Antiques Swap Page 2

“Chicago,” I might reply, meaning, windy. Or “Houston,” hot and humid. Or “Seattle,” rainy.

  Today was “San Diego.” Which, if you’ve ever been to that wonderful city, means perfect.

  But this was Iowa, so blink and you might find yourself in another “city”. . . .

  We had a dual purpose today in attending the swap meet. In addition to finding interesting items for the shop, Phil Dean was going to shoot additional footage of us browsing the vendors, the last of his B-roll wish list.

  I’m sure he hoped Mother, Serenity’s favorite diva, would do something outrageous for the camera; and I felt confident she wouldn’t disappoint.

  You may be wondering what my role on the proposed TV show was. Well, basically, to be her straight man. The Crosby to her Hope. The Martin to her Lewis. Only I didn’t sing as well as either. Maybe I was Abbott to her Costello.

  Anyway, Mother was asking, “Where were we to meet Phil?”

  “In front of the fried butter stand.”

  Okay, so sometimes we don’t eat so healthy in the Midwest. Considering this delicacy was created at the Iowa State Fair—famous since 1911 for its annual life-size cow sculptures fashioned from 600 pounds of pure creamery butter—isn’t fried butter the next logical step? And before you turn up your nose at the sweet concoction, you should try it. Maybe your mouth will turn up (as in a smile).

  FRIED BUTTER

  1 stick butter, chilled

  funnel cake batter mix

  1 tsp. cinnamon

  vegetable oil

  honey glaze

  Prepare cake batter as instructed, adding cinnamon. Cover chilled butter with batter. Heat vegetable oil to 375–400 degrees. Fry battered-butter in hot oil 1 to 1½ minutes. Remove to paper plate to drain, then drizzle with honey.

  (WARNING: Fried Butter is not for everyone, as some serious, even fatal, side effects have been reported. These include—but are not limited to—dizziness, numbness of extremities, nausea, increased sweating, blurred vision, third-degree burns, shortness of breath, stroke and/or heart failure. Do not consume if you have a cholesterol level over 200, are allergic to butter, have hepatitis B, glaucoma, lupus, or have traveled to parts of the country where certain fungal infections are common.)

  Enjoy!

  We found Phil, toting his Sony HD camera, next to the long line of fried butter enthusiasts. In his early forties, the former director of photography of such popular reality TV shows as Extreme Hobbies and Witch Wives of Winnipeg was today playing an extra role besides that of producer /director, reverting to his original calling as cinematographer. His regular cameraman had already departed for LA with the pilot episode’s main footage.

  Phil—muscular, with thick dark hair tinged with silver at the temples, a salt-and-pepper beard, and intense dark eyes—refused to dress like the producer he’d become, still wearing his scuffed white Nikes, torn Levi blue jeans, and wrinkled plaid shirts. Which, to my thinking, was smart, as his good-natured casual style put the local extras (often nervous before the camera) immediately at ease.

  Accompanying Phil was Jena Hernandez, a young, petite, dark-haired woman wearing a halter top and shorts; the attractive Hispanic was Phil’s assistant director, also handling continuity, and makeup and hair. (Crew members covering multiple positions were essential in staying within our pilot’s limited budget.)

  The first day on set, which is to say our shop, Jena had immediately clashed with Mother (no surprise there), becoming easily exasperated with her eccentric star’s theatrical demands. The talented young woman was ready to quit, when I took her aside.

  “Look,” I said gently, “I understand that you’re frustrated, stuck in this hick town dealing with a wild woman . . . and, for you, this is just a stepping stone to better things.” I paused, then went on. “But if you can’t handle her, how are you going to manage Hollywood actors with much bigger egos, and who have the power to fire you?”

  Jena studied my face. “What should I do? Ignore her?”

  I laughed once. “Oh, no. That’ll only makes things worse. Think of her as a child. If you want her to do something, you have to cajole, flatter, and manipulate.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Smooth sailing ever since.

  Phil was asking, “Anybody got an antacid?”

  I could tell by the melted butter stains on his shirt that he’d partaken of the fried delight while waiting for us. Probably not that many fried butter stands in LA.

