Antiques Fire Sale

by Barbara Allan

  Mother put a hand on my knee. “Brandy, both Tony and I have been in touch with the Chicago PD—they know we want Wozniak for questioning in a murder inquiry, and they’ll pick him up. They may have already.” She went on, “In the meantime, I’ve called in a marker from an old friend who has, shall we say, associates in Chicago who will watch Jake’s house until further notice. And our precious young man’s every movement will be monitored until this thing is resolved.”

  Old friend? Associates?

  I asked, “Do I want to know who your old friend is?”

  “Best not.”

  But I could guess. A year ago Mother and I had traveled to the Big Apple to sell a rare Superman original drawing at a comic book convention (Antiques Con), and while there, she did a favor for a certain individual who some might refer to as a godfather, and not the kind who comes to the baptism.

  Mother was saying, “Rest assured that Jake’s welfare is well in hand. Now, why don’t you go on up to bed?”

  I didn’t know whether to be distressed, furious, or relieved. “If anything happens to Jake—”

  “It won’t, dear. Get some sleep.”

  With a sigh that started at my toes, I went up to bed and curled up with Sushi, but sleep didn’t come.

  What could I do? Call Jake’s father and say that Mother had again gotten Jake involved in a murder investigation, and our son might be in danger from the killer, but don’t worry, because Mother has called in her mob contacts? You try to go to sleep in that situation.

  But Mother could. Already I could hear her snoring across the hall. True to her word, nothing—not caffeine, not another murder, not even endangering her grandson—could prevent her from a good night’s sleep.

  Would strangling her while she snoozed wake her, do you suppose?

  * * *

  I must finally have dropped off, because when my eyes fluttered open it was nearly eight o’clock and sun was streaming in around the edges of the curtains. I felt that disorientation that often follows waking from a deep sleep, and it took me a moment to realize this was Saturday morning.

  Enticing smells from below were wafting their way to me, like curling, beckoning fingers, drawing me out of bed like a sleepwalker. Sushi had since abandoned ship, no doubt “helping” Mother in the kitchen.

  I tromped downstairs, teeth unbrushed, eyes rimmed with mascara, hair in such a disarray that any mouse in the house would have been happy to nest there.

  I plopped down at the Duncan Phyfe dining room table, which had already been set. In addition to the green jadeite Fire King dishes, three little lidless antique glass salt cellars awaited, containing not salt but the daily medication of the home’s three occupants: Mother’s bipolar pill, my Prozac caplet, and Sushi’s insulin, the filled syringe balanced ridiculously across her pill cup.

  Mother breezed in carrying a plate of freshly baked Danish coffee cake cut into large squares. She was obviously working hard to get back in my good graces, perhaps sensing I’d only managed to drift off to sleep last night by fantasizing about choking her.

  She knew the best way to try to make things up to me was through my stomach, knowing how much I loved that particular old family pastry.

  Kaffe Kage

  For the Cake

  1 cup plus 1 cup all-purpose flour

  ½ cup plus ½ cup butter

  1 cup plus 1 Tablespoon cold water

  3 eggs

  ½ teaspoon almond extract

  For the Icing

  1 Tablespoon butter

  1 teaspoon almond extract

  1 cup powdered sugar

  Whole milk or cream, as needed

  ½ cup chopped almonds, for garnish

  In a large bowl, place 1 cup of flour, then cut with ½ cup butter until texture is like coarse crumbs. Sprinkle with 1 Tablespoon cold water and toss with a fork until the mixture forms a ball. Roll out the ball onto a greased cookie sheet until ½ inch thick, and set aside.

  Using an electric mixer, combine ½ cup softened butter with 1 cup cold water. Place in a saucepan and heat to boiling, remove from heat, and add 1 cup of flour all at once, stirring until smooth. Add the eggs, one at a time, beating well after each one. Add the ½ tsp. of almond extract and continue beating until the mixture is smooth.

  Spread this mixture over the dough on the cookie sheet. Bake in a preheated oven at 400°F for 45 minutes, or until puffed and golden brown. Set aside.

