Antiques Disposal Read online

  Also, I do apologize for confusing Andy Griffin and Merv Griffith. Mother is right to give me a hard time on that account. But she was herself incorrect about Estée Lauder—the woman built her empire on face cream, before expanding into cosmetics.

  So there.

  Anyway, I still wasn’t convinced that what we were about to do—bid on past-due storage units—was morally right, or at least that we weren’t at real risk of earning some seriously bad karma.

  Don’t get me wrong, I’m no Miss Goody Two-Shoes—I was, after all, responsible for the bust-up of my marriage, losing custody of my twelve-year-old son, Jake, to my ex, Roger. Readers looking for perfection in their protagonists may have noticed, in Mother’s preceding section, that they are in the wrong place.

  But confiscating other people’s possessions—legal or not—gave me a skin-crawly feeling. I wouldn’t want a stranger pawing through my stuff, would you? (That is, you wouldn’t want a stranger pawing through your stuff.)

  And I couldn’t very well ask Mother to go alone, because she can’t drive. I don’t mean she doesn’t know how to drive, rather that she lost her license—and I don’t mean misplaced it. Due to various vehicular infractions—little things, like carving through a cornfield and hitting a cow, by way of inventing a shortcut to make community-theater curtain time (Mother, not the cow), or running over a mailbox and scattering letters like oversized snowflakes.

  That Mother wouldn’t be allowed behind the wheel for another three years was good news for Serenity. But it meant bad news for her chauffeur. Me.

  After gathering our rain gear, Mother and I headed out to my gently dented burgundy Buick. For once Sushi hadn’t begged to go with us, having headed upstairs to get back under the covers to sleep off breakfast. Smart doggie.

  “Where to?” I asked, raising my voice above the rat-a-tat-tat of the rain on the car roof.

  “Take the River Road north about three miles. To Lucky Four Leaf Clover Storage.”

  I grunted. Not so lucky for certain renters today.

  Traffic was light along the twisting, hilly two-lane highway, which really was lucky, because visibility was poor thanks to pounding rain (and worn-out windshield wipers). With the mighty Mississippi to our right, and limestone bluffs to our left, I had to concentrate on keeping the hydroplaning car on the road.

  Mother, for a change, kept her chatter to a minimum, talking only now and then about the storage facility owner, one Big Jim Bob, who—according to the all-knowing, all-seeing Mother—was raised in Serenity, moved away some years later, then came back to take up the storage unit business.

  Amid the intermittent chatter, Mother was saying, “Big Jim Bob gave me a tip on one of the units up for auction.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  And anyway, why would I believe a tip from anyone named Big Jim Bob? (Maybe Jim Bob, or Big Jim or even Big Bob ... but not Big Jim Bob. That was one good-ole-boy name too many.)

  “We’re old friends,” Mother said.

  I had come to know that when Mother emphasized the word old in this fashion, it meant she and the man in question had once enjoyed an amorous relationship. Jonathan Borne had passed away nearly thirty years ago, shortly after I came along. And Mother, being a statuesque, attractive woman, was not content to become a wallflower. But she was content to remain a widow, and keep her independence.

  Navigating a sharp curve, I asked, “So what’s the tip?”

  As if intoning the location of a pirate’s map, she said, “I am informed that I should try to win the bid on unit number seven.”

  “So, then—your old friend’s been inside and knows what’s in it. That can’t be legal.”

  “No, dear. Only the renter has a key to the padlock. But Big Jim Bob has reason to believe the unit may contain some nice antiques.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Big Jim Bob talked to the woman when she took out the unit, and she mentioned her collecting had gotten to the point of overflow. She even asked if the unit was climate controlled.”

  “Well, that says antiques, all right—”

  “Oh, I do hope we get it!”

  Throwing a little water on Mother’s fire, I asked, “What’s to prevent Big Jim Bob from breaking the lock on the unit, helping himself to the good stuff, then putting on a new lock?”

  Out of the corner of my eye I could see Mother frown. “Only the ruination of his reputation, and a charge of theft if caught,” she responded, adding quickly, “but I know Big Jim Bob, and I assure you he’s a gentleman.”

