Antiques Roadkill Read online

  Her eyes were wild now. Somehow she kept her voice soft, but it was like a controlled scream when she said: “You have no idea, do you, of the trouble and misery you’ve caused me? That you ruined my marriage, and ruined me. …”

  “If a one-night stand ruined your marriage, I’m not taking the blame—there must have been something wrong with that marriage already.”

  Her nostrils flared, her eyes, too. “You won’t take the blame? But, Brandy … all the blame is yours. All the lives destroyed.…”

  “What lives?”

  Her expression turned inward suddenly; for all her apparent self-control, there was a wooziness in her voice as she muttered, “People dead … your fault those people are dead.”

  “My fault? What people?”

  She was weaving as she sat there, just a little. “If you … if you hadn’t had an affair with Brad, I wouldn’t have …”

  “Wouldn’t have what, Jennifer?”

  Still weaving, ever so slightly, Jennifer regarded me with wide eyes, her expression blank but for a tiny upturning of the corners of her mouth, which suggested bitter amusement.

  Finally she said, “You should know. You really should know what you’ve done. I have to live with it. You should have to live with it, too.”

  “Live with what, Jen? Tell me. I deserve that much.”

  A crackle of laughter. “You deserve so much more … well, why not? I think I do want you to know what misery you’ve sown. And, anyway, it’s not like anyone would believe you, if you told. Everybody in this town—especially the police—think you and that mother of yours belong in a loony bin.”

  My eyes were locked upon hers, but my emotions were barely under control, my lower lip quivering, and a tear sliding down my cheek.

  “Just look at you,” she said, with a contemptuous sneer. “You’re pathetic. Beautiful Brandy Borne—an absolute loser. A pitiful Prozac-popping would-be home wrecker.” A derisive horselike snort erupted from her. “What Brad ever saw in you I’ll never know … he must have been drunk at that reunion.” She gave her head and that auburn hair a toss. “I, on the other hand, am the wronged wife, respected in the community, with all the right friends … even your friends, now that you don’t have any.” A manic gleam came to her green eyes. “Yes. I think I want you to know … I want you to know and not be able to do a goddamn fucking thing about it!”

  I wiped a tear away with a knuckle. I snuffled snot, and said, “You … you killed Clint Carson and tried to blame me for it.”

  She smirked. “You think?” She paused, glanced around. No one was paying us the slightest attention, the chatter and occasional laughter covering up our conversation; but at our table her ominous whispering was all too audible.

  I said, “That was you who left the message on our answer machine—not Tanya.”

  Leaning forward, upper lip curled back over tiny perfect teeth, Jennifer said, “I was there with him at his farmhouse, when I made that call—of course, he was already dead. You weren’t my first priority, Brandy, don’t compliment yourself—I just found it a fitting irony for you to take the blame, since my getting involved with Clint was, after all, your fault.”

  “My fault …?”

  “Obviously! I would have never tried to even the books with Brad, by having an affair with Clint, if you hadn’t made that necessary.… I was a faithful, loyal wife before you came along and ruined everything.”

  “How can you—”

  “And another irony I relished? Was drugging the drug dealer. I drugged that bastard, then ‘drug’ him outside and down the lane, positioning him for you to run over.” She heaved a self-pitying sigh. “That should have worked—I didn’t factor in your crazy mother.…”

  I asked, “You’d been having an affair with Carson, how long?”

  Her eyebrows knit. “Longer than I intended—just to get even with Brad, at first. He was a good-looking man, and he made a kind of play for me in his shop, and I thought … maybe if I have my own little fling, I’ll be able to put my anger at Brad behind me. And it was fun, while it lasted—he wasn’t tender, Clint, but he got the job done nicely.” She’d been smiling at that thought, but now frowned. “Then Clint wanted me to keep supplying him with information … particularly from my candy striper position at the hospital, that helped him get him leads on loads of antiques. I’m well connected, after all. I knew what patients were sick or dying or dead.”

