Antiques Carry On Read online

  ‘Still there,’ he said.

  ‘Haven’t seen you lately, Dan.’

  ‘Been under the weather for a while.’

  I frowned, concerned. ‘All right, now?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  Normally, Sushi, who had retired to her bed on the floor behind me, would have come out to greet Dan and his tantalizing (to her) bouquet. But apparently she was too pooped – dogging customers around can take it out of a girl.

  ‘Got something for me?’ I asked, which was usually the reason for his visit.

  And whatever he had, which was typically not worth much, we had a policy of taking, to help him out.

  (Early on, Dan had once brought in an inexpensive figurine that had been glued back together. I bought it, then tossed it in a dumpster a few blocks away. A few days later, he brought the same figurine back. ‘Here’s another one of those you seemed to like so much. Now you’ll have a pair!’)

  ‘I got a box of books,’ he said, a thumb over his shoulder, ‘out on the porch.’

  Internally, I groaned. Books were bad sellers for us, took up needed space, and the library room shelves were already packed full.

  Still, I had Dan haul them in, bought the books for probably more than I should (a few old cheap-edition mysteries might appeal to Mother for her own collection), and stuck the box beneath the counter.

  No sooner had he left when the bell above the front door jingled again.

  ‘Hi, Beautiful,’ said the chief of the Serenity Police Department. When he said that, as he often did, he sounded like Paul Drake greeting Della Street in those old Perry Mason shows that Mother so loves to watch.

  Tony – in his late forties with graying temples, steel-gray eyes, bulbous nose, square jaw, thick neck and barrel chest – was just about anybody’s idea of a man’s man. He was wearing his usual office attire – light blue shirt (sleeves rolled back), navy tie, gray slacks (badge attached to brown belt), and brown Florsheim shoes.

  In addition to being police chief, he was my fiancé, a status he’d assumed recently – getting engaged was a step we’d taken after Mother stepped down as sheriff, thinking (perhaps optimistically) that life might become calmer.

  When I first arrived back in Serenity, Tony and I mixed like oil and water – mostly over Mother’s interference in police matters. But, you know what happens if you keep stirring … the oil and water blend pretty well.

  Now, for this guest, Sushi dislodged herself from the bed, and came around the counter to paw eagerly at Tony’s legs – partially because she liked Tony, but mostly because she really liked his dog, Rocky, and could catch a scent of him.

  Tony scratched Soosh’s furry head – it took a while, but finally, satisfied, she trotted contentedly back to her bunker.

  ‘Care for some coffee?’ I asked. ‘I think we have a few cookies left.’

  ‘No thanks.’ He strode forward. ‘Ready for London?’

  ‘Noooo,’ I said, and sighed. ‘I’m afraid it’s going to bankrupt us.’

  ‘Oh?’

  I nodded. ‘Mother insisted we fly First Class and stay at the Savoy.’

  ‘She could go alone. You don’t both have to meet your editor.’

  I made a face. ‘Do you know what kind of trouble Mother could get into, left to her own devices?’

  His eyebrows went up. ‘Point well taken.’

  ‘As a matter of fact,’ I said, my eyebrows going up as his came down, ‘I think you should call Scotland Yard and warn them she’s coming.’

  ‘Good idea.’

  ‘I’m serious, Tony.’

  ‘Oh, so am I.’

  ‘Speaking of Mother,’ I said, looking at the computer screen, ‘I’d better see where she is right now.’

  Tony came around the counter wearing a thoughtful frown. ‘You’re tracking her again? After what happened the last time?’

  Mother had left the GPS device on the trolley-bus where, a while back, I’d previously tried to follow her path.

  I said, ‘She would never expect it.’

  Tony snorted a laugh. ‘Don’t count on that.’

  ‘Have a little faith in me. If by this point I can’t outsmart her, I should just give up.’ I refreshed the map on the screen, where the red teardrop was moving south on highway 218.

  ‘What the …?’ I said. ‘What’s she doing heading toward Missouri?’

  Tony leaned in, frowning. ‘And doing a pretty good clip at that.’

  ‘How fast can a Vespa go, anyway?’ I asked.

  His eyebrows went up again. ‘Sixty maybe – some, even eighty.’

  ‘Are they legal on the highway?’

