Antiques Bizarre (10 page)

“How’s that? Comfy now?”

I crinkled my nose. “I’m a little dry. A little thirsty….”

“You just had
tea
, dear.”

“But hot chocolate would be so very nice.”

“Hot chocolate, of course.” Her smile seemed no more forced than Dick Cheney’s at the Obama inauguration.

“With marshmallows.”

She hurried off again. Soon the microwave dinged, and Mother returned, handing me a warm mug.

I slurped, then frowned. “Thanks. But these marshmallows are kind of on the
stale
side….”

Mother stomped one foot. “
Brandy Ingrid Borne!
Stop toying with me and tell me what happened last night at the chief’s!”

I smiled smugly; for once
I
was in the cat-bird seat!

By the way, what the heck is a cat-bird, anyway? And what seat is the cat-bird sitting in? (Certainly not a Queen Anne.) Honestly, if an old saying doesn’t make sense anymore, it should be lost to the ages. Now that barbershops are all but extinct, isn’t it time we stopped hippity-hopping down to them?

Anyway, with new intel on the chief, let’s just say I had Mother over a barrel.
Wait a minute
…what does
that
mean? Did I have the old girl bent over a barrel? Was she going over Niagara Falls in a barrel, maybe? Or was that just wishful thinking…?

Finally I set my mug on an end table. I folded my arms. “No info until we have a few changes around here.”

Her eyes were narrow, wide slits behind the big lenses. “What
kind
of changes?”

“For one thing, no more bursting into my room in the morning, singing, ‘Uppy-uppy-uppy,’ like I was still three years old.”

Mother guffawed. “Oh, I don’t do that. I didn’t
ever
do that.”

“Yes. You did. You do.”

She frowned in thoughtful consideration. “What if instead I sing, ‘Oh, What a Beautiful Morning’?”

“No. No singing whatsoever.”

“Fine,”
Mother said. “Anything else, my pet?”

“No more ‘borrowing’ my car in the middle of the night to run and buy chocolate-mint ice cream at Wal-Mart.”

Mother gasped. “However did you
know?
”

“Are you
kidding?
I can hear that old muffler a mile away.” I waggled a finger at her, relishing this reversal of roles. “You’ll go to jail next time they catch you driving without a license, you know.”

“You win,” Mother said dramatically. Arms high. “I surrender, dear!”

“I said no singing….”

“All right. Is there…anything else?”

And here’s the heartbreaking part, folks—I couldn’t think of one other thing.

So I let Mother off the hook. (Once again—was she a fish? Or a slab of beef in a meat locker maybe?)

“No,” I said magnanimously. “That’s all I ask…with perhaps one small exception.”

“Yes, dear?”

“No amateur sleuthing…”

Her face fell.

“…without telling me what you’re up to, first.”

She beamed. “You do agree, then, dear, that we have a responsibility in this situation?”

Surprised to hear myself say it, I said, “I do. We’ll not interfere with the police, but we might…
might
…ask a question or two around town. And now, if you’ll take a seat…?”

Mother settled at my feet like a child eager to hear a bedtime story, and I proceeded to recap the events of last
evening, leaving out the conversation the chief and I had about the murder of Martinette and the poisoning of the stew.

Also, I admit that I downplayed anything that might seem romantic, although I further admit that I wasn’t sure anything really romantic had occurred. Tony Cassato wasn’t the easiest guy to read.

And after the nasty coda to our evening, that is, having to call him about Mother finding Mrs. Mulligan’s body, any romantic inclinations he might have had for me might now just be more smoke up his fireplace.

When I had finished my monologue, Mother began to clap like a trained seal. “Well
done
, dear!”

I smiled, basking in such rare praise from Mother on my theatrical abilities.

But then—like a critic whose review begins well but ends with a wicked barb—she raised a finger. “There are just a
few
questions I must ask….”

Uh-oh.

Here came the Spanish Inquisition: Why hadn’t I inquired further about his wife and child? What was the recipe for the carrot soup? And hadn’t I gotten
anything
out of him about Martinette’s murder?

“No,” I said, holding up my hands, palms out. “That’s all you get.”

