Antiques Flee Market Page 16

  “Besides,” I said, “you made the decision thirty years ago about how things were going to be, and I don’t see any reason for them to change. You’re to remain my sister, and Bob is my brother-in-law, and Ashley’s my niece, and Mother is…well…Mother.”

  Peggy Sue searched my face for a long moment, then said, “All right. If that’s the way you want it.”

  “It is.” Then I narrowed my eyes and I held up a lecturing finger, as if she were the wayward child and I the stern mother. “Except for one thing—I expect you to start behaving like a supportive sister, and not a disappointed mother, which is how you’ve always treated me.” I paused, adding, “You gave up the right to mother me a long, long time ago.”

  Her eyes tightened just a little. But if Peggy Sue felt hurt, she otherwise buried it.

  “All right, Brandy,” she said. “But it’s got to be a two-way street. You haven’t exactly been supportive of me, either. You’re condescending and cruel and far more judgmental than I’ve ever been.”

  I couldn’t deny that.

  “Deal,” I said, and stuck out my hand.

  “Deal,” she said.

  And my biological mother and I shook on it.

  “Maybe it’s about time we accept each other for who we are,” I said. “Warts and all.”

  Peggy Sue smiled and nodded, and started the van.

  “By the way…did you name me Brandy?”

  Sis shot me a disparaging look. “Me? Name you after a kind of liquor? Hardly.”

  “What name did you want?”

  “Chastity.”

  I gave her an appalled look, and then we both began laughing, laughing so hard she had to pull over again until we’d both wiped the tears from our eyes.

  Mother, wrapped in her raccoon coat, was waiting for us on the porch as Sis pulled her van into the drive; Mother waved animatedly, and we waved back, smiling for her benefit.

  I thanked Sis for the ride, then got out, and stood in the drive watching Peggy Sue back out in to the street. I felt pretty good, considering. A page had been turned.

  “Hurry up, dear!” Mother called to me. “Everything’s ready inside.”

  I could only guess what that meant, although I had a fair idea. Ever since I was little, whenever I’d been seriously sick or injured, Mother had put on a private little party for me. This consisted of the two of us watching a movie together (choose one or more: Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, Monty Python and the Holy Grail, Caddyshack, Meatballs, and, newest on the list, Waiting for Guffman, although Mother doesn’t find that movie quite as hilarious as I do). Mother would also make a delicious frosted cake, and popcorn balls, and, more than often, I’d eat too much and get sick all over again.

  I was halfway up the porch steps when Sushi came flying out the front door, yapping in joy at my return. I picked Soosh up, snuggling my face in her soft fur, and she—in her excitement—peed on the front of my ski jacket.

  Welcome home!

  Inside, Mother held me out with both hands, her eyes huge behind her lenses as she searched for any defects, the way she’d look for cracks in a piece of carnival glass.

  “You seem fine, dear,” Mother concluded, with no mention of the piddled-on coat.

  “I am,” I said, removing the thing. “A little sluggish, maybe.”

  “Peggy Sue didn’t want to stay?” It was unclear whether Mother was disappointed or glad.

  “She thought she could still make her bridge game.”

  “Well, then,” Mother said, and clapped her hands. “It will be just us Three Musketeers…. Showtime in ten minutes!”

  I had to admit I was looking forward to watching one of my favorite comedies with Mother, whose laughter was surprisingly genuine and as contagious as a cold, but I was pretty sure Musketeer Sushi would last only as long as the food held out.

  I went upstairs, took a quick shower, then slipped on some comfy gray sweats. Below, I could hear Mother clomping around, punctuated by what sounded like furniture legs screeching, and I could only wonder what in the world she was up to.

  When I came downstairs, Mother was standing in front of the French doors of the music room, beckoning me to hurry. Sushi was dancing at her feet, caught up in the excitement.

  I couldn’t imagine what Mother had planned for my homecoming—a gathering of my best gal pals, perhaps champagne and caviar, maybe a male stripper—but what I saw entering the music room wasn’t even close.

  I turned to Mother, aghast. “You made me a clubhouse? What am I, twelve?”

