Antiques Maul (20 page)

That was a little redundant, wasn’t it?

“He’s in his car.”

“In his
car
?”

I wasn’t in a hurry, about filling her in. Roger and Brian should be here any moment, right?

Right?

“What is Lyle doing in his car, you dolt? Start making sense or—”

“He’s locked in the trunk.” I thought it best not to elaborate, such as mentioning sonny boy’s shot-up foot.

Bernice shook her head, gray arcs of hair swinging like scythes. “That
idiot
!” she said.

Seemed like everybody was a dolt or an idiot or a moron to the director of the Serenity playhouse.

Raging, eyes wild, she all but yelled, “I
knew
I should have handled this myself!”

I risked a tiny shrug. “Look, Bernice, you’ve got what you want—that gun—and I’ve got my son…. I’ve told you where
your
son is, and I assure you he’s alive and…so why don’t we just write this off to a couple of moms under a good deal of stress, and just call it a day? Morning. Whatever.”

“You’re an even less convincing actress than your ridiculous mother,” she said with a sneer. “Well, even if I believed you, it’s not that simple. Not now that you’ve seen me, here…now that you know my son took
your
son. You tell me, Brandy Borne—if
your
son faced the kind of penalties that a kidnapping brings, would you—”

I lunged for the gun.

A shot shattered the silence, echoing off rafters, seemingly making every board in the old building groan.

And Bernice Wiley, knocked back a step, gasped and dropped the gun, which clunked heavily to the wooden floor. Frightened and aghast and confused, she stared down at the splotchy red circle on the left side of her blouse.

A second shot sent the woman staggering back, her skirt splashed green now.

“Hit ’er
again
, Grandma!” Jake whooped.

Still in witch’s drag, Mother, holding Jake’s paint gun, complied with her grandson’s wishes, and hit Bernice with a shot in the forehead, which caused the kind of expression to bloom that in the old cartoons was usually accompanied by tweeting birdies. Appropriately, Bernice’s face was now splattered a gaudy purple.

“Nice
shot
, Grandma!” Jake called.

“I rather thought so,” Mother said, comically blowing on the end of the paint gun.

Bernice was staggering, only to finally lose her balance and sit down, hard, legs sprawled, clearly dazed.

As I untied Jake, I asked Mother, “How did you know where to find us?”

Mother was stooping to retrieve the real gun from the floor where it had tumbled from the paintball-assaulted Bernice’s fingers.

“Elementary, my dear Brandy,” Mother said with a patronizing smile. “I simply followed you in my own car, as soon as you left the house.”

Jake, quickly and gladly getting to his feet, said, “But you’re not supposed to drive, Grandma.”

Mother said, “Perhaps the court will take exception in this case. After all, it was an emergency. Anyway, Jake, you will learn that certain of society’s laws are more…guidelines.” Then she added cheerfully, “But driving again was really a treat—I’ll have to get myself one of those souped-up club cars like the other girls!”

“If you do, Grandma,” Jake said, rubbing a wrist where duct tape had been, “you can have my GPS, and then you’ll never get lost.”

Mother came over and patted her grandson’s head. “Why, how sweet, Jake…but, frankly, I’d rather have something else of yours.”

Jake raised his eyebrows.

Mother held up the paint gun. “This powerful little baby! It’s more fun than driving, any day!”

Mother hugged Jake, and I hugged Mother and Jake.

Then Mother broke away from us and crossed over to Bernice, still sitting on her keister, wiping purple paint out of her eyes with the tail of her blouse.

Mother stared down at Bernice and, in her best Bette Davis voice, said, “Well! How the mighty-full-of-themselves have fallen. Looks like
I’ll
be the new director of the playhouse now! On the other hand, I’ve never seen you look better—
real
color in your cheeks, for a change.”

Bernice, looking defeated beneath the purple paint, said, “I loathe you, Vivian Borne. I’ve always loathed you.”

Mother sniffed. “How terribly unkind. I’ve always rather liked you. It was merely your acting I loathed. As long as I’ve known you, Bernice, you’ve been a bad actor—but
this
bad act…helping your son kidnap my grandson? You’ve outdone yourself.”

“Mother,” I said, tugging on her sleeve. “Let’s go. We’ll leave the colorful diva here for the police.”

“Yeah, Grandma, come on,” Jake huffed. “Let’s leave
her
to the law!”

As we exited the mill and stepped out into the cool, crisp morning, we found a sun shining brightly and a sky as blue as a robin’s egg and, best of all, a small regiment mostly in shades of brown that came loping down the sloping lawn toward us: County sheriff, state troopers, along with Brian and Roger in plainclothes.

Jake broke into a run.

