Antiques Swap

by Barbara Allan

  “That should do it. And Wes? You won’t leave her? There could be another attempt on her life.”

  He frowned. “I thought you said she was robbed.”

  “Now I’m not so sure. You see . . . Mother was looking into Vanessa’s murder.”

  Wes grunted a humorless laugh, nodded. “I shouldn’t be surprised. That’s what she does, right?”

  “Right.”

  “No worries, Brandy. I won’t leave her side.”

  “Thanks. Be back soon.” I gave him a quick kiss on the cheek.

  A very excited Sushi was happy to see me, and I was pleased to see no little gifts had been left anywhere, at least not on first glance. I gave the sweet little pooch some attention, then fed her, and administered her insulin shot. Upstairs, I took a lingering shower, then changed my clothes, putting on a fresh pair of jeans and a new blouse.

  In the kitchen I sat on the 1950s red stool and ate a bowl of cereal (Mini-Wheats), after which I called Joe Lange to tell him what had happened to Mother, and ask him if he could run the shop for a few days. His answer was affirmative. I mean, it really was: “Affirmative.”

  Then I placed a call to my son in Chicago, figuring he might be awake by now. But Jake sounded a little groggy when he answered.

  “Grandma’s had a little accident,” I told him.

  “Oh no. What kind of accident?”

  “Well . . . the kind where somebody hit her on the head.”

  His concern jumped from the phone. “She all right?”

  “Just a little confused, but she should be fine in a day or two.” No need to worry him.

  “She see who did it, Mom?”

  “Apparently not. Came up from behind.”

  “Was what happened ’cause of that woman who got murdered?”

  “How did you know about that?”

  “Well . . . I don’t want to get Grandma in trouble.”

  “You won’t. I promise.” Not any more than she was already.

  He said carefully, “Grandma wanted my help in getting into the dead lady’s e-mail account.”

  Mother never would have involved Jake that way if I hadn’t bowed out! My bad. My very, very bad . . .

  Jake was saying, “Anyway, I reset that lady’s password and got into her account, easy peasy.”

  “Anything of interest?”

  “Well, I didn’t have much time, ’cause after a minute, the account got shut down. But I did open the last e-mail she sent. But it didn’t make any sense, at least not to me.”

  “What did it say, Jake?”

  “Something about . . . using some club to get lots of money.”

  The Eight of Clubs?

  “Jake, can you remember the e-mail address it was sent to?”

  “No, sorry. But the letter started with ‘Hey Tif.’ If that helps.”

  Tiffany Hartman?

  And what exactly did the e-mail mean?

  “Mom, is it okay if I call Grandma at the hospital?”

  “Call her here, in a few days, okay?”

  “Okay. Bye. Love you guys.”

  “Love you back.”

  On my way out the door, I grabbed a book to read, and returned to the hospital in less than the promised hour.

  Wes looked relieved to see me as I entered Mother’s room; she was asleep, snoring softly.

  “How’d it go?” I whispered.

  He stood, whispered back, “Apparently it’s a long way to Tipperary.”

  “Yeah, a very long way. Hey, thanks for staying with her. I feel almost human again.”

  “Glad to do it. Let me know how she does.”

  After Wes left, I settled into the chair with my book.

  Late in the morning, a nurse I’d seen working the floor came in and took Mother away for the MRI.

  I used my alone time to call Tony and give him an update on Mother, and tell him that he wouldn’t have much luck conducting an interview with her right now, not with her memory as it was.

  I called Tina, too, not wanting her to learn about this secondhand. Thought about calling my sister Peggy Sue in D.C., but no need to worry her—she was unlikely to hear about this.

  Mother came back from her MRI, and lunch arrived. She had just wolfed it down—apparently satisfied that it wasn’t K-rations—when Dr. Warner appeared.

  “I’ve seen the results from the MRI,” he told us, “and I’m pleased—no cranial bleeding, pressure is fine.”

  “No shrapnel?” Mother asked.

  “No shrapnel at all, Mrs. Borne. You’re going home.”

