Mother said, “Let’s have a look inside these packages,” panning her flashlight over them. “It’ll be better than Christmas morning.”
“Is it legal for us to do that?”
She gave me an unblinking stare. “Why, dear, is it legal for us to be in here?”
Good point.
She circled to the rear of the table, put down her flashlight, and picked out one of the smaller boxes.
What the hey. I joined her, providing the light while she opened the carton with a box cutter, then folded back the cardboard flaps.
We peered inside.
On top was a letter, typed on auction-house stationery, thanking the buyer—one Richard Wong in San Francisco—and invoicing him for one thousand dollars, hoping he’d be satisfied with the item and service.
Beneath the letter lay said item, swaddled in bubble wrap; Mother withdrew the object and proceeded to unwrap it. Shortly, Mr. Wong’s purchase was revealed to be a rather ugly cuckoo clock. Even for a cuckoo clock.
“How is that thing worth a thousand bucks?” I asked.
“Let’s see,” she replied.
Then, to my astonishment, Mother began to destroy the clock, pulling out its inner workings, ripping off the decorative headboard, and yanking the sides apart. She even unceremoniously plucked out the little cuckoo bird from its nesting hole.
What exactly, I wondered, would the stage manager’s duties for a production of The Penis Papers actually entail?
Meanwhile, the antique clock lay in pieces. No contraband. No nothing but clock parts.
“You could stuff all those pieces back in the box,” I said, “but I doubt Mr. Wong will pay the thousand-dollar fee.”
Mother ignored that and asked, “Where’s the rest?”
“The rest of what?”
“The workings—weights, chains, pendulum.”
I checked inside the box. “They’re in here, wrapped separately. Why?”
“Hand me the two weights,” she ordered.
I passed them to her.
Mother held one metal pinecone-shaped weight in her right hand, the other in her left, and hefted each separately.
“Dear,” she said, a spike of excitement in her voice, “I believe one pinecone is significantly heavier than the other.”
“Why would that be?” I asked. “Aren’t they both supposed to be the same?”
One eyebrow lifted high above her glasses. “I suspect we’re not dealing with a manufacturer’s defect.” She placed the two weights on the table. “Find me a hammer.”
With a shiver, I wondered what kind of props The Penis Papers stage manager might have to handle.
I flashed my light around, spotted a wrench on the end of the table, and snagged it.
“Will this do?” I asked.
“Nicely,” Mother said approvingly, then gripped it and, using the flat side of the wrench, whacked one weight really hard. But the wrench bounced off, with the only result being Mother shaking a sore hand as she shifted the wrench to her other hand and extended the thing to me.
“You try the other one, dear,” she said.
I picked up a piece of the bubble wrap, wrapped it around the handle of the wrench, then smacked the second weight.
This pinecone cracked open, splitting into two natural halves . . . and spilled out a gleaming array of gems.
“Diamonds,” Mother said, eyes glittering back at the stones. “Emeralds too. And sapphires. Beautifully cut.”
For a while we just stood there staring at the shimmering treasure.
“Not all contraband is narcotics,” Mother pointed out.
She scooped up the stones and held them in a palm for a closer look. “I’ll bet these are from that recent Quad Cities jewelry store robbery.”
“I read about that in the paper,” I said. “But I don’t get it. Mr. Klein robbed a jewelry store? That rates a big ‘huh?’ ”
“No, dear, actually it might explain—”
But what it might explain would have to wait, because Mother was cut short by the motorized grind of the garage door going up.
“Cut the flashlights,” Mother whispered.
She pocketed the gems, while I doused the lights, and together we frantically stuffed all the clock parts back into the box. Then, taking the cuckoo carton along for the ride, we dropped to the floor just as the garage-door opener completed its cycle and the whirring motor stopped.
We had some concealment, thanks to the stacked supplies that were stored beneath the table—as long as the overhead lights weren’t turned on, anyway—but there were spaces between those supplies that allowed us to see who had unexpectedly arrived.
