Antiques Ravin'

by Barbara Allan

  The downtown, too, brimmed with folks—parking places at a premium, sidewalks crowded—as the opening ceremony of Edgar Allan Poe Days approached. The only thing in common with yesterday was the hot and humid weather.

  I parked the Explorer illegally in front of city hall, enjoying my first moment of ex officio privilege, but before we had a chance to exit the vehicle, Mayor Myron Hatcher—in a white short-sleeved shirt, blue tie, and neatly pressed navy slacks—hurried out of the building toward us.

  I powered down my window.

  “I believe we’re going to have record attendance,” he announced, his face flushed with excitement, or maybe the heat.

  Mother replied regally, “Hardly a surprise. Word has clearly gotten around about my upcoming Poe-formance.”

  She smiled at her punny remark.

  The mayor’s eyes widened before he responded with political prudence, “Ah . . . yes, I’m sure that’s the reason.”

  Mother’s eyebrows rose. “Any further break-ins?”

  “No,” Hatcher said. “Of course, we had volunteers patrolling the streets during the night, which helped, apparently.”

  “Good call! Continue the practice.”

  The mayor went on, “I’ve managed to secure lodging for you—no small feat, by the way—as everything has been sold out for months.”

  “A suite at the local hotel?”

  “If you mean the Tiki Motel . . . uh, no. I’ve arranged accommodations at a most unusual bed and breakfast.” He nodded to a silver Cadillac sedan parked in a spot reserved for His Honor. “You can follow me—it’s not far, but why walk in this heat?”

  “Why indeed?” Mother responded, with an unnecessary flourish of a hand and bow of the head. Her theatrical mode was already encroaching upon her law enforcement role.

  I trailed the Caddy a few blocks this way and that, and then Mayor Hatcher pulled into the gravel drive of a pale yellow two-story cottage with gingerbread trim and a white picket fence. It didn’t look unusual to me, except perhaps unusually nice.

  We got out of our vehicles, doors closing behind us as if in brief applause. Mother, gazing at our quaintly welcoming home away from home, clasped her hands. “How adorable!”

  “Oh,” the mayor said, batting the air dismissively, “that’s not where you’re staying.”

  He gestured, and we followed him around to the back of the cottage where a single train car perched on what I assumed was a no-longer-in-use track line.

  “What,” I said, “we’re hopping a freight?”

  Mother turned to me. “Dear, don’t be ungrateful. I think it’s simply charming.” Her head rotated to the mayor. “Anyway, that’s no freight, it’s a Pullman car! Isn’t it, Your Honor? Which are known for being the top of the railroad line.”

  Yes, around the turn of two centuries ago.

  “Come along,” Hatcher said. “I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised.”

  As we moved in tandem behind the mayor and toward the train car, he continued, “The owner of the cottage had an out-of-town conflict this year and hadn’t planned on renting out the Pullman. But he entrusted me with the key to use it at my discretion.”

  Sushi was in my arms. “Do they allow canines on this train?” I asked.

  Hatcher smiled. “I can see your dog is well behaved.”

  He didn’t know her very well, did he? If annoyed, ignored, or just plain feeling ornery, Sushi could shred a pillow in seconds. Not to mention the damage she could do with her caboose.

  I said, “I hope this thing has its brake on.”

  “This Pullman car doesn’t have a brake,” the mayor said. “But don’t worry—you won’t be going anywhere.”

  Three metal steps at the front of the train car led to a small landing encased by a black-iron railing, where the mayor unlocked an etched glass wooden door. Pushing it open, he moved aside for us to enter, and we stepped into a rectangular sitting room, awash in Victorian splendor—oriental rug, floral couch, needlepoint chairs, velvet tasseled curtains, fringed-shaded lamps. The walls gleamed of rich dark walnut, and the curved ceiling was painted a deep red.

  But the best feature—as far as I was concerned—was a decidedly not-antique window air conditioner, humming along quietly, doing a fine job of keeping the quarters cool.

