Antiques Flee Market (7 page)

So I asked, “What do you mean, Connie?”

She looked from me to an uncomfortable Peggy Sue, then back again. “Well,” she said huffily, “I was driving in to that awful trailer park in South End last night, with the DAR girls…” Connie paused to explain to dumb little me. “…Daughters of the Revolution?”

“Yes,” I said primly.

“Well, we were taking Christmas turkeys to some of the underprivileged people who live there—we do that
every
year, that’s just the way the Serenity Daughters are—and that
maniac
Joe Lange came driving out like a
maniac
, and nearly hit us.”

That was two maniacs, but I didn’t say anything. I was busy having a cold feeling fill the pit of my stomach.

So there I stood with the woman I was convinced was sending me poison-pen notes, and the other woman who I was even more convinced was my biological mother, and here’s what I did about it.

“You girls enjoy your lunch,” I said, and caught up at the bar with Tina, who’d finished her conversation with the business acquaintance.

“Saw you talking with your sister and Connie Grimes,” she said, looping her arm in mine as we headed toward the exit onto the mall.

“Lucky me.”

As we passed Mrs. Lange, seated with a tableful of chattering red-hatted ladies, Tina whispered, “Something wrong with your friend Joe? Saw you and Mrs. Lange talking.”

“Joe seems to have fallen off the mental-health wagon, for no good reason.”

“Could be the holidays,” she offered.

“Maybe,” I said.

Who
didn’t
this time of year drive insane?

Banishing from my mind any suspicions of Joe and that Tarzan book of Mr. Yeager’s he coveted, I followed Tina out of the restaurant and we headed straight for Ingram’s, our favorite store. With Christmas and Hanukkah mere weeks away, the discounts were already deep, and Tina and I cruised silently through each department, picking up bargains, crossing names off our lists.

About an hour later, we were down to
us
, and took a second pass around the store with an eye on what we might get each other. This round, we allowed talking, but only a few words, like when I picked up a cute pointy-toed stiletto I thought Tina might like, and she went, “Ow!” And then she pointed out a sparkly silver V-neck sweater, and after copping a feel, I went, “Itchy-scratchy.” But soon Tina and I got enough “Ooohs” and “Aaahs” from each other that we had some real gift possibilities. Then Tina said she wanted to go to the lingerie department for a bra, and I suggested that while she did that, I’d visit the stationery section for Christmas cards. A total ploy on both our parts, of course, Tina doubling back to the junior department to buy me the Rock N Republic jeans I’d squealed at, while I sneaked over to the shoes section to get her the UGG boots she’d drooled over. Why do we even bother with the subterfuge?

Because it’s fun, maybe?

We had arranged to meet at the front entrance, but I took a detour by the cosmetics counter to replace my dried-up mascara.

Just before Christmas is the best time to visit the cosmetics counter to try out new products and get personalized attention—not to mention free samples—because everybody else is frantically running around buying presents in the other departments. (The exception is the perfume counter, where herds of husbands and boyfriends roam the aisle like confused cattle, trying to decipher one scent from the other.)

Here are three makeup tips for women no longer in their twenties:

1) Less is more…
way
less—like the very first time you wore cosmetics and tried to fool your folks. The more greasepaint you pile on, the older and harder you look.

2) Buy expensive cosmetics, not because they are exceptionally better than the drugstore variety, but because you will feel prettier when you apply your Chanel Rouge Allure in “Romantic.” That sounds like an opinion, but I swear it’s a fact.

3) Work on improving your personality; as beauty fades, a woman can’t get away with as much nonsense.

I had just purchased the mascara (brown—a tip from Bette Davis) when I spotted my old pal Pudgy—the book scout from the flea market encounter—in the adjacent fine jewelry department, where an attractive, young black woman in a clingy gray dress was in the process of showing him a watch at the David Yurman counter.

I sauntered over and pretended to look at the other pricey pieces in the glass display case next to him.

Pudgy, wearing the same silly plaid topcoat as the other night, was saying, “What about
that
one….” He tapped the glass with a fat finger.

