Antiques Flee Market (12 page)

“Joe!”
I called. “Are you in there? It’s
me
—Brandy.”

I thought I heard a rustling from within, and Sushi confirmed it with a growl that became a yap.

“Joe…
please
come out…. I have some
provisions
….?”

No sound at all now.

I didn’t relish the idea of exploring this or any cave, especially if “Joe” turned out to be a hibernating bear, unhappy to get an early wake-up call.

But Joe
could
be inside, and possibly sick or hurt.

“Okay,” I said, “If you’re not coming out, I’m coming in….”

Cautiously, I crawled into the darkness of the cave like Alice in Wonderland going down the rabbit hole (and we all know how well that played out—off with her head!).

And almost off with mine: I heard a swish and perceived a hard blow to the back of my head, and then I was in my own personal dark cave.

When I came to, I was propped against the wall of rock, my legs splayed out, my aching head turned toward a flickering light.

A candle in a glass jar came gradually into focus, and my eyes worked well enough to read “Home for the Holidays,” written across a picture of a cheery, fireside hearth.

Slowly, painfully, I straightened my neck, and took in my surroundings as best I could. The cave was small, as caves go, about half the size of my bedroom, its low jagged ceiling preventing me from standing (the cave, not my bedroom). By the shimmer of candlelight, I could make out army gear stashed everywhere: canteens and ration kits, goggles and binoculars, ropes and netting, along with a good deal of camping supplies. Clearly, Joe was dug in here for the long winter haul.

But what made the hairs stand up on the back of my
really
sore (and now tingling) neck were the military weapons piled in one corner: assault rifles, bayonets, guns, and knives…plus something on a tripod that looked really nasty.

Joe said, “M-249 SAW, Squad Automatic Weapon.”

Clad military-style, he was on his haunches, animal-like, munching at my bag of stale potato chips, his long hair greasy and tangled, features obliterated by camouflage paint, except for his eyes.

His wild, unstable eyes.

Doing my best to mask my fear, I snapped crossly, “What didja hit me for? I’m a
friendly
.”

Joe put down the chips and crawled over like a spider, and settled down before a very frightened Little Miss Tuffet.

“Who
sent
you?” he asked, eyes narrowing suspiciously, the candlelight throwing eerie shadows on his face.

Joe—unmedicated Joe—had never frightened me before. I’d sometimes found him unsettlingly odd, sure, but then I had never before seen him this bad. And I had not taken at all seriously the notion that Joe might have killed Mr. Yaeger over that Tarzan book. My assumption had always been that there was an innocent reason for his presence at Happy Trails Trailer Park. Now I wasn’t so sure.

I chose my words carefully.

“No one sent me, Joe,” I said evenly. “I came here on my own scouting mission.”

He nodded, accepting that.

“Where’s Sushi?” I asked.

“The little dog?” He jerked his head toward the entrance of the cave. “Out there—with Charlie. But she’ll never make it back through enemy lines.”

So Sushi had gotten away, and would probably return to the car and take shelter beneath it, her coat-of-five-legs to keep her warm until someone came.

I said, “Maybe she’ll bring back help,” and immediately regretted it, because Joe turned agitated.

“We don’t need backup!” he barked. “Got everything right here!”

This “we” business at least meant I had moved from the enemy column over to fellow combatant. Now I all I needed was to get the hell out of here, on the double….

I said with urgency, “Joe, I have to get to a medic. I think I have a concussion.”

But my friend had lost interest in me, crawling back to the bag of chips.

I had lapsed into silence, wondering what to do, when a shout came from outside the cave.

“Joe!”

Someone was using a bullhorn. I couldn’t tell who, but we had been found! Only, what if Joe blamed me for leading these unfriendlies to his hidey-hole?

“Joe!”
the bullhorn called again.

I looked anxiously at my cave mate for his response, which was to scrounge in a duffel bag, then scurry over to my side, where he pressed something into my hand.

“What’s this?” I frowned at the capsule in my palm.

“Cyanide. If we get stormed, bite down on it.”

“What?”

“If you don’t, Brandy, I’ll have to shoot you in the head. Can’t let Charlie take you alive.” Joe was saying this as calmly as if reading me the current weather report. Then he got glinty-eyed. “Do you have any
idea
what they’d do to you? Makes Gitmo look like a tea party.”

Alice in Wonderland again, only she got the Mad Hatter and I got Off His Rocker Rambo.

