8 Antiques Con Read online

  “Because, dear boy, I am Vivian Borne and this is Brandy Borne. If you are a close relative of the former chief of the Serenity police, those names may be meaningful to you. You may already know that Tony used to date my daughter back in Iowa before he had to go into—” She halted, and lowered her voice—both in loudness and register. “You-know-where.”

  Then she mouthed: wit-ness pro-tec-tion.

  Now she brightened. “Perhaps he mentioned us, from time to time?”

  “From time to time . . . he did.”

  Mother beamed. “Many was the instance when my daughter and I used our detecting skills to help Tony out in collaring perps—murderers in particular. But we never took credit, and were happy merely to have our efforts enhance the chief’s career.”

  I glanced upward to see if lightning might strike in the ballroom.

  Detective Cassato, with a little smirk, said, “So you’re the legendary Vivian Borne.”

  “Yes, but I assure you, my legend was not ‘born,’ but made, by myself . . . and my daughter. And you will, I am sure, be delighted and relieved to know that, in this instance, we are at your service.”

  And she gave him a salute.

  I’ve seen sillier things, but not without paying at the door for it.

  “That right?” he said.

  “Yes indeedy.” Then she added, “Diddy do.”

  You know what I hate about ballrooms? No windows to jump out of.

  The detective stepped closer, hands on hips, and loomed over Mother. “Let’s get one thing straight, Mrs. Borne . . . I’m not my brother.”

  “Oh, is Tony your brother? Well, of course you’re not your brother. I’m sure you’re very much your own man! And if I might say—”

  “No. You might not say. You will listen as I inform you that I will not put up with your small-town, busybody meddling.” He pointed a finger at her like a gun, a gun he wished were loaded. “You stick your nose into this investigation, Mrs. Borne, and you’ll find your fanny in stir. Understood?”

  She nodded, but her smile only reminded me that that particular threat never worked on her. Mother likes her occasional soirees in jail—she meets the most interesting people there.

  Mother put one hand to her chest. “My dear man, I wouldn’t think of usurping the authority of the NYPD. We are guests of your fair city, here on holiday—and we have left our deerstalker caps at home.” She turned to me. “Haven’t we, Brandy?”

  “Sure. The cape-coat thingies, too.”

  “Ulsters, dear,” Mother corrected. “I only mean to say, Detective, that we are available to you in any supportive fashion that might prove of help. We are witnesses, after all, or at least we found the body.”

  Cassato grunted, “Yeah.”

  I said, “Tony mentioned a brother on the East Coast. Nothing very specific, but . . . are you Salvatore?”

  He nodded. “Sal to my friends. You two can call me Detective Cassato.”

  Mother said, “What a wonderful sense of humor! Just like your brother.”

  But I didn’t figure Detective Cassato was kidding.

  Violet spoke up. “Detective Cassato, I’m Tommy’s second-in-command. I run the convention office.”

  “The murder victim? Thomas Bufford?”

  She nodded. “Yes. Which means, I guess I’m in charge of the convention now. And, frankly, I need to know where we go from here. There’s a lot of money—other people’s money—tied up in this convention. Fans pay to attend, the dealers pay for their booths, and so on. It would be disastrous if we had to shut things down and send everyone home.”

  Sal Cassato considered the dilemma for a few moments. “You three are the only ones connected to the convention who know about this?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Mother and I found Tommy, and I went straight to the security office. On the way back here, I told Violet what had happened, because I thought she needed to know.”

  He was nodding. “All right. It is possible that the convention could continue, more or less as planned, if we call this a ‘suspicious death’ and not a murder.”

  Mother said, “I suppose he could have fallen on that pen. Mightier than the sword, you know!”

  Sal closed his eyes. Then he opened them. “Just for now—for cosmetic purposes—we’ll term this a ‘suspicious death.’ Understood, ladies?”

  The odious “ladies” again.

  Violet nodded, and so did I, and so did Mother, after I elbowed her.