In the open garage doorway, a figure was silhouetted against the headlights of an idling vehicle, but it took that figure moving out of the bright lights before I made him out as Dexter Klein.
Dexter paused, perhaps listening for the warning shrill of the security system, which didn’t happen, then walked quickly to the security pad, stopped, stared at it, and shrugged, obviously concluding the system hadn’t been set. Dexter turned, and as he strode toward us, I nudged Mother, putting a finger to my lips.
We could hear one of the sealed boxes getting lifted from the tabletop above us as Dexter picked the package up. Then we saw him, with the medium-sized box in hand, returning to his idling van, where he slid a side door open and deposited the box inside.
As he returned, presumably for another package, I felt a tickle in my nose from the dusty supplies and clamped both hands over my mouth like a speak-no-evil monkey. Mother, aware of the impending sneeze, put her hands over mine, one simian helping out another.
Time froze while Dexter selected another box and I struggled to contain the achoo that would be our undoing. As he began the trek back to the van, I couldn’t hold it any longer, and behind all four clasped hands came a little piglike squeal.
But Dexter kept moving, the sneeze blotted out by the Volkswagen’s running engine.
Mother and I sighed with relief, but that relief was short lived. A silver sedan appeared, skidding on the gravel as it came to an abrupt stop behind the van, blocking it in, and from an open window of the car came an extended arm and then . . . the sharp reports of a gun firing!
Dexter, by the side of his van, holding the latest box, tossed it inside, slammed the door, ran around the front of the vehicle, and jumped behind the wheel. After throwing the van into reverse, he smashed into the front of the sedan with a crumpling crunch, pushing it back far enough so that he could maneuver out.
As he did, Dexter’s taillights washed red over the face of the shooter: a familiar face....
I said, “That’s who scoped out our shop yesterday.”
The sedan was familiar, too—the silver BMW I’d seen him park in front of our shop! He probably wore a Rolex, too, since Three-Fingered Frieda had been right about him all the way....
“Our likely home invader,” Mother was saying. “Rodney Evans.”
The van sped off, and the BMW, despite its crunched-in nose, took immediate, gravel-scattering pursuit.
While this unexpected drama played out, Mother and I had gotten to our feet.
“And now we follow them!” she said excitedly.
“What? No! And now we call the police.”
She gave me a long-suffering look. “Dear, we simply must determine where they’re going, before bringing the police into the picture.”
That did sort of make sense. Mother sense, but sense.
“Okay,” I said, “but we lay back. We’re spectators on wheels, not participants joining in on the chase.”
“Agreed.”
I ran to get the C-Max.
Mother, in the meantime, went to the corner of the building, where I picked her up.
“They headed out into the country,” she said, buckling her seat belt.
“Then we don’t have to follow them.”
“But they could turn off in any number of places,” Mother protested, her eyes a little wild b
ehind the big lenses. “Hurry, or we’ll lose them!”
I hurried. At the mouth of the parking lot, I turned left onto the two-lane road; well up ahead, two sets of red taillights were flying into the night. From the car in pursuit came occasional firefly flashes of orange gunfire, making little pops at this distance.
“Perhaps I should call the sheriff,” Mother said, cell phone in hand. “We’re on his patch now.”
In another moment, she was saying, “Sheriff Rudder? Good evening. Vivian Borne speaking . . . Yes, I know you can tell it’s me from caller ID. I’m just being punctilious.... What? Look it up! Sheriff, if you’ll just curtail your ranting, I’ll tell you what this is about! Perhaps you’d like to take notes.... Well, that remark was wholly uncalled for. . . . What do we think we’re doing? We know we’re following Dexter Klein in his van, which is being trailed by an unknown gunman in a BMW, who is periodically firing at him, and if you want to retire on a high note, you’ll get out to County Road G, going west of the bypass, ASAP!”
She ended the call, then said to me, “It’s about time he retired!”
During Mother’s conversation with Rudder, I closed the distance between us and the two vehicles—not that I wanted to or was driving with a heavy foot, but because that vintage Volkswagen van didn’t seem to be able to go any faster than about sixty.
