Antiques Bizarre (13 page)

When Junior and Henry returned, I paid my tab, then slid unsteadily off my stool—that whiskey packed a wallop!—but I soon found my land legs.

Outside the establishment, I stood for a few minutes, breathing in the fresh air, though nasty river smell still touched it; finally the world stopped spinning, and I headed to my next destination.

At the end of the business section of Main Street was a unique Victorian four-story building with an ornate facade and corner-set front door. The old structure—yet to be refurbished—had a checkered past, several former owners having died under unusual circumstances. But the current owner, Raymond Spillman, had the building blessed by Father O’Brien and, ever since, the Grim Reaper had kept its distance.

An antiques mall occupied the entire first floor (the oth
ers currently not in use) and Brandy and I rented a booth there—number thirteen—which was situated to the right, just inside the door.

A quick word about the number thirteen (I think I deserve
one
small digression). I’ve always considered thirteen to be lucky—it’s only unlucky if you
think
it is. Our booth—the best location in the shop because most people turn right when they enter a store—had been available thanks to silly superstitious renters. Doesn’t that
prove
thirteen’s a lucky number? So don’t shy away from the number thirteen—that’s all feeble-minded nonsense…

…unless it falls on a Friday, and then
look out
!

I hurried over to our booth, my eagle eyes searching out any missing objects—occasionally something might have been shoplifted, but mostly empty spaces meant our pockets would be filled with some extra cash.

S word!

Everything was still there—including that smiley-face clock that I had cautioned Brandy not to buy. She claimed it was the perfect retro piece for a certain age group. Apparently that age group didn’t have a measly three dollars to spend, because that’s how far we’d marked it down.

My dears, forgive me, but I absolutely
despise
tax time, when people act responsibly, and hold on to their money to pay Uncle Sam, instead of blowing it at our booth.

I marched over to the center circular counter, where Ray—as everyone called him—was working on an old sewing machine, parts laid out like instruments for a surgery.

Ray was a small, spry man in his late seventies, with a slender build, thinning gray hair, bright shining eyes, bulbous nose, and a slash of a mouth. Out of the corner of an eye he caught me coming, but before he could utter a greeting, I said, “
Please
don’t tell me you’re going out of business!”

Because that’s how bad my day was going. I hadn’t had
a day this bad since they canceled
Magnum P.I
. (don’t you just
love
that Tom Selleck?).

Ray looked stunned. “What are you, Vivian? A witch? How did you know
that?
I only came to that decision last night!”

My piercing scream was worthy of my performance with the Midwest Shakespeare Company’s 1982 production of
Hamlet
, as Queen Gertrude in Act V, Scene II. (All right, you smarty-pants out there who know your Shakespeare—she wasn’t
really
supposed to scream, just moan loudly, but I had spotted a few snoozing patrons in the audience, and needed to provide a wake-up call.)

A few shoppers poked their heads above booth walls to see what had happened, while Ray tried to calm me down.

“Vivian,” he said, patting the air with his palms, “I’m
sure
I’ll have no trouble finding a buyer.”

“In this depressed market? I highly doubt it!”

But I knew that once Ray made a decision, he stuck to it, like chewing gum to a shoe. Stubborn! Some of these older people are like that.

So I turned on my heel and left.

Outside, I decided that bold action was needed to salvage my day (and this chapter). At the curb, a young man with tattooed arms, wearing a worn T-shirt and torn jeans, had just dismounted his motorcycle.

“Young man,” I hailed, “would you be so kind as to help a lady in distress?”

“Huh?”

“I need a ride to St. Mary’s Church—mustn’t be late for confession—and I’m recovering from a sprained ankle, so walking is out of the question.” Anyway, I
was
still wobbly from the booze.

“Lady, this is a
motorcycle
.”

“I can see that—I’m not blind, I just have a sprained ankle.”

He shrugged. “Well, okay—why not? It’s a nice day. Hell—hop on.”

He straddled the bike, jumped up and down, and the motor came to life. Gingerly, I climbed on behind, thankful I was wearing slacks, and hooked my arms around his slender waist.

And we roared off.

“Wheeeeee!”
I said. Actually I said it several times.

This was the most fun I’d had in a very long time, flying along with the wind in my hair, feeling like a teenager again. This must have been how Isadora Duncan felt, right up to where that scarf snapped her neck.

