8 Antiques Con Read online

  Sushi gave out a little whimper, bothered by all the big city hubbub, and I held her tighter.

  “Welcome to the Hotel Pennsylvania,” someone said.

  A doorman had materialized, smartly attired in a black uniform with red stripes around his coat cuffs and down his pant legs. Middle-aged, with reddish hair, a ruddy complexion, and friendly smile, he cut an impressive figure.

  But the most impressive thing about him? He gave but a brief glance at Mother’s handcuffed briefcase, no doubt having seen much stranger things in his line of work.

  “Thanks for the welcome,” I said.

  Mother beamed at him, just a little less crazily than Norman Bates’s mama at the end of Psycho. “It’s a pleasure to be here at . . .” And shaking a forefinger in the air, yowza style, she sang, “Pennsylvania six five thousand!”

  Then Mother, in response to my horrified expression, waiting a beat for the Andrews Sisters to turn over in their graves, said defensively, “It’s a Glenn Miller tune, dear. Very popular, back in the day. After the hotel’s phone number?”

  The doorman smiled gamely. “We do get that from time to time. But you’re the first one to mention it today, ma’am.”

  “Do I win a prize?” Mother chirped. “A discount coupon perhaps, or a hotel beanie?”

  The game smile turned a trifle strained. “I’m afraid not.”

  Sushi yapped her impatience.

  And I yapped mine: “Mother, could we please get checked in? Soosh needs to be fed and to get her insulin shot, and I’m hungry, too.”

  Mother thought about whether to frown or to smile, decided on the latter, and said, “Very well, dear, we could all do with some vittles.”

  If you like, you can just put this book down and wait for the movie: The Serenity Hillbillies Take Manhattan.

  “Just go on in, ladies,” the doorman said. “I’ll bring your luggage to the counter.”

  “Splendid, my good man,” Mother said, lapsing into the British accent that was her default setting to impress strangers, and handed him a dollar bill. Apparently she didn’t have a quid on her.

  I’ll give the doorman this much: he didn’t flinch. And after Mother turned away, I slipped him a fiver. I mean, five spot.

  We made our way into the vast rectangular lobby with its tan-and-gold marbled walls, mirrored columns, and shining floor with a motif of large diamonds and circles.

  In case you were wondering why I sauntered into a hotel brazenly brandishing a dog, the Pennsylvania was (and as far as I know still is) pet friendly, playing host every year to the Westminster Kennel Club dog show.

  The check-in counter ran the distance of the cavernous room, above which rows of flat-screens projected a variety of cable shows—from business to politics to sports to reality programs. But, despite the possibility of ten check-in stations, only two were open. And to my dismay (and my stomach’s), a long line of patrons snaked around, corralled by black nylon ropes, as if they were trying to get tickets to the latest blockbuster flick.

  “Well,” an unhappy customer said, passing us, having finally checked in, “at least I got to see a complete episode of Storage Wars.”

  “Mother?” I whined. My stomach seconded that question with a growl.

  “Courage, dear,” she responded. “I just spotted another Good Samaritan.” Waving her free hand wildly, she called out, her voice echoing across the lobby, “Oh, yoo-woo! Mr. Bufford! It’s Vivian!”

  A heavyset, unmade bed of a man, with a convention bag dangling from a shoulder, gave us a momentarily bewildered look that turned into recognition and a wave back at us before hurrying our way.

  Mother whispered, “Mr. Bufford is the convention organizer, dear.”

  “Yes, I know,” I whispered back. She’d had many conversations with him on the phone, and on Skype, arranging for us to come, and I’d spoken to him once or twice myself.

  Our host—who I guessed to be about forty—wore wrinkled khaki shorts, a plaid short-sleeved shirt open over the convention’s logo t-shirt, and white socks with sandals. His black-rimmed glasses, which rode his night-light bulb of a nose, were adhesive taped at one temple. The comb-over of his thinning sandy-colored hair seemed to have exploded, and he bore the wild-eyed look of a dude rancher who had just been tossed off a bull.

  And the convention didn’t even officially start till tomorrow.

