“No criminal,” he said slowly, “seems required to have your mother make a scene. I am told she was talking murder and making inappropriate comments and asking inappropriate questions.”
I gave him a pretend grin. “Yeah, that’s my mother! Would make a pretty decent sitcom, if this were 1958.”
He pointed a finger at me—Uncle Tony Wanted Me. “I won’t have her sticking her nose into police business. I won’t have you helping her, either.”
“I’m not! I don’t even know that she’s . . . doing anything.” I leaned forward and asked, “Can you have a little empathy? Mrs. Norton was a friend, and Mother found the body. Of course that got her going! It was a shock, wasn’t it?”
He just stared at me. “You were helpful with that other case, but I don’t want you making a habit of—”
“Then it was a crime scene! Are you saying this is a murder? Did Mrs. Norton die of something other than a pit bull mauling?”
He closed his eyes. He kept them closed for a long time. When he opened them, he seemed disappointed I was still there.
Then he said, “Brandy, I just finished telling you this matter wasn’t any of your business. And you just asked me a series of questions that are none of your business. They are, in fact, police business.”
“Sorry.”
Tony shook his head, then stood, handing me my purse, which had been taken from me. “Where’s your car?”
I told him it was still back at the mall, and he said he’d drive me there in his.
That may have been the most uncomfortable ride I ever took, me hugging the passenger door, my chauffeur staring stonily ahead. By the time we got to my Buick, I had started to blubber, feeling sorry for myself (since no one else seemed willing to) .
When I snuffled snot, he snapped, “Do you have to do that?”
“I . . . I don’t have a tissue.”
He reached into his coat pocket, handed me a tissue, and I blew my nose, with a honk his car horn might have envied.
Tony was shaking his head again, but more sad than disgusted. “I don’t get you, Brandy.... When I first met you, you were professional, focused . . . back when you helped the department initiate our new mental health program.”
“Back when I had a life, you mean.”
“And whose fault is that?” He handed me another tissue. “Here . . . stop crying, you big baby.”
Second person today to accuse me of that.
And I didn’t dare tell the chief that the real reason I was bawling was not his lectures about my behavior at the mall and my enabling of my would-be detective mother, rather that . . .
. . . I didn’t get my David Yurman ring!
I blew my nose again, and promised I’d try to behave myself. Tony spared me any parting words of advice, and I made my escape out the passenger door.
Standing in the parking lot, I watched the chief drive away, then went to my car, where a piece of paper was stuck under one of the wipers.
I opened the note, which read Brandy—I bought you the ring you were looking at. We’ll settle up later. Love, Tina.
I let out a whoop-de-do! What a pal!
My spirits lifted, I hopped in my car and was about to start it when my attention was drawn to a man and woman inside a blue Cadillac, idling a few spaces away. I couldn’t make out their words, but they were having what seemed to be a terrific argument.
The woman, behind the wheel, had her back mostly to me, but the man was visible. Over forty, with greasy black hair, and a two-day growth of beard, he might have been attractive if his face weren’t contorted in anger.
Suddenly, the woman threw the Cadillac in gear and pulled away. As she glided by, my mouth dropped.
The woman was Bernice, Mother’s old friend turned archenemy.
Who, as far as I knew, had long been a widow....
Was the younger man a paramour? Or a pro-tégé from the playhouse turned lover?
I shrugged, not really interested.
But Mother would be.
And I was too good a daughter not to tell her.
A Trash ’n’ Treasures Tip
If you’ve acquired so many antiques and collectibles over the years that you’ve had to rent several storage units, it’s time to admit you have a problem and seek professional help. (One storage unit is acceptable.)
Chapter Eight
Throw in the Trowel
Mother insists on having her own chapter, to help offset what she feels is an otherwise one-sided depiction of herself “through the Brandy end of the telescope,” as she puts it.
So here it is, but I feel obligated to warn you that she is not always a reliable source of information. In fact she’s seldom reliable. Also, since I have no control over what Mother will say or do, I apologize beforehand to anyone she may offend.
Including me.
My poor, darling daughter—stress and medication do take their toll—had taken my grandson Jake hiking that morning, out at scenic Wild Cat Den State Park. I only hoped the fresh air and exercise would do her good, thinking the dear girl needed to get a grip on herself before going off the deep end.
(On the other hand, I of course didn’t tell Brandy—not wanting to encourage her antisocial behavior—that in my heart of hearts I could only applaud her standing up to that snobby Connie. In fact, any time she wants to pick a fight with any of Peggy Sue’s friends, it’s fine by me . . . they all act so high and mighty and holier than thou. My only regret about that unfortunate incident at the mall was that I wasn’t there to see it, or perhaps pitch in and help Brandy. But you didn’t hear that here.... )
After tending to Sushi, who seems to need an outdoor potty break every hour on the hour (probably because she drinks like a fish), I fetched my pocketbook and wrap and headed out the door into the crisp fall morning.
It took a mere three-block stroll to catch the Serenity Trolley, an old electric converted-to-gasoline streetcar (shouldn’t we be considering the opposite transformation these days?), owned by the downtown merchants.