The ride was especially gratifying when we sped by Mrs. Potthoff, out walking her Pekingese, and I yelled, “Hel-
looow
dearie,” startling both her and her little dog, too.

All too soon, however, my joy ride came to an end as the motorcycle raced up the steep incline of St. Mary’s, coming to an abrupt stop by the church doors, nearly sending me flying. Reckless lad—I might have sprained an ankle!

With some difficulty I dismounted—as out of breath as if I had walked the distance—and thanked the young man, despite the jolt of a stop. He nodded, spun the bike around, and was gone. Just another Good Samaritan whose deed had gone unrecognized. (If I’d thought to ask his name, I could have recognized him here.) (Not a suspect.)

I headed for the administrative building, a small one-story brick structure located next to the main sanctuary. There I found the church secretary, Madeline Pierce, working at her desk in cramped quarters.

“Hello, Mad,” I said. Hers was a nickname that suited her put-upon personality. Her features were as severe as her short dark hair and drab brown dress.

I assumed her startled expression was due to my windblown appearance.

“Why, Vivian,” the fortyish secretary responded curtly. “How can I help you?”

“Father O’Brien wants to see you right away,” I told her, gesturing vaguely. “He’s in his quarters.”

She frowned. “What about?”

“How should I know, dear? You’re his trusted secretary, not I—he just said for you to come.”

“I’ll get him on his cell.” And she reached for the desk phone.

“You can’t!”

“What?”

“His cell is dead, dear. That’s why he dispatched
me
.”

When Madeline hesitated, I said, “If anyone should call while you’re gone, I’ll be glad to take a message. You’d better hurry—he seemed quite agitated, especially for a holy man.”

She got out of her chair. “Well, all right,” she huffed. “But I don’t know why
he
couldn’t walk over here himself….”

I shrugged, and watched her leave, and the moment she disappeared, I took her place at the desk.

She had been working on bills payable—the usual expenses incurred by the church—the only thing noteworthy being a second request from a contractor asking for down-payment on the roof before they would begin.

I riffled through the mail (nothing of interest), checked the computer files (church solvent, but barely), even rummaged in the desk drawers (found several hotel-room-size bottles of vodka hidden in the back of one).

Once, the phone
did
ring, but I picked the receiver up and set it back down. I had no help for them, and anyway I needed to get on with my investigating before Mad returned.

About five minutes had passed before I heard clomping feet in the corridor, the secretary telegraphing her return.

I hopped up from the chair, moved away from the desk, and was studying a framed needlepoint prayer on the wall when she entered.

“He wasn’t there,” she snapped at my back.

I turned. “Well, isn’t
that
odd?”

“
Isn’t
it?” she said tersely.

I shrugged. “He probably fixed the problem himself—whatever it was. No harm no foul!”

She glowered at me, and took her rightful place at the desk, eyes sweeping over it, looking for any sign of disturbance among the papers.

Apparently finding none, she asked, “Any calls?”

I smiled sweetly. “No, it was very quiet.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Well, I delivered that message, dear.”

“Why are you
still
here?”

I frowned at her. “That isn’t very Christian.”

And with that, I made my exit.

I headed over to the sanctuary, finding the heavy front doors unlocked. I crossed the lobby and entered the dark, gloomy sanctuary. Pausing at the baptismal font, to let my peepers adjust, I heard muffled voices from behind the closed chapel door to my right.

I crept over to listen. There are no secrets in the House of God.

Father O’Brien was speaking, the familiar rise and fall of his cadence punctuated with anger, unusual for this gentle man of the cloth.

Another voice responded, but too muffled for me to determine gender, but I somehow had the impression whoever it was was trying to placate the priest.

Suddenly the chapel door opened, and I jumped back into the shadows of the nearby transept, hiding behind a statue of Mary and the baby Jesus.

A full minute went by before I felt secure to emerge. The chapel door remained open, and I risked a peek.

Father O’Brien was alone, on his knees at the altar, head bowed.

Quietly I backed away, and retreated from the sanctuary. I had gotten as far as the entryway when a voice behind me called out, “Is there something you wanted?”

I turned to face Father O’Brien.

“Uh, yes, yes indeed,” I said. “I wondered what time the funeral mass for Madam Petrova is being held tomorrow?”

He had a suspicious expression, for a man of God. “Ten o’clock. It was in the paper. Is there anything else, Mrs. Borne?”