  Mr. Bufford stuck out a chubby hand to Mother. His smile was as big and sincere as it was yellow. “Vivian, so nice to finally meet you in person!”

  Mother had taken the hand. “And you, likewise, young man.”

  “And this must be Brandy.” He had stepped my way. “This is a real thrill. You know, first and foremost, I’m a fan.”

  “Pleasure is mine, Mr. Bufford, ” I replied, my smile straining a little. Frankly, our host could have used a stronger deodorant. But then, after our long day, I probably didn’t smell dew-drop fresh myself.

  “Please, call me Tommy,” he said. “All my friends call me Tommy.” He scratched Sushi’s head. “Cute dog. Just like in your books!”

  Soosh sniffed at him, and (unlike me) seemed to relish his bouquet as she licked his thick hand.

  Then his eyes flew to Mother’s handcuffed briefcase like magnets seeking metal.

  “Is that the Superman drawing?” he whispered, eyes wide.

  “Yes, indeedy.” Mother nodded, patting the case.

  “You know, Vivian,” Tommy said, an eyebrow arching above a slightly tilted black eyeglass frame, “that might be better kept in the hotel’s safe.”

  “Oh, no,” Mother replied, tightening her grip. “This super-duper drawing doesn’t leave my sight. It will go to bed with me. It will go to the bathroom with me. Of course, I will entrust it to Brandy when I shower, but—”

  “Mother,” I said, “too much information.”

  Tommy was looking at me for support, but I shook my head. “I’ve already tried. She saw a spy movie and got the briefcase idea.”

  Mother’s grin went well with her magnified eyes. “The character with the briefcase got killed! They had to cut his hand off to get it.”

  Why Mother found this reassuring is anybody’s guess.

  “Very well,” Tommy sighed. “But it would be a disaster if anything should happen to it—it’s the showpiece of the auction, you know.”

  And the reason we were all-expenses-paid guests.

  “Tommy,” I asked, “is there any way we can avoid the check-in line?”

  “Certainly,” he said, grinning big again. “I have all convention guest keycards right here.”

  From his convention bag, he produced several small hotel folders holding keycards, then, fanning them out like a deck of playing cards, handed one to Mother.

  He dug in the bag again. “And here are your badges—which will get you into all the events.”

  Those, I took.

  “I’ll get you a schedule later,” he said. “You’re on a mystery-writing panel Sunday morning.”

  A striking-looking woman rushed up. She was about my age, tall—at least six feet—curvy but muscular, with raven-black hair worn in a shoulder-length pageboy, à la Bettie Page. Her makeup was heavy—darkened brows, black-rimmed violet eyes—but the pink painted mouth gave her goth look a feminine touch. As did her dress, a fitted black and white polka-dotted number, its low neckline revealing a spray of flowers tattooed across her chest. Red heels with bows on the toes completed her mixed-signals ensemble of hard and soft.

  “Sorry to interrupt . . . ,” she said, addressing Tommy.

  He gestured to us. “Violet, this is Vivian and Brandy Borne. They write the Antiques mysteries.” Then he added in a whisper to her, “The Superman drawing,” and then to us, “Violet is my assistant.”

  Which surprised me; I thought her to be a fan or guest professional.

  “Hello,” the woman replied quickly, with barely a glance our way. Neither Superman nor the Antiques books impressed her much, at least not in the throes of the big job
she was caught up in. “Tommy, we’ve got a problem with the Buff Awards.”

  “Not too serious, I hope,” he said, frowning.

  “We’re missing one.”

  “Ah . . .” Tommy looked at Mother and me. “Will you excuse me?”

  Mother replied, “But of course.”

  And before I could say, “Nice to meet you both,” they were gone.

  Mother and I stood for a moment, then I took hold of the brass cart with our luggage, not waiting for a bellhop (I had a limited number of fivers), and pushed it to the elevators, Mother following, holding Sushi in her arms like an unlikely baby.

  Our room was on the fourteenth floor, and I had to admit I was surprised by how small it was—my bedroom at home was larger.

  “We were promised a suite,” I said.

  Mother was kicking off her shoes. “Dear, don’t be ungrateful. Free is free. Now, where did I put the key to these darn handcuffs?”