Roger, tears rolling down his face, did likewise, and father and son embraced.

Forehead tight with concern, Brian strode over to me. “Brandy, you’re all right?”

I nodded. “We’re all fine…but there’s a woman inside—the kidnapper’s accomplice—who might possibly need some medical attention.”

Mother said proudly, “I pelted her with a paint gun. Three times! Might have knocked a little sense into her, but mostly just painted her the felon she is. Right about now that woman is as harmless…
Oh!
Who wants
this?
”

And she held out the real gun by two fingers on its snout, distastefully, as if the weapon were a dead mouse she had by its tail.

The sheriff himself took charge of the thing, and I was shaking my head and laughing a little when someone right behind me barked: “
Brandy!
”

Startled, I turned and beheld a familiar figure in khaki and green-and-black war paint, his eyes glittering: Joe Lange.

“Can I be of assistance?” he asked crisply.

“Well, uh…no. But thanks. The sheriff and the police are taking care of the situation.”

Frowning, his eyes swiftly scanned the perimeter. “What went down?”

“I, uh, rescued my son from a kidnapper, Joe.”

“Outstanding!”

Bernice Wiley was being walked out of the mill by deputies.

I pointed. “And that’s his accomplice, over there—see her, lady with the paint splotches?”

“Affirmative.”

“Well, she was the kidnapper’s accomplice. His mother actually. And my mother helped disarm and capture her.”

He called over to Mother: “
Mrs. Borne!
”

Eyes blinking behind the thick lenses, Mother said, “Why, Joseph! Nice to see you. Lovely war paint, I might say.”

“Thank you, ma’am! Just wanted to say, first-rate job!”

Mother, oblivious of how weird she looked in the witch’s dress, touched her hair and blushed. “Why, thank you, Joseph. Means a lot, coming from you.”

Joe turned to me and said, “Everything seems to be squared away. But if you ever need me, I’ll be there.”

“Right, Joe. Like the wind.”

He smiled tightly, saluted, and said, “Remember, Brandy, I’ve always got your back!”

“Nice to know,” I said.

And Joe took off running, in a half crouch.

Both Brian and Roger were looking at me.

“Don’t ask,” I said.

A Trash ’n’ Treasures Tip

When having a garage sale, be sure to lock up your house. A lady I know was thrilled when she sold most of her unwanted garage sale items…until she went inside and discovered her entire collection of Hummel figurines had been stolen while she was busy with customers. There are all kinds of collectors in this world.

L
ess than an hour after returning home from Pine Creek Gristmill, Mother—still in the witch’s dress, which suited her sense of melodrama—was serving up a hearty breakfast buffet off an old dry sink in our dining room to a large and hungry group consisting of Brian, Roger, Jake, Peggy Sue, and myself, all salivating (in the most genteel fashion, of course) around the Duncan Phyfe table.

As Mother placed a plate of her famous crepes with boysenberries and powdered sugar in front of Brian, she said, somewhat disappointedly, “Too bad the sheriff and his deputies couldn’t join us…the more the merrier, I always say….”

Mother, of course, would’ve loved to have a larger audience for the “Big Reveal,” i.e., the explanation she had promised us of what had transpired over the last few days. With all of the Nero Wolfe audios we’d been listening to lately, not to mention the Stout novels the Red-Hatted League had been reading, I figured we were in for one of what Archie Goodwin called Wolfe’s “charades.”

Brian managed to look up from the steaming, fragrant plate to smile wryly. “Why do I think
I’m
here, just so you can pump me for information, Mrs. Borne?”

Mother, taking no serving for herself and then settling into the only empty chair at the table (at the head, of course), pretended to be hurt.

“Why, Officer Lawson,” she said, “I’m dismayed that you question my motives…. As a matter of fact, I just may be able to tell
you
a thing or two about the murder of Mrs. Norton, and the kidnapping of Jake—which are related, of course.”

Brian blinked and said, “We’ve been working on the Norton case as a homicide, but we haven’t released that fact to the media. How did you deduce the mauling was a murder?”

Mother had blossomed into a smile at the officer’s use of the word “deduce.”

“Now, let’s not get ahead of ourselves, young man. Eat your breakfast—we’ll save crow for dessert.”

Brian shook his head, laughed good-naturedly, and dug in.

“If you don’t mind, Viv,” Roger said, looking stern, “I’d like to start. I want to ask my son just what he was doing with that gun”—he shifted from Mother to Jake—“and how did you
get
it?”

All eyes went to Jake, who choked on a mouthful of food—whether the bite was too big, or guilt had tightened his gullet, I won’t venture to say.

Jake swallowed, then said sheepishly, “I…I didn’t take it or anything. I
found
it.”

