Antiques Roadkill Read online

  Upon this base, a roughly equal number joined up, regular churchgoers who had become dissatisfied with their former holy houses for a variety of reasons, which made an interesting mix of tolerant and nonjudgmental folks. For example, when we eventually turn up, nobody wearing a “Christian” smile ever says to us, “Well, we haven’t seen you at church for a while!”

  As Mother and I walked along on this cool, sunny summer morning, I felt myself growing smaller, and slipped my hand in hers, like I used to do. Mother, ever the snoop, had her head turned toward the houses as we passed, studying the tended lawns, flower beds, and yard art, pointing out antique glassware visible on an inside windowsill. If a garage door happened to be open—whoa, Nellie!—she’d stop dead in her tracks, eyes growing larger behind the spectacles, searching for castaways that might be destined for the curb come next garbage day.

  “Mother …”

  “Yes, dear?”

  “You’ve got to promise me you’ll leave this Clint Carson thing alone.”

  “I’ll do no such thing! We could be the target of a killer!”

  I liked her better when she was singing “Oh, What a Beautiful Morning,"tone-deaf or not.

  I stopped her and faced her and took her by both arms. Lovingly and firmly, I said, “We still have your driving-without-a-license charge to deal with. And we haven’t talked to Chief Cassato yet.”

  “That’s true.…”

  “And you like our chief of police.”

  Mother’s eyes perked behind the buggy lenses. “I do! Very much!”

  “Then promise … I’ll make you swear on the Bible at church! … promise you’ll let me talk to the chief about this, and we’ll concentrate on your legal problem, before you take any other steps.”

  She nodded gravely. “I promise,” she said.

  Her delivery reminded me a little too much of William Shatner in that old margarine commercial, but I accepted it.

  Finally, we arrived at New Hope. Formerly an old fire station, the brick building had been gutted and turned into a church. One thing remained preserved, however: the brass fireman’s pole, which bisected the main aisle, though was easy enough to slip around on either side. (After some kid came flying down it and broke both legs, however, the hole in the second floor was sealed.)

  A scaled-down replica of the Liberty Bell stood proudly on a concrete pedestal in the church’s front lawn. Every so often, a kid (probably the same ornery one who came down the pole) would steal the bell’s clapper, and Pastor Tutor would ask the congregation to pray for its safe return. (I got kind of tired of this—at age fourteen—and once yelled from my seat, “Just weld it, already!” I couldn’t see bothering God about such a trivial matter.) Of course, the clapper would return … until next time.

  This morning Pastor Tutor—a small, almost plump bespectacled figure in purple shawl over black robe—gripped the pulpit and said, “When we have problems, we must first look to ourselves before turning to God—the Lord can forgive us, He can grant us grace and give us strength. But only we as individuals can take responsibility for our actions—only we can assume ownership of our problems.”

  How come this guy’s sermon always seemed to be directed at me, personally? What did I ever do to him?

  We stepped out of the church into a warm breeze. A round-faced boy of about twelve with glasses and Beatle bangs was ferociously ringing the bell until his father stopped him.

  Mother hooked up with her four friends from the Red-Hatted League, also New Hope members; they would have a buffet lunch after church (our house today) and spend Sunday afternoon discussing a mystery novel (this time, The Mirror Crack’d), while incessantly snacking.

  Mother wouldn’t have minded if I sneaked a few cold cuts from the Red-Hatted ladies’ repast, but I had been invited to Sunday dinner at my sister’s house, with Peggy Sue’s stated reason that my niece hadn’t seen me for a while.

  Ashley, an only child, was a senior in high school, and although we got along, I’m sure I was in her thoughts about as much as she was in mine—which is to say, hardly at all. Peggy Sue, I felt sure, just wanted access to me without Mother around, to carp, criticize, admonish, chide, rebuke, reprimand, and generally flay me for the latest mess Mother was in … as if I, or anyone, could control her!

  Since I was car-less, one of the Red-Hatted League ladies—Mrs. Hetzler, the former teacher—offered to give me a lift to Peggy Sue’s. I thanked her and climbed into the front passenger seat of her burgundy Buick.

