By Barbara Collins:
Too Many Tomcats (short story collection)
By Barbara and Max Allan Collins:
Regeneration
Bombshell
Murder—His and Hers (short story collection)
Antiques
Roadkill
A Trash ‘n’ Treasures Mystery
Barbara Allan
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Copyright © 2006 by Max Allan Collins and Barbara Collins Map of Serenity drawn by Terry Beatty; artwork used with his kind permission.
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Library of Congress Card Catalogue Number: 2005924293
eISBN 13: 978-0-7582-7279-9
eISBN 10: 0-7582-7279-0
First Printing: August 2006
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Printed in the United States of America
For Dorothy Jensen Mull, who is a treasure
Home is the place where,
when you have to go there,
They have to take you in.
Robert Frost
When life itself seems lunatic,
who knows where madness lies?
… To surrender dreams, this may be madness.
To seek treasures where there is only trash.
Cervantes, Don Quixote
Contents
By Barbara Collins:
Chapter One: Home Is Where the Harm Is
Chapter Two: A Tisket, a Casket
Chapter Three: Jailhouse Crock
Chapter Four: Trolley Follies
Chapter Five: A Friend Indeed, a Friend in Weed
Chapter Six: No Pain, No Vane
Chapter Seven: Tools Rush In
Chapter Eight: A Churn for the Worse
Chapter Nine: Clock on the Wild Side
Chapter Ten: Do Tell Motel
Chapter Eleven: Vase the Music
Chapter Twelve: Bad Heirloom Day
About the Authors
Chapter One
Home Is Where the Harm Is
On a perfect June day, late morning sun shining bright, I drove across the steel and concrete bridge over the muddy Mississippi, which actually didn’t look muddy at all, wind whipping little whitecaps on the deep azure water beneath a cloudless blue sky.
Like one of those miniature Dickensian villages you’d see in a better gift shop, the downtown of Serenity spread out before me: old, proud, restored Victorian buildings, positioned a cautious distance from the unpredictable flood-prone river, along which a bike path lined with old-fashioned lamp fixtures ribboned its way.
On the car seat beside me, Sushi, my shih tzu, stirred from her travel bed, stretched, and put her furry little face up to the passenger window. But I doubted the dog could see anything.
“We’re almost there, sweetie,” I said soothingly.
Sushi turned toward me, white eyes staring spookily out of a brown furry face, like a baby Morlock in that great old Time Machine movie I caught on TCM one insomniac night (not the terrible remake!). Even before she’d gone sightless from diabetes, Sushi’s vision had always been hair-impaired, so when the vet suggested I spend two thousand dollars to restore her vision, I had a good excuse not to … also a good reason, which was not having a spare two thousand dollars.
“Almost home,” I repeated, more to myself than the dog, and took a swig of bottled Wal-Mart water.
According to Thomas Wolfe, you can’t go home again; of course that’s not true—many of us can, and do, crawl back to the nest to lick our wounds, regroup, rethink … and dream of leaving home again.…
My mother, Vivian, much to her surprise, conceived me at the tail end of her child-bearing years, in the mid-1970s, when her only other child was eighteen. Unplanned though I was, I provided Mother timely company, because shortly after I arrived, my father departed.
Now, this is not a sad story of paternal desertion—it’s another kind of sad story: my father died from a sudden heart attack, presumably having nothing to do with my arrival.
My dad, Jonathan Borne, had been an army photographer during World War II, really quite a distinguished one among those anonymous heroic shutterbugs; many of the pictures taken at the Battle of the Bulge—which were seen in Life and other magazines of the day (and, later, history books and in documentaries)—were his. Dad might have had a big career with one of the news magazines, but like so many Greatest Generation guys, he only wanted to come back home to his sweetheart and start a family and make an honest living—he accomplished the latter by setting up his own photography shop.
Mother named me Brandy, after a corny but kinda cool then-popular song (my older sister, Peggy Sue, didn’t fare so well with her own Buddy Holly–inspired moniker). Do you remember that “Brandy” tune? It got to number one, I think. Anyway, it talked about what a “good wife” Brandy would be—well, this Brandy … yours truly, Brandy … did not grow up to suit those lyrics. Not unless you’re into irony.
Point of fact, Brandy Borne was coming home downsized, and not just in the physical sense: my beautiful silver Audi TT Quattro had been traded for this used urine-specimen-yellow Ford Taurus. My forty-something husband had been traded in, too, for … well, I’d say for Sushi, only actually I already had her back when I still had Roger, and the affluence that came with him.
Yup. No more retro-packaged Benefit makeup from Stephora, or cute shoes from Aldo’s (why have one pair of Jimmy Choos when you could have three of theirs? I’m not stupid), or designer clothes from Neiman Marcus. Now I was strictly drugstore makeup, discounted shoes, and outlet-center apparel. Checking in with my new reality, I changed my subscription from couture-featured Vogue to off-the-rack Lucky.