  Mother pulled herself up in the bed. “Home? You mean I’m leaving the tour? Bob and Bing will be heartbroken. They’ll have to replace me with ZaSu Pitts!”

  Dr. Warner gestured to me with a crooking finger. “A word, Ms. Borne?”

  Again I found myself out in the hallway facing the doctor.

  “Besides running an MRI,” he said, “I also had a thermal imaging test done on the head wound—it picks up heat from the effected area.”

  “. . . okay.”

  “Made for an interesting outline.”

  I wasn’t following him.

  He gestured with a hand. “When I’m not here, Ms. Borne, or with my family? You can usually find me out on the links.”

  Now I really wasn’t following him.

  “So,” he went on, “that means I’m familiar with all kinds of golf clubs.”

  Now I was following.

  “Mother was hit with a golf club,” I said softly.

  He nodded. “Yes she was. A putter. And in a way we should be grateful.”

  “Why is that?”

  “A larger club might have made a . . .”

  “Hole in one?” I asked.

  A Trash ‘n’ Treasures Tip

  Jewelry is often for sale at swap meets. But never buy fine pieces such as gold, precious and semiprecious stones from anyone other than a legitimate jeweler. Not unless you want to risk having your neck turn green, as mine did thanks to a “gold” necklace I once purchased.

  Chapter Ten

  Sacrifice

  (Deliberately bid over an opponent’s bid.)

  In spite of my pleas for Dr. Warner to keep Mother in the hospital a day or two longer, the Dream Girl of the USO was released in midafternoon; she was pushed in a wheelchair by Nurse Nancy to the curb where I waited in the Caddy.

  “Is that a hearse?” Mother blurted, in apparent alarm. “I don’t require a hearse just yet, I’ll have you know!”

  Nurse Nancy assured Mother that the Caddy was not a hearse, merely her daughter picking her up.

  After that—back in the clothes she’d worn when brought to the ER, her partly shaved head bandaged—Mother sat quietly in the passenger’s seat on the drive home, lost in thought. Or was that confusion? Either way, I was grateful for the silence, my head swirling with notions about how I might best take care of my amnesiac mother once we got home.

  In our driveway, where the rust-colored stain from her blood remained visible, I helped Mother out of the car and —because she was unsteady on her feet—assisted her along the walk, then up the porch steps. This was a rare instance of awareness on my part that Mother was getting older, and it shook me some—she was so vital, so full of energy . . . to think that she’d ever be infirm....

  Inside, a waiting Sushi jumped with joy, beside herself that Mother was back, and our little family was once again complete, if somewhat the worse for wear. Soosh couldn’t keep from piddling in delight on the wood floor, but at least she avoided the Oriental carpet, which made the cleanup easier.

  I settled Mother on the Queen Anne couch with a needlepoint pillow behind her back, and the doggie curled up in her lap.

  “Hello, Sushi,” Mother said, petting her.

  My mouth dropped like a trapdoor. “You remember her!”

  “Of course, dear,” she said, matter of fact. “I remember everything.”

  My eyes narrowed. “What do you mean by ‘everything’? ”

  �
�Why, everything that’s happened, dear.”

  “You mean, going on the USO tour with Bing and Bob?”

  She regarded me with mild disgust. “Heavens no! How old do you think I am, anyway? I was merely playing possum, as a means of protecting myself from further danger.”

  I could have given her a lump on the other side of her head.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Mother, continuing to stroke an appreciative Sushi, replied, “Because you wouldn’t have been able to keep it to yourself. You have many wonderful qualities, dear, but acting skills are not among them—apparently talent of that kind is not in the DNA. Why else do you think I keep you backstage in all of my productions?”

  I let the comment about my acting abilities slide, opting to pick my battles elsewhere. Besides, she was right.

  Next to her on the couch now, I almost snarled as I said, “How could you put me through that! I wouldn’t have had any trouble keeping your real condition to myself.”

  Lightly she said, “Couldn’t take that chance, dear. It was vitally important that word get around I was out of my mind.”

