Antiques St. Nicked Page 7

  When not involved in amateur sleuthery, or co-running our antiques shop, Mother was active in community theater. Well, saying she was “active” in community theater might be an understatement. How about rabidly active?

  Since my idea of wonderful news was an unexpected windfall of cash from a dead distant relative, my response was perhaps less than enthusiastic. Specifically, a tepid, “That’s nice.”

  Tony’s was a tad better: “You don’t say.” At least he’d gotten to where he didn’t automatically give her a dirty look.

  Still, these two responses took the wind out of Mother’s sails, though her boat on the ocean of life never stayed still for long, and she responded with plenty of spare wind.

  “Apparently,” she huffed grandly, “you don’t understand the importance of the offer, the opportunity that has come my way. Let me enlighten you. Old York usually imports professional talent from the Guthrie, or New York. But on this occasion, they want me for their fall fête instead.”

  Old York was a little town about an hour’s drive away that thought it was an English hamlet, hence the fall fête.

  “What do you mean, fate?” Tony asked. “Like cast your fate to the wind?”

  “It’s a kind of fair,” she said, “with an English accent.”

  That had a nice double meaning, though it probably was just an accident. Mother was miffed with us and her wit was likely on hold.

  I frowned. “Isn’t it a little late for the fête organizers to be asking you? I mean . . . this coming weekend?”

  Mother shrugged. “As fate would have it . . . that’s ef-ay-tee-ee fate, Chief Cassato . . . influenza struck the New York troupe who’d been hired. But this late booking provides the perfect opportunity for me to perform my version of ”—she cupped her hand over her mouth and whispered—“the Scottish play.”

  “The what play?” Tony asked.

  “Macbeth,” I said. “It’s an old actor’s superstition of not saying Macbeth in a theater. She takes it a step further by never saying it at all.”

  Mother’s eyes were wide and her nostrils flared. “It is not just the superstition of old actors! Even the young ones respect it, and I would thank you, Brandy, to honor it.”

  “Sure,” I said with a shrug.

  Tony asked politely, “What’s your version of the, uh, ‘Scottish play,’ Vivian?”

  “I play all the parts in a sixty-minute condensation,” Mother said proudly. “Shakespeare was a good writer, but he runs to the long-winded and needs some editing.”

  “Okay.”

  Her eyes behind the lenses were huge. “You’ve heard the old expression of someone with more than one job wearing multiple hats? Well, I take that to heart, literally. I wear a different hat for each character I’m bringing to life.”

  To Tony’s credit, he didn’t flinch. Or smirk. He just said, “Interesting.”

  She twisted on the couch toward him. “Perhaps you would like me to reserve a seat for you in the audience?”

  Behind her back, I mouthed a silent but emphatic “No!”

  Tony’s eyes went from me to Mother. “I’ll try to make it. Sounds . . . unique.”

  And I shut my eyes. Perhaps when I opened them, I would find I’d been dreaming.

  “Wonderful!” Mother chirped. “Now, I’m afraid I must spirit Brandy away from this cozy nest—she and I have a lot to do before we leave for Old York! Miles to go before we sleep.”

  I gave Tony a shrug and he just smiled and nodded a little.

  There was never any doubt that I would be a part of Mother’s “gig.” First off, due to those previously mentioned vehicular infractions, Mother couldn’t drive herself anywhere. And second of all, I was in charge of the hats.

  Mother stood. “I’ll give you two lovebirds a moment together. Or do you need longer? I can arrange a brief nature hike for myself.”

  “No,” I said, “that’s all right. Just a few seconds is fine.”

  “Splendid!”

  And she made her exit.

  I scooted closer to Tony. “Thanks for not suggesting she take the path that ends in a drop-off to the river.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “You’re not . . . serious about going to Mother’s one-woman Macbeth show are you?”

  He slipped an arm around me. “Your mother’s plays are always, uh, unique experiences . . . but the fête sounds like fun.”

  I nodded. “Could be at that—especially if you stayed overnight.”

  I gave him a kiss to seal our fate. (Okay, I promise not to do much of that.) (Straining to use the word “fate,” I mean—I will kiss Tony as much as I please.)

