Antiques Swap Page 10

  I believe in giving a helping hand to others and seek nothing in return. But a little payback can’t hurt.

  “You got it,” she said. “I may work for the city, but say the word and I’m your chauffeur.”

  Smiling, I settled back in my seat.

  Downtown’s Main Street, which ran parallel to the river, amounted to four blocks of restored Victorian buildings housing little shops and boutiques with the occasional bistro. Faux gas lamps, sidewalk benches, and ornate street signs created a quaint turn-of-last-century effect.

  Shawntea stopped the trolley in front of Hunter’s and I disembarked. Soon a small bell above the ancient door was announcing my tinkling arrival. (Sometimes words with two meanings can create unfortunate misinterpretations.)

  Hunter’s was a uniquely Midwestern aberration: the front of the elongated store, which hadn’t been remodeled since I wore Mary Janes, still retained its original tin ceiling and hardwood floor. This section had everything one might expect of a modern hardware business, but the rear consisted of a small bar area that offered hard liquor to hard-working men who stopped in for hardware.

  (No one ever seemed to question this lethal combination of tools and alcohol, the most recent accident occurring after a male customer rose from his barstool, feeling no pain, then bought an electric drill, went home, and made a hole in a board. Then he felt pain, because his hand had been under the board at the time.)

  The proprietors were Mary and Junior, the former running the cash register in front, the latter tending bar in back. The middle-aged couple had bought the business some years back with money Mary got after she lost a leg in a freak accident at the Universal Studios theme park in Orlando.

  (Since mentioning this in several books, I have received a “cease and desist” letter from Universal, and can no longer report exactly what happened to Mary on the Jaws ride. Let’s just say the mechanical shark short-circuited, and you can take it from there.)

  Squat Mary, her brownish-gray hair in a messy bun, was occupied with a customer, so I was spared having to trade small talk with the (frankly) unpleasant woman. No matter how cheerful or complimentary I might be, she was a regular Debbie Downer (make that Mary Morose). Is it my fault that her prosthesis doesn’t fit quite right? (You could tell by her uneven gait.) That run-in with a fake shark had made her a genuine crab.

  I breezed on by, weaving in and around various floor displays, making my way to the back, where I found Junior polishing glass tumblers behind a scarred bar almost old enough to interest my historical preservation group.

  Junior nearly qualified for that himself—a paunchy, rheumy-eyed, mottled-nosed man in his late sixties who all too obviously enjoyed sampling his own liquid wares.

  As I slid up on one of the gashed-leather stools, he smiled pleasantly. “Well, hello, Vivian. The usual?”

  “That’s right. And don’t spare the maraschinos.”

  I had learned the hard way here at the hardware store that the hard stuff (too much?) did not mix well with my medication. Ever since, my drink of choice has been a Shirley Temple. (On really cold days, I might order a hot toddy, hold the toddy.)

  Fixing my concoction, Junior said, “Terrible about Mrs. Sinclair. Nasty business. You lookin’ into it?”

  “I might be.”

  “Any leads on who mighta whacked her—I mean, since her hubby got let off?”

  “Maybe.”

  He waited for me to continue, and when I didn’t, he frowned, shrugged, then set my drink in front of me.

  I didn’t care if he found me coy. After all, I wasn’t here to give information, but to get it. And certainly not from Junior. He had a terrible memory and always got things mixed up—like telling his customers I had been a surrogate mother, not Brandy . . . which I am embarrassed to say I did not hear about until that reporter from the National Enquirer called.

  What is so newsworthy about the notion of a woman my age giving birth, anyway? And imagine, asking me if it was a bat baby! I straightened out that newshound on that score, and the local gossip mill, too.

  I took a dainty sip. Junior might be a buffoon, but he could make a darn good Shirley Temple (including the extra cherries).

  “Henry down yet?” I asked.

  Henry was Hunter’s perennial barfly, who rented a room above the store from Junior. A once prominent surgeon, the hapless Henry lost his license after sneaking a belt of whiskey to steady his hands before performing a gall-bladder operation. The procedure went swimmingly, until a nurse pointed out it was meant to be an appendectomy.

