My response was a witty grunt. I nodded to the smaller box. “And what’s in there? Vivian and Brandy bobbleheads?”
The slightly magnified eyes behind the lenses grew even larger. “No, but that is a fine idea! Now you’re thinking! Uh, that smaller box contains your T-shirts.”
I lifted an eyebrow. “Obviously you’re assuming I’ll sell less shirts than you.”
“I’m just being realistic, dear. Television is about personalities! And I have one.”
I reared back as if just hit by a cream pie.
Before I could recover, the phone rang on the counter. I answered it, forcing my voice into pleasantness. “Trash ‘n’ Treasures . . .”
“Brandy? This is Vanessa.”
Oh, crap! Vanessa as in Mrs. Wesley Sinclair III. In a rush of words, I said, “Vanessa, I want to apologize again for—”
“Brandy, I’m calling you to ask if you’ll forgive me for my rude behavior today. ”
Wait, what?
She went on, “I was way out of line. Wes explained the whole thing to me.” She paused. “I was wondering if you could come over to our house. . . .”
I didn’t have the time or the wardrobe for that. “Vanessa, really, you don’t need to apologize in person or anything . . .”
“No, no, that’s not it. I have some collectibles that you might be interested in for your shop. You could buy them or I could even consign them. Just some things that need to go.”
“What are they?”
“Old beer signs, mostly—some going back to the nineteen-fifties. I understand a few of these are really quite rare.”
“Well, yes, I am interested. We could use some man-type stuff in the shop.”
“Great! Is there any chance you could come over now? You know where we live?”
“Oh, sure, of course.” The renovation of the Sinclair homestead had been a topic of town gossip for years.
“See you soon,” Vanessa said cheerfully, ending the call.
Mother, her interest piqued by hearing my end of the conversation, sidled over like a cat sensing a mouse. “Now whatever was that about?”
“Just a minor misunderstanding,” I said. And, side-stepping the swap meet incident, I said, “Vanessa Sinclair wants to sell us some vintage beer signs.”
“Whoa!” Mother’s eyebrows climbed above her large glasses, threatening her hairline. “Voon-der-bar! Rich folks have high-end trinkets! I’ll get my purse.”
I held up a stop hand. “Aren’t you forgetting that someone needs to watch the store? Joe is off on maneuvers.”
Mother frowned. “Oh, horse doodle! I’ve always wanted to see the interior of that house.”
The Sinclair place was one of the few interesting homes in town she hadn’t managed to invade. But so far, she hadn’t been able to finagle her way inside.
Her usual ploy was to ring the doorbell collecting for some charity, pretending to feel faint before asking to come in for a glass of water. But either the Sinclairs had never been at home for her road-show production, or perhaps they had seen who was loitering on their doorstep.
I patted Mother’s arm. “Look, I’ll go over there now and take photos of the beer signs, then come back so we can research their value on the Internet. Then. . . after the shop closes . . . we’ll go back out there together, and make Vanessa an offer.”
Mother clapped her hands. “Goody goody!” she sang, adding a few more of the Johnny Mercer lyrics, first pointing to me, then to herself.
Oh brother.
With Mother appeased, I headed out to the Caddy.
One might assume that Wes and Vanessa, with their considerable wealth, would live in a modern mansion in the most exclusive area of Serenity. But they didn’t—Wes had inherited his grandfather’s Mulberry Avenue home, known as Sinclair House. Not that the homestead was anything to sniff at—the three-story, beige-brick French provincial had once been the grandest residence on that side of town, dwarfing its much more modest neighbors.
As I mentioned, Sinclair House had been a topic of town gossip, because Wes and (really) Vanessa—evidently dissatisfied with the home’s lack of twenty-first century sprawl—had spent a fortune on new additions. And these additions came at the expense of the neighbors on either side of their property.
Vanessa made the two owners offers they couldn’t refuse, particularly with the latest Sinclair wings breathing down on them, and then promptly tore those houses down.