  She had taken the Duncan Phyfe dining room chairs, formed a semicircle, and thrown a blanket over them.

  “I would say eternally eleven,” Mother said with a hurt, stricken look. “I just thought it would be fun for watching our movie—after all, the Queen Anne couch isn’t terribly comfortable.”

  True. Victorian furniture was apparently originally designed to weed out the nonserious suitors. (Even as an adult, I always sat cross-legged on the floor for my at-home televison viewing.)

  “Is there room in there for all three of us?” I asked.

  “Of course!” Mother folded back a corner of the blanket for a door. “Come and see….”

  I bent and looked in. Mother had dragged in cushions and pillows along with a buffet of goodies stored in stacked Tupperware containers.

  “Well…it does look cozy,” I admitted.

  Mother smiled. “Then why don’t you and Sushi get settled while I start the movie?”

  Sushi had already beaten me inside, settling on one of the pillows nearest the food, natch. I got comfortable on my side, and watched Mother through the opening while she inserted a tape in the player, then crawled into the playhouse to join us, her knees creaking as she came.

  “Are you ready, dear?” she asked, the remote aimed at the TV like a cowboy with a Peacemaker.

  “Yup.”

  The movie began, the opening shot being the outside of a convenience store gas station.

  “What is this?” I asked. “Clerks?” I’d never seen the cult hit, but knew it took place at a 7/11-type shop.

  Mother gave me a cat-that-ate-the-canary smile.

  “Oh, I know,” I said. “This is that indie movie shot here a few years ago—the one about a convenience store robbery.”

  Mother’s smile turned even slier, which only made me irritated.

  “Well, what is it?” I asked. There still had been no credits, the opening shot of the gas pumps going on forever!

  “Security cam footage,” Mother said smugly. “From outside the South End convenience store.”

  “What? Why? How the heck did you get it?”

  “Never you mind,” she sniffed. “The point is, this tape will reveal who killed Walter Yeager, because we can see every car that goes in and out of the trailer park.”

  I sat up. “But, Mother…we already know it was Joe. I hate to admit it, but the evidence—”

  “We’re about to look at the best evidence in this case,” Mother said, shaking her head vigorously. “I spoke with the boy yesterday at the jail. Walter was already dead when he got there! That means someone else paid Walter a visit, sometime earlier that morning. All Joe did was impulsively snatch up that rare book.”

  I considered that. Could Mother be right? Much as I hated to admit it (and didn’t, not out loud), her gut feelings were often on target.

  I asked, “How many hours are we looking at?”

  “Oh, not many.”

  “Define ‘not many.’”

  “Only about four.”

  “Only about four?”

  “Yes, dear—from when the store opened that morning at six until Joe arrived sometime after ten.”

  “Oh, brother…that’s gonna take a while….”

  “Think of it as a double feature, dear,” Mother said cheerfully, ever the pragmatic lunatic.

  Mother produced a legal pad and pen from beneath one of the pillows, and handed them to me. “Here.”

  “What’s this for?”r />
  “So you can make notes.”

  “What kind of notes?”

  She looked at me like I was daft. “Why, the cars that go in and out, of course. Now, this is serious detective work, so just relax and have fun.”

  “There could be hundreds of cars!” I gestured to the TV screen. “And I can’t tell what color they are, from that black-and-white tape. Honestly, Mother, this is a waste of time.”

  Her nose twitched, like a rabbit detecting a skunk in the neighborhood. “So that’s your attitude? Don’t you want to prove that your friend Joe didn’t do it? Do you have so many friends that you can afford to cast one to the fates?”

  “Well, of course I’d like to help clear Joe,” I said. I nodded toward the screen again. “But maybe all we can prove is that he did do it.”

  “If he did do it, dear, we have to tell the police. I hope you’re not asking me to withhold evidence.”

  I sighed. What could I do with this woman?

  “Start the show,” I said.