  For icing, combine the butter, almond extract, and powdered sugar in a bowl. Stir in enough milk to make the consistency to your liking. Spread this icing over the warm pastry and then sprinkle with chopped almonds.

  Serves 10 to 12

  Mother placed the plate in the middle of the table, went back to the kitchen, then returned with a carafe of coffee in one hand and a platter of scrambled eggs and crisp bacon in the other.

  I regarded her suspiciously as she filled my cup to the brim.

  “Eat up, dear,” she said cheerily, sitting herself down, “while the food is still nice and hot.”

  “I’m not working at the store today, am I?” I asked. The Danish treat told me as much. Also, it told me that this wasn’t because Mother wanted to lighten my workload.

  “No, dear,” she said. “I’ve already called Joe in off the bench. You’re needed at the Playhouse.”

  “And if I refuse to go to the Playhouse and take over as stage manager? Because that’s what you have in mind, isn’t it?”

  She had the first full run-through scheduled this morning.

  Mother nudged my little glass cellar with a finger. “Take your Prozac, darling. You’re going to have to drive me out there anyway. . . .” She shrugged. “So you might as well stay. And I need your help desperately. Somebody has to fill in for Miguel!”

  “Because he was murdered.”

  “Of course. Can you think of a better reason for him to be absent? This is just temporary, dear.”

  “Not for Miguel it isn’t. He won’t be back.”

  “True. But until I can properly line someone up, who better to step into his shoes?”

  From what she’d told me last night, his shoes must be pretty damp.

  “You are knowledgeable about the Playhouse,” she said, “and you’ve performed many of those duties before, particularly when you and I have gone out and about to do my one-woman Shakespearean shows. Can you think of a better option?”

  I popped the pill into my mouth and downed it with the coffee. “Yes. You should cancel.”

  “The run-through?”

  “No! The play! You have a legitimate reason with losing Miguel. Announce that you will reschedule it for some other time, then do a different play. One you hadn’t promised Gladys a lead role in. And then never get around to rescheduling the thing!”

  Mother thought about that but shook her head. “I’ve never cancelled a play or a performance. The show must go on is not merely an expression.”

  True. For the entire run of A Streetcar Named Desire, Mother, as Blanche, hobbled around on crutches after she’d broken her leg, which she explained (in a line she added) came from having missed a running jump at the streetcar.

  I sighed. “All right. I’ll fill in, but just fill in, for today. You’ll have to get someone else after that.”

  Her smile was dazzling, if not somewhat demented. She really hadn’t made a bad Blanche. “That’s my girl. Now eat up, child—we must leave, toot sweet!”

  Actually, I knew my fate had been sealed after we’d begun our conversation, because I’d made a crucial mistake—actually, two. I’d used the words go and Playhouse in Sushi’s presence. And she’d already trotted off and come back with her leash, her tail enthusiastically wagging, her eyes wide and demanding.

  Since Mother had left her Sheriff’s Explorer parked at the jail, I used the C-Max for transportation. Mother was in civilian togs today.

  Along the way she got a report by cell from Deputy Chen, who’d had contact with the Chicago PD, saying that Alek Wozniak was
either in hiding or on the run, which made me feel better about Jake’s safety, though not ours.

  We were the first ones to arrive at the Playhouse. Inside, I let Sushi run free while I swung into my role as stage manager; as Mother indicated, I was not unfamiliar with the duties, having been volunteered into harness before.

  First, I made sure the stage door was left unlocked, then went backstage and switched on only the lights that would be needed for rehearsal. This meant leaving the house lights off, keeping the auditorium seating in darkness, creating the atmosphere for this first run-through as much like that of a real performance as possible, minus only the songs, which would be rehearsed separately for now.

  Next, I checked the stage. Sometimes all that needed to be done was mark the floor with tape to designate where rooms or areas were in a scene, but my late predecessor had already provided much more than that. In fact, the set, representing the apartment of Sally, was already mostly in place: center stage living room, bedroom to the right, kitchen to the left, all furnished with modern pieces, since Mother had reset the era from the 1940s to present day. The only thing lacking was the back wall with window and front door, which would be built and erected later.

