8 Antiques Con (2 page)

“No, dear,” Mother replied. “I was
in
jail—for murder.”

The car veered onto the shoulder, then Vikki regained control.

“But the charges were dropped,” I said.

The Hudson Parkway had changed to Joe DiMaggio Highway, and then Twelfth Avenue. Soon we were turning onto West Thirty-fourth Street, the crosstown traffic—much to our blond chauffeur’s relief, I’m sure—relatively light, and in another few minutes we veered onto Seventh Avenue, where the stately Hotel Pennsylvania loomed on the corner of Thirty-third Street.

Quicker than one can say “Good riddance to bad rubbish,” Vikki whipped her car into the hotel’s unloading zone and hopped out. Mother and I disembarked, too, to speed things along, and together we got the luggage to the curb.

Holding Sushi tightly, I said to the woman, “Thank you again for helping us.”

Mother took her by the hand and said, “My dear, after we take in your show, we would just
love
to visit you backstage.”

Vikki smiled nervously and withdrew her hand. “Ah, well, I
am
rather busy back there. Can’t promise anything.”

I could see the backstage notice board now:
Vivian and Brandy Borne Not Admitted!

Mother pressed forward, all big eyes and bigger teeth. “Perhaps we could call you and arrange for tickets to be held at the box office. Let me get my cell phone out and add your number. . . .”

But our rescuer was already leaving. “It’s been very interesting,” she said. “I don’t imagine we’ll be running into each other again, so I’ll just say so long. . . .”

“Don’t be so sure,” I said with a smile. “It’s a
wicked
old world, you know. Always another witch waiting in the wings.”

She looked a little startled, then hurried back to her Subaru, relieved to unburden herself of her charges. In another moment, she pulled skillfully out into busy traffic, courtesy of Penn Station and Madison Square Garden across the street.

Pedestrian traffic was no lighter. As we stood beneath the hotel’s golden overhang—above which four American flags fluttered between massive Grecian columns—Mother and I made speed bumps in everyone’s path.

Sushi gave out a little whimper, bothered by all the big city hubbub, and I held her tighter.

“Welcome to the Hotel Pennsylvania,” someone said.

A doorman had materialized, smartly attired in a black uniform with red stripes around his coat cuffs and down his pant legs. Middle-aged, with reddish hair, a ruddy complexion, and friendly smile, he cut an impressive figure.

But the most impressive thing about him? He gave but a brief glance at Mother’s handcuffed briefcase, no doubt having seen much stranger things in his line of work.

“Thanks for the welcome,” I said.

Mother beamed at him, just a little less crazily than Norman Bates’s mama at the end of
Psycho
. “It’s a pleasure to be here at . . .” And shaking a forefinger in the air, yowza style, she sang, “
Pennsylvania six five thousand!
”

Then Mother, in response to my horrified expression, waiting a beat for the Andrews Sisters to turn over in their graves, said defensively, “It’s a Glenn Miller tune, dear. Very popular, back in the day. After the hotel’s phone number?”

The doorman smiled gamely. “We do get that from time to time. But you’re the first one to mention it
today
, ma’am.”

“Do I win a prize?” Mother chirped. “A discount coupon perhaps, or a hotel beanie?”

The game smile turned a trifle strained. “I’m afraid not.”

Sushi yapped her impatience.

And I yapped mine: “Mother, could we
please
get checked in? Soosh needs to be fed and to get her insulin shot, and I’m hungry, too.”

Mother thought about whether to frown or to smile, decided on the latter, and said, “Very well, dear, we could
all
do with some vittles.”

If you like, you can just put this book down and wait for the movie:
The Serenity Hillbillies Take Manhattan
.

“Just go on in, ladies,” the doorman said. “I’ll bring your luggage to the counter.”

“Splendid, my good man,” Mother said, lapsing into the British accent that was her default setting to impress strangers, and handed him a dollar bill. Apparently she didn’t have a quid on her.

I’ll give the doorman this much: he didn’t flinch. And after Mother turned away, I slipped him a fiver. I mean, five spot.

We made our way into the vast rectangular lobby with its tan-and-gold marbled walls, mirrored columns, and shining floor with a motif of large diamonds and circles.

