Antiques Wanted

by Barbara Allan

  “I’m used to it here,” she replied. “Happy in my rut.”

  “And Wanda?”

  “I can’t speak for her. Well, good night, Mrs. Borne.”

  “Au revoir.”

  I watched a little TV—why don’t those Hallmark people make one of our books into a movie (probably they don’t because we’re writing true crime)—with Sushi snuggled by my side. Then I read a few chapters of Death of a Dude so that I’d be more informed for the next two or three Red Hatted League meetings.

  Brandy called to check on me, and I told her everything was a-okay, and that I was about to get ready for bed.

  After the call, I reached over and got the crutches, then made my way on the casts to the bathroom to brush my teeth (all mine, and I don’t mean I paid for ’em). Sushi had come along to pee in the drain in the shower, which Brandy had taught her to do (not by example!), and it was as cute as it was unsanitary. Afterward I ran hot water with some soap, even though someone daily disinfected the bathroom.

  (Note to Vivian from Editor: Perhaps the reader doesn’t need to know that Sushi relieved herself in the shower, which is a little off-putting.)

  (Note to Editor from Vivian: Any dog owner is going to wonder why Sushi doesn’t have to piddle for sixteen hours—from four in the afternoon, when Brandy brought her, until eight the next morning, when Brandy picks her up. Besides, those owners might appreciate the tip should they smuggle a dog into a no-pet room sometime. Hello? Are you still there?)

  After returning from the bathroom, I replaced the crutches and settled into bed with Sushi tucked beneath the covers by my side. I had decided not to take the sleeping pills because, why bother? I was already bone-tired—hurtling down a slope in an out-of-control wheelchair and crash-landing in a ravine takes it out of a gal—so I turned off the lamp and promptly fell asleep.

  Sushi stirring woke me. The digital clock on the nightstand read a few minutes before the witching hour.

  I had left a light on in the bathroom, the one above the sink, which allowed me to see across to where the horizontal silver handle of the room’s door began to move slowly downward.

  Since Wanda had no reason to be checking on me—this wasn’t a hospital with vitals getting monitored ad infinitum—I sat up straight, like a horror show monster who turned out not to be dead. Sushi came out from beneath the covers, and sensing my trepidation, stood on the edge of the bed, eyes fixed on the door, a low growl rumbling in her throat.

  The door eased open just enough for a figure to slip in.

  As the person came toward me, Sushi sprang off the bed, hurtling herself through the air, landing at the intruder’s feet, where she sank her sharp little teeth into a vulnerable ankle.

  As the intruder howled, I turned on the lamp.

  “Arthur!” I said, shocked. He was wearing a robe over striped pajamas.

  “Get that filthy little beast off me,” he cried.

  “Sushi, come here,” I commanded. “Now! And she’s not filthy, and I think we both know who the beast here is.”

  Sushi trotted back to the bed and jumped up.

  “Well?” I asked my uninvited guest. “Explain yourself.”

  “When you didn’t show up,” he said pitifully, rubbing the sore ankle, “I thought I’d better check on you.”

  “I had no intention of dropping by your quarters,” I snapped. “And you had no right to come here unbidden. I am not playing Lucretia to your Tarquin!”

  “I only wanted to give you the title to the car.” He pitifully produced the paper from a pocket of the robe and wiggled the little title slip.

  “That could have waited until morning,” I said. “But, very well. Hand it over.”

  He did so, then—regaining some backbone—said indignantly, “You shouldn’t have a dog in here. I could tell Burnett.”

  “I trust you won’t. You’d have to explain to him exactly how it was that you found out. Good night, Arthur.”

  The man hesitated, then slipped back out.

  “Good girl,” I told Sushi, petting her head.

  We settled again in bed, and I quenched the lamp.

  I must admit I was the tiniest bit flattered by my midnight caller. A girl likes to be reminded at any age that she’s still desirable (even if the one desiring her turns her stomach a bit).

  Sushi and I went back to sleep.

  I awoke again, acutely aware of a presence very near me.

