Antiques Frame

by Barbara Allan

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Borne,” Kelly replied for the two of them.

  I proceeded on to the glass display case, where an assortment of delightful baked goods were arranged on shelves, on white paper doilies.

  Ringing the little bell for service, I summoned George from the back. He was a paunchy man, a little too fond of his own wares, but he had all his hair and a full set of teeth, despite all that sugar. He was wearing a white apron spattered with various colors, a Pollock painting in dried frosting.

  George did all the baking himself now. His ex-wife had previously done most of it, along with a young male apprentice, and apparently, while George had been waiting on customers out front, the two had been in back, where more than just the yeast had been rising.

  “Vivian,” George said coolly.

  He was still at least mildly miffed at me for spurning his attempts at wooing moi after his divorce had become final. (I had no desire to toil away in a bakery, possibly the aftermath of portraying Mrs. Lovett in Sweeney Todd at the Serenity Playhouse.)

  “George,” I returned pleasantly.

  “What can I do you for?”

  “A dozen doughnuts, please.”

  He turned, got a large box, place it on the countertop. “Anything special in mind?”

  “Certainly. One each of the following. Bear claw, Brown Bobby, cream horn, cream-filled Long John, Cronut, cruller, elephant ear, fasnacht, fritter, old-fashioned, and a yum yum.”

  He filled the box—giving me two Cronuts, instead of a cruller, not that it really mattered—then rang up the bill on a cash register.

  “That’ll be twenty-five dollars and sixty-eight cents, Vivian,” he said.

  “Oh!” I said. “I almost forgot that I wanted a cream horn for myself in a separate sack, but please make me a fresh one.”

  “The ones in the case are fresh,” he said defensively.

  I smiled sweetly. “They may have been this morning, Georgie dear, but it’s mid-afternoon now.”

  The baker sighed. “If you insist, Vivian.”

  “I do. And thank you ever so.”

  Grumbling, he disappeared in the back.

  I lifted the box off the glass counter and walked over to Kelly and Schultz, who were lingering over their coffee.

  Setting the doughnuts on the table, I announced, “These are for you, boys, a gift from me to you for all the splendid work you do for the citizens of this fair city.” (A tad corny perhaps, but I think my acting skills overcame the script.)

  “Gee, Vivian,” Schultz said, “that’s swell of you, but I’m laying off the doughnuts for a while.” He patted his protruding stomach.

  Kelly said, “And I’ve already had two.”

  I tsk-tsked. “Boys, as hard as you work, you know you’ll burn off those calories.” If sitting in a patrol car all day burns calories.

  Removing the lid on the box, I said, “Officer Schultz, I happen to know you love bear claws, and, Officer Kelly, you have a fondness for cream-filled Long Johns. . . .”

  They stared at the pastries.

  “Well,” Schultz replied, drawing the word out. “I can always be good tomorrow.”

  “And my wife says I could stand to put on a few pounds,” rationalized Kelly.

  I watched them pick out their favorites.

  Behind me George called out, “Got your cream horn here, Vivian!”

  I replaced the lid on the doughnuts, picked up the box, then returned to the counter.

  “That’ll be twenty-eight dollars and thirty-six cents,” he said, handing me a little white sack.

  “All well and good, but I’m not going to pay it.”

  George frowned. “Excuse me?”

  “I’m leaving with these doughnuts without paying for them. Do you follow? Do you understand?”

  “You can’t do that!”

  “Watch and learn.” And I headed toward the door.

  “Officers!” George called out. “Stop her!”

  Schultz stood, blocking my way, and I halted. “You’ll have to tase me,” I told him, “because I intend to go through that door with these purloined pastries!”

  Officer Kelly, still seated, said, “I’ll pay for the doughnuts.”

  I turned to him. “I don’t want you to pay! What I want is for you to arrest me for petty larceny, which is what I deserve!”

  The two officers exchanged puzzled looks.

  Frustrated, I said, “According to Penal Law Section one-fifty-five-point-five, larceny occurs when, with intent to deprive an owner of personal property, an individual appropriates or unlawfully withholds that property. So take me in, boys.”

  Schultz shook his head. “We’re not going to do that, Vivian.”

