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  I doubted that; the woman seemed pretty po’d.

  He lowered his voice. “She’s under a lot of stress lately. You’ll have to forgive her.”

  “Pretty stressful existence, huh? Being rich and beautiful.” My response came out cattier than I meant it to.

  “No, it’s . . .” We were still standing under that tree, alone at the busy swap meet. Very softly, he said, “Brandy, we’re trying to start a family, and it’s . . . tough going.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry. It’s none of my business. Had no idea.”

  I don’t know why I said that. Everyone in town knew, thanks to certain big-mouth gossips—one of whom lived in the same house as me.

  He went on, very quietly, almost inaudible. “She’s been taking a lot of hormone pills, and, well, let’s just say . . . just about anything sets her off.”

  I was waving both hands at him, like I was guiding somebody backing up a car to stop. “Really, Wes. You don’t have to explain. . . .”

  “But you deserve an explanation.” He took my hand. “We’ve been friends a long time, Brandy, and that means a lot to me.”

  “Really?” It just came out. I mean, I already had a boyfriend. But not a boyfriend who was maybe the richest man in town.

  “If it weren’t for you, I . . . I wouldn’t have gone back to Columbia.”

  I smirked. “You saw yourself stuck here in Serenity, with some girl from the community college, you mean.”

  “Don’t be silly. Don’t you remember? It was you who told me to get my act together.” He took my hand and squeezed it. “That night you read me the riot act? Remember?”

  I frowned. “Uh . . . over shots at the Brew?”

  He nodded.

  “I kinda remember. Sorta kinda. Maybe.”

  Suddenly embarrassed, Wes released my hand. “Well, I better go find Vanessa.”

  “Good luck,” I said.

  After he’d gone, I sat back down in the grass, mulling the unpleasant scene his wife had made.

  Was there something different I could have done? Maybe reached out for that tree, caught myself, and not tumble into Wes’s arms? I hadn’t done that on purpose.

  Had I?

  Either way, I figured Vanessa would have been furious; just seeing us together would have been enough.

  And I had another strong feeling—that her promise to Wes that “he would regret it,” sounded more like a threat.

  Or maybe it was a promise....

  A Trash ‘n’ Treasures Tip

  At a swap meet, you can find everything and anything under the summer sun—from antiques to auto parts, household cleaners to clothing, darning needles to diapers. One vendor was doing brisk business selling discounted male enhancement drugs before the swap meet association shut him down, making him dysfunctional.

  Chapter Two

  Kiss of Death

  (In the game of bridge, a score of minus 200.)

  I wandered the swap meet vendors looking for Mother, and finally found her in a stall buying a book—the Better Homes and Gardens Blender Cook Book, its front copy promising “Tasty blender recipes for every course.” Circa early 1970s, I guessed, judging by the greenish-tinged cover photos of unappetizing dishes. Sickening! Hilarious!

  Imagine—an entire meal made easy in that wonderful glass gizmo with sharp blades, helping propel a lucky lady libber out of the confines of her kitchen and into a meaningful (if low-paying) career. I hoped Mother was planning on selling the cookbook at the shop, as opposed to trying the recipes out on me.

  Note to self: hide the blender.

  Mother, laden with plastic-bagged finds, asked, “Dear, where have you been off to?”

  “Can I have an antacid?”

  “May I have an antacid, and I gave the last one to Phillip. Are you all right, child? Your face looks as green as this book cover.”

  “Don’t feel so good.” And it wasn’t just that cookbook cover.

  Her concerned expression turned accusatory. “Don’t tell me . . . you ate that disgusting fried butter, didn’t you? For shame.”

  “Okay, I won’t tell you.”

  She sighed. “Come along, dear. It’s time we got back to the shop, anyway. Don’t want to leave G.I. Joe in charge for too long. Besides, my bunions are killing me.”

  Mother also had corns and tarsal tunnel syndrome.

  I relieved her of some of the bags, and we made our way slowly through the crowd toward the car-show area, to retrieve our Caddy.

