Antiques Maul Read online

  He motioned to me.

  I put down the can and followed the town’s top cop, who was in his midforties, barrel-chested, with gray temples, a bulbous nose, square jaw, and bullet-hard eyes.

  Tony Cassato was a man of mystery to most everyone in town. He came from the East Coast about three years ago to head up our police department, and hardly anyone knew anything about him . . . even Mother.

  Besides its button mills, lumber mills, and grain mills, Serenity was also famous for its rumor mills. One rumor had the chief ratting on the New York mob and, after having plastic surgery to change a Gary Grant–ish face, was sent to Serenity in the witness protection plan. Another story circulating said the chief had to trade his stressful, big city job for small-town life because of a nervous breakdown.

  Another possible scenario could be that Tony Cassato applied for the position, was found to be the best qualified, and landed the job on merit. But that story has never gotten much traction around here.

  As we walked down the tan-tiled corridor, its gray walls broken periodically with pictures of bygone police days, the chief asked (in his charming, decidedly eastern accent), “How are you doing these days?”

  “Fine. Great. Wonderful.”

  Why was I overcompensating?

  “And your mother?”

  “That, I’m afraid, is why I’m here.”

  He raised his eyebrows.

  Most people in Serenity, should you mention that you’ve dropped by on account of my mother, would raise their eyebrows.

  At the end of the hallway we entered his office, which was nothing fancy . . . could have belonged to anyone in middle management. Tony sat behind his paper-cluttered desk, and I took the visitor’s chair, removing Sushi from the carrier and putting her on my lap, so she would be more comfortable.

  Tony leaned back in his chair, tented his fingertips, and waited for me to begin. Like a doctor preparing to hear where it hurt.

  “Mother has quit the theater,” I announced.

  “Why?”

  Briefly I told him about her losing the director’s job to her friend, then said, “I’m worried that without an outlet like acting on the stage, she might take her acting elsewhere . . . like to the streets, if you know what I mean.”

  He nodded. “Prying on the phone with friends is one thing—doing it, out and about, something else again.”

  “Exactly. I’ve suggested to Mother that we rent a booth at the new antiques mall in Pearl City Plaza . . . and I think hunting for antiques and collectibles to stock it with should keep her busy enough . . . but finding merchandise around here has gotten very competitive.”

  The chief sat forward with a grunt. “Tell me about it. We broke up a fight at a tag sale on Morning Glory Circle yesterday afternoon.”

  Mother hadn’t told me about that! She was slipping; further evidence of her depression.

  “That’s exactly what I mean . . . I don’t know how Mother and I are going to make a go of it.”

  Tony frowned. “Where do I come in?”

  I adjusted Sushi on my lap. “Well, remember once you told me about the Crime Control Act, and that the government has the right to seize any property at the site of a criminal act . . . ?”

  The chief was nodding.

  “And that this property was sold at federal auctions?”

  “Right.”

  “That means antiques and collectibles can get confiscated right along with contraband.”

  “It happens.”

  I shrugged. “I was thinking, maybe Mother and I could snag some bargains at those auctions . . . it’s not like a lot of people know about this.”

  He shrugged but his expression said he was giving me serious consideration.

  “I mean,” I said with a half smile, “I’d hate to bring home a steamer trunk and find a body in it.”

  The chief didn’t return my smile, just said, “Let me do some checking.... I’ll let you know where and when any federal auctions are being held in the Midwest. Might give you girls a leg up on the antiques front.”

  “Thanks!”

  “Glad to help. After all, you helped me, not so long ago.”

  I stood. Chief Cassato was a busy man and I didn’t want to take up too much of his valuable time; after all, he had crooks to catch and capers to foil and fights at tag sales to break up.

  Sushi, however, had other plans, and began yapping in earnest.

  “What does she want?” the chief asked, adding quickly, “As if I didn’t know.”

  I sighed. “Is Rin-tin-what’s-it around?” Couldn’t recall the drug-sniffing canine’s name.

  “Rudy was taken out to the high school this morning. I’ll see if he’s back.”

