Antiques Fire Sale Page 5

  Mother had assured me that when the postmortem procedure was done, she’d finagle a ride to her office downtown at the new county jail, so I didn’t expect to see her for some time.

  Inside, I put Sushi outside, then had a quick lunch, retrieved Sushi, then took her with me to the C-Max, which was parked in the drive.

  I was looking forward to spending a quiet afternoon at our much-neglected antiques shop, Trash ’n’ Treasures, which we (sort of) maintained in a house we owned at the end of the downtown shopping district in a residential area just before the climb up West Hill.

  Ever since Mother became sheriff and I became her chauffeur, we had been terribly spotty about our shop hours. So Mother devised a plan of letting customers know when we were open, an idea she’d gotten from a BBC news report that said whenever the Queen was in residence at Buckingham Palace, the Royal Standard flag was flying. You know where this is headed.

  Mother had a pole installed off the porch, where we could simultaneously display any combination of four pennant-style flags with different letters—V for Vivian, B for Brandy, S for Sushi, and J for Joe, my ex–U.S. Marine friend who sometimes helped out in a pinch. No flags meant we weren’t open, of course. But sometimes, when we were really busy, all four would be flapping in the wind.

  Mother’s nutty idea actually worked pretty well. Folks could see from a distance if anyone was in, and who it was, without trudging up to the door only to be greeted by a hand-scrawled “Closed” sign.

  Plus, we quickly discovered that when Queen Mother was in residence (usually Sundays) we had the most business, especially from her gossipy friends as well as tourists who remember us from our short-lived reality TV show. I rated next, as costar, and then Joe, who could be off-putting to some by his PTSD syndrome (he’d been in Iraq). Sushi’s flying flag boosted everyone’s ratings.

  So, after unlocking the door and turning off the alarm, I retrieved my flag and Sushi’s and went out to raise them on the pole.

  Back inside, the next thing I did was to go into our working, well-stocked 1950s kitchen to make a pot of coffee and some chocolate chip cookies for the customers and me (but mostly me).

  While everything else in the kitchen was for sale, two items were not: the green Norge refrigerator with a little clock in its door, and the white GE Stratoliner that looked as if a jukebox had gotten busy with a stove. Those appliances would be a pain to replace if snapped up—unless the price offered was one we couldn’t refuse.

  Anyway, with the coffeepot percolating and the cookies baking, I sat on a chrome chair with red vinyl upholstery at the table with its laminated boomerang print, and considered just what I needed to accomplish this afternoon.

  Not only was the kitchen a working one, the other rooms showcased appropriately placed antiques and collectibles—couches, end tables, floor lamps, wall paintings, and nicknacks in the living room; formal table and chairs, sideboard, china cabinet (stocked) in the dining room; and you get the idea. The upstairs hall closet was even stocked with vintage towels and bedsheets and blankets. The basement contained tools and “man-tiques,” like beer signs and sports memorabilia, plus the attic held steamer trunks, old doors, and orphaned chairs. You could move right in.

  And right now it looked like someone had—only they hadn’t cleaned up after themselves. Looking around, with a forefinger to one cheek, I could see the obvious: The entire house could use dusting and straightening.

  But first I needed sustenance. The built-in timer on the stove dinged, and my kitchen-mitted hand pulled out the tray of steaming cookies. Not waiting for them to cool, I transferred the gooey confections onto an oval Fire King jade platter, which I placed on the table, reserving several for myself on a smaller plate. Then I poured coffee into a thick-rimmed green Fire King mug, added some milk, and took my bounty out to the small checkout counter installed in the entryway of the house.

  There, I got up on a stool and turned on the computer. Sushi was in her little leopard-print bed on the floor behind me, resting, but waiting for a little piece of a cookie that didn’t have chocolate (bad for dogs) to be dropped accidently on purpose.

  Making an executive decision that the dusting and straightening could wait till later, I began to search the internet for Tiffany lava vases, such an item being on my mind because of the Wentworth one that Mother had failed to rescue. I wanted to see what was out there, what they were worth, and if any were for sale.