  “Then how about arresting me for bribing you and Officer Kelly?”

  “When did you do that?” Kelly asked.

  “Just a minute ago!” I said, exasperated. “I gave you each a pastry, which you accepted. Remember?”

  Schultz asked, “Viv, what gives?”

  When I said nothing, Kelly whispered to his partner, “She’s probably come unglued about her daughter killing the chief’s wife.”

  “That’s not the reason!” I retorted. “And for your information, Brandy didn’t kill Camilla. She has been unfairly arraigned and detained!”

  I tossed the box of doughnuts on the table and left. But I kept the sack with the cream horn.

  Out on the sidewalk I stuck my hand in the little bag and pulled out the confection, then walked along, chewing angrily. But I couldn’t keep from smiling. It was so fresh!

  When the cream horn was gone, my frustration returned. What was going on here? Usually, I had no trouble getting arrested. Now I needed a third idea for landing myself in the clink nonfeloniously.

  Approaching the Riverview Restaurant, I recalled that the Romeos (Retired Old Men Eating Out) would most likely be lingering over a long lunch. As they had often said, it was a preferable way to pass an early afternoon than going home to an empty house or a nagging wife. The latter was certainly a sexist attitude, although, truth be told, there were some harpies in the mix.

  I entered the riverboat-themed diner and easily spotted the group of old cronies at their usual round table toward the back. There were only four on hand today, the Romeos having dwindled due to new illnesses and the old grim reaper: Harold, ex-army sergeant; Vern, retired chiropractor; Randall, former hog farmer; and Wendell, onetime riverboat captain.

  The Romeos were invaluable to me in any investigation, because these old gents knew more gossip than anyone in town, including me, which is something of a mind boggler.

  I at one time had joined their counterpart group, the Juliets (Just Us Ladies into Eating Together), but had dropped out in disappointment after a single lunch: all those girls did was brag about themselves and their grandchildren, complete with utterly interchangeable pictures (from those who could figure out how to bring the pics up on their cell phones).

  “Hello, boys,” I greeted the men in my usual Mae West manner. “Mind if I join you?”

  They had finished with their meals—which was fine by me, as I sometimes found it difficult to watch them eat, particularly hog farmer Randall—and the dirty plates had been cleared, save for coffee cups and water glasses.

  After receiving smiling nods all around, I slid into an empty chair. Normally, women were not allowed at the Romeos’ table, but I was an exception, much as Shirley MacLaine and Angie Dickinson had been welcomed by the Rat Pack.

  Harold, on my right, asked, “How are you holding up, Viv, considering Brandy’s situation?”

  The ex-army sergeant looked a little like the older Bob Hope with ski-lift nose, jutting chin, and thinning hair. Years ago, after both our spouses had passed, he asked me to marry him. That same night I had a dream I was in an army kitchen, peeling a mound of potatoes while Sergeant Bilko stood over me, barking, “Hey yo hup!” I chose to view this as a harbinger of things to come and politely declined Harold’s proposal.

 
To garner sympathy from the men, I answered, “I’m doing as well as can be expected, with my daughter in jail, charged with murder.”

  A waitress noticed my addition to the group and asked if I wanted anything; I told her, “Black coffee,” and off she went.

  Randall, on my left, said, “We’re all so sorry.”

  The former hog farmer might be best described as a less sophisticated Sydney Greenstreet. In the past, I would have been careful about sitting next to him, downwind, anyway; but he’d been out of the pig game long enough to lose his bouquet, even though he did retain his farm.

  “Yes,” added Vern, across from me. “We were just discussing this sad state of affairs. We don’t any of us believe Brandy could do such a thing.”

  The retired chiropractor looked a little bit like Zachary Scott without my glasses. Wasn’t he wonderful in Mildred Pierce (the version with Joan Crawford, not Kate Winslet)? And I mean if I weren’t wearing my glasses, not if Vern were wearing them.

  “That’s right,” replied Wendell, who sat next to Vern. The onetime riverboat captain was a dead ringer for Leo Gorcey, of the once-famed Bowery Boys(that’s what Wikipedia’s for). Wendell had had his career cut short when he was piloting the Delta Queen, fell asleep at the wheel, and T-boned a barge.

