Antiques Fire Sale Read online

  This was Mother’s “wrap-up” meeting—just like the end of nearly every episode of her beloved Perry Mason TV series, when Perry and Paul and Della would tie up the loose ends over cups of coffee. In this case, the coffee had been carted over by yours truly from Elly’s Tea Shop, along with a half dozen of her wonderful homemade fruit-filled white-icinged croissants, both apple and cherry. (Elly, nice though she is, would not share the recipe. Sorry!)

  Benjamin Wentworth was currently occupying a private cell elsewhere in this building, being held for the murders of James Sutter and Miguel Ricardo; his arraignment was scheduled for later today. Tire-track casts, taken at both Leon’s trailer (where James had been hiding out) and the gravel pit (where Miguel had been killed) matched the tires on Wentworth’s Mercedes.

  Clifford Reed had been questioned about his possible involvement in the scheme to defraud the insurance company (which he denied through his lawyer) and released pending further investigation by the police department. This was likely temporary, in part because insurance investigators would soon be scrutinizing the claim for possible fraud.

  Evelyn Snydacker was also questioned regarding her knowledge of the invoices made by James, and—other than receiving unwanted publicity for herself and the Historical Preservation Society—was unlikely to suffer any further repercussions.

  Gavin Sutter was cleared of any criminal involvement, the stepson having more to lose than gain by the destruction of the mansion, whose policy had lapsed.

  Rocking back in her swivel chair, Mother asked, “Anything yet on the cause of the fire?”

  “Still inconclusive,” Tony said with a shrug. “But evidence points to the living room and the use of gasoline.”

  Nodding, Deputy Chen said, “Not very imaginative, maybe, but that approach would insure the most destruction. And wasn’t the bedroom, where Leon was found, directly above?”

  “It was indeed,” Mother said. Then, to Tony: “Speaking of fire and destruction, you said you had information on that propane tank that gave me a nasty surprise.”

  The chief shrugged again. “Apparently that was an accident.”

  “Really?” Mother asked. “No one meant to do me GBH?” She seemed disappointed. GBH, by the way, is Grievous Bodily Harm—she watches a lot of U.K. crime shows.

  Tony went on, “Seems a faulty lamp in the bedroom sparked a fire that went through the trailer’s back wall right next to the tank, which had a leak in the service valve. Didn’t take much.”

  I looked at Mother. “I don’t remember a light being on in the bedroom when we arrived to look for Leon.”

  She returned the look. “It wasn’t. I turned the lamp on when I went back there to make a more thorough search.”

  Tony shifted in his chair. “On another note? I got the report from the Chicago PD on their interview with Alek Wozniak. You were right on the money, Vivian, about Miguel having contacted Leon’s old cellmate to sell the vase.” He shook his head, smiled ruefully. “Miguel’s mistake was selling the vase to an antiques store instead of a fence. Brandy’s noticing it on the Internet started everything to unravel.”

  I would have said, “You’re welcome,” just to get Mother’s goat a little, if only my mouth hadn’t been full of cherry croissant.

  Deputy Chen swung toward Tony. “What’s going to happen to the Wentworth antiques?”

  “May I?” Mother asked.

  “Be my guest, Sheriff,” Tony replied with a wave of a hand.

  “Charles,” she said, “do you remember me mentioning that Jimmy’s late wife, Diane, is a shirttail relation of the Wentworths?”

  “Yes,” the deputy said, nodding.

  “Well, since Benjamin has no direct heirs, and his young wife very likely knew about the stolen furniture, and will be lucky not to be hauled in as an accomplice before or after the fact . . . I’m betting the swag will go to Diane’s side of her family.”

  Chen said, “Something poetic about that.”

  Everyone agreed, including yours truly, who was on the verge of getting reckless by following a cherry croissant with an apple one.

  The police chief and the sheriff seemed on the same page, for once. But, as they say in books (like this one), little did I know....

  * * *

  Let us fast-forward three weeks to the opening night of The Voice of the Turtle. Word had gotten around that Mother had had her way with the dialogue, as well as turning the play into a musical. So every seat in the auditorium was filled, all and sundry waiting in anticipation for the spectacle that was surely to follow.

