“Yes, dear,” Mother said, nodding fatalistically. “That’s why we have to act quickly to discover whatever we can before . . . well . . .”
“Before I’m . . . arrested?”
“Prints on the murder weapon, a public display of violence against the victim, who is your current flame’s wife? I should think getting arrested is a distinct possibility.”
I sat there, stunned.
Finally, I said, “If you saw me pick up the corn husker, someone else might have noticed that, too.”
But Mother was shaking her head. “I don’t believe anyone else was looking at those tools at the time we were, dear.”
“Other prints will likely be on that corn husker,” I pointed out, somewhat desperately. “Mrs. Klein’s and Camilla’s. . .”
“True. As to the former, Loretta did hold the tool when it was auctioned, which explains her prints. As to the latter, well, the late Mrs. Cassato hardly killed herself.”
“Must you call her that?”
“Would you prefer dead-and-gone Camilla? No, we must shake a leg, dear. It’s nearly dark already.” She released my hand and stood tall before me. “But perhaps some nourishment might be prudent prior to our excursion. Detecting on an empty stomach is always ill advised.”
“Detecting! Breaking and entering, you mean. No thanks. Somehow I don’t have much of an appetite.”
“Well, I do! A good murder case always makes me peckish. I’m going to heat up some of that wonderful potato soup!”
And off she strode to the kitchen.
The recipe had been passed down to Mother from her Danish grandmother.
Kartoffelsuppe
(Potato Soup)
1 meaty ham bone
2 cups chopped cabbage
2 medium potatoes, peeled and diced
3 celery stalks, chopped
2 medium carrots, peeled and diced
6 green onions, stems removed and diced
¼ cup minced fresh parsley
4 tablespoons all-purpose flour
¼ cup cold water
1½ cups half-and-half
Ground nutmeg, to taste
In a large pot, simmer the ham bone in 2 quarts of water for 1 hour, or until the meat pulls away from the bone. Remove the ham bone to a large plate or a cutting board, and retain the water in the pot. When the ham bone has cooled, remove and discard the bone, trim away any fat from the meat, and dice the meat.
Return the meat to the pot, and add the cabbage, potatoes, celery, carrots, green onions, and parsley. Cover and cook over medium heat for 40 minutes.
Combine the flour and the ¼ cup cold water in a small bowl and blend until smooth. Slowly pour the flour mixture into the soup, stirring constantly.
Bring the soup to a boil and cook for 2 minutes. Reduce the heat and then stir in the half-and-half. Remove the soup from the heat. Sprinkle the top with nutmeg and serve
Yield: 6 servings
Okay, so despite my depressed state, I did join Mother in the dining room, at the Duncan Phyfe table. If we got caught breaking into Camilla’s shop, having a serving or two of hearty, delicious soup in my stomach might mean I could skip tonight’s jailhouse slop, should we be apprehended.
Afterward, Mother disappeared upstairs, while I cleared the table, then washed the few dishes. The normalcy of that was somehow comforting, like the soup. I was putting things away when she rejoined me.
Dressed all in black—sweater, slacks, shoes—Mother looked like a geriatric ninja. She took her role as a burglar very seriously. Of course, she took every role seriously, from the lead in Everybody Loves Opal to confronting a probable murderer.
My gray sweatshirt and jeans would simply have to do for the role of Secondary Burglar.
Indicating her black fanny pack, I asked, “What’s in there?”
“My lock-picking instruments.”
Mother had gotten the two small tools—an L-shaped tension wrench and a pick with a hooked end—at her favorite Internet spyware site and had been practicing on various locks around the house for weeks. She was getting good.
I pointed to the little black gizmo that was attached to the bridge of her large glasses: the combination camera and sound recorder looked like a third eye. “Think that’s wise?”
“We should have a record of what happens.”
“You mean, a record of our breaking and entering into a crime scene.”
“No one will see the playback but us, dear.”
