Antiques Carry On

by Barbara Allan

  Non-alcoholic beverages had been my preference for some years now, ever since I’d made the mistake of partaking of a glass of wine while on my bi-polar medication, then boarding a Greyhound bus where I ended up in Poughkeepsie.

  Seated at the end of the bar was Nona, a close friend of Zelda’s and the entity I had to go through to contact my informant. One might say the two were inseparable.

  I strolled over to the slender woman. In her mid-twenties with a narrow face, thin lips, and long dark hair, Nona wore purple-framed glasses, an oversize brown leather bomber jacket, short red-and-tan plaid skirt, ripped black tights, and floral combat boots. In earlier times, one might have called Nona a beatnik.

  ‘And how are you doing this fine morning, my dear?’ I asked chirpily.

  ‘OK, I guess,’ she replied, not sounding at all OK, one hand on the stem of a nearly empty glass of red wine.

  I nodded to the vacant chair next to Nona, where an untouched tumbler of whiskey sat before it. ‘And Zelda? How is she?’

  Now might be a good time to tell you, dear reader, that Zelda apparently exists only in the imagination of Nona, who is a tulpamancer, or ‘tulpa’ for short. Tulpamancy is considered a mental condition in which a person will summon an imaginary companion, not unlike a child who may go through an ‘invisible friend’ phase. For tulpas, however, the attachments do not disappear with age, but only grow stronger.

  Little is known about tulpamancy – which might indeed be a form of mental illness, although some see it as a manifestation of the paranormal. Taken as a whole, these imaginary friends have a positive influence, and the voices that tulpas hear in their heads from these attachments are nothing like the ones I hear when I go off my medication. You don’t even want to know!

  To my query of how Zelda was feeling today, Nona snapped, ‘Why don’t you ask her? She’s sitting right there!’

  (In my defense, sometimes I would address an empty chair only to be informed that Zelda was in the ladies’ room.)

  I sensed something was wrong between the pair.

  ‘Are you girls having a little tiff?’ I asked Nona gently.

  ‘More than a little,’ she responded glumly.

  I hoisted myself up into the chair next to Zelda’s and looked down the bar and asked, ‘What seems to be the problem?’

  Nona stared into her glass of wine. ‘She … she wants her freedom.’

  ‘Oh, dear,’ I blurted. ‘We can’t have that!’

  So far Zelda was batting one thousand on her tips. And I just couldn’t face breaking in a new informant. (Granted, an imaginary friend might not make a terribly good eyewitness, especially if called upon to testify.)

  I backtracked. ‘What I mean is … it would be a shame to end the friendship. Doesn’t Zelda go off on her own sometimes?’

  ‘Yes,’ Nona admitted.

  ‘Then why not give her a little more freedom?’

  Her voice cracked. ‘I’m afraid … afraid she’ll find someone else.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ I scoffed. ‘Let me speak to her.’

  Nona thought about that. ‘Do you think it would help?’

  ‘Couldn’t hurt. Why don’t you take a trip back to the ’80s, so we can have some privacy.’

  She nodded, slid out of the chair, and disappeared through a beaded curtain into the next room.

  While I didn’t exactly believe that Zelda really existed, I saw no harm in speaking to the empty seat. ‘Look, young lady – I need you, and Nona needs you, and you’ll never find a better, more loyal friend.’

  I didn’t really have anything else to say to Zelda, but I didn’t want to summon Nona back so early that it might seem I hadn’t made a good effort on the tulpa’s behalf. So I recited Shakespeare’s speech from Hamlet, ‘To be or not to be, that is the question. Whether ’tis nobler,’ yada yada yada.

  When I had finished, I called out to Nona to return, which she did, then I moved to the other end of the bar for some small talk with Renny, so the two friends could (hopefully) make up.

  After a few minutes, when Nona began to smile, her spirits apparently lifted, I returned to the seat next to Zelda.

  ‘Everything hunky-dory?’ I asked.

  Nona said, almost sheepishly, ‘Yes. We’ve decided that Zelda can go off by herself, from time to time, and in return, she’ll let me know when, rather than just, you know … vanishing. I mean, imagine it, Vivian – what if you were talking to someone who suddenly wasn’t there?’

