Antiques Carry On Read online

  Yes, I had told her Tony was responsible for our incarceration, and she probably suspected there would be fireworks between us – or at least, a sparkler or two – and, with her theatrical bent, she wouldn’t want to miss it.

  She was saying, ‘I know I want to hear what he has to say. I spent a night in the nick because of him!’

  I grunted. ‘You’d rather spend a night in jail than a week at Disneyland.’

  ‘Wouldn’t anyone over ten? Anyway, he’s brought dear little Sushi back.’

  ‘Oh, fine,’ I said childishly, and threw back the covers. ‘I’ll come down. But don’t tell him! Make him wait.’

  I was doubly irritated because Sushi hadn’t dashed up to see me.

  After Mother left, I staggered over to the 1930s round-mirrored dressing table that matched the bed, dresser, and nightstand, and sat on the button-tufted stool.

  I looked dreadful. No, make that ‘scary.’ Hair a mess, mascara smeared, face puffy, plaid pajamas tattered because I’d rather spend money on clothes people could see. Victoria’s Secret was a well-kept one in my bedroom.

  Still, I made no adjustments to my appearance – Tony might as well get used to me first thing in the morning – as I put on a Minnie Mouse bathrobe and a pair of moose slippers that my BFF had given me as a joke, which were warmer and more comfy than my favorite Uggs.

  My fiancé was standing in the midst of our Victorian-appointed living room, holding Sushi in his arms like a hairy baby. He turned toward me expressionless as I descended the stairs.

  As I walked toward him, the moose slippers’ plastic eyes with beads swirled Looney Tunes-like in opposite directions.

  Mother appeared to have made herself scarce, but don’t you believe it – she’d be lurking close by, hand cupped to one ear.

  ‘I’m not speaking to you,’ I announced to him petulantly.

  Sushi, upon hearing the inflection of my voice, jumped out of Tony’s arms, and trotted loyally over to me.

  ‘I understand,’ Tony said.

  ‘And I may not speak to you for a long time.’

  Tony nodded. ‘That’s your prerogative. You, uh … mean starting now? Because you have said several things already.’

  He had just the tiniest, barely discernible smile going, and that – and his complacency – infuriated me.

  I lashed out: ‘How could you do that to us? Mother, maybe … but to me? Why couldn’t we have stayed one more day at the Savoy? And it was embarrassing, running into our new editor outside the police station! We’ll probably lose our contract over this!’

  ‘So, then, you like writing those books with your mother.’

  ‘No! I hate it! Not the writing, but what we have to go through to get the raw material. You think I like crime scenes?’

  ‘You do turn up there frequently.’ Tony spread his hands, placatingly. He banished all hint of a smile. ‘Look, I’ll explain everything if you and Vivian will just sit down with me at the dining-room table for a few minutes.’

  The chief had long ago learned he was at a disadvantage in the living room, finding it difficult to discuss anything while perched on a small Queen Anne chair that nowadays fit only a child.

  ‘Was I summoned?’ Mother called out from the kitchen.

  ‘Yes,’ I called back. ‘Olly, olly, oxen free!’

  Soon we were gathered around our Duncan Phyfe table, she and I across from each other, Tony standing at the head, as if he were about to carve up a turkey. Or two.

  He began, ‘I’m sorry you spent the night in a cell, and that your trip was cut short. I didn’t take that step lightly.’

  I said, ‘You admit you arranged it.’

  ‘Yes. But I felt all of that was necessary. You had compromised an ongoing official investigation at that antiques shop you visited.’

  This was news to me, but not Mother, who clarified, ‘An investigation conducted by MI5.’

  He nodded.

  I goggled at her. ‘How could you know that?’

  She shrugged. ‘Because we were interviewed by an agent, dear, not an inspector.’

  ‘Oh.’ I hadn’t paid any attention to Hasty’s title, too distracted by my perilous position to absorb such petty details.

  Mother, her focus back on Tony, said archly, ‘Be that as it may, Chief Cassato, I see no valid reason why we should have been jugged overnight, and then given the unceremonious boot out of Britain.’

  ‘Not even,’ Tony asked, ‘if your lives were in danger?’