The saleswoman opened the back of the glass case and withdrew another watch, which she placed on a square piece of white velvet to show off the diamonds better—as if.

“You certainly have a tasteful eye, sir.” She smiled.

Which didn’t explain his coat.

“How much?” the book scout asked.

“Forty-nine hundred.”

Pudgy didn’t blink; but I sure did. That was a lot of cabbage to wrap around your wrist.

Without a pause, the man said, “I’ll take it.”

Now
the saleslady blinked—not at the high-end purchase, but the wad of hundred-dollar bills Pudgy was producing from his wallet.

“It
is
a beautiful watch,” she said, recovering, “Mister, uh…?”

“Potthoff, Harry Potthoff.”

Not exactly Bond, James Bond.

“Well, Mr. Potthoff,” the saleswoman cooed, “you’re
certainly
going to make some woman very happy.”

“I assume you will wrap it at no extra charge.” It was a statement, not a question.

Now, I happen to know that wrapping
wasn’t
free at Ingram’s—even for a five-grand watch—and you could expect to stand in a long line back in customer service.

But the saleslady, sensing a deal-breaker (and the loss of a hefty commission), only said sweetly, “Why, of course, Mr. Potthoff!” She called another clerk over to take her place at the counter, then ran off to handle the wrapping, personally.

Tina, looking as hot-in-her-coat and tired as I felt, and laden with heavy shopping bags, trundled toward me. “I’ve been looking all over for you! We were supposed to meet at the front door!”

“Well, you were late so I came over here,” I whined.

“
I
was right on time,” she snapped. “
You
were early….”

(FYI: Tina and I are often crabby by the end of our shopping sprees.)

The cold outside air, however, cooled our tempers, and by the time we loaded up my car, all was forgiven.

Even though it was only five o’clock, the sky was dark when I dropped Tina off at her house. I let the car idle in the driveway while we sorted the various packages in the backseat, making sure we each had our own booty.

Then Tina said sweetly, “Thanks, Brandy, I had a really nice time.”

“Me, too,” I smiled. “Let’s do it again…for the
after
-Christmas sales.”

I waited in the car while Tina made it to her front door, where Kevin—after giving me a wave—helped her in with the packages.

I sat for another minute in the drive. I could see them through the front window as they stood in the living room, Tina with her arms around Kevin, head on his shoulder, and he stroking her hair.

Then an impulse hit me, and I would be darned if I’d let this opportunity pass me by like the one with Peggy Sue had. I shut off the engine, hopped out of the car, hurried up the sidewalk, banged on the door.

Tina answered. She was smiling, but her eyes were red. “Did you forget something?” she asked. “Or did I?”

I stepped inside. “No, I forgot something…. Something important I want to tell you and Kevin.”

Hearing this, Kevin joined us in the foyer. He put an arm around his wife’s shoulders and said, “Hiya, Brandy. What is it?”

Tina, with a combination of puzzlement and concern asked, “What
is
it, honey?”

“I just wanted to tell you guys,” I said, “that if you need a surrogate mom? I’d be glad to have your baby for you.”

A Trash ‘n’ Treasures Tip

A flea market is the easiest place to begin a collection because quantity is high and prices are low. In deciding
what
to collect, consider price range, difficulty in acquiring more pieces, and—most important of all—space constraints. Mother once started collecting old wringer washing machines until she ran out of room in a week.

A
fter leaving a stunned Tina and Kevin standing in their foyer after my surprise offer, I returned home, where (in the privacy of my bedroom) I celled the one person in the world whose permission I wanted before proceeding any further.

My ex-husband, Roger, answered.

“Brandy…anything wrong?”

“Does there have to be something wrong for me to call?”

“Of course not….”

“Good. ’Cause I’m fine. Thanks for asking. Is Jake around?”

“He’s in his room on his PS-3.”

“Early Christmas present?” I asked. During Jake’s stay with me in October, the upcoming release of the expensive video game system was all the boy could talk about.