  Mother, who always carried a small pharmacy in her purse, obliged, and Phil popped the pill in his mouth and swallowed sans liquid.

  Mother turned to Jena. “How do I look, dear?”

  “You look lovely, Mrs. Borne.”

  “More powder?”

  “Your skin is perfect.”

  “Too much rouge?”

  “Just the right amount.”

  “Perhaps a different shade of lipstick?”

  “That one complements you well. You look ten years younger. Twenty.”

  Mother beamed. “Thank you, my dear! What a lovely young professional woman you are.”

  And I winked at Jena, and she winked back, as Mother turned her attention to Phil.

  “What’s on the call sheet today, dah-ling?”

  His wince was barely perceptible. “I’ve got several vendors already lined up for you to visit.”

  “I have pages?” Mother asked officiously.

  Sorry to disappoint, but most reality shows are at least loosely scripted, a process made looser by Mother, since she often ignored the “pages” she was demanding.

  Phil shook his head. “This will be improvised.”

  “But the play is the thing!”

  I said, “Mother, it’s like Second City—‘something wonderful right away.’ You’ll be fine.”

  “Well, obviously, dear—but what about you? You have no training!”

  Phil waved that off. “You and Brandy won’t even be miked.”

  Which suited me fine—I hated wearing that battery pack on my fanny with its cold cord snaked up my shirt.

  Mother frowned. “Not even a lavalier?”

  “No.”

  “Well . . . what will I say? What is my motivation? One can’t improvise properly without a premise from which to create.”

  Phil said, “Your motivation is to get this pilot in the can. The premise is you’re shopping.”

  “For what? Antiques? Collectibles? Am I to bargain like an Arab trader? Meaning no ethnic slur. Am I to introduce myself as the star of our new show? I can’t build a house without bricks, man!”

  I snorted. “I’m sure you’ll think of something, Mother.”

  Phil sighed. “What you say really doesn’t matter, Mrs. Borne.”

  “Well, of course it matters!” Mother huffed. “We’re establishing my character here! Not to mention there will be lip-readers in our viewing audience.”

  The producer/director/cameraman was on the verge of losing his laid-back composure—and I’m sure the one-fourth pound of butter in his stomach was no help.

  Jena touched Mother’s arm. “Vivian . . . just be your wonderful, charming, vivacious self.”

  That girl would go far in Hollywood.

  Mother beamed. “Well, that I can do, dear! Standing on my head.”

  And she could, too. Stand on her head.

  Mother faced Phil, a thoughtful finger to her cheek. “For purposes of improv, shall we say I am browsing, on the prowl for new items for our shop?”

  “Let’s,” Phil said.

  Followed by Phil and Jena, Mother and I strolled down a blacktop path between rows of facing vendors, stopping at one selling linens in a tent, and another hawking antique dishes on a table under the sun. Phil seemed pleased with the shot he got of Mother and me looking over merchandise, chatting about potential buys. True, Mother was a tad over-the-top, but no more than usual.

  But when we visited the last pre-set-up vendor selling nautical curiosities,
trouble arose between the dealer, one Mr. Snodgrass, and Mother.

  Mr. Snodgrass lived down the block from us, and I’d known him since I was in elementary school. Back then, he’d often yell at me for taking a shortcut through his perfectly manicured lawn.

  And his name really was Snodgrass—I didn’t change it to an appropriate echo, Charles Dickens–style, though I believe his name did have a lot to do with his lifelong obsession with grass (the green kind).

  Anyway, Phil had just finished shooting a little segment of Mother and me picking out an old brass clinometer (a navigational instrument used for recording a ship’s sideways tilt) when Mother handed the slice-of-pie-shaped antique back to the dealer.

  “I thought you were buying this, Mrs. Borne,” Mr. Snodgrass said, somewhat flummoxed. “I’ve already rung it up.”

  He’d been old even back when I was in the third grade; these were the same rheumy eyes and bulbous nose, the lines between his bushy eyebrows and around his mouth deeply grooved from years of yelling, “Stay off my grass!”