Well, I least I was still a valued friendly, valued so much that he would kill me to save me.

I watched in horror as he scrambled back across the cave’s floor to the weapons stash, where he snatched up one of the military guns.

“Corporal Lange!”
the bullhorn blared.
“This is Marine Sergeant Forester!”

The Marines had landed! Or, anyway, the park ranger lady….

“I order you to come out of that cave, soldier, or you’ll be reported AWOL!”

Joe froze in a half-crouch, the gun pointed at the cave’s entrance.

Terrified that Joe might fire at the park ranger—or my head—I said, “She
does
outrank you, Joe. Do you
really
want to risk a court-martial?”

Seconds dragged by like minutes; then Joe released his tight grip on the gun and set it down.

“There’s a civilian in here!” he yelled. “Brandy Borne.”

“Is she hurt?”

Joe looked my way, and for the first time had concern in his eyes. “Brandy…?”

I hollered, “I’m okay!”

The bullhorn crackled,
“Send her out.”

Joe gave me a crisp nod, his eyes nominally more normal now in that green-and-brown-and-black face.

I crawled toward the cave’s mouth, wondering if the last sound I’d ever hear would be a gunshot reverberating in that tiny cave as Joe shot me from behind.

But moments later, I was outside the cave’s modest entrance, and rising slowly to my feet, which were as wobbly as a newborn calf’s. I squinted, protecting my face with a hand, my eyes adjusting to the light. The sun was setting on Joe Lange’s mission.

Edwina Forester, wearing an olive-green Marine service coat instead of her brown park ranger jacket, gestured with the bullhorn for me get out of harm’s way, or anyway hers, and I stumbled down the path toward a waiting Sheriff Rudder, who was holding Sushi.

Soosh, who soon smelled me, squirmed out of the sheriff’s grasp and into mine, licking happy tears from my face.

Edwina, now dispensing with the bullhorn, called, “Joe! Fall in! On the double!”

After a few more long seconds, Joe’s head protruded from the cave like a turtle from its shell; then the rest of him emerged. Finally, he got to his feet, straightened his back, and gave his superior officer a smart salute.

“At ease,” Edwina barked.

Joe’s body relaxed.

“I’m relieving you of duty, Corporal, as of now. You’ve done an A-number-one job of patrolling this park, and deserve ninety-six for a little R ’n’ R.”

“Yes, sir!”

“You
will
go with Sheriff Rudder for debriefing. And you
will
have to pass a complete physical before returning to duty. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir!”

“All right, soldier. Dismissed!”

I watched in amazement as the sheriff—with a simple, “Come on, son”—led a seemingly docile Joe down the path.

Edwina stood beside me and settled a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Are you all right, Ms. Borne?”

“My head really hurts. He slugged me from behind and knocked me out.”

She lifted my hair for a look. “That’s a nasty bump. Can you make it to the bottom, or should I call for paramedics and a gurney?”

“No, I think I could make it…but could you carry Sushi? I still feel kinda dizzy….”

I handed the pooch over, then took one step, and collapsed in the snow.

I woke up in the ER with an IV in my arm. Brian, in uniform, was seated next to me on the stainless-steel stool reserved for the doctor, who was nowhere in sight.

I mumbled, “What…what happened….?”

Brian leaned in and smiled reassuringly. “You just fainted. They’ll be giving you a CT scan in a minute….”

I took a deep breath, which hurt my head. “Mother…?”

“Your sister is trying to find her.”

Good luck to her.

“What am I going to do with you?” Brian asked, quietly exasperated. “Why didn’t you have me go with you to find Joe? You could’ve been killed.”

I closed my eyes. “Listen, there’s more I should have told you. Joe was at that trailer park the night—”

“Mr. Yeager was killed,” he finished. “We know. That’s why I alerted Ranger Forester and Sheriff Rudder to keep an eye on Wild Cat Den. Everybody knows it’s Joe’s favorite haunt.”

“So Chaz isn’t your only suspect?”

Brian sighed. “I suppose you should know that Yeager’s missing Tarzan book turned up in that cave.”

“Joe
did
have it? Where?”

“In his duffel bag.”

Along with that cyanide capsule.

So had Joe poisoned Mr. Yeager for the purloined loincloth saga, after which he went off the deep end? If so,
I
had set the whole thing in motion! I was worse than Mother….