  Mrs. Hetzler had shrunk over the years, her gray-haired head barely clearing the dashboard, white-knuckled hands gripping the top of the steering wheel, like it might fly away. I made sure my seat belt was fastened tight, which was a good thing because we nearly had a few accidents—no more than a dozen.

  Or two.

  Not because Mrs. Hetzler was driving fast, mind you, but because she was going so damn slow! Like Mr. McGoo, she was oblivious to the disasters she left in her wake, creating an array of angry, frustrated motorists, driven by madness to do whatever they could, including passing ill-advisedly, turning down one-ways, and driving up on the sidewalk, anything to get around or at least away from us. Mortified, I slumped in my seat and became her twin.

  Finally we reached the new suburb north of town where my sister’s house was located, a modern monstrosity in brick, wood, and glass, with the personality of a paper plate (an unused one). Mrs. Hetzler narrowly missed Peggy Sue’s street-side mailbox (Hastings) as she bumped up over the curb, and after all the mortifying moments I’d endured on the ride here, I could now only smile at the thought of the tire tracks she’d be leaving behind on my sister’s (formerly) perfect lawn.

  “Thanks for the ride, Mrs. Hetzler,” I said as I quickly opened the car door.

  “What time should I come back for you, dear?” the elderly woman wondered. Somebody really should get her a big-city phone book to sit on and strap wood blocks to her feet.

  “That won’t be necessary … I’ll be fine! It’s a lovely day—I can use the walk.”

  And I made my escape, heading up the wide, white concrete driveway where a double garage and a half announced: WE HAVE THREE CARS! Good for you.

  Attention, home builders: since when did big, ugly garage doors become a part of the front of a house? What was wrong with a nice porch and a couple of bay windows? Attention, home buyers: if you can afford a six-figure home, you can certainly afford to pour extra cement around back, where the garage is supposed to be! And, men, if the garage was behind the house, you wouldn’t be nagged to clean it out so often, would you? Can’t see the mess from the street.

  Why doesn’t somebody put me in charge?

  My brother-in-law, Bob Hastings, answered the doorbell in one ring. Tall, thin, and gaunt, Bob was in his fifties, but looked older … probably from working so hard as an accountant to pay for this place (or just being married to my sister). He had a nice face, though; with an extra twenty pounds, a tan, and a two-week vacation, Bob could make the grade.

  He gave me a little smile, and I reciprocated. We’d had a nice rapport from the get-go, I supposed because we were in the same boat—at the mercy of Peggy Sue.

  I stepped into a large, gleaming foyer; to the right was an opulent living room that hardly got used; to the left, a dining room, the table spectacularly set with china and silver, massive brocade-covered chairs drawn up.

  “Something smells good,” I said, and meant it. Peggy Sue was, if nothing else, a crack cook.

  “Beef Wellington,” Bob told me proudly. I could tell he adored her.

  Poor dumb slob.

  I turned to him. “And how are you?” Before he could answer, I cocked my head and commented, “If you don’t mind my saying, you look a little pale around the gills … work running you ragged again?”

  He shrugged. “Year-end stuff. You know how it goes.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t understand why June is sometimes considered the year’s end.…”

  We walked b
ack to the kitchen, an enormous room that had an island counter with its own sink and burners, and every amenity that a homegrown Emeril could want—and then some.

  Dutifully, I asked Sis, “Can I do anything?”

  Peggy Sue, dressed in a blue silk dress and high heels, nary a hair out of place, was taking a roasting pan out of a stainless steel oven with only a few more controls than a jet’s cockpit. (Sometime remind me to tell you about my experience with Beef Wellington, which ended in a thousand-bucks'-plus worth of smoke damage.)

  “No, Brandy,” Peggy Sue answered sweetly. “You can just sit up to the table.”

  To Bob, she crisply ordered, “Call Ashley down.”

  We both obeyed our respective commands.

  Dinner was pleasant enough. I kept the heat off me by asking Ashley a lot of questions about school and stuff, a trick I use when I don’t want to talk myself.

