Antiques Disposal

by Barbara Allan

  Brandy: Nothing doing ... I will write the last chapter, just as I always have, and you can simply report to me what Lee Hamilton said, and I will share it with my readers.

  Mother: Our readers! And you will miss all the nuances of my jailhouse visit. And you may well leave out something pertinent.

  Brandy: What I’ll leave out is everything that’s not pertinent.

  Mother: My rare digressions may not technically be pertinent, but they add a richness and poetry to the proceedings that your more prosaic style (which I admit has its merits) (particularly your creative use of parentheses, dear) may not do this material justice. A single solitary creative writing class at a community college does not make you Jane Austen or Mary Higgins Clark.

  Editor: I have repeatedly asked the two of you to stop your bickering, and to settle your differences, and you have consistently ignored me. Therefore, I will make a Solomon-like editorial decision and divide this baby in two. Regarding this chapter: Vivian will write the front half; Brandy the rest. And I expect to be subjected to no more of your squabbling, understood?

  Brandy: She started it.

  Editor: I repeat—understood?

  Brandy: Fine.

  Mother: And have I mentioned what a lovely editorial job it is that you’ve been doing?

  Dearest ones! Vivian here, by popular request. The morning after my triumphant unveiling of the murderer—with a soupçon of help from our diabetic doggie—I awoke filled with vigor and vinegar, determined to bull my way into the county jail to see Lee Hamilton, who was remanded there pending charges. My performance as Nero Wolfe had clearly detailed how all of our suspects might have committed the crimes, and why. Unfortunately, I seem to have neglected the why and wherefore of the actual murderer.

  The morning was sunny and crisp, the swallows gathering on the telephone lines making ready to wing their way to Capistrano, where I have never been incidentally, but hope to “fly” myself one day. San Juan, Puerto Rico, that is, not California ... unless the Capistrano in this instance is in California, in which case I have been there, and it’s nothing to write home about.

  Editor: Vivian, I reserve the right to reverse my decision, should you insist on these digressions.

  Mother: I bow to your expertise.

  After arriving downtown on the trolley—

  Mother: Oh! Wouldn’t this be a delightful place to insert my much funnier trolley story?

  Editor: No.

  After arriving downtown on the trolley, I hoofed it over to the new county jail, and was in luck to find Sheriff Rudder in residence; I felt confident that he would acquiesce to my request to see the prisoner because we have a mutual admiration and respect for each other.

  Brandy: What you mean is, he would agree to anything to get you out of his hair.

  Editor: There’s always the option of canceling your book contract.

  Mother: I will pledge not to interrupt Brandy in her half chapter if she will pledge not to interrupt me in mine.

  Brandy: Deal.

  Within minutes of my brief powwow with the sheriff, I was moving through the lobby’s metal detector—with a minor time-out when the pins in my knee set off the infernal gizmo—and then a female deputy named Patty, who’d been so accommodating during my most recent incarceration, escorted me through one locked door, then another.

  Finally, in the small visitors’ room, I sat awaiting Lee to appear on the other side of the Plexiglas. Assuming, that is, that he agreed to see me. After all, Brandy, Sushi, and I had exposed him as a two-time murderer.

  Perhaps five minutes passed, and I was beginning to wonder if he might be holding a slight grudge, when a burly male guard escorted the prisoner to the chair on his side.

  Lee had been forced to trade in his dress shirt and slacks for the familiar bright orange garb that I also had been issued not so long ago. Unlike moi—with a natural coloration enhanced by vivid fall shades (I recommend everyone have their colors done!)—Lee, minus his usual pastel finery, appeared a ghastly shade of pale.

  We picked up our respective phones.

  “How are they treating you, dear?” I asked with sympathy.

  “It’s not the Savoy,” he responded.

  He seemed rather morose.

  “It must be simply dreadful,” I said.