Which was a shame, really, because both were fine architectural examples of the Prairie School style, designed by Walter Burley Griffin in the 1930s. Their destruction not only infuriated Mother and her cronies at the Historical Preservation Society, but neighbors across the street, who had to put up with ongoing construction noise and dust and traffic backup.
But all was quiet at the moment on Mulberry Avenue, Vanessa at least temporarily sated by her latest expansion.
I pulled the Caddy into their driveway, passing beneath a pretentiously ornate black wrought-iron archway with a large S, then along a circular drive and up to the pillared porch.
Two huge Grecian urns overflowing with flowers stood on either side of the front door like sentries. I located the doorbell and pressed it.
Chimes sounded like Big Ben, and I repressed an amused smirk, in case I was being watched from a window.
Then the mistress of the mansion opened the door, and greeted me warmly. “Brandy! Thanks for coming by on such short notice.”
She had changed out of the pink floral sundress into something more casual—at least her idea of more casual: a silk yellow blouse, white dress slacks, and black flats. An ensemble retailing at around a cool thousand.
“No problem,” I said, slipping past her as she held the door open.
Her perfume was Dior—too expensive for my pocketbook, but I recognized it from when I rubbed myself with a sample insert from Vogue magazine.
I followed Vanessa through the huge black-and-white marbled entryway, skirting a center mahogany table, its gleaming top home to a large blue-and-white Chinese vase with a beautifully arranged assortment of fresh flowers.
As we passed the lavish living room, I paused for a look. The vast room, with its eclectic, expensive furnishings, could rival any movie star’s Beverly Hills mansion.
“Lovely,” I said. “Did you do the decorating yourself?”
“Yes,” she said with a proud little smile. “If I love it and I want it, I get it.”
She said this lightly, jokingly, but I sensed it was her credo in life.
We walked on, passing a formal dining room with a sparkling chandelier and expensive oriental rug, into a kitchen as big as our living room. Bigger.
The kitchen was one of the new additions. It had a slightly Southwestern feel with its terra cotta-tiled floor, colorful wall tiles, and bright floral curtains. A center island had its own sink and oven, over which hung copper pans of every size and style.
I walked over to the breakfast nook that looked out over a swimming pool and tennis court.
“You’re just a nine-hole golf course short of a country club,” I kidded.
Behind me Vanessa, stone serious, said, “Funny you should mention that—I’m negotiating with the people in back of us. Shall we take the elevator?”
“There’s an elevator?”
She gestured with a hand. “Over there—so much easier for older relatives and friends . . . and the caterers, when we entertain downstairs.”
In a corner of the kitchen, we took the elevator to the lower level, stepping off into another gigantic room, this one filled with every kind of home entertainment imaginable: huge wall-mounted TV, pool table, vintage pinball machines, an old jukebox, as well as a well-stocked wet bar.
Party Central!
Behind the bar was an etched mirror of a nude woman with flowing long hair, which, along with the black walls and blood-red carpet, gave the room a slightly disturbing San Francisco bordello feel.
Vanessa asked, “Would you like to se
e our latest acquisition?”
“Sure.” Nothing would surprise me now. Monorail? Teleporter?
She walked me over to a door, and we entered a darkened room.
She flicked on the lights.
“You have your own movie theater!” I gasped.
“Uh-huh. Like it?”
What was not to like? The huge silver screen, the red theater curtains, ceiling-mounted projector, wall-mounted speakers fore and aft, recliner-like theater seats on graduated risers, the movie-reel print carpet. . . and the midnight-blue ceiling even had twinkling electric stars. . . .
It’s good to be the king. And queen.
Not quite knowing what to say, I blurted, “You certainly have everything.”
“No one does, really,” she said with a wistful shrug, but didn’t elaborate.
Filling the awkward silence, I asked, “Where are the beer signs? Not that I expected them in here . . .”
“Oh. Yes. Wes’s man cave. Follow me.”
Ah, the mystique of a male’s private domain.