A white-coated female doctor appeared and announced, “Time for your X-ray, Ms. Borne,” and two male attendants in green scrubs took either end of my gurney and began rolling it out into the hallway.

Brian tagged along beside me.

I looked up at him. “Joe tried to make me take a pill….”

Brian frowned down. “What was it?”

“I don’t know. He told me it was cyanide.”

Then I was going through the double doors of the X-ray room, leaving a stunned Brian behind.

A Trash ‘n’ Treasures Tip

Bring only cash to flea markets. While many antiques stores and malls will accept checks and charge cards, flea market vendors are a wary bunch, and some don’t take kindly to large-denomination bills. Or to the IRS, for that matter.

M
other has always insisted on having her very own chapter, but lately she’s been hounding me for another. Honestly, I didn’t think you could take it…so for now, one chapter is all she gets. (The usual disclaimers apply.)

Brandy has been pushing my chapter later and later in these books, which I hardly think is fair. After all, it’s very poor construction to keep the heroine off center stage until Act Three! Additionally, how am I expected to share everything that’s on my mind in a few paltry pages? (Brandy has given me a strict seven-thousand-word limit.) Furthermore, I
am
privy to information to which my daughter has no access, so I think it’s only reasonable for me to write one chapter early on, and then another one later. (If you agree with my thinking, gentle reader, please contact the publisher and request more of Vivian Borne. And I do apologize for dragging you into this.)

Of late I have been extremely concerned about Brandy; the poor child seems to be careening out of control. I had hoped that her recent detente with Roger, her ex-husband, and her improved relationship with Jake, her son, would rescue Brandy from her doldrums, but in fact the girl seems more depressed than ever.

Consequently, I have been checking her plastic pill box on the kitchen counter, making sure she has been taking her antidepressant medication—surprisingly, she has been—so I can only assume the dosage should be increased, as mine has been on rare occasions. (Once, when our pill boxes were the same color, we got them mixed up, and that Prozac of hers put me to sleep for twelve hours; when I awoke I found Brandy in the backyard in her bathing suit, chasing a squirrel that I’m not convinced was really there.) But I digress.

After visiting Brandy in the hospital and determining that her noggin would soon be more or less in working order, I returned home to take care of sweet little Sushi, after which I headed to bed for a good night’s sleep, knowing the next day would be a very busy one indeed.

When I questioned Brandy about the events at Wild Cat Den, she was rather evasive (not unusual), saying only that she’d apparently startled Joe in his cave, which is why he’d conked her. But she
did
let slip one juicy piece of info: The missing Tarzan book had been found among Joe’s things. Which had pushed our little British bird from the top slot on the suspect list, making Joe number one with a bullet.

Well, I could no more believe Joe killed Walter than Chaz had! So once again, Vivian Borne had to rise to the occasion, uncover the truth, and free the unjustly accused.

The following morning, after a hardy breakfast of pancakes and sausage (a girl has to keep up her strength, you know), I let Sushi outdoors one last time, as that dog has to urinate more often than
moi
. Then I climbed into my warm raccoon coat, tied my favorite blue woolen scarf over my head, and slipped on Brandy’s pair of comfortable, ever-so-toasty brown UGGS (she wouldn’t be wearing them today, now would she?).

The weather was crisp and clear, sun shining bright as a new penny, if a penny were orange and not copper. Brandy’s boots crunched through a thin layer of freshly fallen snow, as I hurried along the sidewalk to catch the traveling trolley a few blocks away, due at any moment.

The old reconverted-to-gas trolley car (I wonder if I’ll be around long enough to see it converted back to electric?) was free of charge to anyone wanting to go downtown (my usual destination), but I could sometimes sweet-talk the driver into dropping me elsewhere, if it weren’t too far off the beaten path.

Roxanne Randolph was the first person to drive the trolley, but she quit suddenly after going home early one afternoon to nurse a migraine only to find her husband in the steamy clutches of a young neighbor who, in fact,
was
a nurse. Hubby tried telling Roxanne that the lady was just giving him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation (hubby had heart problems) (obviously), but Roxie didn’t buy it. Then Roxie did some amateur nursing herself, cleaning hubby out like a colonic, and she’s now living in Arizona, very happily I hear.

Maynard Kirby went after the trolley job next because he had to go back to work after his wife gambled away all his retirement money from his long tenure at the fish hatchery. But then he, too, quit suddenly, after his wife spawned big bucks in the state lottery. Thank God for her addiction!