  One hour, four cookies, and two cups of coffee later (during which time there wasn’t a single customer, regardless of Sushi’s flag flying), I’d found five lava vases at various museums (photos, no values given), three at art galleries (photos, price upon request), one at an auction site where it had sold six months ago for $75,000 (woah!), and zip on eBay.

  While all these vases were decorated with gold on a black or midnight blue background, each was distinctly different from the others in design: gold dripping down from the rim like thick frosting on the sides of a cake; or splotched like a one-color Pollock painting; or mixed into the dark background paint, like swirling cinnamon sugar into coffee cake batter with a knife.

  Yes, I was still hungry, despite the cookies. Why do you ask?

  My least favorite pattern was an unappetizing one—random gold blobs that made the vase look as if it were covered in blisters, or maybe had a bad case of smallpox. (Louie, what had you been thinking?)

  But none of these had the barber-pole-style design like the one I’d seen at the Wentworth mansion.

  I looked away from the computer as the front door opened, and a woman about my age entered, plump and plain, with short mousy-brown hair, and wearing a navy pants suit.

  “Hello, Brandy,” she said, bounding toward me with a big smile.

  “. . . Hello.”

  The woman looked familiar, but I couldn’t place her.

  “How are you?” she asked.

  “Fine. Just fine.”

  Sushi, roused from her bed, came around the counter with tail wagging and got up on her hind legs to paw at the lady’s pants.

  “Well, hi, Sushi,” my visitor (customer?) said, bending to pet the dog’s head.

  Who was this woman who seemed to know us? Then it hit me: Gladys Gooch, the manager of the bank in the tiny town of nearby Antiqua (Antiques Ravin’).

  Putting some warmth in my voice, I said, “Well! It’s nice to see you, Gladys.”

  She straightened. “For a while there I thought you didn’t remember me.”

  “Took me a moment,” I admitted. “It’s just that you’re out of place. What brings you to Serenity?”

  She nodded sagely. “I thought it would be best to move here.”

  “Ah,” I said. “Is that right.”

  I smelled something, and it wasn’t cookies. Nor was it perfume, because neither Gladys nor I was wearing any. Or if we were, not enough to overcome baked cookie.

  Sensing my confusion, she said, “Because of, you know . . . the play?”

  “Ah. The play.”

  A familiar scent now.

  “So I got a job here in Serenity,” she explained, “at the First National Bank—customer service teller.” She shrugged. “It meant a cut in position and pay but will definitely be worth it. Just think, my first step on the way to Broadway!”

  Mother. I smelled Mother.

  I slid off the stool. “Why don’t we go back to the kitchen and talk a bit.” I raised my eyebrows. “I’ve got coffee and cookies.”

  “Sure!”

  I led the way. Soon we were seated at the boomerang-top table across from each other with cups of java, the plate of what was left of the cookies serving as a centerpiece.

  “Now, Gladys,” I began. “What’s all this about a play and Broadway?”

  “Oh. Then your mother didn’t tell you?”

  “Not really.”

  She lowered her voice, keeping things confidential, even though we were alone. “Well, when the sheriff was working on those murders in Antiqua a few weeks ago, she c
ame to see me at the bank and wanted some, er, private information about someone. When I told her that I couldn’t share such things without a court order, she—”

  “Promised you a part in The Voice of the Turtle.”

  That was the next production at the Playhouse, about to be cast.

  Eyebrows in need of threading climbed the high forehead. “That’s right!”

  “Which part?” I asked, familiar with the script, as I was Mother’s helper at the Playhouse (not by choice). “Sally Middleton or Olive Lashbrook?”

  There was a male role that I felt it safe to eliminate.

  “Olive,” Gladys said, and smiled, then actually blushed.

  Not the lead role, but easily the juicier part in the play—a sexpot, as they used to say in less enlightened times.

  She was saying, “I’ve spent weeks memorizing all of my dialogue, so I am completely prepared, and ready to be the clay Mrs. Borne molds.” She frowned. “The only thing is . . . I haven’t heard a word from your mother. Even after I left her a phone message that I’d moved to town!”

