Antiques Maul (14 page)

“A bunch of meat-and-potatoes fellas like that?”

“I know. But they’re also adventurous old boys. Not as adventurous as you, Viv…but adventurous enough. Can I ask you something?”

I slurped my Shirley Temple to a finish. “Within the bounds of good taste.”

“Why do I get the feeling, hearing you talk about Mrs. Norton’s death, that you think something’s more fishy than doggie about it?”

“I said
nothing
of the sort.”

“I’m a bartender. I can read people.”

“That’s fine with me, Junior.” I slid off the stool, putting my money on the counter. “But
do
stop moving your lips….”

Eat Healthy or Die, operated by two aging hippies (the wife did the cooking; the hubby ran the counter), was not very busy for the lunch hour. This might have been farm country, but sprouts remained an acquired taste.

Still, I did indeed find the Romeos (Retired Old Men Eating Out) sequestered at a table.

Usually full of piss and vinegar, today the quartet was settling for vinegar and oil, and appeared sullen and unhappy about it, thanks to the (mostly uneaten) rabbit food in front of these aging carnivores.

But I knew their presence was about more than just checking out a new local restaurant.

Vern, a former chiropractor, had recently gone through a triple bypass; Harold, a retired army captain, was diabetic; former hog farmer Randall had high cholesterol; and Ivan, our onetime mayor, was being treated for polyps. Despite what Junior had said, clearly the gents were being less adventurous than trying more to keep the grim reaper at bay.

The way the Romeos perked up at my arrival told me that—unlike Junior—they knew not only the scuttlebutt about Mrs. Norton, but that I had played a major role in the drama.

Normally, women were not welcome at the Romeos’ table—welcome to stop and chat for a moment and move on, yes, but not to actually pull up a chair and sit. But these old codgers were always hungry for gossip, and while I have never been one to carry stories myself, I didn’t mind humoring the Serenity Rat Rack with what local tidbits I might have happened to pick up. After all, I was their Shirley MacLaine!

Harold was the first to wave me over. He had a face like an old rottweiler’s—barked like one, too. After his wife passed away, I went out with Harold a few times, but didn’t cotton to taking orders from the retired captain, so I mutinied. We remained friendly, though.

I took the chair that Vern confiscated from a nearby empty table. The former chiropractor reminded me of an English setter, with his big nose, square face, and curly hair.

“How have you been, Vivian?” he asked, dark eyes twinkling knowingly, the outrageous flirt.

“Fine…fine. Trying to stay out of trouble.”

“But not succeeding, I trust,” said former farmer Randall, a Boston terrier with a pug nose and wide-set eyes.

“Maybe I’m not trying very hard,” I answered coquettishly.

I waved the waitress over, then ordered a soy burger and carrot juice.

When she’d departed, Ivan—the ex-mayor, who had droopy jowls like a Saint Bernard (but more hound than saint, I assure you)—implored, “Come on, Vivian! You know what we want…
give
!”

I sighed, feigning reluctance, making these old dogs beg for my new trick.

After another prodding or two, however, I repeated my performance for Junior and Henry back at Hunter’s…only this time adding a few revisions to the script—like me jumping up on an antique icebox as the pit bull snapped at my heels…and being roughed up (just a little) by Serenity’s finest when I insisted on them sparing the animal’s life.

I still kept my tingle of suspicion to myself—not to be stingy, rather to give myself time to develop a theory better than Brandy’s silly two-pit-bull one.

Vern, Ivan, and Randall seemed utterly enthralled by my one-act play.

But Harold asked impertinently, “Why the hell would you want to save that son-of-a-bitch dog, when it tried to kill
you
, too?”

Annoyed that my motivation had been called into question, I huffed, “Well, first of all, ‘son-of-a-bitch dog’ is redundant, isn’t it? And second of all, Harold, it’s not the
dog’s
fault he’s that way, is it? Any more than it’s your fault for being born the brute
you
are? Why should he be punished for not fitting in to a human being’s world?”

The above was accompanied by
ooooo’s
and
oooooh’s
and laughs and nudges Harold’s way from the rest of the audience.

Ivan, ever the politician, abruptly changed the subject. “I hear you’ve retired from showbiz, Vivian,” he said.

The waitress arrived with my soy burger and carrot juice. I managed to contain my enthusiasm.

I said, “If you mean by that remark, Ivan, have I stepped down from the Serenity playhouse stage, that is correct.”

“Mind telling us why?” Randall asked.

I took a bite of the soy burger, which had all of the taste and texture of an old shoe tongue between two pieces of cardboard.

“Well,” I said, after managing to swallow, “you might as well hear it from the horse’s mouth…. It’s because I feel that
I
would have best served the playhouse as its director,
not
Bernice. After all, I’ve been long associated with the playhouse, and she’s only been in town a few years and, quite frankly, doesn’t have the background or abilities for the job.”

Vern said, “I thought Bernice was pretty good in
Arsenic and Old Lace
.”

“What was
I
?” I ejaculated. “Chopped liver?”

Eyeing his own soy burger, Ivan muttered, “What I wouldn’t give for chopped liver….”

“No, no, no, of course not,” Vern said, backpedaling, “
you
were good, too.”

“Good,” I said. “Why, thank you. How could I survive without such lavish praise?”

“Great, I mean,” Vern said. “Wonderful. Hilarious?”

“Besides,” I said, “Bernice just might be too busy these days to direct new productions, what with her new
paramour
….”

That elicited a few raised eyebrows……and an outright flinch from Ivan.