The trolley is free, but a person can only travel downtown (and back), the idea being to spend one’s hard-earned dollars with those friendly retailers who’d provided the ride. If ever I did want to go someplace off the beaten trolley-track, however, the driver would usually comply, always seeming to be glad to drop me off anywhere at any time.
Mrs. Roxanne Randolf had formerly driven the trolley, until one afternoon she arrived home unexpectedly only to catch her husband in bed with a neighbor young enough to be his daughter. On the spot, Roxanne swore she would take the unfaithful wretch for all he was worth—which she did, only that wasn’t much because the unfaithful wretch’s business was making and selling ceramic lighthouses out of their basement.
Anyway, after the divorce Roxanne joined her sister in Tucson, having packed up a considerable stockpile of ceramic lighthouses, which they soon began selling out of their basement, to great success, I hear. The last I heard they were making their own new and improved models, which is a good thing, because the one I bought right before Roxanne left town went on the fritz, the little light shorting in and out, which in a real lighthouse could lead to shipwrecks, and takes much of the charm out of owning a little ceramic lighthouse at all. (But I digress.)
Maynard Kirby now drives the trolley. Retired from the fish hatchery, Maynard tells everyone who’ll listen (and many who don’t) that he only took the job because he was bored at home, but I happen to know he needs the money because his wife lost, if you’ll pardon the pun, a boatload gambling on the River Queen last summer, forcing the Kirbys to take out a second mortgage on their home. (Have you noticed that gamblers love to tell you how much they’ve won, but almost never share the unfortunate details of what they’ve lost?)
I climbed aboard, exchanged pleasantries with Maynard, then managed to find a seat on the crowded trolley, which is always full nowadays due to the high gasoline prices. When we made another stop for passengers, I gave up my seat to Billie Buckly the town l
ittle person—or is “height-challenged person” the correct term these days for a midget?
This magnanimous gesture on my part was for two reasons: standing Billie and Billie’s standing. First, I had once seen the trolley brake suddenly and send a standing Billie flying through the air like a tiny rocketman, sans parachute; and second, I was paying respect to Billie’s local standing—he was practically royalty because his linage went back to the original Barnum & Baily Circus; plus, he had a great-uncle who’d been in The Wizard of Oz (playing a Munchkin) .
The trolley, arriving downtown, drew up in front of the beautiful old courthouse, the very same historical structure that the aesthetically challenged of Serenity seek to tear down over my dead body. Here, everyone disembarked, and I hoofed it another three blocks to Hunter’s Hardware Store.
Hunter’s hadn’t changed since I wore bloomers, and I don’t mean in the production we did four years ago of Meet Me in St. Louis. Except for the prices, which have skyrocketed, time stands still in this lovely combination hardware store and tavern, with its wonderful wooden floor, classic tin ceiling, and many original Victorian fixtures.
In the back of the elongated space was a scarred mahogany bar and a few tables, an area that could accommodate a good twenty patrons. Hunter’s had been serving up liquor and chain saws for years, and it could get quite exciting when a brawl broke out at the bar and moved into the hardware section.
Junior—the owner—was behind the counter at the moment, polishing tumblers. Fifty years ago, his nickname had accurately described him, back when there were people on the planet who actually remembered the senior who’d preceded him. But now he was balding and paunchy, with rheumy eyes and a mottled nose. He offered up his endearingly grotesque bucktoothed smile as soon as he spotted me.
“Hello, Vivian. . . . Your usual?”
“Please,” I said, taking one of the torn leather counter stools. “But only one cherry this time.... I’m watching my figure.”
“Who isn’t?” Junior chortled, and I wasn’t sure how to take that. He turned his back to assemble my drink, and—just in case he’d been flirting—I asked, “How’s Mary?”
“Oh, the missus is fine . . . she’s really getting the hang of the new leg.”
Junior’s wife lost her limb in a freak accident while visiting the Jaws attraction at Universal Studios some years back. They got a nice settlement, but spent it all on buying this place, and Mary had to settle for a less than top-of-the-line prosthetic—specifically, a wooden leg the ever-thrifty Junior ran across in a junk shop. (Apparently an eye patch and a parrot weren’t available.)
Mary had been game, at first, but her wooden leg kept falling off at the most inappropriate moments—once at the top of an escalator, bouncing all the way to the bottom, kicking another woman on its merry way down—so I took up a collection to buy Mary a more modern prosthetic. With the limited budget my best efforts accumulated, I felt lucky to find something appropriate on eBay.
Of course, no good deed goes unpunished. I’d been confused as to which limb Mary needed—as the kids say, my bad!—and for a while there, she ended up with two left legs, which can not only make it difficult buying shoes, but tends to lead to a lot of walking around in circles.
The happy ending was that Junior was finally shamed into taking Mary for a real fitting and getting an actual prosthetic for the right (that is, correct) leg. So my efforts were well worth the trouble!
But I digress....
The only other person at the bar at this early morning hour was Henry, a once-prominent surgeon who, after a couple of belts of bourbon to steady his hands, removed a patient’s gall-bladder, which went swimmingly, except it was supposed to be an emergency appendectomy.