“Tell it to Nixon. Let’s not make a record of our crime, okay?”
Mother sighed. “Very well. I’ll leave it behind.” She detached the gizmo from her glasses and rested it on the counter.
We moved into the living room, where Sushi was curled up on a blanket on the Victorian couch—even a dog needed some cushioning to get comfortable on that thing—and for a change, she didn’t ask to go with us.
In the foyer, we put on coats and gloves, then headed out into a chilly night air, toward the driveway and our car.
Once downtown, I parked the C-Max on a side street around the corner from Camilla’s shop, and soon we were making our way down the dark alley behind the row of Victorian brick buildings, stopping at a steel door.
The door didn’t have yellow police crime-scene tape across it, but that didn’t surprise me, as forensics had no doubt gotten what they wanted here. And besides, such tape often drew unwanted attention to a vacant site, drawing burglars.
Like us.
As Mother removed the lock-picking tools from her fanny pack, I looked across the alley at a rambling two-story apartment house, doing my best to make sure we weren’t being seen. Lights were on in a few rooms, but the shades were drawn.
After giving Mother a “Go ahead” nod, I watched as she inserted the shorter end of the L-shaped wrench into the circular lock, then turned it to the left. Next, she put in the pick, hooked end first, and pulled it slowly back out, dragging the hook across the inner tumblers, which unlocked the door.
We slipped into the back room and were engulfed in pitch black. My car key chain had a small attachment light, which I was about to turn on when a quick rustle of clothing preceded somebody pushing Mother into me hard, and we both hit the floor, the car keys tumbling from my hand in a little metal jingle, as the blurred figure flew out the door into the alley.
The attack was so sudden and unexpected that we lay, stunned, in a tangle of limbs, and by the time I’d extricated myself from her, gotten up, and reached the door, our assailant was nowhere to be seen.
After closing the door, I turned on a nearby wall switch and squinted from the brightness of the overhead light. Mother was trying to get to her feet, and I went over to help.
“You all right?” I asked her.
She patted herself. “Double hip replacements seem to be intact. And you?”
“In one piece. But we’ll both have bruises tomorrow.”
Mother pursed her lips. “That door was locked, so our fellow intruder must have had a key.”
“Or picks,” I replied.
She grunted, then looked around. “Dear, was the desk like that when you found Camilla?”
Mother was referring to open drawers whose contents had been scattered on the floor.
“No,” I said. “And I doubt Mia would have left that mess. Everything would have been bagged as evidence.”
“Then the third member of our little party must have been looking for something. The question is, did he find whatever he was looking for?” Mother pointed to the items on the floor. “See if there’s anything of interest, dear.”
I got down on my haunches to examine some store stationery, an assortment of office supplies and file folders, though oddly no billings for rent and utilities.
“What’s that?” Mother asked, pointing to a small tan book.
I reached for it and had a look. “A sales receipt pad.”
Mother harrumphed. “Wasn’t she using a computer for that?”
“Apparently not. The only thing I rememb
er seeing on that desk was the answering machine—which the police seem to have taken.”
Mother pointed again. “And that . . . Is that a bank deposit receipt?”
I picked up the little white paper. “Yes. From the First National Bank, for five thousand dollars.”
“Dated when, dear?”
“Last week.” I thumbed back through the sales receipt book. “According to this, Camilla barely sold anything all month—and certainly nothing that added up to five thousand.”
“So, then . . . where did she get the five Gs?”
On a case, Mother sometimes got a little carried away with the detective-speak.
“I have no idea where she got the ‘five Gs.’ But it would be really nice to know.”
A car horn honked in the alley, spooking me.
“We better go,” I said, replacing the sales book on the floor.
I stood, and we moved to the back door, where I clicked off the light. After checking the alley, we slipped out, making sure the door was locked behind us.