  Mother came up beside me. “As much as that young man irked me, he was a marvel as a stage manager.”

  I said, “I wonder what happened to him, and why.”

  She jangled a set of keys. “Wonder later, dear. Do you think it’s easy for me to leave a murder inquiry in the wings? But one must compartmentalize in life. Now, I need you to go and get something for me. Out in the storage building.”

  I took my orders and the keys and left.

  What Mother wanted was a time-worn device she always used while directing in the dark from the middle section of the audience: a megaphone. Not a bullhorn with microphone, but the old-fashioned Rudy Vallée variety, a big cardboard cone with metal trim.

  I’ll pause for a moment to give you time to select an aspirin, ibuprofen, acetaminophen, or naproxen.

  Ready? Did you take several good sips of water? All right. We’ll proceed.

  I managed to slip out of the stage door without Sushi tagging after and headed to the storage building. This time I went in through the oversize shed’s front door, not the garage, and started toward where I thought the megaphone might be, in an area that had stools, clipboards, stopwatches, and other items that came in handy backstage.

  Anyway, along the way, I began to notice that pieces of furniture I’d become familiar with—and that were grouped together according to their category—had either been moved elsewhere or were missing. I didn’t dwell on what that might mean, my compartmentalized focus on the search for Mother’s ridiculous Rudy Vallée–style megaphone.

  Which I found, and took dutifully back to Mother.

  When the three actors playing principals in Voice arrived—Kimberly and Zefross together, followed by Gladys—Mother did not mention the tragedy that had befallen Miguel.

  She told me this was because his next of kin had yet to be contacted, and as sheriff she was following correct procedure. But I suspected it was mostly because the news might cast a pall on the rehearsal. She only told the players that I would be filling in for him this morning.

  I won’t bore you with details of the next three hours of the run-through, other than to say I was kept busy, logging running times, recording changes to the script, and noting the blocking. No prompting was required, because at this early stage the actors were “on book,” scripts in hand. Or anyway, two of them were—Kimberly and Zefross.

  Gladys was already “off book”—and letter perfect.

  Even so, the bank teller’s performance was not inspiring, to say the least, and typical of an untrained local actor. Not stinking up the joint, which was a relief, but not a revelation of hidden talent.

  After the rehearsal, Kimberly and Zefross departed—I had a feeling they got together to go over more than just their lines—while Mother and Gladys sat alone on the stage couch. I stood off to one side, holding Sushi as if she were flowers I was waiting to deliver to the actress.

  “I wasn’t very good, was I,” Gladys said morosely. “I could see the other two rolling their eyes.”

  Mother said kindly, “You’ll make progress, dear, with every rehearsal. You have your lines down, and that’s the first step. It’s what every actor builds upon. Dear, you have it in you to become a good actress—I can feel it in my bones!”

  That was not necessarily a good thing. Mother’s bones were as brittle and porous as a coral reef sponge; she’d been given a prescription of Boniva for osteoporosis but hadn’t taken the once-a-week-first-thing-in-the-morning pill, because she’d have to wait a half an hour afterward before drinking her coffee . . . which, in her words was, “a bridge too far.”

  Something occurred to me that didn’t have anything to do with bad acting or brittle bones, either.

  “Gladys,” I said, stepping closer, “when you came into our shop last week, you mentioned you’d been out here Monday night.”

  “Yes?”

  “And you said that there was a man over at the storage building. Could you see who it was?”

  She shook her mousy brown mop. “No. It was too dark.”

  I stepped even closer. “How about vehicles? Was there a black Mazda? Or a red truck?”

  Mother’s eyes lit up as she changed compartments—she knew the Mazda was Miguel’s and the truck Leon’s.

  “Sorry,” Gladys said with a little shrug. “Guess I wasn’t really paying much attention. Once I realized the Playhouse was closed, I left.”