In a few more minutes, we were about a quarter of a mile from the pursuing BMW, which was riding the van’s back bumper, and I let up on the gas.
“Don’t fall back, dear!” Mother said.
“Evans has a gun, remember?” I reminded her.
The BMW zoomed alongside Dexter chariot race–style in an attempt to force the van off the road.
But instead, Dexter swerved violently into the side of the BMW, the car taking the full brunt of the big vehicle, forcing it onto the shoulder. Obviously, you shouldn’t get into a chariot race with a bigger chariot.
The battered BMW lurched back onto the highway, but the driver had overcompensated the maneuver, causing the car to slam back into the van, sparks flying on contact from the metal of the old Volkswagen.
The two vehicles seemed locked together in fierce battle as they barreled down the highway, taking up both lanes, when abruptly they veered off the road, slammed into a wire guardrail, broke through, and careened side by side into a deep gully, disappearing into the dark.
I eased the C-Max onto the shoulder. Mother and I got out, walked to the break in the rail, and gazed down.
Both vehicles lay at the bottom—the BMW upside down like an overturned beetle; the van on its side, a felled behemoth.
There was no movement from either.
Mother was already calling 911, reporting the two-car accident to the dispatcher, going into more detail than perhaps she needed to.
When she finished, I asked, “Should we do something other than stand here? Maybe try to help the drivers out of their vehicles, before there’s an explosion?”
“Not when one of them, as you pointed out, is armed. If we go down there, we could end up as hostages, with our car commandeered, if either of those two should be playing possum. Anyway, exploding vehicles? That’s strictly for TV and the movies.”
So we waited in the cold by the C-Max, alternately watching for signs of life below and for help to appear on the horizon.
Finally, multiple lights began flashing in the distance, accompanied by the faint but building sounds of sirens.
A rather gleeful Mother said, “You know, despite all this excitement, I’m somewhat disappointed I didn’t get to use my Taser!”
She had withdrawn the electrical deterrent from her coat pocket and was regarding it when the Taser discharged, its tentacles flying hungrily toward me.
The searing pain in my skull announced the loss of all my motor skills, and my body went rigid. When the shock mercifully ceased, I flopped to the ground and passed out.
The last thing I heard was Mother saying, “Whoopsie!”
* * *
Vivian stepping in, because at this point, Brandy was somewhat incapacitated for the nonce and recovering in the ER, and we must not let our narrative lag! While I’m always pleased to have the opportunity to add my storytelling skills to the mix, this instance is one I do not relish.
But first, I would like to assure you, dear reader, that the firing of my Taser was entirely unintentional—an unhappy, unfortunate accident.
That said, I am pleased to have seen, and experienced, the weapon in action. A good writer dealing with the world of crime must be knowledgeable in the ways of firing a weapon, in this case a Taser. Otherwise, how can one write about such a thing convincingly? Of course, the same is true of a gun, which is why I recently went to the firing range . . . scoring a bull’s-eye on my very first visit!
At the moment, Brandy was stretched out on one of those uncomfortable examination tables, while the doctor—a polished gentleman of Indian decent (the South Asian variety, not Native American)—was tending to her. Simultaneously, a nurse was taking her vitals (Brandy’s, not the nurse’s own).
I leaned over the table. “Dear, speak to me. Are you all right? How terribly clumsy that was of me!”
Brandy couldn’t seem to focus on my face. “I . . . I can’t see you, Mother. Come closer.”
Oh, my! I hoped the darling girl hadn’t gone as blind as little Sushi before the cataract surgery.
I bent down farther, and Brandy’s hands came up and caressed my throat . . . then tightened! She shook me a few times, but I was fortunate that the girl’s strength was so hampered. She might have accidentally choked me to death.
Drawing away, I coughed a few times and managed, “Now, dear, you know I didn’t do that on purpose! I would rather it had happened to me.”
“That much,” she snapped, “we agree on!”