  Five minutes later, I slid behind the wheel of our Ford C-Max, with Mother riding shotgun and Sushi settled on her lap, then drove down the cabin’s narrow pine-tree-lined lane, the setting sun winking through the bows, finally turning onto River Road to head south toward Serenity.

  A captive audience of one—Sushi having curled into a ball and gone to sleep—I listened as Mother gave me a history lesson of Old York that I didn’t recall requesting.

  “In the mid-1800s,” she was saying, “the village was founded by several English families who drew up a charter decreeing that their British ancestry must never be forgotten.”

  “Still holding a grudge about that little American uprising, huh?”

  She ignored that. “Which is why to this day, visiting Old York is like taking a trip across the pond to a small English hamlet.”

  “But not so expensive.”

  “Was that my pan?”

  “Where?”

  “Back there! By the side of the road. It looked just like my favorite cheesecake pan!”

  “One cheesecake pan looks pretty much like another.”

  “I would swear . . .”

  “I’ve been saying it’s time for your optical check-up.” Since she had been minding our store all day, and I had cleaned up the kitchen at home, she couldn’t know the pan was hers. Not for sure.

  “Yes, you have, dear,” she sighed. “But they always try to sell me new, smaller frames, and these vintage specs are exactly to my specs.”

  She meant those oversize glasses of hers that dated back decades. “Mother?”

  “Yes, dear?”

  “This trip to Old York? If you want me to come along, and be your hat mistress, you have to promise me one thing.”

  “Continue.”

  “You’ll leave your fake British accent at home.”

  A moment passed before she answered. “Bob’s your uncle, dear.”

  I took my eyes off the road long enough to give her a look.

  She gave me one in return—of innocence. “What? You didn’t say a word about not using British expressions.”

  The following morning, with my friend Joe Lange in place to run our antiques shop while we were away, Mother and I packed the trunk of the car with everything we might need for a four-day getaway. That included casual clothes, good walking shoes, Sushi’s bed and food, and, most importantly, our medications.

  Yes, we were a pill-happy little group—lithium for Mother’s bipolar disorder, Prozac for my depression, and insulin for Sushi’s diabetes (well, a shot in her case). Old York was a good sixty miles away, so I didn’t relish driving home and back except for an emergency.

  Mother had on another Breckenridge slacks outfit (green) and I was in a crisp white blouse and—taking a breather from jeans—a khaki-colored skirt with zipper pockets and leopard-print Sam Edelman shoes.

  Around noon, it was good-bye to Serenity and, with me once again behind the wheel, Mother beside me, and Sushi in her foam bed in back, the Three Musketeers headed west, all for Mother, Mother for all.

  To keep my stress level down, and prevent Mother from jabbering all the way, I put on a CD collection of old ’40s and ’50s radio shows that we both enjoyed—“Bob and Ray,” “Fibber McGee and Molly,” “The Great Gildersleeve” . . . but I skipped forward at any “Aldrich Family” episodes. HEN-REE! HENRY
ALDRICH! Coming, Mother....

  You see, when I was little and naughty, Mother used to substitute my name (BRAN-DEE! BRANDY BORNE!). I had no idea what she was referring to until years later when we starting listening to old radio shows in the car. All I knew was it was annoying.

  An hour later, we took a turn off the main highway at a Monty Python–style pointing finger sign to Old York, and in another few minutes were bumping along a cobblestone street lined with hedgerows, passing by quaint stone cottages with grass-thatched roofs, many set behind arbors entwined with roses.

  As we entered the village proper, Mother sat forward, peering out the windshield, oohing and aahing at the English architecture. “Just look at those mullioned windows!”

  What’s a mullioned window? (You might well ask.) Beats me. I knew a little something about architecture, but Mother was the authority. And if you want to hear the definition of mullioned windows, you’ll have to ask her yourself. I’m in charge of hats.

  Arriving at ground zero, the village green, I made a slow go-around the immaculate square park, where a lovely white band shell surrounded by vibrant-colored fall mums perched like the centerpiece of a beautifully set table.