His father, still stern, demanded, “
Where
did you find it?”

“In that cigar store Indian statue thing. It has a secret compartment and stuff. Ask Mom.”

I said crossly, “I
distinctly
remember asking you if anything
else
was in there besides the statue’s cigar.”

Jake spread his hands, a fork in one. “I didn’t lie to you, Mom. I
didn’t
say, ‘No, there isn’t anything else in there,’ I said, ‘Do you
see
anything else in there?’”

Nobody can split hairs like a ten-year-old.

“You mean
after
you’d already removed the gun,” I said.

“Well…yeah. But it still wasn’t a lie, right?”

“Not technically,” I said. “But you misled me, on purpose, which is the same thing.”

Jake shot back, “Well, you
did
take my paint gun away!”

“Son,” Roger said sharply, “you know a real gun is hardly a paint gun.”

“Well, yeah. Sure. I just…it was an impulse, okay? I know I shouldn’t have done it, but after I did it, what could I do about it?”

That, too, was the kind of bewildering but at heart utterly accurate statement that only a ten-year-old could make.

His father said, “Your mother did the right thing, taking that paint gun away—you shot it inside, at that helpless dog, didn’t you?”

Jake’s eyes were starting to tear up.

I gave Roger a look, and he said to his son, “Jake…I’m not going to beat up on you. All I ask is you reflect on one thing—that none of this would have happened if you hadn’t taken that weapon.”

His chin crinkling, Jake said, “You mean you’re not gonna beat up on me except saying that everything’s all my fault!”

Mother jumped to her grandson’s defense. “Just a moment…let’s not forget who is
really
to blame—a certain Lyle Wiley, who hid the gun in the statue in the first place, believing it to be a safe hiding place…. And imagine his surprise when, after his recent return from a stay up the river, he discovered that not only had his mother, Bernice, given
me
that statue, but Brandy and I had put it in our booth to sell.”

I said, “So your suspicions were right, Mother—Lyle Wiley killed Mrs. Norton.”

My sister’s forehead creased. “Didn’t a pit bull do that?” she asked. “How can a mauling by an animal be a murder?”

Mother was shaking her head. “Lyle broke into the antiques mall to retrieve the gun, only to have Mrs. Norton interrupt him in the act. He killed the poor woman by hitting her on the head with an antique iron—which he snatched from nearby booth number twelve. Then he used an old hand rake—from booth fourteen—to make it appear as if the bit bull had mauled her to death.”

“My God,” Roger said.

“How awful,” Peggy Sue murmured.

“
The Scarlet Claw
,” I said.

Everybody looked at me curiously, except Mother, whose smile was knowing.

I said, “Last night Mother referred to
The Scarlet Claw
—it’s an old Sherlock Holmes movie with Basil Rathbone. You see—”

“
Spoiler alert
!” Mother blurted.

I sighed and went on: “The murderer used a garden implement to imitate the claw of a Baskervilles-type hound, and divert blame and attention from himself.”

Peggy Sue mused aloud, “Whatever was Mrs. Norton doing there so late at night?”

Mother waved a dismissive hand. “Maybe she was still somewhere in the building and had never gone home that evening. She was a workhorse, cleaning and putting up signs and generally being a benign mother hen…or perhaps someone called her about seeing a light on in the building and she went to investigate…we may never know. Have you learned anything on that score, Officer Lawson?”

“No,” he admitted. “But Mrs. Norton
was
known to work there late at night, doing just the sort of things you said. It was a new business and she was putting her all into it.”

Roger asked, “Then why didn’t the dog attack Lyle?”

Jake, his tears a memory, popped in with a possible answer. “I saw this movie once? Where a bad guy got past a guard dog by feedin’ ’im a steak.”

“Very astute,” Mother said proudly to her grandson. “But in this case the bribe of food was not just a temporary distraction. Lyle drugged whatever-it-was that he fed Brad Pit Bull.”

Peggy Sue asked, “Is that a guess, Mother?”

“No. Jane at the animal shelter stated that the dog had been sedated before he was brought to her. And Brandy and I saw how sluggishly he acted when we discovered Mrs. Norton’s body—mutilated by the most vicious animal on earth—a human being.”

Mother paused for the melodrama to sink in; then she smiled slyly at Brian. “How am I doing, Officer Lawson?”

Brian, a piece of sausage halfway to his mouth, paused to say, “Fine, Mrs. Borne. Very impressive performance, so far.”

Mother’s smile broadened as she basked in the praise. Then she frowned. “But what I
don’t
understand is the importance of the gun….” Her eyes were trained on Brian. “Perhaps I need to share the stage with you for a moment, Officer.”