  Now Mother was doing the goggling, her eyes bulging behind her large lenses like a rubber squeeze doll’s. ‘Really and truly in danger?’ she asked, more excited than alarmed.

  ‘That was the implication,’ Tony replied.

  She swung toward me. ‘Now we have a book for our new publisher!’

  I ignored that, asking him, ‘In danger because we found Mr Westcott’s body?’

  His eyes hardened. ‘That might have been enough. Or perhaps the possibility of you and Vivian having seen something – and yes, I know you searched the shop.’

  I raised my chin. ‘Not searched. Looked around, not disturbing anything. Ascertaining that Mr Westcott hadn’t been killed for money was the extent of it.’ I looked at Mother. ‘Isn’t that right?’

  She didn’t answer me, instead swiveled toward Tony to ask bluntly, ‘What aren’t you telling us, Chief?’

  He met her gaze coolly. ‘I hardly think MI5 is going to take a small-town police chief into its confidence.’

  Mother pressed. ‘Is there some connection between Westcott and Skylar James? You’re aware of our reason for going to the Old Curiosity Shop?’

  ‘I am. And according to Agent Hasty, the transaction with the necklace – or lack thereof – had nothing to do with their surveillance.’

  Mother looked unconvinced. ‘Then, no Serenity connection, no London connection?’

  ‘Or French, for that matter – no. And I don’t know whether this Westcott character was the object of the investigation or just collateral damage.’

  Really, Tony had bailed us out by getting us locked in. We’d been in way over our heads.

  Mother didn’t seem to take it that way, though, huffing, ‘If we hadn’t been sent packing, I could have found out.’

  ‘You’d have tried to,’ Tony said flatly.

  And could have gotten us killed, I thought with a shiver.

  Tony leaned forward, hands flat on the table, giving his next words more weight. ‘And I have a message from Agent Hasty … any further meddling on your part will bring charges. And don’t look to me to help you fight extradition.’

  Mother shrugged. ‘I don’t see how I could “meddle” from afar.’

  As if distance was any deterrent to her.

  I said, ‘Tony, we owe you an apology. What you did was for the best. Right, Mother? Mother?’

  ‘I’ll grant your well-meaning intentions,’ she told him, grudgingly. ‘Anyway, the experience in the clink will give me the opportunity to write Charing Cross Police Station about the deplorable conditions of their holding cells. I ask you, would a fresh coat of paint break the Bank of England? How about a peaceful mural of a tropical paradise to bring a bit of cheer to its wayward residents?’

  Getting up, I smirked at Tony. ‘I’ll see you to the door.’

  We left Mother at the table, pondering other decorative jailhouse touches, her voice trailing off, ‘A reading table in the commons area, with some magazines and paperbacks, would help pass the time …’

  In the entryway, I faced Tony, feeling small next to his formidable frame.

  ‘You don’t have to worry about her,’ I told him. ‘She’s already onto something else. A local prospect for that new book.’

  ‘Dare I ask?’

  ‘Ruth Hassler.’

  Tony’s brow furrowed. ‘The woman who had the fatal fall down her stairs a few months ago?’

  I nodded. ‘Anything to it?’

  He shook his head. ‘An accident.’

 
; ‘Good. Mother will be spinning her wheels.’

  ‘What about the new book?’

  ‘I’m trying to move her into fictional murders. Less chance of “collateral damage” … particularly of us being it.’

  ‘Good to hear.’ He touched the tip of my nose with a forefinger. ‘We OK?’

  I smiled. ‘Yes. But prescribing a lasagna dinner at your cabin this weekend would alleviate any concerns you might have about my well-being, doctor.’

  ‘Deal.’

  After Tony left, I returned to the dining room to consult Mother about breakfast, but she wasn’t there … nor was she in the kitchen.

  I found her in the library at the overstuffed bookshelves, on a step stool, searching the titles.

  ‘What are you looking for?’ I asked.

  Instead of answering, Mother exclaimed, ‘Ah! There it is.’

  She plucked out a book, stepped down, and came over to show me: a vintage reprint of Murder on the Orient Express by the great Agatha Christie.

  I said, ‘That looks like the book Westcott gave you.’

  ‘It is, dear, or that is, another copy thereof. Same publisher, same edition, even the identical cover of a train in snowy landscape, protected in a plastic sleeve.’