  Know was further code for ... you know.

  More water needed.

  I risked a glance. “You mean, he was a gentleman, back when you ‘knew’ him. But where has he been since? And why did he come back?”

  Mother gazed at me, eyes narrowed to near normal size behind her large buggy lenses. “You seem awfully suspicious today, dear ...”

  “Well, I—”

  Then, to my surprise she chirped, “And I most heartily approve!”

  A word about Mother and me, on the subject of renting a storage unit of our own. Four words, actually: over my dead body!

  Currently, our (mostly Mother’s) overflow flea-market / yard-sale finds were stored in a stand-alone garage next to our three-story, 1920s-style house. And I have made it clear to Mother that, should the overflow keep flowing over, under no circumstances would I ever consider renting a storage unit. Because I knew what the inevitable would be: she’d die peacefully in her sleep, smiling like an angel, and leave me with all that garbage!

  Okay, so maybe Mother was right on one point: some folks do abandon their units because they don’t want the stuff. Or, anyway, want to deal with it.

  “Pull in here, dear,” Mother said, pointing to a sign shaped like a shamrock, the words LUCKY FOUR LEAF CLOVER spaced cutely out on the four leafs. But what exactly was “lucky” or “cute” about having your possessions overwhelm you so much that you had to rent a sort of garage away from home to house the junk?

  I drove into a gravel lot, dodging water-filled potholes, then pulled up to the white, boxy low-slung facility, home to several dozen units, each garage door shut and padlocked.

  We exited the car—Mother holding a red umbrella with enormous wingspan, and me sporting a 1970s vintage clear plastic number shaped like a bell, that covered me down to my waist—and joined the handful of bidders that had braved the weather, huddling under their umbrellas.

  I couldn’t see too clearly through my plastic bell (maybe that’s why this type of umbrella went out of style), but I did recognize a lanky guy as a fellow dealer at the antiques mall, although I couldn’t recall his name.

  Next to him were a man and woman, sharing an orange umbrella, both middle-aged and maybe a little too fond of food. He had eyebrows in need of a trim, and she wore an ill-fitting short brown wig.

  The other bidder was a muscular young man in a black Harley T-shirt, his arms exposed possibly to show off his biceps and formidable forearms. Too manly to carry an umbrella, he just stood there letting his dark hair get matted by the rain.

  Mother’s mouth was moving, and when I didn’t respond due to my Maxwell Smart “cone of silence,” she kicked me. Kicked me!

  “O www w!” I said, rubbing my shin with my other, uninjured leg. “Whatcha do that for?”

  She ducked down, stuck her head under the umbrella, and her eyes gleamed up at me, like those of a coyote who smelled blood.

  “Get rid of that thing,” she snarled. “I need you sharp—front and center!”

  She did her Sgt. Bilko troop-summoning hey-harr-uppp.

  Mother withdrew, and I came out from under the umbrella, snapped it closed, then saluted.

  A shiny red pickup truck rolled up to where the six of us were gathered, then the truck’s cab door opened, and a blue-jeaned leg with a brown pointy-toed cowboy boot swung out and down to the ground.

  “There’s Big Jim Bob himself!” Mother burbled, suddenly a giddy schoolgirl.
r />   How I hated it when she ran into an “old” somebody she had “known.”

  While the man was big—over six feet, two hundred plus pounds—he was not the potbelly redneck his name had promised. He had thinning gray hair, tired eyes, bulbous nose, and a mouth that had become a mere slit between sagging jowls. He’d been handsome once. Once.

  Still, when Big Jim Bob spotted Mother, the eyes suddenly twinkled, and his broad smile gave him an instant face-lift.

  Beneath the umbrella of hers that we now shared, I leaned closer to Mother and whispered, “There’ll be none of that.”

  “None of what, dear?”

  “Making goo-goo eyes.”

  “I’m not making goo-goo eyes.”

  “I know goo-goo eyes when I see them, and you’re making them, so stop.”

  “If you say so, dear.”

  Big Jim Bob was retrieving a wide-brimmed black cowboy hat and tan oil-cloth coat from his truck, which he put on. Then he greeted the group with a “Howdy, folks.” Whether his drawl was an affectation or the result of living down south, I couldn’t tell ya’ll.

