Antiques Carry On Read online

  I shrugged. ‘Maybe that’s how she got rich – one potluck at a time.’ I’d meant that facetiously, but Mother didn’t take it that way.

  ‘You got that right!’ she said. ‘And then she’d scoop her last heaping helpings into Tupperware brought from home!’

  I pulled the Fusion into the wide driveway and up to an open three-car garage, within which gleamed a white BMW sedan, a black GMC truck, and a John Deere sit-down lawn mower – all looking as new and fresh as toys on Christmas morning.

  I asked Mother, ‘Where did all this money come from?’

  ‘Not Ruth’s late husband – he had a small insurance agency. But her family had pearl-button loot. And dear Ruth was an only child. So is her daughter.’

  As we exited the car, the master of the manor – in torn Harley T-shirt, soiled jeans and sneakers – ambled out between vehicles, wiping his hands on a rag, looking considerably less fresh and showroom-new than the rest of the garage’s contents.

  Though Mother had said late thirties, Jared Wallace looked ten years older, burly, with a sizable gut, dark hair thinning, face puffy, nose lumpy, dark eyes small and close-set, like a badger.

  No good news expected there from Ancestry dot com.

  ‘Yeah?’ he said, standing his ground.

  ‘Jared?’ Mother asked pleasantly, approaching. ‘Vivian Borne. Friend of your late mother-in-law.’

  ‘I know who you are.’

  Mother took that as a compliment. ‘Many do! … Is your better half at home, by chance?’

  His frown pulled all his features to the center of his face. ‘Whaddya want with Tiffany?’

  Mother froze. Apparently, on the drive over, she hadn’t figured out what she did want with the woman – she’d gotten a little too used to automatically assembling suspect lists, I guess.

  I picked up the ball. ‘Ah … we have something for her.’ Ball to Mother.

  Who said, ‘Something Ruth had given me that she might want to have.’

  Interception by Jared, suddenly less hostile. ‘I’ll take it.’

  Recovery by Brandy. ‘We didn’t bring it along, I’m afraid.’

  Pass to Mother down court, and up for a three-pointer. ‘Thought we’d see if Tiffany wanted it first.’

  Jared thought about that. It took some effort. Then he said, ‘OK. Come with me.’

  Swish.

  We followed the man and his butt crack up a flagstone sidewalk to a wide porch and then through an over-sized etched-glass cherrywood door. The entry was larger than my bedroom, which couldn’t have accommodated the cathedral ceiling, mirror-finish wood floors, and grand cherrywood staircase.

  To the left, the formal dining room sported a coffered ceiling, white wainscoting, and expensive-looking modern furniture. To the right yawned a formal living room, tastefully decorated, a large plush Persian rug covering most of the area, a magnificent marble fireplace the focal point.

  Jared, who looked like maybe he was the gardener (and a poor hire), said, ‘Wait here. Tif’s in the kitchen.’

  He walked down a wide corridor to the back of the house, footsteps echoing off parquet flooring. Soon we could hear a muffled conversation between the couple, a few of his words quite clear: ‘get rid of,’ and ‘do it.’

  In another moment, the master of the castle returned with his wife in tow.

  Tiffany, like her beloved, also appeared older than her years, but not necessarily from the hard-living, hard-drinking lifestyle her husband evinced. Small, thin, with brown hair and a horsey face that could look pretty, she had the kind of weariness that I associate with a browbeaten wife.

  Mother, hands clasped before her, said genuinely, ‘Dear, I’m so sorry about your mother.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said quietly, Jared looming over her shoulder like a big nasty bird.

  ‘And it pains me that I missed the funeral,’ Mother said, adding – and reaching a little I thought, ‘which I know must have been well-attended.’

  Tiffany nodded. ‘Mother had a lot of friends.’

  An awkward silence made it clear we weren’t wanted past the entryway.

  That didn’t stop Mother, of course, who trotted out her best ploy. ‘My goodness!’ she said, putting a palm to her head. ‘I’m feeling a bit dizzy! I … I think I should sit down.’

  My part in this performance was to give her an arm for support, adding with daughterly concern, glancing at our reluctant hostess, ‘And perhaps a glass of water?’

