Antiques Roadkill Page 5

  Our salads came and we reminisced about old times—like driving to a Chicago suburb in pea-soup fog (using a semi as a scout) for some shopping, and coming home with only a five-dollar necklace (each) … apparently what our lives were worth.

  I can only think of one instance when Tina and I got sick of each other, and that was after a marathon shopping trip (nine malls in two days) … and then we didn’t want to see each other for a whole week.

  The lunch crowd had cleared by the time we split the bill and left the bistro. We lingered on the sidewalk, promising to call each other about what we were going to wear on our outing (a pointless ritual since we rarely kept our word).

  I drove home to discover a large box in the front entryway. Mother was folding laundry in a chair nearby, and she got up.

  “It’s for you, Brandy,” she said, excitement in her voice. “From Roger.”

  How she had resisted opening it, I’ll never know. Where Mother clung to the notion that contact with Roger meant a reconciliation might one day occur, I knew better. My ex had probably found more of my possessions that he couldn’t stand to have around. I tried lifting the box, but it was way heavy; a muffled, metallic ringing sound came from within.

  Mother, eyebrows raised quizzically above her eyeglass frames, accentuating further her big amplified eyes, produced a pair of scissors from somewhere (she’d had them all along). Inside the box of mystery, I found several canvas bank bags, and within the bags were pennies … … my monthly alimony.

  Roger must have ordered them direct from the Federal Reserve, and sent them at great expense.

  “Poor boy,” Mother sighed, and shook her head. “He’s still hurting.”

  I nodded, thinking that pain wasn’t what my ex was feeling: it was rage. And even now, running my hand through the coins, I could hardly blame him.

  I could only hope this was a onetime stunt.

  Pennies were so worthless that retailers would rather round the bill down than have to deal with Mr. Lincoln. Even parking meters won’t take the darn things. Then there’s the problem people create by “hoarding” pennies (throwing them in a glass jar), which creates a demand, forcing the Treasury Department to print more and more of the little buggers.

  Still, I found myself saying to Mother, “Remember the time I found that valuable penny?”

  I’d been working a summer job as a bank teller my first year of community college.

  “How much was it worth?” For all her drama, Mother likes to cut right to the chase.

  “Couple hundred bucks,” I said, adding, “And that was way back then.” (I’d spent it on clothes, natch.)

  Mother’s eyes had dollar signs.

  In the meantime, Sushi was whimpering at my feet, wanting to go out for a little walk, which I’d been doing about this hour every day lately. Could dogs tell time?

  So I went to get the pooper-scooper, because Sushi always saved up for the glorious fun of making her deposits on fresh territory.

  When we got back, Mother was sitting Indian-style, having dumped all the pennies out on the parquet floor. I would have suggested a better way (ever try to pick coins up off a wood floor?) but didn’t want to dampen her enthusiasm. She was examining a coin with a magnifying glass, making a beach ball out of her already magnified eye. I squatted and joined in on the hunt.

  Hey, valuable coins do turn up.

  Here’s how: sometimes, a kid (let’s say a girl named Brandy) discovers her father’s old coin collection (from when he was a kid) in a trunk in our attic and spends it all on Jelly Bellys, my favorite at the time.

  On and off through the afternoon, Mother and I worked at the penny pile (finding several promising possibilities to look up), then broke for supper (Swedish meatballs and rhubarb pie—I gave Tom, Dick, and Harry the night off).

  My eyes and neck were burning from the penny search, so I decided to go out and get some air, maybe drive around the old town, and see what was new. I spent several hours just taking in how the place had changed—our high school was now the middle school, fresh facilities for the former taking root where the drive-in movie used to be. A favorite necking and petting spot, Weed Park (no kidding—named after a city founder named Weed) had lost a zoo and gained a new aquatic center.

  Enough had changed to make me feel old; however, enough was the same to provide a certain comfort.…

  Dusk was settling in when I headed back home. As I pulled in the drive I could see that the garage door was open.

  Mother’s car was gone.

  You remember Mother, don’t you? The woman without a license? Although, a woman often willing to take license.…

  Inside the house, she was nowhere to be found … but a notepad by the answer machine had something written on it: Carson, 4512 Route 22.

  Had the antique dealer called?

  If so, what did he want? Or had Mother decided to pay him a visit on her own?

  My mind provided any number of explanations, but none of them made the sick feeling at the pit of my stomach go away.

  I had no choice but to go back out.

  Route 22 was a scenic road winding along the river’s bluff, used mostly by those who lived along it, or sightseers with time on their hands. Other routes were available, and preferable, in no small part because passing was difficult on the hilly, two-lane highway—as attested by the ever-so-often flower-adorned white crosses along the roadside, planted by bereaved family members.

  Nonetheless, this was a lovely time of night as I tooled along above the glistening river … magic hour, as some called it … but in a few more minutes darkness would close in, and with no moon, only my headlights would guide me.

  Around a tight curve a deer leaped out of the trees and gave us both a scare. I braked, and instead of swerving, aimed directly for it, thereby missing the animal as it darted across to safety. A few hundred yards farther, however, another deer hadn’t been so lucky; the highway was splashed with blood, the twisted carcass thrown by the wayside.