  “Mr. Fillmore!” I said reflexively. “I thought I made myself perfectly clear about your unwanted advances!”

  But the figure was not Arthur, rather someone else—someone dressed in dark clothing and wearing a ski mask.

  My outburst startled him—or her—and then came the sound of broken glass as something was knocked to the floor.

  The intruder bolted.

  Sushi was slow on the draw this time, burrowed at the bottom of the bed as she was, and before she could get to the person, he/she had fled, closing the door, preventing the dog from giving chase.

  I switched on the lamp, which had not crashed to the floor. Nor had the clock, reading a quarter to three, lost its face. The casualty was the framed photo of Gabby Hayes, glass shards fanning out on the tile, Roy Rogers’s sidekick grinning up at me, good as ever. Also just as toothless.

  I pressed the call button to summon Wanda.

  And waited.

  And waited.

  Finally, I eased out of bed on the opposite side of the glass, retrieved the crutches, and hobbled from the room, Sushi trailing down the hall close behind.

  The nurses’ station was vacant, and several other call buttons were blinking, indicating Wanda had been away from the desk for a while.

  I was debating what to do next, when Sushi trotted down the hallway and stopped in front of the supply room. She looked back at me, and gave two sharp barks that somehow sounded like, “Hey! You!”

  I lurched my way to her.

  With some difficulty I opened the door, a sign reading STAFF ONLY, and Sushi trotted in ahead of me.

  The room, about the size of mine, contained a half dozen or so stand-alone six-foot-high metal storage units, whose shelves held a vast assortment of medical supplies, the units creating a kind of maze.

  Sushi led me through a passageway into an area in the back that had a sink, coffeemaker, and a small counter refrigerator.

  Seated in the corner on the cold tile floor was Wanda, her back against the wall, eyes staring at me, but not seeing. The expression on her dead face was every bit as put-upon as when she’d been living.

  Mother’s Trash ’n’ Treasures Tip

  Before attending a sale, make sure you understand what types of payment are accepted (cash, check, debit card, credit card). I learned a hard lesson by going to a cash-only sale, seeing a signed, authentic Margaret Keane print of an urchin girl, and not having enough dough. Was that an eye opener!

  Chapter Eight

  Shady Deal at Sunny Meadow

  With Mother and Sushi both ensconced at Sunny Meadow, I had the house to myself this evening. And, boy, did I ever go wild!

  For supper I heated up some tomato soup and made a grilled cheese sandwich. Afterward, I cleaned the kitchen, did a little laundry, answered a few e-mails, then checked out some Internet clothing sites. Bored with that, I turned on the TV and surfed the cable channels for a movie to watch.

  I landed on TCM, which was showing Hitchcock’s Rear Window, coming in on the part where Raymond Burr was trying to kill a wheelchair-bound Jimmy Stewart. Mother always refused to watch that movie, because she was disturbed by seeing Perry Mason behave so badly.

  I turned off the TV and called Mother.

  “Everything’s fine, dear,” she assured me. “Sushi is quite adept at eluding the staff. And I’m about to retire for the night.”

  In other words, don’t call again.

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning about eight. Nighty-night.”

  “Nighty-night, dear.”

 
Feeling somewhat better, I went to bed.

  But I couldn’t sleep.

  Vivian Borne could be formidable when faced with an adversary—if all her working parts were, you know . . . working. But an incapacitated Vivian Borne would be vulnerable, even with a feisty Sushi at her side. I growled at myself, since Soosh wasn’t there to do it for me—I should have made Mother come home.

  At some point I finally dozed off, and then—after what seemed like only a few minutes—was startled awake by my cell phone. The bedside clock read five in the morning. Had there been a disaster? A tragedy?

  For once, I was relieved to hear Mother’s voice.

  “Dear,” she began, “sorry to call so early, but I wonder if you could get here sooner than eight a.m.”

  “Well . . . sure. Everything all right?”

  “I am fine and well on the mend. But there has been an incident.”

  “Define incident.”

  “Something out of the ordinary.”

  “I didn’t really mean define it—I mean, what happened?”