We went through a door next to the bar into a “cave” that didn’t really contain extravagances on the order of the rest of the house, but was undeniably comfortable-looking. A brown leather couch and matching recliner were positioned in the center of the room in front of a medium-size flat-screen TV on a stand. To the left a large, round oak table with four chairs, and to the right were various storage cabinets. The carpet was an old-fashioned rust-colored shag.
The focal point of the room was a brick fireplace with wide mantel, on which rested a collection of beer steins made of porcelain or pewter, each depicting different woodland scenes, like running stags or grazing boars.
On the wall surrounding the fireplace hung the vintage neon beer signs. While most were familiar even to a non-beer aficionado like me (Budweiser, Pabst Blue Ribbon, Miller High Life), others seemed rather obscure (Kronenbourg, Schoenling, Almus).
Vanessa said, “Some of these go back to Wes’s Columbia days, when he was decorating his frat room at Delta Sigma. Turned into a collection.”
Those were memories that went way back. “You’re sure he wants to sell them?”
She nodded. “He’s into buying autographed sports jerseys now—here, let me get something to show you. . . .”
While I took in the beer signs, Vanessa walked away for a moment, then returned with a large frame, turning it toward me so I could see the stretched and mounted shirt under the glass.
“This was Mickey Mantle’s,” she said, pointing to the signature below the familiar New York Yankees’ logo.
“Wow,” I said. “That is impressive.”
She made a you’re telling me face. “These frames take up a lot of wall space. Wes also has jerseys from DiMaggio, Ted Williams, and Barry Bonds.”
“Must’ve cost a lot,” I said stupidly, feeling like a lowly flea in the company of a magnificent ant.
Her eyebrows went up and down. “You don’t want to know. Anyway, I told him the beer collection had to go.”
I held up a cautionary palm. “And Wes agreed? Just. . .I want to make sure. . . .”
When I was in high school, Mother sold my collection of Barbie dolls without telling me, and I’ve never forgiven her. (Number #317 on the list.)
Vanessa nodded. “Reluctantly, I’ll admit. But even he says it’s time to let them go.” She cocked her head. “We could, reach him on his cell, if you like—he’s at his office, catching up on some work.”
“No, no, no,” I responded quickly, not wanting to give the impression that I didn’t trust her. “Anyway,” I added, “it’s a moot point till we come to terms on a price.”
For the next five minutes or so I used my digital camera and snapped the beer signs both from a distance and up close. Then I told Vanessa I’d be back with Mother after five, and we’d make her an offer.
Like the ones she’d made her neighbors, hopefully ours would be one she couldn’t refuse.
Vanessa led me through a man cave door into the garage, where a white Mercedes minivan was parked.
“When you come back, go on in through the garage,” she instructed. “I’ll have it open.”
We walked around to the front of the house where my Caddy was parked.
“Great wheels!” she said. Finally I’d managed to impress her.
“Thanks. But, really, it’s Mother’s.”
“You know . . .I heard a strange rumor about that car.”
“Oh?”
“That it belonged to a godfather. You know . . . the Sopranos kind?”
“Well, isn’t that ridiculous?” I said pleasantly. Mother was such a blabbermouth.
“Even more so, since what people are saying is that your mother got this ‘godfather’ to cancel a, uh, contract on Tony Cassato . . . and that’s how our ex-chief of police was able to come back.”
“So absurd.” Antiques Con wasn’t out yet.
She touched my arm, smiling a little. “I guess you’re glad he’s back. If you don’t mind my saying.”
I smiled back. “I am. And I don’t.”
“You know, I really do admire you, Brandy.” Darned if she didn’t seem to mean it.
“Really? Why is that?”
She smiled again, shrugged a little. “Takes a special kind of person to be a surrogate mother for her best friend.”
Vanessa was referring to the baby I carried last year for my BFF Tina and her husband Kevin—Tina hadn’t been able to conceive after her bout with cancer.
“Was that . . . difficult for you?” she asked.
“Well, pregnancy is no picnic.”
“I mean . . . giving up the baby.”
“Well . . . yes,” I admitted.
Which was why I had avoided seeing their baby much.
She said, “I could use a friend like you.”
