Antiques Disposal

by Barbara Allan

  “Not really ... When she loses at something, I make her promise not to play that again.”

  “Shrewd.”

  “But that just means she tries something new.” He paused, then risked another glance. “Can’t be many games left for her to run through... .”

  I thought a moment. “There’s still craps, dice, horse-and dog-racing, plus all those sweepstakes that come in the mail. What you need is to get a more specific promise out of her!”

  We had arrived on Main Street, and as Maynard eased the trolley to the curb in front of Hunter’s Hardware, I stood, then disembarked with this parting advice, “Get Phyllis to promise she won’t play anything except bingo!”

  (I didn’t mention that I knew a woman, who, playing multiple cards, lost five C’s in one week.) (A “C” is detective talk for one hundred dollars.)

  The trolley pulled away with a little belch, which I didn’t take personally, and I entered the hardware store, a little bell above the door winning an angel its wings and announcing my presence.

  Hunter’s hadn’t changed since I was in bloomers (figuratively speaking, since of course I am not of an age ever to have worn bloomers), with the same scratched wooden floor, painted tin ceiling, and ancient fans keeping the stale air circulating.

  The elongated store was a uniquely Midwestern aberration: while the front section sold everything one might expect of a modern hardware business, the rear was given over to a small bar, offering hard liquor to hard workers who came in for hardware.

  Once in a blue moon, someone would imbibe too much before stumbling home and putting their purchases into practice, with an evening of drinking and woodworking coming to an unfortunate finish (and not in the furniture sense). The most recent incident had to do with a table saw and a missing index finger, by which I do not mean the finger had gone missing, just gone. Despite this, Hunter’s had only rarely been sued and its various owners never contemplated closing the hardware store-cum-bar.

  Ironically, Hunter’s was owned and operated by a middle-aged married couple—Junior and Mary—who’d bought the establishment with money Mary received in a settlement some years ago after losing a leg in a freak accident visiting the Jaws attraction at Universal Studios.

  Mary, who had quickly mastered her prosthesis, had slaved in the hardware end of the business for years, while goof-off Junior took the relative easy task of tending the bar. But last month, Mary finally put her foot down (so to speak), and announced that she’d had enough of the hardware trade, and was going to stay home and live a life of leisure, i.e., watch the Game Show Network.

  Now Hunter’s had a new employee running the front end, a young male veteran recently back from Iraq, who was a lot easier on the eyes than Mary. He, too, had lost a leg and did a jim-dandy job with his prosthesis (unfortunately, his loss of limb hadn’t been the moneymaker Mary’s had, since his had been lost in defense of his country and not at a theme park).

  “Hello, Matthew,” I greeted the ex-soldier. He was in his late twenties with cropped blond hair, tanned face, neck the size of a tree trunk, muscles straining at his tan work clothes. I report these details merely by way of good reporting and intending in no way to objectify this sweat-pearled hunk, that is, young man.

  “ ’morning, Mrs. Borne,” he answered, looking up from a display of wrenches he was stocking. “Need anything today?”

  “No, Matthew. My supply of duct tape and epoxy glue is holding up just fine, thank you.”

  “You still claim you can fix anything with just those two items?”

  “I do. But don’t tell your other customers, or Hunter’s will be out of business in a fortnight.”

  He smiled, but also frowned a little. It was just possible he didn’t know what a fortnight was. Nor did I, but I’ve always liked the sound of it.

  I breezed on through to the bar, where Junior was polishing glasses behind the old marred counter.

  Junior—fifty years ago his name might have been more befitting—was a paunchy, rheumy-eyed, mottled-nosed gent who made a great bartender but a low-grade gossip, continually getting his facts mixed up. (Not wanting the good people of Serenity to get the wrong idea, I asked Junior to help spread the word that Brandy was going to be a surrogate mother, and he told everyone I was having the child.)

  At this early hour, the bar was empty but for Henry, whom I considered more of a fixture than a customer. In his mid-fifties, slender, with silver hair, a beak nose, and his original set of teeth, Serenity’s favorite barfly had been a prominent surgeon until one day, after slightly anesthetizing himself with bourbon, he expertly removed a patient’s gallbladder—unfortunately, his mission had been to remove an appendix.