  Ashley was seventeen—beautiful, smart, popular, with parents that gave her everything. Listening to my niece’s bubbly chatter, I wondered if the girl remotely realized how lucky she was.

  We’d kind of wrapped up our conversation when Ashley smiled and looked right at me and said, “I’m so glad to see you, Aunt Brandy. You always dress so cute—could we go shopping sometime?”

  Peggy Sue was sipping coffee, her eyes frozen.

  I said, “Sure, Ash—maybe drive down to the Quad Cities and hit the malls?”

  “That would be awesome.”

  With a brittle laugh, Peggy Sue said, “Everything’s ‘awesome’ these days.”

  Ashley gave her mother a curdled look and I just kind of half smiled, said, “Yeah, uh, sure is,” and went back to my food.

  After the meal, Ashley disappeared back upstairs, Bob headed out to the garage (whud I tell you?), and I made like the scullery maid, taking charge of the dirty dishes and bracing myself for Peggy Sue’s lecture concerning Mother.

  But I was in for a shock.

  Peggy Sue stood nearby as I fed her dishwater and her expression seemed sincere as she said, “Brandy, I want to thank you for looking after Mother … I … I know it isn’t easy … and, well, I want you to know that I do appreciate your effort.”

  I tried to find a note of sarcasm in there, especially in the last part about my “effort,” but couldn’t. Peggy Sue, for a change, seemed genuine.

  Taken aback, I didn’t know what to say.

  “I assume there’ll be a court appearance,” Peggy Sue speculated, “for the, uh … driving infraction?”

  That was an innocuous way of putting it. I said, “Yes … but I can handle it, Sis.”

  She heaved a sigh, smiled a little. “Thank you. Really … thank you. I’m awfully busy these days with the house, and Ashley, and everything.”

  And bridge club and parties and trips to the hairdresser … and the last place Peggy Sue would want to be seen is in court with her kooky mother.

  Peggy Sue was rinsing pots and pans at the sink as she asked, “Have you heard from Jake lately?”

  “I got an e-mail last week … which read like his father dictated it.”

  She shrugged. “Well, that’s better than nothing.”

  “I guess.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “How about a job? Are you looking?”

  “Not yet.”

  She waggled a finger. “Well, you better get around to that soon. Mother’s funds are limited, to say—”

  That got my back up. “I’m not taking any money from her.”

  “All right, all right. I’m just saying … you really should find one.”

  Peggy Sue was right, I knew. I couldn’t put off looking much longer.

  I asked, “What would you think about me writing a column for the Serenity Sentinel?”

  “About what?”

  “Antiques. For example, how to spot a bargain … how to restore them.…”

  She arched an amused eyebrow. “Like the time you took the veneer off that valuable table by running a water hose on it?”

  “Very funny.” I could always count on Sis for support.

  Ashley entered the kitchen, dressed casually in Lacoste.

  “Honey,” Peggy Sue said, “why don’t you run Brandy home, so I don’t have to?”

  My niece wrinkled her pert little nose. “But Mom, I’m going to Sarah’s …” She looked at me. Her eyes lingered. I could see her reconsidering, but couldn’t imagine why. “… Well … okay, I guess it’s not too far out of the way.”

  Ashley handled her fire-engine-red Mustang as if she really were going to a fire. At first it was refreshing, after Mrs. Hetzler’s snail pace; but soon I was getting nostalgic about the world’s slowest, shortest driver.…

  When Ashley pulled up in front of my house, I was relieved to be alive. There had been no small talk—hardly any time for it!

  “Thanks for the lift,” I said, reaching for the car door.

  “Wait,” Ashley said. Her expression was pensive. “Can I … can I talk to you a minute?”

  “Sure.” I sat back.

  She turned off the engine. Must be serious.

  My niece began haltingly: “I … I know Mom thinks I don’t know what’s going on—with Grandma, I mean, and that man that got killed—but I’ve heard people talking.”

  “Oh-kay.…”

  She leaned forward conspiratorially. “If I tell you something … something that has to do with that Clint Carson guy … you promise not to squeal to Mom?”