  “Nice to see you, BJB,” Mother gushed.

  BJB. Gag me with an antique spoon.

  “Nice to be seen, Vivian,” he said to her. “Every day ’bove ground is a good day.” Then to the small assemblage: “And thank ya’ll for coming out in such fine weather for ducks.”

  Everybody managed a damp laugh.

  Then he made a “gather around” gesture, and we crowded in, knocking umbrellas, bumper cars at the carnival.

  “ ’fore we get to the auction,” he began, “ah’d like t’make a few announcements. Firstly, there’s only one unit up for bids. Number seven. T’other one’s rent got paid, last minute. As some of ya’ll know, ah try hard t’contact past due renters ’fore goin’ t’auction ... and any money ah make goes toward their past due rent. Ah’m not here t’take advantage.” He paused, then added, “That said, we’ll proceed.”

  Big Jim Bob stepped back to his truck, and from the cab produced a wicked-looking steel cutter, which he used on the padlock of unit seven, only a few yards from where we stood.

  As he rolled up the garage door, everyone moved closer, craning their necks to get a look into this magical cave of pirate treasure ...

  . . . but Big Jim Bob obstructed the view with his large frame.

  “For you first-timers,” he said, “here’s the rules—each one of ya’ll can come forward t’get a real good peek. But that’s all. There’s no goin’ in. You have a minute to get your eyeful.”

  Since that didn’t make sense to me, I asked, “How are we supposed to know what we’re bidding on?”

  Big Jim Bob turned his weary eyes toward me. “Well, that’s the point, little lady. Ya don’t. When everythin’s boxed up—like in this here unit—you’re takin’ a chance. Kinda like a big ol’ grab bag. Your proverbial pig-in-a-poke.”

  I never had any luck with grab bags, as a kid—best I ever did was wax lips twice and a paddleball once.

  Mother, moving from beneath our umbrella, muscled her way to the front of the bidders.

  “Ladies first!” she announced.

  The ill-bewigged woman blurted, “Well, uh, I’m a lady... .”

  “Ladies of a certain age,” Mother said, already with her toes at the very edge of the threshold.

  Nobody tried to stop her.

  I was impressed—this had to be serious, if Mother was playing the age card.

  Armed with a flashlight from home, she leaned in as far as she could, and started weaving back and forth, occasionally issuing a loud cough, from her toes up—she might have been drunk, or maybe sick... .

  To me, her antics seemed predictable if pointless, unless she had suddenly acquired X-ray vision, and I was pretty sure she’d have mentioned that over breakfast.

  Finally, after the longest minute in recorded history, Mother resumed her decorum, straightened, stepped back, then turned to her audience with a disappointed sigh that would have registered on the back row of the local Playhouse.

  “Well!” she said, “whoever wins this bid will have quite the mouse infestation to clean up.”

  The small group of bidders surged forward, and Mother proved her point by directing her flashlight beam toward the evidence.

  But I stayed put.

  Having grown up in an old house, I didn’t need to get any closer—I knew mouse droppings when I saw them. And there were plenty, resting on the tops of the boxes, littering the exposed concrete floor.

  The woman in the ill-fitting brown wig said, “Oh, my! The damage they can do.”

  At her side, her bushy-browed mate shrugged. “I’ve seen worse... .”

  Mother offered, “Might not be mice at that.”

  All eyes were on her, mine included.

  “Could be rats.”

  Brown Wig snapped, “You’re not bringing those filthy boxes into my clean house!”

  The woman turned abruptly, taking their umbrella with her. Bushy Eyebrows dutifully followed.

  Two down, two to go.

  Not waiting for the starting gun (or auction gavel?), the lanky dealer from the antiques mall said, “I’ll go fifty dollars.”

  The muscleman in the Harley T-shirt muttered, “Not worth it.” And he, too, departed (but in a car, not on a Harley).

  Three down, one to go.

  Mother straightened herself, dug her Wellies in, and announced, “I’ll bid one hundred—I am not going home empty-handed. I spent hours making room in the garage!”

