Antiques St. Nicked

by Barbara Allan

  We took five minutes to settle in and unpack a few things, Sushi trotting back and forth between our two quarters, most likely trying to make up her mind where she wanted to sleep (she was immune to Mother’s snoring—dogs can sleep through anything).

  Then we were off to the New Vic, taking the car rather than walking as Mother wanted to unload her/our prop hats for the show, which she had been told was scheduled for Saturday night.

  The New Vic might have been better called the New Old Vic, because it was yet another ancient building, looking decidedly oversized among its quaint residential neighbors.

  We parked in a side lot, leaving Mother’s gear in the trunk for the moment, then walked around to the front. I had been to the Old Vic in London early in my marriage to Roger (we’d seen Kevin Spacey perform in Richard II—wow!), and this old-looking New Vic was a smaller replica of that theater. The building was brick and of Georgian (think Colonial) architecture with a wide front overhang supported by columns and a top triangular façade, where the comedy /tragedy masks substituted for the Old Vic’s Royal Crest.

  We went in through the middle of three wood-and-glass double doors, and there the New Vic’s similarity to the original ceased.

  A marbled foyer with a small glassed-in ticket station was to the left, a concession counter to the right. Ahead were doors to the auditorium, curving staircases on either side leading up to the balcony. With the exception of one large ceiling fixture, a relatively recent addition, the only other lighting source was a few wall sconces.

  Mother, whispering as if in church, said, “I wonder where we can find Millicent Marlowe?”

  “Here I am, Mrs. Borne,” said a woman’s thin voice, so close it startled us.

  The owner of the voice—and the theater—had come up behind Mother, whose stature had hidden her. She was a tiny thing, rather frail-looking, knocking on eighty’s door, with white hair cut short in a curly perm. She wore a navy sweater with colorful fall leaves, tan slacks, and the kind of sensible shoes Mother puts on when her bunions are particularly troublesome.

  The woman extended a bony hand to Mother. “Please,” she said, “call me Millie . . . all my friends do.”

  Mother shook Millie’s hand a little too gregariously and a bone or two made tiny cracks.

  “My dear,” Mother gushed, “what a divine theater you have here.”

  I was holding off on my opinion until after the tour.

  “Yes,” Millie bubbled, “you may have noticed that it’s a replica of the Old Victoria . . .”

  Told you.

  “A bit smaller, of course. They say there are even tunnels like the Old Vic. Probably an old wives’ tale.”

  “Merry ones, no doubt!” Mother said. “From Windsor!”

  “No doubt!” Our hostess’s eyes, which had been flitting nervously, settled on me like friendly insects. “And you must be Brandy.”

  I didn’t shake her hand, mine being full of Sushi. “Pleased to meet you,” I said with a smile and a nod, adding, “I’ll be assisting Mother.”

  “My daughter,” Mother said grandly, “is in charge of wardrobe and props.”

  The wardrobe was props, but never mind.

  “How delightful!” Millie said, clasping her hands. “A family affair. I can’t believe you’ve never visited us before, Vivian!”

  “Oh, well, it’s always been something I meant to do. So many conflicts with my own acting schedule.”

  I knew darn well why we’d never been here before—Vivian Borne wasn’t going to support an area theater that didn’t bring her in for a production.

  Our hostess was saying, “Let me show you girls around.” She leaned toward us conspiratorially, though we were alone. “Unfortunately, you just have a few days to rehearse.”

  “Not to worry,” Mother chortled. “I’m an old pro.”

  That was the only context in which you will ever hear Mother refer to herself as an “old” anything. I preferred to think of her as a well-aged ham.

  My mouth was dry, so I asked, “Is there a vending machine around?”

  Millie pointed a slightly twisted finger toward the box office area. “You’ll find several down that hallway, dear.”

  I nodded. “You two go ahead with the tour—I’ll catch up.”

  Mother looped arms with the woman, as if they had been friends forever, and as they moved toward the auditorium doors, I went in search of caffeine, figuring our afternoon here might stretch into early evening, Mother most likely wanting to do a run-through. When you’re in charge of hats, you have to stay on top of things.

  I had just gotten a strong-tasting coffee when a young man in his late twenties exited the box office. His shoulder-length hair was as black as the rest of his outfit—T-shirt, jeans, high-top tennies—but his complexion was so white it was startling, especially the skin peeking around his multiple tattoos. His face was angular, nose thin and long, mouth wide, and each earlobe had been stretched with a circular earring making a hole you could see through.

