Antiques Slay Ride (2 page)

Then we were tooling along River Road, the brightness of the sudden appearance of the sun glancing off the glistening water and the gathering snow along the roadside, a lovely sight that made me squint like a mole.

Mother sneezed.

Mother sneezed again.

She gave me a look. “You didn't say ‘Bless you.' ”

“That's because you didn't say ‘Excuse me.' ”

“Why should I do that?”

“Because
you're
the one disturbing the peace.”

“Well,” she sniffed, “the ‘excuse me' is implied.”

“Ditto the ‘bless you.' ”

That was the extent of our conversation on the drive out to Bernie's place, preoccupied as we both were, knowing our mission depended on beating Lyle Humphrey to the punch.

Lyle was a wealthy collector who had a penchant for Christmas collectibles. Awhile back at an auction, he and Mother had tangled over a plaster bank, about six inches high, of a slumbering Santa in a comfy chair.

Mother had bid $100, top dollar for the piece and a rare preemptive bid from her; but Humphrey had shut her down by going $200.

“Double book!” she had shouted at him in the parking lot. “Double book!”

Lyle had a round baby face, rounded shoulders, and rounder tummy; though it was summer, he had worn a three-piece suit. “You're looking lovely today, Lillian.”

“That's
Vivian
!”

“Is it?”

“You're a horrible little man!”

He'd winced momentarily, as if his feelings were hurt, then smiled smugly. “Perhaps I am, but nothing was stopping you from bidding again. If a person really wants something, a person goes after it.”

But Lyle had known we—and few of those he went up against in auctions—could never stand up to his kind of money.

Soon I was swinging the Buick into the semicircle drive of Bernie's place. I pulled the car up in front and we got out, Mother handing Sushi over to me. Without cover of darkness and glitz of Christmas lights, Serenity's favorite seasonal sight looked a trifle shabby. The white ranch-style home was in need of some TLC by way of fresh paint and roof shingles, and the yard didn't seem ready for winter, not having gotten over autumn yet, judging by the clumpy scatterings of leaves.

As we approached the open cement porch, I pointed to where several newspapers had piled up. “Maybe Bernie's on vacation. Doesn't look like he's been home for a while.”

Mother nodded in agreement.

I was turning to go, but Mother pressed on, climbing the few steps to the front door, then brazenly tried to open it, but it was locked, thank goodness.

“Mother! What would you have done if that was open? Marched right in?”

She shrugged. “Not ‘march' exactly. Moot point now, dear.”

“Maybe he has an answering machine you can leave a message on. In the meantime, let's head back and regroup. There
have
to be other sources for Christmas collectibles.”

Mother, having returned to my side, replied, “I'm not ready to leave just yet, dear.”

And before I could ask her why not, she headed over to a nearby outbuilding, a large metal and poured cement prefabricated affair with a normal door next to a double garage-style door.

“What are you
doing,
Mother?”

Another silly question, not rating an answer.

“Let's not
break-and-enter
, Mother!”

With a half-turn of the head, as if responding to me was barely worth it (not a bad estimation, actually), she said, “It's not breaking and entering, dear, when the door is unlocked!”

The door was unlocked.

Only the gray winter sky heard my groan, because Mother had already disappeared inside.

I stood there like a female snowman for a few seconds, white stuff collecting in my hair like dandruff, shrugged, then followed her bad example. She was probably right. If you didn't break anything, how could it be breaking and entering?

I entered.

It wasn't exactly warm in the cement-floored building—my breath still smoking—but this was an improvement over standing outside, where the snow was coming down increasingly harder.

I dusted the stuff off of Sushi, then gazed around in amazement, my mouth dropping like a trapdoor. The high-ceilinged building was packed with antiques and collectibles, with rows of jammed shelving and little pathways leading from one delight to another, and all of it was Christmas oriented, evenly divided between Nativity-scene religiosity and Santa Claus commercialism.

A middle section had heavy cardboard standees dating to the thirties and forties with famous movie stars of the day, many in Santa outfits, peddling everything from pop to cigarettes. You could get your Camels and Lucky Strikes in some pretty festive cartons, back in the day.

From somewhere toward the rear, Mother called out, “
Dear!
You simply
must
see this! It's exactly what we need to dress the store up and attract more business!”

Following her slightly echoing voice, I was led to the sight of her standing by an old Victorian-style sleigh, which on closer examination appeared to be of a considerable vintage. Beautifully restored and of mahogany wood, it had a black lacquered chaise, iron rudders, and seated four on two separate red velvet–buttoned covered benches. It was adorable.

I turned eagerly to Mother. “Do you think Bernie would let us borrow it?”

“Why not
buy
it? He's getting rid of everything.”