Mother pulled herself up off the floor; it was like watching a building reassemble itself, a demolition video run backward. “Get out of my
chair
, dear.”

And I was forthwith dethroned, relegated to the hard floor, while Mother sat regally, gazing down at her court jester.

“We are in a pickle, dear,” Mother said. “We set in motion events that have taken three lives. So there must be no secrets between us.”

“
You
were the one who—”

“Shush! You will share with me now, and in complete detail, every new piece of information Chief Cassato revealed.”

“You can’t make me do that. I’m of voting age and drinking age, too. It’s my judgment that it would bad for your mental health for me to—”

A finger settled against her cheek and she gazed ceiling-ward in contemplation. “Of course I could go down to the police station, demand to see Chief Cassato, and tell him how outraged I am that he threw my daughter into the back of his car and drove off with her into the forest…”

“The
forest?
”

“…and apparently had his way with her…”

“Did not!”

“…and perhaps the mayor and my friends on the city council would like to hear from me on the subject at the ‘Citizens Speak’ segment of their next meeting, which is televised on public access, as you know, and—”

And I spilled. All of it, from Martinette’s death being ruled a homicide to the media folks being banished from the crime scene, from the rat poison in Mrs. Mulligan’s stew to the four out-of-town bidders having their hotel rooms (unsuccessfully) searched for the missing egg. Even the obvious deduction that the rat poison had to have been added after I ate my early portion(s).

Satisfied with both my humiliation and declamation, Mother stood, then strode off to the dining room, not even bothering to grant me a dismissal. I followed, finding m’lady studying her cardboard church and list of suspects, one hand stroking her chin, like a silent movie villain.

Finally, Mother sighed irritably. “This case is
too
complicated! There are too many suspects with both motive
and
opportunity.”

She sat down dejectedly at the table.

Mother was displaying uncharacteristic defeat, yet I had a sudden suspicion that she might at any moment regroup and start terrorizing the suspects willy-nilly, thwarting the police investigation, not to mention my own efforts.

I joined her at the table. “Maybe you’re not looking at this the right way, Mother. Maybe you should go in a
different
direction….”

Like
away
from the investigation….

Her eyes met mine. “What do you mean, dear?”

Settling more comfortably in the chair, I asked, “Who are our two favorite mystery writers?”

Mother raised her eyebrows, but played along. “Well, I would have to say Agatha Christie and Rex Stout.”

Ol’ Rex “Fibers Under the Nostrils of a Corpse” Stout.

“Our two very favorites,” I confirmed. “And they
both
have a lot of suspects in their mysteries. Right?”

“I’m listening.”

“But each author goes about constructing his or her brand of mystery quite differently.”

Mother nodded, and her eyes flared. Nostrils, too. “How true! In Sexy Rexy’s novels, any
one
of the suspects could be the murderer, right up until the very end, when Nero Wolfe sits his considerable bulk down in his oversized chair and closes his eyes and begins to purse his lips in and out. That’s why I can read those books over and over again! Because I can never remember who did it.”

“Could be anybody,” I said with a nod. “Agatha Christie, however, designs her stories so that really only
one
of the seemingly interchangeable suspects has the right motive and psychology to be a killer.”

“Oh, yes. She’s wonderful.”

“Dame Agatha loves to put the murderer right under your nose, at the very start—then give him or her a cast-
iron alibi, moving that suspect off-stage until the very end, when she reveals that the cast-iron alibi, or lack of motive, is made of Silly Putty.”

Mother beamed, liking that image; but then she frowned and cocked her head. “What exactly are you
saying
, dear?”

“I think we need to concentrate on suspects with no motive and great alibis.”

This nonsense made Mother’s eyes dance with excitement. “Such as who, dear?”

I stood, then approached the board and, using the black marker, added two names to the suspect list.

Mother gasped. “You can’t be serious—
Father O’Brien?
Why, he was busy tending to the sick!”

I raised an eyebrow. “The sick, such as the murder victim’s corpse we both saw him bending over?”

“But Brandy!” She paused, then said emphatically, “He’s a priest! How can a
priest
be evil?”

“You want me to refer to some former altar boys?”

