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  Had her imagination built those things into something even worse, I wondered?

  I got the conversation back on point. “Mrs. Harper, who knew you were donating the coin?”

  “No one.”

  “What about your son, David?” Mother asked. “Did you tell him of your intentions? And am I right in assuming your estate would otherwise be . . . modest?”

  Her voice became defensive. “Yes, I’m not rich, we’re not rich, but if you think David had anything to do with Simon’s murder, you’re wrong. My son may not be perfect, but he would never, could never do such a terrible thing!”

  After assuring Mildred that we would do whatever we could to find Simon’s killer, and her missing coin, Mother and I took our leave.

  As we walked to the car, I asked, “Well, what do you think?”

  “I think we should talk to less-than-perfect David. Don’t you?”

  I nodded. “I sure do. Someday he’ll be an orphan, who might just prefer to inherit that coin himself.”

  Chapter Three

  “Give her a dolly that laughs and cries one that will open and shut her eyes . . .”

  On the way to Happy Trails Trailer Court—where David Harper lived with a second wife half his age (both his marriages childless)—Mother said, “Mildred’s imperfect boy has run afoul of the law several times.”

  “In what way?”

  Mother raised an eyebrow. “Code ten and fifty-five.”

  She had a scanner in the kitchen and knew all the codes.

  “Civilian translation please?” I requested.

  “Civil fight in progress, and drunk driving.”

  Taking my eyes off the road momentarily, I said, “So little David has a temper. Either of those charges stick?”

  “No. Mildred’s impassioned pleading for her son had weight with the judge on both accounts, and he got off with fines . . . which she paid, I might add. Oh, and of course he lost his license for a time. That’s what happens to people who aren’t responsible behind the wheel.”

  At that I almost drove our car off the road myself, and if I had been drinking and driving (soft drink or coffee only), I’d have done a spit take. Mother’s driver’s license had been taken away from her numerous times, most recently for hit-and-run (knocking over a mailbox).

  I pulled the car into the gravel entry of the trailer court and Mother directed me to Harper’s mobile home, an older model with white siding stained by years of neglect, squatting on a tiny lot.

  We got out of our car and approached the somewhat ominous trailer. Mother took the lead, going fearlessly up the three metal stairs, then knocking on a flimsy screen door.

  She had not shared with me how she intended to approach David Harper, and I’d given her no suggestions, having no idea myself. Other than: Hi! Your mother says you’re too nice to kill Santa Claus for a valuable coin—is she right?

  A second knock summoned a skinny young woman with stringy brown hair and dull eyes, her jeans tight and torn and suited to her faded Harley Davidson T-shirt. Her thin arms were covered with tats, as if the shirt had colorful, tasteless sleeves.

  “We don’t take no salutation,” she said. Her voice was a hospital-room flatline.

  Mother smiled pleasantly. “My dear, we aren’t soliciting anything, nor are we affiliated with any spiritual convocation hoping to bring you into the fold.”

  The tattooed woman blinked.

  I discreetly kicked Mother’s heel. “What she means is,” I said, leaning around, “we’re not selling anything or trying to get you to join our church.”

  “Oh. Then what do you want?”

  Yes, excellent question—what did we want?

  Mother cleared her throat and tried again. “Well, my dear, it seems our car has broken down and both our cell phones have died, and we wondered if you might let us use your phone to call a tow truck.”

  The young woman shrugged. “Sure, why not? I had cars break down on me plenty of times.”

  But then she pulled a phone out of a back pocket and handed it to Mother.

  Mother took the cell, saying, “Why, thank you, dear, that’s so very gracious of you . . .”

  Think of all the trouble that could have been avoided in Rocky Horror Picture Show if Riff Raff had just offered Brad and Janet the use of a cell phone at the spooky mansion’s front door.

  Mother was vamping: “. . . but do you mind if I step inside? My poor old fingers are half-frozen.”