“This piece could be a hundred years old or more. I don't think we can afford it, and it wouldn't be for resale . . . strictly decorative, right?”

She smiled slyly. “I'm sure I can convince the old boy to either loan it or give it to us for a song. Make that a carol.”

Where men of a certain age were concerned, Mother had many convincing ways: cajoling, bribing, and some you don't want to know about. Like blackmail. Did I type that out loud?

Setting Soosh down on the back bench and commanding her to “stay” (I batted about .500 on that one), I circled the sleigh, visualizing it in the front of our store, the center of a fabulous display, or even out in the yard, strung with lights.

Sushi was barking.

Mother frowned. “Now, what's wrong with
her
? Doesn't she have the Christmas spirit?”

“She only gets the Christmas spirit when I put those bones in her stocking. Something's got her wired up.”

The little fur ball had her front legs down on the seat, little butt twitching in the air, like the Jeep in a Popeye cartoon.

“What is it, girl?” I asked.

The barking became earsplitting, echoing off the cement.

I looked where she seemed to be trying to draw my attention; the shape of a blanket on the floor of the sleigh, between the benches, was vaguely human.

“Soosh, that's nothing. That's just a blanket.”

Mother said dismissively, “She's just sniffing the owner's scent.”

But Sushi pawed at the blanket, and one corner slipped back . . .

. . . revealing a gray wool cap and wisps of silver hair matted with blood.

The little dog had sniffed the owner's scent, all right.

Chapter Two

You Sleigh Me

S
heriff Rudder arrived about ten minutes after Mother placed the 911 call on her cell—Bernie's property being outside the city limits, making this the sheriff's jurisdiction.

Rudder was a tall, burly man who reminded me somewhat of John Wayne, if I closed my eyes till they blurred a little. He had a fairly gruff demeanor, unless that was just how he behaved around Mother and me. (Yes, we'd had a few past run-ins with the sheriff—or mostly Mother had.)

The light blue car had S
HERIFF,
C
OUNTY OF
S
ERENITY
inscribed in black on its driver's-side and passenger doors. A young deputy was driving, and Rudder got out on the rider's side.

“That's the building right over there,” Mother told him, pointing.

Rudder said nothing, blowing right by us.

Mother started to follow him, but at the sound of her boots crunching snow, he turned and gave her a stern “stop” motion with one hand, like a surly crossing guard to a precocious grade-school kid. She returned to my side, swinging her arms, mildly disgruntled.

“Who's solved more murders around here?” she asked the air. “Him or me?”

The air didn't reply, but I did. “Maybe you shouldn't bring that up.”

“Well . . . all right.”

“And, anyway, I helped.”

We had a running argument over who was Holmes and who was Watson. We weren't sure who Sushi was. Mrs. Hudson?

After a little while, the sheriff came out, speaking on his cell, and we heard him ask for an ambulance and the coroner.

Then finally he joined Mother and me, as we stood shivering by our Buick. I had placed Sushi inside my buttoned-up coat, her little head poking out, like a hairy goiter.

“
You
found Mr. Watkins?” Rudder asked Mother brusquely.

“Well, if you want to be technical,” she said, “it was Sushi who discovered the poor man. Our little dog? But I don't suppose you can take her statement.”

Was she being facetious? Don't ask me.

But Rudder thought she was, and his face grew ruddier. “Why where you here, Vivian?”

“Well, my dear man,” Mother replied, slipping into the faux British accent she unconsciously assumed to sound more important, “Brandy and I had come to see Bernie about buying some of his Christmas collectibles for our shop. Perhaps you're not aware that we recently moved from the mall to—”

“What time was that?” Rudder interrupted.

Mother put a hand to her chin. “Well, now, we had finished our breakfast about nine. And the drive out here took about seventeen, eighteen . . .”—she checked her wristwatch—“. . . possibly nineteen—”

“Best guess,” he cut in again.

Mother bristled, pulling herself up. “Sheriff Rudder, guesswork may be fine for the constabulary. But
not
for Vivian Borne! After all, my daughter and I do not wish to be considered suspects in this matter. Murder. Matter.”

“Whether it's a ‘matter' or a ‘murder' hasn't been established yet, Vivian.”

Mother smirked. “Let's not be coy, Sheriff—it's obvious poor Bernie had been hit on the head with something heavy enough to cave in his skull.”

Yes, while I was waiting outside for the sheriff to arrive, Mother had gone back into the building to examine the body and do a quick search for clues.

Rudder waggled a finger in Mother's face. “If you've compromised the crime scene, Vivian, there'll be hell to pay!”

“That kind of language, Sheriff, at this festive, sacred time of year, is simply not—”

“Sit in your car!” A thick forefinger pointed to my Buick. “
Both
of you—until I say otherwise.”