  But Henry could be a fountain of information. Seated quietly in his cups, he took in everything anyone around him might say, the way a sponge absorbs a spill. And because he was a regular fixture, no one paid him any heed.

  Junior nodded toward the bathrooms.

  I leaned forward and whispered, “Everything going according to plan?”

  Junior winked back. “Old fella doesn’t suspect a thing.”

  For years we had been trying to get Henry off the sauce, unselfishly so, considering our two vested interests—Junior would lose revenue, and me my top snitch. But we had become concerned about our friend’s deteriorating health. Time and again we would manage to get Henry up on the wagon, only to have the old boy fall off again.

  Then, as should come as no surprise, I came up with an ingenious plan. We convinced Henry to back off the booze and imbibe strictly beer, which Junior offered to provide free. Henry had no idea the beers Junior would set in front of him were strictly nonalcoholic.

  (Since Henry spent all his waking hours at Hunter’s, the barfly never had the opportunity to drink the real stuff elsewhere.)

  Henry, back from the bathroom, gave me a crooked smile as he took a stool, leaving one between us.

  “ ’lo, Viv—how they hangin’?”

  I raised my eyebrows at Junior, as if to say, Have you been giving him the real thing? The bartender shook his head.

  Which led me to the conclusion that Henry’s drunken condition must be a placebo effect. I knew the transition between booze and “beer” had caused Henry some rough days, but he’d weathered them in anticipation of a lifetime of free Budweiser.

  “They’re hangin’ just fine, Henry,” I replied, not knowing exactly what of mine were hanging where.

  Junior, giving me another wink, set another mug of ersatz suds before the man. Henry took a long gulp, then wiped the foam from his mouth with the back of a hand. “Been thinkin’ ’bout that mur . . . mur . . . murder.”

  My ears perked, like Sushi hearing me open a bag of potato chips (or Twizzlers). “Yes, Henry?”

  He hiccuped. “I know who . . . who done it.” He raised a finger to his lips to indicate to keep this on the down low.

  I leaned near. Whispered: “You do?”

  He nodded. “One a thaa . . . thaa . . . them.”

  This had been delivered in a dead-on approximation of Foster Brooks (that’s what Google’s for, children!).

  “Them who, dear?”

  “Them!”

  The generally congenial Henry seemed suddenly irritable—a near-beer side effect, perhaps?

  “Oh, them,” I said, nodding in agreement, having no idea what he was talking about but settling him down, at least.

  Henry nodded. “Yeah. That . . . that . . . ka . . . ka . . .”

  “Ka what, dear? Kaboom?”

  “Club.”

  “And what club would that be?”

  “The ay . . . ay . . . Eight.”

  “Eight of what, dear?

  “Eight uf . . . uf . . . Clubs! Shuh . . . shuh . . .”

  “Shazam?”

  “Shuh . . . nan . . . i . . . guns.”

  “Shenanigans, Henry?”

  Henry nodded, eyes half-lidded.

  Casually, I asked, “Who belongs to this club?”

  “Dunno, dun’ care.”

  I was about to pose another question, but he raised a hand. He had spoken his piece. But what was the Eight of
Clubs? And what kind of shenanigans were they mixed up in?

  I gulped down my Shirley Temple, then gestured to Junior to follow me to the front of the store, where next to a display of paintbrushes, I asked, “Is he always like that?”

  Junior nodded, shrugged, made an I-don’t-get-it face. “Ever since our little plan went into effect, yeah.”

  “Maybe you better start giving him the real thing.”

  He frowned. “What about his health?”

  “I’m worried about my health. Henry’s no good to me in that kind of condition.”

  Junior shook his head. “Sorry, Vivian. Henry thinkin’ he’s drunk is way better than him picklin’ what’s left of his liver.”

  I sighed. “I suppose. But it makes me want to shake him!”

  “Why?”

  “You know I can’t abide overacting!”

  And I left the store.