  So that’s how Carson replenished his stock.…

  “When I tried to break it off, that creep threatened to expose me.” Her mouth tightened as if tasting something unpleasant. “He told me I’d have to keep him satisfied, both with ‘leads’ on antiques, and … with whatever he was in the mood for.… Well, I couldn’t have that. He had to go.” Her brow furrowed. “So do you understand, Brandy? Don’t you? How it was all your fault?”

  “And then when I started poking around, Mother and I, you—”

  “No. That wasn’t it, at first. I had to make sure that that answering machine tape was never found—my voice might still have been on there. So I sneaked in to take it, and then … well, I just had an inspired idea. On the spot. You and your mother were causing trouble, so … why not tie it all in a nice bow?”

  “How did you get into our house?”

  She smiled. “Doesn’t your mother ever lock the front door?”

  Sometimes.

  I asked, “And Mrs. Taylor?”

  “Who?”

  “The woman in my hospital room? I suppose the drain cleaner was meant for me.”

  Her eyes flashed, and I’d clearly struck a nerve. “Again, your fault, your fault, your fault!”

  Her voice had risen now, and I glanced around to see if anyone had noticed; no one seemed to have.

  Her upper lip tightened over her teeth. “Who but Brandy Borne would switch hospital beds with a roommate? Who ever heard of that? You did it to be selfish, right? What, to be closer to the toilet? You are such a selfish, selfish, selfish bitch.…”

  I chose not to argue that point, and pressed on. “Why kill Tanya? She seemed harmless enough.…”

  “Harmless? She was a bitch, too—a blackmailing bitch!” Jennifer was trembling now, a tiny twitch at the left corner of her mouth making her seem to smile involuntarily every few seconds. “Clint, that stupid selfish bastard, he must have told her about our affair—he was seeing her, too, and he must have bragged or, or God knows what. I tried not to kill her—I even gave her ten thousand dollars from my personal savings; but, no, she wanted more, or she’d tell Brad.” Jennifer shook her head and the well-controlled auburn locks landed in a wild tangle. “Did she really think a married woman could come up with fifty thousand dollars without her husband knowing? She was like you—selfish. Greedy … I lured her up to the second floor, and sent her back down to the basement.”

  I swallowed. “Isn’t it getting a little too easy, Jen? Killing people?”

  She laughed harshly. “That’s right—blame me! Cause and effect, Brandy, cause and effect—your fault, your fault, your fault! If you hadn’t slept with my husband, none of this would have happened!”

  “I apologized for that, Jennifer, and I meant it.”

  “Words. What good are words?”

  For the first time since I’d sat down at this table, I smiled. “Your words this afternoon? They’ll do a lot of good.”

  Her sneer this time was as wild as her tangled hair. “You repeat anything that I’ve said here? I’ll deny it.”

  “I figured as much. But the police are already looking at you—starting with a woman answering your description arguing with Carson at the Haven Motel, a woman with a green SUV, even if it did look brown under red light.”

  She sat back and regained her poise, though the mussed-up hair took the edge off. “I’ll say you’re a liar, a poor mentally disturbed woman who is still lusting after my husband.… No one will believe you.”

  “I figured as much,” I repeated. “That’s why I’m wearing a wire.”


  For a moment, Jennifer had the stunned expression of a clubbed baby seal. Then she laughed, trying a little too hard. “I’m sure! Brandy Borne—undercover airhead!”

  So I unbuttoned my shirt, exposing the tiny microphone taped to my bra.

  “There’s a mike in the flowers, too,” I said, nodding toward the vase.

  With a savage cry, she sprang to her feet, lurched across the table, upsetting the vase and the flowers and the drinks, long fingernails clawing at my blouse.

  I slapped her face.

  She pulled my hair.

  I kicked her in the shins.

  She jabbed a salad fork in my side.

  It wasn’t very dignified, even as catfights go, and a kind of small-stakes payoff for a murderess who’d taken three lives and blown up a house. But we were both ad-libbing, and—off-script—you can only accomplish so much.