  The woman shrugged again. “Sure. It is frickin’ cold.”

  Only she didn’t say “frickin’.”

  Mother drawled (and here’s where I should have kicked her again) in a stage Southern accent, “Why, thank you, young lady. I’ve always depended on the kindness of strangers.”

  To which she got, “Whatever.”

  The interior of the double-wide trailer was arrayed with furnishings that were surprisingly new—leather couch and matching recliner, glass coffee and end tables. Had she and David come into some money? Maybe enough to walk into a furniture showroom and say, “Wrap it up”?

  Too soon for the coin to be fenced and sold, though; but maybe David had inherited something from his late father.

  While Mother plopped down in an overstuffed chair, and began tapping numbers into the phone, I said, “I’m Brandy, and this is my mother, Vivian.”

  “Crystal.”

  Mother was speaking a little too loudly, overplaying her part. That’s the problem with stage actresses in real life. “Hank’s Towing Service? Yes . . . all right, yes of course I’ll hold.”

  Since I knew of no such towing service, I wondered what confused soul had found himself or herself on the other end of that call. Surely no one named Hank.

  With a nervous smile, I asked Crystal, “Did you go to the Holiday Stroll last night?”

  “Nope.”

  “Did your husband go?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “How’d you know I was married?”

  I gestured to a framed, somewhat blurry wedding photo on an end table where the happy couple smiled for the camera. Crystal’s wedding gown had long sleeves, so at least the tats weren’t showing.

  “Naw,” she said, “Davey didn’t go neither—that Christmas crap’s a buncha bull. Anyway, Saturday night’s his poker game.”

  I cocked my head and lowered my voice. “Did you hear about what happened?”

  “Huh?”

  “There was a murder there.”

  She reached for a pack of cigarettes on the nearby coffee table, extracted one and lit it, shrugging.

  “Never heard about nothin’ like that . . . Dave maybe did, but he never said nothin’ to me about it.” She blew smoke out the side of her mouth away from me, courteous hostess that she was. “Who bought it?”

  “An older gentleman named Simon Wright. He was playing Santa Claus. He’s done that for a lot of years.”

  She shrugged again. “Well, I didn’t grow up around here. Never heard of him. Why’d somebody kill the guy, anyway?”

  “Apparently for donation money he kept in a bag. Or maybe something else in that bag.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Rumor is, there was something quite valuable in it.”

  There was a flicker in the young woman’s dull eyes that quickly vanished, and she stubbed out the cigarette in an overflowing ashtray on an end table.

  Mother said, “My apologies, kind lady . . . still holding!”

  The door of the trailer opened and a tall, slender, hawkish-faced man in a hunting jacket, jeans, and heavy boots burst in.

  He saw Mother and me and growled, “What are these two snoops doing here?”

  “Their car broke down,” Crystal said.

  “My behind!” David snapped. Only he didn’t say “behind.” “Don’t you know who they are, you idiot?”

  His helpmate shook her head.

  He whipped an accusing finger at each of us. “These are the two local screwballs who go around sticking their nose in everybody else’s business!
”

  Hard to argue with that....

  “Hey!” Crystal blurted. “Don’t get mad at me about it! I don’t know them from an atom. I ain’t from around here, remember.”

  David now turned his red-faced fury on us. It was like an oven door opened suddenly, minus any enticing food smells. “Have you been talking to my mother? About that damn coin?”

  Mother stood. “Yes.”

  He took a few steps toward her, and I moved to block him.

  “She called us,” I told him. “Said she had gone to the Stroll last night and put that coin in Simon Wright’s donation bag. You do know that he was killed, and the money in the bag was stolen?”

  “You think I live under a rock or something?”

  Mother said, “I assume that’s a rhetorical question.”

  David smirked at us. “I suppose you two female clowns think I did it?”

  Mother asked, “We think you’re innocent until proven guilty. But we can start with, this poker game you attended last night—could you provide the names of the other players?”