  Mother said, “Then after I’ve paid for it, I’ll be returning it for a refund.” She leaned forward and almost whispered: “We really have no use for such an item in our shop—it’s not like we have a nautical room.”

  The man’s face reddened. “All sales are final, Vivian.”

  Mother put hands on hips; her feet were already dug in. “I hate to quarrel with a dear old neighbor like you, Rodney . . .”

  Rodney Snodgrass. I wouldn’t kid you.

  “. . . and I do hate to get you on a technicality, but it’s not a sale until I actually give you the money.”

  Mr. Snodgrass had the expression of a bull in an old cartoon, seeing a red cape—you know, right before steam comes out its nostrils and ears.

  Having seen this particular cartoon a number of times, I turned to Phil and whispered: “Need me anymore?”

  “No,” he smiled weakly. “Brandy Borne, you’re wrapped.”

  That was TV talk meaning I was finished for the shoot —the whole darn pilot. Free at last, great God almighty, free at last....

  I patted his arm. “Safe trip back to LA.”

  “Wish us luck selling this thing.”

  I raised a finger. “Be careful what you wish for.”

  After smiling a good-bye to Jena, I made my escape. Mother never missed me. Anyway, there was a purchase I wanted to make. It wasn’t for the shop, but my stomach.

  I made a beeline back to the fried butter stand.

  Yes, I knew it wasn’t good for me. That it was impossible to look pretty or dignified or to maintain any other respectable state of human appearance while eating a fried stick of butter.

  Which is why I retreated with my treat behind the stand, to an old oak tree, where I sat, Indian-style, with plenty of napkins in my lap.

  I was about to bite into the hot, gooey confection, when another carnival-food addict—also seeking cover—rounded the tree.

  Caught yellow-handed, we both laughed.

  “What would your wife say?” I asked.

  “What would the stockholders say?” Wes Sinclair responded. He wore a pale yellow polo shirt, tan Bermuda shorts, and expensive slip-on shoes, sans socks.

  I laughed again (more of a snort). “I can practically hear the market price dropping on your company.”

  He settled next to me in the grass, a literal wealth of Serenity money and history right next to me, eating fried butter.

  Wesley Sinclair III was a fourth generation blueblood, or anyway his was as blue as blood got in Serenity, Iowa. His great granddaddy had founded the corn processing plant south of town, which recently became a Fortune 500 company (493, but who’s counting?) under Wesley’s savvy leadership, the thirty-two year old having taken over as CEO after his father’s death.

  Wes and I were the same age, and had dated a few times at community college after his partying too much got him flunked out freshman year at Columbia University. He came to his senses after his sophomore year and went back to Columbia, graduating with honors.

  With that easy manner and a great sense of humor, and with his reddish-brown hair, boyish face, and well-toned body, Wes was a guy I could have easily fallen for. But back then, he had a self-destructive recklessness that made me nervous, the only part of him that said “rich kid”—that he was somebody untouchable from harm. Besides, I never would have been accepted by his (obviously) socially prominent parents.

  He was saying, “Haven’t seen you around much, since you got back in town.”

  “That’s because you and Vanessa don’t eat at McDonald’s and shop at Walmart.”

  Vanessa was the sorority beauty he’d met at Columbia and married upon graduation.

  “Sometimes we do,” Wes said with a grin. “Vannie and I don’t always eat at the club, you know.” He meant the country club, where they didn’t serve fried butter, which was maybe why he bit so greedily into his, squirting himself and me with the melted liquid.

  “Hey!” I said, laughing but a little irritated. “This was a spotless shirt.”

  “Not anymore,” he said in an Inspector Clouseau accent. We’d gone to a couple of those movies together, back in the day.

  Trying not to laugh, I slugged him in the arm.

  Rubbing the spot, pretending it hurt, he said, “So send me the dry-cleaning bill.”

  “Don’t think I won’t. Some of us aren’t independently wealthy.”

  “Low blow. Aren’t you making any money from those books of yours?”

  “Enough to afford a stick of fried butter.”

  We ate for a moment in silence. Eating fried butter takes concentration.