“No,” I said cheerily. “See you there!”

I thanked him and left, then hurried down the church driveway to catch the trolley. All the way down I’d felt the priest’s eyes on me.

And I could still feel them, all the way home.

Mother’s Trash ‘n’ Treasures Tip

If you bid on the wrong item, tell the auctioneer immediately. And if your bid wins the wrong item, it’s at the discretion of the auctioneer whether or not you’re stuck with it. So butter him/her up beforehand—just in case!

W
hen I got back from my morning visit with Peggy Sue, I began playing with a much-neglected Sushi. She had no idea that a friend of mother’s had possibly been murdered just down the block, and the bliss of her ignorance was contagious.

Her favorite game was for me to rearrange the living room furniture, making an obstacle course she would navigate to the grand prize—a doggie cookie. I would say, “Stop,” “Left,” or “Right,” whenever she might bump into something, and she got so good at it, I had to extend the course past the French doors into the music/library room.

By early afternoon, I was returning the furniture to their rightful positions, when Mother came home, looking unhappy—and not a little disheveled—and I surmised that her snooping had not gone at all well.

We’d both blown through the lunch hour, so I made some egg salad sandwiches and served them with potato chips and iced tea on TV trays at the couch, the dining room table being taken up by Mother’s cardboard church with its game-token congregation. As I served her a plate, I noticed a faint fragrance of liquor on her breath.

I did my best not to overreact—which is not so easy, off Prozac—and asked her for a blow-by-blow account of her latest downtown excursion, which she did, even copping to having “the tiniest” glass of whiskey, quickly assuring me that her “indiscretion” would not be repeated.

But I wasn’t so sure. Extended bouts of depression had been known to make Mother a) stop taking her medication, b) start drinking, or c) all of the above. Mother had by no means ever been an alcoholic, but booze combined with the naturally nutty juices zipping around within her made for a cocktail that gave all around her perpetual hangovers.

To cheer Mother up—and against my better judgment—I said, between delicious bites (Mother’s egg salad recipe was to die for), “Maybe we should drop by your friend Henry’s hypnosis session this afternoon. Maybe when he’s under, his memory could be jogged.”

That immediately perked her up. “Together? Mother and daughter? Holmes and Watson? Poirot and Hastings? Archie and Nero? Nick and Nora? Morse and Lewis?”

More like Martin and Lewis,
I thought.

She went on like that for a while, while I just ate my sandwich and nodded, as she summoned increasingly obscure detective teams that her Red Hatted League had read about.

Finally she ran out of names and said, “And I need to question Clifford Ashland. He’s still on my list.”

“I don’t know, Mother. Peggy Sue said Ashland’s investment firm is doing very well. She and Bob do business with him, and are happy as clams with him.”

“Wonderful! Even better!”

“But that means he has no
motive
….”

“You said it earlier! He’s the least likely suspect, so he
has
to stay high on our list.”

After lunch, I removed the trays and generally cleaned up while Mother went into the dining room. When I joined her, I could see she had written “Least likely suspect!” in the motive column next to Ashland’s name. Next to Father O’Brien she had jotted, “Church in need of funds,” like a church being in need of funds was a news flash, but also, “Mysterious visitor!”

Keeping my promise, at twenty till three, we set out for the home (and workplace) of Matilda Tompkins, Serenity’s resident New Age guru and part-time hypnotherapist. Tilda—as friend and client alike called her—lived across from the cemetery in the kind of white two-story clapboard house that people nowadays call shabby-chic, though I’d say emphasis on the shabby.

I had suggested we call first, but Mother insisted that she and Tilda were good friends and no appointment would be necessary. The woman’s surprised expression, however, when she opened her door, made it clear that Mother was not a welcome caller.

The woman’s husky, sensual voice mustered, “Why, Vi
vian
….”

Which I guess was better than “
Why
, Vivian?” You know, as in “
Why
the hell are
you
here?”

The guru/hypnotist, pushing fifty, could have passed for forty, with her slender figure and long golden-red hair. She wore little makeup, which only enhanced her green eyes, translucent skin and freckles. Her attire, strictly Bohemian, included pastel peasant skirt, funky necklaces, white gypsy blouse, and (yes) Birkenstock sandals.

Mother said, “It’s vital that we speak, my dear.”