  Unlike Junior, Henry had for years been a gold mine of information, giving up one glittering nugget of gossip after another. Lately that mine had been shut down, however. You see, not long ago I had made the mistake of sobering him up, and Henry returned from his decades-long stupor with a clear mind ... including clear of much of his memory.

  I took a tattered leather stool one down from Henry, who was still a constant customer here at Hunter’s, only now he nursed not a whiskey but a nonalcoholic beer. He was neat as a pin in a yellow sport shirt and rust-color slacks and he had some tan left from getting back out on the golf course. Yes, he’d crawled out of the pit of despair and back into society’s good graces. (He’d never practice medicine again, but his family had money.)

  Happy as I was for Henry, the loss of a good snitch is a painful one for the amateur detective.

  Junior was shaking his head. “Terrible about Big Jim Bob, just terrible. Getting shot like that, poor fella.”

  “He was struck a blow from behind,” I said.

  “Shot in the back, you mean.”

  “No, Junior. Jim Bob was hit on the head.”

  He frowned. “I thought you got hit on the head.”

  “No. That was Peggy Sue.”

  “Oh my God, Vivian! I didn’t know! When was the funeral?”

  “Peggy Sue was knocked out, Junior. She wasn’t killed, but I do appreciate the sentiment.”

  You see? Worthless.

  “Give me the usual,” I said.

  “Sure thing, Viv.”

  “And make it a double!”

  Junior’s bushy eyebrows climbed his forehead like caterpillars heading across a sidewalk to high grass. “Okay, Viv, if you say so... .”

  While he turned his back to prepare my special concoction (and this, at least, he was capable of doing very well), I turned my attention to Henry.

  “Hello, Henry.”

  He smiled and nodded, his eyes distressingly clear. “Vivian.”

  Oh well. One must always try, even in the face of hopelessness.

  “Henry, were you by any chance acquainted with Big Jim Bob?”

  Henry gazed for a moment into his glass of O’Doul’s, perhaps looking for an answer, or contemplating diving in. “I knew him years ago,” he said. “It’s pretty vague. Apparently we were friends.”

  “Oh?”

  “Not that long ago, he sat next to me here and we talked and he drank and I”—he lifted his O’Doul’s—“drank.”

  “I was wondering why he’d returned to Serenity after all these years.”

  Junior set my double-tall, double-cherry Shirley Temple in front of me. (One of my classes at the School of Hard Knocks had taught me not to mix alcohol with my bipolar meds.)

  “I don’t believe he returned as much as he ... hightailed it from somewhere else. From something else.”

  “From where? From what?”

  “In a way, himself. He commented, after more beers than is prudent, that he was running from his past.”

  In a clear-eyed, clear-voiced, clear-minded manner (that I admit I found unsettling) the former souse shared with me his barroom conversation with Big Jim Bob.

  Here is the gist: two days before his murder, Big Jim Bob confided in Henry that a business venture—another storage unit facility, in fact—had g
one “south” in Texas, his partner accusing him of skimming off profits. The partner had tracked Big Jim Bob to Serenity, and was making threats. Details of those threats—whether in person or by phone—were not shared with Henry.

  “That’s it, Vivian. That’s all I have for you.”

  I grasped his shoulder. “You are reinstated as a snitch in good standing, Henry! Junior, put his next six nonalcoholic beers on my tab!”

  Henry thanked me, then winced in thought. “I have a feeling Big Jim Bob was a fairly shady character, back in the day. But you know my memory is pretty fuzzy, pre-sobriety.”

  With Henry’s well of information having gone as dry as he was, I asked Junior, “Would you happen to know where the Romeos are having lunch today?”

  The Romeos (Retired Old Men Eating Out) were an informal club of senior men who had been another good source for information for me over the years. A collective snitch.

  Junior shifted uneasily behind the bar. “Can’t say, Viv.”

  “Can’t say, Junior? Or won’t?”

  Junior seemed like he might cry. “They made me promise not to give you their whereabouts no more.”

  “Oh, fiddle faddle!”