  I shivered, and not from the cool night air blowing in my open window; and a sense of sadness enveloped me—the loss of such a beautiful life touched me. But then my emotions were on edge with worry about Mother.

  About ten miles outside of town, I slowed, eyes searching the roadside mailboxes with their reflecting house numbers; finally I spotted 4512.

  I swung into a gravel drive, which then split into two narrow lanes for incoming and outgoing traffic, separated by an island of trees and brush.

  After a distance, I arrived at a nondescript two-story, clapboard farmhouse illuminated by a tall yard light. The house looked dark and quiet. A red Ford pickup was parked in front.

  No sign of Mother’s car.

  While I pondered my next move, I noticed the big red barn just to the left and back of the farmhouse.

  Was this the current home of our plundered furniture?

  I climbed cautiously out of my car, approached the dark house with my heart in my ears, and knocked tentatively on the front door.

  Nothing.

  Then I tried again, louder.

  Everything remained eerily silent.

  Satisfied no one was home, I headed to the barn. I didn’t see how taking a look would hurt—reconnaissance, soldiers called it, right?

  The rough-wood double doors were locked, and wouldn’t budge, even with a good tug or two. I began circling the structure, looking for a window to peer into (or climb inside, if I really got my nerve up).

  Around the back of the barn, I tripped in the dark on something, and tumbled … my fall cushioned by a pile of garbage. It reeked of farm chemicals; now, so did I. When had I had my last tetanus shot? I wondered. Discouraged, bruised, and rank, I limped back to my car.

  Some soldier.

  Following the “out” lane, I was going at a pretty good clip when my headlights caught something just ahead. Almost upon it, I again found myself slamming on the brakes.

  At first, I thought the prone dark mass blocking the way was jus
t another poor deer. But when I clicked my brights on, I could see clearly that this body was human.

  Had been human.…

  Clint Carson lay on his back, eyes staring hollowly upward, limbs twisted … a scarecrow with the stuffing knocked out.

  I thought for a moment about getting out of the car and checking to see if he was still alive. But he seemed so clearly dead, as much roadkill as that deer.

  Shaking, I drove quickly around him, knocking over some bushes in the process, and sped back toward town. On my cell, I called 911 and told them what I’d seen, but did not give my name.

  Just the same, a police car was parked in front of our house, and as I pulled into the driveway, an officer got out.

  I was just thinking what a dunce I was—of course their phone system would automatically collect my phone number!—when the policeman approached, asking a question I had not been expecting.

  “Is Vivian Borne your mother?”

  He was a blandly handsome guy in his thirties, but his brown eyes showed concern.

  “Yes … what’s this about? Has something happened to her?”

  “I’m afraid she may be in a lot of trouble.”

  “For driving without a license?”

  He frowned, hesitated, then said, “It’s considerably more serious than that. Your mother came into the station claiming she killed someone … but that’s all the information we could get out of her. She seemed confused … disoriented.”

  My knees buckled and I leaned against my car.

  The young officer took my arm. “Are you all right?”

  I didn’t answer him. For a moment I wondered if I’d ever be all right again.…

  “If you know anything about this,” the officer said, firm but kind, “you need to tell us.”

  “Take me to her,” I said.

  A Trash ‘n’ Treasures Tip

  Antiques and collectibles should be insured against fire and theft. But if you’re short on cash like me, just make sure you unplug the iron and lock the house before leaving.

  Chapter Three

  Jailhouse Crock

  The Safety Building—a two-story redbrick monolith also housing the fire department—was home to the Serenity PD. Behind the seventies-era structure sat a new state-of-the-art county jail, aping the bland redbrick design of its safeguarding neighbor.

  To the casual passerby, the jail might seem a law office or a medical clinic, the grounds tastefully landscaped, the premises lacking any barbed wire or electrical fence. The only “tell” as to its true purpose was the row of tiny, too-high barred windows on the second floor, where the prisoners were housed.

  Kitty-corner to the jail stood Serenity’s grand old courthouse, a breathtakingly beautiful white wedding cake of sandstone and marble. Every couple of years or so, the folks working inside this noble Grecian structure would start grumbling for an ignoble modern facility, because they were hot or crowded or whatever. Mother would hear about a circulating petition for such and scream, “Over my dead body will that courthouse be torn down!” and fly into action, gathering her historical conservation troops and descending on city council meetings like a barbarian horde in support hose.

  Rather than deal with the likes of Mother, the council would soon find some money for the purchase of a few more courthouse air conditioners, and recommend that a storage room or two be cleared out for additional offices, and things would settle down for a while. Currently Mother had written her several congressmen (state and national) about protecting the structure with historical status. Nothing had come of it yet, but then you must keep in mind that all of those congressmen likely have a special file for Mother’s missives, possibly circular.

  You might say the wheels of justice in Serenity worked closely together: a perp could be taken into custody at the police station, then hauled into court, and thrown into jail, all within a block or so … almost like one-stop shopping! (Shop-lifting location optional.)

  Some time past midnight, I pulled my urine-yellow Taurus into the nearly vacant lot of the Safety Building, having dutifully followed Officer Lawson, who had come to the house looking for me.