  Sushi had climbed from the backseat to my lap and stuck her head out my open window to sniff at the recently mowed grass, her happy bark seeming to say, “New territory!”

  Eek. Had I remembered to pack the doggie baggies?

  Across from the village green, quaint little shops rimmed the green on all four sides, the style of the buildings—Gothic, Tudor, and Queen Anne (told you I knew a little about architecture) —as diverse as the shops themselves, each vying for attention by way of latticework, etched glass, whimsical signage, and flowers, flowers, flowers everywhere, in window boxes and hanging planters, even climbing stone walls.

  The hamlet was so breathtakingly beautiful I had to pull the car over into a slanted parking space to take it all in.

  Could this be paradise?

  Mother was saying, “Good choice of a spot, dear. This is right near where we’ll be staying.”

  I peered through the windshield to look at our residence for the next few days: a three-story white stucco building with vertical black half beams, a rustic sign over the entrance depicting a white horse being brushed by a groomsman, with the words: THE HORSE AND GROOM INN.

  Mother was already out of the car, and I joined her on the redbrick sidewalk, Sushi in hand.

  “Well, isn’t this inn just the quaintest thing,” she enthused.

  Perhaps a little too much so. In spite of the array of colorful flowers, the hotel seemed a little shabby on the outside, which made me worry about the inside, especially since a freestanding sign with removable letters next to the entrance read: WELCOME—ROTTEN ROOMS. Some prankster had rearranged what must have said, “Welcome to The Horse and Groom Inn,” the discarded letters littering the brick sidewalk nearby.

  Mother either didn’t notice this warning, or chose to ignore it, plucking Sushi from my hands. “Get the luggage, dear.”

  I complied, retrieving the suitcases from the trunk, then the visiting diva held open the inn’s heavy, slightly warped wooden door while I struggled in.

  For a moment we stood in the entryway, our eyes adjusting after the bright sun to the dimness of the interior, compounded by dark wood paneling and sparse, narrow windows. A low wood-beamed ceiling added a sense of claustrophobia, while a musty smell gave off an unwelcome greeting.

  To the right was a small lounging area where a few well-worn chairs were positioned in front of an unlit stone fireplace. Above the mantel hung the head of a mangy moose, one antler askew, as if tipping its hat.

  Hats again.

  To the left was a dining area, a tad more cheerful with red-checkered cloths on the tables, along with small floral centerpieces. The walls were covered with an assortment of colorful if faded prints of horses and hunting themes, which made the idea of lingering over a meal a little more palatable. But I could have spent the better part of an afternoon straightening those frames.

  I glanced at Mother, who must have sensed my misgivings.

  “We already have reservations,” she whispered.

  “Oh, I have reservations all right,” I said.

  But Mother charged ahead with Sushi to the small registration desk, prompting me with, “Bran-dee . . .”

  “Coming, Mother,” I said, falling in behind, lugging the cases.

  A middle-aged man with thinning gray hair and permanent frown lines on his oblong face stood behind the counter, peering into the screen of an outdated computer.

  After ignoring us for a few moments, he called over his shoulder, “Celia! Dearest! Guests.”

  A woman’s shrill voice cut back through the open door of an office beyond.

  “Seabert, I’m on the phone!” Her voice lowered, but could still be heard. “Yes, I know—I’d miss all of my programs if we didn’t have a satellite dish hidden under those fake vines on the roof . . . and don’t you dare tell any of the other trustees!”

  Seabert turned toward the office. “Shall I handle it then? Wouldn’t want to disturb you when you’re busy.”

  The woman continued with her phone conversation. “When is she going in for that nip and tuck? Thursday?”

  Oh my God—we were checking into Fawlty Towers! The sign, the moose, the rudeness . . .

  Seabert turned our way with an overly forced smile. “I do apologize—my wife Celia usually runs reception. Now, how can I help you?”

  Mother, unfazed, said sweetly, “Vivian and Brandy Borne? B-O-R-N-E. We should have two rooms reserved.”

