Antiques Roadkill

by Barbara Allan

  Out on the sidewalk, Harold asked if he could drive me home, but I said I had other things to do downtown. I thought it best not to encourage him, and, anyway, I did have one more stop.…

  Carson’s Antiques, on Main Street, was closed, not surprisingly; but lights were on inside the lovely old building, and I knocked on the door, trying to peer through the etched glass, albeit with little success.

  Still, I could see movement, and even hear some, so I kept knocking.

  Finally a hazy figure moved toward me—even through the etched glass I could make it out—and then a voice behind the door said, snippily, “Can’t you see we’re closed!”

  “I must talk to you!”

  “We are closed!”

  I projected my voice to the last seat in the farthest balcony. “It’s Vivian Borne—would you prefer I talk to the police?”

  Locks were soon unlocked, and the door cracked open. The fiery-haired filly in the peasant blouse and leather skirt might have been pretty if she had not been frowning in such a foul manner.

  “What do you mean, police?” she growled.

  “I haven’t mentioned to them yet,” I said pleasantly, “that you called our house and left an answer machine message for us.”

  Her eyes grew wild, her nostrils flared. “I did no such thing! Are you crazy?”

  I have been asked that question before and seldom have I been offended—I understand its colloquial meaning—but I was a little put off by her denial.

  So, as the young people say, I got right in her face. “You’re claiming you didn’t leave a call for my daughter, Brandy, last night? Telling her to come out to the late Mr. Carson’s house and barn, in the country?”

  “No. Hell no!” The presumably pretty face grew uglier. “Look, lady, I don’t know what the fudge you’re trying to prove …”

  Actually, she didn’t say “fudge.”

  “… but if you go to the cops, you’ll only get yourself in trouble!”

  And the door slammed in my face!

  Mother’s expression carried all the indignation it must have held at the moment that door shut on her.

  I said, “What then?”

  Still seated on the edge of my bed, she said, “I caught the Traveling Trolley home …”

  And now she was off her trolley, and back again.

  “… because I simply had to tell you the news!”

  “What news?”

  Mother’s eyes grew enormous behind the exaggeration of the lenses. “That we weren’t the only ones who Clint Carson swindled!”

  Stop the presses.

  “Well, really, Mother … I never thought we were.”

  Her head reared back, like a horse about to buck its rider. “But surely you know what this means?”

  “What does it mean, Mother?”

  “That we’re not the only suspects!”

  I blinked at her. “Suspects? … Oh yeah, in the ‘Clint Carson Murder Case.’”

  “Exactly. Didn’t we both confess to the murder already?”

  Shaking my head, I insisted, “We didn’t confess to any murder—we were taking responsibility for an accident.”

  The complication was that we were both taking that responsibility.

  I put a conciliatory hand on her sleeve. “Let’s go have some coffee.”

  Soon we were sitting at the kitchen table, having Starbucks Caffe Verona, decaf—you don’t think I was about to give Mother anything but decaf, do you?

  “Let’s suppose you’re right,” I said. “And that Clint Carson really was murdered.”

  “Let’s suppose that, yes, dear.”

  I shrugged. “Why should we care?”

  She goggled at me.

  I patted the air and pressed on: “After all, we didn’t kill him. I didn’t. You didn’t.”

  “Yes … but somebody did.”

  “Right. But who cares?”

  “Pardon?”

  I spoke slowly and clearly. “Who … the fuck … cares?”

  You’ll note I didn’t say “fudge.”

  “Mother, we hated that bastard.”

  Mother touched her bosom and looked askance at me, her Victorian sensibilities offended by my language and my sensibilities. “That doesn’t make murder acceptable! Or that kind of vocabulary.”

  “Of course it doesn’t make murder acceptable. But it also doesn’t make it your job to do anything about it. What’s the idea, anyway, of going out snooping like that?”

  Her expression took astonishment to new heights—or, possibly, lows. “Don’t you know?”