  “Is that right?”

  Her words came in a rush now. “Then I saw the audition notice in the paper, which is for tomorrow night, and word at the bank is that she’s in the hospital, and I got worried that she won’t be able to keep her promise to me, and feared that perhaps I’d moved here for nothing.”

  Well, she could certainly handle a hunk of dialogue.

  I leaned forward to give a comforting pat to the hand Gladys was resting on the table.

  “Now, don’t you fret. Mother is out of the hospital and will be at the audition. With bells on, as she puts it.”

  Not a bad idea—then I would know when she was coming.

  I added, “And she always keeps her promises.”

  Most of the time.

  Sometimes.

  Okay, hardly ever.

  Gladys gave a sigh of relief. “That’s so good to hear.”

  Sensing a fragile psyche under there, I added, “And I just know you’ll be wonderful in the part.”

  Memorable, at the very least.

  She beamed. “Then you can see it too?”

  “Uh—see what again?”

  “My talent. Your mother told me it was palpable.”

  “Did she.”

  Gladys nodded. “She said she could tell just talking to me. Her exact words were, ‘It oozes from every pore.’”

  That sounded messy. “I, uh, am sure it does.”

  “Thank you!” She sipped the coffee.

  I cocked my head. “So, then—you’ve had experience in theater? Local productions?”

  She shook her head, and the mousy hair bounced. “Oh, no. Not even high school. I’m a diamond in the rough—which is another thing your mother said. But I’m not naive. Even a rough diamond needs polishing. And who better to polish me than an actress of your mother’s skill, accomplishment, and charisma!”

  Apparently Gladys hadn’t seen Mother’s performance in her musical version of Everybody Loves Opal, where, while mugging for the audience, she tumbled off the apron into the orchestra pit and got her foot stuck in the tuba. In a skillful, accomplished, charismatic way, of course.

  But already I knew there was little if any hope of talking Gladys out of her folly. Mother deserved a good hiding for this, which was a prime example of the casual, unintended cruelty she could inflict.

  “Do you know where the Serenity Playhouse is?” I asked. “Out in the country?”

  She nodded. “I took a drive out there last night to have a look at the stage, but the doors were locked. There was a man there—at the other building?—but I didn’t want to bother him.” She leaned forward. “Brandy? I won’t have to audition, will I? I mean, because I was already promised the part.”

  “Shouldn’t have to.”

  She sat back and let out a relieved sigh. “Good! Because I’d be much too nervous.”

  Oh boy.

  Gently, I said, “Gladys . . . if you’re too nervous for an audition, how are you going to feel performing in front of an audience? A packed house?”

  “Oh, that’s different!” she said. “I dealt with the public all the time, at the Antiqua bank. I gave reports at meetings too. And I have no trouble speaking in front of large groups—like the American Bankers Association convention last year in Atlanta, where my topic was customer service. There must have been a thousand people there for that! It’s just . . . I’m really not comfortable competing.”

  “That can be unnerving,” I said.

  She looked at her watch. “I better get back to the bank. I said I’d only be gone a little while.” She stood. “But I should go tomorrow night, anyway, right? Even though I already have the part?”

  I felt bad for her, and I wished I could give you-know-who a kick in the seat of the pants about now.

  I said, “Mother might want to you to participate in the auditions of the other actors.”

  “You mean . . . read with them?”

  “That’s right. You know, do a scene or two that you have with them. Make sure there’s good chemistry.”

  She beamed. Her smile did take the plainness of her features to a pleasant place. “Oh, I can do that. Will you tell Mrs. Borne I’ll be there?”

  “You can count on that.”

  I walked with Gladys to the front door.

  She asked, “Will I see you there?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it.”

  I had barely settled back onto the counter stool when the door opened again, and an unhappy-looking Tony strode in.

  “Let me guess,” I said. “You’re upset with Mother for ordering an autopsy on Mr. Sutter.”

  “You knew about that?” he asked, a hand on the counter.