  Rudy? Sushi and Rudy. Rudy and Sushi? Didn’t exactly roll off the tongue; maybe if I panted it . . .

  While the chief abandoned us, my eyes searched his office. Other than a couple of duck-hunting prints, no evidence presented itself as to this mysterious (and not unattractive) man’s life after working hours.

  Soon Tony returned.

  “Lunchroom,” he said, not mincing words.

  I thanked the chief and told him I’d find my way. By the time I entered the lounge, Sushi had worked herself into a frenzy.

  Two uniformed officers were seated at a dinged-up dining table, both brown-bagging it. One was Brian Lawson—another attractive cop—and the other I’d never seen before.

  Rudy was on the floor by the table, his large brown head resting on one paw, eyes closed, most likely pooped from sniffing kids’ lockers. But the German shepherd still had enough of his olfactory perception to get a whiff of Soosh; he lifted his head, and—I swear—groaned!

  I lowered Sushi to the floor and she followed her olfactory perceptions, scampering over to the canine (or in cop terms, K-9), and started crawling all over him, making a complete fool of herself. (I will point out that I was too restrained to do the same with Officer Brian Lawson, despite a crush I was nurturing). Rudy, however, was a gentleman, and put up with her shenanigans.

  I saw Brian give the other cop an ever-so slight “beat it” look, and his fellow officer did so, giving me a not-so-slight sly grin.

  Was this middle school?

  I assumed the vacated chair and looked at Brian and asked, “Does your partner know something I don’t?”

  “I don’t think so, Brandy.”

  “I mean, if you want to talk, I’m in the book. Even have an answer machine, should you miss me. And my cell number could probably be pried out of me, knowing your keen interrogative skills.”

  He laughed in an aw-shucks way.

  “I was afraid,” he said, “you’d consider me a kind of unpleasant reminder.”

  Officer Lawson had been a participant in those juicy murders I mentioned (not the murderer—he, as a cop, took one of the cop roles) (typecasting, courtesy of Mother).

  “Not much about that experience I care to linger over,” I said. “But we could always have some new experiences.”

  He flashed a nice smile, full of teeth and sex appeal. “That would be fine with me. What was that cell phone number again?”

  By late afternoon, Sushi and I had left the police station, having wasted enough of the time of two law enforcement officers, one human, one not; I didn’t feel like making the trek home on foot, so instead strolled over a few blocks to Main Street to catch the Traveling Trolley, which was really a bus reconditioned to gas from an old electrical car.

  The trolley was the brainstorm of the downtown merchants to bring patrons to shop at their stores rather than out at the mall—free to the public, as long as a person was going to, or coming from . . . that’s right . . . downtown.

  Sushi seemed subdued as we waited for our free hitch, probably thinking lovey-dovey doggy-style thoughts about Rudy, while I watched an elderly woman in navy blue slacks and a tan coat crossing the street in my direction, trying to use a U-shaped walker with one hand while talking on a cell phone with the other.

  When
she jostled into the curb, I should have felt more sorry for her. But steering with two hands applies to walkers as well as cars....

  Still, I helped the lady on to the sidewalk, and she stood next to me, apparently also waiting for the trolley.

  I’d just like to know . . . at what stage do old folks lose the ability to censor themselves? I mean, they just blurt out whatever comes into their minds.

  She said, “My! You’ve certainly dropped the weight after the baby.”

  I responded, “This isn’t a baby—it’s a dog.”

  The woman leaned in for a closer look, her cataracts almost as bad as Sushi’s. “Well, thank goodness!” she said. “Here I was thinking you’d given birth to just about the ugliest baby I’ve ever seen!”

  “What a lovely thing to say,” I said, smiling.

  Soosh just growled.

  The trolley arrived, and the silver-haired, bearded gent driving assisted my new acquaintance with her walker up the few steps, then turned to me.

  “No pets on the trolley,” he announced. “Sorry.”

  Hmmm. “What about Seeing Eye dogs?” I asked.

  “In that case, of course. But, young lady, you’re obviously not blind.”