  An excellent snack, by the way, Fiddle Faddle (free cartons of the delicious popcorn confection can be shipped to us care of our publisher for this unsolicited but most sincere endorsement).

  I went on: “Those old billy goats will simply bray with delight upon seeing me, in hopes of finding out what dirt I’ve discovered! They’re just a bunch of old gossips and you know it.”

  But Junior only shook his head, saying, “You’re a good customer, Viv, but so are they, and I promised. A bartender is only as good as his word.”

  Henry said, “Riverview Café.”

  “You know, Henry,” I said, “I’m starting to like you sober.”

  “Yeah,” he said with a funny smile. “Me, too.”

  The Riverview Café, with its charming riverboat theme, specialized in wonderful old-fashioned comfort-food meals that older folks grew up on, and shouldn’t be eating anymore; but that didn’t stop the Romeos. (Yo, Guy Fieri! Bring Triple D to Serenity! We’ll show the Food Network how to eat!)

  I found the Romeos sequestered at a round table for six in the back, sipping cups of coffee, waiting for the ol’ clock on the wall to strike eleven, the official time when patrons could put in their orders for the Blue Plate Special.

  Once a hardy group of about fifteen, the Romeo numbers had dwindled due to the Grim Reaper ... and Vivian Borne, who inadvertently caused them to disband for a while (see Antiques Flee Market).

  But the Romeos were staging a comeback, having added a few new retirees, whose wives were more than happy to get them out of the house.

  I pretended not to notice the group, and slid into a booth, my back to them, busying myself with examining a menu.

  If you think the biggest gossips are women, think again! Men are so very much worse—just slightly more covert about it. Take these old codgers, whose appetites for the Blue Plate Special didn’t compare to their craving for dirt. In less time than I could say, “I’ll have the chicken fried steak with extra gravy,” the Romeos had sent a point man.

  “ ’lo, Vivian.”

  I looked up from the menu, registering surprise. “Why, Harold! How delightful seeing you. It’s been too long.”

  I may have fluttered my eyelashes, which are mine, I’ll have you know (I have the receipt).

  Harold, an original Romeos member, looked vaguely like the older Bob Hope (it took some squinting), and once upon a time, the ex-army sergeant had asked me to marry him. Having no desire to hup-two, and / or be permanently assigned to KP duty, I’d politely declined.

  Harold was saying, “We have an extra chair, Viv. Would you care to join us?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” I demurred, “I wouldn’t want to make anyone uncomfortable ... I know I’m not Miss Popularity with you boys these days.”

  “Nonsense, Viv. Forgive and forget.”

  “I wasn’t aware I’d done anything that needed forgiveness, Henry.”

  “Well, just leave it at ‘forget’ then... . We’ve certainly forgotten all about that unpleasantness last winter.”

  Ha! Like these old elephants ever forgot anything.

  “You know what they say,” he said with a silly grin. “Let bygones be bygones.”

  I smiled sweetly, burying my irritation at being made an outcast over doing my civic duty and (SPOILER ALERT!) exposing a murderer.

  “Suits me fine,” I said.

  Gathering my orange tote, I trailed Harold back to the round table, taking a seat between two other original members: Vern, a retired chiropractor, who reminded me of the older Clark Gable without the ears sticking out (but with the false teeth); and Randall, ex-hog farmer, who looked like a less sophisticated Sidney Greenstreet. (Since Randy had sold his hog farm, it was no longer necessary to sit downwind from him.)

  There were several new old faces, including Gordon, whose top half (eyes, forehead, hair) looked like Ronald Colman, and bottom half (nose, mouth, chin) Stewart Granger (if you can work that math). Gordon was a second-generation heir to one of Serenity’s famous pearl button factories, but don’t any of you older gals out there get any ideas—his four ex-wives had bled him nearly penniless.

  Then there was Wendell, a dead-ringer for Leo Gorcey (and for those of you younger readers who don’t know what Leo Gorcey looked like, you have the options of a., looking him up on the Net, or b., counting yourself lucky). Wendell was a former river barge captain whose career abruptly came to an end one balmy summer day when he fell asleep at the helm and ran the Mississippi Belle up into the boat club parking lot, crashing into the side of the building, the riverboat’s calliope playing at the time that ragtime favorite, “Bim Bam Boom.”