  I waggled a finger. ‘You’re going to switch books so you can have a better copy!’

  Mother splayed a hand on her chest. ‘Brandy, you cut me to the quick! How could you even think such a thing!’

  ‘It was easy,’ I said, quoting another great mystery writer.

  She looked toward the heavens – or the ceiling. ‘How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have a thankless child.’

  ‘“Me thinks the lady doth protest too much.”’

  Mother drew me over to the library table, where Westcott’s copy of the same book rested on top of its brown paper wrapping.

  ‘The only thing I had to read on the flight,’ she said, gesturing to the volume, ‘was this book in my carry on. And unfortunately, as I proceeded, many of the corners of the pages simply crumbled due to the aged condition of its cheap paper.’

  I picked up the novel and thumbed through it, more shards flaking off.

  ‘See what you mean,’ I said.

  ‘We’ll give him my nice edition – isn’t that generous of me?’

  I frowned skeptically. ‘How much do you have into that copy?’

  ‘Two dollars. But the protective Mylar cover alone is worth seventy cents.’

  The soul of generosity, Vivian Borne.

  ‘OK,’ I said. ‘I’ll add Westcott’s book to Dumpster Dan’s box in our trunk, and drop it off at the recycle center sometime.’ Mother had already gone through the box and salvaged a couple of Stout and Christie reprints.

  She had stopped listening, if she’d ever had been. Heading toward the kitchen, Mother announced, ‘We’ll take my copy to Skylar after breakfast.’

  ‘You mean, you’ll take it to him,’ I said, tagging after, Sushi doing the same with me. ‘I plan on relieving Joe at the shop.’

  Mother was shaking her head. ‘It’s started to rain so I can’t take the Vespa. You’ll have to drive me … plus I have a few more places I need to go.’

  ‘Hey, I’m not your deputy-cum-chauffeur anymore!’

  ‘Of course you are. Ex officio, as am I. Still a badge in my purse, remember!’

  We were in the kitchen now.

  ‘Then I want a big breakfast,’ I groused. ‘Omelet, American fries, toast, bacon and sausage.’ I can always be bought off by way of my stomach.

  Only later, tooling downtown, Mother riding shotgun, Sushi left behind, I didn’t feel so good after consuming all that food.

  I found an empty spot in front of The Trading Post and pulled in.

  Mother – with the swapped, re-wrapped book in her tote on her lap – said, ‘Let me do the talking.’

  ‘I have no intention of saying anything.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Fine.’

  It was going to be a long day.

  And a wet one. We exited the Fusion, then made a dash for the door, the rain pelting us momentarily, the sky rumbling as if saying we were being let off with a warning.

  Inside, Mother patted her dampened hair, lady-like, while I, not so lady-like, shook myself off like Sushi after a bath.

  Skylar James, wearing his trademark western-style shirt, jeans, and cowboy boots, was arranging leather and silver bolo ties on a spin-display. He looked startled when he saw us, but then most people do.

  Approaching, he said, frowning, ‘I thought you gals wouldn’t be back for another few days.’

  ‘Well, yes,’ Mother replied, ‘but the best-laid plans of mice and men, you know.’ Women, too, apparently.

  Skylar looked from her to me and back to her. ‘Somethin’ go wrong?’

  ‘It’s a loooong story, pardner,’ she said.

  ‘“A tale told by an idiot,”’ I said, quoting Shakespeare, ‘“full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.”’

  Mother shot me a murderous look. Skylar didn’t know what to make of us. Few do.

  ‘But the good news,’ she told our host, ‘is that we did make it to the Old Curiosity Shop.’

  ‘Where Mother reneged on the necklace,’ I interjected.

  ‘I was getting to that, dear,’ she said tersely.

  Skylar’s frown deepened. ‘Mr Westcott changed his mind about buying it?’

  ‘No,’ Mother said. ‘I told him I’d simply come to adore the lovely lavaliere.’

  He blinked. ‘The what?’

  I gestured to my throat. ‘The thing.’

  ‘Oh.’ To Mother, he said with a shrug, ‘Well, you did pay for it … Was he put out at all?’