  ‘That would be a kick in the slats,’ I admitted. ‘But you seem to’ve resolved this in a most fair fashion. Might Zelda and I conduct some business, dear?’

  Since my informant’s responses had to come through Nona, I looked at her, not the invisible Zelda.

  ‘She says that would be fine,’ Nona replied.

  Back to Zelda. ‘Do you have any leads for me?’

  Sometimes this process could take a while, especially if Zelda had important information to impart, so I returned my attention to my Shirley Temple, which had thus far been neglected.

  But, quite soon, Nona reported, ‘She doesn’t have anything.’

  I raised my eyebrows. ‘Nothing at all? Not even a whiff of malfeasance? It doesn’t have to be a murder – although I would prefer it. Still, any nice juicy crime would do …’

  Nona shrugged. ‘Sorry. She says it’s been very quiet out there.’

  I grunted. ‘Too quiet! What am I going to tell my new publisher? They’re going to expect a humdinger of a first book.’ I paused, recalling my conversation with Ned. ‘Zelda, what about Ruth Hassler? She fell down her stairs last month and broke her neck.’

  After a full minute (which made me hopeful), Nona said, ‘All Zelda knows is that Ruth’s daughter and son-in-law, who live in town, inherited her estate. And they haven’t been shy about spending money lately.’

  I was the glum one now. ‘Well, at least that’s something to look in to. Thank you, Zelda. And let me know if you hear anything else about those free-spending relatives.’

  I placed a fivespot on the counter and clambered out of the bucket seat. Waving goodbye to Renny, I was heading for the door when Nona caught up to me.

  ‘Vivian, both Zelda and I want to thank you for, well, helping patch things up between us.’

  I patted her arm. ‘You’re most welcome. But I’m sure you two would have arrived at the same understanding. I can’t imagine anything coming between two people who are so closely intertwined.’

  I turned away from Nona and was about to go out the door when she addressed my back, ‘Oh! And Zelda wants you to know that your oration of Hamlet’s speech was the second best she’d ever heard … right after Larry Olivier on TCM.’

  I looked wide-eyed over at Renny, who shrugged, and said, ‘She did seem to enjoy it.’

  Outside, on the sidewalk, I was pondering my next move when I spotted Skylar James across the street, lounging in the doorway of his antiques store, The Trading Post. He summoned me with a smile and backward wave.

  Leaving my Vespa in front of Cinders, I jaywalked over to the muscular young man, who was blessed with sandy hair, rugged good looks, and a pleasant cowboy vibe in his fringed suede jacket, plaid shirt, blue jeans and boots. Perhaps Brandy’s age, he had moved here from New Mexico last year with his wife, a dark-haired filly with family ties in Serenity.

  ‘And how is Angela?’ I asked. She was a fourth-grade teacher, which might explain why they so far had no children.

  ‘Always seems to have a darn cold,’ he said with an easy grin, and slight western drawl. ‘Comes with the job, I guess.’

  ‘The little rascals are walking Petri dishes,’ I said. Then, ‘What can I do for you, Skylar?’

  ‘Step into my parlor,’ he said, and led me in.

  As one might expect, The Trading Post’s interior was rustic, with an original turn-of-last-century’s wooden floor, brick walls, and high tin ceiling. Skylar’s merchandise was mostly western Americana – silver and turquoise jewelry, Indian artifacts �
� plus 1940s and ’50s TV and movie cowboy memorabilia, from Roy Rogers lunch boxes to framed movie posters of John Wayne in Rio Bravo.

  Skylar asked, ‘I was wonderin’ if you’d do me a favor?’

  We were standing near a display of western hats.

  ‘Of course,’ I said, adding, ‘If I’m able,’ leaving myself an out.

  ‘I hear you’re goin’ to London soon.’

  ‘That’s right,’ I said. Word does get around our little town – especially when it’s spread my me.

  ‘Well, Miz Borne …’ He hesitated. ‘This is a little embarrassin’…’

  ‘I don’t embarrass easily.’

  ‘I sold one of my turquoise necklaces to the owner of a store there called the Old Curiosity Shop, by e-mail, and, well …’

  ‘He expects you to cover the added expense of customs, and duty and VAT.’