  Even though Mother had taken on a new stage manager, I opted to help out backstage rather than sit out in the audience. I’d witnessed rehearsals, suffering through Mother’s risible rewrites of public domain songs and Gladys’s stilted amateur-night-at-Dixie performance, and did not care to watch Mother face the humiliation she had caused herself. Or maybe I just dreaded the guilt by association.. . .

  Cue the overture!

  A medley—played adequately by a combo of trumpet, clarinet, bass, and drums—of “I’m Just Wild About Harry,” “Toot, Toot, Tootsie,” “April Showers,” “Beautiful Dreamer,” “The Bells of St. Mary’s”—concluded with a rousing rendition of “Alexander’s Ragtime Band.” Al Jolson and Bing Crosby fans should be giddy already.

  Curtain up.

  Polite applause, as Sally (Kimberly) manically rushes around straightening her apartment, while she rehearses aloud a scene from Romeo and Juliet.

  The doorbell rings, a guest has arrived—her sexy pal Olive, Gladys making her first non-banking-lecture public appearance . . . her debut in a key role in a play.

  Despite Mother’s coaching, and the assistance of a platinum blond wig and sexy wardrobe, the bank teller’s acting had not improved over these weeks. Watching from the wings, I held my breath, certain that the inevitable stage fright would take the woman from mediocrity to catastrophe.

  Sally opens the door, greets her friend, but Olive just stands there frozen, an odd expression on her face. Had Gladys forgotten her simple first line? I see Mother, hidden behind the prop wall, about to feed the two words to her when, suddenly, magically, Olive seems to transform physically, now taller, oozing confidence, as she speaks the few words, then saunters provocatively into the apartment, one hand on a swaying hip.

  Sally asks how her friend is, and after Olive reports that she’s good, she adlibs in a Mae West manner, “But when I’m bad, I’m better.”

  The audience—mostly unfamiliar with the play—looks on in surprised delight. Seen from my vantage point in the wings, Mother merely looks surprised.

  Kimberly, to her credit, stays in character, continuing on with her dialogue, although I could detect confusion in her eyes.

  Olive takes in the apartment, delivers her line about how big it is, then adlibs again, “And you know how I like ’em real big.”

  Which brought a few chuckles from the house.

  When Sally laments that she hasn’t been able to get ahold of her actress friend for a while, Olive says that’s because she’s been busy performing split weeks and one-night stands. Then Olive/Gladys adlibs again, rolling her eyes upward, “Did I mention one-night stands?”

  Some real laughs now.

  Mother was next to me, hiss-whispering in my ear. “What’s she doing?”

  I whispered back, “What you told her to do.”

  “I never told Gladys to impersonate Mae West!” She was frowning, but in confusion. “Although, I have to admit she’s doing an astonishingly good job of it.”

  Then it came to me.

  I whispered to Mother, “Remember the suggestion Tilda gave Gladys under hypnosis? At your bidding? I told you that you should have been more specific. Mae West probably was the most successful actress ever to ‘trod the boards’!”

  Mother moaned. “Why couldn’t the girl have gone with Bette Davis, or Meryl Streep, or Bernadette Peters?”

  More laughter was coming from the audience.

 
“No idea,” I said. “But Mae West sure seems to be stealing the show.”

  Mother grew thoughtful. “This isn’t what I had in mind . . . but I’ll settle. And you’re right about Mae West—she was a successful stage actress. Even wrote her own plays.”

  “Well, she’s rewriting a lot of this one.”

  Rather than give you, the reader, a play-by-play of the rest of the play, I think the reviewer for the Serenity Sentinel summed it up rather well in the paper the next morning.

  THE VOICE OF . . . MAE WEST?

  by Sheila Walden

  A ground-breaking performance of The Voice of the Turtle was given last night at the Serenity Playhouse to a packed house. Sheriff Vivian Borne, the director, took breathtaking liberties with the old warhorse of a play, bringing it into the twenty-first century, updating the out-of-fashion and sometimes politically incorrect dialogue, plus (gasp) adding musical numbers. While there sometimes seemed to be two different plays going on—a straight love story between characters Sally and Bill; and a wacky comedy with Sally’s best friend, Olive—this critic admits to being conflicted on whether the strategy worked or not. But the audience seemed to love it.