  Joe Lange reached us first—which was a good thing because Jennifer, in her psychotic fury, was besting me. With some difficulty, Joe pulled us apart, then got her in a head-lock, and frankly he seemed to me to be enjoying himself just a little too much.

  A plainclothes Brian Lawson, who had rushed in when the fight broke out, slapped handcuffs on Jennifer.

  Mother, on the heels of Lawson, was ecstatic. “Oh, that was just wonderful, Brandy!” she trilled. “Your acting was superb. … You were so utterly, believably pathetic.”

  Peggy Sue, attending to my superficial side wound by applying pressure with a napkin, said wryly, “A little too believable, if you ask me.”

  I looked at her and at Mother. “Well, it wasn’t a stretch. Anyway, I wasn’t really acting.”

  Mother waved her hands as if they were pom-poms (or is that pons?) and pshawed. “Nonsense, dear! It’s in the DNA—the scene called for tears, and you summoned them up from sense memory. You had a part to play—to goad that woman into baring her horrid soul—and you performed it to perfection.”

  Tina, who had also been offstage (so to speak), where she had made the phone call to Jennifer, appeared to give me a gentle hug and asked, “Are you all right, honey?”

  I gave my best friend a mock-hurt look. “You said I stole money from you?”

  She responded sheepishly. “Hey, I was supposed to gain Jennifer’s confidence, wasn’t I? And she never seemed to have any trouble believing anything bad I had to say about you!”

  Jennifer, having been read her rights by a uniformed officer who’d materialized, glared at us as she was walked out of the restaurant. Even going out the door, her hard, hating eyes shot their green laser beams at me.

  I shuddered—being hated that much was unsettling … particularly by a sociopathic killer.

  Mother clapped her hands loudly. “Everyone! Everyone, please! May I have your attention?”

  The room settled and all eyes went to Mother.

  “I don’t believe individual notes will be necessary,” she said grandly. “But I do want to thank all of you for being a part of this production … which was, by any measure, a complete success. And I look forward to seeing all of you at the cast party this afternoon, held at my daughter Peggy Sue Hastings’s home.…”

  Sis goggled at her. “The what party? … Excuse me! Wait a minute … What party?”

  “… So I hope you can all come, and we’ll wait together for the reviews.”

  The reviews?

  Had Mother finally lost all her marbles? Then I noticed a camera-toting, notebook-scribbling reporter from the Serenity Gazette. And on the periphery, a video cam was on the shoulder of a local TV cameraman, a good-looking female reporter at his side, her notebook at the ready, too.

  Mother had arranged coverage for her directorial debut in the reality TV arena.

  Officer Lawson was at my side, and touched my arm. “Are you sure you’re all right? We should have that looked at.”

  I pulled the shirt up. “No, it’s fine … see? Stopped bleeding. Must’ve been a dull fork.”

  He smiled at me—all the irritation gone. A nice, warm, maybe-something-more-than-a-friend kind of smile. After all, this time I’d been sleuthing and snooping with police permission.

  I asked him, “You got it all on tape?”

  “Every word.” Then: “Thank you.”

  “Any time.”

  He frowned. “No, Brandy … not any time. Promise me.”

  “Well, I can promise you,” I said. “For my part—but with Mother? You never know.”

  He glanced over at her, surrounded by friends and press and general admiration, and from his defeated expression, I knew he knew exactly what I meant.

  A Trash ‘n’ Treasures Tip

  If you see an item that makes your heart skip a beat, and the price is right, grab it; it may not be there ten minutes, or even ten seconds, later. At a flea market, Mother spotted an autographed photo of Errol Flynn, turned around to get my attention, and another lady stole it out from under her.

  Chapter Twelve

  Bad Heirloom Day

  Sometimes, at night, when sleep won’t come, I find myself going to a bad place where I think about everything that snowballed from my one night of irresponsibility. In this place, much of what Jennifer said to me, and accused me of, makes perfect sense.

  And, sometimes, at night, when sleep won’t come, I wonder if Jennifer’s husband, Brad, finds himself in that same bad place, going through those same sad thought processes.