Currently, a young black woman named Shawntea Monroe drove the trolley car. I met her in Chicago the previous summer when four of us Red-Hatted League gals drove into the Windy City for a Cubs game and lost our bearings (I was navigating, possibly a mistake pre-cataract surgery) and we ladies found ourselves with a flat tire somewhere called Cabrini-Green.

Well, Shawntea—who had just disembarked a gas-belching bus—took pity on us out-of-water fishies, and got her brother, Trayvon (member of a young men’s club called Gangsta Disciples), to change our tire and get us girls headed off in the right direction.

But before we drove away, I gave Shawntea my phone number and let her know that should she ever want to get a fresh start in new surroundings, I’d send her a one-way bus ticket to Serenity with a promise of work, feeling fairly certain I could help her find some. Shawntea did call, a few months later, about the same time the trolley job opened up, and that’s what we call Serenity serendipity.

As I climbed aboard the trolley, Shawntea—wearing a warm purple parka, her lovely black hair cascading in tight curls—gave me her winning white smile. “Hello, Miz Borne. How’s it shakin’?”

“Shaking quite nicely, Shawntea,” I said, and slid into the seat directly behind her. At the moment, the trolley was toting only a few passengers, this being an off-time for travel, what with people already at work and the downtown shops not quite open.

“And how are Kwamie and Zeffross?” I asked. To my surprise, she had arrived in town with two young boys in tow.

“Oh, Miz Borne, they jus’ love their new school,” Shawntea said, pulling the trolley away from the curb.

“And how are
your
night classes going?”

“One more semester, and I get my GED.”

“Wonderful! And what then?”

She hesitated. “Kinda thinkin’ about community college.”

“Well, you’re certain to get a scholarship.”

She glanced back. “You really think so?”

“I can practically guarantee it.” I knew all of the college foundation board members, several of whom had the kind of skeletons in their closets that no one likes to hear come rattling out.

“That would be
dope
, Miz Borne,” she said.

“Dope, dear?”

“Cool. Great. Awesome.”

“Stick with those terms, Shawntea. ‘Dope’ has different connotations in these parts.”

“Oh. Yes. Well, sure.”

“It implies stupidity, dear.”

“It sure does.”

We rumbled along Elm Street, a straight shot downtown, passing by lovely old homes, most sporting festive green wreaths on their doors, trees lavish in front windows, yards arrayed with Nativity scenes or Santa with his sleigh and reindeer.

As we turned right on Main, Shawntea asked, “Where ya want to be dropped, Miz Borne?”

“The courthouse will be just fine, dear.” The trolley’s first downtown stop.

Bidding Shawntea adieu, I disembarked the trolley, then hoofed it over to the county jail, nicely positioned across from the courthouse, making hauling criminals into court most convenient—hardly any inmates ever escaped just crossing the street.

I had worked tirelessly for the new county jail—a two-story, red-brick, state-of-the-art, fenceless facility that looked more like an administrative building than a detention center. I’d done this in part because I felt that even convicts deserved better living conditions than the old, crumbling jail. But, also, I had once ended up in those squalid former quarters and, frankly, it was equally appalling for non-convicts like me.

The new jail’s lobby might have been an airport gate waiting area, with its rows of seating back-to-back, vending machines, small lockers for storing personal items, and walk-through security scanner.

I strolled over to the young man (nonuniformed) who acted as a receptionist, and spoke through the tiny microphone in the glass. “Vivian Borne would like a word with Sheriff Rudder.”

The man looked up at me, narrowing his already narrow eyes. “He’s awfully busy, ma’am….”

“Oh, he’ll see me,” I said. “We’re old friends.”

And I turned abruptly to take a seat in the boarding area, hoping the wait wouldn’t be as long as at O’Hare.

A good half hour crawled by before the sheriff buzzed himself through the steel door into the reception room. As he approached, I stood and, not wanting to waste any more of my precious time, came right to the point.

“I need to see Joe Lange,” I told him. “I assume you’ve had time enough to get him through processing.”

Sheriff Rudder, a tall, confident man who reminded me of Randolph Scott (circa
Ride the High Country
) (except that his eyes were a trifle crossed), furrowed the brow of his rugged face. “I don’t think a visit with Joe’s possible right now, Vivian. Maybe in a few days. What’s this about?”