  In reality, I’d had a wonderful time in jail organizing a theater group (see Antiques Knock-Off), and actually had been sorry to leave. But saying so in these circumstances would have been less than gracious.

  “My dear,” I said, “I thought I knew you. All those hours we worked together at the Playhouse. Please help me understand.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Understand what?”

  “Oh, let’s not play cat and mouse—we go back too far for that.” I leaned forward to where my nose almost touched the Plexiglas. “Rest assured I’m not wearing a wire—this conversation is just between us veteran thespians.”

  “Vivian, I only said I’d talk to you because it was a change from that damn cell they have me in. If you think I’m going to open up to you, you’re wrong.”

  “Really? We’ve been friends, Lee, perhaps not close friends, but fellow warriors in the theatrical trenches. And yet you enter my house, and almost kill my daughter? Really?”

  “Vivian, that wasn’t personal.”

  “It was extremely personal.” My eyes met his, and to his credit he did not avert my gaze. “I do feel you owe me an explanation.”

  He said nothing for the longest time.

  Finally he said, “Perhaps,” shrugging with his face.

  But if I thought a confession would come rushing out, I was mistaken. I would have to dig for these nuggets.

  “My dear, what confuses me is that your future outlook was so bright. Why risk it?”

  His laugh was small but towering with bitterness. “My future outlook was bright?”

  “But of course! Think of your glorious retirement! When last we spoke, you were considering Florida, or perhaps California.”

  He laughed again, louder, humorless. “Viv, old girl, that would take a boatload of money, and I am left up shoot creek without a paddle.”

  (Although he did not say “boatload” or “shoot”—apparently a night in stir had already made a hardened criminal of him.)

  I frowned. “Surely, working for the wealthiest man in Serenity, you must have had a generous retirement package.”

  He shook his head.

  “Severance pay, then?”

  Again the head swiveled.

  “Why, that’s simply dreadful!” I said, aghast. I was not acting—this seemed a travesty, after all the years Lee had put in as Milton’s right-hand man.

  “Well, dreadful or not, it’s the case, Vivian. I was going to be set out on the curb with the rest of the refuse.”

  “But my dear ... it’s not as if Milton couldn’t have afforded to give you such benefits. Surely you were shocked, after so much loyal service, and considering all of the sacrifices you must have made!” I shook my head, tsk-tsked. “Such shabby treatment.”

  And now I must admit I had moved into the acting realm. As shameful as it might be for Milton to have treated his major domo so poorly, that hardly justified Lee Hamilton’s homicidal activities.

  But my feigned sympathy had Lee’s eyes filling with tears. What a pity that this, one of my finest performances, was presented to an audience of one. How I wish you had been there!

  He dabbed his eyes with a tissue (a box was provided—apparently tears in the visitors’ room were commonplace). Then he sniffled and said, “It wasn’t the money. Not really.”

  “What else could it have been, dear?”

  “It was the indignity! Of how disposable I was to him after decades of service and, I thought, mutual regard. Vivian. . . I thought I was like a son to the man.”

  Considering how Milton had cut off his real son James, maybe that should have been an indicator to Lee. But I kept this observation to myself.

  I asked, “Hadn’t Mi
lton paid you a substantial salary over the years? I do remember you saying as much.”

  “Yes, he did, and he was more than fair. But I ... I just don’t know where it all went.”

  Here is where I might have said, “On fine clothes, expensive furnishings, and extensive travel?”

  But I didn’t.

  Instead I said, “Surely it must have dawned on you that maintaining your lifestyle would be impossible after Milton’s retirement. You must have known there was no retirement package.”

  “I assumed there would be some kind of gift, some lump sum that would take the place of that. But when Lawrence informed me that my services for him would soon terminate, I asked if there would be a bonus, and he said ... well, he said yes.”

  “He did?”

  “He did.” Lee made a face as if tasting something nasty. “A one-thousand-dollar one.”

  “Is that when you decided to find some other avenue of securing retirement funds?”