“Yeah, afraid I couldn’t wait.”

“You mean
Jake
couldn’t wait, and was making your life miserable.”

He chuckled softly. “You got that right.”

“How long did you have to stand in line?”

Roger sighed. “Don’t even
go
there…. Let’s just say midnight at a Wal-Mart is proof of life after death, because there must be a heaven since for sure hell exists.”

I laughed, then said, “I know Jake hates being interrupted in the middle of a game, but would you get him, please? Kind of important.”

“Sure,” he said. “Expect to wait a while, though….”

I knew Roger was right, and had come prepared; I used the time to untangle a bunch of chain necklaces from my jewelry box.

Then my son’s voice was in my ear. “Hey, Mom, what’s up?”

“Sorry to bother, honey, but I have something to ask you that I just didn’t think was right for an e-mail.”

“Oh-kay….”

“You know my best friend Tina?”

“Ah-huh.”

I explained, as best as I could, that because of her cancer, Tina and her husband wouldn’t be able to have children of their own.

With all the compassion a kid his age could summon, which wasn’t very much, Jake said, “Gee, that’s too bad.” Then: “Is that all you wanted to tell me? You upset about that and, uh, need to talk or something?” He wanted to get back to his game.

“No, there’s more…. They
can
have a baby with my help. But not if
you
don’t want me to.” I paused, then asked, “Do you know what a surrogate mother is?”

“Hummm…” In my mind’s eye I could see Jake wrinkling his cute, freckled nose in thought. “I think so,” he said slowly. “Saw something on the Discovery Channel. Kinda like a lady bakes a cake in her oven from somebody else’s batter, right?”

I laughed. “That’s pretty darn close. And I want to do that for them.”

There was silence, then Jake asked, “Does this mean I’ll have a little brother or sister?”

This was what I was afraid of. “No, even though I’m the mom, you won’t be related. After the baby’s born, it will belong to Tina and her husband.”

“So I don’t have to share a room or, you know, my stuff or anything with this newbie?”

“No.”

“Good!”

I had counted on Jake’s self-interest to win his approval. “Then you don’t have any objection?”

“Naw. Sounds like a really nice thing for you to do…. Knock yourself out, Mom.”

Downstairs, I found Mother seated at the dining room table, furiously making notes on a yellow legal pad.

She looked up, her magnified eyes behind the glasses dancing a wild jig, her hair frozen in its own bizarre dance step. “I know who would be
perfect
to cast as the male lead in the Christie play…but he can be
awfully
temperamental, and somewhat undependable.”

“Glad it’s coming together.”

Mother studied me. “Something wrong, dear? You’re frowning. You’re making wrinkles!”

I plastered on a smile guaranteed to make even more lines. “No! Everything’s fine.”

(You didn’t think for a moment that I would tell
Mother
about my surrogacy offer, did you? If so, you’re either a new reader or not paying attention. Good Lord, it would be all over town before Tina and Kevin even had a chance to think it over.)

I said, “I take it you want to go out for dinner.”

Mother smiled up at me. “How did you know, dear?”

“Because it’s almost six and there’s no yummy smells coming from the kitchen.”

All right, I’ll admit that my using words like “yummy” had something to do with my mother treating me like a child.

“You see, dear! As much as you try to resist it, your natural sleuthing skills are a part of you.” Mother brushed the legal pad aside. “How about going to that new Mexican restaurant you’ve been wanting to try?”

This surprised me, as Mother doesn’t care for spicy food because the resulting indigestion almost inevitably keeps her up all night watching Home Shopping Network. And I don’t care for the bills we get for the vitamin complexes, exercise gizmos, and kitchen miracles that ensue, so I hadn’t pressed my Mexican yen.

Nonetheless, I said, “Great! But I’ll have to give Sushi
her
food, first.” I glanced around for the dog, who should have come trotting in at the sound of the word “food.”

“I’ve already taken care of the little darling,” Mother informed me.

“You have?”

She lifted her chin, eyes sparkling with pride. “
And
given her her shot of insulin.”