On the way home, something occurred to me. “Mother, I don’t remember seeing that frame Camilla bought. The one she switched price tags on? It wasn’t in the front shop when I went earlier, and it wasn’t in the back room tonight.”
“Might that be important, dear?”
“I don’t know. Might it?”
Mother was stroking her chin thoughtfully. “It’s possible Camilla could have sold the frame before you arrived.”
“Then it should have been annotated in the sales receipt book,” I countered. “Mother!”
I hit the brakes.
A police car was parked in our driveway!
Mother reached for my knee. “Follow-up questions, dear. Not to worry.”
As I pulled the C-Max up to the squad car, Mia exited on the driver’s side. Really moving.
I shut off the engine. Mother and I got out, and Mia was already on top of us.
“Hello, Officer Cordona,” Mother said cheerfully. “Would you prefer to conduct your questions inside, where it’s nice and warm?”
Mia replied, “That won’t be necessary, Mrs. Borne.” Her eyes flew to me. “Brandy, you’re under arrest for suspicion of the murder of Camilla Cassato. You wanted me to read you your rights. Well, here goes. You have the right to remain silent. . . .”
I grabbed Mother’s arm.
“Courage, dear,” she said. “Mother will get you out. Now, aren’t you glad you had a decent meal earlier?”
A Trash ’n’ Treasures Tip
Collections should be inventoried and numbered, especially if you intend to leave them to heirs in your will. Mother—whose will has more codicils than an old tugboat has barnacles—has bequeathed me her collection of glass telephone-pole insulators. Whoopee.
Chapter Four
Suitable for Framing
After Mia ushered a hands-cuffed-behind-me me into the back of the police car, she slid behind the wheel and backed out of the drive. As we drove away, I twisted to see Mother from the rear window, who was waving to me as if I were about to embark on a long journey, which, I guess, maybe I was. I watched forlornly until she was swallowed up by the night.
At the police station downtown, a large modern red-brick building attached to the fire station, I was taken in through the back, where a male officer on night duty recorded my personal information on his computer. The uncomfortable cuffs were unlocked so he could take my fingerprints; then I was walked into a cement-block cubicle, where somebody snapped a photo that would make the DMV’s latest shot of me look glamorous. The two possessions I had were removed from my person and inventoried: my cell phone and a new Fitbit watch/Wi-Fi/GPS/ calorie counter/step tracker/heartbeat monitor, which I had had for three months and didn’t begin to know how to use properly.
Then I was escorted to a holding cell (really just another cubicle) and dumped.
Disheartened, I sat on the bed, which was more like a padded bench, and stared at the only other fixture in the cramped room: a combination toilet/wash basin/fake mirror made of stainless steel. Turns out stainless steel does stain, and there were more amenities in the john of a 747.
I was giving bawling some serious consideration when Tony’s face appeared in the Plexiglas window of the door. The lock clicked open, and in he came, carrying some of my clothes from home.
“How are you doing?” he asked gently, looking down on me.
“All right,” I lied. “And you?”
“All right,” he echoed.
But he didn’t look all right: eyes puffy, face drawn, his usual ramrod posture defeated by slumped shoulders.
Tony said, “Vivian gave me a few things for you, and I had them cleared—pajamas and something to wear to the arraignment tomorrow.”
Arraignment tomorrow. That sounded ominous.
As he handed me the clothes, I asked, “What about my meds?”
“Your Prozac? The doctor who tends to the prisoners will dispense it. I’ve already put that in motion.”
“Thank you.”
Tony sat on the bench/bed, next to me.
“Brandy,” he began, “I know this is a bad time to leave you on your own, but . . . I simply have to take Camilla back home. Back east. That’s where her family’s burial . . .”
He let that trail, and I craned toward him. “Do you know how long you’ll be gone?”
“No idea, really. There’s the funeral to plan, and, of course, I’ll want to spend some time with my daughter.”
She was in a private school somewhere. Other than that I knew little about her.
