Antiques Maul: A Trash 'n' Treasures Mystery Page 18

  Hell with it. No time for history lessons. Do your own color commentary—I have a son to save.

  I wheeled into a gravel pull-off where, later today, tourists would park and then walk their leisurely way down the sloping landscape to the old gristmill.

  Only I kept right on driving, including over a border hedge and down the incline, nothing leisurely about it, and right up to the front door. Mother had worked very hard to raise money for the restoration of the old mill, so I figured the Borne girls had a perk or two coming.

  I got out of the car, the gun in my right hand—it was starting to feel really heavy now—and, finding the main door locked, circled around to the back of the mill. The stream was catching glimmers of the growing sunlight, gurgling in good-natured response, water spilling over the concrete dam to turn the huge wooden wheel, just as it had a century and a half ago, in a day where a frontier mother might take up a gun to protect her child from Native Americans who weren’t selling cigars.

  I could relate.

  The back door was unlatched, and I entered quietly, pausing to adjust my eyes to the darkness, a gloom aided and abetted by the boarded-up windows. The first floor, however, was empty…nothing more than the scarred wooden floor and few vertical beams, and a few streaks of mote-mottled sunlight finding their way in through cracks and crannies.

  Moving deeper into the room, shaking with a bizarre mingling of hope and dread, I finally tossed caution aside, and called out: “Jake! It’s Mom!”

  Almost immediately came a thump!

  Right above me.

  Off against the wall at left, I found wooden steps leading up and again caution didn’t enter in—I rattled up the ancient plank stairs, my footsteps sounding like rapid gunfire.

  On the second floor, the haphazard slats on windows weren’t keeping the sunrise out much at all, and I spotted Jake instantly—he was seated on the floor, tied to a metal grain grinder, blindfolded, and his mouth duct-taped.

  “Jake, I’m here!” I said, moving toward him.

  His head jerked my way.

  I rushed to my son, fell to my knees, set the gun on the floor, and removed the blindfold, a red western bandanna.

  He tried to talk behind the duct tape, but no words were discernible, just an urgent mumble.

  “It’s all right, sweetheart…everything’s fine now…Mother’s here….”

  But my soothing words did not have a calming effect on my son.

  If anything, his eyes revealed more terror as he continued to struggle to speak and be understood. My heart ached at the thought of the ordeal he’d suffered over these last hours.

  As I peeled off the tape, Jake shouted, “Mom! Behind you!”

  Clumsily, I whirled in a half crouch only to see Bernice Wiley—chic in a white silk blouse and cream-colored slacks—almost on top of me, holding the gun that a moment ago I had placed on the floor while I attended to Jake. Backing away, putting a good six feet between us, she wasn’t exactly pointing the weapon at us; but she wasn’t exactly not pointing it at us, either.

  Slowly, making nothing close to a sudden movement, I got to my feet, blocking my still-seated son with my body, keeping my voice level, which was a trick, I’ll admit.

  “Why, Bernice…what in heaven’s name are you doing here?”

  The forced innocence of that sounded lame even to me, and as for Bernice, nothing doing—she had a cold, calculating look as she leveled the weapon at me, witchier than any of the cauldron girls at the Haunted House.

  “Where is Lyle? Where is my son?”

  No use for pretense. “I, uh…he’s still out at Weed Park.”

  “Go on!”

  “I kind of faked him out—I left a package but I held onto the gun…the, uh, gun you’re holding on to right now.”

  “Where is Lyle, you stupid moron?”

  That was a little redundant, wasn’t it?

  “He’s in his car.”

  “In his car?”

  I wasn’t in a hurry, about filling her in. Roger and Brian should be here any moment, right?

  Right?

  “What is Lyle doing in his car, you dolt? Start making sense or—”

  “He’s locked in the trunk.” I thought it best not to elaborate, such as mentioning sonny boy’s shot-up foot.

  Bernice shook her head, gray arcs of hair swinging like scythes. “That idiot!” she said.

  Seemed like everybody was a dolt or an idiot or a moron to the director of the Serenity playhouse.

  Raging, eyes wild, she all but yelled, “I knew I should have handled this myself!”