  We continued along a narrow hallway hugging the left side of the car, passing by a little galley kitchen with modern, stainless steel conveniences; then a bathroom with a small claw-footed tub, toilet, and sink with brass fixtures; arriving at the end of the line in the bedroom, where a Victorian four-poster bed with a carved wooden canopy took up most of the space.

  Since Mother’s vociferous snoring might well bring the canopy down on top of us, I would of course be sleeping on the couch.

  “Well?” asked Hatcher.

  “Breathtaking!” Mother extolled.

  And yet she still had breath to go on.

  “Reminds me,” she continued, “of a train trip I once took as a little girl, all by myself with a note pinned to my dress, informing interested parties that I was bound for Chattanooga. My seat was practically in the baggage car, but I snuck into first class and—”

  I cut in. “Yes, Mayor Hatcher, this is very nice. Please extend our thanks and appreciation to the owner.”

  Hatcher nodded. “Will do. Here is the key.” This he handed over to Mother. “Now, I imagine you’ll want to unpack, and I need to get back to city hall. We’re all looking forward to your performance, Mrs. Borne . . . er . . . Sheriff. Oh, one thing—you’ll have to fend for yourselves for food in the morning, since your host isn’t here.”

  So bed, but no breakfast.

  “We’ll muddle through,” Mother said cheerfully.

  “All right, then.” He gave Mother a little salute. “See you at the noon ceremony, Sheriff.”

  He disappeared.

  Mother plopped down on the bed, then bounced to test the springs; Sushi jumped up on the coverlet to join in on the fun. They both looked comfortably situated and settled in for a brief morning nap.

  Well, someone had to bring in the luggage—there didn’t seem to be a porter around.

  * * *

  As comfy as Mother had looked on that bed, I was just that miserable, an hour or so later, seated in a folding chair in the park. Beneath the sweltering sun, surrounded by a sea of people, we were all listening to the opening ceremony speech given by the mayor, who stood on a small riser at a microphone on a stand.

  For a while I feared that the four other council members might want to have their moment in the sun too, but none of them seemed to be in attendance. They were probably busy at their respective shops.

  Myron Hatcher, having discarded his earlier tie, the white shirt looking more than a little damp, droned on: “. . . promising to be Antiqua’s best Edgar Allan Poe Days evermore. . . .”

  His speech was peppered with more cringe-worthy Poe puns than . . . well, than the ones you’re likely to get from me in this book.

  Suddenly I envied Sushi, left behind in the cool confines of the Pullman car.

  Mother, standing in the shade of an oak tree, waiting her turn, must have been even more uncomfortable than yours truly. Serenity County’s sheriff was cocooned in her Poe costume of black, full-length frock coat over black suit with white high-collar shirt; black silk cravat; short, curly dark wig; and mustache. She had ditched her big, thick glasses, making a public safety menace out of the sheriff.

  And yet there wasn’t a bead of sweat on her brow.

  “. . . and now, without further ado,” the mayor concluded, “I’d like to introduce to you our new county sheriff, Vivian Borne, who will kick off our celebration with a rendition of ‘The Raven.’ ”

  Mother frowned, disappointed by his perfunctory introduction. Didn’t he know who she was? (Obviously he did, or he wouldn’t be giving her this venue.)

  Polite applause followed, but also a few groans from those familiar with the length of the poem.

  Hatcher took hi
s exit, and Mother strode forward amid a mixed reaction to her getup (ohhs and ahhs, giggles and titters), the tails of the frock coat flapping. Sans her spectacles she nearly tripped up the steps to the riser, but she recovered nicely with a sweeping bow, which brought enthusiastic clapping.

  Eschewing the microphone for her theatrical voice, Mother began in a male octave, which, actually, wasn’t that hokey and included more than a touch of Vincent Price.

  “Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary . . . ”

  An elderly couple in the front row struggled to their feet and began what was to be a painfully long trek up the center aisle.

  “. . . over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore . . .”

  The pair of octogenarians were close enough to Mother that I knew she could see them, though she pretended not to.

  “While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping . . .”