“You
did
?”

Mother had only done that once before, when I was too sick to get out of bed with a migraine; she has an abject fear of needles (slightly less so when it’s someone else getting stuck).

I narrowed my eyes. “All right…what’s going on? My natural sleuthing skills tell me you’re up to something.”

Both her hands came up in “Lawsy, Miss Scarlet” fashion. “Why, nothing, dear! It’s simply that you’ve seemed so
very
down in the dumps lately, and I only wanted to please.” She gave me the kind of smile a bank teller gives a holdup man. “The idea that my gesture might be anything other than heartfelt…well, it wounds me, dear…right here.” She thumped her chest.

As if anything could pierce that egotistical heart.

But to keep the peace, I said, “Forgive me, Mother,” and trundled off to get our raccoon coats. It only seemed fair to warn the world we were coming.

On the drive to the Mexican restaurant, Mother chattered on and on about her plans for the new production, and—as with most of her one-sided conversations—I had to either rise to her level of enthusiasm, or fade back entirely. Not having the energy, I chose the latter.

Mother, tiring of own voice for a change, began to sing “Aba Daba Honeymoon,” which if you’ve never heard it (or even if you have) is about a monkey and a chimp and consists mostly of the words “aba” and “daba.” Which pretty much summed up our relationship these days.

La Hacienda was located in South End, and everything on the menu sounded both authentic and delicious. Not knowing when I’d have an opportunity to be back, I ordered guacamole (made directly at our table), chiles rel-lenos, Spanish rice, refried beans, and for dessert, flan. Fat bucket be damned.

Mother questioned the poor waitress exhaustively about all of the dishes, and what was in them, asking her in her best John McLaughlin fashion to assign a relative hotness on a scale of one to ten (ten being “metaphysical hotness”), finally making me kick her under the table to let up.

After glaring at me, Mother ordered huevos rancheros, but when they arrived (the orders came quickly), she merely picked at her food, pushing the spicy eggs around her plate as if rearranging furniture. Apparently, she wasn’t in the mood for a night of Home Shopping Network.

Which was fine with me, because I would never be in the mood for the credit-card bill that would follow.

As I was taking my last bite of the delicious syrup-topped custard, the bedraggled waitress came over to ask if we wanted anything else, and Mother said, “
Sí!
An order of beef tacos to go.”

As the waitress trotted off, I asked, puzzled, “A midnight snack to watch while Suzanne Somers sells you an exercise device, or Ernest Borgnine’s wife peddles you some perfume?”

She gave me a primly offended look. “The tacos are not for
us
, dear.”

I put down my fork, the custard curdling on my palate. “Well, they’re certainly not for Sushi.”

Mother neatly folded her paper napkin as if it were quality linen, placed it on the table, and said matter-of-factly, “I thought, as long as we’re down here, in this part of town, we could just stop by and see how your little friend Chaz is getting along.”

At last, the real motive for dining at La Hacienda reared its bug-eyed head. The order-to-go reflected a standard Mother strategy: She rarely dropped in on anyone uninvited without bringing something along to take the sting out of her sudden appearance…even if said item was unwarranted, unneeded, and unwanted.

I asked fractiously, “What if Chaz doesn’t like tacos? Or would rather have chicken than beef? Did you ever think maybe she’s a vegetarian?”

Mother’s expression turned sour. “Brandy, sometimes I wonder why I bother doing
anything
nice for you!”

I raised twin palms in surrender. “Okay, I appreciate it, you letting me try out La Hacienda. I’ve been wanting to.”

She nodded smugly.

“But, Mother, there was no cause for turning it into the D-Day Landing. I’d like to know how Chaz is doing myself. I don’t need to be tricked or handled.”

Mother blinked. “Oh. All right, dear, I will try to remember that. From now on, I will endeavor to be as straightforward as possible. I will indulge in neither subterfuge nor sophistry. I will…what were talking about?”

“Beats me.”

The tacos came, we paid the check, and left.