  I thought I did. I knew that Mother had always had a morbid interest in murder—both true crimes and the Christie/Murder She Wrote variety that her Red-Hatted League book club found so intriguing—and this Carson mess had tripped some trigger within her that I, frankly, did not feel was conducive to her continued mental health.

  But I didn’t know how to express that without offending her, and making an instant enemy of her.…

  “Listen,” I said, and reached across and patted her hand. “The police are absolutely capable of looking into this. You met Officer Lawson—he was nice, right? And smart?”

  “And handsome,” Mother said.

  “And handsome. Plus, we both know what a terrific police chief Serenity has.”

  “Yes. That’s certainly true.…”

  “Why not leave it to them? The professionals?”

  Mother leaned forward and grasped one of my hands in hers. Tight. “But don’t you see, darling? That redheaded wench lied!”

  Wench?

  “Or if she didn’t lie,” Mother was saying, and now her eyes were moving quickly behind the lenses, too quickly for my taste, “and she truly didn’t make that phone call … then someone else did!”

  “Mother … please.…”

  “Someone who wanted to implicate us! To frame us!”

  The kitchen wall phone rang, thank God, and I got it.

  It was Tina, calling from her office at the chamber of commerce, where she worked as the tourism liaison.

  She had heard about Carson’s death, and the rumors about Mother’s involvement that were buzzing around, probably in part due to Mother’s going clang, clang on the trolley. I quickly brought Teen up to speed.

  “How exciting.”

  “Oh yeah, thrilling.”

  “Well then, let me ask the really important question.”

  “Which is what?”

  “Brandy … are we still on for tonight?”

  I actually found myself laughing, a little. “Clint Carson being dead won’t stop me from going out and having a little fun—I’m not even sure my own death would.”

  “So I can pick you up, then?”

  “Sure.”

  We set the time, said our good-byes, and I hung up.

  Mother was staring into her Starbucks decaf as if it were a crystal ball that held all the answers to the mystery she was cooking up in her fertile imagination.

  Which, of course, bothered me.

  But not as much as a sense I had—and did not care to acknowledge—that there was something to what Mother had said. Someone may well have tried to lure me out to Carson’s place to implicate me.

  Someone who had no compunction about taking a human life.

  Or was I as crazy as Mother?

  A Trash ‘n’ Treasures Tip

  Sometimes, treasures can be found set out with trash on garbage collection night. Sifting through a Dumpster, however, I won’t stoop to. But Mother will.

  Chapter Five

  A Friend Indeed, a Friend in Weed

  In the midst of Mother’s murder suspicions, amateur detective work, and her fear that we’d been framed, I faced my first real crisis …

  … I didn’t know what to wear!

  Clothes were strewn and not just on the floor, but on the bed, hanging from the vanity—the entire contents of my underwear drawer tossed in a jumbled pile. It was as if a bad guy or maybe the cops had “tossed” my room look
ing for clues.

  Only they didn’t do it, I did. And I was looking for the right clothes, not clues.

  Tina was picking me up in half an hour, and I had to find just the ensemble. After all, we were hitting the new nightclub on the bluff, the Octagon House, for our long-overdue “girls’ night out,” and Tina assured me this was the place in Serenity, right now.

  This evening I wanted to look chic, but not cheap; hip, but not too trendy—and not for the men. To hell with the men!

  Why do women dress for each other? Maybe only another woman truly appreciates the effort … whereas the chief interest the opposite sex appears to have in women’s clothing is pretty much limited to getting them off.

  Finally, with fifteen minutes to go, I settled on a hippie-chic Nanette Lepore off-one-shoulder top (which I had eaten Kraft Macaroni and Cheese for a month to be able to buy), some slim-fitting, cropped GAP jeans, and a pair—my only pair—of Jimmy Choo turquoise heels, a lucky eBay buy (even so, it cost me a month of Campbell’s Tomato Soup lunches) (at least dieting and saving money can go hand in hand).

  Now for a purse.

  Unlike shoes, a person can have too many bags. Besides taking up lots of closet space, purses can all too easily get tangled up. Plus, it’s tiresome having to switch contents from one bag to another all the time, just to match your outfit.