  Liking the “young” part if not wild about the “lady,” I said, “Well, the dog’s blind and I’m her Seeing Eye human.”

  And giving him no time to think about that, I climbed aboard.

  The wonderful smell of Mother’s beef stroganoff greeted us when we arrived home, and I thought Sushi was going to swoon and faint—Rudy and stroganoff in the same day! Heaven on earth....

  In the kitchen, I mixed a little of the stew with Sushi’s dry dog food (was a woman in Japan right now feeding a pet named Dry Dog Food sushi?) and put it in her dish. That way, Soosh would be sure to eat right away . . . so I could give her the insulin shot. (It’s not good to have a diabetic animal who’s a finicky eater.)

  After dinner—at which I was anything but a finicky eater, forgoing my one-half portion rule—I did the dishes (well, the dishwasher did the dishes . . . but I put them in). Then I retired to the seclusion of the music/library/den room to catch up on my e-mail on my laptop, which hadn’t been tended to for a few days. Usually this amounted to an hour or so of deleting unwanted spam, but to my surprise, I had one from Jacob.

  The e-mail read

  Mom, I guess I could come for a little while to see Grandma and you. My year-round school has a vacation break soon.

  Jake.

  I sat back.

  He hadn’t written “Dear” Mom; he put his grandma before me; and he didn’t sign off “Love” Jake . . . but still . . . hearing from him was . . . hearing from him.

  You see, though I’d sent Jake many missives via both snail- and e-mail, this was the first message I’d received from my son since the divorce.

  Could this be a warming trend along with the Indian summer?

  I was alive with excitement about his visit . . .

  . . . but also, I have to admit, a little trepidation.

  If I was the kind of writer who wrote things like “Little did I know how much trepidation I’d have felt, had I but known the danger I’d be putting him in,” that’s what I’d write right here.

  But lucky for you, I’m not.

  A Trash ’n’ Treasures Tip

  If you can’t wait around all day at a local auction for a particular item of interest to go on sale, ask the auctioneer to move it up in the schedule. But don’t try this at a federal auction; you’ll get your head bit off.

  Chapter Three

  A Hunting We Will Hoe

  My sister, Peggy Sue, was old enough to be my mother. Born in the 1950s, pretty, pretty, pretty Peggy Sue was named after Buddy Holly’s hokey if infectious rock ’n’ roll song.

  Mother always claimed the idea to call sis Peggy Sue came to her in a vision shortly after giving birth; but Father, who kept a diary (a holdover from his World War II correspondent days), penned that a pimple-faced but pretty nurse’s aide was singing the rock ’n’ roll tune as she pushed a groggy Mother-on-a-Gurney out of the delivery room, still wearing saddle shoes from a sock hop. (The aide, not Mother!)

  Then, after eighteen years passed with no more children, Mother and Father thought they were done with child-rearing, Mother having entered menopause. But (as she has told me so often) when Mother began gaining weight and filling out around the middle, she trundled to the family physician, Dr. Swayze, thinking I was a fibroid tumor gotten out of hand (I’ve been called worse).

  According to Mother, when Doc Swayze gave her the news, she fainted dead away, hit her head on the examining table, and had to get twenty stitches. (Mother always exaggerates, as you’ll learn; it was probably only fifteen stitches.)

  I don’t know what Father thought about my surprise arrival—there was nothing recorded in his daily musings, which stopped just before I was born. Shortly thereafter, he departed for the Great Beyond, courtesy of a heart attack. Guilt feelings that somehow my unexpected (unwanted?) presence may have contributed to my father’s premature exit had haunted me for years.

  Of course, I’m over it now. Aren’t I? And my marrying an older man couldn’t have anything to do with daddy issues. Could it?

  Mother came downstairs looking normal (relatively speaking) in emerald-green velour slacks and jacket, her silver, wavy hair pinned back in a neat chignon. But the blue eyes behind the thick, large glasses were a little wild, even for her.

  “Hurry up, Brandy,” she commanded, in a manner both regal and hysterical. “You know how Peggy Sue hates it when we’re late! And she’s been so thoughtful to have us over for dinner before we leave for the auction.”