  We proceeded thusly: Mother watched the tape, calling out “Pontiac Grand AM—in,” or “Ford truck—out,” while I wrote it down. Sometimes, Mother wouldn’t know the make of the car, and would stop and rewind the tape, and I would take a shot at identifying the vehicle. Then, after a half hour or so, we switched jobs—me watching, Mother writing. But fifteen minutes into my shift of watching, I heard a snore and looked over to see Mother asleep, her head resting on the thinnest possible pillow: her legal pad.

  I paused the image, and was thinking about taking a snooze myself when the doorbell sounded.

  Sushi, who had also been conked out, gave a yap, and Mother woke with a snort.

  “Want me to get it?” I asked, stopping the tape.

  “No, dear, it could be a package for you for Christmas that I don’t want you to see. The mailman hasn’t been here yet. He’s way behind on his deliveries.”

  Now, I happened to know that I was getting a new pair of ice skates, because she’d told me not two minutes ago (Mother talked in her sleep). But I didn’t burst her bubble.

  “Fine,” I said, “I’ll take a food break.”

  Which caused a dilemma for Sushi.

  Mother had mentioned “mailman,” and he always gave Sushi a dog treat, but then again I had uttered that magicest of magic words: “food.”

  The doorbell ringing again, however, was too strong a conditioned reflex for the pooch, and she made a dash for the front door. Mother crawled out of the clubhouse, grunting and groaning like a felled elephant trying to get to its feet.

  I reached for the container of yummy Danish cake. A minute or so later, I was nosily licking frosting off my digits when a pair of black shiny shoes beneath neatly creased gray trousers appeared at the blanket door of the clubhouse.

  “Brandy…?”

  I froze, a sticky finger in my mouth.

  The trousered legs knelt and revealed a starched white shirt, followed by the stupefied face of Chief Tony Cassato.

  Mortified, embarrassed beyond belief, I could think of nothing to do except bring the chief down to my childish level.

  I said, “You can’t come in without the password.”

  “What’s the password?”

  “Pee-Wee’s Playhouse.”

  “Okay. Pee-Wee’s Playhouse…although I would have thought Mickey Mouse.”

  “Wrong generation. Too young for Annette, too old for Britney.” I scooted over to make room for the chief, who—and I could hardly believe my eyes—had started to crawl in.

  “Can’t wear shoes, though,” I stopped him. “Sorry, it’s a rule.”

  Tony sat back on his haunches, began to undo the laces. “Any other rules I should know about?”

  “Normally, it’s no boys allowed. But there’s an exception for chiefs, usually Indian, but you get in on a technicality.”

  “That all?”

  “Well, there’s absolutely no admonishing, criticizing, lecturing, or otherwise upsetting the clubhouse owner—namely me. I’ll let you know if you break any other rules.”

  “Okay.” Tony was inside now, and sat cross-legged, his head poking at the roof of the blanket.

  I said, “You are by far the most prestigious guest we’ve ever had in the clubhouse. What brings you here?”

  “I knew you were getting out of the hospital today. Just wanted to see how you’re doing.”

  “How does it look like I’m doing?”

  Tony glanced around. “Not sure that blow to your head didn’t rattle a few marbles. I hope this was your mother’s idea.”

  “Of course. She still treats me like a child.”

  “I wonder why.”

  I frowned. “That would be considered admonishing. Sarcasm is admonishing. I can get you the rule book, if you insist.”

  “Sorry.” He reached out and touched my nose. “Sorry. Some stray frosting….”

  “Is it off?”

  He nodded.

  I gestured to the food—or what remained of it. “Would you like something to eat? You can have cake with my finger-marks on it, or popcorn balls that Sushi licked. The latter is probably a little more sanitary.”

  “Nothing, thanks.”

  Sushi trotted in at the mention of her name (or cake or popcorn balls) and stood on Tony’s thigh, tail wagging. Then she got up on her hind legs and gave his cheek a wet, pink-tongued kiss, before settling down in the space between his knees. She had a soft spot for the chief, associating him with Rudy, the K-9 drug-sniffing dog, the love of her life.

  “How’s Joe doing?” I asked.

  “Out of lockup, but in the psychiatric pod.”