  The detective continued: “Not revealing the exact circumstances would be of help to us in the interview process.” He looked at Violet. “How you want to handle the news of the ‘suspicious death’ is up to you—press release, announcements at your various events. But it should be done soon, before any rumors get going.”

  And he looked directly at Mother.

  “What?” she said. “What are you implying with that glower, young man?”

  The detective said, “It’s just that I’ve heard a lot about you from my brother.”

  “Well, then, we’ll just have to sit down sometime over the weekend, Detective Cassato, and have a chat, so I can straighten you out on what’s true and what’s false.”

  Violet, ignoring that, said to the detective, “Thank you, Detective. I know Tommy would have wanted the convention to go on as planned. We’ll make it a . . . a tribute to his memory. A monument to everything he accomplished.”

  The detective, clearly not giving a damn about any of that, merely grunted again.

  “Is it all right with you if I go?” Violet asked. “I’d like to put the announcements in motion, and there are press releases to write, and . . . ?”

  The detective nodded. “I can interview you later. Neither one of us is going anywhere for a while.”

  Violet stood. “Thank you.”

  As the dark-haired young woman left the ballroom, moving quickly despite the burden of the tough assignment she’d just been handed, Sal Cassato returned his attention to us.

  “Now,” he asked, hands on hips, “how is it that you two just happened to find the body?”

  Mother stiffened in her chair. “My dear man, I do hope you are not implying anything specious, much less suspicious, by that remark. We were innocent bystanders in this.”

  Bystanders, yes. Innocent, no . . . particularly if Mother had compromised the crime scene while I’d gone for help.

  The detective smirked. “Why, of course you’re innocent bystanders. It’s just that I’ve heard the accounts of your past ‘investigations’ from my brother, and if I may be frank . . . ?”

  “Certainly,” Mother said, wide-eyed and eager.

  “It strains all credulity that you two could ‘innocently’ stumble onto corpses and generally get involved in murder. If you’d done that on my beat, I’d have called in the FBI to mark you as a suspected serial killer, Mrs. Borne.”

  Mother frowned in a way that indicated she was not sure whether to feel offended or complimented.

  Then she said, “First of all, Detective Cassato, my daughter and I never allow ‘credulity’ to stand in our way. That’s for the dull among us. As for you thinking I might be a serial killer . . . thank you! The organizational skills that involves are always indicative of a high degree of intelligence. You and I will have to share a good meal and discuss this more, perhaps over fava beans, liver, and Chianti.”

  He was just looking at her now, agape, like a clubbed baby seal.

  I said, “Detective Cassato . . . and if I might—Sal? We have a little dog back in our room that’s in need of her insulin shot. Might we go tend to that?”

  “Of course,” he said, then cleared his throat. “Tony told me about that little mutt. Rocky’s favorite playmate.”

  Rocky was Tony’s police dog.

  His brother was saying, “Anyway, this is just a preliminary interview. We can make it brief. Just tell me in your own words how you discovered the body.”

  I let Mother recount the unpleasant event first, which she did with reli
sh. With horseradish, actually. Then I had my turn, adding very little. Not even catsup.

  “Thank you,” Sal sighed. “You girls can go—but I may want to talk to you again.”

  Not sure how I felt about that particular use of “girls,” I told the detective that we’d be available through the weekend.

  Mother, her hands clasped before her, assumed her most helpful air. “If I might point one detail out, Detective Cassato, relating to the pen used to kill Tommy?”

  He frowned. “It’s not a pen, really, is it? It’s an award, right?”

  “Well, I believe it’s a working pen, but gold-plated, as part of the writer’s award. Normally it’s not stuck in a person, but in a marble base, I understand. No sign of that base, incidentally?”

  “No. What’s your point?”

  “My ‘point’ is the point of that pen,” she said, rather too proud of herself. “I allowed myself a fairly close look at the wound and the instrument of death, before your arrival.”

  “I’ll just bet you did.”