  Businesslike but polite, the officer—tall, brown-haired, brown-eyed, and not at all hard on the orbs—ushered me through the front door of the station, past a small waiting area where a few perfunctory plastic chairs crowded around a scarred coffee table strewn with public-awareness pamphlets. A soda machine hummed an electronic nontune in one corner.

  I followed Officer Lawson down a beige-tiled corridor to a large, probably bulletproof window, behind which a ponytailed woman dressed in blues sat surrounded by a bank of screens and computers, like an air-traffic controller at O’Hare Airport.

  At the moment, all was quiet on the western front, but the middle-of-the-night atmosphere held the promise of something bad breaking that mood any moment. The female officer took her eyes off a screen and looked at us as if we were a museum exhibit that had just materialized before her.

  Lawson nodded; she nodded back, and buzzed us on through a heavy metal door … which is to say, a heavy door made of metal, not one decorated with rock-band stickers.

  Down another institutional hallway we trod, footsteps echoing like muted gunshots off the gray walls, which were not at all cheered up by a few hanging pictures, mostly of posed rows of police department personnel past, and shots of the severe, grotesque police station of bygone days, long since torn down (Mother came to her senses on that one).

  We stopped at a scuffed steel door marked INTERVIEW ROOM—kinder, gentler terminology for Interrogation Room, I supposed.

  Next to the door was a small built-in wall safe. This Lawson opened with a key, took his gun out of its holster and placed the weapon inside, then locked it again.

  Did he think Mother was really that dangerous? That she might go for his gun? Or did I have a wild look in my eyes that told him I might try for his rod?

  He must have read my thoughts, or at least their gist. With a little shrug he said, “Procedure.” Then he opened the door to the Interview Room and I went in ahead of my handsome host.

  Mother was alone, seated in a metal folding chair next to a metal card table, both fixtures firmly bolted to the floor. The room, sparse, small, seemed claustrophobic, cold. Steel rings for shackling (thankfully not in use at the moment) were attached ominously to one wall like especially ugly earrings.

  I was startled and frightened by Mother’s appearance—eyes flitting wildly behind the large glasses, lips trembling, hands clutching what remained of a shredded tissue.

  I was immediately worried about her mental well-being, but when Mother saw me she stood and pulled herself up to her full height, head high, chin jutting, eyes winning a struggle to focus behind the glasses.

  “I am all right, my dear,” she announced. The “my dear” designation was reserved for when we had an audience. “The local gendarmes have been very nice to me, even gotten me a tissue or two.”

  I said, “We should call Mr. Ekhardt, Mother.”

  She gave her head a toss. “Bosh! He’s in bed and I won’t bother him at this hour. An older man like him, well, we must have certain considerations.”

  Mother did have a point.

  Mr. Ekhardt had been our family attorney since I was in diapers; now he was old enough for adult diapers. In the late eighties, he semiretired, but kept a handful of clients, including the Bornes (Mother had been best friends with his late wife) and every so often, like an old fire horse responding to a clanging bell, Mr. Ekhardt would take on a criminal case. Even now he made a commanding presence in the courtroom—except, perhaps, when he fell asleep.

  Mother once told me about the time in the 1950s when Mr. Ekhardt first made a name for himself as Serenity’s goto trial lawyer when he got a woman off for shooting her sleeping husband in the chest five times “in self-defense” … and I mean she went scot-free. This was back when a man could smack a woman around and not get thrown in jail, so it was some kind of victory. Mother said
all the men in town were awfully nice to their wives for a long time after that!

  But if Mother was in the kind of trouble I thought she was in, Mr. Ekhardt should be called, senior-citizen considerations be damned.

  I swiveled to Officer Lawson. “Could I speak to my mother alone?”

  He nodded. “I’ll be right outside.”

  Soon we were by ourselves in the clammy cubicle.

  I sat Mother back down, then took the other bolted chair, probably reserved for the interrogator … I mean “interviewer” … and I interviewed her. Which is to say, interrogated her.

  “Tell me what happened, Mother—exactly what happened.”

  Mother took a deep breath that started out confident but quickly turned quavery, her tough veneer beginning to buckle a bit. “I … I … came home, and you weren’t there … and the answer machine was blinking. I checked the message … it is my machine, after all, how was I to know it was for you?”

  “I forgive you. Go on.”

  “Anyway, it was the girl from that antique shop.”

  “What girl? What antique shop?”

  “She said her name was Tanya and that you’d spoken with her there.”

  The redhead … Ginger, not Mary Ann.…

  “She’s an associate of that terrible Carson person, and said he wanted you to come out to his house. He was willing to talk about letting us have our furniture back.”

  The redhead had seemed rude and uninterested in me, but maybe she’d conveyed my desire to rebuy our stuff to her boss.

  “Well,” Mother was saying, “I’d thought maybe you’d already gone out there, and saved the message … so I’d know where you were.”

  “And then what, Mother?”

  She nodded. “I got to thinking …”

  Never a good sign.

  “… and finally I decided to take my car—yes, I know I shouldn’t have, but I was frightened for you. That man Carson can be awfully mean.”