  ‘Of course,’ Tiffany said, with obvious actual concern. She turned to her husband. ‘Jared?’

  He scowled and lumbered off.

  While our hostess led us into the living room, I continued to support Mother, then gently deposited her on the couch, and sat beside her, turning to her.

  ‘Thank you, Brandy,’ she said, patting my knee. Then to Tiffany, ‘I’m sorry to be such a burden, dear.’

  ‘Oh, no … no,’ she responded, mildly bewildered by how quickly she’d become a bystander in her own home. ‘Think nothing of it.’

  Jared entered with the glass of water, handed it to Mother, and glowered at her as she took a generous gulp.

  ‘Oh, that’s much better,’ Mother enthused, suddenly reinvigorated, if not enough so to leave. ‘Still, I’d better sit a spell. Like the Beverly Hillbillies theme song says!’

  With the pair living in this house, that seemed a little on the nose.

  Jared gave his wife a scornful look, as if this invasion were her fault. ‘Tif, I have to finish up in the garage. Then we have that boat to look at, hmm?’

  Mother waved a hand, ‘Oh, don’t worry yourself about me. Go, go! We won’t keep your wife long.’

  He hesitated, then turned on his heels. In a moment, the front door slammed.

  ‘What a lovely home,’ Mother exclaimed, looking all around.

  ‘Thank you,’ our hostess replied, and settled into a winged-backed chair near us.

  I asked, ‘Did you do the decorating yourself?’ Frankly wondering how that might be possible.

  ‘No,’ Tiffany admitted. ‘Everything is from the staging when the house was on the market, and Jared – we – decided to purchase it just that way.’

  Just how vast was the inheritance?

  Mother said, her words dripping with semi-real sincerity, ‘Ruth was such a lovely person, so considerate, always thinking of others. Once, when I admired something in her home, she insisted I take it. Which is why we are here.’

  The ‘it’ needed to be something from our house, and not the shop, where it might have been seen for sale. Something of value that Mother could give up, but without too much pain.

  Her blue Wedgwood china, boxed and forgotten in the attic? Her black, stenciled Hancock chair in the library that nobody ever sat on? Her collection of rare glass insulators gathering dust on a back porch shelf?

  ‘What did my mother give you?’ Tiffany asked.

  Mother drew herself up. ‘A signed serigraph of “Lady in Lace” by Tamara de Lempicka.’

  I made a little squawk. That was mine, hanging on the wall in my Art Deco bedroom! If that came down, Mother would be hanging in its place!

  Fortunately, Tiffany shook her head. ‘No, please … obviously my mother meant for you to have it, and so you should.’ She paused. ‘Plus, I have no memory of whatever that is, due to the fact that she and I haven’t … hadn’t … been on very good terms for quite a while, I’m sorry to say.’

  Mother said gently, ‘Ever since you married Jared, perhaps?’

  The woman swallowed. Nodded. Whispered, ‘She … she thought I was making a mistake.’

  What hung in the air was the unasked question, Did you?

  Instead, Mother asked, ‘When was the last time you saw your mother?’

  Tiffany shifted in the chair. ‘I don’t know … three, four months ago? When she wouldn’t answer my calls or texts, I got worried, and went over to check on her. I have a key.’

  ‘Did Jared have much contact with Ruth?’

&n
bsp; A dry laugh. ‘They always avoided each other like the plague.’

  Mother paused, probably restraining herself from commenting on the use of cliches, then asked, ‘Did you know she’d put in a stair-lift?’

  ‘No. I didn’t know she’d failed enough to need something like that. Must’ve been after my last visit.’

  Mother said, ‘I’m sorry you and she didn’t have time to reconcile before her passing.’

  Which caused Tiffany to bury her head in her hands; she began to quietly sob.

  Mother, fully recovered now, rose and went over, putting a hand on Tiffany’s shaking shoulder. ‘I, too, had a difficult relationship with my own mother, which went unresolved.’

  This was news to me, although my grandmother had died before I was born. The notion that Mother might have been a handful as a child did seem credible.

  Mother was asking, ‘You’ve heard of Matilda Tompkins?’