  I blinked. Then I said, “Of course, Ashley … you can always count on me.”

  She moved even closer; the leather seat made a squeak. “You can’t tell.”

  “I won’t tell.”

  “Well … one time, me and Troy—that’s my boyfriend—partied one night out at the Haven …”

  The Haven Motor Hotel was a notorious love nest on Highway 22, a cheapie motel for kids and cheaters. (Only heard about it; never been there.) (Honest.)

  “ … and, anyway, there was this terrible fight in the cabin next to ours. Yelling and screaming.”

  “When was this?”

  “Last month.”

  “Go on.”

  She drew in a deep breath and let it out. “Well … I was curious, you know, to see who it was? And so I peeked through the curtains. He was standing outside the cabin.”

  “He? Clint Carson?”

  “That guy—yeah.”

  “You’re sure it was Clint Carson?”

  “Oh yeah. He got around town. He was a real hound.… Anyway, at the motel? There are these yard lights—”

  “Yard lights. Okay. And?”

  Ashley swallowed. “And this woman—whoever she was—she jumped in her car and drove off, really, really pissed off.”

  I frowned. “What did she look like?”

  “I couldn’t tell … it happened so quick, and she was wearing this hoodie, and had her back to me, mostly.”

  “Why do you think it was her own car she got in?”

  “Well … for one thing, older people who go out there, married people and all? They usually go out in separate cars, and meet there. Sometimes even kids do that, just being careful. Anyway, there was this red truck, which I guessed was his.”

  “What kind of car did the woman get in?”

  “That’s why I remember, Aunt Brandy—it was a Montana, I think, like we have.”

  “And the color?”

  “Brown … also like ours.”

  “Are you sure? Could be important.”

  “Definitely.” She laughed. “I remember because I had this ridiculous thought.…”

  “What?”

  She shook her head. “It’s so silly I don’t even wanna say.”

  “What, Ash?”

  Another swallow. “I didn’t get a good look at the woman, but the way she moved … see, I only saw her from behind.”

  “Ashley—what are you getting at?”

  “It might have been my mother.” She laughed again, but it sounded almost like crying. “Isn’t that silly? Isn’t t
hat hilarious? I’m sure I just thought that, ‘cause of the car, y’know?”

  I just looked at her.

  “… You better go, Aunt Brandy.”

  I got out of the car and the little red Mustang squealed off.

  And suddenly I didn’t think Mother was crazy to want to look into Clint Carson’s murder.

  A Trash ‘n’ Treasures Tip

  Buying an antique that’s cheap because it “just needs a little fixing” is like getting a pair of slacks on sale that just need a little hemming. Before the dust settles, you’ve spent more on restoration than on the item.

  Chapter Six

  No Pain, No Vane

  The day dawned hazy, with a threat in the air of heat and humidity that was really a promise.

  In the midwest we have a saying: if you don’t like the weather, just wait a minute. The center of the country is a meteorological microcosm of the rest: we have on occasion the kind of perfect, low-humidity days thought only to be found in southern California; but we also get the kind of insufferable summer temperatures of central Florida … with the added bonus of the bone-chilling cold of northern Minnesota.

  In the heart of the heartland, you learn to appreciate the good days, settle for the bad, and never, ever get complacent.

  Complacent I wasn’t; but in a grumpy mood I was, because I dreamed that I’d spent hours in a really cute boutique where I couldn’t find anything in my size (and I had credit cards this time!).

  For those keeping score, that’s Dreamworld 876,761,800, Brandy zero.

  I was also crabby because there was no shampoo in the house, which led to me trying to wash my hair with bar soap. Man oh man, does that not work!

  But soon I climbed out of my funk. Officer Lawson had returned my car, which showed no signs of having made contact with the corpse; Mother’s wheels had, however, shown such contact, and the vehicle was still being held, pending the outcome of the inquiry into Carson’s death. (Or, as Mother put it, the murder of that horrible person who took advantage of her and who she would tell a thing or two if he weren’t the horrible person recently murdered.)