I laughed nervously. “Hope you’re not in the market for a surrogate . . . ’cause that’s a definite been-there, done-that kind of deal.”
She laughed just as nervously. “Goodness, no. I still have options open.”
I turned a hand over. “Well, seriously . . . if those options don’t pan out, I could give you the name of the doctor who—”
“I have my own specialists,” she responded sharply.
I’d overstepped with my new friend. “Oh, sure . . .of course you have.”
Her voice softened. “But. . . thank you, anyway, Brandy.”
“Okay.” I shrugged. Grinned. “Well, I guess I’ll head back and show Mother the photos. Hit the Internet. See you a little after five.”
At the shop, I transferred the photos to the computer, and for the next hour, I googled similar beer signs, Mother hovering over my shoulder.
Most examples had a value ranging from four to five hundred dollars, but the sign from France—Kronenbourg 1664—was rare. I found only one for sale on eBay.
“It’s worth thousands,” Mother said excitedly. “Doesn’t mean anyone’s going to pay that much. Prices are always inflated on eBay. And with only one of ’em posted, we don’t have enough to go on.”
Mother nodded. “You’re right, dear. On Pawn Stars, the customers are always wanting eBay prices—makes The Old Man furious!”
The bell above the shop door tinkled, and a rumpled little guy in his sixties came in wearing a wrinkled shirt and slacks. Perhaps five foot two, with wispy white hair, he wore old-fashioned adhesive-repaired plastic-framed thick-lensed glasses that diminished his eyes to raisins.
I knew him only as Dumpster Dan the Pop-bottle Man (as kids had for years taunted him). He was a fixture around town, cheerfully pushing a shopping cart through alleyways, sifting through Dumpsters for discarded bottles and cans for return deposit. Mother told me he’d once been a brilliant research chemist at Sinclair Consolidated, but at some point had had a nervous breakdown.
“Well, Dan,” Mother said, greeting him, “and how are we faring on our rummage quest today?”
He came toward the counter with a little spring in
his step. “Fine, Mrs. Borne, just fine.”
“Oh, Dan, Vivian, please.”
The man smiled shyly, showing perfect, perfectly yellowed teeth. “Vivian, you’re kind.”
“I strive, dear, I strive. Now, what can I do ya for?”
Dan was carrying a dirty, frayed-cloth shopping bag, and he reached into it. “I can do something for you. Here’s a treasure I found in the trash that I think you might be interested in.” “
What is it?” Mother asked excitedly. She loved surprises and was a grab-bag aficionado.
He placed a porcelain floral teapot on the counter.
Mother picked it up. “Yes, this is lovely,” she said, studying the pot. “But Dan, dear, besides having no lid, I’m afraid there’s no value . . . you see, it’s cracked. A hairline, but a crack.”
The man leaned forward. “Oh . . .I didn’t notice that.”
That I could understand, with those glasses. “You know,” I interjected, “even as is, it would be perfect for holding pens here on the counter . . . don’t you think, Mother?”
“Why, uh . . . yes, yes, dear, I agree. Just what we were looking for, now that you mention it.”
“Would you take four dollars for it?” I asked Dan.
His raisin eyes grew grape-size. “Four dollars!”
“All right, five.”
“Huh? Oh, yes! Absolutely!”
And I fished in the change drawer and withdrew a fin, as we detectives call a five-spot.
As a beaming Dumpster Dan departed, Mother turned to me. “That was a good deed, dear.”
“Hmmm. I hope we didn’t just set a precedent with Dan that we’ll come to regret.”
Mother smiled. “Well, you know what they say . . . no good deed goes unpunished!”
I gathered the counter pens and put them in the teapot, which was so shallow that they all fell out. Punishment had come in a hurry.
At five, we closed up the shop, turning on the alarm; then Mother, Sushi, and I got into the Caddy at the curb, and soon were driving beneath the iron archway of Xanadu—me at the wheel, not Mother. Or Sushi.
“Now, let me do the negotiating, dear,” Mother said.
To which I agreed: she was the consummate horse trader. No ancient Arab merchant in a bazaar stall was shrewder.
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