  Lee sighed and nodded. “Lawrence had mentioned, several times, having bought a valuable cornet for his late son, Stephen. Once owned by Bix Beiderbecke himself. Recently I asked him what had become of it.”

  “And he revealed that Anna Armstrong had it.”

  Lee nodded glumly.

  “So you went there one night last month, climbed the scaffolding, and broke-and-entered into her apartment.”

  His eyebrows climbed his forehead. “But I guess I made too much noise. I was a beginner, an amateur.”

  “No one’s perfect, dear.”

  “And, well ... she woke up and ... there was an accident.”

  An interesting euphemism for killing a person.

  I said, “You didn’t find the cornet, did you? But did discover something that led you to the storage unit facility.”

  “An invoice for the rental, yes. I ... I heard rumors that Jim Bob had a shady past, and I went to him to strike a deal. I told him the Armstrong unit contained some valuable antiques, and that ... well ... I knew a person in Chicago who wouldn’t ask questions about where they came from, and we would split the proceeds.”

  “Had you really made contact with someone like that in Chicago?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you specifically mention the Beiderbecke horn to Big Jim Bob?”

  For a moment, Lee didn’t answer.

  Then with a sigh he said, “Only that it was a collectible instrument that could bring in several hundred dollars.” His eyes flashed. “Somehow Jim Bob found out it was worth much more. Apparently he’d arranged to have you buy the contents of the locker, and he intended to go to your home and take back the cornet.”

  “What a crook!”

  “Wasn’t he though? An untrustworthy, low-life S.O.B. When I confronted him, he insisted the horn had never been in the locker. That he’d done an inventory and it simply wasn’t there. But I knew he was lying. We argued, and I was threatening him with that cutting tool when finally he admitted that he’d sent the horn home with you—but that you didn’t know the instrument’s value. He tried to convince me we should throw back in together, and go to your house to retrieve the thing ... but I was having none of that, and we argued some more, and scuffled some more, and ...”

  “Another accident?”

  He again nodded glumly.

  That seemed about it; but I decided to try to tie up a loose end or two.

  I asked, “What about Big Jim Bob’s cottage? When did you go there?”

  “After I discovered the cornet I took from your house was not the right one, I thought perhaps Big Jim had lied about you having it, and that it was really hidden at his place.”

  One detail remained unanswered.

  “What happened to the boxes Brandy and I had left in the storage unit?”

  He shrugged an apology. “Sorry, Viv. Bottom of the river, after I didn’t find the cornet in them. I don’t think there was anything very valuable, but I am sorry.” He seemed more regretful about that than the murders.

  He leaned closer to the Plexiglas, eyes pleading now. “You understand, don’t you, Vivian? I’m really not a bad person. I lived a good life, working diligently for a man who treated me like a son and then cast me off like an old shoe. You do understand, right? That I was forced to do what I did?”

  “Yes, dear,” I said, “these things happen ... just as the legal system will be forced to do what it has to do, no matter how much of an ‘accident’ it all was—but you do have one source of solace.”

  “I do?”

  “Oh yes. You have the state to take care of your retirement plans now.”

  I replaced the phone and he was still sitting there, when I left.

  Brandy back.

  And let me say, bickering aside, that I can only admire Mother for the manner in which she got Lee Hamilton to open up and explain himself. Unfortunately for Lee, while Mother indeed hadn’t been wearing a wire, all conversations in the visitors’ area were recorded. No biggie, since he was already as good as convicted—the print on the murder weapon matching the handprint on our library’s glass door.

  A few days had passed since the auction, and things had calmed down regarding the senator and Peggy Sue and myself, the senator’s poll ratings actually benefiting from all the media attention, the public (in general) loving the reuniting of two parents and their child—hip hip hooray for family units, family values, and the family way.

  I was outside playing with Sushi and Rocky—or rather, I was watching them play in the piles of leaves I had raked—when my cell phone rang in my jacket pocket.