  “I’m not being ungrateful,” I said ungratefully. “But there’s only one bed.”

  Which didn’t bother Soosh, already snuggled between two plump pillows.

  “Yes, that is a problem,” Mother admitted. “You do snore so. You must have the handcuff key.”

  “I snore? You could blow out these windows, on an off night. And I don’t have the key.”

  Mother stood with hands on hips and a single eyebrow arched, like Mr. Spock regarding Dr. McCoy. “Dear, I know you’re tired, but let’s not be a Grumpy Gus. If I happen to snore a wee little bit, you can always sleep in the tub. We can request extra pillows for that purpose, if need be. You’re sure you don’t have the key?”

  “No,” I snapped. “Look in your purse.”

  “Besides,” she went on, digging in her bag with her free hand, “this is a lovely room—perhaps a trifle cramped, I’ll grant you—but this is New York, the City That Never Sleeps. . . .”

  “I thought Las Vegas was the city that never sleeps, and with you snoring, I’ll be the one that never sleeps.”

  “. . . and simply no one comes to the Big Apple to spend much time in a hotel room. Ah, here’s that naughty key—I had it after all.” She unlocked the cuff, which fell to the floor with a thunk, then rubbed her wrist. Her eyes gleamed with possibilities behind the thick lenses. “Do you realize that the Empire State Building and Macy’s flagship store are a mere block away?”

  I had stopped paying attention, having spotted a gift basket of fruit and goodies, compliments of the convention, sitting on a side table.

  With my mouth salivating and stomach growling, I moved eagerly toward it.

  But Mother blocked my path. “Oh, no you don’t, missy!” she said. “We’re going to send that over to the Gershwin Theater to reward that nice woman for picking us up.”

  Mother made regifting an art.

  “Over my dead body,” I snarled.

  And she grabbed the basket, and I grabbed the basket, and she tugged, and I tugged, and we both tugged, and suddenly the contents were airborne. Then the room was raining fruit and snacks.

  A packet of gourmet salmon landed on the pillow next to Sushi and in a blink of a blind eye she had torn it open with her sharp little teeth.

  “Now look what you’ve done,” Mother said crossly.

  “You did it, not me!”

  “You need an attitude adjustment!”

  A knock at the door interrupted our squabble.

  I let Mother answer it.

  “Is everything all right?” Tommy asked, probably having heard bickering through the door.

  “Fine, fine,” Mother said. Then, “But, Tommy dear, there is a slight snafu. . . .”

  “Yes, I know,” he said, and he looked stricken. “This isn’t a suite—my mistake. I know I promised you that, as a perk, for being our honored guests.”

  “Think nothing of it,” Mother said, and I—having joined her—discreetly kicked her in the calf. Not hard. She barely ouched.

  “But I do have a solution,” Tommy said. “You ladies take my suite—it’s 1537, just up one floor. I haven’t moved in yet. Until tonight, it’s been easier for me to work out of the convention’s office a few blocks from here.”

  I was feeling a little bad about my behavior, and heard myself saying, “You’re sure? Because that would really be wonderful.”

  “Yes, it would,” Mother chimed in. “Not having to share a bed with Brandy is a lifesaver. The girl kicks like a mule.”

  Maybe so, but not when I’m sleeping....

  After exchanging keycards with Tommy, we thanked him again, and he left.

  “You forgot to mention I snore,” I said.

  “Dear, we needn’t air all our dirty laundry.”

  “Just mine.” I sighed, but my mood was improving. “Help me pick up the fruit.”

  Our new digs were a corner suite with two rooms elegantly decorated in gold and blue, the bedroom separate from an outer area that had a fold-out couch, coffee table, desk, and mini-kitchen with sink and small fridge.

  While Mother disappeared into the bathroom to wash off the dust from our trip, I put her suitcase on the king-size bed, leaving my things in the outer room by the couch, where I would sleep. Fold-out beds were never wonderful, but compared to sleeping with a world-class snorer, this one would be a magic carpet to slumberland.

  After giving Sushi her insulin, followed by a dog biscuit reward for taking the shot, I helped familiarize the blind little darling with the layout of the suite so she could move around and about without bumping into anything.