Tilda, opening the screen door just a crack, said, “I’m sorry, Vivian, but I can’t see you now—I have a session scheduled with a client, who should be arriving any minute. I
do
wish you had called.”

Which is why Mother hadn’t.

“Yes, dear, I know,” Mother said. “You’re expecting Henry—that’s why I’m here.”

“I don’t follow,” the woman said.

I smiled. “That’s okay—you’re a hypnotist, not a psychic. Henry isn’t due for another five minutes, right? Can you spare us that? I’ll buy something.”

“Well,” Tilda said, and shrugged, adding, “all right, girls,” and allowed us in.

We entered the small living room, a mystic shrine of soothing candles, healing crystals, and swirling mobiles of planets and stars—much of it for sale. Incense hung in the air, and from somewhere drifted the tinkling sound of New Age music. I found it odd that this front room served so many purposes—living space, waiting room, and gift shop.

Tilda shooed a quartet of cats off the floral couch, gestured for us to sit, then took a rocker nearby, displacing yet another cat.

Did I mention she had cats? Did I mention they weren’t your ordinary run-of-the-mill felines, but were reincarnates of dead people?

I’d heard all about this some years ago from (who else?) Mother, who had gone to Tilda for hypnotic help to stop grinding her teeth while sleeping (Mother was doing the grinding/sleeping, not Tilda). This had been some time ago, actually, probably ten years at least, since the tooth-grinding problem had long since been solved (not by Tilda—by dentures).

Anyway, it was well-known around Serenity that Tilda believed that spirits from the cemetery—lingerers who, due to unresolved earthly problems, hadn’t moved on—regularly floated across the street and took up residence in her cats. Or maybe the cats showed up at her door, bringing the souls with them—I’d heard it both ways.

Anyway, while I didn’t find either story particularly disturbing, what
was
disturbing was the woman calling each feline by some actual dead person’s full name.

Like she was doing right now.

“
Stop
that, Eugene Lyle Wilkenson!” Tilda said. A yellow tabby was hissing at my feet because I was sitting in his spot.

I sincerely doubted the cat was inhabited by the soul or ghost or what-have-you of the deceased Mr. Wilkenson. I mean, after all—the man had owned a dog kennel!

Mother was saying, “Henry mentioned that he had an appointment with you today.”

“Really.” Look up “noncommittal” in the dictionary and you’ll likely find Tilda’s picture wearing the same expression she was now.

“And, as I’m sure you know, my daughter and I have become rather celebrated amateur
sleuths
of late.”

I winced. Mother had somehow managed to make me feel embarrassed in front of a woman with a houseful of reincarnated cats.

“So I’ve heard,” Tilda said.

“You may or may not be aware that Henry is what we call in the detective business a ‘snitch,’ or to be more precise an informant, as snitches tend to be criminals themselves, and of course Henry is a lovely man and hardly a criminal and—“

“Mother,” I said. “We only have five minutes….”

“Anyway, Tilda darling, I’m hoping you can help Henry—under hypnosis, of course—remember something lost in the mental mists of boozery that may prove vital to us in solving these terrible murders that have lately occurred.”

Tilda frowned, suddenly looking every one of her fifty years. “Well, Vivian, I don’t know about the ethicality of what you’re requesting. I’ve never used my powers in such
a fashion. I do have a
reputation
to uphold, my
credibility
to think of.”

I managed not to say that somebody with a houseful of reincarnated cats might already have reputation and credibility problems. But I was a guest here.

Mother said, “Yes, dear, I do understand—and that’s why I’ve never breathed a word about Henry, and the fact he became a heavy smoker due to a slip-up on your part. Did you later charge him to help him drop
that
habit, as well as his drinking one?”

Remember before, when I advised you not always to believe Mother? This is where I warn you not to rule out anything she says that might seem too outrageous. You never know with Vivian Borne.

Tilda’s frown had deepened. “I was…addressing an addictive personality. There was no extra charge for—”

“Addicting him to cigarettes?” Behind the big lenses, Mother’s eyes were tiny and hard, like bee-bees. “Let’s see, what were we discussing just now—ethics? Reputation? Credibility?”

The woman turned her next word, a short one, into a three or four syllables. “Well,” she said. Then she went carefully on, “
Only
if Henry agrees—if he is comfortable with the procedure, it would be acceptable with me. I would ask only that we maintain Henry’s, and
my
, confidentiality.”