“I’m sure poor Joe would like to hear that Brandy is unhurt and will be out of the hospital tomorrow. And by the way…thank you for your part in rescuing my daughter. She’s very precious to me.”

The sheriff considered my request momentarily, then nodded. “Joe
has
been asking about Brandy, but he’s in a fairly upset state. I’d prefer to pass along the information myself.”

I stood my ground. “Considering Joe’s present mental condition—that is to say, extreme paranoia—I’m afraid he would only believe the good news about Brandy if it came from the horse’s mouth.
I
am that horse.”

Rudder chuckled and said, “Which end, Vivian?”

“What did you say, Sheriff?”

“Uh…to what end, Vivian?”

“Well…if Joe is at all anxious, my visit might calm him down. You may not realize this, but I have, in my time, suffered minor mental problems myself.”

“Really? Well. Who’d have thought it.”

“There are mental health interest groups who would
not
take kindly to—”

The sheriff held up a palm. “All right, Vivian…but only for a few minutes.”

Shortly thereafter, another steel door at the back of the waiting area opened, and a pretty, ponytailed female deputy came out, greeted me perfunctorily, took my fur coat, scarf, and purse, put them in one of the lockers, and handed me the small key. I was then ordered to step through the metal detector.

“That’s not a good idea,” I said to her.

“It’s required.”

Well, wouldn’t you just know that the extensive bridgework in my mouth set the thing to buzzing, which took another few minutes getting straightened out. Finally, the deputy was ushering me through to the inner jail, using a security card.

We passed through two more locked doors before arriving in an area consisting of three small visitor’s stations, like those claustrophobic closets the bank teller insists on putting me into when I want to go over my will.

The deputy deposited me on a chair facing the glass window separating me from the prisoner’s side (and it from me); then she retreated to stand outside my cubicle, granting some privacy.

Joe, wearing an orange jumpsuit, was escorted to his chair on the other side of the glass by a beefy, bucket-headed male deputy. This deputy did not afford Joe any breathing space, positioning himself directly behind the young man.

Joe looked pale, and seemed withdrawn, even subdued; but his drugged eyes—indicating he was already back on his medication—showed a flash of life when he saw it was me.

We both reached for our phones.

He spoke first. “Is Brandy okay?”

“Yes, Joe—fit as a fiddle. Home tomorrow.”

He began to cry, his shoulders rising and falling. “Mrs. Borne, will…will Brandy ever for…for
give
me?”

“Of course, dear,” I said gently. “Just like she always forgives me. She understands you and I are a little bit…”

“Different?”

“I was going to say ‘crazy,’ but that’s a nice way of putting it. Now dry your tears.”

Joe wiped his eyes with a sleeve of his orange jumpsuit.

With some urgency, sitting so close my forehead almost touched the glass, I said, “Joe, I only have a precious few minutes….”

He nodded. His eyes were hazy, but at least they met my gaze unflinchingly.

“I want you to tell me the truth, Joe. Did you poison Walter Yeager?”

The eyes unclouded. “
No
, Mrs. Borne! I didn’t! I swear it on my oath as a soldier.”

“But you
did
take that book, didn’t you, dear?”

He swallowed thickly, then his head dropped…and he nodded. “Yes. I was just going to talk to the old gent, make him an offer—I have some money saved up I use for collectibles. I buy and sell on eBay, you know. But then I
saw
it, just lying on the table….”

“What about Mr. Yaeger?”

Joe looked up again. “The old man was dead when I got there. I swear it!” Wildness came to the eyes. “As God is my witness, Mrs. Borne, I even tried to save him. I called for help, but, but, but…”

Joe bolted to his feet, the phone receiver dropping from his hand, swinging by its cord like a hung man. (Or is it “hanged”? I’m never quite sure…. )

“Medic!”
he cried, his eyes crazed, his voice muffled by the glass. “Man down! Bring in Medevac! Cue the damn chopper!”

The beefy deputy grabbed Joe, quickly cuffing the young man’s hands and then hauling the squirmy prisoner from the cubicle.

My ponytailed deputy came in and glared at me. “I thought you were going to
calm
him!”

I stood and spread my hands. “How was
I
to know Joe would go jungle-happy? One can never predict how an unbalanced individual might behave. Might I suggest that his medication be increased?”

The deputy squinched her face, her attractive features suddenly becoming most unattractive. “Oh,
thank
you. I’ll be sure to pass your recommendation along to the doctor.”