  “Thank you, boys,” I replied, making my eyes moist. Sense memory! “Your kind words mean the world to me. Really they do,” I said, putting just the right amount of Tallulah Bankhead spin on it.

  The waitress was just setting my coffee down in front of me, after which (an eyebrow raised, for some reason) she moved on.

  Vern leaned forward to ask quietly, “But, Viv, how did Brandy’s fingerprints get on the murder weapon?”

  These old goats sure had their oversize, somewhat hairy ears to the ground.

  I took a dainty sip from my cup, then rested it on its saucer. “There is an explanation . . . but I must reserve that for the trial. I hope you understand.”

  Murmurs of “Of course,” and “We do” belied their disappointed expressions.

  After all, I wasn’t here to provide information, but to receive it.

  Randall said abruptly, “You know, Viv, funny thing . . . That antique corn husker was mine.”

  All eyes went to the former pig farmer.

  “Yours?” I blurted.

  “That’s right,” he said with a nod. “Tom O’Grady borrowed it to show to that dang tool club he belonged to, and shortly after that, he passed. Later, I asked Alma for it back, but she refused, claiming it was Tom’s.”

  I said, “She was likely confused. I’ve always found Alma to be a very sweet woman. She’s quite active in her church and gives a lot of her time to charitable causes.”

  Randall gestured with a hand whose fingers were plump sausages. “That’s all an act! She’s as mean as a doggone snake! And don’t let her small size fool you. She can chop wood like a lumberjack.” He snorted like a pig; well, he did. “And you should see the traffic that comes and goes from her place. What a load of riffraff!”

  Randall’s farm was adjacent to the O’Grady’s.

  “Any particular riffraff?” I asked.

  Randall shook his head. “My eyes aren’t strong enough to tell.” He meant his binoculars weren’t. “But judging by the beat-up cars and broken-down trucks that turn up her lane? Well, that tells the story. She’s keeping company with some questionable folks!”

  When the others had nothing to add about “mean as a snake” Alma, I threw out a question. “What can any of you tell me about Camilla Cassato?”

  The men exchanged glances. Then Wendell spoke. “Well, she didn’t really know much about antiques—at least not a good bargain when she saw one.”

  “Elaborate,” I said.

  The former riverboat captain leaned forward, putting his elbows on the table. “One day last month? I went into her shop?”

  Good Lord! Uptalking had infiltrated the Greatest Generation!

  He was saying, “I wanted to sell her some of my nautical antiques and memorabilia. She barely looked at the items, even after I gave her a darn good price.”

  I shrugged. “Maybe nautical items didn’t fit her customers.”

  Wendell shook his head. “No matter. A savvy dealer doesn’t turn his or her nose up over turning an easy dollar. All I could think was . . . maybe she didn’t need the money.”

  “Perhaps she didn’t,” replied Vern coyly.

  My ears perked up like Sushi’s when she hears the rustle of a potato chip bag.

  “Okay, Vern,” I said, fixing my eyes on him. “Spill.”

  The former chiropractor’s face reddened a bit. “Maybe I shouldn’t say.... Really, it’s confidential, and I don’t want to get Holly in trouble.”

  Holly was Vern’s niece, a teller at the First National Bank.

  We all just stared at Vern, waiting for him to continue, no one buying his sudden pang of conscience. The Romeos didn’t come to this table to be discreet, after all.

  The former bone cruncher lowered his voice. “Well, here’s the thing.... Viv, Holly often waited on that TV producer of yours. . . .” His eyes were locked with mine.

  “Phil Dean,” I prompted.

  “Yeah, him. This Dean character would come in once a week to cash a wire transfer that came to the bank.”

  I nodded. “From his production company in Los Angeles, most likely, to cover expenses for the show. Go on.”

  “Anyway, Dean always wanted the money in hundred-dollar bills, and this one time Holly is counting the hundreds out to him when she notices that on one of the bills, someone doodled a mustache on ole Ben Franklin. With a pen?”

  While I cringed at the uptalking, Vern shifted in his chair.