“You needn’t be surly,” I replied, stroking my throat. “The doctor said you’ll be fine in a few hours, and in the meantime, at my suggestion, they’ll be giving you that full checkup you haven’t had in years. Win-win! By the way, what did it feel like to be Tasered? It’s good to know these things.”
“Someday, Mother, when you least expect it, I’ll show you.”
“Very droll, dear.”
But just in case she wasn’t jesting, I made a mental note to keep the weapon somewhere where the dear girl would never find it. The sock drawer just wouldn’t do.
Sheriff Rudder appeared at my elbow. “Vivian?” He gestured with his head to the hallway. “A word?”
As we stepped into the corridor, I asked, “How did Dexter fare from the crash?” The young man was in another exam room.
“Broken arm, leg, fractured pelvis. No air bags in the van.”
Still, he should soon be in shape enough to stand trial for murder, if necessary.
I asked, “And how’s the driver of the other car doing? Rodney Evans?”
“He’ll live.” The sheriff’s head bobbed back. “You know who he is?”
“Certainly. Don’t you?”
“Yes, I know who he is! Law enforcement has been trying to get Evans on fencing stolen property and illegal substances for years. We just haven’t been able to get the goods on him.”
I smiled. “Well, I may have just the goods you need. Or rather, the goodies.”
I reached into my coat pocket and withdrew the handful of gems, then held them out in a palm piled with glittering, reflecting cut stones—diamonds, emeralds, sapphires, and more.
Rudder’s eyes popped. “Good Lord, Vivian. Where did you get those?”
“Not in a box of Cracker Jacks,” I said. Sometimes I crack myself up.
Then I told him.
But can you imagine, dear reader, what that ungrateful man said? That he was going to have Brandy and me charged for breaking into the Kleins’ auction house!
Another non–Native American Indian doctor approached, gesturing down the hall.
“Sheriff,” he said, “Mr. Gerald Klein is no longer in a coma, and he requests to s
ee someone in authority.”
Rudder said to me, rather pompously, I thought, “Excuse me, Vivian. This is official business. Perhaps you can get that ancient lawyer of yours on the phone. You’ll be needing him.”
The doctor gestured down the hall again. “Mr. Klein said that if Mrs. Borne was still here, he would like to have her present.”
I said to Rudder, “Well, he may very well talk to you not in my presence. Yes, you go on minus moi, Sheriff, and see how you do. I’ll find a phone to call my attorney.”
Rudder said nothing, just pawed at the air in front of me by way of invitation.
We followed the doctor down the hall to the ICU, through the double doors, then into one of the private rooms, where Gerald Klein, beneath a thin white blanket, lay hooked up to a variety of beeping monitors.
The once robust man was barely recognizable.
In a chair next to the bed was wife Loretta, wearing a navy blazer and slacks, a geometric-print silk scarf tied around her neck, her eyes red, face puffy.
The doctor crossed to the bed and leaned over. “Mr. Klein . . .”
Behind closed lids, the auctioneer’s eyes moved back and forth.
“Mr. Klein,” the doctor repeated. “The sheriff is here . . . with Mrs. Borne.”
Gerald’s eyelids fluttered open; his eyes found Rudder, then me; and, with great difficulty, he began to speak. “I . . . I want to confess.”
“That’s wise,” the sheriff said. “We already have evidence of stolen property being moved through your auction house.”
“Thanks to me,” I said.
“Not that,” Gerald said, shaking his head, just a little, but noticeably. “I want to . . . to confess to killing . . . Camilla Cassato.”
“You!” I blurted. On the suspect blackboard of my mind, Dexter Klein had moved to the top of the list.
Rudder gave me a “shhh” frown, then asked the patient, “Are you fully aware of what you’re saying?”
Gerald Klein nodded.
“You do know you’re entitled to a lawyer,” the sheriff went on.
Sometimes I could have just kicked that man!
“No . . . there may not be time for that,” the auctioneer rasped. “Let me speak.”
“First, I have to read you your rights.”
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