  I risked a tiny shrug. “Look, Bernice, you’ve got what you want—that gun—and I’ve got my son…. I’ve told you where your son is, and I assure you he’s alive and…so why don’t we just write this off to a couple of moms under a good deal of stress, and just call it a day? Morning. Whatever.”

  “You’re an even less convincing actress than your ridiculous mother,” she said with a sneer. “Well, even if I believed you, it’s not that simple. Not now that you’ve seen me, here…now that you know my son took your son. You tell me, Brandy Borne—if your son faced the kind of penalties that a kidnapping brings, would you—”

  I lunged for the gun.

  A shot shattered the silence, echoing off rafters, seemingly making every board in the old building groan.

  And Bernice Wiley, knocked back a step, gasped and dropped the gun, which clunked heavily to the wooden floor. Frightened and aghast and confused, she stared down at the splotchy red circle on the left side of her blouse.

  A second shot sent the woman staggering back, her skirt splashed green now.

  “Hit ’er again, Grandma!” Jake whooped.

  Still in witch’s drag, Mother, holding Jake’s paint gun, complied with her grandson’s wishes, and hit Bernice with a shot in the forehead, which caused the kind of expression to bloom that in the old cartoons was usually accompanied by tweeting birdies. Appropriately, Bernice’s face was now splattered a gaudy purple.

  “Nice shot, Grandma!” Jake called.

  “I rather thought so,” Mother said, comically blowing on the end of the paint gun.

  Bernice was staggering, only to finally lose her balance and sit down, hard, legs sprawled, clearly dazed.

  As I untied Jake, I asked Mother, “How did you know where to find us?”

  Mother was stooping to retrieve the real gun from the floor where it had tumbled from the paintball-assaulted Bernice’s fingers.

  “Elementary, my dear Brandy,” Mother said with a patronizing smile. “I simply followed you in my own car, as soon as you left the house.”

  Jake, quickly and gladly getting to his feet, said, “But you’re not supposed to drive, Grandma.”

  Mother said, “Perhaps the court will take exception in this case. After all, it was an emergency. Anyway, Jake, you will learn that certain of society’s laws are more…guidelines.” Then she added cheerfully, “But driving again was really a treat—I’ll have to get myself one of those souped-up club cars like the other girls!”

  “If you do, Grandma,” Jake said, rubbing a wrist where duct tape had been, “you can have my GPS, and then you’ll never get lost.”

  Mother came over and patted her grandson’s head. “Why, how sweet, Jake…but, frankly, I’d rather have something else of yours.”

  Jake raised his eyebrows.

  Mother held up the paint gun. “This powerful little baby! It’s more fun than driving, any day!”

  Mother hugged Jake, and I hugged Mother and Jake.

  Then Mother broke away from us and crossed over to Bernice, still sitting on her keister, wiping purple paint out of her eyes with the tail of her blouse.

  Mother stared down at Bernice and, in her best Bette Davis voice, said, “Well! How the mighty-full-of-themselves have fallen. Looks like I’ll be the new director of the playhouse now! On the other hand, I’ve never seen you look better—real color in your cheeks, for a change.”

  Bern
ice, looking defeated beneath the purple paint, said, “I loathe you, Vivian Borne. I’ve always loathed you.”

  Mother sniffed. “How terribly unkind. I’ve always rather liked you. It was merely your acting I loathed. As long as I’ve known you, Bernice, you’ve been a bad actor—but this bad act…helping your son kidnap my grandson? You’ve outdone yourself.”

  “Mother,” I said, tugging on her sleeve. “Let’s go. We’ll leave the colorful diva here for the police.”

  “Yeah, Grandma, come on,” Jake huffed. “Let’s leave her to the law!”

  As we exited the mill and stepped out into the cool, crisp morning, we found a sun shining brightly and a sky as blue as a robin’s egg and, best of all, a small regiment mostly in shades of brown that came loping down the sloping lawn toward us: County sheriff, state troopers, along with Brian and Roger in plainclothes.

  Jake broke into a run.

  Roger, tears rolling down his face, did likewise, and father and son embraced.