  Skylar nodded sheepishly. ‘Not that it’s a terribly expensive item, really – worth about two hundred – but with the added expense, I wouldn’t make a darn thing.’

  It had been a rough winter for antiques dealers, and knowing his wife was on a teacher’s salary, I felt compelled to help this new member of the antiques community. But not compelled enough to break any laws, domestic or foreign. After all, I’m a former sheriff!

  ‘Tell you what,’ I said. ‘You sell it to me now for the amount settled upon, and I’ll sell it to the owner of the Old Curiosity Shop for that amount.’

  Skylar smiled. ‘And, if the Old Curiosity Shop dude doesn’t like it, for some reason, or has changed his mind … I’ll buy it right back on your return.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ I replied.

  He stuck out a hand, which I shook. ‘Thanks, Vivian. And if there’s anythin’ I can ever do for you, one antiquer to another … let me know.’

  ‘Oh, just forget about that,’ I said. But I wouldn’t – I always call in my markers.

  He stepped behind the glass display case of jewelry, unlocked a sliding door, and selected a silver necklace set with turquoise stones. Nothing terribly special perhaps, but certainly attractive.

  I fastened it around my neck. Then I paid the two hundred, got a receipt, and Skylar gave me written information where to go once I got to London.

  Back on my Vespa across the street, I gazed in the side mirror at the necklace, sparkling and vibrant in the sun; it went perfectly with my outfit.

  If the UK recipient reneged, I just might keep it.

  Brandy back. Is everyone all right? Need a break? Perhaps some aspirin? At this point in our narrative, I had just clutched Tony’s arm, alarmed by the GPS app’s indication that Mother seemed to have veered off into a ditch near the Missouri border.

  The bell over the front door tinkled – apparently some customer who didn’t know our flag routine. Why hadn’t I simply locked the door?

  ‘Hello, you two!’ Mother said. ‘Slow day?’

  I picked up the nearest thing on the counter – a tennis ball I squeeze for stress relief – and threw it at her, and she caught it like a line drive.

  ‘Such violence,’ she tsk-tsked, ‘and in front of our police chief!’

  Several minutes later, Mother and I were seated in the kitchen, at the red-and-yellow laminated table. Tony was out in the foyer, on his cell, explaining to Ron at the State Police that Mother was safely back on her rocker.

  Mother, pretending to pout, said, ‘You could have hit me with that dreadful ball.’

  ‘I wish I had. Might’ve knocked some sense into you.’

  Since the pouting hadn’t worked, she turned defensive. ‘You started this, utilizing those high-tech devices.’

  I waggled a finger. ‘Leaving one on a bus was bad enough … but on an out-of-state car? Do you know how worried I was? Enough to involve Tony!’

  Mother spread her hands. ‘Dear, I had no idea the car I utilized was going to Missouri. It just happened to be the one next to me in the lot.’

  Tony entered the room, his expression unreadable.

  I asked, ‘How much trouble did the Borne girls make for you?’

  He walked over to the coffee pot, poured himself a cup, then pulled out a chair next to me.

  ‘Not much,’ he admitted, adding, ‘I may even receive a commendation.’

  ‘For what?’ Mother and I asked together.

  He drank from the cup. ‘For helping catch one of the most wanted men in the Midwest. Bank robber.’

  While I grappled with that, Mother said cheerfully, ‘Well, there you go! Win-win!’

  I glared at her. ‘And how is that the case?’

  ‘You have finally learned not to bug your mother – electronically and otherwise – and the chief receives a much-deserved accolade.’ She looked across at Tony. ‘What do you suppose this miscreant was doing at the funeral home?’

  ‘Boosting a vehicle,’ Tony said. ‘He left a stolen car behind and took one belonging to a mourner attending a visitation.’

  Mother commented, ‘Which happened to be the car I put the GPS gizmo under.’ She chuckled. ‘I solve crimes without even trying! Do you think there might be some recognition for me, as well? After all, I did set this whole exciting chain of events in motion.’

  Tony merely stared at her with those steel-gray eyes.

  ‘Maybe a little squib in the Serenity Sentinel?’ she pressed.

  The chief downed the rest of his coffee, and pushed back his chair.

  Mother’s eyes followed him as he stood. ‘How about a hardy hand-shake?’