“I didn’t know Bernice had been seeing someone since…” Randall began, then stopped dead, avoiding Ivan’s stare.

Harold asked, “Who
is
he?”

I shrugged. “Haven’t the foggiest. Thought you boys would surely know. But I can tell you this much…that ‘man’ is young enough to be her own son!”

“That,” Ivan said quietly, “is because he is.”

Well, dear reader, you could have knocked me over with a cigar store Indian’s feather!

Blinking, feeling the same rush of panic I had on the three occasions in my career when I’ve momentarily gone up on my lines, I said, “I, uh, I didn’t know Bernice had children. She never mentioned any to me.”

“She never mentions much of anything about before she came here,” Ivan said with a nod. “She has two sons…one dead. The other, Lyle, came to live with her recently. And let me tell you, the kid is no prize.”

So
that
was the reason Ivan stopped seeing Bernice. He and Lyle didn’t get along. And from what Brandy witnessed, neither did mother and son.

“Ivan,” I said lightly, “you remember that Indian statue you were eyeing at our mall stall, the other day?”

“Of course.”

“You remember that it was marked ‘sold,’ and I couldn’t let you have it?”

“Surely.”

“Well, the buyer was—”

“Bernice,” he interrupted. “I knew all about her wanting to get that Indian back, Viv—though I wasn’t aware you girls had come to an agreement over it. Didn’t know you were even speaking.”

But apparently Ivan wanted to be speaking with Bernice again; elsewise he wouldn’t have wanted to surprise her with that statue.

I checked my watch. “Oh dear…you boys will have to excuse me. I have a very important appointment at the antiques mall!”

“So antique
males
aren’t enough, then?” Vern said.

“Nothing antique about your evil mind,” I mock-scolded.

But when I reached for my check, it was not Vern, rather Harold, the sweetheart, who beat me to it. I leaned over to give him a peck on the cheek, but he turned his head so my kiss landed on his lips.

The old dog.

And those other mangy mutts all laughed and laughed.

A few minutes later I arrived at the four-story Victorian building on Main and Pine where Mrs. Norton had met her fate (and where Brandy and I had our booth).

Another dealer, Gene Stubbs, was on his way out, squinting at the bright sun like a mole who’d popped ill-advisedly out of his hole. He had the booth across from ours consisting mostly of worn-out old tools.

“Any word on whether the mall will reopen?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Even if it does, I’m moving out.”

“Why?” I asked, surprised.

“Who’s going to want to shop in there after what happened?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “A little mishap like that wouldn’t scare
me
off, either as a seller or a buyer.”

“Besides,” Mr. Stubbs went on, “some of my tools are quite valuable, and I want a place that has security cameras going twenty-four-seven…not some homicidal hound. I’m
tired
of getting ripped off!”

With that, he turned and strode to his truck parked at the curb.

Mr. Stubbs did have a point. Theft of antiques in shops was increasingly common these days, in particular small items that could easily slip into pockets or purses. And antiques malls were the most vulnerable because of the obscured view of the booths.

I entered the building, expecting to be greeted by a trustee of Mrs. Norton’s estate, since the late teacher had owned the building. Instead I was met by Mia Cordona, a female police detective. Mia was a childhood friend of Brandy’s; back in the day, the pair got into their share of mischief.

Dressed in a simple white blouse and navy blue skirt, Mia was a lovely young woman with long dark hair, flashing eyes, and an hourglass figure, the kind they now call “curvy.”

“Mrs. Borne,” Mia acknowledged me, businesslike.

“Mia, my goodness…why are you here? Is this a police matter?”

Ignoring my questions, she consulted her clipboard. “Your booth is number thirteen….”

“Yes. Over there, just about where Mrs. Norton bought the farm…that is, I mean, where the poor dear woman was found.”

Mia rolled her eyes (what was
that
about?) and turned on her navy blue pumps. I followed her the short distance to our booth, near which a confiscated, leftover piece of the new gray carpet discreetly covered the stained spot where the body had been.

“Mrs. Borne,” Mia said, “I want you to examine your booth, carefully, and tell me if anything is missing. You understand, of course, that some items have sold—I have a list of those obtained from Mrs. Norton’s records.”

I frowned. “So if you already
know
what has sold, and what money is owed to us, why do you need me to—”

Mia interrupted, “Mrs. Borne, I’d appreciate your cooperation. The sooner we get this done, the sooner you can leave.”

The fallacy there was assuming that I
wanted
to leave.

But I said, “Of course, dear…always glad to help the Serenity boys…and
girls
…in blue.”

She winced at that (what was her
problem?
) and I turned my attention to the booth. My eyes searched over its displays like the beacon in my ceramic lighthouse (before it quit working).

And what I saw got me boiling mad.

“It’s a
crime
!” I said.

Mia frowned. “
What
is? Mrs. Borne, what—”

“Why, it looks like a
tornado
went through here!” I declared, taking in our most untidy booth.

“We had nothing to do with—”

“Oh, I know you didn’t, dear. It’s the
customers
! Why don’t people have the common decency to put things back the way they
found
them? Have they no
manners
? No couth?”

“Mrs. Borne—”

“No consideration for the owner of the booth, who spends hours—”

“Mrs. Borne! May we
please
continue?”

“Sorry. Mia, dear, I know you’re working and are trying hard to sound all, all…official. But I’ve known you since you were in rompers. Is it really necessary for you to be so stiff and formal?”

Mia said nothing. Her half-lidded eyes gave her a most unflattering sullen look.

I shrugged. “Oh well…. Now, let’s see…yes, there’s an amber vase that’s gone….”