  Back when I was respectable and responsible, I had helped initiate the separation of the mentally ill from the general prison population at the new jail.

  I said, “Joe’s in a lot of trouble, isn’t he?”

  Tony responded, “If by that you mean weapons in a state park, resisting arrest, kidnapping and assault—”

  “I won’t press charges!”

  “You have no choice,” Tony said flatly. “He’s transgressed against the city of Serenity and the state of Iowa.”

  “I didn’t hear you list murder.”

  The chief shook his head. “No. That’s not on the list…at the moment.”

  I asked uneasily, “You did find the cyanide pills?” I didn’t want to add “attempted murder” to Joe’s litany of troubles by telling the chief my friend had tried to force one on me.

  Tony frowned. “If you mean the capsules in his duffel bag, they were analyzed as gelatin.”

  I gaped at him. “You mean the kind of stuff people take to grow their nails out?”

  He nodded.

  And I laughed. Then I laughed some more—so hard, in fact, tears of laughter ran down my face. Then the laughter tears turned to real tears and my body shook uncontrollably.

  “Brandy, what is it?” Tony asked.

  “Joe said it was—” I choked, and tried again. “He tried to make me—”

  “Good God….”

  “He said we couldn’t be taken alive.”

  Alarmed, the chief slipped an arm around my shoulder, and I put my head on his chest and bawled.

  After maybe a minute I calmed down, and pulled away, leaving his white shirt not so crisply pressed.

  I sniffed, “I guess I hadn’t dealt with that yet.”

  Tony dug into a pants pocket and gave me his handkerchief.

  I sniffed again, “You know, I already have two of these you gave me….”

  Tony grunted a little, then said, “You’ll be all right?”

  “Yeah. Fine.”

  He checked his watch. “Look, I’ve got to go….” He seemed to hesitate.

  “I’m fine…really.”

  He nodded.

  Sushi, sensing Tony was leaving, got out of the chief’s way so he could put on his shoes.

  I crawled out of the clubhouse with him and we stood in front of the TV.

  I said, “I’ll see you out
….”

  “No need.” He was already on the move, but paused at the French doors to the music room and glanced back.

  “By the way, that security tape? I want it this afternoon. I’d take it now, but we’re short on manpower. Let me know if you find anything interesting.”

  My face turned beet-red.

  Then, as he strode past Mother in the living room, I heard him ask her, “Justin Timberlake?”

  What was that about?

  After the chief had gone, Mother made a beeline to me.

  “How did he know we had that tape?” Mother asked astonished, her eyes-behind-the-glasses big and unblinking.

  I smirked humorlessly. “He is the top cop around here. And what’s this about Justin Timberlake?”

  Mother sidestepped my question with a grunt. “I categorically detest that man!”

  “Justin Timberlake?”

  “No! Anthony Cassato! He’s hiding something!”

  “Well, he seems to value our input on this case,” I said. “Otherwise he would’ve immediately confiscated our tape.”

  Her frown disappeared. “On the other hand, I’ve always known he has some wonderful qualities.”

  Mother’s opinion could turn on a dime, just like her thought processes.

  “You two were in there a long time,” she said slyly, with a nod toward the clubhouse. “Did he kiss you?”

  “What? No! Why would you ask that?”

  “No slap and tickle?”

  “Mother!”

  “Dear…please. Surely you know the man’s in love with you.”

  “Now that’s just ridiculous.”

  Mother shrugged. “Yes, but then there’s no accounting for some men’s taste.”

  “I meant ridiculous even for you!”

  “I’m far too old for Chief Cassato, dear.”

  I took a deep breath. Let it out. “Can we please get back to the tape?”

  “If you wish…but let’s use the chairs. If I bent back down and crawled in the clubhouse again, I fear I might never get back on my feet.”

  While I dismantled the clubhouse, Mother rewound the tape. Then we settled into chairs, me holding the pad, my pen poised for recording.

  “Oh, damn!” Mother said.

  “What?”

  “I went back too far….”

  The outside lights of the convenience store were on, indicating it was dark.