  Thankfully, my medication doesn’t let me wallow there for long. And the odds are excellent that Brad and I will never compare notes on this subject.

  About a week after the improvised one-act “play” at the Grist Mill Restaurant, a letter addressed to Vivian and Brandy Borne, in care of my sister, arrived … from the Serenity Safety Building, Police Department.

  Mother—not waiting for me—opened it, then came running downstairs to my sewing-room hideaway, where I was playing with Sushi on the daybed, one hand under the protection of the blanket, pretending to be a striking snake, while Soosh didn’t pretend at all as she attacked it with her sharp teeth.

  “Brandy!” Mother’s face was flush with excitement, her eyes behind the glasses comically huge. “Chief Cassato has been kind enough to send us information about our antiques.” She had to pause to catch her breath. “They’ll all be going up for auction tomorrow morning!”

  I jumped off the bed, peered over her shoulder at the letter, and read the important part aloud: “‘Be at Klein’s Auction House at six AM sharp. Good luck, Tony.’”

  I looked at Mother. “Where’s that?”

  “About an hour’s drive from here.”

  “Well, what are we waiting for? We’ve got to rent a trailer!”

  “Can we afford anything?”

  Mother had come clean with the insurance company about the contents of the house, so the two hundred grand for contents had been knocked down to about twenty thousand.

  “We have to refurnish, don’t we?” I asked. “We have some insurance money to play with.… Certainly we can get some of our memories back!”

  “Yes!” she said, and began to hop up and down. “Yes! Yes!”

  I resisted hopping up and down myself, but just barely, and off we went to rent our trailer.

  That night Mother and I sat up late at the kitchen table trying to devise a game plan. We had lots to think about: How many of our prized possessions would be auctioned? What dollar limit should be bid on each? Who should do the bidding—me or Mother? Would our emotions run amok? Would we overdo our bids on a few pieces and lose out on many other, more precious ones?

  Peggy Sue and Bob weren’t going with us; Bob was leaving for a weekend business conference, and Peggy Sue said she had a social obligation she just couldn’t get out of (while this was true, I knew Peggy Sue could not face an antique auction with Mother and me) (could you?).

  But the Hastingses didn’t hesitate to give us their opinions.

  Bob: Keep within your budget, and don’t expect to get every single piece.

 
Peggy Sue: Mother, the actress, should weep and moan whenever one of our items comes up for bid to get the sympathy of the crowd (great advice coming from somebody who wasn’t going to have to witness that!).

  In the end Mother and I arrived at the same conclusion: we were willing to spend all of that twenty thousand in insurance money to get back everything we could, however much, however little.…

  It seemed like my head had barely hit the pillow when one of the two alarm clocks I’d set trilled on my night-stand. The other, across the room on the sewing machine table (a strategic placement that would force me to get up to shut it off), sang out shortly thereafter.

  Four AM and all was well.

  So far.

  Mother was already up, and dressed.

  Don’t ask.

  All right, all right—as Lady Macbeth. I only hoped she could be as devious and cunning as her wardrobe; I was certainly willing to help wash any blood off her hands. I wore a sky-blue Grist Mill Restaurant T-shirt (they’d earned the publicity) and jeans and Rebox, wanting to look vaguely well off to an auctioneer but not threatening to other buyers.

  After stopping for coffee and messy donuts, we headed north along the scenic river road, the pink sunrise magnificent, shimmering with promise on the Mighty Miss. Mother seemed lost in her thoughts, perhaps beating herself up a little for losing this stuff in the first place, but probably also girding her loins to make up for that lapse; I was concentrating on keeping my protesting car and the attached fish-tailing trailer on the road, peeved that I couldn’t go any faster than fifty-five.

  At a quarter to six, however, we pulled into the gravel lot of the auction house, a large, tan-metal, no-frills affair set off between cornfields.

  Except for a van parked along the side of the building, we were the first ones there. That was good—Mother and I exchanged greedy-little-kid looks. Then the Borne girls got out, stretched, and headed to the front door, which we, unhappily, found locked.

  We glanced at each other, puzzled.