  “I’m Chad,” he said, “Millicent’s grandson and the New Vic’s artistic director.” He showed no particular interest in me, his grandmother, or the position he’d just mentioned, for that matter.

  “I’m Brandy Borne—Vivian’s daughter and assistant.”

  Sushi, transferred to one hand while I held the coffee with the other, showed an immediate dislike to Chad by way of a low growl.

  Filling an awkward pause, I said, “Mother is grateful for the booking.”

  He shrugged again. “We had no choice.”

  I nodded, quickly saying, “Yes, because that New York company canceled.”

  He closed his eyes and opened them again, bored with me, and life. “There wasn’t any New York company.”

  I frowned. “I don’t understand. . . .”

  He sighed, burdened as he was with having the weight of the world—or this theater, anyway—on his shoulders. “You will understand, Ms. Borne, after you have a look around. Everything is so outdated and antiquated that I can’t get anyone of any importance at all to appear here.”

  I didn’t appreciate the obvious insult to my mother. Like all children, only I had the right to make snide remarks about my parent.

  So there was a little edge when I said, “So update the theater. Or is it a matter of money?”

  His laugh could not have sounded more hollow if he’d done it down a well. “Money in part. Grandmother once had quite a pile, but over the years it got sunk into this monstrosity. Not that it did much good.”

  “No?”

  He shrugged. “We’ve been running in place for years. Strictly Shakespeare. Other theaters in tourist-trap towns do musicals and murder mysteries and other crowd-pleasing stuff. But Grandmother is on the board of—”

  “Don’t tell me—the good ol’ board of trustees. Keepers of the status quo, circa a couple hundred years ago.” I tilted my head. “How many of these darling people are there?”

  “Six.”

  “And they’re steadfastly against change?”

  “Three of them are. And that makes for a stalemate on every subject, meaning nothing gets done.”

  What made me think of Washington, D.C., all of a sudden?

  I asked, “Where does Millie stand?”

  He said, “She thinks the New Vic is just fine as it is, even after attendance has fallen off.”

  “I can understand your frustration,” I said, rolling my eyes.

  He narrowed his. “Grandmother said your mother is performing a one-woman show, correct? And I assume it has something to do with Shakespeare.”

  “Yes to both,” I said, but offered no more details, not wanting Mother to be tossed out by the artistic director on her artistic rear before curtain time.

  He nodded. “Well, it’s something anyway. Got to have some damn thing onstage when the curtain goes up.”

  Such enthusiasm.

  Realizing at last that he might have been just a touch rude, he said, “I’m sure it will be fin
e.”

  “Well, I promise it’ll be memorable,” I said with a smile. Especially if I mixed up the hats.

  Mother was rushing along the corridor toward us.

  “Young man!” she said, flushed and out of breath. “Young man, would there happen to be a hospital here in Old York?”

  Alarmed, I said, “Mother, aren’t you well?”

  “Tickety boo, dear.” Her eyes returned to Chad. “Have you a hospital?”

  “No, no . . . but there’s one in the next town over.”

  Mother put hands on hips. “All right. Well, what do you use in the village for a morgue? Perhaps there’s a funeral home.”

  Chad, frowning, asked what I was thinking: “What in the world do you need a morgue for?”

  Mother flapped her arms like a goose before takeoff. “Not me, my good man . . . Millie! She seemed to be taking an onstage bow and then just went all the way down. I do believe she’s dropped dead.”

  A Trash ‘n’ Treasures Tip

  When buying antiques away from home, make sure your bargain doesn’t turn into a bust. While on vacation, Mother once purchased a Victorian table, and when it wouldn’t fit into the car, her “find” had to be shipped home—at twice the cost of the bargain.

  About the Authors

  Photo by Bamford Studio

  BARBARA ALLAN is the joint pseudonym of acclaimed short story writer Barbara Collins (Too Many Tomcats) and New York Times best-selling mystery novelist Max Allan Collins (Road to Perdition). Their previous collaborations have included one son, a short story collection, and ten novels, including the 2008 winner of the Romantic Times Toby Bromberg Award for Most Humorous Mystery, Antiques Flee Market. They live in Iowa in a house filled with trash and treasures. Learn more about them at www.maxallancollins.com and at www.barbaraallan.com.

  LYRICAL PRESS books are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

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  Copyright © 2015 by Max Allan Collins and Barbara Collins

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  ISBN: 978-0-7582-9318-3

  First Kensington Electronic Edition: October 2015