Needless to say, Henry lost his license, and has been a barfly at Hunter’s ever since. (I once organized an intervention at my house to get him off the booze, but Henry arrived with four six-packs of what he described as “pop” and turned out to be wine coolers, and the last thing I remember we were all sitting around singing “Row, Row, Row Your Boat,” but not as a round.)
Junior set my cherry-bobbing Shirley Temple in front of me. “I suppose there’s no sense in asking,” he asked, “but you did read in the paper about Mrs. Norton . . . ?”
I took a dainty sip of my drink. “No, I did not.”
“You didn’t?” Junior’s cloudy eyes suddenly cleared; the old goat thought he had the latest news on me. “Since when does a juicy local death get past Vivian Borne?”
“Why should I bother reading about it,” I said, nonchalantly, “when I found the body?”
Junior’s mouth dropped. “You don’t say!”
I frowned. “Wasn’t that in the paper?”
“No. Just said two of the ‘merchants’ at the antiques mall made the discovery. Have you joined the ranks of local merchants, Viv?”
Henry lifted his head above the rim of his whiskey glass. “You found the old gurrl?” he slurred.
I shrugged, indifferently, stirring my drink with a cherry stem.
Junior said, impatiently, “Well . . . spill, Vivian!”
“I thought you read all about it in the Sentinel .”
“That write-up said next to nothin’! How did she die? The paper didn’t say.”
The Serenity Sentinel, it seemed, had mentioned very little, particularly if I’d been left out of the coverage. But perhaps that was my fault . . . I should have called one of the paper’s newshounds and given a personal interview.
Live and learn.
Henry hiccuped. “Yeaaaah, Viv. Tell us, why don’tcha?”
I had to admit, dear reader, that I was disappointed my only audience was Junior and the hapless Henry . . . but the show must go on, whether playing to a full house or just a couple of rubes ensconced in the front row.
So I launched into a detailed account of discovering Mrs. Norton’s mauled body. When I’d finished, I was pleased with my performance . . . they could take the old girl out of the theater, but they couldn’t take the theater out of the old girl!
Of course, I left out Brandy’s foolish theory about two pit bulls, and downplayed my own suspicions. I didn’t have a thing to go on, after all—it did seem that Mrs. Norton most likely had been mauled by her formerly faithful pet.
Still, the Vivian Borne “Spidey Sense” remained a-tingle. . . .
Junior shook his head. “That fool woman,” he said. “A pit bull ain’t no substitute for a security system.”
“Too bad no one advised her of such,” I said.
His head shaking continued but picked up speed. “Oh, Viv, I knew all about it, her pit bull ‘security’ . . . we all did, in the Downtown Merchants Association. Some even tried to talk her out of using that damn dog, sayin’ it would lay her open to a lawsuit if the animal ever attacked somebody . . . . But she wouldn’t hear of it.”
Henry was also shaking his head. “Fell in a pit, did she? Imagine that!”
Junior sighed. “Darn shame . . . that antiques mall was a nice addition to the downtown. And Mrs. Norton was a nice lady, taught a lot of us in this town everything we know about math. What’s to become of the business?”
“I expect to find out this afternoon,” I said. “I’m supposed to go there shortly to take an inventory of our booth.”
“Let me know, will you?” Junior asked. “I’d like to tell the members at our next association meeting.”
I assured him that I would, then abruptly changed the subject. “Say, Junior . . . Brandy saw Bernice out with a young man yesterday.” I did my best to make the inquiry sound as casual as possible. “Don’t happen to know who he is, do you?”
Junior’s bushy eyebrows crawled up his forehead like caterpillars trying to flee his face. “Can’t say that I do.... I thought you and Bernice were on the outs?”
“We’re not as close as we once were, that’s true. Or I wouldn’t have to ask you who that young man is, would I?”
Henry contributed to the conversation by belchi
ng. Junior picked up. “But I do know Bernice was seeing Ivan for a while.”
Ivan, a widower about my age (the exact number of years of which I share only on a Need to Know basis, and you do not need to know), had once been a mayor of Serenity. He did not seem likely to be the “young man” Brandy had mentioned.
Still, I asked, “Was? Know what happened to break up the budding romance?”
Junior shrugged. “He called it off, I know that much. Ivan never did say why . . . but you know what I think? I bet she started talking marriage, and scared the old boy off.”
Henry slid off his stool. “Bernice, huh? Saw her at the possst office . . . ’fore she come to town. . . .”
I watched Henry stagger back to the bathroom, then turned to Junior. “Something must be done about that poor man. . . . He’s losing his mind, Junior, and you’re the enabler!”
Junior sighed. “I know . . . but if I refuse to serve him, he just goes someplace else. At least here I can keep his drinks watered, and see that he gets home in one pickled piece.”
I nodded. “Do you happen to know where the Romeos are having lunch today?”
Junior thought so hard I was afraid the vein on his temple might burst. Then: “Say, you might check that new vegetarian restaurant on Chestnut and Main. I heard ’em saying they were going to give it a try.”
“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. . . .”
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