  And here’s another point—I once saw an old black-and-white movie on cable where a man came home, found no sign of his wife, but spotted her purse on the kitchen table; from this he surmised that she had been kidnapped, and on that single piece of evidence the police put out an all points-bulletin and rescued her from a sex maniac.

  Which begs the question: how in this day and age is anybody going to know if you’ve been kidnapped by a sex maniac with all your purses left lying around?

  And one more thing before I get off the subject: how ever did bags get elevated to the exalted position of shoes? One strong possibility is that, like shoes, a purse always fits, no matter how fat you get (but unlike shoes, you don’t have to shed alligator tears because the shop doesn’t have your size).

  Here’s my bottom-line advice: take all your bags and sell them (eBay, garage sale, secondhand shop—dealer’s choice), then buy one expensive to-die-for purse for spring/summer, and another for fall/winter … and your life will become a lot less stressful.

  I selected from the tangle (do as I say, not as I do) a small Nichole Miller evening bag that Tina had given me for my last birthday (it’s always nice to show your friend that you appreciate—and use—her thoughtful gifts). Beaded in orange with the yellow word POP! and dangling from the shoulder by a silver chain, this little beauty offered just enough room for some lip gloss, a condom (you never know), a tissue or two (so you didn’t have to “drip-dry”), and fifty cents to call your mother (you’ll have to decide for yourself what you want to call your mother).

  A car horn beeped.

  I raced downstairs and dashed into the kitchen to make sure Sushi had enough water—she’d been asleep in her little pink bed, but raised her furry head and turned her spooky white eyes toward my voice.

  “If you have to go,” I instructed firmly, “go pee-pee on the papers.” I’d already put down the nightly edition by the back door.

  Mother was rehearsing this evening at the Serenity Center for the Performing Arts (i.e., the Central Middle School stage) in Everybody Loves Opal—a lowbrow play catering mostly to midwestern ladies of the blue-haired variety, with a leading role perfectly suited to Vivian Borne’s over-the-top talents. She wouldn’t be home until late.

  I could only marvel at how, in spite of everything that had happened, Mother could still act, but “the show must go on” raced in her blood alongside various out-of-control chemicals. One time, after Mother wrapped her car around a telephone pole, she went onstage in a head tourniquet, arm sling, and with crutches, ad-libbing her entrance—“Watch that last step … it’s a doooozy!”—and getting an immediate standing ovation for her pluck. (Would it be unkind to mention that she did not receive another ovation, at the end, for her actual performance?)

  Sushi seemed to understand my directive about relieving herself on the Fourth Estate. She understood lots of words (not on the paper—the ones I spoke to her), and even some of those I spelled out, in hopes of fooling her … like when I would say in an aside to Mother, “I don’t have time to take Sushi for a w-a-l-k.” Soosh would materialize at my side, and beg relentlessly, until I finally capitulated and went for the leash.

  So now, on occasion, I resort to sign language—blind dogs, no matter how smart, can’t fathom that!

  I scurried out the front door, locking it behind me, and in another moment hopped in the front seat of Tina’s black Lexus.

  “Hi, honey!” I said, and she gave the same right back … our usual greeting in a Judy-Holliday-in-Born Yesterday voice.

  Tina, behind the wheel, looked gorgeous, her blond hair straight with a little flip at the ends. She had on a hot-pink boat-neck top, and black satin cargo pants with a sparkly belt.

  “Guess what I found,” Tina said with an impish grin. She shoved a cassette into the dash, and Cyndi Lauper began singing “Girls Just Want to Have Fun.”

  “Our traveling tape,” I squealed, and began to sing along as Tina pulled away from the curb. So did Tina. Instant in-car karaoke.

  A decade ago, when I was a freshman at the local community college, and Tina was home from Northwestern, we spent a whole summer together, going out every weekend to one club or another … often in neighboring cities for a change of scenery (and prospects). Tina made a cassette of all our then-favorite artists, like Madonna … and even older ones such as Cyndi Lauper, Blondie, the Motels, and Lene Lovich.