  “I’ll fill you in when I see you,” she said, and ended the call.

  Mother was just making sure I’d rush to her side. But I thought I knew what the incident was: Sushi had been discovered and Mother had been asked to leave.

  I took a quick shower, threw on some J Brand tan jeans and a Joie white eyelet blouse, slipped on Rag and Bone black flats, then went downstairs, where I microwaved a cup of last night’s Dunkin’ Donuts Caramel coffee, tossed a handful of Kellogg’s Froot Loops into my mouth, grabbed my Coach yellow bag, and went out the door into the crack of dawn.

  (Mother to Brandy: Dear, you’re going overboard with all of the brand names, which slows down the narrative and isn’t that important.)

  (Brandy to Mother: If I’m not specific, the readers will dress me themselves in their minds and I might not like what they put on me. Also, I could end up drinking Starbucks coffee, which is too strong, and eating Bran Flakes, which is just blah.)

  (Note to Brandy from Editor: I think your mother’s suggestion has merit.)

  Oh, fine. I took a quick shower, threw on some jeans and a blouse, slipped on flats, then went downstairs, where I microwaved a cup of last night’s coffee, tossed a handful of cereal into my mouth, grabbed my bag, and went out the door into the crack of dawn. Everybody happy?

  My conjecture about the “incident” suddenly changed when I arrived at Sunny Meadow and saw Sheriff Rudder’s patrol car parked at the front entrance.

  I knew the vehicle was his because of the little mark on the back bumper Mother had once-upon-a-time sneakily made with indelible black ink so she would always know it was him and not a deputy.

  (Mother to Brandy: I did no such thing. The mark was already on his car.)

  (Brandy to Mother: I was, like, with you at the time!)

  (Note to Brandy and Vivian from Editor: Ladies, if you insist upon continuing this squabbling, I’m going to pull the plug on your entire series.)

  (Note to Editor from Vivian: Yes, ma’am.)

  Further evidence that something serious had happened was the paramedic’s van, lights flashing, parked somewhat askew, and the coroner’s black sedan.

  I parked, then hurried into the building.

  Stepping off the elevator onto the second floor, I was immediately met by a disheveled Mr. Burnett, who must have thrown on yesterday’s clothes (no brand names—you’re on your own) after being rousted from bed.

  “Your mother is in her room,” he said tersely. “And so is that dog.”

  “Thank you,” I said pleasantly, sidestepped him, and moved on.

  “And they’re supposed to stay in there!” he called to my back. “Sheriff’s orders!”

  That didn’t seem to require a response.

  Outside the supply room stood Rudder, having a confab with two young male paramedics, and the coroner, a middle-aged, short, bespectacled bald man. His name was Hector, not that it matters, as this is his only appearance in the story.

  As I neared, the men stopped talking; the sheriff’s narrowed eyes followed me in wide-open suspicion as I continued on toward Mother’s room.

  She was in the recliner, feet up, dressed (feel free to put clothes on her, just make sure they’re periwinkle), hair fixed, makeup applied, and ready for whatever new adventures the day might bring.

  Sushi, on her lap, jumped down and ran to me. I picked the little darling up, got some eager licks to the face, then sat on the edge of the bed, wiping the moisture off with a sleeve.

  “Well?” I asked her.

  As matter-of-fact as a weather report, Mother told me how she had called for Wanda about a quarter to three in the morning and—when the nurse didn’t come—used the crutches to go and search for her. Sushi had led Mother to the supply room where she found a lifeless Wanda.

  I said, “Do we know the cause of death?”

  “Drug overdose,” Mother said. “I overheard the paramedics tell Sheriff Rudder that if they’d gotten to her sooner, she might have been saved by an injection of epinephrine.”

  “What about the time she died?”

  “I heard Hector say between midnight and two,” Mother said. “But that’s all I got before being banished to this room. You’d think that man would have learned by now what a help I can be.”

  That man being Sheriff Rudder. As for Hector, he has now officially disappeared from this narrative.

  “An accidental overdose, maybe,” I said.

  “Or something more sinister.”