“I understand,” I said, making it sound supportive. Still, I couldn’t help feeling abandoned.
Tony took my hand. “I’ll be checking in on the investigation at least twice a day—making sure it’s being handled right.”
I nodded, grateful for that. “All I’ve been told is I’m being held on suspicion of murder.”
He drew in a breath, then let it out slow. “I’m afraid you’re going to be charged, Brandy.”
“What evidence do they have?”
When he hesitated, I said, “I have a right to know, don’t I?”
He sighed. “Your fingerprints were on that corn husker, which has been confirmed as the murder weapon.”
Score one for Mother.
He went on, “Vivian told me that, quite innocently, you touched the tool at the auction, but—”
“But she’s my mother, and her word won’t mean much.”
And there was the small matter of her mental health status, not to mention her popularity with the local court system.
I asked, “Couldn’t I take a lie detector test to prove I picked that tool up?”
“That’s not admissible, Brandy. You know that.”
I said softly, “But at least it would prove it to you.”
He took my hand. “Brandy, you don’t have to worry about that. I believe you. You’d never do anything like this. In the meantime, as soon as I can get back, I’m going to do everything I can to find whoever killed Camilla.”
We fell silent. He seemed about ready to go, so to keep him around a little longer, I asked, “What about Rocky? Where’s he staying while you’re gone?”
Rocky was Tony’s dog, a black-and-white mixed breed with a black circle around one eye, a retired narcotics sniffer-outer that Tony had brought with him from New Jersey, a smart animal who could climb a ladder, fetch Tony’s gun, and respond to dozens of commands.
Tony was saying, “Vivian offered to take him in, so I dropped him off when I got your clothes.”
I managed something that was almost a laugh. “Sushi won’t even know I’m not around, with Rocky for company.” The little devil was nuts about Rocky, and he good-naturedly put up with her crawling all over him.
Tony patted his thighs, sighed, and stood. “I should go.”
I nodded. “Thank you for this. Listen, uh . . . safe trip.”
What I said to myself was, Short trip.
He k
issed me on the forehead, which was better than nothing, and slipped out, flashing me the saddest smile I ever saw. After he’d gone, I lay down on the bench/bed, facing the wall, and toughened myself for what lay ahead.
Not really. What I did was bawl my eyes out.
* * *
The next morning, I was given breakfast in my cell, a feast consisting of rubbery scrambled eggs, limp toast, watered-down orange juice, and weak coffee. I washed up at the basin as best I could, then put on the outfit Mother had picked out from my wardrobe for me to appear before the judge: a sexy black dress with a low neckline and a short hem.
What had she been thinking?
That I’d wow some male magistrate into releasing me? Arraignments were cut and dry. I could be wearing a plastic garbage bag and it wouldn’t make one bit of difference. I got back into the gray sweatshirt and jeans, the break-in wardrobe of the night before.
At 8:45 a.m. my cell door opened, and a blue-uniformed Mia stepped in.
“I’m to take you to the courthouse,” she said, businesslike. Her dark eyes appraised me and my rumpled clothes. “That’s what you’re wearing for the appearance? I thought your mother sent you clothes last night.”
“She did,” I said and gestured to the sexy little black dress draped on the bench/bed. Next to it was my other option—pajamas with leaping lambs.
Mia’s eyebrows were up. “Your mother really doesn’t do you any favors, does she?” That was almost sympathetic. “We need to go now to get to the courthouse on schedule.... There’s a mob outside.”
I frowned. “Mob?” Had the townsfolk rallied to protest my incarceration? Or were the villagers carrying torches to the castle?
“Reporters,” Mia replied, making a face like the word tasted rancid. “And not just from around here.”
News of the arrest of a reality TV show personality (sort of) must have gone viral. And now I understood Mother’s choice of a sexy little black dress, more appropriate for a premiere: she never missed an opportunity for publicity.
But I stayed in the sweatshirt and jeans.
Antiques Frame Page 5