Mother smiled sweetly. “May I make one small observation?”

“Can I stop you?”

“This ungracious, unprofessional attitude of yours—it wouldn't have anything to do with the unfortunate happenings the last time I was a visitor in your lockup, would it?”

(Sorry, no time to go into Mother's latest stint in the county hoosegow. Suffice it to say she's a fairly regular guest.)

“In the car!” Rudder shouted. “Now!”

“There's no need to be rude,” Mother said ambiguously, as I was at the time stuffing her into the Buick.

I got in, too, behind the wheel. My head and Sushi's looked at her from my coat.

“No need to get physical, dear,” she huffed, dusting off the snow as if looking to see if her dignity was under there.

“Let's not get on the sheriff's bad side any more than we already are, Mother—we may need him.” And I started the engine to get us warm. “Not that I recall ever
seeing
his good side.”

“Still, he may be useful at that. Excellent point, dear.”

Our attention was drawn to the yellow paramedic truck that had just pulled up, two men in orange suits jumping from the cab, the sheriff striding toward them.

A gray sedan followed, conveying the coroner, and Mother watched intently as a short, heavyset, bespectacled man climbed out, carrying a black medical bag, snow riding the wreath of hair around his bald pate like bad makeup at the local playhouse. And, believe me, it can be pretty bad.

“Oh, dear,” Mother sighed. “Hector's gained weight. On the positive side, that means he must be in love again.”

“Why in love?”

“I know Hector, dear. His passion is good cooking. To him, a bedroom is just for sleeping.”

I had no more questions on this subject, wishing no further answers.

Then the sheriff, paramedics, and coroner disappeared into the prefab building.

Sushi, now overheated, was wiggling/wriggling to get out of my coat. I withdrew the pooch, as if she'd been filed away, and was about to hand her over to Mother when a battered red truck clunked into the drive, bounced up behind the other vehicles, and thudded to an abrupt stop.

The two people in the truck, a man at the wheel with a woman riding, had alarmed expressions that I suspected had little to do with the perils of travel in that truck.

“Do you know them?” I asked.

Yet another stupid question: Mother knew everybody in Serenity.

“Bernie's stepdaughter and stepson,” Mother said, adding excitedly, “They must not know about Bernie!”

“That's terrible,” I said, just as Mother was saying, “That's wonderful.” As I goggled at her, she said, “Dear, this is a rare opportunity to see their reaction to the news! They're potential suspects, you know.”

And before I could stop her—it should, obviously, be the sheriff to inform them of the tragedy—Mother was out of the car and heading over to the pair, her boots kicking up new-fallen snow.

I folded my arms, wanting nothing to do with this. Or anyway, I did so after powering down my window to hear what went on.

The stepdaughter, who had hopped out of the truck's passenger side (her brother was still behind the wheel), asked Mother, “What's happened here? Is Bernie all right?”

Bernie.
Not “Dad.”

She was a hard-living forty, thin, with outdated short permed brown hair. She wore a black Harley jacket and skin-tight jeans and motorcycle boots.

Her brother, having now joined her, proved shorter than his sister, but wider. He wore a baseball cap, brim pulled low over his face, and jeans, an orange-and-brown hunting jacket straining at a burly upper torso.

Mother said, “My dears . . . I'm afraid I have simply terrible news. Your father—that is, your
stepfather
—has passed on.”

“Oh, no,” the sister said, fingers flying to her lips.

The brother was frowning, like a really dumb high school kid at the moment he realizes he won't be passing geometry. “You mean he's dead?”

“I'm afraid so,” Mother said, hamming up the sympathy, adding, “But I fear it's even worse than that.”

She was making them ask!

The brother asked, “What's worse than dead?”

“Excellent question,” she said. “He's been murdered.”

The “m” word had just passed her lips when the door to the building opened, and Rudder, stepping out, caught sight of Mother talking to the pair, after which he let out what I might best describe as a war whoop as he ran forward. Fortunately, he did not have an Indian battle axe handy.

“Vivian Borne!” Rudder shouted. “Get
back
in your car—and get
out
of here.”

Mother looked hurt, the sister, startled, the brother confused.

The sheriff gestured forcefully to the highway.
“Now!”

“Leave the crime scene? Without making a statement?” She turned to the brother and sister for support. “I found the body in the antique sleigh. Or anyway, my daughter's dog did. Is it really responsible police procedure to send me away?”

Rudder could only have turned a deeper shade of red if he were Elmer Fudd in a Technicolor cartoon from 1945. “Vivian! Goddamnit!”

“Language, Sheriff! I presume I should not leave town.”

“Oh, leave town. Please! By all means, leave town!”

I powered up my window, and clicked on my seat belt.

I was pretty sure we were leaving.

But not town.