  “You did?” I asked, surprised.

  Mother shot me her “Will you just play along!” look.

  She could lie with such conviction that even I believed her, and after all these years. She kind of was a good actress.

  Lanky scowled at Mother. “Oh, all right, it’s all yours, mouse turds and all ...”

  “Most gracious,” Mother said with a nod.

  “... but you’ll let me know if there’s anything good?”

  “Of course,” Mother said with her sweetest smile. Then she added, to soothe the burn, “But you know it’s almost certainly just junk.”

  The lanky dealer grunted and strode off to his car.

  (Can anyone tell me why antiques hunters want to be told when they miss out on something? I wouldn’t want to know if I got beaten to a pair of half-off Louboutins.)

  Big Jim Bob, who had stood by silently during the impromptu bidding, commented, “Hope ah was right about this here unit, Vivian ... and that y’do find somethin’ worthwhile. And ah apologize about the mice—never had nothin’ like that here b’fore.”

  Mother waved a hand. “No apology necessary—I’m quite used to mouse doo-doo. Those little rascals can get in just about anywhere.”

  Including her sock drawer. One lived snuggled in a nest of support hose for months before Mother noticed it. (I couldn’t kill the thing—too cute. Anyway, it wasn’t my sock drawer.)

  Big Jim Bob was saying, “Now, ladies, y’understand, ya have t’have the stuff outta there in twenty-four.”

  I blinked. “Days?”

  “Hours.”

  “Could be a problem—we don’t have a truck.”

  Mother said, “Not to worry, dear—we can make multiple trips.”

  Meaning I could make multiple trips.

  Big Jim Bob was removing a new padlock with two keys from its plastic packaging, handing us one. “This here’s t’secure the unit, and when ya’ll’re done, lock ’er up and toss the key. I’ll keep this here second key to get back in, after. The new renter’ll have a brand-new lock.”

  Mother touched his arm. “Thank you for calling me about the unit, BJB. I’m quite sure we’ll make back our hundred dollars.”

  “Sure hope so, Vivian. That rain’s a slice of luck for you gals. These units can go way higher. I don’t usually go to all this trouble for just a hundred smackers.”

  She batted her eyelashes. “If you’re ever in our neighborhood. . . why don’t you stop by a
nd see me sometime?”

  I squirmed in my skin, but at least she hadn’t said it in her Mae West voice.

  He smiled a little. “Thank ya, Viv, just might take ya up on that. Well, gotta skedaddle—have t’call a fella about rentin’ this here unit, when ya’ll’re done with it.”

  Big Jim Bob strode to his truck, then drove away.

  We turned our attention to the unit, stepping inside as far as we could. Rain drummed hollowly, but the space was anything but hollow, filled with all sorts of “surprise package” boxes. We had a lot of work to do... .

  I said, “We could probably get five or six boxes in the car at a time, and with a trip every hour, should be done in about—Mother! What are you doing?”

  She was idly picking up a mouse dropping from the top of a box. She gave the tiny brown ball a smiling look ... then proceeded to pop it into her mouth!

  “What’s the matter, dear?” she said, still smiling. “Haven’t you ever seen anyone eat a chocolate cake sprinkle?”

  “Mother, you didn’t!”

  “Oh, but I did, dear—indeedie diddie do.”

  And she reached into her coat pocket and withdrew a handful of the tiny mouse-turd-shaped candy.

  No wonder she wanted to be the first bidder to view the unit ... so she could toss the “droppings” around. What a cheat! What a crook! Still, you had to admire her ingenuity.

  But I couldn’t let her off scot-free. “Don’t you think that was a little underhanded?”

  Mother’s eyebrows rose above her thick round glasses. “They were all underhanded tosses, dear, or else I might have been spotted. Anyway, all’s fair in love and war, and bidding on storage units. Now chop chop! We’ve got work to do.”

  Meaning me, the worker bee, under the supervision of her, the queen.

  I hefted a box from the nearest pile, carried it to the car, letting the rain mingle with the sweat already forming on my brow. Then, after loading the box, I backed the Buick up to the unit to make my work easier.