  I frowned. “Any reason for that opinion, besides a thirst for murder?”

  “I am no vampire, dear, just a good citizen and a candidate for sheriff. My belief derives from a simple fact—Wanda was the author of my anonymous note.”

  “However could you know that?”

  Mother’s smile was a little smug. “You will not be shocked to learn that I did a touch of snooping at the nurses’ station while waiting for help to arrive. And what do you think I found?”

  “Please don’t make me guess.”

  “A report with the late Wanda’s handwriting. And while my note was printed in all caps, there were enough similar examples in that report to prove to my satisfaction that Wanda was my wanna-be informer.” Mother stroked her chin. “There’s just one problem with that, however.... I also saw the staff’s time sheet for this week, and Wanda’s afternoon break yesterday was at four, yet I was due to meet her at three.”

  I shrugged. “Maybe she wanted to make sure you had time to get to the garden, you know, because of the wheelchair.”

  “But if I’d been on time,” Mother said, almost crossly, “I might not have waited that long to receive her!”

  I added a thought. “Maybe she wrote the note for someone else who planned to meet you.”

  “Perhaps.”

  I snapped my fingers. “Might be she was giving herself an alibi! Possible she didn’t intend to meet you at all—just wanted to send you down a steep hill in a sabotaged wheelchair!”

  We fell silent for a moment.

  Then Mother said, “Dear, I’m afraid I owe you an apology.”

  Wow. I could count her apologies to me, over the years, on one hand. With fingers left to wiggle.

  “You were correct about leaving Sushi with your poor, helpless mater,” she said. “As things transpired, I did need her protection.”

  “Spill.”

  “I had two visitors in the night,” Mother explained, leaning toward me conspiratorially. “The first was Mr. Fillmore, who came around looking for a little . . . shall we say, faire l’amour.”

  I held a hand up like a traffic cop, wishing I also had a whistle. “Don’t want to hear about it. Not pertinent.”

  “Nothing happened, dear—I might have been re-clined, but I wasn’t in-clined—and Sushi dispatched him, toot sweet. No, it was my second visitor who put me in peril. He—or she—came close enough to do me harm before I awoke and yelled, startling him and alerting Sushi, who tried to take
chase, but the door closed, preventing that. Luckily, the only casualty was Gabby Hayes, who got knocked off the nightstand, and will need a new frame and glass.”

  “Well, that settles it,” I said firmly. “You’re coming home.”

  “No argument,” Mother said. “Besides, I heard talk of a full investigation, not just of Wanda’s death, but all standards and practices of Sunny Meadow. And once the regulators descend, I’ll have very little access to further information.”

  A knock on the door announced Sheriff Rudder, who strode in with his slightly sideways gait. While his tan shirt and khaki-colored slacks looked fresh enough, he himself did not, bags beneath his eyes packed and ready for retirement.

  “Vivian, Brandy,” Rudder said with curt nods.

  He found a chair and planted himself next to the seated Mother, who was reclined if not inclined; I remained on the bed, holding an uncharacteristically neutral Sushi, who neither liked nor disliked the man.

  “Okay,” he said. “What’s your story, Vivian?”

  Mother gave a truncated version of what she had told me (omitting her two night visitors), very straightforward with no dramatic flourishes—I knew she was eager to get to her own questions.

  “Overdose, was it?” Mother asked Rudder.

  “I’m not at liberty to say,” he replied.

  I said, “She overheard the paramedics.”

  The sheriff sighed (as I said, many who encounter Mother do). “All right, that is the suspected cause,” he admitted.

  “Death between midnight and two?” Mother asked.

  “I’m not at liberty to speak to that, either.”

  “She overheard the coroner,” I commented.

  Rudder smirked. “Then you know everything I do.”

  “Perhaps more,” Mother said with a pixie smile. Pixie smiles are not terribly becoming to women over sixty. They probably aren’t becoming on pixies over sixty, either.

  The sheriff cocked his head. “I understand you had a problem with your wheelchair yesterday afternoon.”

  Mother waved a hand. “A mere bagatelle.”