  Another defector in the front row—a middle-aged woman with an expression worthy of a witness at the Hindenburg explosion—made her exit. Soon after, she was followed by her apparent husband, in a half crouch, as if he were avoiding the whirling blades of a helicopter.

  While Mother had given the elderly couple (still soldiering on) a pass, her eyes shot daggers at the backs of the middle-aged couple.

  “. . . as of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.”

  An excited murmur was spreading through the crowd, and when “First clue is out!” reached my ears, I knew many in the audience would leave, even if that raven at the window wouldn’t. Or was he at the chamber door? I never quite got that.

  Anyway, as the exodus began in earnest, Mother started speaking louder and faster.

  “ ‘ ’Tis some visitor,’ I muttered, ‘tapping at my chamber door—only this and nothing more.’ ”

  I felt pity for her, I really did, genuine sympathy; but when a heavyset lady in front of me rose, I used the woman’s bulk as cover to make my own escape, like a marauder in a movie hiding behind an artificial bush.

  So it was that Vivian Borne’s terrible, ungrateful child hoofed it back to check on Sushi.

  (We had decided to keep the Explorer parked at the Pullman, since walking anywhere in Antiqua would be faster than driving, due to the influx of cars and a scarcity even of illegal parking places. We also elected to leave the key under the doormat, since our comings and goings might occasionally be at odds.)

  When I entered the Pullman, Sushi was lounging on the Victorian couch. A quick look around told me she had behaved herself—no shredded pillows, or unsmokable cigars.

  “If we’re smart,” I said, scooping her up, “we won’t be here when Mother gets back. She will not be in a good mood.”

  Sushi nodded. (I swear she did.)

  So out we went.

  On the way to the Coffee Club, we were passing George’s Bakery when I thought perhaps I should pick up something for breakfast.

  The front of the bakery was small—one room with a long glass-encased counter, a checkout area, and a token ice-cream type table with two chairs. An open doorway led to the back kitchen.

  I assumed the portly, balding man behind the cash register was the owner; about sixty, he wore a white apron speckled with various colors of frosting.

  He said, apologetically, “I’m afraid there’s not much left—just a couple chocolate donuts and a few muffins. I had a real rush in here this morning. A mob!”

  “I’ll have two muffins to go,” I said, adding, “doesn’t matter the kind.”

  “I’ll just give them to you—how’s that?”

  “Well, thanks . . . ah . . . you’re George?”

  “Guilty as charged.” He looked at Sushi in my arms. I wondered for half a moment if he’d scold me for bringing a canine in, but he only smiled. “How about a doggie biscuit? No charge there, either. I make ’em special with no sugar for clients with canines.”

  “Great.”

  He came out from behind the counter with a small bone-shaped cookie and put it under Sushi’s nose. She snatched the treat with her jaws, chewed it up with her sharp little teeth, and barked once for another. Politely, like Oliver Twist asking, “Please, sir, I want some more.”

  I reprimanded her, just for show, because I already knew she had George in the palm of her paws.

  George patted her furry head. “I’ll put another one in the sack with the muffins.”

  I thanked him again, and we left.

  Under normal circumstances, I would have had Sushi on her leash, walking along beside me, but with the sidewalks so crowded, I was afraid she might get stepped on.

  With the festival under way, the coffee shop was busy now, the only available table a two-seater in back, which I snagged as its dishes were still being cleared by a frazzled busboy.

  As I settled in with Sushi on my lap, an equally frazzled young waitress came over, long brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, her name tag reading WILLOW.

  “Menu?” she asked brusquely.

  “No,” I said, “just an iced latte, and some water in a little dish, please.”

  She looked from her pad to Sushi, so—afraid she’d give us the boot—I threw in some subterfuge.

  I asked, “Morella not working this morning?”

  “No,” Willow said sourly, “she was a no-show. And I was supposed to have the day off!”

  “Maybe she finally left town.”

  The waitress grunted. “Sleepin’ it off is more like it. Another late night at the casino, prob’ly. Anyway, she doesn’t answer her cell.”