  I asked, mildly annoyed, “Didn’t it cross your mind this person might be a burglar?”

  Gladys thought about that. “No . . .” she said. “Because I think he was putting something in the building, not taking something out.”

  Mother’s eyes were on me. “Brandy, what are you getting at?”

  I looked at her. “I didn’t do an inventory or anything, but it appears to me like some prop furniture is missing out there—nice things, like that antique side table Mrs. Goldstein donated a few months ago.”

  That put color into Mother’s cheeks, and she turned to Gladys. “Dear! Would you agree to be hypnotized?”

  The bank teller’s eyes got big. “Hypnotized . . . whatever for?”

  “To help you remember what you saw. After all, your eyes did see, even if your mind paid little heed.”

  “Golly, I’ve never been hypnotized before.”

  “Well, then, it will be a new and exciting experience for you, darling!”

  “I don’t know.... Is it that important?”

  “Extremely,” Mother said.

  “You’re the director,” Gladys said.

  * * *

  Mother’s budding actress followed us in her car back to Serenity, then to Tilda Tompkins’s residence, a white two-story clapboard house with aging lattice work and paint-peeling boards that you might call shabby chic, if your emphasis was on the shabby. The bungalow was set back from the street, across from Greenwood, Serenity’s oldest cemetery.

  Since Sushi was along, my intention was to leave her in the car. But when Mother and I started to get out, doggie dearest threw a barking tantrum.

  “There’ll be cats,” I advised Sushi. “You’ll be outnumbered.”

  She understood the word cat, all right, but didn’t back off.

  “Okay, I warned you,” I told the animal. “It’ll be your fault when you get your face scratched.”

  On the wide, sagging wooden porch, Tilda greeted Mother, Gladys, and me as I held Sushi. Our hostess was on the far side of forty, and comfy there, slender, with long golden red hair, translucent skin, and a scattering of youthful freckles across the bridge of her nose. Tilda had a fondness for Bohemian clothing, and today she had on a white blouse, tan suede fringed vest, and long colorful patchwork skirt. Brown Birkenstock sandals completed the ensemble.

  “You have arrived at an opportune time,” she addressed Mot
her. “You’ve caught me in-between my Tantra Sex class and a new one I’ve just launched on mantras and mudras.”

  Mother smiled and asked, “How long having you been teaching mud wrestling?”

  “No, Vivian—mudras. It’s a meditation technique involving a silent form of chanting.”

  “My favorite style of chanting,” Mother said, then gestured to Gladys. “This is the young woman I called you about.”

  Tilda acknowledged her new visitor with a nod but was all business, stepping to one side and waving us through. “Come in, come in, one and all. I have only half an hour.”

  Gladys and Mother passed through the New Age portal, but I hesitated with Sushi.

  With a peaceful smile, Tilda said, “I’m sure she’ll be all right, Brandy. She probably already knows Mrs. Leggett, who will keep a watchful eye on her.”

  Mrs. Leggett had run the local pet store.

  “Oh,” I said, “how long has she been here?”

  “Since yesterday! She’s a new addition to our lodgers. She showed up at the back door. And it’s only been three days since the funeral.”

  I followed the New Age guru inside.

  The front room of Tilda’s home was a combination living space, waiting room, and funky shop, a mystic area that included soothing candles, healing crystals, swirling mobiles of planets and stars, and a cash register. Like the Cinders, much was for sale here, but Tilda’s items were priced.

  And then there were the cats, which were not for sale—cats everywhere, filling the couch, seat cushions, back, and arms, curled on the half-dozen folding chairs and lounging on every window sill.

  Each time I came, there were more cats. Why? you might well wonder, particularly you newbie readers. Certainly not because Tilda proactively acquired them—rather because people kept dying and being buried in the nearby cemetery, and those who couldn’t otherwise cross over to the other side simply crossed the street as a spiritually inhabited cat. The tabbies came to Tilda for a place to live during their new incarnation—certainly not for the Tantra Sex class, mantras, and mudras.