  He thrust a finger at the door. “We can start with get the fudge out... the both of you!” Only he didn’t say . . . you know.

  Mother handed Crystal back the cell phone. “Thank you, dear, you’ve been so kind.”

  “But what about the tow truck?” she asked.

  David rolled his eyes and said, “There’s no tow truck, you dumb ditz.”

  Crystal said, “There is so! I heard her call one.”

  And not wanting to add any further sour notes to such marital harmony, Mother and I beat a hasty retreat.

  Our next stop was to pay a visit to Simon Wright’s daughter and son-in-law, Della and Rod Conklin, ostensibly to offer our sympathy.

  Mother filled me in on the way.

  “Della was an only child,” Mother said, adding, “spoiled rotten, I’m afraid. And when she married Rod, it broke Simon’s heart.”

  “Why?”

  She shook her head, frowning. “He never said exactly why. But I think we can safely assume that Simon must have known about the man’s abusive behavior. I myself heard several code ten-sixteens that brought police to their door.”

  “Why do you suppose Della put up with that?”

  Mother sighed. “There are many reasons why someone stays in an abusive relationship . . . fear, shame, the belief that the person is going to change, even that the beating was somehow deserved. Anyway, while I don’t know the details, Simon made it clear to me that Della’s refusal to leave Rod caused a rupture in the father/daughter relationship.”

  I nodded. “That might be another reason for Simon’s interest in funding a new domestic violence center.”

  I steered the car onto Shady Lane, which cut through a middle-class housing addition built in the 1960s. We parked in front of a modest one-story ranch-style home, got out, and made our way to the door. I was still content to let Mother lead the way.

  Rod Conklin, wearing a green rugby shirt and jeans, answered the door. In his forties, Della’s husband was well under six feet but sturdy-looking, with short brown hair, a crooked nose, and a slash for a mouth.

  “Oh,” he said flatly, eyes narrowing. There was something at least vaguely accusatory when he said: “You’re the ones that found Simon. Vivian and . . . ?”

  “Brandy. Borne.”

  He nodded. His expression remained blank and yet I sensed suspicion. “Is there something I do for you?”

  Clasping her hands to her bosom, Mother said, “We came to offer Della our condolences. I was a good friend of her father’s.”

  He frowned. “Well, uh . . . she really doesn’t want to see anybody just now.”

  Why? I thought. A black eye she’s nursing, maybe?

  “Let them in,” a female voice behind Rod said.

  Rod stepped aside and we entered a small foyer. The voice belonged to Della, whose idea of mourning was a white sweater and black slacks. Simon’s daughter was about as tall as her husband, with chin-length hair a shade of red unknown in nature, her face a feminine softening of her father’s features.

  She stood at the mouth of the living room and gestured for us to follow her. The room was tastefully decorated in pastel shades, with Christmas touches here and there: a tree festooned with ornaments; a collection of wooden nutcracker figures; a grouping of ceramic angels.

  Mother said, “My dear, how are you holding up?”

  Della’s eyes were neither swollen nor runny-mascara black. Nor were they red from crying.

  There was no offer for us to sit.

  “I’m fine, thank you,” Della replied, something cold about it. “Since you and my father were close, I’m sure you know he and I hadn’t gotten along for some time.”

  “Yes, of course,” Mother replied, retaining a sympathetic tone. “But that doesn’t make a tragedy like this any easier—in fact, it can make it even harder.”

  Rod, on the periphery, addressed his wife: “Darling—could I get you and our guests anything to drink?”

  How typical of his type to put on a good show in front of company.

  Della said brusquely, “I don’t believe they’ll be staying that long.”

  Surprised by her rudeness (never mind that we were there on false pretenses), I said, “I don’t mean to sound cruel, Mrs. Conklin—but don’t you care who killed your father?”

  Della’s expression changed, the words making some impact. “Actually . . . I do care. Of course I care. I obviously want my father’s murderer to be caught, whoever he might be.”