  Familiar old songs—with new Vivian Borne–penned lyrics (!)—were scattered throughout, and while the three principals gave Beyoncé and Johnny Legend little to worry about, their very amateurishness only added to the play’s cockeyed charm. Was this a stroke of genius by the notoriously eccentric director, or early onset dementia?

  Kimberly Summers, a familiar staple of the Playhouse, gave a nice performance as Sally, while Zefross Jackson, playing Bill, brought realism as a vet home on leave from Afghanistan.

  But it was newcomer Gladys Gooch who stole the show, playing her part à la Mae West, complete with ad-libbed, double entendre lines, some sassily spoken as asides to the delight of the audience (my favorite, “I used to be Snow White, but I drifted.”). When Miss Gooch was not onstage, the play occasionally lagged, while everyone waited for the delightful actress to reappear. She has a great future ahead of her, so a change in name might be considered.

  The estate of the late John Van Druten was contacted about the changes made to the play, and a brief statement was issued through their lawyer: “No permission was given for any changes to the play, and further productions not in compliance with the original material will be swiftly met with legal action.”

  Ouch. So it appears that what happened last night at the Playhouse stays at the Playhouse . . . and in the memories of those fortunate enough to have seen it.

  Mother, having read the review out loud, folded the paper.

  We were in the dining room, seated at the Duncan Phyfe table, enjoying a leisurely Sunday brunch of Danish smorgasbord—cold meats, shrimp and herring, cheeses, and thinly sliced buttered bread. Plus coffee, of course.

  “Well,” Mother said, looking pleased. “I think the Sentinel has redeemed itself with that intelligent review, after panning me in the past.”

  “Really?” I said. “Some of those compliments were pretty left-handed. Your sanity seemed to be questioned, for example.”

  “Even the best reviews often have a barb or two. Anyway, I think I came off quite well, as did the play.” She frowned. “Too bad the Van Druten estate put the kibosh on future productions. I think my version could have gone all the way to Broadway.”

  Or a courtroom.

  Mother shrugged. “But that’s their loss. In revenue, I mean.” She smiled. “After all, it’s still available.”

  “How is it still available?” I slipped Sushi a piece of cheese beneath the table.

  Mother’s eyes gazed ceilingward. “Why, it’s up in the clouds, dear.”

  “Cloud. One cloud, and it’s not even a real cloud. So—you had the performance recorded and uploaded?”

  Her smile meant to be enigmatic and wasn’t. “Let’s just say I may have anticipated problems. Joe did quite a nice job from the balcony with his little HD camera.”

  “You’ll have to take it down.”

  She gestured grandly. “Too late for that—by now it’s spread beyond the clouds, to the sun, and the moon and the stars. A rather nice analogy, don’t you think?”

  The doorbell rang.

  “That’ll be Tony,” I said, pushing back my chair. “He texted me he was dropping by.”

  I went out through the living room to let him in, Sushi beating me there, pawing at his legs as soon as he’d stepped in.

  On his day off, Tony was casually dressed, jeans and a navy sweatshirt, but neither had a wrinkle or frayed thread. Even his tennies looked new. Why did such a perfect man put up with imperfect me? Although he gave me a smile, something behind it stopped me from giving him any more than a quick kiss.

  Tony stooped and picked up Sushi, who then licked his face, not caring that something was behind his smile.

  “Had lunch?” I asked.

  “Late breakfast,” he said. “But I’ll take coffee.”

  “No problem.”

  I led the way to the dining room, where the chief greeted the sheriff, then he sat across from her.

  “Quite a nice review,” Tony said, nodding at the folded paper resting on the table. “I’m sorry I had to work through the evening and miss it.”

  Mother chirped, “Oh, but you can still see it—ouch!”