  A one-shoulder shrug. ‘Technically, yes … but I wouldn’t recommend it.’

  I could feel my Prozac being tested. ‘Well, what can I do?’

  ‘Call her cell,’ Tony suggested.

  I gave him a disparaging look.

  ‘Oh, right,’ he said. ‘She never takes it with her when she’s “investigating.”’ A startled expression. ‘What is she investigating?’

  ‘No idea,’ I said. ‘She hasn’t mentioned anything, except frustration over us not having anything to write about right now. It must be some potential case she found out about this morning.’

  His eyes were wide. ‘I don’t know of any murders. What, is she ahead of me now?’

  ‘You said it, not me.’

  ‘Are you implying she wants a murder investigation in her pocket when you meet with your new publisher?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  Tony touched his forehead as if taking his own temperature. ‘You don’t want to know.’

  ‘Is there anything you can do to stop her?’ I pleaded. ‘She’s going to be over the Iowa/Missouri border before too long!’

  He stepped back, got his cell from pants pocket, and speed-dialed. ‘Rosa … have Ron Kaufman at State Patrol call me ASAP.’

  He ended the call and asked me, ‘What app are you using, and what’s your password?’

  I wrote the information down quickly on a scrap of paper, and handed it to him.

  He asked, ‘And there’s only one tracker on the screen?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Tony’s cell sounded, an old-fashioned phone ring, and he moved around the counter, then toward the front door, so I only got his side of the conversation.

  ‘Yeah, Ron. Have someone stop a Vespa on 218 about thirty, forty miles from Missouri … yes, Vespa. No, there’s no BOLO – her daughter is concerned. Woman in question is Vivian Borne. Not dangerous. But could be off her rocker. Right. Thanks.’

  He gave the tracker information, then returned the cell to his pocket.

  I arched an eyebrow. ‘Off her rocker?’

  He shrugged. ‘Isn’t that what you’re thinking?’

  ‘Yes, but off her rocker? Didn’t your police training on mental illness teach you anything?’

  He spread his hands. ‘I said she wasn’t dangerous.’

  ‘She might be to herself.’ My eyes drifted to the screen. ‘Tony! She’s stopped at a restaurant in Donnellson.’

  He looked. ‘They’ll be able to see that, thanks to your app. Buy us some time if she has lunch.’

  ‘So we just have to wait,’ I sighed.

  Not wanting to deal with customers, I went outside and retrieved the two flags, indicating the shop was closed to regular customers, but left the front door unlocked.

  I had just rejoined Tony at the computer, when the red marker suddenly began to move, fast, heading through the tiny town on Burlington Street and into farmland.

  ‘She’s trying to flee!’ I said, glued to the screen.

  On a tight curve, the marker left the road, then stopped abruptly, in what I could only assume was a ditch.

  ‘Oh, Tony!’ I grabbed his arm.

  A Trash ‘n’ Treasures Tip

  Predicting trends can be difficult for antiques dealers, so paying attention to lifestyle changes is important. For example, with the arrival of the ‘man cave’ came
an immediate need to fill it. Nowadays, both Millennials, starting out in smaller spaces, and Boomers, exchanging larger dwellings for condos, find little interest in buying bulky antiques. Which means a lot of time for me spent dusting that huge Victorian coatrack at the shop.

  TWO

  Carry On Regardless

  Vivian back at the helm, you lucky people!

  Earlier that morning, dressed in black slacks and a lavender sweater set, I was tooling along budding, tree-lined Mulberry Avenue on my almost-new mint-green Vespa, just like the motorbike Audrey Hepburn rode in the movie Roman Holiday, and feeling very much like the actress herself. That is, as if I were slender, twenty-four, had long dark hair, and Gregory Peck was alive, well, and interested.

  My first stop would be Dunn Cremation and Burial, a modern facility on the edge of town, where I’ve made my own final resting plans (not trusting Brandy to give me a properly showy send-off).