  “The name of the winner was engraved on the pen, although, because of its rather forceful insertion into the late victim’s chest, all you could make out was ‘s-o-n.’ ”

  I blurted, “That could be Eric Johansson! He’s one of the nominees.”

  Mother said, “So is a writer named Thompson, Harlan Thompson. So you may have a suspect. Which name was on that pen, Detective?”

  He gave her a nasty look. “I think it was ‘Bic.’ ”

  “More likely Montblanc, but I refer of course to the name of the winner engraved there. Whose name was it, Detective?”

  “That, Mrs. Borne, is none of your business.”

  Mother’s expression was aghast. If not her business, then whose? But I could see her wheels turning.

  As we were about to leave, she said, “Detective Cassato . . . Salvatore. I’m afraid you and I have rather gotten off on the wrong foot. My enthusiasm can be intimidating, and my judgment poor. Might I make amends?”

  “What did you have in mind, Mrs. Borne?”

  “Do make it Vivian, please. Why, I feel I’ve known you forever.”

  “It feels that way to me, too, Vivian.”

  She leaned in, in a confidential manner. “I’m sure you’ll be needing to conduct other interviews here in the hotel.”

  “Obviously.”

  “But I’m afraid that you’ll find all of the rooms are taken, with meeting rooms unavailable due to the ongoing panels. Even this ballroom has other events scheduled. And the security area is rather small.”

  “True.”

  “Might I suggest you use our suite for your sessions? The outer area is quite large—offering such amenities as coffee and a comfortable couch—plus the setting might have a calming effect on those being interviewed.”

  Detective Cassato was frowning. So was I—I didn’t want to give up our room! And what the heck was Mother up to, anyway?

  “And don’t worry,” Mother rushed on. “We won’t be there during the day. Why, Brandy and I have so much to do, what with the convention, sightseeing, shopping. . . .”

  By the way, whenever Mother says, “Don’t worry,” that’s your cue. To worry.

  “What about Sushi?” I protested.

  “Why, we’ll take the little doggie with us—she must be tired of being cooped up. We have plastic baggies for her poo poo. One must curb one’s dog in the Big Apple!”

  One must curb her mouth, if she says things like “poo poo.”

  Still, it was clear now that Mother was up to something, so I’d best play along.

  “All right,” the detective said. “I’ll take you up on that offer, which is quite generous of you, and I thank you, and the city of New York thanks you. Or, we will as long as you stay out of my way while I’m interviewing.”

  “But of course,” Mother replied sweetly.

  “You can’t sit in, Vivian.”

  “I understand. I do understand.”

  “And I’ll only use the room for the rest of this afternoon. After that, I’ll make other arrangements.”

  After this victory (what was she up to?), Mother hurried off to get an extra room keycard for the detective, leaving me alone with him.

  “Detective Cassato,” I asked, “have you heard from Tony?”

  He shook his head. “Make it ‘Sal.’ No, Brandy, I haven’t. Not since he went into WITSEC—too damn dangerous. And you?”

  I sighed, and nodded. “Briefly, a few months ago. I . . . I wish I knew how he was doing.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “It’s so unfair. Doesn’t the Mob usually leave police officers alone? I thought it was their code where law enforcement personnel were concerned.”

  Sal sighed. “New York, maybe. But this is New Jersey wiseguys that Tony testified against . . . and they’ve got a whole other way of doing things.”

  Like sending a hit man to my hometown, after finding out Tony had moved there.

  The detective was saying, “They do things by their own rule book, ya know? Only, their rule book don’t have any rules in it that I know of.”

  “Detective? Sal?”

  “Yes?”

  “Not meaning to overstep, but . . . you might like to know that Tommy did have at least one enemy.”

  “When you share what you know, Brandy, that’s not called overstepping. It’s called cooperating.”

  I told him about the heated confrontation I’d overheard yesterday evening between Bufford and his ex-partner, Gino, admitting that I didn’t even know the man’s last name.

  He thanked me for the information. “You know, I can see why Tony likes you.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I can also see why your mother drives him bananas.”