Mother said, “Your secrets are safe with me.”

I almost fell off the couch onto a cat.

“And Henry
must
agree!” Tilda insisted.

I said, “You could ask him now—he’s here.” His sharp knock on the front door put a period on the end of my sentence. I wasn’t psychic, either—I’d just seen him coming up the walk.

Tilda rose from the rocker, and in another moment
Henry had joined our little group, and after Mother had gone over the same ground with him, he agreed to the mind probing.

“I’d be so glad to help,” Henry said. He was in a tidy brown suit with a darker brown tie, looking as professional as the doctor he’d once been. “I was sorry this morning, Vivian, that I couldn’t help you. I hate letting you down. Hope this’ll make up for it!”

Tilda, however, set a few parameters: Mother and I must remain quiet during the hypnosis, Tilda being the only one to ask Henry the questions (which Mother would present her in advance), and we must leave quietly afterward, so Tilda could continue her regular antiaddiction session with Henry.

We agreed, of course, and Mother set about writing out her questions onto a piece of stationery the hypnotist provided.

In short order, the four of us went through the kitchen to the small hypnosis room, possibly a former sewing room, claustrophobic and dark, the single window shuttered. The only source of light came from a table lamp, its revolving shade with cut-out stars sending its own galaxy swirling on the ceiling. There was a Victorian “fainting couch,” where Henry stretched out (wouldn’t I have loved to have had
that
piece of furniture for our booth!), and an ornate straight-back chair that Tilda took, pulling it up next to Henry. Swathed in darkness, Mother and I stood silently against the closed door.

Tilda began the session by picking up a long, gold-chained necklace with round disc off the lamp table, and dangled it before Henry’s face, then slowly began to swing it like a pendulum do (sorry—I always liked that song).

“Watch the medallion, Henry,” she said softly.

His eyes moved back and forth.

“You feel relaxed…very relaxed. You’re getting sleepy…very sleepy.” This she repeated, progressively slower, ever more soothing.

Henry’s eyelids fluttered.

“Your eyelids are heavy…very heavy…so heavy…so heavy you can’t keep your eyes open….”

Henry’s eyelids closed.

“I’m going to count backward, from ten to one. When I say ‘one,’ Henry, you will be asleep, completely, deeply
asleep
. Ten…nine…eight….”

At “five,” Henry’s body went limp, but Tilda finished her count.

She consulted Mother’s hen-scratching on the stationery on her lap.

“Henry,” Tilda said, “you told Vivian Borne that you saw one of the bidders from the auction in town some years ago. Do you remember who it was?”

I could see Henry’s eyeballs moving behind the closed lids. An hour seemed to pass before he responded. “Louis Martinette.”

I didn’t know whether to be excited or disappointed—I’d hoped for a suspect, and instead got one of the murder victims.

“Can you tell me when that was?”

“June. Nineteen ninety-two.”

“Where?”

“Hunter’s. He came in for a drink.”

“Did you ever see him again—before the auction?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

Henry’s face contorted as he searched the cobwebs of his mind. “December. Nineteen ninety-two.”

“You’re sure?”

Henry nodded in his sleep. “I remember the Christmas decorations.”

“This was at Hunter’s again?” Tilda was following Henry’s lead now, and not Mother’s notes.

Henry said slowly, “In a rear booth. Another man.”

“Who?”

“Couldn’t see. Hidden. Left before they did.”

“Thank you, Henry. Did you ever see this man again, before seeing him at the church?”

“Yes. A month ago.”

Hadn’t Henry sobered up by then? I thought Mother had said his memory of recent events was flawless.

Tilda was ahead of me. “But you weren’t drinking then, were you, Henry?”

“I…I fell off the wagon. I never told you. I had a relapse. Just one afternoon. Next morning, I was sick. Very sick. Ashamed.”

“Where did you see this man, a month ago?”

“Hunter’s again. Alone. He was in the same booth. Maybe waiting for someone. When I left, he was still there.”

What would Martinette having been doing in Serenity on those three occasions? Twice in 1992, and again just last month?

“Henry, go deeper…deeper. Rest. Rest.”

Tilda shot a sharp look our way, and signaled for us to leave; I took Mother’s arm in the dark, quietly opened the door, and we slipped out in the cat-strewn front room. I picked out a candle with a nice woodsy scent and left a five-dollar bill.