  As Tony left the kitchen, she called out, ‘Just knowing I helped will be quite enough!’

  The front door slammed.

  She turned to me. ‘Perhaps you could leak something to the radio station.’

  ‘Don’t push it.’

  Mother sighed, reached for a cookie on the platter in front of us, and took a big bite.

  ‘Well, no matter,’ she said, chewing absent-mindedly. ‘I’m sure the Fourth Estate will find out somehow.’

  So was I.

  Moving to a less contentious topic, I asked, ‘What’s that around your neck?’

  She looked down at the necklace. ‘Lovely isn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t remember ever seeing you wear anything like that,’ I commented. ‘But it is attractive. The turquoise brings out the color of your eyes.’

  ‘Why, thank you, dear. I bought it at The Trading Post.’

  ‘Haven’t been in there yet.’

  ‘Nice store, if you like western Americana.’

  ‘Any furniture?’

  ‘A few Victorian pieces,’ she said, then sniffed. ‘But a little too bordello for my taste.’

  On friendlier footing now, I gave Mother a rundown of what had sold this morning, which further improved the atmosphere.

  ‘Well, that just about pays for the hotel!’ she said, beaming. ‘I do hope something good is playing at the Savoy Theatre. Did I ever tell you about the time I performed there with Elaine Stritch back in ’63?’

  ‘You did?’

  ‘Don’t look so surprised, dear. I wasn’t always relegated to community theater.’ She continued: ‘Granted, it was a small part … what you might call a walk-on … in Noel Coward’s Sail Away. You see, during the second act, I was looking for the loo, found myself backstage, and took a wrong turn.’

  My eyes widened. ‘Onto the stage?’

  Mother nodded. ‘But fleet of foot and thought, I merely pretended to be just another annoying passenger on the boat.’

  No experience necessary.

  ‘So when you say it was a “walk-on” part,’ I said, ‘you mean you just walked on.’

  Mother ignored that. ‘Elaine was quite nice about it – in fact, she invited me to stay for the curtain call.’ Mother put a finger to her lips. ‘I wonder if the theater still has those geranium-hued seats. If so, we must find out what color they are now, so you and I can coordinate our outfits. Don’t want to disappear into our chairs!’

  Wishing I could disappear right now, I said, ‘L
et’s go home.’

  I was shutting down the computer when I remembered to tell Mother about the box Dan had brought in.

  ‘I thought we had agreed to a moratorium on buying any further books,’ Mother said. ‘The shelves are over-stuffed as it is. Any more will ruin the bindings.’

  ‘I know … but there are a few vintage mysteries.’

  ‘That’s some solace, dear. Anyway, I would have done the same for darling Dan. Well, we’ll stick the box in the trunk and lug them home. We may find a few worth keeping.’

  While Mother locked up, I went out to the Fusion with the box, a reinvigorated Sushi trotting behind.

  Driving home, I asked archly, ‘Anything you care to share with me about your morning?’

  ‘Quite uneventful compared to yours, dear,’ she commented. ‘But I will say that I might have a lead on something for the upcoming book.’

  She told me about Ruth Hassler, an elderly widow who’d fallen down the stairs to her death, even though she usually used a stair-lift.

  ‘Sounds a little thin,’ I said.

  ‘I think it has possibilities,’ she countered.

  ‘Let’s face it, Mother – we may have run out of murders to solve. We might actually have to make up a mystery.’

  ‘What! Never! Did John Watson ever stray from the truth in chronicling the cases of Sherlock Holmes? Did Archie Goodwin ever make up a story about Nero Wolfe? Would Arthur Hastings ever tell a fib about Hercule Poirot? No siree. To do otherwise would be heresy!’

  Sorry, but as I’ve explained before, once you get on, you can’t get off the express. And neither can I.

  Even if one of us pulls the emergency cord.

  A Trash ‘n’ Treasures Tip

  When exporting items abroad, take into consideration the cost of that country’s import charges. It may not be worth the effort. Unless you have a dodgy friend heading to the locale.

  THREE

  Carry On England

  With my friend Joe running the store, and Tony taking Sushi (who was thrilled to be with Rocky), Mother and I boarded a puddle-jumper at the Serenity Municipal Airport for Chicago, to catch an overnight flight to London.