  Since Henry had largely failed me—maybe the Eight of Clubs was a lead—my next move was to connect with the Romeos (Retired Old Men Eating Out), who about now should be having an early lunch at a downtown eatery called Boonie’s. The recently opened sports bar was the group’s latest hangout, the only place in Serenity where one could get a hamburger cooked rare—and the Romeos liked their cow still mooing, never mind the cholesterol, high blood pressure, and possibility of salmonella. (I wonder—can you get salmonella from eating salmon?)

  So I hoofed it over to Iowa Avenue, where Boonie’s—named after the owner—was housed on the first floor of another restored Victorian building. But for the original redbrick walls, the inside had been completely remodeled, with modern tables and chairs, colorful sports memorabilia, huge flat screen TVs abounding with baseball, and the usual assortment of games—computer poker, wall darts, retro Ms. Pac Man—found in an upscale sports bar.

  I scouted the already busy place, then spotted the boys gathered around a corner table, already hunkered over their lunches.

  I say “boys,” but really, they were starting to look long in the tooth, and those teeth were mostly not original parts.

  Today, only four Romeos were present, affliction and extinction having dwindled their numbers as of late. Those remaining included Harold, ex-army sergeant; Vern, retired chiropractor; Randall, former hog farmer; and Wendell, one-time riverboat captain.

  While I enjoyed the company of my gal pals, I valued the acquaintanceship of these grizzled survivors more. Why? Because 1) men of a certain age knew more about local dirty laundry than any female gossip, 2) they are easily manipulated by one possessing feminine wiles (me), and 3) they can always be counted on to accurately pass along misinformation that I feed them, well-done not rare.

  “Hello, fellas,” I come-up-and-see-me-some-timed. “Mind if I join you?”

  Much as these Viagra snappers might still like the ladies, the female gender was generally not welcome at their gatherings. I, however, had become an exception—like Shirley MacLaine to the Rat Pack. That’s what a little charm, some good Danish genes, and a fair supply of tittle-tattle can get you.

  My greeting resulted in an affirmative reaction from the boys, though not quite as enthusiastic as usual. What was that about?

  I slid into an empty chair next to Randall, who might best be described as a less sophisticated Sydney Greenstreet. After all, Sydney Greenstreet had probably never been a hog farmer. Back in the day, I would have never sat near Randall, at least not downwind. But the pork man has had plenty time to air out.

  Harold, across the table from me, asked courteously, “How are you, Vivian? You’re looking well.”

  Harold resembled the older Bob Hope, particularly as viewed by me without my glasses. Once upon a time—after his wife passed, and my husband the same—the ex-sergeant had asked me to marry him. But I politely declined, knowing that in addition to being relegated to KP duty, I’d be made Permanent Latrine Orderly.

  “Why, I’m fine, Harold,” I said.

  Interesting that he hadn’t mentioned what everyone in town knew: that Brandy and I had recently found a murder victim’s body.

  “Lots of zip,” I went on. “You see . . .” Time to test the waters. “. . . I’m on the case to find Vanessa Sinclair’s killer.”

  This elicited no comments. True, my taking this on would surprise no one. But the men clearly seemed to be avoiding any further eye contact, returning to their remaining lunches. Something was wrong in the state of Boonie’s.

  The old gents were closing ranks, perhaps suspecting that my questions might lead somewhere embarrassing or troubling. Was this old boys’ club trying to protect the members of another club?

  The Eight of Clubs maybe?

  A waitress, noticing my addition to the group, appeared, and I ordered coffee.

  After she left, I looked around at my reluctant hosts as if we were all seated at a poker table. I was about to run a bluff.

  “Look, fellas,” I said, casual as old shoes, “I know all about the Eight of Clubs . . . so there’s no reason acting all tight-lipped like this. Do you really imagine you could tell Vivian Borne anything she hasn’t discovered already? Especially about their . . .” What was the word Henry had used? “. . . shenanigans?” Unfortunately, I unintentionally slurred it like Henry had.

  “What?” the men asked in unison.

  “Shenanigans,” I said sharply. It came out right this time.

  Wendell, seated next to Harold, and a dead ringer for Leo Gorcey (Google, kids), asked, “What’s the Eight of Clubs?”

