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Authors: Barbara Allan

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BOOK: Antiques Disposal
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Still, one display had earned Mother's attention—an old, gold cornet, labeled with a white placard: SIMILAR TO THE CORNET USED BY BIX.
“And isn't
that
similar to the one
we
just got?” I asked.
“
Now
we know what Waldo wanted from Anna,” Mother said.
She turned abruptly, and I had to hurry to catch up as she made a beeline back to Waldo Hendricks.
“
We
have Anna's cornet,” Mother told him, laying all her cards on the table.
Hendricks looked up again from his periodical; but his eyes were not so bored this time. “Indeed? And where did you get it?”
With admirable lack of embellishment or melodrama, Mother told him about winning the storage unit auction, and running across his letter to Anna, although she did imply the missive had been among the contents of the unit.
Hendricks sat forward, elbows on the desk, hands tented. “Tell me—what kind of cornet
is
it? The brand name, I mean... .”
Mother didn't miss a beat: “A Bach. Stradivarius.”
Hendricks sat back, the bored eyes returning. “It's of no import, now. My museum already has a Bach Stradivarius. When Miss Armstrong wouldn't part with hers, I found one on the Internet.”
Mother was not good enough an actress to disguise her crestfallen reaction.
I tried to salvage the situation. “The one we have is in better condition—almost good as new, without the dings and dents. How much had you offered Anna for it?”
“Two hundred fifty.”
Something jumped in Mother's eyes. She had that expression whenever she'd connected the dots. “What if that horn belonged to Bix himself? It came from the Bix mansion, after all!”
The dealer's expression could not have been more bored, his eyes lidded, his response almost drowsy. “That is not the ‘Bix mansion,' Vivian, it's Bix's grandparents' home. And in any event, it did not come from there.”
“Well, it certainly did!”
“It came from Anna Armstrong, who told me it was a gift from an old boyfriend. She was merely a woman with an old cornet who happened to live in a home with a connection to Bix Beiderbecke.”
The dots disconnected and Mother's eyes lost their spark. Momentarily. Then they and she came alive again, and she blurted, “You can have it for two hundred! It's
still
a better example than the one you have.”
His mouth moving as if trying to taste the memory of a meal, Hendricks contemplated our offer.
“Well,” he said slowly, “I'd have to
see
the cornet first. I might be in the market for a
nicer
example. Can you bring it in tomorrow morning?”
“Certainly!” Mother chirped in a high-pitched manner worthy of Curly Howard.
And then she did something silly but very much in character: she saluted him.
And before she could do further damage, I pulled her out the door by her sleeve.
Out on the sidewalk, Mother asked, “Why the long face, dear? If Waldo takes our offer, we'll have doubled what we paid for the storage unit on that one item alone.”
“I know ... I just thought ... after that Bix house? That we'd get more. And I thought we'd figured out what the valuable item was that our intruder was after—
and
Anna's.”
Mother put a finger to her chin. “It
does
seem like we should get a better price—collectible cornets aren't exactly plentiful, having gone out of fashion when Harry James traded his in for a trumpet.”
I mused, “What do you suppose it
would
be worth, if it had belonged to Bix?”
Mother thought for a moment. “I would imagine quite a lot. Why, the right Bix Beiderbecke collector might pay a small fortune for such a thing—perhaps thousands. You know, some of those antiquing people are bonkers!”
 
We arrived back in Serenity by early dusk, an orange harvest moon hanging low in the sky, having usurped a yellow sun.
The first thing I did was head to the garage to retrieve Anna's cornet, which I then brought into the music room.
Mother appeared and, taking the gold-plated horn from me, said, “You know, I used to play a pretty mean ‘Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy of Company B.' ”
I had heard this proclamation a hundred times, and so far had been able to avoid any such performance. This time, however, I decided to put an end to it.
“Go ahead,” I challenged her, settling into an armchair.
Mother immediately backpedaled. “Of course, it
has
been a while ... the old embouchure ain't what she used to be! That's ‘lip,' dear, in musician speak.”
“Oh ... I think you still have
plenty
of lip left.”
Ignoring that, she said, “Well, here goes... .”
She brought the mouthpiece up and blew into the little horn.
Nothing came out.