  The parking lot was packed, the ol’ grim reaper working overtime, but nonetheless I found a spot for the Vespa, dismounted, smoothed my hair, and checked my teeth for bugs. Then I searched the motorbike from nose to tail (sticking with the horse analogy) to locate any GPS disc that Brandy might have hidden somewhere to keep tabs on me via our store’s computer app. Did she think I was born yesterday? Never mind how many yesterdays …

  The ungrateful child had tracked me once before when I’d taken the free trolley-converted-to-gas downtown to do a little investigating on my own. But the foolish girl had left my AARP magazine in our (shall we say) reading room, folded open to the ad for the device. And I’d found the small, round GPS button without difficulty, sewn (badly) into the lining of my coat, which I then removed (the button, not the coat) and left under my trolley bus seat, where it went round and round the town (the button, not the seat or the trolley, although they did, as well).

  Are we clear?

  On this fine spring morn, Brandy had taped the device beneath the back bumper. But I left it there for the nonce. Why not let her think she was on top of things?

  I entered the facility through two sets of double glass doors and into a large, tastefully appointed greeting area, off of which four individual, mourner-occupied rooms flowed.

  ‘May I help you?’ asked a woman of perhaps forty, appropriately somber in both attire and expression. I had not seen her here before.

  The woman went on, ‘Are you attending the Lewis, Morton, Phillips, or Stevens visitation?’ Thoughtful of her to put them in non-preferential alphabetical order. As a Borne, when my time came, there was a good chance I’d be first.

  ‘Which Stevens?’ I asked.

  ‘Mildred.’

  ‘Oh dear. When did this happen?’

  ‘Two days ago.’

  My eyebrows went up. ‘I hadn’t heard … I must be slipping. Goodness gracious, past the century mark – I thought she’d never go!’ I paused. ‘Dear, an open mouth is not a good look on anyone, much less a greeter. Actually I’m not here for a visitation, rather to consult with Mr Dunn.’

  She stiffened (no pun intended). ‘I’m afraid he’s terribly busy at the moment. Perhaps …’

  ‘It’s all right, Laura,’ said the owner of the facility, who’d come up behind her.

  Mid-sixties, impeccably dressed in a dark gray pin-striped suit, white hair parted perfectly on one side, Ned Dunn had once asked me to marry him, six months or so after his wife passed on. He’s nice enough, and his business was always booming (thanks to aging Boomers), but I had no desire to get stuck out front being a traffic cop to the grieving like Laura.

  Who he was telling, ‘Vivian Borne can see me any time.’

  The woman backed away, looking confused for some reason, and I followed Ned into his office, which had a curtained window, open at the moment onto the lobby area.

  The room was pleasantly decorated – not too flashy, to prevent any thoughts of him overcharging, and with just the right warm-wood trappings to create a vague, non-denominational religious ambiance.

  He gestured to a comfortable chair, then took his seat behind the clutter-free desk.

  When we’d settled, I said, ‘I see the new roof is finished.’

  Ned nodded. ‘A metal one with a lifetime guarantee, so I’ll never have to replace it again.’

  Not in the rest of his lifetime, anyway.

  Getting around to the purpose of my visit, I asked, ‘Anything for me?’

  ‘Nothing suspicious, I’m afraid, Vivian,’ he replied. ‘Mr Lewis had a fatal heart attack …’

  ‘After hitting a hole in one, I heard. Do hope he had time to enjoy it even for a moment.’

  ‘Mrs Morton died in a single car accident …’

  ‘Ten’ll get you twenty she wasn’t wearing her glasses.’

  ‘Mr Phillips died after a lengthy illness …’

  ‘At least he had time to get his affairs in order – financial and private.’

  ‘And Mrs Stevens from old age.’

  ‘Well, one-hundred-and-one! She was asking for it.’

  A long pause. His expression reminded me of that poor squirrel’s right before Brandy couldn’t avoid running it down.

  ‘Just a little jest,’ I said, ‘courtesy of Mel Brooks. Honestly, Ned, what’s wrong with a little levity to liven up the joint?’

  Ned had no answer for that, but then it was a rhetorical question, wasn’t it? He cleared his throat. ‘Anyway, Vivian, nothing seems overtly suspicious about any of these passings.’

  I sighed. ‘Well, thank you, Ned. I won’t take up any more of your time.’

  I started to stand, but then froze in place.

  ‘“Overtly?”’

  ‘Well, no, not really. It’s just …’

  I plopped back down. ‘Just what, Ned? You know everything you tell me stays between us. What happens at the funeral parlor stays at the funeral parlor.’