  ‘No, he was quite understanding.’ Mother reached into her tote. ‘And just to let you know he had no hard feelings, Mr Westcott wanted you to have this for your trouble.’

  Mother handed Skylar the wrapped package, and watched him open it.

  ‘How nice,’ the man said. ‘I’d mentioned to the ol’ boy that Angela’s into Agatha Christie, and this is her favorite. I must thank him.’

  Blame it on jet lag, and the kerfuffle with Tony, but until now I hadn’t put together – nor had Mother, judging by her expression – that it had been less than twenty-four hours since Westcott was killed … and Skylar had clearly not been informed!

  And why would he be?

  I searched for the words, afraid Mother would beat me tactlessly to the punch.

  Which of course, she did, saying, ‘I’m afraid thanking the man won’t be necessary. Or, for that matter, possible.’

  Skylar’s eyes rose from the book. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because Mr Westcott is dead, dear. Quite dead.’

  Passed on. No more. Ceased to be. Expired and gone to meet his maker …

  ‘Stabbed in the chest with a letter opener,’ I added, garnering a withering look from Mother.

  Skylar’s face paled. ‘He was murdered?’

  Mother nodded. ‘Apparently the shop had been under surveillance—’

  ‘By MI5,’ I said, taking the wind out of her sails. ‘And they questioned us as to why we were there, so your name came up. You might get a long-distance call or something.’

  Mother’s head swiveled toward me – if it had swung around her neck any further, I’d have figured she was possessed.

  She uttered, ‘Wait … in … the … car.’

  ‘He has a right to know,’ I said indignantly, gesturing to the stunned antiques dealer.

  ‘In … the … car.’

  I shrugged. ‘OK.’

  And left.

  About ten minutes later, the passenger door opened and, with some difficulty thanks to her bad knees, Mother climbed in.

  Her displeasure with me had not waned.

  ‘I suppose,’ she said, staring straight ahead, ‘that had I asked you to talk, you’d have kept your mouth shut like a sullen child.’

  For once Mother was in the right.

 
I said, ‘Sorry. I’m cranky. You sit in coach on an international flight next time. How did Skylar react to being connected to an overseas murder case, however peripherally?’

  Mother regarded me. ‘You were baiting him on purpose!’

  ‘Could be. Perhaps I have depths you don’t imagine.’

  ‘I’m only peeved because I should have thought of that!’ she declared. ‘Not that I believe Skylar was involved in anything nefarious.’

  ‘Tony says not.’

  ‘And that opinion seems confirmed by my educated reading of our fellow shop owner’s reaction. He appeared genuinely upset by the news. After all, he had dealings with the late Mr Westcott.’

  I nodded. ‘Where to now?’

  ‘I want to call on Ruth Hassler’s daughter and son-in-law.’

  ‘OK,’ I said with a shrug. ‘Do you know where they live?’

  She reached into her magician’s hat of a tote bag and withdrew a file folder. ‘This will tell me …’

  ‘Where’d you get that?’ I asked suspiciously.

  Mother smiled coyly. ‘Let’s just say it’s on loan from a certain funeral home.’ She put a finger to her lips. ‘Ned should have known better than to leave me alone in his office when I visited him last.’

  Ruth Hassler’s daughter and son-in-law had recently moved to Stoneybrook, an upscale enclave on the outskirts of town. On the way, Mother told me what little she knew about the couple: they were in their late thirties, with no kids, and hadn’t been on the best of terms with Ruth. Both had quit blue-collar jobs after inheriting Ruth’s estate.

  I turned into the entrance of Stoneybrook – a marble monument spelling out its name in huge letters – and followed a winding road past expensive homes, each seemingly trying to outdo the other.

  ‘Thar she blows,’ Mother said, pointing.

  I gazed through the windshield at the three-story, multi-gabled, tan stone manse. ‘More like “land ahoy.” Wow. Ruth must’ve been worth a bundle.’

  ‘Which comes as rather a surprise to me,’ Mother sniffed. Whether she was miffed at Ruth for keeping her wealth well-hidden, or herself for not knowing about it, I couldn’t hazard a guess.

  Mother’s next remark did clear things up a little: ‘She never ever brought anything to a church potluck but her appetite!’