Mother frowned in displeasure. “What a terrible thing to say!” Then she pursed her lips and nodded, adding, “Good point, dear. But your
other
new suspect…”

“Yes?”

“Clifford
Ashland?
You’re way off base there, darling—he was stuck in the back of the sanctuary.” She pointed to the cardboard church, paused, and then added, “Besides, he has no motive. He is wealthy as sin, and anyway, rumor has it that his aunt was leaving everything to two churches—the Russian Orthodox ‘sister’ church in Chicago, and St. Mary’s here in Serenity!”

“Which brings us to Father O’Brien again! And as for Ashland, it’s true, he really doesn’t to seem to have a motive”—I cocked my head Sushi–like—“but then, Vivian Borne hasn’t gone
looking
for one yet, has she?”

Mother was regarding me with new appreciation.

“Dear,” she said finally, “I like the way you’re thinking. Don’t
ever
go back on Prozac. You’re much more use to me
not
mellowed out.”

Funny thing: I liked the new me too.

I especially relished the devious way I was about to send Mother down the proverbial garden path.

“How should we proceed?” Mother asked. “Rex Stout style, or à la Dame Agatha?”

“This feels more like an Agatha than Rex, to me.”

She slapped her knees with her hands. “I wholeheartedly concur! I’ll start investigating Father O’Brien and Clifford Ashland
right
away.”

Moving in the opposite direction of the police investigation of the bidders.

But my smugness caught in my throat when she added, “Besides, with Mrs. Mulligan as our third murder victim, it’s very unlikely one of the out-of-towners is responsible. How could they know her habits, or where the house key was hidden?”

I was shaking my head. “Maybe it
was
suicide, Mother. Maybe Mrs. Mulligan felt terrible about what her stew did to all those people, and what was worse for an old busybody like her, uh, rest her soul, suddenly she herself was the object of gossip!”

“Please, Brandy—listen to yourself. We have a death by poisoning, and another murder that was made possible because, as your chiefie put it, that widespread poisoning created a diversion. And now a third victim, the second in the case to die by poison, is a convenient suicide? Would Stout or Christie ever do such a thing?”

“Sure! All the time!”

But Mother was ignoring me. “Of course, with the good father in the game, and the loyal nephew, we’ll need two more game pieces.” Mother gestured to the replica church. “What do you suggest?”

“You decide.” I checked my wristwatch. “I’m due over at Peggy Sue’s in half an hour.”

And I left Mother rummaging around in the assorted boxes of board games.

There are mysteries and then there are mysteries, and in my life—despite the bizarre circumstances of the past year that included several murder inquiries—the biggest mystery for Brandy Borne had been that of her own parentage.

Before the Fabergé auction had gone Humpty-Dumpty, I’d set up a visit with Sis at her home for this morning, so we could finally clear the air on the subject. As readers of my previous books already know, Peggy Sue is my biological mother, a secret which had been kept from me until a few months before, when I received an anonymous letter in the mail.

A while back I had confronted Peggy Sue, and she’d admitted that she’d become pregnant the summer after high school, just as she was preparing to leave and study abroad. She’d gone off to Paris anyway, returning just before I was due, with a detour to Maine where she stayed with discreet relatives.

Meanwhile, my recently widowed Mother had been back in Serenity pretending to be pregnant, and what a performance
that
must have been—never had a “pregnancy pillow” been given a greater workout.

After I was born, Mother joined Sis in Maine, and they returned together with a bundle that was Brandy, passing me off as Peggy Sue’s new baby sister.

So we’d resolved that issue—with one major exception being that Mother did not know that
I
knew she was really my grandmother. For various reasons, Peggy Sue and I had decided that it was for the best that Mother remain Mother and Peggy Sue remain Sis. Never provide Vivian Borne with melodrama if you can help it.

But recently I’d received another anonymous letter, claiming that Peggy Sue hadn’t told me the truth, at least not the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. So help her God.

Before leaving the house, I noticed that Mother had made fitting choices of board game pieces for the two new suspects—Father O’Brien, a white rook; and Clifford Ashland, the wealthy Mr. Green from Clue—placing them in position in the cardboard replica.