  “She wanted me to go along with her, but I’ve got a sensitive stomach.” But not so sensitive that I couldn’t eat a half-dozen cookies.

  “But you were with her at the funeral home.”

  I gulped. “Guilty as charged. But not my idea!”

  “I just got an earful from the stepson, who is rightly upset,” he said. “This is exactly what I’ve been concerned about—Vivian overstepping her authority!”

  Steam was practically coming out of his ears, and he usually held his temper in check around me. Sushi, who normally would be throwing herself at him by now, knew to stay put in her bed.

  “I’m Mother’s chauffeur,” I reminded him, “not her keeper.” I kept my tone nicely neutral.

  He put hands on hips. “You’re not even trying to stop her?”

  That was enough. I got off the stool and came around the counter.

  “No, I’m not,” I said. “And do you know why?”

  He blinked at me. “No. I really don’t. You’re almost always the steadying influence.”

  “Not this time around. I want her to go off the rails—I very much want her out there, acting so wacky that she’ll get herself impeached.”

  He frowned, genuinely surprised by that. “And if people get hurt?”

  I didn’t have an answer for that, but fortunately his cell phone rang and he had to answer it.

  “Cassato. . . . Yes, Tom. . . . Uh-huh . . .” A very long pause. “All right. Keep me in the loop.”

  He returned the cell to his pocket, his face more pink now than red.

  “Apparently,” Tony said, “the medical examiner feels the autopsy your mother demanded was”—he gestured with an open hand—“justified.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Sutter’s skull was cracked, and apparently not from a fall.”

  “Then Mother was right to order the procedure.”

  “But wrong in the way she went about it,” he said. His sigh was an irritated rasp. “And now she’ll be out there investigating, looking for suspects, muddying the waters.”

  “She is the sheriff.”

  “My patch, remember?”

  “How’s your blood pressure?”

  He gave me a sour look.

  I raised surrender palm
s. “Tony, I’m on your side—our side. I’ll try to talk sense to Mother, and snitch on her when I can. But you may have to bring complaints against her with the county commissioner, who she’s already in hot water with.”

  He said nothing for a moment. Then: “I’d rather not do that. After all, she may be my future mother-in-law.”

  I smiled at that. Touched his arm. “Look, I happen to know Mother’s going to be very busy with the play she’s launching. Between that and her job, her snooping time will be limited. Her own patch will keep her plenty busy.”

  “Let’s hope.”

  Awkwardly, we made a tentative plan to have dinner Saturday night at his cabin hideaway, and he left.

  I returned to the computer and spent the next half an hour e-mailing auction houses and galleries to notify me if any new Tiffany lava vases came up for sale. And I made the same request with various eBay sellers, who wouldn’t have as much scrutiny as auction houses or galleries, which would demand proof of ownership.

  Since I hadn’t had a single customer by four, I decided to close up early. I washed the dishes in the kitchen, brought in the flags, locked up, went out to the car with Sushi, and headed home.

  In our own 1950s appointed kitchen, where the appliances were modern—albeit retro-looking (except for a vintage green Hamilton Beach malted milk mixer), I started to make supper . . . or dinner, if you’re not a midwesterner . . . using a recipe Mother tore out from a magazine in her psychiatrist’s waiting room, so I cannot credit the source.

  She always steals the photo of the finished dish, too, so as to not, in her words, “risk a delicious recipe-less image causing further mental frustration among my doctor’s other, far-more-troubled clients.”

  How thoughtful.

  Chicken Breast Casserole

  1 cup uncooked rice (brown or white)

  1 (4-ounce) package of sliced, dried, or chipped beef

  1 (10.5-ounce) can condensed (undiluted) mushroom soup

  8 ounces sour cream

  4 slices of bacon

  4 chicken breasts, skinless

  In the bottom of a buttered casserole dish, place the rice, then slices of chipped beef. Cover with the soup and then the sour cream. Wrap one piece of bacon around each chicken breast and place the breasts on top of the sour cream layer. Cover and cook at 250°F for 2 hours.