In case you were wondering why I sauntered into a hotel brazenly brandishing a dog, the Pennsylvania was (and as far as I know still is) pet friendly, playing host every year to the Westminster Kennel Club dog show.

The check-in counter ran the distance of the cavernous room, above which rows of flat-screens projected a variety of cable shows—from business to politics to sports to reality programs. But, despite the possibility of ten check-in stations, only two were open. And to my dismay (and my stomach’s), a long line of patrons snaked around, corralled by black nylon ropes, as if they were trying to get tickets to the latest blockbuster flick.

“Well,” an unhappy customer said, passing us, having finally checked in, “at least I got to see a complete episode of
Storage Wars
.”

“Mother?” I whined. My stomach seconded that question with a growl.

“Courage, dear,” she responded. “I just spotted another Good Samaritan.” Waving her free hand wildly, she called out, her voice echoing across the lobby, “Oh,
yoo
-woo! Mr. Bufford! It’s
Vivian
!”

A heavyset, unmade bed of a man, with a convention bag dangling from a shoulder, gave us a momentarily bewildered look that turned into recognition and a wave back at us before hurrying our way.

Mother whispered, “Mr. Bufford is the convention organizer, dear.”

“Yes, I know,” I whispered back. She’d had many conversations with him on the phone, and on Skype, arranging for us to come, and I’d spoken to him once or twice myself.

Our host—who I guessed to be about forty—wore wrinkled khaki shorts, a plaid short-sleeved shirt open over the convention’s logo t-shirt, and white socks with sandals. His black-rimmed glasses, which rode his night-light bulb of a nose, were adhesive taped at one temple. The comb-over of his thinning sandy-colored hair seemed to have exploded, and he bore the wild-eyed look of a dude rancher who had just been tossed off a bull.

And the convention didn’t even officially start till tomorrow.

Mr. Bufford stuck out a chubby hand to Mother. His smile was as big and sincere as it was yellow. “Vivian, so nice to finally meet you in person!”

Mother had taken the hand. “And you, likewise, young man.”

“And this must be Brandy.” He had stepped my way. “This is a real thrill. You know, first and foremost, I’m a fan.”

“Pleasure is mine, Mr. Bufford, ” I replied, my smile straining a little. Frankly, our host could have used a stronger deodorant. But then, after our long day, I probably didn’t smell dew-drop fresh myself.

“Please, call me Tommy,” he said. “All my friends call me Tommy.” He scratched Sushi’s head. “Cute dog. Just like in your books!”

Soosh sniffed at him, and (unlike me) seemed to relish his bouquet as she licked his thick hand.

Then his eyes flew to Mother’s handcuffed briefcase like magnets seeking metal.

“Is
that
the Superman drawing?” he whispered, eyes wide.

“Yes, indeedy.” Mother nodded, patting the case.

“You know, Vivian,” Tommy said, an eyebrow arching above a slightly tilted black eyeglass frame, “that might be better kept in the hotel’s safe.”

“Oh, no,” Mother replied, tightening her grip. “This super-duper drawing doesn’t leave my sight. It will go to bed with me. It will go to the bathroom with me. Of course, I
will
entrust it to Brandy when I shower, but—”

“Mother,” I said, “too much information.”

Tommy was looking at me for support, but I shook my head. “I’ve already tried. She saw a spy movie and got the briefcase idea.”

Mother’s grin went well with her magnified eyes. “The character with the briefcase got killed! They had to cut his hand off to get it.”

Why Mother found this reassuring is anybody’s guess.

“Very well,” Tommy sighed. “But it would be a disaster if anything should happen to it—it’s the showpiece of the auction, you know.”

And the reason we were all-expenses-paid guests.

“Tommy,” I asked, “is there any way we can avoid the check-in line?”

“Certainly,” he said, grinning big again. “I have all convention guest keycards right here.”

From his convention bag, he produced several small hotel folders holding keycards, then, fanning them out like a deck of playing cards, handed one to Mother.

He dug in the bag again. “And here are your badges—which will get you into all the events.”

Those, I took.

“I’ll get you a schedule later,” he said. “You’re on a mystery-writing panel Sunday morning.”