  I found it prudent not to point out that I had been ready for an hour. And had packed the car.

  Not wanting to add to the palpable tension, I said simply, “Okay,” and scooped up the pooch, who had been dancing at my feet, knowing something was in the air. When Mother had pronounced that fateful word, “dinner,” Sushi had practically done a back flip.

  With the inside automatic light switches set (which fools no one into thinking we’re home) and the house locked up, we headed out into the crisp fall evening, the kind perfect for burning leaves, if the city hadn’t banned it.

  I had a little trouble backing out of the driveway, what with a U-Haul hitched to my new used vehicle, a burgundy Buick.

  Mother, seated next to me with Sushi secured on her lap, said, “Brandy, dear, whatever direction you want to go, turn the opposite way.”

  This was helpful advice, as long as I ignored her contradictory and (of course) theatrical hand gestures, though I did wonder if her words about turning opposite to my instincts might also work in my rudderless life about now....

  Peggy Sue lived in an upscale housing development on the outskirts of town with her husband, Bob (a CPA), and their only child, Ashley (a senior in high school). To get to this promised land, we had to cross the Red Sea of a treacherous bypass.

  One of the first built in the state—cleverly routing business away from our fair town—Serenity’s bypass was designed with too great a curve factor for drivers to properly see the oncoming, fast-moving traffic, and had no “safe zone” between the four lanes where terrified souls might hole up after a misjudged crossing, waiting for their sobbing to cease and another dangerous opportunity to present itself.

  The bypass was originally conceived with no traffic lights to slow people down as they sped around our little burg . . . but over the years, in response to the number of traffic fatalities, several lights had been installed—just not at our juncture. Apparently, the intersection where we now sat idling hadn’t racked up enough of a body count to warrant a light. Patience. (Or is that patients?)

  I squinted to the left into the setting sun, wishing I hadn’t blown off my appointment for new contact lenses. Choosing between shopping and my eyesight was no contest. Mother looked to the right, but I had little confidence in her vision with those thick, trifocal glasses.


  I saw an opening in the steady stream of traffic.

  “Now!” I exclaimed.

  But Mother shouted, “No!”

  So I braked, the car shuddered, and so did I. We waited. Another car pulled up behind us wanting to cross, and the pressure mounted. In my mind the Jaws theme played counterpoint to the Jeopardy final round music.

  Teeth bared, eyes glittering, Mother said, “Now!”

  But I exclaimed, “No!”

  Then, several long moments later, Mother and I both yelled “Now,” and I hit the gas.... Whether the decision was a good one or a bad one, at least we’d made it together.

  And you thought life in a small heartland community lacked in excitement.

  Nearly across, I was feeling relieved, until a car horn blasted and brakes squealed. I looked in my rearview mirror to see a figure in a pickup truck giving me a high five, the one-finger variety.

  I guess I hadn’t allowed for the U-Haul.

  I sank down in my seat and said to nobody, “Sorry. . . .”

  Mother sniffed, “Serves him right. He was going too fast, anyway.”

  Probably, but that would have been a small consolation had we been hit.

  Dusk had fallen, or crept in or sneaked up or however it gets here, and a huge harvest moon popped up on the horizon like a big orange Necco wafer as our little caravan pulled into the Mark Twain housing addition. As soon as we had made the turn, Sushi knew where she was—don’t ask me how, doggie radar, I guess—and she began to shimmy and shake with excitement. We rumbled down Aunt Polly Lane, went left on Tom Sawyer Drive, then right on Becky Thatcher Road, and finally arrived at Peggy Sue’s modern monstrosity of a house on Samuel Clemens Court.

  Get back to me, if you sense a theme here....

  I pulled into the long driveway and parked in front of the first of the Hasting household’s three garages. As Mother opened her car door, Sushi jumped out (blindness be hanged) and began running and sniffing all over the thick, green grass. There wasn’t a lawn anywhere that she liked to pee and poop on better than Peggy Sue’s, much to my sister’s dismay.