  “Hello, boys,” I greeted in my best Mae West impression.

  I received friendly nods, and hellos back, but mostly the Romeos were staring at me as if I were the Blue Plate Special. Since they’d sent their scout to fetch me, there was nothing negative about this reception—they were merely eager to find out what juicy morsels I was serving up today.

  Harold cleared his throat, no louder than a cannon going off, then said, “What’s new with you, Vivian?”

  As if he hadn’t already heard the scuttlebutt.

  Before I could answer, a shapely waitress in her mid-thirties appeared, red hair piled on high, asking a collective, “What can I get you young fellas?”

  Shocking how short the attention span of a man can be—with the promise of sex and food standing there in a blue uniform, it was suddenly as if Vivian Borne didn’t exist. Ah, well.

  Not surprisingly, I was the only one who didn’t order the Blue Plate, opting for a spinach salad, chicken fried steak a mere will-o’-the-wisp. In a world where waitresses roamed, an older gal had to work to keep her figure, especially if she wanted to play the likes of the Romeos like a cheap kazoo.

  While we waited for the food, I gave the eager group what they wanted: a play-by-play of the discovery of Big Jim Bob’s body, and the break-in at our house; but I avoided any mention of Anna Armstrong, much less Bix B. While the information I provided wasn’t anything that they hadn’t “hoid” through the grapevine, I gave it the proper dramatic reading and that immediacy one gets only from the horse’s mouth (as they say).

  The food arrived, and as the men dug in, I picked and poked at my salad, and casually changed the subject. “I hear our esteemed Milton Lawrence is finally getting ready to retire.”

  Randall, mouth full of meat loaf, nodded, saying, “Gonna close his office in the bank building end of the month.”

  I smiled. “Ah! Maybe you can get him to join the Romeos.”

  Harold shook his head. “Naw. He’s leaving Serenity. Bought a condo in Sun Valley, I heard.”

  Newbie Gordon commented, “Besides, he’s not exactly the Blue Plate Special type.”

  Wendell, the other newbie, added, “I say
good riddance.”

  Their comments surprised me, and I said, “Why so negative, gents? I thought everyone admired Milton, even if they didn’t like him.”

  When that brought scoffs, I went on. “He’s done so much for this town—built the new bank building, not to mention improving that entire block.”

  “All for the betterment of himself,” Vern said.

  “And on the back of his poor dead wife,” Harold added.

  I frowned. “That’s a trifle unkind.”

  Harold cocked his head toward me. “Look, Viv, everyone knows Uncle Miltie was a male gold-digger who built his fortune off of Lillian’s money.”

  “Is that right?” I asked, pretending I hadn’t heard the same rumors, but hoping for something more substantial.

  Vern frowned, puzzled. “Viv, you were around in the 1970s. Don’t you remember?”

  And sadly, dear reader, that was my problem: I had only a sketchy recollection of that period, thanks to the medication I was taking. And when I wasn’t taking it, I had my mind on more important matters. Like gathering all the doorknobs in the house to mail to then-President Nixon.

  Gordon was saying, “If you ask me, Lillian died of a broken heart after Milton disinherited Stephen—”

  “James,” Harold corrected. “Stephen died in Vietnam, James was the draft-dodger son who booked it to Canada.”

  The ex-army sergeant said this with no particular malice, having admitted to me long ago that he felt Vietnam had been a mistake. Of course, the shrapnel in his rear quarters may have contributed to that opinion.

  “You know something funny?” Wendell said.

  “What?” everyone said, including me.

  “I hear the draft dodger’s back in town. James.”

  Gordon said, “Huh! You don’t say... . After all these years! I wonder if he’s tried to get in touch with his old man.”

  “I doubt Milton would even see him,” Vern said, then shook his head. “Still, I can’t believe the old boy wouldn’t want to make amends—after all, if the government pardoned all those draft dodgers, why shouldn’t he?”

  “Because,” Harold said softly, “he’d have to admit Stephen, his other son, gave up his life for nothing.”