In the back of the car, however, hanging from a rod, were some of the clothes I just couldn’t bring myself to sell on eBay: a black Stella McCartney satin bomber jacket with tons of zippers; a black Chanel loose-weaved wool jacket with silver chains and frayed edges; and a black (okay, I’d been trying to hide my weight) Versace low-cut spandex dress (the one Angelina Jolie wore to the Oscars … except a tad bigger).
I also couldn’t give up some vintage pieces: a Betsey Johnson bat-sleeved burgundy corduroy dress with big black patent leather belt, and an orange parachute-material jumpsuit by Norma Kamali that I never had nerve to wear. Since the split with Roger, I’d lost fifteen pounds and no longer fit many of these things; somehow, though, they were the only part of my former life I hadn’t been able to cut loose.
According to my mother, the town of Serenity used to be called “the Pearl Button Capital of the World,” button factories lining the riverfront like a brick battlement. Then when plastic fasteners became popular (and cheaper), and government restrictions were put on the number of mussels that could be harvested from the river, half the town got a pink slip, including factory owners.
But Vivian Borne had a vision (actually, she’s ha
d many, but more about that later); she thought the town could reinvent itself by opening lots of antique shops and cute little bistros, and become a tourist destination. Mother formed the Historic Preservation Committee, and marched on City Hall to stop the demolition of many a downtown building.
I suppose I should interrupt myself again to explain that my mother has always had a touch of the dramatic. She’d been a tall, slender, beautiful blonde in high school (willowy, they used to call it) who had snagged the lead in every play since kindergarten. Her plans to go to Hollywood had changed when she abruptly married her high school sweetheart (my dad, Jonathan—remember him?) on the eve of his marching off to war.
When my father marched home, Mother retreated into community theater and manic depression—in the fifties and sixties, they called this being “nuts”—and some of the therapy Mother got in those days was no picnic, though the plays were pretty good.
Don’t get nervous—she’s been medicated and beautifully sane for some years now … not counting occasional missed appointments, and ill-advised “drug holidays” from doctors who ought to know better.
Anyway, once upon a time poor put-upon Peggy Sue (I was only five) had to post bail when Mother’s commitment to preserving downtown Serenity extended to chaining herself to the front door of the old Capitol Theater. The movie house with its great art deco facade didn’t survive (it’s now a parking lot), and that threw Mother into a deep depression that lasted for months; Sis had to move in for a while and take care of me. And Mother.
I suppose I should appreciate my sister for that, and for keeping an eye on our wonderful eccentric mom when I moved out after high school, leaving all the “fun” to Peg. But I’ll be honest with you (you may already have noticed I’m not perfect), I’ve always resented Peggy Sue, for no reason really, other than her finicky, fault-finding attitude toward me.
Once over the span of the river, I swung onto Elm, one of Serenity’s oldest streets, shooting out from the center of town like a spoke in a wheel. Along either side of the tree-canopied avenue, grand old homes built in the late eighteen hundreds, currently looking a little long in the tooth, were occupied by middle-income families, and those foolhardy enough to find romance in a fixer-upper. The local “barons” had long since moved out to the many subdivisions that now bordered the city.
At the end of Elm, I turned into the long driveway of a two-story white stucco house whose green shutters and wraparound porch were solely in need of a coat of paint. Or two.
I got out of the car, stretched from the long trip, then retrieved Sushi from the front seat. I stood under an ancient, familiar forlorn-looking pine, listening to the wind whispering in the tallest branches, while Soosh peed. Many of the lower boughs that I used to climb as a kid (getting sap stuck in my hair) were long gone, sheared off by storms or man.
Leaving my stuff behind in the car, I picked up the dog and headed toward the house.
As usual, the door was unlocked—actually, finding it locked would signal an alarm, indicating Mother might have reverted into one of her “spells,” in which case even the sheriff would have had difficulty getting in. But the barricades were down, and I easily stepped into the small front foyer.
Nowhere else smelled like our house. It wasn’t unpleasant; it wasn’t pleasant. It was just my nostrils welcoming me … home.
All the way from the Chicago suburbs, I had been dreading this moment. How would I feel? Defeated? Miserable? Depressed? Would I see the ghost of a little Brandy—skinned-knee, dirty Scooby-Doo T-shirt, long stringy hair—looking back at me accusingly for making such a mess of her future?
But little Brandy wasn’t there. And grown-up Brandy felt nothing negative at all … in fact, something comforting. And a surprising sense of … possibilities. Why, I had practically my whole life ahead of me. A second chance for love, wealth, and happiness. A new dawn was beginning!
Thank you, Prozac.
I went through the mahogany French door separating the entryway from the large front parlor, and put Sushi down on the bare wooden floor. Peggy Sue had tried to prepare me on the phone, but it was still a shock.