Not even a sour note.
“Maybe the valves are in wrong,” Mother said.
She unscrewed the trio of cylinders, and withdrew them one at a time, checking.
“No,” she said, puzzled. “They're in correctly. They could use some valve oil, but they're in, all right.”
“Try again,” I encouraged. “Blow harder.”
Mother did ...
. . . and two projectiles flew out of the horn's bell.
I bent over them, where they landed—pieces of folded paper, one small and yellowed with age, the other white with the appearance of stationery.
“What are those, dear?” Mother asked. “Music?”
I picked them up, unfolding the white one first.
“ ‘November 25, 1969,' ” I read. “ ‘My darling Anna, please keep this cornet for me until I return. It once belonged to the great Bix Beiderbecke, and it may have some value one day. It sure holds sentimental value for me, thinking of the nights we spent listening to old jazz 78s in the rec room. I hope to come home on leave for Christmas. All my love ... Stephen.' ”
Mother's jaw hung loose by its hinges, her eyes wide and wild—and if my expression mirrored hers, I wouldn't be surprised.
She pointed excitedly to the smaller paper in my hand. “And that?”
I unfolded it.
“It's a receipt for the horn,” I said, “from a music store on West 48
th
Street in New York.” My jaw dropped. “And signed by Bix himself!”
“Good Lord,” Mother cried, then spat, “Two hundred bucks, my sweet patootie! Darling, we've hit the jackpot!”
“Yeah,” I said, my smile morphing into a frown. “And the murder motive... .”
 
A Trash ‘n' Treasures Tip
 
Keep in mind that many delinquent storage unit tenants often wait until the last minute to pay their back rent, which is why it's best to plan on attending several different auctions. Mother calls this hedging a bet, but I call it not wasting your time.
Chapter Six
A Snitch in Time
V
ivian speaking, or that is, writing. Today I will be doing some investigating on my own—and you're invited! Brandy will be occupied with bringing Peggy Sue home from the hospital, and Sushi back from the veterinarian. More of that later... .
But before we begin our inquiries, I must digress momentarily to defend myself from unfair accusations and depictions, and set a few things straight with you, dear reader
.
First of all, I would like to thank those who have taken of your precious time to contact our publisher requesting that more of my literary stylings be included in these volumes. As of this book, however, I am
still
confined to one paltry chapter (not counting the half chapter at the start that I managed to finesse), so keep those e-mails and letters a-comin', friends and neighbors!
(And you will be relieved to learn that I am no longer to be regulated to a strict word count. Honestly, who counts words! As the old saying goes, it's the thought that counts, and besides, it's not as if a few meager sentences would save a tree. What good was accomplished by cutting me off in midsentence in
Antiques Flee Market?
I ask you!)
Secondly, some of the glass-half-empty types among my followers wrote to express disappointment when—after four books—I was
finally
allowed to complete my hilarious, heartwarming story about little Billy Buckly, whose grandfather was one of the Munchkins in
The Wizard of Oz
(standing right behind Judy Garland in “The Lollipop Guild” number). Well, much as it pains me not to please you, surely you can understand that the buildup over so long a time was simply too much for the story to live up to your great expectations. (To make amends, I have another trolley tale—even more amusing—which I will soon share with you ... without interruption!)
Thirdly, I do not feel that I am responsible for the departure of former chief Tony Cassato. How could I have guessed that the story I concocted and disseminated throughout our community might accidentally contain elements of truth? Who could have guessed that the New Jersey mob really
did
have a contract out on the chief? Certainly not
moi!
I'd merely been trying to flush out (and flesh out) the mysterious past of that tight-lipped enigma, and had no intention of putting him—much less Brandy—in any real danger, or even to bust up their romance. My goodness, don't you think I would have
relished
having that balding Brando (middle period) for a son-in-law? Why, I get all goose pimply just thinking about the classified police information I could have pried out of him via Brandy!
Yes, if it came to that, Brian Lawson would also make a good son-in-law (should his renewed relationship with Brandy ever come to fruition), and he treats me with (marginally) more respect than his predecessor. Plus, he would make a passable permanent chief of police—ripe for putty-in-my-hands molding, though Vivian Borne would much prefer more of a challenge.