  “No comment,” I said.

  She frowned at me. “Dear, ‘no comment’ is a comment in itself.”

  No comment.

  She continued on, rather grandly, in full Cecil B. Director mode. “Because I was so convincing in my depiction of addled memory loss, you were convincing in your concern.” She patted my knee. “Now, dear, don’t you think we’d be better off spending our time more productively? For example, by bringing each other up to speed on what each of us knows?”

  Grudgingly, I filled her in on the following: Wes and me finding the strangled Mrs. Fowler; Tony’s information about the silk blue fibers found in the blackmailing woman’s neck; Dr. Warner’s theory that Mother had been hit with a golf putter; and the e-mail Jake had uncovered that Vanessa had sent to Tiffany.

  “For an uninterested party who removed herself from further investigation,” she said, arching an eyebrow, “you’ve done remarkably well. Actually, better than I have.”

  “I’m back on the case. I told Tony and he accepts it.”

  “Goody goody!” she said, but thankfully did not go into the song and put Johnny Mercer to the trouble of spinning in his grave.

  “Now you,” I said.

  Mother informed me of her confirmation (by way of her regular network of snitches) of the four couples who comprised the apparently spouse-swapping Eight of Clubs, as well as her interesting visits with the three remaining wives.

  Then she said, “Dear, it’s time. Get the incident board!”

  This last was delivered in full “To the Batpole, Robin!” style.

  Dutifully I rose, with considerably less enthusiasm than Burt Ward would have mustered, and went into the library/music room to roll out the old blackboard, positioning it in front of her on the couch.

  “Write!” she commanded.

  “Not so fast,” I said, holding up a crossing-guard palm. “Not till after we clear up a few things.”

  She frowned. “Such as?”

  “Such as you stealing the Cadillac.”

  “First of all, dear, I did not steal it. As an investigator, I merely commandeered it. In the second place, I fail to see how one can steal a car that belongs to one in the first place.”

  “Don’t give that ‘first’ and ‘second’ routine. You know what I mean—driving with a suspended license. No, ‘suspended’ doesn’t cover it. Driving with an exploded license!”

  “Frown lines frequently leave permanent traces on a young woman’s forehead, dear. Anyway, it wouldn’t have happened if you’d hidden the spare keys better.”

  “So it’s my fault?”

  She shrugged facially.

  “You make this sound like a game!”

  “Well, isn’t it? And the game’s afoot!”

  “Afoot my backside! What about involving Jake? Do you think that was appropriate? I’m just getting back on a nearly even keel with his father after the last time we got Jake mixed up in one of our investigations.”

  “First . . .”

  “Grrrr,” I grrrred.

  “. . . I am pleased to hear you refer to it as ‘our investigation. ’ Second, if I remember correctly, you had refused to help me and I was left to my own devices.”

  “Devices like car theft?”

  “We’ve covered that, dear.”

  “So it’s my fault again?”

  Another facial shrug.

  I put my hands on my hips, after managing not to put them on her throat. “I’m not writing anything on this blackboard until you admit you were wrong on both those accounts.”

  “I prefer to refer to it as the incident board, but if that’s what it will take to proceed, dear, then all right . . . I freely admit I was wrong.”

  “I don’t think you mean it.”

  Mother gestured impatiently. “Dear . . . my sincerity or lack of same is hardly the issue. A killer has now struck twice, and nearly added me to the list. We’re wasting precious time with this falderal.”

  She did have a point, and a good one. Since no further admission of her culpability was likely to be forthcoming, I picked up a piece of white chalk from the board’s lip, and began to write as instructed.

  When I had finished, the blackboard looked like this:

  Mother was saying, “I think it’s fair to assume that all seven suspects had motive, so let’s not concern ourselves with that.”

  “You mean, because of Vanessa’s e-mail.”

  “Yes. I believe that was the catalyst in this little drama of death, and sufficient reason for us to focus our attention on the Eight of Clubs.”

  “We haven’t looked into any other aspect of Vanessa’s life,” I pointed out.