  Tilda was Serenity’s resident New Age guru. Among her talents and skills was hypnosis, which Mother sometimes used during her investigations.

  Tiffany, wiping wet cheeks with a hand, said, ‘Oh yes. I took Tilda’s course in chakras and auras, and mantras and mudras, and thought it did me some good.’

  Mother beamed. ‘I just knew you were a kindred spirit! I, too, am a devotee of Tilda’s.’ A pause. ‘She’s just become an end-of-life doula, you know, and needs participants for her first class, which is being conducted at Dunn’s Crematorium.’

  Tiffany recoiled. ‘Isn’t that …?’

  ‘Yes, dear, it’s where you participate in your own mock funeral ceremony. The experience is supposed to bring clarity to your life.’

  And Lord knows Mother could use a little clarity.

  She went on with fake sincerity, ‘It could give us closure with our own difficult mothers.’

  ‘I … I’ll think about it,’ Tiffany said quietly.

  ‘Please do,’ Mother said. ‘The session is tomorrow afternoon at one.’ She rose. ‘And now we’ll take our leave.’

  At the door, Mother turned to Tiffany. ‘I understand that you’re having an estate sale at your mother’s home on the weekend.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And that there’s a preview beforehand tomorrow morning, for a few dealers who will have first dibs on the merchandise?’

  Tiffany nodded. ‘Yes, mostly a handful from out of town who couldn’t come this weekend.’

  Mother smiled sweetly. ‘I would consider it a great favor if I could attend the preview as well. My daughter and I are the proprietors of the Trash ‘n’ Treasures shop, as you may know.’

  ‘Well … I … that might make other local dealers unhappy that they weren’t included.’ She looked to me for help.

  Nope. I kept the same insipid smile going.

  Finally, Tiffany said, ‘But I guess that would be all right …’

  ‘Splendid, dear. Afterward, we can go to Tilda’s class!’

  In the car, I said, ‘You never told me you didn’t get along with your mother.’

  She shrugged. ‘That’s because we did get along. Two peas in a pod. Well, of course, she could be a tad theatrical at times.’

  I let that pass. ‘Then what are you up to?’

  ‘I believe Tiffany has more to say, but is afraid to in front of her husband. Perhaps Tilda’s class will help loosen her up … including her tongue.’

  ‘Just don’t expect me to participate. I’m not getting in a coffin until I have no choice.’

  I was about to start the car when Mother’s cell phone sounded. She plucked it out of her pocket and checked the screen.

  ‘It’s our editor, Olivia Adams,’ Mother whispered, as if the woman might be able to hear us just by ringing.

  ‘Well, you better answer it,’ I said, adding, ‘And put her on speaker.’

  ‘How do I do that? I’m not some technological wizard!’

  I snatched the cell from Mother, pushed some icons, placed the phone in the cup holder between us. ‘Hello, Olivia. This is Brandy.’

  ‘I was so worried about you and Vivian … is she there?’

  Good question. Better question: Is she all there?

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘We can both hear you.’

  The very feminine, veddy proper British voice asked, ‘Are you both all right?’

  Mother leaned over and shouted into the cell. ‘We’re tickety-boo, luv!’

  I closed my eyes.

  ‘And you’ll be thrilled to learn,’ Mother was saying, ‘that we have the makings of our new book well in hand!’

  ‘What happened? I couldn’t get any information from the police.’

  Mother raised a shush finger to her lips, as if the cell could see. ‘Sorry dear, very hush, hush – MI5 and all.’

  ‘MI5! What difficulties did you encounter?’

  ‘That would be telling. Let’s just say the accommodation at HQ could use a lick of paint.’

  ‘You were actually incarcerated overnight?’

  ‘Spoiler alert: yes we were! But the rest will have to wait.’

  ‘Wait for what?’

  ‘The delightful new book we will write especially for you and deliver on your desk by Royal Mail in record time. Ta!’

  And it turned out Mother did have the technological skill to hit the END button.

  Her eyes were gleaming, and you really don’t want to know what her smile was like.

  ‘I’m sure our contract is secure,’ she said. ‘We have our new editor right where we want her.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘With an ocean between us.’