  Then, Wes, wiping his glistening chin, said, “What’s this I hear about you dating Tony Cassato, now that he’s back in town?”

  “We’d just started dating before he suddenly left,” I said with a shrug. “We’re kind of picking up the pieces.”

  I didn’t care to add anything more—early days for Tony and me, after our time apart.

  Wes was saying, “Well, that’s great. That’s fine. Tony’s a good man.”

  “Yes he is.”

  “Serenity is lucky to have him back on the force, even if he’s no longer chief of police. Is it true he was in Witness Protection for a while?”

  I nodded.

  “Rumor is he testified against some mobsters in New Jersey, where he’s from,” he said, watching me carefully. “And there’s a really crazy rumor that your mother had something to do with resolving his differences with . . . I mean, it’s nutty, but . . . some godfather back there? I mean, come on—that’s crazy, right?”

  “Sure is.” See Antiques Con.

  “So . . .” Wes gave me a sly sideways smile. “. . . Will his presence cut down on the murders you and your mother have been getting involved in? Solving? I read the Sentinel.”

  I gave him an embarrassed smile. “Honestly, it’s not our fault. It’s ridiculous, isn’t it? I mean, what are the odds that a town our size has had so many, uh . . .”

  “Murders? Pretty outrageous.”

  “So it’s gotta end some time, right?”

  He grinned. “If not, you should contact Guinness.”

  We fell silent for a few moments. Maybe we were both thinking about how our lives might have been different if our casual dating in community college days had become serious. Of course, I wouldn’t change anything, not for all the tea in China or Wes Sinclair’s money. My marriage had gone awry, but my ex and I had a great son, Jake, who means everything to me.

  Maybe Wes had gone through similar calculations, because he sighed and said, “Well, I should go find Vanessa.”

  “And I need to locate Mother.”

  “Probably shouldn’t have seconds on fried butter.”

  “Probably not. Unless you’ve got a defibrillator handy.”

  He chuckled and stood, offering me a hand, which I took. But my legs had gone numb and tingly from their crossed position, and as I rose I fell against him, and h
e grabbed me, and I grabbed him, both of us laughing, and then a woman asked, “Having fun?”

  A woman named Vanessa Sinclair.

  The dark-haired beauty stood with hands on hips, wearing a pink floral sundress more befitting an afternoon wedding than down-home swap meet.

  Having regained my balance, I said, “Oh, hello. We were just—”

  “I have eyes,” she snapped, her anger shimmering like heat off asphalt.

  Wes spread his hands. “Honey, you remember Brandy. We’re old friends from community college.”

  “Hey,” I said, wiping butter off my hands with a paper napkin, “this is innocent.”

  “I’ll just bet it is,” she said with a sneer, distorting her pretty features. She was talking to me, but looking at Wes.

  I took a step forward and said, “Honestly, Vanessa, I lost my balance and fell—”

  “Into my husband’s arms!”

  I shut my trap.

  Vanessa turned on her husband. “Isn’t it enough that I joined your stupid bridge club? How would you like me to quit?”

  That was a strange threat—is that where an angry wife drew the battle line? Over a card game?

  She poked his chest with a French-manicured finger. “This is the last time you embarrass me in public, Wesley Sinclair the Third. Do it again, and I promise you, you’ll regret it!”

  And Vanessa wheeled in her jewel-encrusted sandals, and strode off.

  Wes, chagrined, ashen, turned to me. “I’m . . . I’m so sorry, Brandy. You didn’t deserve that.”

  “Neither did you.” I looked over his shoulder at the small crowd that had gathered. “All over, folks! Nothin’ more to see here.”

  And the gawkers dispersed, exchanging frowns and muttering comments.

  “Thank you for standing up for me,” Wes said.

  “For us,” I said, and shrugged. “Anyway, so she doesn’t want to be in your bridge club. So what? Mother tried to teach me that game, but it was way too hard.”

  He sighed. “It’s not that. Vanessa enjoys the club. It’s a social thing.”

  Status, he meant. Now maybe I understood the threat.

  “That’s Vanessa all over,” he said, shaking his head. “Funny thing is, by the time we get home, she’ll have forgotten all about this.”