  “True, but this tight-knit group of friends, largely because of their, uh, sophisticated hobby . . . shall we politely call it . . . seem to exist in a little private world of their own.”

  “But, Mother, surely Vanessa had other friends, other interests . . .”

  “Well, dear, let’s leave something for the local police to run around in circles chasing.”

  I nodded. “Anyway, all roads do seem to lead back to the Eight of Clubs. Vanessa wanted a divorce, but without a child, she’d get nada. Her only leverage in obtaining a settlement was by threatening to expose the Eight of Clubs, and she e-mailed Tiffany her intentions to that effect.”

  Mother raised a finger. “While Wes, as the husband, remains a viable suspect in Vanessa’s murder, he was with you when the Fowler woman was killed, and when I was bonked.”

  “True,” I said. “But anybody in the Eight of Clubs would feel threatened by Vanessa’s exposure.”

  “And,” Mother said, “Tiffany surely shared that e-mail with her husband, Sean . . . and he, most likely, with the other men, who probably would have told their wives.”

  I nodded. “Suddenly everyone felt the real possibility of embarrassment and ruin.” I gestured to the board. “But we don’t have much to go on. The only information gathered so far is on Vanessa’s murder—given to you by the wives, and there’s no guarantee they were forthcoming. One or more could have been lying.”

  Behind her huge lenses, Mother widened cartoon eyes. “Perhaps everyone did it! The entire Eight of Clubs! Well, seven of them anyway. Just like . . . spoiler alert! . . . Murder on the Orient Express!”

  “Mother, please. For one thing, everybody has an alibi for Vanessa’s murder. And it doesn’t take seven people to strike one blow.”

  “Then the four men could have done it! Or anyway, the three supposedly on the golf course.”

  “Didn’t you check with the country club on that?”

  “Well. Yes.”

  “What did the country club say?”

  “The three were on the course golfing. But they could have sneaked off!”

  Maybe that putter did jar something loose.

  “Mother, can we settle down, please? And take this a step a
t a time?”

  “Yes, dear.”

  “Let’s start with what I said about everybody having an alibi for Vanessa’s murder—that deserves some skeptical examination.”

  “Examine away, dear! I adore skepticism.”

  I put the tip of the chalk to Emily’s name. “She could have left the swap meet earlier than the time she told you, taken her daughter and friend home, then gone to see Vanessa.” The chalk moved to Megan. “She could have visited Vanessa in between getting groceries and going home to cook dinner.” The chalk moved to Tiffany. “And she could have driven back from Chicago, killed Vanessa, then returned to Chicago.”

  “That ploy was done in a Perry Mason,” Mother admitted. “Good episode!”

  “And what of the three husbands? Even if the country club registry book shows they had been on the course all that afternoon, who’s to say one of them couldn’t have snuck away—with or without the others’ knowledge. With all seven Eight of Clubs members threatened, the possibilities of accomplices is strong . . . if not likely to reach Orient Express levels.”

  Mother was nodding rather more vigorously than a concussion patient ought. “Thick as thieves, this group. But are any two or more of them thick as murderers?”

  I shrugged. “Could be. If one falls, they all fall. That’s why they’re willing to lie and cover for each other.”

  Mother put a finger to her cheek. “But would they be willing to kill for each other?”

  “It is possible.”

  “Do we think it’s safe to assume that whoever killed Vanessa also killed Mrs. Fowler?”

  “It is—not ruling out a conspiracy.”

  “And that the same perpetrator or perpetrators bonked moi?”

  “That’s a reasonable assumption, yes.” Not that there weren’t other people in town who would gladly bonk Mother.

  Mother sighed. “This is a quandary! And unless I reveal to one and all that my memory has returned, my hands are tied!”

  “But mine aren’t,” I said with a smile.

  “Dear?”

  “There’s really only one way to get at the truth here.”

  I made her ask.

  And then I answered: “I’ll just have to infiltrate the Eight of Clubs. They’re short a member, after all.”