A few minutes later, I turned at the convenience store into Happy Trails Trailer Court, driving down the icy, main lane, the Christmas lights and yard decorations lending red and green twinkles to a landscape otherwise dominated by sludgy snow. Up ahead, I spotted a police car parked in front of Mr. Yeager’s mobile home, and I put on the brakes, skidding a little.

Mother and I exchanged alarmed looks.

“Yikes,” we both said.

I drove on slowly, easing my Buick in behind the squad car. We got out, and I climbed the couple of steps to the door, Mother waiting below, holding the sack of food. I knocked.

Chaz opened the door immediately, which startled both Mother and me—it was as if the girl had been standing there, waiting for us. She stepped aside for us to get in out of the cold.

“Is anything wrong?” I asked the girl.

“Your
mate’s
’ere,” Chaz said, nodding toward a familiar figure.

Brian, standing stiffly in the little living room, seemed none too happy to see us, and I didn’t think Mother’s steaming sack of tacos was going to turn the tide.

“What’s going on?” Mother demanded, as if she were in charge. Tact, it should be noted, was in my mother’s opinion something that one put on the teacher’s chair.

Brian took a few steps toward her. “Frankly, Mrs. Borne,” he said, his boyish handsome face as tight as his terse words, “this is police business, and not any of yours.”

If I had a dollar for every time something of that sort had been said to Mother by the Serenity PD in the last year, we could have afforded tacos for the entire force.

Chaz offered cheerfully, “’E came to tell me the chief inspector ’imself wants to talk to me
downtown
, ’cause I’m an interesting person, innit?”

“You mean a ‘person of interest,’ dear,” Mother corrected.

Chaz screwed up her face. “Eh? That’s wha’ I said!”

I said, “Chaz, a ‘person of interest’ is just a politically correct way of calling somebody a suspect.” I looked at Brian. “A suspect in what? If this is about that
bank
bag—”

“It’s not,” Brian said testily. He narrowed his eyes and lowered his head, letting me know somehow that he wasn’t just irritated as an officer, but just plain irritated. “That doesn’t mean I won’t want to talk to you later, Brandy, about how conveniently that missing money showed up.”

I muttered, “Okay…ah, sure,” and faded behind Mother, who had pulled herself up to her full five feet eight inches (she used to be five-nine, but has shrunk a little—I knew the feeling, since I’d shrunk to about three foot two ever since Brian gave me that irritated look).

“This girl has rights, you know,” Mother snapped, “even if she
is
a second-class citizen in this country!”

“Yeah!” an emboldened Chaz retorted. “I’m second-class, innit? Best you ’
member
that, mate.”

Mother continued haughtily, “And I’m sure the
British embassy
would be none too pleased to hear of any police brutality that was waged against one of Her Majesty’s loyal subjects.”

Chaz said, “Yeah!” Then, “Wha’? No!
Don’t
call ’em! I jumped me parole when I came ’ere—”

Brian’s eyes had a sort of deadness as he fixed them on Mother. “It may come as a surprise to you, Mrs. Borne, that we don’t have a British embassy in Serenity.”

I said, “But Chaz
does
have certain rights—”

“Settle down, all of you!” Brian put both hands up like a traffic cop. Then he turned to Chaz. “No one is accusing you of anything. We just want to ask you a few routine questions down at the station…to clarify and expand on earlier statements you made, so that we can close the file on your grandfather.”

This was pure B.S., but I had to admit Brian had delivered it convincingly.

Chaz looked from Brian to me to Mother, and back again.

“All right,” she said, “but if I don’t like the sound of the questions, I’m gonna get me a solicitor, yeah?”

Brian nodded. “Fair enough. And the sooner we go to the station, the sooner you’ll be back home.”

Mother said, “Don’t say anything without a lawyer, dear! This is a murder investigation!”

“No,” Brian said, “it is not. We’re investigating a suspicious death, and—”

“There!” Mother said, raising a triumphant finger like an old-time politician making a point. “
Suspicious!
He’s said it himself!”

Chaz turned to me. “Bran, what should I do?”