  “I hope she’s all right,” I said, pretending to be interested for Sushi’s sake.

  “Yeah. Excuse me, I got other orders to take.”

  Willow hurried off.

  Seated at a table next to me were two well-dressed women, one blonde in her midthirties, the other brunette and a little older. Both had iced teas and were sharing a cheesecake.

  I didn’t mean to eavesdrop on their conversation, but they had to raise their voices above the café din, which made an unintended audience out of me.

  “I tell you, Amy,” the older one said, “we could use a whole new city council! One with not so many antique shop owners. Everything they do is designed to benefit themselves! This festival, for instance . . . mostly puts money in their pockets. I mean, it’s not like all these visitors are here to get a haircut, or do some dry cleaning, or open a bank account.”

  “Jessica, that’s not entirely true. The motel and bed-and-breakfasts all do well—and the restaurant and bar, too. And people might use some of the other businesses.” She paused. “But, yeah, I would rather have had a music festival of any kind.”

  My iced latte and Sushi’s water arrived, along with the check. When Willow departed, I snuck the muffin out of my sack, and the doggie cookie, even though Sushi had already had one. I knew she would demand it. Trying to reason with her did no more good than trying to reason with Mother.

  Meanwhile, Jessica had not finished maligning the city council.

  “The first thing I’d do,” she was saying, “is replace the mayor with somebody who doesn’t spend more time at that Indian casino than with that poor neglected wife of his. And next on the chopping block? Wally Thorp—he’s so ineffectual, just always goes along with whatever the others want. Besides, I heard he’s been running around on his wife.”

  “Yuck,” said Amy. “Who’d want him?”

  “Someone into balding, sloppy, overweight men, apparently.”

  “Who would that be?”

  “That much info I don’t have.” Jessica, leaning in, went on: “And Lottie Everhart? She can go—mean, those slutty dresses! I don’t think she cared a hoot about her husband’s suicide—if it was a suicide.”

  “Oh, come on!” Amy said. “Mike killed himself over that Poe picture! Everybody knows that. But . . . what do you think about Paula Baxter?”

  “Not much. Don’t really know her, or much about her, either. Do you?”

&n
bsp; Amy shrugged. “Seems to keep to herself.”

  I started in on the second muffin. No sense in returning with just one. Breakfast tomorrow was . . . breakfast tomorrow.

  “Well,” Amy was saying, “Rick Wheeler sure can stay—what a hunk! Wouldn’t mind dating him.”

  Jessica snorted. “Well, good luck with that.”

  “What? He’s fair game, isn’t he? He’s single.”

  “I hear Rick bats for the other team.”

  “You’re crazy,” Amy said.

  Jessica shrugged. “That’s what those gossips at the nail salon are saying. He was pretty tight with Mike, if you get my drift.”

  “Oh, you’re terrible. They were just drinking buddies.”

  Customers were bunching up by the front door, waiting for a table, and I started to feel guilty about lingering over a now-empty glass and the crumbs of a muffin purchased (sort of) elsewhere. So I brushed the evidence off Sushi and me, left enough money to cover the tab and the tip, and got up.

  Back out in the heat, I was debating where to go next when a voice called out, “There you are!”

  Mother, still in full Poe regalia (mustache and all), was weaving through pedestrians on the sidewalk, getting raised eyebrows and “What the?” looks.

  Planting herself in front of me, she proclaimed, “Deserted by my deputy! ‘How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have a thankless child!’”

  Shakespeare was always Mother’s “go-to” when trying to shame me. Apparently Poe had never written anything about ungrateful offspring.

  “I thought I ought to put Sushi out,” I replied lamely. “How did you know I left? I was sitting back a ways—maybe you just didn’t see me.”

  She threw back her head, her eyes rolling up. “I can see plenty without my glasses, when I have a mind to!”

  Vivian Borne didn’t see all that well when she did have her glasses on, otherwise maybe she wouldn’t have racked up all those driving violations.

  I shrugged. “You were almost done when I left.”