  I also set up a little pee station for her, having brought along a plastic tray with pads designed for emergency situations.

  Finally, Sushi and I played the “maid game” I had taught her on other trips (including at those accommodations where dogs were not welcome): I would rap on the door and call, “Housekeeping, housekeeping,” and she would scurry into the cracked-open closet, out of the way, until the maid had gone.

  Mother, now dressed in her favorite emerald green velour top and slacks, held out a hand to me.

  “What’s this?” I asked, taking the silver object she offered.

  “A rape whistle, dear.”

  “Oh-kay . . . I’m not wearing that.”

  “Then keep it in your pocket.” She had hers around her neck on a silver chain.

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  Mother shrugged. “Suit yourself. But we’re in the Naked City now, where there are eight million stories, few with happy endings.”

  She had conveniently forgotten that I’d lived in Chicago for ten years before my divorce.

  But to placate her, I said, “I’ll think about it,” and set the whistle on the coffee table.

  Mother stared at me with a frown. “Dear, meaning no offense and not intending in any way to redraw battle lines, but . . . you do look a fright. I hope you’re going to freshen up before we go to the reception.”

  There was a preconvention get-together in one of the ballrooms for the guests and professionals—artists and writers—along with staff members. Most of the pros were involved in the comics industry, but others—like Mother and me—were from related fields, like movies and books.

  This was also preview night—when preregistered attendees got a three-hour “sneak” look at the vendors, before opening tomorrow to the general public. But we were skipping that.

  “This is as fresh as I’m gonna get,” I said grumpily.

  Mother took my hand and led me to the couch, pulled me down to sit with her.

  “Brandy,” she began gently, “I know what’s troubling you.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes. You miss him.”

  By “him,” I knew she meant Tony Cassato, former Serenity chief of police, with whom I had begun a romantic relationship before circumstance and fate intervened. Tony had been forced to flee into witness protection after New Jersey mobsters dispatched a contract killer to retaliate for his testimony against them.

  Mother was saying, “Taking your fr
ustration out on me won’t help, dear. You’ve been a grouch all day. You are better than that.”

  She was right. About the me being a grouch part, anyway.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, nodding, sighing. “I’ll try to be better.”

  Mother patted my knee. “There’s my sweet, good girl.”

  So I washed my face, combed my hair, reapplied makeup, and put on a Max and Cleo geometric-print dress, little Juicy Couture cardigan, and short tan Frye boots.

  Mother had once again locked herself to the briefcase and, after we’d pinned on our convention badges for the reception, we headed out.

  The reception, held in one of the smaller ballrooms—PennTop North on the eighteenth floor, with a spectacular view of the city—was in full swing as we arrived, the guest professionals and staff talking and laughing, competing with a disc jockey in one corner who was playing loud dance music. That disco beat never seemed to go out of style in NYC.

  I was both disappointed and kind of relieved that there was nary a costumed superhero in sight—they were lined up in the lower lobby, outside the huge Globetrotter Ballroom where the booths were set up, waiting to get in. And their presence would increase on the day of the costume ball and contest.

  While Mother stood in the doorway—whether expecting to be noticed, planning her next move, or choosing a new victim to befriend—I made a beeline for the buffet, where I filled up my small plate to overflowing.

  How to be a one-trip salad bar cheat—a.k.a. salad bar hacking: First, fill a bowl with food, then lay carrot sticks on top as a second “floor.” Next, build a circular wall of cucumbers, tomato slices, and/or oranges. Finally, fill the tower in with other salad bar goodies. (Be careful your tower isn’t the leaning Pisa kind, because more than one of mine has toppled all over a restaurant floor.)

  Balancing my plate, utensils, napkin, and bottled water, I surveyed the tables, looking for an empty chair, but found none. Then I remembered passing by a little alcove outside the ballroom, with end tables and two overstuffed chairs, and decided to go there.

  Mother was across the room, flitting from person to person, inserting herself into one conversation or another, showing off her briefcase bracelet. I wanted to get her attention, to motion I would be out in the hall, but had no free hand to do it.