  Or she.

  Mother moved in. “We’re conducting an unofficial investigation of sorts. Perhaps you’re aware of the successes my daughter and I have had in aiding the local constabulary.”

  Della nodded, shrugged.

  “Then,” Mother went on with a pleasant smile, “I’m sure you won’t mind answering a few questions . . .”

  “I suppose not.”

  “Did you or your husband, together or separately, attend the Stroll last night?”

  Simultaneously Della said yes and Rod replied no.

  Mother asked, “Which is it?”

  Della said, “We were downtown, both of us, early on . . . but when the Stroll really got under way, started really getting crowded, we left and came home.”

  I asked, “While you were there, did you see Simon?”

  The pair shook their heads, Della adding, “Only from a distance . . . As I say, we had no real contact with him for years.”

  Rod said, “The police told us Simon was robbed, the donation bag emptied, and that’s likely why . . . why this awful thing happened.” He shook his head. “Whoever did it couldn’t have got much for his trouble.”

  Or hers.

  Mother then told the couple about the valuable coin donated by Mildred Harper, news that seemed to surprise them.

  Della said, “Then my father’s death wasn’t so senseless.”

  That struck me as odd, as if she were somehow condoning the killing.

  Mother, apparently feeling that she’d gotten all the information she could, said, “Well, we’ve taken up enough of your time. Thank you for putting up with us at a moment like this.”

  We said our good-byes, which were perfunctory and quick.

  Back home in our library room, Mother wheeled out from behind the stand-up piano the old schoolroom blackboard that she used to compile her suspect lists.

  While I sat on the piano bench, she picked up a piece of white chalk from the board’s lip and wrote:

  “Not much to go on,” I said.

  “I concur,” Mother sighed. She had a sheet of paper and was taping it on the side of the blackboard.

  I got up for a look, and my mouth dropped open. “Where did you get that?”

  It was a printout photo of the crime scene.

  Mother shrugged. “I took it with my cell phone while you were outside waiting for the police to arrive.”

  I didn’t know whether to chastise her for a lack of c
ommon decency or congratulate her for her dogged resourcefulness. I did neither, because I noticed something in the photo that sent me rushing off.

  A few minutes later, I came back with a copy of the photo I had taken that night of Simon and his display.

  Taping my printout next to Mother’s, I asked, “Notice anything different about Simon’s suit in the photos?”

  She said, “Well, let me see . . . you know, I always find the differences in the Hocus Focus feature in the comic section.”

  Mother leaned in for a closer look, big eyes behind the large glasses going back and forth as if she were watching a tennis match.

  “I’ve got it!” she said gleefully.

  “Do you?”

  “Indeed. The sleeve and trouser cuffs in your photo don’t have any fur! That means there were two different Santa suits worn that night.”

  “The significance of which is . . . ?”

  “Simon must have been murdered at the beginning of the Stroll, not at the end. The killer in the furless cuffs had taken his place!”

  “Which means something else, too.”

  “What, dear?”

  “Simple. Simon wasn’t giving you the cold shoulder after all.”

  Mother nodded, her eyes welling with tears. “Because Simon wasn’t really . . . Simon.”

  Chapter Four

  “Ho, ho, ho! Who wouldn’t know?

  Ho, ho, ho! Who wouldn’t know?”

  Dearest ones!

  This is Vivian, a.k.a. Mother, taking the narrative reins from dear Brandy to give you a fresh perspective. But before I continue, there are a few issues I simply must address.

  Firstly, some readers reported that they had become quite ill in the aftermath of making (and apparently eating the results of) the recipe for Iowa State Fair Fried Butter that we included in Antiques Swap. Might I remind those afflicted readers that we also included an extensive food warning. (If you must blame someone, however, blame Brandy, since including the recipe was her idea.) (In her slight defense, I should add that Brandy reported her own unfortunate abdominal distress after eating this deep-fried delicacy.)