  Our San Diego day had disappeared, replaced by we-have-a-problem Houston: hot and humid. Which only added to my butter-churning discomfort. And at the next plastic-lined trash receptacle, I made an undignified deposit, by way of saying adieu to the fried confection.

  “I wonder, dear,” Mother said, with a minimum of I told you so in her tone, “if you’ll remember this unfortunate aftermath the next time we encounter a fried butter stand?”

  Having cleared the immediate vicinity of shoppers, I straightened in embarrassed relief. “I wonder, too,” I admitted.

  The car show was winding down, the crowd having thinned due to the sudden heat. But one hardy person was hovering around our convertible, a middle-aged man with obviously dyed brown hair, his shirt and jeans too tight, as he tried with scant success to hold on to his youth.

  “This baby yours?” he asked.

  “Yes, indeedy,” Mother said, smiling proudly. “Isn’t she a beaut?”

  “Certainly is. Classic lines. Would you consider an offer?”

  Mother and I answered at the same time: “Yes!” (me), “No!” (her).

  “Well, I’m having trouble sorting through those mixed signals,” he said. “Which is it, girls?”

  “No,” Mother said emphatically.

  I touched her arm. “Now, wait a second—let’s at least hear what the gentleman is offering.”

  “Well,” Mother replied, doubtfully, “I imagine that couldn’t hurt. . . .”

  He gave the car a careful look, walking around it, head cocked this way and that, rubbing his chin, then finally returned to say, “Five thousand.”

  “Pish-posh!” Mother pish-poshed. “She’s worth three times that, anyway!”

  The man shrugged, reached into a pants pocket and withdrew a business card, then handed it to Mother.

  “Offer stands, should you change your mind . . . unless I find a comparable one elsewhere, that is.... Ladies.”

  And with a little salute, he walked away.

  I turned to Mother. “You know we can’t keep the car. Between high insurance and terrible mileage, it’s costing us a small fortune.”

  She frowned. “Dear, I don’t entirely disagree. But I’m not going to give it away—especially to a complete stranger. If I ever sell, I have to know that person will love her as much as I do.”

  “We are talking about a car, right? He wasn’t offering to take me off your hands.”

  Mother pursed her lips. “It’s not just any car . . . but a gift from . . .” She lowered her voice. “. . . a very special admirer.”

  A very special admirer who happened to be the semiretired godfather of New Jersey, in return for a favor she’d done him. Yes, that kind of godfather (Antiques Con).

  I sighed. “All right, Mother. I give up . . . for now. But that buggy burns gas like, like . . .”

  “Like someone who eats fried butter?”

  I knew better than to try topping that one.

  We began piling the packages in back, with me getting behind the wheel to drive us back to the shop . . .

  . . . where a police car was parked out front.

  “Oh, dear,” Mother said, fingertips to her lips. “We really shouldn’t have dawdled. Appears Joe has gotten himself in a fix.”

  How could he have managed that? We hadn’t been gone long, and business would be slow the afternoon of the swap meet....

  I parked behind the squad car, hopped out, and hurried up the sidewalk and into the house, half-expecting to find Joe handcuffed by the police, s
ummoned by some hysterical customer who had been ordered to attention or about-face or something.

  But my friend stood casually behind the cash register, trading military lingo with a uniformed police officer on the other side of the counter.

  Patrolman Tony Cassato was saying, “Heard he’ll be retiring to Camp Living Room, before long.”

  In his midforties, Tony was barrel-chested, with a square jaw, bulbous nose, and steely eyes, handsome in a man’s man kind of way. Also a woman’s man kind of way, if I’m the woman.

  “A two-digit midget,” Joe said with a nod.

  At my sudden, wild-eyed entrance, both men looked at me quizzically.

  Straightening, Tony asked, “Anything wrong, Brandy?”

  Frozen in the doorway, I replied, “That’s what I’d like to know.”

  Mother, on my heels, bumped into me.

  “Everything . . . all . . . right?” she asked, out of breath.

  Tony gestured with a big paw. “Everything’s fine. I just stopped by to ask how the filming went.”