  A Trash ‘n’ Treasures Tip

  A serigraph is a copy of an original made by pushing paint through a silk screen, and holds more value than a lithograph, which simply puts ink to paper. It’s a process favored by Andy Warhol, who gave soup cans a lot more fame than just fifteen minutes.

  SIX

  Carry On Screaming

  Dearest readers, you will be pleased and relieved to learn that Vivian is once again at the helm of the ship, steering the U.S.S. Borne through dark and troubled waters with nary a lighthouse beacon to assist, and only my cunning and wit to guide me past the deadly reefs. (To counter Brandy’s pedestrian prose, I recently took an on-line MasterClass in creative writing from Neil Gaiman! I think it shows, don’t you?)

  Before continuing, however, I must address a recent unhappy restaurant encounter. At risk of seeming to be harping upon wait staff, please keep in mind that some years ago I was in that noble profession myself, until tripping and depositing a brimming bowl of hot pea soup in a male patron’s lap. I am second to none in my admiration for those capable of combining social skills, mathematical dexterity, and memorization in this honorable pursuit. But the latest indignity foisted upon me by one of their contingent strikes me as audaciously presumptuous.

  I was having dinner at Serenity’s fine French bistro (the name of which is La French Bistro), seated in a padded booth across from a gal pal (I was enjoying my salade verte au chèvre chaud, she the poulet rôti avec sauce à l’estragon) when our waiter – I will provide no name or description to avoid social media backlash – appeared with an empty tray. Having all but ignored us throughout the meal – save one meager refill of coffee each – he asked, ‘Would you like the table cleared?’

  As Frannie (my friend’s name) and I had finished with our meals, but not our gabfest, I responded graciously, ‘Yes, please.’ Then – and here’s the rub – he waited for us to pass him the dirty dishes, silverware, water glasses, and even the crumpled wrappers of our little butter pads. When the dust settled, Frannie and I had cleared the table for him! (To be fair, he hadn’t said he would do it, merely inquiring if we’d like it cleared.)

  While I’m on a roll (buttered or otherwise), I have yet another restaurant tale of indignity, which involves a rather new (at least here in the Midwest) policy of a waiter asking, ‘How is the first bite?’ – usually before you’ve had the chance to have one!

  (Editor to Vivian: Perhaps, M
adam, it would be best if you could save these editorial comments for another time or even place? Have you ever considered blogging?)

  (Vivian to Editor: Righto! And thank you for the suggestion, although I personally prefer the permanence of print over the more ephemeral nature of the Net.)

  Taking advantage of the nicely cool sunny day, I hopped on my Vespa for the short ride to Ruth Hassler’s domicile to attend the nine o’clock preview of her estate’s tag sale.

  The house, a Tudor-style, was located near Serenity’s downtown in an area that had once been prime real estate, but over the years slowly and steadily declined. Most of these homes, built in the first part of the last century, were large, three-story structures; while not as grand as the city founders’ mansions on West Hill, these residences had at the time been considered a satisfactory alternative for those who had acquired considerable money, if not quite enough to be rolling in it.

  Unfortunately, over the years these fine if somewhat lesser houses had proved expensive to repair, not conducive to such upgrades as air-conditioning with its extensive duct-work. In addition, these abodes had been routinely overlooked by historical preservation groups whose grant money went to restoring and maintaining Serenity’s grander old structures.

  When I arrived, cars were already crowding the curb, so I zipped up the cracked driveway and parked my trusty Vespa off to one side. As I approached the front porch, a man and woman I didn’t recognize (surely not locals, as my knowledge of my fellow Serenity citizenry is second to none) were coming out the door, the man grumbling to his companion, ‘Not worth the trip.’

  Well, that just meant more goodies for me, didn’t it?

  Inside, the clutter for which Ruth was notorious had been hidden or hauled away, the crème-de-la-crème furnishings nicely arranged, though on closer inspection they seemed more two-percent milk than cream. About a dozen dealers were circling around in their loping bird of prey manner, examining the merchandise and price tags; more of these predators would be upstairs, I assumed.

  I spotted the owner of the tag sale company, Michael Hughes, who was handling the event, and – as we were well known to each other – approached him with a smile.