  I’d long ago stopped sharing a room with Mother after her snoring drove me into countless bathrooms to sleep in the tub. And no amount of pillows makes that work.

  I added, “Across the hall from each other, if possible.” Even the thickest adjacent hotel-room wall was no match for Mother’s nocturnal broadcasts.

  The man frowned at his computer screen. “Borne, you say? I’m afraid we don’t have anything under that name, and we’re all full this weekend due to the fête.”

  Before we had a chance to respond to this unfortunate news, Celia charged out of the office.

  “Seabert,” she snapped, “I’ll handle this.” The woman waved a hand at her husband. “Do something about that antler. It’s off-putting.”

  In her late forties or early fifties, Seabert’s better half wore her dyed blond hair short, overly teased and sprayed in place. Her facial features were attractive, but made harsh by too much makeup, and her pink pastel suit was a decade out of style.

  Were they doing Fawlty Towers? I wondered. Was this a fun schtick for hip guests?

  As Seabert slunk off to deal with the moose, Celia turned to us, saying pleasantly, “I do apologize for my husband . . . he’s having a bad decade. We indeed have your reservations. Millicent Marlowe made them under her name.”

  Mother said, “We’re in Old York for the dramatic presentation. I’m the talent, this is my staff.”

  If the staff had a rod, I wouldn’t have used it to comfort her.

  Mrs. Fawlty, that is Celia, consulted the computer, “Yes, two rooms. And we can put you across the hall from each other, since you are the first of our weekend guests to arrive.”

  “I believe our meals are to be included,” Mother said regally.

  With a smile so patient it lapsed into patronizing, the faux Mrs. Faulty said, “Your meals are indeed included with your rooms, and there’s grass just behind the inn for your adorable little poochie to use.”

  Our hostess turned and plucked two old-fashioned keys with wooden tags from their hooks on the wall, then handed them to Mother.

  “The dining area,” Celia said, “will be serving the evening meal at five o’clock, and breakfast is available from seven until ten—lunch you’ll need to catch on your own.” She paused for a breath. “If there’s anything I can do to make your stay more pleasant, please don’t hesitate to contact me. We’re Celia and Sea
bert, the Falwells.”

  Close, I thought.

  I asked, “Could you point us to the New Vic Theater? I didn’t spot it when we drove around the village green.” I knew Mother would be wanting to go there next.

  “It’s one block west,” she replied. “On Stratford on Avon Lane.”

  Naturally.

  “Anything else?” Celia smiled.

  “And your lift?” Mother asked.

  “Pardon? Did you need a lift somewhere?”

  “She means elevator,” I said.

  Mother looked miffed that the faux Mrs. Fawlty didn’t understand the English vernacular.

  “Sadly we haven’t one,” she replied, then sighed deeply. “Seabert and I wanted to install one, but the other trustees wouldn’t sanction it.”

  I asked, “Other trustees?”

  “Yes. I’m on the board, but up against the old fuddy-duddy contingent.”

  Mother winked. “But you still managed to slip a satellite dish past ’em.”

  “Ah, you overhead. That proved easier to hide than an elevator. It wasn’t until the sixties that lodging with television was even allowed—we’re supposed to have indoor antennas. Can’t have a thatched roof with an aerial, after all—wouldn’t do!” She paused, buried her bitterness beneath a smile. “But we were able to finally install individual bathrooms in the rooms.”

  Startled, I asked, “When was that?”

  “Last year. Can I get Seabert to help with the luggage?”

  “No, I can manage,” I replied, preferring to carry the cases up rather than bother Basil. That is, Seabert.

  The stairs were next to the dining room, and I followed Mother and Sushi up, grateful our accommodations were on the second floor, not the third.

  Mother took the room with a view of the village green, while I was content to have the one facing the back parking lot, which should be quieter.

  Otherwise, our rooms were identical—cramped (due to the added bathroom, only slightly larger than one in a third-class cruise ship compartment), bed with wrought-iron frame, small armoire, and a desk with chair. But the carpet looked recent, the floral wallpaper wasn’t overly busy, and crisp white curtains hung on the single (apparently mullioned) window.