  Delighted to see my niece Ashley’s I.D. on the screen, I chirped, “Hey, girl! What’s up?”

  All I heard in response was sobbing.

  “Honey, what’s wrong?”

  I waited for Ashley to compose herself.

  “Brandy, how can you be so happy?”

  Confused, I asked, “Why wouldn’t I be happy?”

  You would be, too, if your Prozac had kicked back in.

  She went on. “I mean, after what Mom and that ... that senator did to you? Not to mention me! I had to find out on TV that you were really my sister! Couldn’t you have told me?”

  Oh, for blankety-blank sake. Peggy Sue hadn’t told her.

  “Half sister,” I corrected.

  “Like that makes a difference! Do you know what this means? My whole life has been a lie! I am never going to speak to Mom again. Never.”

  “Ashley, I know how you feel, believe me ... but don’t you think that’s a little harsh? Your mother was barely out of high school. She did what she thought was best at the time.”

  “How can you defend her?”

  Yes, how could I? Only a few months ago I had been as angry and disillusioned as Ashley.

  Who was saying, “I’m especially mad about what they did to you.”

  “Look,” I said evenly, “I can fight my own battles and handle my own neuroses. I have come to grips with my parentage, and I suggest that you—”

  “I don’t mean that! The photo!”

  “What about it?”

  “Don’t tell me you don’t know? They leaked it! It was them! Mom told me one of Senator Clark’s aides took it, on his cell phone. Sneaked it of you two at the hospital. The whole thing was planned to get him ahead in the polls. You were used to get him reelected.”

  I was unable to speak, as if I’d been kicked in the stomach.

  Ashley continued: “Anyway, I just called to say I’m dropping out of school. You can tell Mom because I have no intention of doing so.”

  Finally locating my voice, I pleaded, “Don’t fly off the handle, honey—college is too important.”

  “Already quit. I’m leaving for New York tomorrow.”

  “But New York ...” She was just a kid! “What will you do there?”

  She laughed humorlessly. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe I’ll join an escort service—let them explain that to the media.”

  “Stop it. If you do something rash, you’ll only end up h
urting yourself.”

  Which, from experience, I knew for a fact.

  But my niece / half sister wasn’t listening. “I’ll send you my new e-mail, Brandy, and cell number. But don’t you dare give it out.”

  Her only good-bye was the click in my ear.

  I don’t remember walking around the side of the house to the front porch, to sit in the old rocker; but I must have, because half an hour later I was still there, rocking listlessly, weighing what I could, or should, do to help Ashley, when a huge silver Hummer pulled into the drive.

  I wondered what kind of moron would drive such a gas-guzzling monster these days. My question was answered by the driver who jumped out.

  My ex-husband, Roger.

  What was he doing here, showing up unannounced, coming all the way from Chicago?

  Wearing a navy jacket over a pale yellow shirt, and tan slacks, he hurried toward me, locks of his brown hair flying out of place, his normally pleasant features clenched grimly.

  Immediately my adrenaline began to rush.

  I flew down the porch steps to meet him.

  “Is it Jake?” I asked.

  “Brandy, is he here?”

  “No! Why ... what ... ?”

  His sigh quavered. “I was afraid of that.”

  “Roger! Stop scaring me. What’s going on?”

  “Jake’s run away.”

  Stay tuned for more exciting adventures of Brandy Borne.

  Vivian: Excuse me? Shouldn’t that be “More Exciting Adventures of Vivian and Brandy Borne”?

  Editor: How about “Brandy and Vivian Borne”?

  Vivian: Agreed! I may not have gotten the entire last chapter, but for once I got the last word.

  A Trash ‘n’ Treasures Tip

  If your conscience bothers you about taking other people’s possessions, turn over personal items such as photos to the storage unit owner—most are far more trustworthy than Big Jim Bob. And by the way, since (for better or worse) I, Brandy Borne, write these tips ... ? Mother did not get the last word.