Brian rested his fork on his mostly clean plate. “I suppose this is where I sing for my breakfast.”

Mother said sweetly, “A brief but telling solo, if you don’t mind.”

He sighed. “Well, I guess I can limit myself to a supporting role…but only because these are the best crepes I’ve ever eaten.”

Everyone waited with boysenberry-crepe-bated breath.

Brian, dabbing his mouth with a napkin, sat back in his chair. “The gun was very important to Lyle—easily important enough to risk kidnapping Jake here, to get it back. You see, Lyle had used it to kill his partner after a bank robbery some years ago, and if the weapon was found, it could tie him directly to that murder, a crime on which there is no statute of limitation.”

Murmurs all around.

Brian went on, “After the robbery, the getaway car was traced to Lyle’s mother’s home in Kansas City. But before law enforcement could apprehend him—and with his mother nowhere around—he had a chance to hide the gun where he thought it would be safe until he could retrieve it again.”

“In the secret compartment in the cigar store Indian!” I said. I leaned an elbow on the table and rested my chin in my hand. “Then Bernice must not have known the gun was in the statue…or else she would never have given it to Mother!”

Peggy Sue said, “So Lyle didn’t trust her? His own mother?”

“Possibly,” Brian said. “Or maybe he felt it wise that she not know where the gun could be found, and thus implicate herself.”

Sis muttered, “The lengths parents will go to, to protect a child.”

Roger and I looked at each other; the irony was not lost on either of us.

Eyes tight with thought, Mother said, “There may be another reason for Bernice’s ignorance of the gun’s hiding place—her son never had the chance to tell her. She was not home when he was apprehended, and any visits they had at the prison were monitored, just as all mail was censored.”

Jake asked, “What happened to the money stolen from the bank robbery? Maybe it’s in the statue, too—in another compartment—and it’s finders keepers!”

Brian laughed and shook his head. “Sorry, Jake, the cash was recovered years ago, in Lyle’s possession—he took it all after double-crossing his partner. And, uh, by the way—finders keepers doesn’t exactly work like that, in bank robbery situations.”

I asked, “So what happens to Lyle now?”

Brian said, “He’ll be charged with murdering his partner, and with kidnapping your son.” He sighed deeply and frowned. “But there’s one unresolved aspect about that robbery…the identity of the person who waited in the getaway car, while Lyle and his buddy went into the bank. A witness passing by claimed it was a middle-aged woman.”

Mother slammed both palms on the table, causing everyone to jump and every dish to rattle. “
Bernice!
”

Once again, all eyes were on her.

“
That’s
what poor Henry meant! Remember, Brandy? He told me at Hunter’s that he’d seen Bernice at the post office
before
she came to town, which I felt was merely one more of Henry’s rambling drunken manglings of the King’s English. He must have recognized Bernice from a wanted poster in the post office lobby!”

Roger asked, “Then why didn’t this Henry come forward, when he thought he’d spotted a wanted woman?”

Brian said, embarrassed, “I, uh…believe that he did. She only moved to Serenity a few years ago, and I seem to recall that Henry stumbled into the station spouting a bunch of what we thought was drunken nonsense. We sent him on his way with the city’s thanks.”

Peggy Sue made a scoffing sound. “Surely the police who picked up Lyle at his mother’s house would’ve quickly tracked Bernice down. They would have had descriptions of the female bank-robbery accomplice.”

Mother raised a gently scolding finger to her older daughter. “You forget, Peggy Sue—Bernice Wiley, if indeed that is her real name, is an actress, albeit not a very good one, and a terrible ham.”

No one at the table gave in to the temptation to say,
Takes one to know one.

Mother was saying, “Bernice could quickly change her looks with a wig and stage makeup.” She shrugged. “And besides, folks don’t usually think of someone’s mother being a wheelman at a bank heist…even though Ma Barker made the Ten Most Wanted list in her day, with great regularity.”

“Well,” I said, “it certainly explains why no one in Serenity seemed to know anything about Bernice’s past.”

Brian, who was looking at Mother with the same expression many an audience member had (a sort of appalled admiration), said, “Mrs. Borne, I think your theory that Bernice was involved with her son in that robbery just might have validity…. And if it does—”

“There’ll be a reward?” Jake interrupted.

Brian laughed. “I was going to say ‘You’d have the sincere gratitude of the Serenity PD,’ but I can see where money would be better. But the bank’s cash was returned, and I’m afraid no reward was posted.”

The doorbell rang. Which made sense, coming at the end of Mother’s Nero Wolfe charade….

Mother jumped up from the table, announcing, “Ah! Just in time…our cozy little family of three expands to four.”

I didn’t like the sound of that; neither did Peggy Sue, and we exchanged alarmed looks.