Gone were the Queen Anne needlepoint furniture, Hancock straight-backed chairs, Duncan Phyfe table, and Persian rugs … family heirlooms, all. Even the colorful collection of small glass shoes (think Cinderella’s slipper) that had forever graced the picture windowsill was AWOL. I felt a terrible lump in my throat, and a sense of loss rippled through me in a wave reminiscent of nausea.
“Everything can’t be gone,” I’d said to Peggy Sue on the phone, knowing how she could exaggerate.
“Not every thing … but most of the downstairs things.”
“Surely Mother didn’t let go of the chairs Grandpa caned?” I wanted those.
Her silence was all the answer I needed.
“Can’t you get it all back?” I wailed. “Mother was mentally ill—isn’t that fraud or something?”
My sister sighed heavily. “I’ve already talked to our attorney.”
“Mr. Ekhardt? Is he still alive?”
“He is, and he said the antique dealer bought everything in good faith and had no idea Mother was … well …”
“Cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs?”
“… off her medication.” Pause. “Why these doctors don’t call the family, when a patient misses an appointment, I will never know.”
“But those are precious things. It’s like the bastard bought our childhood! Stole our memories!”
“Brandy—you are taking the Prozac …?”
“Yes, yes … they just take awhile to kick in, is all. But even when she’s in one of her lunatic phases of the moon, Mother surely wouldn’t give away such precious—”
“Brandy,” my sister said, voice tight, “I wish you wouldn’t refer to Mother’s condition in so, so … insensitive a manner. You know as well as I that it’s a disease.”
“I’m sorry,” I said quickly, hoping to thwart a probable, inevitable scolding. Peggy Sue had a way of reducing me to six years old. Or five.
“How,” she was saying, off on a pedantic tear, “are we ever to eradicate the stigma attached to this illness, when you keep using words like ‘cuckoo’ and ‘lunatic'?”
Too late.
“Sorry,” I mumbled.
“Do you have any idea how lucky we are that Mother responds so well to medication?”
Note that Peggy Sue hadn’t said how lucky Mother was.
“I said I was sorry,” I said.
Make that four years old.
The strained silence that followed was not unusual in our phone conversations.
Finally Peg asked, a trifle testily, “When are you coming back to Serenity?”
“In a couple weeks. After the divorce is final.”
And my medication has kicked in.
“And will Jacob be with you?”
Why did she even ask that? Peggy Sue knew Jake’s dad had custody!
“No, Peg—he’s better off with his father. For right now, anyway. At the moment, Jake blames me for everything.”
Peggy Sue didn’t jump to my defense—not that I expected her to. Instead she shifted gears, saying pleasantly, “It’ll be such a relief to have you living with Mother.”
“Thanks.”
“Finally, someone else to drive her to the doctor, so she’ll never miss another appointment.… You do know she had her license suspended?”
“Yes, you wrote. How are the cows?” Mother had taken a shortcut through a pasture, on her way to a play at a rural church.
I could almost hear the frown in my sister’s voice. “Are you being sarcastic?”
“No.” But I wondered if Peggy Sue could almost hear my snide little grin.
“If you really want to know, there was only one bovine fatality, though the others were certainly traumatized.” She added cheerfully, “Thank God the insurance paid for everything, including the damage to that combine. They’re terribly expensive, you know.”
“Cows?
”
“Combines! Honestly, sometimes I don’t know whether you really are that thick, or are just pulling my chain!”
I’ll leave it for you to decide.
“Personally, Peg? I’m most relieved that in the accident the only casualties were farm equipment and some shaken-up livestock. That Mother wasn’t hurt …?”
After the next strained silence, we had managed to chat a bit longer about nothing in particular, both of us sensing the need to work our way somewhere where the conversation could end on a cordial note of truce.
That was about a month ago.
I watched as Sushi took a few tentative steps from me in the living room, feeling her way along. At least with most of the furnishings gone, the dog wouldn’t be bumping into so many things.
I was wondering where Mother was when I heard the muffled sound of the downstairs toilet flush, then running water. In another minute she was gliding through the kitchen doorway, and my smile froze.
Mother was wearing an unbecoming, ill-fitting purple dress—I might have made it in seventh-grade sewing class with my eyes shut—and a huge red straw hat arrayed with plastic fruit, arcs of white hair swinging like scythes on either side of her face, her attractive features bordering on self-parody with an overapplication of makeup and her blue eyes huge behind the big thick-lensed glasses.
My heart sank. Peggy Sue had said she was stabilized!
Mother beamed when she saw me, magnified eyes bright with delight. She had put a few pounds on over the years, but remained a tall, striking figure, despite the ghastly dress. “Brandy, darling! Thank the Lord you’ve come! And just in time, too.”
“Yeeees,” I replied. “I think I am.”
The big buggy eyes narrowed suspiciously as she advanced toward me for a hug. Then she held me out in front of her like a painting she was considering to buy and said, “Darling child, you look simply stricken—are you all right?”
Antiques Roadkill Page 1