For those of you reading this book in a creative writing class (what a wretchedly redundant name for such a class—
of course
it's creative!)—keep in mind that what I've written here so far serves two purposes: backstory and characterization. Any complaints that I'm not moving the story along fast enough
(Brandy)
are balderdash (a perfectly good word not used near enough these days).
On this beautiful, warm Indian summer day, I quickly dressed in one of my colorful fall outfits (can't go wrong with Breckenridge!) (particularly not if you go to Ingram's Department Store on Wednesday Senior's Day, plus take a coupon,
and
use their store credit card, getting 20% off 20% off 20%—it's worth admitting you're over sixty-five!).
I packed a large orange tote with a few items, then headed out the door to catch the gas-powered trolley due momentarily, just down the block.
The reconverted trolley car (sponsored by the downtown merchants to fight customer exodus to the mall) was a fine, free way for me to get around without being beholden to Brandy. Everything of importance in Serenity was within a four-block radius: the magnificent old courthouse and city hall, the new police station and fire department, the newer county jail. But today, I wasn't interested in any of those municipalities.
Like any good detective, I was on my way to get the latest skinny from my snitches.
The trolley ran a tad late, and as I stepped onboard I could see that the driver, Maynard Kirby, looked a little grumpy, so I chose not to berate him for his tardiness.
Maynard had been through much personal strife these past few years. When his wife, Phyllis, lost his fish-hatchery pension playing blackjack on the gambling boat, he was forced to take a post-retirement job driving the trolley. Then a few months later, Phyllis won a bundle on a slot machine at a casino, and he was able to quit the trolley. But soon she lost
that
money playing on-line poker, so after so much financial yo-yoing, it was no wonder poor Maynard was down in the dumps.
Maynard—late sixties, bespectacled, his salt-and-pepper hair matching a trim beard—eyed me warily as I took a front seat (most likely fearful I might ask him the favor of deviating from his designated route to drop me somewhere or other).
But I merely said, “Main Street ... Hunter's Hardware, to be specific.”
He nodded curtly, and closed the trolley door. I settled back for the picturesque drive down Mulberry Avenue, and soon we were passing some of the grandest old homes in Serenity, their manicured lawns speared with colorful trees, porches bedecked with potted fall mums.
The trolley was nearly empty—just a few people in the back—so I felt it well within my purview to raise my voice a trifle over the motor rumble and say, “I heard Phyllis made another killing.”
Maynard took his eyes off the road for a second. “You heard right.”
“Casino, was it?”
“Lottery.”
“So will you be leaving the trolley again?”
“No. She already lost it all.”
“Heavens to Betsy. How?”
“Roulette.”
“My goodness, she certainly likes a
variety
of the games.”
“Not really ... When she loses at something, I make her promise not to play that again.”
“Shrewd.”
“But that just means she tries something new.” He paused, then risked another glance. “Can't be many games left for her to run through... .”
I thought a moment. “There's still craps, dice, horse-and dog-racing, plus all those sweepstakes that come in the mail. What you need is to get a more specific promise out of her!”
We had arrived on Main Street, and as Maynard eased the trolley to the curb in front of Hunter's Hardware, I stood, then disembarked with this parting advice, “Get Phyllis to promise she won't play anything except bingo!”
(I didn't mention that I knew a woman, who, playing multiple cards, lost five C's in one week.) (A “C” is detective talk for one hundred dollars.)
The trolley pulled away with a little belch, which I didn't take personally, and I entered the hardware store, a little bell above the door winning an angel its wings and announcing my presence.
Hunter's hadn't changed since I was in bloomers (figuratively speaking, since of course I am not of an age ever to have worn bloomers), with the same scratched wooden floor, painted tin ceiling, and ancient fans keeping the stale air circulating.
The elongated store was a uniquely Midwestern aberration: while the front section sold everything one might expect of a modern hardware business, the rear was given over to a small bar, offering hard liquor to hard workers who came in for hardware.
Once in a blue moon, someone would imbibe too much before stumbling home and putting their purchases into practice, with an evening of drinking and woodworking coming to an unfortunate finish (and not in the furniture sense). The most recent incident had to do with a table saw and a missing index finger, by which I do not mean the finger had gone missing, just gone. Despite this, Hunter's had only rarely been sued and its various owners never contemplated closing the hardware store-cum-bar.