  Forehead tight with concern, Brian strode over to me. “Brandy, you’re all right?”

  I nodded. “We’re all fine…but there’s a woman inside—the kidnapper’s accomplice—who might possibly need some medical attention.”

  Mother said proudly, “I pelted her with a paint gun. Three times! Might have knocked a little sense into her, but mostly just painted her the felon she is. Right about now that woman is as harmless…Oh! Who wants this?”

  And she held out the real gun by two fingers on its snout, distastefully, as if the weapon were a dead mouse she had by its tail.

  The sheriff himself took charge of the thing, and I was shaking my head and laughing a little when someone right behind me barked: “Brandy!”

  Startled, I turned and beheld a familiar figure in khaki and green-and-black war paint, his eyes glittering: Joe Lange.

  “Can I be of assistance?” he asked crisply.

  “Well, uh…no. But thanks. The sheriff and the police are taking care of the situation.”

  Frowning, his eyes swiftly scanned the perimeter. “What went down?”

  “I, uh, rescued my son from a kidnapper, Joe.”

  “Outstanding!”

  Bernice Wiley was being walked out of the mill by deputies.

  I pointed. “And that’s his accomplice, over there—see her, lady with the paint splotches?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “Well, she was the kidnapper’s accomplice. His mother actually. And my mother helped disarm and capture her.”

  He called over to Mother: “Mrs. Borne!”

  Eyes blinking behind the thick lenses, Mother said, “Why, Joseph! Nice to see you. Lovely war paint, I might say.”

  “Thank you, ma’am! Just wanted to say, first-rate job!”

  Mother, oblivious of how weird she looked in the witch’s dress, touched her hair and blushed. “Why, thank you, Joseph. Means a lot, coming from you.”

  Joe turned to me and said, “Everything seems to be squared away. But if you ever need me, I’ll be there.”

  “Right, Joe. Like the wind.”

  He smiled tightly, saluted, and said, “Remember, Brandy, I’ve always got your back!”

  “Nice to know,” I said.

  And Joe took off running, in a half crouch.

  Both Brian and Roger were looking at me.

  “Don’t ask,” I said.

  A Trash ’n’ Treasures Tip

  When having a garage sale, be sure to lock up your house. A lady I know was thrilled when she sold most of her unwanted garage sale items…until she went inside and discovered her entire collection of Hummel figurines had been stolen while she was busy with customers. There are all kinds of collectors in this world.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Eat, Sink, and Be Merry

  Less than an hour after returning home from Pine Creek Gristmill, Mother—still in the witch’s dress, which suited her sense of melodrama—was serving up a hearty breakfast buffet off an old dry sink in our dining room to a large and hungry group consisting of Brian, Roger, Jake, Peggy Sue, and myself, all salivating (in the most genteel fashion, of course) around the Duncan Phyfe table.

  As Mother placed a plate of her famous crepes with boysenberries and powdered sugar in front of Brian, she said, somewhat disappointedly, “Too bad the sheriff and his deputies couldn’t join us…the more the merrier, I always say….”

  Mother, of course, would’ve loved to have a larger audience for the “Big Reveal,” i.e., the explanation she had promised us of what had transpired over the last few days. With all of the Nero Wolfe audios we’d been listening to lately, not to mention the Stout novels the Red-Hatted League had been reading, I figured we were in for one of what Archie Goodwin called Wolfe’s “charades.”

  Brian managed to look up from the steaming, fragrant plate to smile wryly. “Why do I think I’m here, just so you can pump me for information, Mrs. Borne?”

  Mother, taking no serving for herself and then settling into the only empty chair at the table (at the head, of course), pretended to be hurt.

  “Why, Officer Lawson,” she said, “I’m dismayed that you question my motives…. As a matter of fact, I just may be able to tell you a thing or two about the murder of Mrs. Norton, and the kidnapping of Jake—which are related, of course.”

  Brian blinked and said, “We’ve been working on the Norton case as a homicide, but we haven’t released that fact to the media. How did you deduce the mauling was a murder?”

  Mother had blossomed into a smile at the officer’s use of the word “deduce.”