  “Now,” he continued, “Holly knows darn well she’s supposed to pull a bill like that out of circulation, ‘cause it’s damaged? Mutilated, she calls it . . . but Dean’s in a big hurry, so she doesn’t.”

  “A fascinating inside look at the banking industry,” I said somewhat impatiently. “But what does this have to do with Camilla?”

  “Only this,” Vern said, leaning forward. “About an hour later, guess who comes in and makes a business deposit with Holly? Camilla! And there among the bills in Camilla’s deposit is that same hundred-dollar bill with the Ben Franklin mustache!”

  I frowned. “Could be other bills floating around like that, if somebody made a habit of doodling that way. And if it was the same hundred, Phil might’ve bought an antique from Camilla for our show.”

  Vern leaned forward, voice still lowered. “Maybe so. But Holly thinks it’s odd that Mrs. Cassato never deposited any checks, only cash. And the same amount every week—five thousand.”

  An amount that corresponded with the deposit slip Brandy had found on the floor of the woman’s shop.

  The waitress came over and refilled coffee cups. Everybody was absorbing Vern’s information, particularly me. But the subject seemed exhausted.

  After a few moments, Harold said brightly, “Say, I have it on good authority that Sheriff Rudder isn’t running again.”

  My coffee cup, on its way to my lips, nearly slipped from my hand! “What’s that you say?”

  The ex-sergeant smiled slyly. “I’m just passing along what my barber told me. He heard it from his wife, who heard it from a neighbor, who heard it from Rudder’s wife.”

  Impressive. Perhaps I’d been too quick to discount the man’s marital offer. . . .

  A waitress flew by with a plate of boiled potatoes.

  No.

  “Who’s your barber?” I asked, always eager to locate a new snitch.

  Wendell was smirking. “Hey, Viv, why don’t you run for sheriff?”

  The other Romeos laughed at the notion, which got my dander up. Or, as little Brandy used to say, got my dandruff up.

  “I don’t see what’s so amusing about the notion of my becoming sheriff,” I huffed. “After all, for several years now, I’ve solved every single one of the county’s murder cases.”<
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  Wendell made a “Calm down” gesture with both hands. “Now, Viv, we’re just having a little fun.”

  Harold, clearing his throat, again changed the conversation. “Hey, you guys got your fantasy football picks ready for this weekend?”

  Since I didn’t gamble, I was shut out of the conversation. I was about to leave when Vern said, “You know, lately I’ve been on a real lucky streak,” which gave me a brilliant idea.

  I knew exactly how I could finally get arrested!

  Is anyone ahead of me? (Or perhaps behind me?)

  You’ve heard of The Full Monty, right? For those who haven’t, I’ll give you a moment to Google it. (All others can sing along with me while we wait. There was a farmer had a dog, and Bingo was his name-O. B-I-N–G-O! B-I-N–G-O! B-I-N–G-O! And Bingo was his name-O!)

  By the way, there’s a misconception about who Bingo really is. Bingo is the farmer, not the dog. Just thought I’d clear that up. (Sorry if I’ve ruined things for anyone out there who named their dog Bingo.)

  Okay, everybody back?

  Well, instead of performing the full monty, I would go with the Partial Vivian, i.e., only half a monty, the upper half. (I do have some degree of decorum, after all.) I would go into the ladies’ room, strip down to my panties, then streak around the restaurant. And if that didn’t get me arrested for indecent exposure, I don’t know what would! (Although for a woman my age, the exposure would actually be pretty decent, if you know what I mean, and I think you do.)

  It wasn’t as if there were many people still eating in the restaurant, and, after all, two of the Romeos had already seen at least a Partial Vivian (You don’t need to know who. I’m not the kind of girl to kiss and tell—or anything else and tell.)

  I stood. “I’ll be right back. Don’t you boys go away!” I couldn’t help adding, “You’re in for a treat.”

  I was moving in the direction of the bathroom when someone called my name. I turned to see Officer Cordona weaving her way around the tables toward me.

  “Vivian, you need you to come with me,” Mia said.

  So, the police had finally decided to arrest me, at that! Either for driving without a license or petit theft or both. No need now to do the Partial Vivian, which was problematic, anyway, as chilly as it was in the restaurant.