“Ah, yeah, wasn’t that a stroke of genius on my part? But we’ll need more such treasures to fill up the case.”
Mother raised a finger skyward—or, anyway, ceilingward. “Au contraire! There are many similar such items in storage at home.”
She meant our garage, a stand-alone filled to the brim with her questionable yard-sale purchases. The garage hadn’t seen a car for years. It wouldn’t know what to do with a car.
“Such as?” I asked.
Her eyes gleaming, like those of an old prospector spotting gold flecks in his pan, she said, “Oh, how about a knitted Santa toilet-roll cover? And a hat covered with Christmas-tree balls, and an elf-arrayed poncho made out of a nineteen-fifties plastic tablecloth, and a—”
“You made your point,” I said. “Stop right there, or I’ll be dreaming about Pee-wee’s Playhouse all night.” I retreated to the stool behind the counter. “You’ll have to retrieve that stuff from the garage yourself. I’m not current on a tetanus shot.”
Mother studied me for a moment. “Dear, is something troubling you?”
“You mean, other than having a mother who actually bought a Santa toilet-roll cover, a hat of Christmas-tree balls, and a poncho made of a plastic elf tablecloth?”
“It must be more than just that.”
I sighed and told her in detail about seeing Camilla at Klein’s, from her offer of friendship to switching tags on a frame she bought.
“No nasty thing she might do would surprise me,” Mother sniffed. “She has such close-set, beady eyes.”
Actually, she sort of did.
Then I told her about Camilla’s offer to give me the corn husker, gratis.
Mother frowned in thought. “Could she really want to bury the hatchet? Figuratively, not literally?”
“Is that what you really think?”
“Of course not. The creature is up to something. Why, she paid a small fortune for that item! But take her up on it, dear, and snag that corn husker. It should have been yours!”
I pursed my lips and glanced at my watch. “If she is ‘up to something,’ I guess I’ll find out at four o’clock.”
“Take Sushi along for protection, dear.”
I shook my head. “Better not. If things turn ugly, Soosh might bite her. And we all know what happened to Toto.”
Since I had several hours before leaving for my meeting with Camilla, I busied myself working at balancing our books for a while. Then at five minutes to four, I got my coat and purse, bid Mother and Sushi good-bye, and went out.
Camilla’s antique store, Yesteryears, was only a block away, and I’m sure her choice of location in proximity to ours was intentionally meant to annoy us. The Victorian structure where she occupied the first floor (apartments above) was typical of others in the downtown area: red brick, four stories, narrow interior, the building extending from the street in front to the back alley.
Before Camilla moved in, the first floor had been rented to a computer repair shop (they hadn’t been able to revive my ancient laptop) that had divided the area into two rooms (customer service and repair shop). I was curious to see if Camilla had removed the partition to maximize the floor space.
As I entered, with no bell announcing my arrival, I saw that she indeed hadn’t remodeled, her merchandise occupying only the first room, a store-bought sign on the door to the second one reading NO ADMITTANCE BEYOND THIS POINT. Behind the door, I could hear a male voice informing Camilla of some specific antiques he was looking for.
With Camilla occupied, I took the opportunity to check out her admittedly impressive array of antiques and collectibles. While the merchandise was limited, it was all first rate—from the magnificent Queen Anne needlepoint couch and matching chair to a pristine blond Heywood-Wakefield dining-room set, and from the original Fiestaware dishes to the highly collectible Radko blown glass ornaments. No smiley-face clock here, like in our shop, and certainly nothing remotely like a weenie tree. This was a kitsch-free environment.
But a price-tag check showed that the stock was overpriced—way the heck over. How did she ever sell anything?
And there was something else odd about the antiques and collectibles on hand. While everything was nicely displayed, something seemed staged about it. I was reminded of when Mother and I went to the store in the show American Pickers, where everything was also unique, but so overpriced that it discouraged the tourists from disturbing the “set.” As a reality show veteran myself now, I understood. But nobody was shooting anything at Camilla’s, right?
All was now quiet behind the door to the second room, so I knocked on it, calling, “Camilla? It’s Brandy.”
After a moment I opened the door and entered, noticed the blinking answering machine on a nearby desk, and realized I hadn’t overheard a conversation. Rather a man had merely been leaving a message for Camilla.
Which she hadn’t heard.
She wasn’t hearing anything lying on the floor on her back, blood pooled beneath her head, a certain blunt object nearby.
A cast-iron corn husker.
A Trash ’n’ Treasures Tip
Hiring an appraiser can be expensive, especially if you have a large collection. Shop around, as rates can vary widely. Mother used a barter system: a local dealer appraised her collection of creepy vintage Annalee dolls in exchange for a part in one of Mother’s community theater plays, The Bad Seed.
Chapter Three
Arrested Development
I didn’t check for a pulse on Camilla’s wrist; after all, I can never find my own. Anyway, she was dead. That seemed evident enough.
Nine-one-one got the first call on my cell; Mother the second. While I’d kept my composure while talking to the dispatcher, now my voice cracked like that of an adolescent boy who was becoming a man. But I was a mouse, as I said, “Mother, you’re not going to believe this, but Camilla . . . Camilla’s been murdered.”
