head. “Now, about that
picture
. . .”

“Do you really think I'd let any other woman on the planet see how cute you
really
are?”

And I kissed him on the cheek and got out of there. Whether I had to dry my eyes in the parking lot is not really any of your business, is it?

Next on today's to-do list was to deal with a consequence of my own, but one that I shared with my best friend's husband. The time had come: Kevin and I needed to tell Tina about Baby Brandy.

As I drove the C-Max up the drive of the white ranch-style home, Kevin came out from working in the garage to meet me. We had planned this confession together, so for once there was none of our usual banter.

“Ready?” I asked him.

His eyebrows flicked up and down; his anxiety was obvious. “As I could ever be.”

I followed Kevin through the garage to the back door that led into the kitchen, where Tina was chopping vegetables at the island counter.

Teen looked up.

“Brandy! Nice surprise!” But her smile faded as she took note of my solemn expression. “What's wrong, honey? Please don't say your mother's had another relapse?”

“No. She's fine. Happily medicated.” I glanced around. “Where's Baby Brandy?”

Tina wiped her hands on a kitchen towel. “Down for a nap.” She frowned, eyes going from me to Kevin, then back to me. “Okay. What's going on? If this is an intervention, I promise I haven't touched chocolate in days.”

I took the lead—after all, using one of my eggs as a backup to Tina's had been my idea.

“Kevin and I have something to tell you.” I looked at him, then gave my BFF a smile that must have been ghastly. “Maybe this should be done away from sharp knives. . . .”

Bad nervous joke.

Tina moved to the kitchen table, then sank down in a chair. Again she looked from him to me, me to him. The blood drained from her face. “Are you . . . are you two having an affair?”

“No!” I blurted. “Oh my, no. I'm so
sorry
that I am so
lousy
at this. . . .”

“At what?” Tina asked, looking a little relieved, getting her color back, but still clearly concerned.

Kevin pulled another chair around, sat down and took his wife's hand. “Teen, it's about the baby. . . .”

I said quickly, “Nothing's wrong with her. It's not that.”

“No,” he said, “it's not that. It's just . . .” His eyes went pleadingly to me.

Joining them at the table, I just flat-out told her. Confessed that after the last of her fertilized eggs hadn't taken, I'd used one of mine.

She listened expressionlessly, and when I was finished, I felt sure I had just lost my best friend.

But after a long silence, Tina sighed heavily and said, “I was wondering when one of you would get around to telling me.”

“You
knew?
” Kevin said, astonished.

“Of course I knew,” she said simply.

“How?” I asked.

“Well, duh . . . she
looks
just like you!” Tina smiled a little. “And, I guess I have a confession of my own to make. After all those failures with my eggs? I was going to ask you for some of yours . . . but I just couldn't get up the nerve. So you must have read my mind.”

I got out of the chair and came around the table as Tina stood, and we both hugged.

A relieved Kevin said, “Well . . . I guess you two will want to be together.”

And he discreetly made his exit.

Tina said, “Now, Baby Brandy
is
a test-tube baby, isn't she?”

“Yes! No fooling around with Kevin involved. But I still say you're a lucky girl.”

“I am, aren't I? To have both of you in my life.”

About an hour later I left Tina, feeling confident our friendship remained strong, and drove back to the shop, where I found Mother in the living-room area, rearranging knickknacks. Sushi was curled up on a Victorian settee—the handwritten
DO NOT SIT
sign pinned on the back of the love seat apparently did not apply to her.

“Dear,” Mother said, looking very unlike herself in a black Bettie Page wig, “we're running low on stock—a picking trip would seem in order!”

Business had been brisk this summer, and we'd coasted along by just rearranging the goods. But the rooms were now looking a little sparse.

I joined Sushi on the love seat, the sign not applying to a co-owner, either. “I know where we can get our hands on a roomful of wonderful antiques and collectibles, and it won't cost us a dime.”

“You are in jest.”

“No jesting.”

Mother's eyes widened behind the large lenses. “And where is this treasure trove that won't cost us a bleeding farthing?”

“It's an exotic, elegant place, but one you know well.”

Her eyes grew wider still. “Yes . . . yes?”

“It's called our garage.”

The stand-alone structure was filled to the rafters with stuff and things, plus things and stuff, that she had scavenged over her many years of . . . well, scavenging. But the notion of plundering it froze Mother like Lot's wife taking that one last ill-advised backward peek.