A striking-looking woman rushed up. She was about my age, tall—at least six feet—curvy but muscular, with raven-black hair worn in a shoulder-length pageboy, à la Bettie Page. Her makeup was heavy—darkened brows, black-rimmed violet eyes—but the pink painted mouth gave her goth look a feminine touch. As did her dress, a fitted black and white polka-dotted number, its low neckline revealing a spray of flowers tattooed across her chest. Red heels with bows on the toes completed her mixed-signals ensemble of hard and soft.

“Sorry to interrupt . . . ,” she said, addressing Tommy.

He gestured to us. “Violet, this is Vivian and Brandy Borne. They write the Antiques mysteries.” Then he added in a whisper to her, “The Superman drawing,” and then to us, “Violet is my assistant.”

Which surprised me; I thought her to be a fan or guest professional.

“Hello,” the woman replied quickly, with barely a glance our way. Neither Superman nor the Antiques books impressed her much, at least not in the throes of the big job she was caught up in. “Tommy, we’ve got a problem with the Buff Awards.”

“Not
too
serious, I hope,” he said, frowning.

“We’re missing one.”

“Ah . . .” Tommy looked at Mother and me. “Will you excuse me?”

Mother replied, “But of course.”

And before I could say, “Nice to meet you both,” they were gone.

Mother and I stood for a moment, then I took hold of the brass cart with our luggage, not waiting for a bellhop (I had a limited number of fivers), and pushed it to the elevators, Mother following, holding Sushi in her arms like an unlikely baby.

Our room was on the fourteenth floor, and I had to admit I was surprised by how small it was—my bedroom at home was larger.

“We were promised a suite,” I said.

Mother was kicking off her shoes. “Dear, don’t be ungrateful. Free is free. Now, where did I put the key to these darn handcuffs?”

“I’m not being ungrateful,” I said ungratefully. “But there’s only
one
bed.”

Which didn’t bother Soosh, already snuggled between two plump pillows.

“Yes, that is a problem,” Mother admitted. “You
do
snore so.
You
must have the handcuff key.”

“
I
snore? You could blow out these windows, on an off night. And I
don’t
have the key.”

Mother stood with hands on hips and a single eyebrow arched, like Mr. Spock regarding Dr. McCoy. “Dear, I
know
you’re tired, but let’s not be a Grumpy Gus. If I happen to snore a wee little bit, you can
always
sleep in the tub. We can request extra pillows for that purpose, if need be. You’re
sure
you don’t have the key?”

“No,” I snapped. “Look in your purse.”

“Besides,” she went on, digging in her bag with her free hand, “this is a
lovely
room—perhaps a trifle cramped, I’ll grant you—but this is New York, the City That Never Sleeps. . . .”

“I thought Las Vegas was the city that never sleeps, and with you snoring, I’ll be the one that never sleeps.”

“. . . and simply
no one
comes to the Big Apple to spend much time in a hotel room. Ah,
here’s
that naughty key—I had it after all.” She unlocked the cuff, which fell to the floor with a thunk, then rubbed her wrist. Her eyes gleamed with possibilities behind the thick lenses. “Do you realize that the Empire State Building
and
Macy’s flagship store are a mere block away?”

I had stopped paying attention, having spotted a gift basket of fruit and goodies, compliments of the convention, sitting on a side table.

With my mouth salivating and stomach growling, I moved eagerly toward it.

But Mother blocked my path. “
Oh
,
no
you don’t, missy!” she said. “We’re going to send
that
over to the Gershwin Theater to reward that nice woman for picking us up.”

Mother made regifting an art.

“Over my dead body,” I snarled.

And she grabbed the basket, and I grabbed the basket, and she tugged, and I tugged, and we both tugged, and suddenly the contents were airborne. Then the room was raining fruit and snacks.

A packet of gourmet salmon landed on the pillow next to Sushi and in a blink of a blind eye she had torn it open with her sharp little teeth.

“
Now
look what you’ve done,” Mother said crossly.

“You did it, not me!”

“You need an attitude adjustment!”

A knock at the door interrupted our squabble.

I let Mother answer it.

“Is everything all right?” Tommy asked, probably having heard bickering through the door.

“Fine, fine,” Mother said. Then, “But, Tommy dear, there is a
slight
snafu. . . .”

“Yes, I know,” he said, and he looked stricken. “This isn’t a suite—my mistake. I know I promised you that, as a perk, for being our honored guests.”