  The man sat forward, elbows on the desk, tenting his hands. ‘Do you recall, about a month ago, Ruth Hassler broke her neck, falling down the stairs? Friend of yours, wasn’t she? Her services were here, but I don’t believe you attended.’

  I nodded. ‘I’d meant to, but was tied up with that Wentworth fire investigation.’ (Antiques Fire Sale.)

  When Ned didn’t continue, I gestured. ‘And?’

  ‘Well, during visitation, I overheard a few whispers.’

  Another irritating pause. ‘About? I’m growing moss here, Ned.’

  ‘About why she hadn’t used her stair-lift.’

  Interesting.

  ‘I suppose she was cremated?’

  He nodded.

  ‘So there’s no need for a backhoe,’ I grumbled.

  I just loved it when Perry Mason (Raymond Burr on the vintage TV show) would get a court order for an exhumation!

  I lamented, ‘Honestly, this trend toward cremation is causing me problems!’

  Ned shrugged. ‘Not much I can do about it.’

  ‘Have you tried running a special on embalming? A BOGO sale maybe?’

  A knock at the door. It opened and Laura stuck her head in.

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Mr Dunn, but you’re needed.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ he said. ‘Mrs Borne and I were finished.’

  I rose and said cheerfully, ‘Don’t say “finished,” Ned – coming from a funeral director, it’s a tad unsettling!’

  After Ned departed with his greeter, who was white as a ghost for some reason, I lingered for a few moments, digesting what he’d said, then left.

  At my Vespa in the parking lot, I removed the GPS button, and, while pretending to tie my Nikes, stuck the device under the chassis of the car parked next to me.

  My next stop was to consult with Zelda, a new informant of mine who was proving most valuable. I’d set the meeting at our usual place, Cinders, a bar located on Main Street in one of the many boxcar-style Victorian brick buildings lining the five-block business district.

  Renny, latest owner of this enduring if eccentric watering hole, had been fo
r years an enthusiastic buyer of eclectic collectibles, filling her establishment with hundreds of pop-culture castaways, all available for sale, although nothing was marked. If a patron saw something he or she liked, an offer was made, which Renny might or might not accept, depending upon her whim and current cash flow.

  Seeing someone who’d gotten a little tipsy departing Cinders with a collectible was not an unusual occurrence – a life-size standee of Mr Spock tucked under an arm, perhaps, or a Star Wars lightsaber in one hand, or maybe the famous 1970s poster of Farrah Fawcett on a skateboard, rolled into a tube (the poster, not Farrah) (or the skateboard either, for that matter).

  Without knowing it, or perhaps sensing a coming trend, Renny had, in years of largely indiscriminate collecting, made the bar a real draw for the local hipster crowd – twenty- and thirty-somethings who loved to hang out there, as well as a lovable assortment of oddballs who were welcome as long as they behaved themselves.

  Inside the entrance at left was a huge, completely furnished dollhouse, as well as a vast collection of Elvis memorabilia. Continuing along the left-hand wall was a long bar with a dozen red-vinyl bucket-seats, a row of lava lamps providing more mood than lighting.

  Hugging the right wall, and nearly as long as the counter, was a shuffleboard game with little tables and chairs to one side for players to keep score. Following this came a 1950s jukebox, then a rather impressive collection of Marilyn Monroe and Betty Boop collectibles, all basking in the glow of hundreds upon hundreds of twinkle lights of varied colors strung everywhere.

  And that is but an example of the first of four rooms leading back to an alley. The second was an homage to the ’80s; third, a Mexican cantina; fourth, a tropical oasis, where fake palm trees were home to stuffed monkeys (she used to have a stuffed camel as well, under the tree, but the Dromedary took up too much space and kept falling over).

  Renny, polishing glasses behind the bar, smiled upon seeing me. ‘Hello, Vivian. Your usual?’

  In her early fifties with a bubbly personality, Renny sported long blonde hair, pretty features, a curvaceous figure, and a preference for leopard-print attire.

  ‘Set me up!’ I said. Never too early in the day for my drink of preference: a Shirley Temple. And no one out-mixed Renny in assembling just the right combination of lemon-lime soda and grenadine syrup, or her generosity in adding extra Maraschino cherries.