Mother sucked in a breath, but in fact she had no trouble believing it and immediately shifted into amateur sleuth mode. “How, dear?”
“Hit on the head, really hard. Terrible blow. So much blood.”
“Was the weapon around?”
“Yes. It was that . . . that stupid corn husker.”
“Interesting choice. You haven’t by any chance notified the police, have you, dear?”
“Before I called you, I did.”
“That’s unfortunate. I would have thought you’d know better by now.”
“Mother, really!”
“I would have liked to have examined the crime scene first. The authorities always make such a mess of things. Oh, well. Just take plenty of pictures with your phone before they come.”
I goggled at the cell. “Couldn’t you be at least a little more sensitive? I know we didn’t like Camilla, but we did . . . know her.”
“Sensitivity won’t help that poor woman now, dear, much less find her killer.”
“You make it sound like finding her killer is our job.”
She said nothing, but there was a sound from her end.... Was that a chuckle?
Then came the approaching scream of a siren. “I have to go.”
“Take those pictures, dear!”
But it was way too late for that. And, anyway, I was too creeped out to follow Mother’s instructions. I moved immediately into the outer room so I could open the door for the first responders, who showed in seconds—two paramedics, one male, one female—and told them where they could find Camilla.
Already on the move, the male glanced back at me and asked, “Any signs of life?”
“Not really.”
Next to arrive was Officer Mia Cordona, a dark-haired beauty in her thirties, whose jacket and uniform did a poor job of concealing a voluptuous figure.
Mia and I used to be friends, a long time ago. But these days, when she saw me at a crime scene, Mia’s usual expression was a scowl. This time, for once, she wore a look of alarm and concern.
Then she threw an inner switch and became
coldly businesslike. “Stay put, Brandy. I’ll want to question you later.”
I asked, “Does Tony know about this?”
She nodded, then hurried into the back room.
I dreaded his arrival. The deceased was his wife, estranged or not, and was the mother of their daughter; obviously, he’d loved her once. Why did I, of all people, have to be the one to find her?
I backed into a corner of the shop, well aware that the impulse was symbolic. And did the clown painting on the wall next to me signify anything, as well?
Tony burst through the front door, like a cop on a raid. Only there was nothing for a man of action to do here. Confused eyes found me, and all I could so was lower my head.
Had there been something accusatory in that look—however brief? Could some part of him think I was capable of having done this? A heartsick feeling took over every bit of my being.
He came forward and stood before me. His voice was nearly kind. “Are you all right?”
I nodded numbly. “I don’t know what to say. Just that I’m . . . I’m sorry for your loss.”
Tony drew in a breath, touched my shoulder briefly, then went deeper into the shop to join Mia and the paramedics. Meanwhile, I moved to the Queen Anne couch near the front windows and sat.
Two forensic techs came next—a man I didn’t recognize and Mother’s friend Heather—toting their gear, barely giving me a glance as they moved into the back room.
Another police car drew up in front, double-parked, rooftop lights going, and Officer Munson disembarked; the tall, gangly man with a long face immediately took a position on the sidewalk to deal with the curiosity seekers who had started to gather. A lot of people lived in apartments downtown.
I left the couch and moved to a front window, where I saw Mother push her way through the bystanders, then confront Munson, who was guarding the door. I was at once horrified and relieved by her presence, and not at all surprised.
I heard her cry in theatrical indignation, “My daughter’s in there!”
The officer, his back to me, responded to her by raising a hand in a “halt” manner.
Mother wailed, “But my child might need me!”
As if she were concerned about me. Her contrived hysteria just meant she wanted access to the crime scene.
Munson told her, “No one goes in,” then raised his voice to the crowd. “Everyone disperse! There’s nothing to see here.”
A few conscientious citizens obeyed his order, but the rest merely dropped back a few feet.
Mother, noticing me behind the window, put a hand up to her face in cell-phone manner and mouthed, “Call me.”
I shook my head.
She wiggled her thumbs, as if to say, “Text me.”
I shook my head again and returned to the couch.
After ten, maybe fifteen minutes, Tony and Mia appeared from the back room.
Tony, his eyes hooded and red, planted himself in front of the couch and looked down at me. “Brandy, I’ll need to ask you some—”
Mia, slightly behind him, touched his arm gently. “Chief, I have to remind you what policy demands in a situation like this. I think you know that you need to recuse yourself from this case.”
He sighed deep, then nodded and stepped aside.
Mia sat in a Queen Anne armchair next to the couch, then plucked a small voice recorder from her utility belt.
“I’ll be taping our conversation,” she told me, “unless you object.”
“Of course I don’t object.”
“Interview with Brandy Borne,” my old childhood friend began. She added the time, date, location, then asked, “Why were you here?”
“Camilla invited me,” I said. “I saw her this afternoon at Klein’s Auction House, and she asked me to come by at four.”
“And why would she do that?” Mia asked. “My understanding is that you two didn’t get along.”