  Brightening, Mother said, “The pilot is wrapped, as we say in the biz. Now all we can do is hurry up and wait.”

  Joe said, “That’s what they say in my biz.”

  I bent down and picked up Sushi, who had come trotting out from her bed behind the counter.

  Joe, gathering his duffel bag, said, “Well, guess I’ll be bookin’ it. You Bornes need backup again, just call.”

  “Just a moment, Joseph,” Mother said.

  While she raided the till to pay our military-minded helper, Tony took my elbow and guided me into the parlor, which was vacant of customers at the moment.

  “How about dinner?” he asked, gazing down easily from his six-foot frame. “The Sombrero, maybe?”

  They had the best guacamole. “Good choice,” I said, scratching the head of the dog in my arms. “When’s your shift over?”

  “Seven. Pick you up at home?”

  I nodded. “Any word on your chief of police application?”

  After Tony’s sudden departure last year, Brian Lawson had been installed as interim chief, which gave the younger man the inside track. And to complicate matters, Brian was my former boyfriend. To further complicate them, Tony (as you may recall) was my current one.

  Tony shook his head. “Won’t know until the end of the month.”

  “How are you and the interim chief getting along?”

  Tony shrugged. “We try to keep out of each other’s way. We’re professionals.”

  “But the men are used to taking orders from you.”

  Another shrug. “It can be awkward . . . but not really a problem. I do my best to stay out of the middle.”

  Sushi, bored with the scratching, squirmed out of my arms, then trotted out of the parlor, passing Mother who was entering.

  “Dear,” she said, “I hate to break up your little tête-à-tête . . . but we do have boxes to unpack.”

  Tony touched my arm, whispered, “See you later.”

  “Can’t wait.”

  I walked him to the door, almost traded kisses but settled on knowing smiles instead. Then Tony was gone and I was joining Mother by the counter where she was using a box cutter to open the considerably larger of two cartons.

  “What’s in those?” I asked.

  “Swag, dear.”

  “Like in curtains?” Our shop windows already had drapes.

  “Not that kind of swag! These are T-shirts to sell when our show goes on the air.”

  She held one up, displaying the front: I VIVIAN, and on the back ANTIQUES SLEUTHS.

  “Mother,” I said, wide-eyed, “what if the show doesn’t go on the air? It’s just a pilot! Then we’re stuck with a bunch of shirts.”

  She put hands on hips and raised her chin. “Dear, that’s just the kind of negative attitude that keeps you from achieving your true potential.”

  My response was a witty grunt. I nodded to the smaller box. “And what’s in there? Vivian and Brandy bobble-heads?”

  The slightly magnified eyes behind the lenses grew even larger. “No, but that is a fine idea! Now you’re thinking! Uh, that smaller box contains your T-shirts.”

  I lifted an eyebrow. “Obviously you’re assuming I’ll sell less shirts than you.”

  “I’m just being realistic, dear. Television is about personalities! And I have one.”

  I reared back as if just hit by a cream pie.

  Before I could recover, the phone rang on the counter. I answered it, forcing my voice into pleasantness. “Trash ‘n’ Treasures . . .”

  “Brandy? This is Vanessa.”

  Oh, crap! Vanessa as in Mrs. Wesley Sinclair III.

  In a rush of words, I said, “Vanessa, I want to apologize again for—”

  “Brandy, I’m calling you to ask if you’ll forgive me for my rude behavior today.”

  Wait, what?

  She went on, “I was way out of line. Wes explained the whole thing to me.” She paused. “I was wondering if you could come over to our house. . . .”

  I didn’t have the time or the wardrobe for that. “Vanessa, really, you don’t need to apologize in person or anything . . .”

  “No, no, that’s not it. I have some collectibles that you might be interested in for your shop. You could buy them or I could even consign them. Just some things that need to go.”

  “What are they?”

  “Old beer signs, mostly—some going back to the nineteen-fifties. I understand a few of these are really quite rare.”

  “Well, yes, I am interested. We could use some man-type stuff in the shop.”

  “Great! Is there any chance you could come over now? You know where we live?”