  He didn’t appear to be responding to my bluff with a bluff of his own. A relative newbie to the group, the ex-riverboat captain might not yet be in the complete confidence of the other, in-longer-standing members.

  Which was a lucky break for me. And we all know that it’s better to be lucky than smart.

  “Gentlemen,” I said, “perhaps it would be best if one of you filled Wendell in. Not polite to keep a fellow Romeo in the dark.”

  Vern, on the other side of Wendell, and who reminded me of the older Zachary Scott (who reminded me of the older Clark Gable), leaned toward the newbie, speaking in a whisper. “Couples who get together to play bridge.”

  Wendell blinked. “So?”

  “Well, they do more than deal cards, if you get my drift.”

  Wendell frowned. “Not really.”

  Harold grunted at the man’s naïveté.

  “They trade partners around.”

  “You do that in bridge sometimes.”

  “I mean, they’re into . . .” Harold looked around, lowered his voice as he said, “. . . spouse swapping, man.”

  The old newbie’s eyebrows climbed his forehead like two gray caterpillars trying to mate. “Who’s in this club?”

  The others exchanged cautious looks, then Vern spoke sotto voce (but not so sotto that I couldn’t hear his voce, despite this darn chronic earwax buildup). “That rich Yuppie bunch—Brent and Megan Morgan, Travis and Emily Thompson, Sean and Tiffany Hartman, and Wes and Vanessa Sinclair.”

  Harold added, “Started out as a bridge club. That’s why they call themselves the Eight of Clubs.”

  And there it was, out in the open. What Pastor Tutor had merely hinted about with his Biblical references, and the pseudodrunk Henry couldn’t quite verbalize.

  I had to admit I was shocked. I was no prude, having lived through the Swinging Sixties; but these four couples were pillars of the community, men holding prestigious jobs and wives—minus one, now—much admired. They were churchgoers and members of various community organizations, the kind whose logos decorate WELCOME TO signs at the city limits of small towns.

  Like Serenity.

  Wendell, his open mouth finally moving, said, “My heavens. I know what men are like. But how could the wives go along with it? Do you think they were pressured?”

  Harold shrugged. “Who knows with that generation? Maybe they all see it as a safe way to fool around. Maybe even the gals liked the idea.”

  I drained the last of my coffee, and set the cup do
wn. “Maybe one of them didn’t. The one who’s dead.”

  Mother’s Trash ‘n’ Treasures Tip

  At a swap meet, never buy electronics without trying them out first. If this is not possible, get a return guarantee in writing from the seller. By the way, contact us through our website if anyone’s out there who knows someone who can fix a Sony Betamax.

  Chapter Seven

  Squeeze Play

  (Forcing the defenders to discard a vital card.)

  Morning at the shop was surprisingly busy for a Thursday, and I really could have used Mother’s help, but she was off doing some “important errands,” the details of which she didn’t share and I didn’t request.

  Over breakfast, I had summoned my intestinal fortitude and informed Mother that I was withdrawing my participation from the hunt for Vanessa Sinclair’s killer.

  “Oh?” Mother’s eyebrows rose high over her round glasses. “That doesn’t sound like you, dear.”

  “Here’s a novel idea,” I said. “Why can’t you let the police handle an investigation for a change?”

  “Why?” Mother shot me a sardonic look. “Because, dear, they’ve proven themselves incompetent a thousand times over. If it hadn’t been for me—for us—a half-dozen murders in this town might have gone unsolved.”

  I forked absently at my scrambled eggs. “With Tony back and on the case, they should fare just fine on their own. And anyway, I promised him I’d stay out of it.”

  Mother frowned. “I thought I detected his fine Italian hand in this! I hope that promise didn’t include me.”

  “No. But I wish you could see how any further meddling in police affairs could hurt his chances of becoming chief again.”

  “Poppycock. He needs our help.” She placed her napkin on the table with purpose. “Tell me—has the killer been found?”

  I poked the eggs some more, shrugged.

  “That’s not an answer, dear.”

  She was actually going to make me say it! “No. They haven’t.”

  “Case closed. Or anyway it will be, after I’m finished.” And she sat back with a satisfied smile.