Ironically, Hunter's was owned and operated by a middle-aged married couple—Junior and Mary—who'd bought the establishment with money Mary received in a settlement some years ago after losing a leg in a freak accident visiting the
Jaws
attraction at Universal Studios.
Mary, who had quickly mastered her prosthesis, had slaved in the hardware end of the business for years, while goof-off Junior took the relative easy task of tending the bar. But last month, Mary finally put her foot down (so to speak), and announced that she'd had enough of the hardware trade, and was going to stay home and live a life of leisure, i.e., watch the Game Show Network.
Now Hunter's had a new employee running the front end, a young male veteran recently back from Iraq, who was a lot easier on the eyes than Mary. He, too, had lost a leg and did a jim-dandy job with his prosthesis (unfortunately, his loss of limb hadn't been the moneymaker Mary's had, since his had been lost in defense of his country and not at a theme park).
“Hello, Matthew,” I greeted the ex-soldier. He was in his late twenties with cropped blond hair, tanned face, neck the size of a tree trunk, muscles straining at his tan work clothes. I report these details merely by way of good reporting and intending in no way to objectify this sweat-pearled hunk, that is, young man.
“ 'morning, Mrs. Borne,” he answered, looking up from a display of wrenches he was stocking. “Need anything today?”
“No, Matthew. My supply of duct tape and epoxy glue is holding up just fine, thank you.”
“You still claim you can fix anything with just those two items?”
“I do. But don't tell your other customers, or Hunter's will be out of business in a fortnight.”
He smiled, but also frowned a little. It was just possible he didn't know what a fortnight was. Nor did I, but I've always liked the sound of it.
I breezed on through to the bar, where Junior was polishing glasses behind the old marred counter.
Junior—fifty years ago his name might have been more befitting—was a paunchy, rheumy-eyed, mottled-nosed gent who made a great bartender but a low-grade gossip, continually getting his facts mixed up. (Not wanting the good people of Serenity to get the wrong idea, I asked Junior to help spread the word that Brandy was going to be a surrogate mother, and he told everyone
I
was having the child.)
At this early hour, the bar was empty but for Henry, whom I considered more of a fixture than a customer. In his mid-fifties, slender, with silver hair, a beak nose, and his original set of teeth, Serenity's favorite barfly had been a prominent surgeon until one day, after slightly anesthetizing himself with bourbon, he expertly removed a patient's gallbladder—unfortunately, his mission had been to remove an appendix.
Unlike Junior, Henry had for years been a gold mine of information, giving up one glittering nugget of gossip after another. Lately that mine had been shut down, however. You see, not long ago I had made the mistake of sobering him up, and Henry returned from his decades-long stupor with a clear mind ... including clear of much of his memory.
I took a tattered leather stool one down from Henry, who was still a constant customer here at Hunter's, only now he nursed not a whiskey but a nonalcoholic beer. He was neat as a pin in a yellow sport shirt and rust-color slacks and he had some tan left from getting back out on the golf course. Yes, he'd crawled out of the pit of despair and back into society's good graces. (He'd never practice medicine again, but his family had money.)
Happy as I was for Henry, the loss of a good snitch is a painful one for the amateur detective.
Junior was shaking his head. “Terrible about Big Jim Bob, just terrible. Getting shot like that, poor fella.”
“He was struck a blow from behind,” I said.
“Shot in the back, you mean.”
“No, Junior. Jim Bob was hit on the head.”
He frowned. “I thought
you
got hit on the head.”
“No. That was Peggy Sue.”
“Oh my God, Vivian! I didn't know! When was the funeral?”
“Peggy Sue was knocked out, Junior. She wasn't killed, but I do appreciate the sentiment.”
You see? Worthless.
“Give me the usual,” I said.
“Sure thing, Viv.”
“And make it a double!”
Junior's bushy eyebrows climbed his forehead like caterpillars heading across a sidewalk to high grass. “Okay, Viv, if you say so... .”
While he turned his back to prepare my special concoction (and this, at least, he was capable of doing very well), I turned my attention to Henry.
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