  Back then I was the designated driver, because drinking more than one glass of anything alcoholic could bring on an instant migraine, ruining the rest of the night (not to mention next day). I had a “gently used,” Leprechaun-green Gremlin that I bought from an elderly couple who’d kept the car hidden in their garage … probably because they were too embarrassed to be seen in it.

  Tina and I, at the time, had no such shame. The GM Gremlin was the ugliest car every made, bar none. Think of a regular car chopped in half, leaving only the front end and a small hatchback with room enough for a sack of groceries and maybe some running shoes—size 5. The rear sides of the vehicle had a little round window, like on a boat, so Tina dubbed the car “the Green Submarine.”

  When flying down the highway, if I hit a bump, we’d go airborne for a while, because the GS was so front-heavy. If it was raining, we’d hydroplane all the way because there was absolutely no back traction—I’m amazed we even stayed on the road.

  Early on I broke off the flimsy aluminum ignition key in the starter, which was the greatest thing! That meant the GS was always ready to go … and I never had to waste time looking for misplaced keys. Nor did I worry about locking the thing—who’d want to steal a green Gremlin? It’s not like the car wouldn’t be spotted.

  Donna Sommer was singing “Hot Stuff” as we wound our way up the drive to the Octagon House, which was situated on a bluff overlooking the Mighty Mississippi.

  The Octagon was, in reality, an ancient brick battlement, built back when Serenity was founded in the early eighteen hundreds. The large eight-sided structure had been used by the military for spotting attacks by (in order of appearance) the Blackhawk Indians, the French, the British, the Confederate army … and even Martians in the 1950s, when UFOs were supposedly spotted hovering over town.

  Until recently, the building had been a crumbling, seldom-visited tourist attraction, when some local entrepreneurs leased it from the city and turned the edifice into a nightspot. Mother approved, saying it was a win-win situation: the battlement (which was not on any federal preservation lists) got restored, people would come to see it, and the city received extra revenue. (Mother did not include in her lists of pluses the ability for Serenity visitors and residents alike to get drunk on
their butts at this historical site.)

  The parking lot was packed, but Tina, ever inventive, carved out a space between a Ford pickup and a Toyota, and we soon fell in behind others flocking toward the club.

  “Nice wheels, honey,” I said to her.

  “It’s not the Green Submarine,” she said with a grin, “but it gets me places.”

  The Octagon House faced the river, and to get to the entrance you had to utilize a wooden deck that stretched almost to the edge of the bluff. We walked along it, enjoying the attention of the cool night breeze as it ran its fingers through our hair; briefly we paused at the railing to gaze out over the dark churning water.

  The Mississippi can be wonderful, but terrible. It’s called “Mighty” for a reason: powerful undertows created by swirling currents of swift-moving water. A person should never go boating or skiing on the river without a good life jacket … and forget about swimming. Unfortunately, every summer, somebody learns this lesson. Or rather doesn’t.

  The bridge was like a diamond necklace reaching shore to shore, thanks to an array of lights strung sparklingly along the span; in the distance the melody of a riverboat calliope playing “I’m Looking Over a Four Leaf Clover,” floated toward us, in that distinctive muted echoey way, sounding a little forlorn for such an upbeat number.

  “You ever go gambling?” I asked her.

  Several turn-of-the-century steamboats—with names like The River Queen and Lucky Lady—trekked up and down the river, offering a scenic ride to take the sting out of relieving citizens of their hard-earned pay.

  “Do you ever go gambling?” Tina, ever the diplomat, had deftly passed the buck.

  “Naw,” I admitted, but added, “Just that, with you married, we can’t spend all our time bar-crawling.”

  Her expression was affectionately amused. “Brandy, I’m trying to imagine you putting down a bet on anything.”

  I shrugged; that breeze felt sweet, and the dark river view was strangely soothing. “I dunno—I could maybe see taking twenty dollars and playing the nickel machines till it ran out, poker not slots? But I’d really rather buy a pair of designer socks.”