  “Now, let’s not get ahead of ourselves, young man. Eat your breakfast—we’ll save crow for dessert.”

  Brian shook his head, laughed good-naturedly, and dug in.

  “If you don’t mind, Viv,” Roger said, looking stern, “I’d like to start. I want to ask my son just what he was doing with that gun”—he shifted from Mother to Jake—“and how did you get it?”

  All eyes went to Jake, who choked on a mouthful of food—whether the bite was too big, or guilt had tightened his gullet, I won’t venture to say.

  Jake swallowed, then said sheepishly, “I…I didn’t take it or anything. I found it.”

  His father, still stern, demanded, “Where did you find it?”

  “In that cigar store Indian statue thing. It has a secret compartment and stuff. Ask Mom.”

  I said crossly, “I distinctly remember asking you if anything else was in there besides the statue’s cigar.”

  Jake spread his hands, a fork in one. “I didn’t lie to you, Mom. I didn’t say, ‘No, there isn’t anything else in there,’ I said, ‘Do you see anything else in there?’”

  Nobody can split hairs like a ten-year-old.

  “You mean after you’d already removed the gun,” I said.

  “Well…yeah. But it still wasn’t a lie, right?”

  “Not technically,” I said. “But you misled me, on purpose, which is the same thing.”

  Jake shot back, “Well, you did take my paint gun away!”

  “Son,” Roger said sharply, “you know a real gun is hardly a paint gun.”

  “Well, yeah. Sure. I just…it was an impulse, okay? I know I shouldn’t have done it, but after I did it, what could I do about it?”

  That, too, was the kind of bewildering but at heart utterly accurate statement that only a ten-year-old could make.

  His father said, “Your mother did the right thing, taking that paint gun away—you shot it inside, at that helpless dog, didn’t you?”

  Jake’s eyes were starting to tear up.

  I gave Roger a look, and he said to his son, “Jake…I’m not going to beat up on you. All I ask is you reflect on one thing—that none of this would have happened if you hadn’t taken that weapon.”

  His chin crinkling, Jake said, “You mean you’re not gonna beat up on me except saying that everything’s all my fault!”

  Mother jumped to her grandson’s defense. “Just a moment…let’s not for
get who is really to blame—a certain Lyle Wiley, who hid the gun in the statue in the first place, believing it to be a safe hiding place…. And imagine his surprise when, after his recent return from a stay up the river, he discovered that not only had his mother, Bernice, given me that statue, but Brandy and I had put it in our booth to sell.”

  I said, “So your suspicions were right, Mother—Lyle Wiley killed Mrs. Norton.”

  My sister’s forehead creased. “Didn’t a pit bull do that?” she asked. “How can a mauling by an animal be a murder?”

  Mother was shaking her head. “Lyle broke into the antiques mall to retrieve the gun, only to have Mrs. Norton interrupt him in the act. He killed the poor woman by hitting her on the head with an antique iron—which he snatched from nearby booth number twelve. Then he used an old hand rake—from booth fourteen—to make it appear as if the bit bull had mauled her to death.”

  “My God,” Roger said.

  “How awful,” Peggy Sue murmured.

  “The Scarlet Claw,” I said.

  Everybody looked at me curiously, except Mother, whose smile was knowing.

  I said, “Last night Mother referred to The Scarlet Claw—it’s an old Sherlock Holmes movie with Basil Rathbone. You see—”

  “Spoiler alert!” Mother blurted.

  I sighed and went on: “The murderer used a garden implement to imitate the claw of a Baskervilles-type hound, and divert blame and attention from himself.”

  Peggy Sue mused aloud, “Whatever was Mrs. Norton doing there so late at night?”

  Mother waved a dismissive hand. “Maybe she was still somewhere in the building and had never gone home that evening. She was a workhorse, cleaning and putting up signs and generally being a benign mother hen…or perhaps someone called her about seeing a light on in the building and she went to investigate…we may never know. Have you learned anything on that score, Officer Lawson?”

  “No,” he admitted. “But Mrs. Norton was known to work there late at night, doing just the sort of things you said. It was a new business and she was putting her all into it.”