  My foot had found its way to her shin.

  Tony’s eyebrows drew together. “Where can I see it?”

  Mother cleared her throat. “Why, you can picture it perfectly in your mind’s eye, if you’d like me to give you a detailed rendition, which I’m happy to do.”

  “Perhaps later,” he said, distracted.

  I handed Tony a cup of coffee with a little cream and sugar.

  Mother, sensing now that his visit wasn’t entirely a social one, asked, “Something on your mind, Chief?”

  He took a sip, then set the cup down. “Yesterday, Commissioner Gordon called me to his office. Seems he’s very unhappy with you, Vivian.”

  “Oh, really?” Mother asked innocently. “Why would that be?”

  Tony gave her a hard stare. “You know why. The damage to the municipal golf course, which the county will have to pay for, is just the start.”

  Mother waved a hand. “Oh, that. Many a community has to pay for tidying up after a high-speed chase.”

  “Speaking of high-speed chases—at around fifteen miles per hour?—there’s the little matter of a golf cart you damaged beyond repair. The personal property of Mr. and Mrs. Clyde Van Dusen?”

  She frowned. “Van Druten, you say?”

  “Van Dusen.”

  Another dismissive wave. “That vehicle was an antiquated model. The county will see that they get a new one. Happy outcome all around.”

  Tony went on: “And there’s your breaking into Leon’s trailer—”

  “I had probable cause,” Mother interrupted. “He hadn’t shown up for work.”

  Tony was shaking his head. “Not cause enough. If his truck had been there and he hadn’t answered the door, then possibly you could justify it.”

  Mother grunted. “What else?”

  “How about your manhandling Evelyn Snydacker at the country club?”

  “Well,” Mother said defensively, “she lied to me!”

  “That’s no excuse for dragging her from the room by the arm in front of dozens of witnesses.”

  “Is she pressing charges?”

  He paused, then admitted, “No . . . but that kind of behavior is unacceptable coming from a law enforcement officer.”

  Mother drew herself up. “Chief Cassato, I was trying to solve several murders at the time, as you may recall. And if a few rules got bent, and some toes got stepped on, well . . . it’s nothing that can’t be fixed.”

  “I’m afraid that isn’t the case. This time, too much has happened for there to be any fix.”

  I’d been quiet until now. “What are you saying?”

  He glanced at me, then back at Mother. “The county board of s
upervisors is recommending impeachment.”

  Mother frowned. “Can they do that?”

  “They can. You’re an elected official.”

  “And my odds of weathering that indignity?”

  The chief didn’t answer.

  Mother stood slowly, then crossed to the windows facing the backyard, where she stood gazing out.

  A full minute passed while Tony and I exchanged puzzled looks.

  Then Mother turned to us. “You know, producing that play made me realize just how much I missed the thee-ah-tah. The roar of the grease paint, the smell of the crowd! It’s always been my life’s blood. And, quite frankly, this job as sheriff has not been what I thought it would be . . . what with all the written reports, and official duties, and constraining rules and regulations that hamper my investigations.”

  Mother was a formidable poker player, and knew when to hold ’em.

  And when to fold ’em.

  She returned to the table and sat. “Perhaps certain arrangements could be made, Chief Cassato. The county might possibly not wish to go through the embarrassment of an impeachment, which I would fight and would most certainly survive—remember Teflon Bill!”

  Quietly, Tony asked, “What kind of arrangements did you have in mind?”

  “I would take early retirement.”

  Her reign had been only four and a half months.

  Tony barely nodded. “Anything else?”

  “A retirement party.”

  “I think that’s doable.”

  “Plus, I’m to be given an honorary position as a county deputy, with no pay and no duties, of course, but a special badge.”

  He squinted at her. “What kind of special badge?”

  I quipped, “Like the ones The Wizard of Oz gave out?”

  “Very droll, Brandy,” Mother replied. “No. Something honorary that holds authority, so people think they have to answer my questions, even if they technically don’t. Something I can brandish by way of an I.D. in the unlikely event that I might at some future date become involved as an amateur sleuth in, say, a murder investigation.”