I shifted uncomfortably on the couch, avoiding Tony’s gaze. “That’s true. But Camilla indicated today that she wanted us to be friends, or at least not enemies. The boy working the front counter, Dexter Klein, should be able to corroborate that our conversation was friendly. Possibly there’s a surveillance tape of the two of us talking in a civilized way.”
Mia asked sharply, “If you’d already had a friendly conversation, coming to terms, so to speak, why did Mrs. Cassato want to see you again?”
I hesitated, knowing things were about to get sticky.
“She, uh, wanted to give me something,” I said.
“What?”
“A corn husker that she’d outbid me on at an auction recently. It was a sort of peace offering.”
Mia’s eyes flashed. “You mean the murder weapon? The tool found beside her body? That was a ‘peace offering’?”
I felt my cheeks growing hot. “Yes, but I didn’t touch it! Camilla was already . . . like that . . . when I got here. Don’t you need to read me my rights or something?”
Mia ignored that, asking, “What time did you arrive?”
“Four o’clock. Maybe a few minutes after.”
“Are you sure about that? Did you check your watch or otherwise establish the time?”
I didn’t like the way she asked that, so I snapped, “As I told you before, I left our store a few minutes before four. We’re only a block away, you know.”
“Then what happened?”
In detail, I told her and her recorder.
When I’d finished, Mia said, “So when you arrived, you thought a man was talking to Camilla in the back, but it was really just the answering machine.”
“Yes.”
“How would you know that unless you were there in the back room yourself?”
I said testily, “You could check the machine for a four o’clock time stamp and a long message from a man. . . . Or is that too much trouble? I think we’re done here.”
Mia glared at me. She apparently wasn’t over Mother and me bungling into a sting operation she’d been working on for months not so long ago.
“All right,” Mia said, rather sourly I thought. “You can go.”
She rose and walked back to the crime scene, leaving me alone with Tony.
I got up from the couch and faced him.
“That was everything,” I said. “I didn’t hold anything back.”
“I believe you,” he said with a curt nod.
I wished he’d said that with a little more conviction.
“I’m really sorry about Camilla,” I said.
And he probably wished I’d said that with a little more conviction.
“Well,” he said, with a tight smile, “I’d better rejoin Mia. This isn’t my case, but I do have . . . a vested interest.”
He left.
And I left.
Back at our store, Mother—who had returned after failing to access the crime scene—rushed me as soon as I’d stepped in the door, demanding chapter and verse. But I told her I wasn’t up to it right now and wanted to go home.
Her face fell, but she could see I was hurting, and found the decency to reply, “Of course, dear. You round up Sushi and go on out to the car. . . . I’ll lock up.”
I drove in silence, Mother respecting my wish not to talk, but I could almost hear her thinking. If those wheels of hers had been turning any faster, they’d have clanked.
We live on a street lined with old oaks, in a white three-story house with a wraparound front porch and that stand-alone garage that had become our personal storage unit (at least it was free).
The inside of the home was a study in decors from different eras: the living room was 1900s Victorian; the dining room, Neoclassical; the kitchen, 1950s Retro; my bedroom, 1930s Art Deco; Mother’s bedroom, 1920s Art Moderne; and the spare bedroom, 1970s Psychedelic (which encouraged guests not to stay too long). The only room that didn’t have a special design period was the music room/library/den, which opened with French doors off of the living room. This room consisted of a wallscreen TV, various books on shelf
-lined walls, an ancient upright piano that needed tuning, and an assortment of old instruments Mother had collected but that she mostly couldn’t play. (Sometimes she would pick up a smelly, dented cornet and blat out “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy,” which, when I was a child, would send me fleeing outside. Also as an adult.)
I had barely set Sushi down and taken off my coat when Mother called to me from that room.
With Sushi trotting behind me, I went in to find Mother rolling out her “suspect board”—a large antique schoolroom blackboard on wheels—from behind the stand-up piano.
She was saying nonchalantly, “Of course, we must return to Camilla’s shop after the police have gone. That much is obvious.”
I wasn’t sure I’d heard Mother correctly. “You want to break into the crime scene?”
“Unless you were thoughtful enough to have acquired a key before the authorities arrived.”
“No, I didn’t think to ‘acquire’ a key!” An edge came into my voice. “Have you been taking your Prolixin?”
She fired back, “Have you been taking your Prozac?”
Every so often we were reduced to this. Rarely more than once a month, or twice a murder case.
Mother calmly sat on the piano bench, then patted the space next to her. “Let’s not treat each other like the enemy, dear.”
With a sigh, I joined her.
She took my hand. Patted it. “My darling child, have you no sense of the gravity of the situation you, and fate, have put yourself in?”
“I don’t follow you, Mother.”
“Well, do you recall picking up that corn husker at the auction and examining it? Because I certainly remember your doing so.”
It dropped on me like a box of corn huskers. “Oh no. My prints could be on the murder weapon!”
“Probably are on the murder weapon.”
Those prints were also on file with the local police, following my spending a month in the county jail, along with Mother, for overstepping the law while solving a case.
Antiques Frame Page 4