  Then he went back through the gold curtain to the crime scene.

  Since Mother would probably be a while getting another keycard, I returned to our room, where I found Sushi sleeping soundly on the freshly made bed. Lucky her.

  “Any problems to report?” I asked.

  She opened one eye, then another, finally yawning by way of an answer, then rolling over on her back for a tummy scratch.

  After a minute of that, I padded over to the minibar to select something to eat—vanilla cream–filled cookies, for only five times their going rate back in Serenity—of which I shared a few bites with Soosh, getting crumbs on the coverlet.

  I went back for a bag of four-dollar chips, and got even more crumbs on the bed—maybe on purpose, peeved as I was with Mother for getting us involved in yet another murder. I hoped Sal Cassato had been kidding about fingering us to the FBI.

  And here I had been looking forward to a fun-filled vacation in New York, with the only detective work in our plans being that of searching the countryside for Aunt Olive.

  Spitefully, I reached over, picked up the mattress remote control from the nightstand, and pumped the gage up to one hundred, making the bed hard as a rock.

  Let Goldilocks sleep on that.

  With my malaise lifting a little, I got out my cell and saw that I had just missed a call from Joe Lange. I had wanted to check in with him anyway, because he was running our antiques shop back in Serenity while we were away.

  Joe, a friend since my community college days, an avid collector of Star Trek memorabilia, was pretty knowledgeable about antiques in general. He had wanted to come along to the convention—excited about Tommy Bufford starting a retro-style con at a smaller venue—but found himself short of funds.

  Or maybe the pre-con search for Aunt Olive had discouraged him.

  He answered on the first ring. “Trash ‘n’ Treasures, Joseph Lange speaking.”

  At least he’d left off his rank and serial number.

  “Joe,” I said, “everything cool at the shop?”

  “Affirmative.”

  Something else you need to know about Joe: he still talked in Marine-speak, even though he’d been discharged ten years ago.

  I asked, “You doin’ o
kay, dude?”

  “For a first civ-div.”

  Translation: a former Marine in the civilian world (I had gotten pretty good at deciphering his dialect).

  “And the shop? All’s well?”

  “Affirmative.”

  Less than thirty seconds into the call and he was repeating himself already. Conversations with Joe went that way a lot.

  “You must’ve called for a reason, Joe,” I prodded.

  “Saw the buzz on the Net that Bufford’s a casualty.”

  Yikes! Violet’s press release was out already?

  Joe was saying, “And that PR bilge about a suspicious death? Bum scoop. My gut? Bufford was deep-sixed.”

  “You think so?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “Who by?”

  “Best guess? Gino Moretti—Bufford’s former partner. Bad blood there after he forced Tommy out of Manhattan Con.”

  “You may be right, Joe. I saw them arguing the night before.”

  “Then he’s your man.” Pause. “I assume you and Big Mama are on the case.”

  “I hope not. But probably, yeah.”

  “Brandy? You do any recon on Moretti, take care.”

  “Oh?”

  “Guy’s mobbed up, big-time.”

  I thanked Joe and ended the call.

  What a warm feeling a girl got, calling home from the big city. . . .

  Then I heard Mother yelping out, “Yoo-hoo, Brandy! Are you here, dear?”

  “In the bedroom, Todd.” That’s a reference to an old Bob and Ray radio show running gag. If you got it, you’re smiling right now. If not, probably just irritated. Sorry.

  She rushed into the bedroom, out of breath, face flushed, eyelashes aflutter. “I gave Detective Cassato an extra room keycard—and he’d like to use it right away. So we must vacate, toot aysap.”

  “I want my nap!”

  “Well, you don’t get it.”

  She crossed to the dresser and yanked open a drawer. “Now where did I put that thing?”

  I got off the bed. “All right, okay, spill it, lady . . . what are you up to? You didn’t offer up our suite out of the goodness of your heart.”

  Mother turned to gaze at me, a child who’d asked a really dumb question. “Well, of course not, dear. Do I look like a fool?”