  “Oh, sure, of course.” The renovation of the Sinclair homestead had been a topic of town gossip for years.

  “See you soon,” Vanessa said cheerfully, ending the call.

  Mother, her interest piqued by hearing my end of the conversation, sidled over like a cat sensing a mouse. “Now whatever was that about?”

  “Just a minor misunderstanding,” I said. And, sidestepping the swap meet incident, I said, “Vanessa Sinclair wants to sell us some vintage beer signs.”

  “Whoa!” Mother’s eyebrows climbed above her large glasses, threatening her hairline. “Voon-der-bar! Rich folks have high-end trinkets! I’ll get my purse.”

  I held up a stop hand. “Aren’t you forgetting that someone needs to watch the store? Joe is off on maneuvers.”

  Mother frowned. “Oh, horse doodle! I’ve always wanted to see the interior of that house.”

  The Sinclair place was one of the few interesting homes in town she hadn’t managed to invade. But so far, she hadn’t been able to finagle her way inside.

  Her usual ploy was to ring the doorbell collecting for some charity, pretending to feel faint before asking to come in for a glass of water. But either the Sinclairs had never been at home for her road-show production, or perhaps they had seen who was loitering on their doorstep.

  I patted Mother’s arm. “Look, I’ll go over there now and take photos of the beer signs, then come back so we can research their value on the Internet. Then . . . after the shop closes . . . we’ll go back out there together, and make Vanessa an offer.”

  Mother clapped her hands. “Goody goody!” she sang, adding a few more of the Johnny Mercer lyrics, first pointing to me, then to herself.

  Oh brother.

  With Mother appeased, I headed out to the Caddy.

  One might assume that Wes and Vanessa, with their considerable wealth, would live in a modern mansion in the most exclusive area of Serenity. But they didn’t—Wes had inherited his grandfather’s Mulberry Avenue home, known as Sinclair House. Not that the homestead was anything to sniff at—the three-story, beige-brick French provincial had once been the grandest residence on that side of town, dwarfing its much more modest neighbors.

  As I mentioned, Sinclair House had been a topic of town gossip, because Wes and (really) Vanessa—evidentl
y dissatisfied with the home’s lack of twenty-first century sprawl—had spent a fortune on new additions. And these additions came at the expense of the neighbors on either side of their property.

  Vanessa made the two owners offers they couldn’t refuse, particularly with the latest Sinclair wings breathing down on them, and then promptly tore those houses down.

  Which was a shame, really, because both were fine architectural examples of the Prairie School style, designed by Walter Burley Griffin in the 1930s. Their destruction not only infuriated Mother and her cronies at the Historical Preservation Society, but neighbors across the street, who had to put up with ongoing construction noise and dust and traffic backup.

  But all was quiet at the moment on Mulberry Avenue, Vanessa at least temporarily sated by her latest expansion.

  I pulled the Caddy into their driveway, passing beneath a pretentiously ornate black wrought-iron archway with a large S, then along a circular drive and up to the pillared porch.

  Two huge Grecian urns overflowing with flowers stood on either side of the front door like sentries. I located the doorbell and pressed it.

  Chimes sounded like Big Ben, and I repressed an amused smirk, in case I was being watched from a window.

  Then the mistress of the mansion opened the door, and greeted me warmly. “Brandy! Thanks for coming by on such short notice.”

  She had changed out of the pink floral sundress into something more casual—at least her idea of more casual: a silk yellow blouse, white dress slacks, and black flats. An ensemble retailing at around a cool thousand.

  “No problem,” I said, slipping past her as she held the door open.

  Her perfume was Dior—too expensive for my pocketbook, but I recognized it from when I rubbed myself with a sample insert from Vogue magazine.

  I followed Vanessa through the huge black-and-white marbled entryway, skirting a center mahogany table, its gleaming top home to a large blue-and-white Chinese vase with a beautifully arranged assortment of fresh flowers.

  As we passed the lavish living room, I paused for a look. The vast room, with its eclectic, expensive furnishings, could rival any movie star’s Beverly Hills mansion.