Antiques Bizarre (14 page)

I was very proud of Mother, and even amazed—she had not interrupted once, or insisted on more questions or tried to follow up or anything.

We maintained silence until seated in the car, when I said, “That couldn’t have gone better. Don’t you think?”

“Yes.”

“Isn’t that the kind of information you were hoping for out of Henry?”

“Yes.”

Mother was being uncharacteristically succinct, so I twisted to look at her. She had a blank expression, staring straight ahead, a cross between a china doll and an utter idiot.

I’m sure you’re ahead of me, but I was astonished and instantly amused—
Mother had been hypnotized right along with Henry!

The angel on my right shoulder said, “You should wake her up.” But the devil on my left responded, “Now wait just one minute! How often does
this
happen? Now’s your chance!”

So put me under hypnosis if you like, give me a lie detector test or truth serum, and the answer will be the same: the devil made me do it.

“Who is my real mother?” I asked. I knew, of course, but needed to hear it from her own lips.

“Peggy Sue.”

“And my real father?”

“Senator Edward Clark.”

So Peggy Sue really
had
leveled with me.

What to ask next?

“You
knew
I didn’t like Tiddly Winks, and yet you still made me a Tiddly Wink, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

Thought
so.

I grinned at her blank face. “How
old
are you,
really?
”

“Don’t press your luck, dear.”

Mother had snapped out of the trance, jarred back to reality. Self-preservation, I guess—preservation of her true age, that is.

She was blinking. “What…what
happened
in there?”

“You got hypnotized along with Henry,” I told her.

“Nonsense,” she scoffed. “I am far too strong-willed to
be in any way susceptible to such hippy-dippy phony-baloney hocus-pocus.”

I started the car. “Then you remember what Henry had said?”

“Of course, dear, weren’t you listening? In nineteen ninety-two, Louis Martinette was in town to examine the egg—that much we know. He’s obviously the Chicago expert who appraised the item for Madam Petrova. What we
don’t
know is the reason why he returned six months later…and why he was here a
month
ago!”

“And how do we find that out? Henry didn’t see who Martinette had drinks with at Hunter’s, back in ’92. Would
Junior
remember?”

“No, dear. He and Mary didn’t own the store at that time.”

“They owned it a
month
ago.”

“Yes, dear, and I will follow that up with a phone call, although Junior has the shortest of short-term memories. But I think in any case it’s safe to assume Martinette came back to Serenity to see the only person or persons he might have business with.”

“Nastasya Petrova,” I said. “Or Clifford Ashland.”

“Correct, dear. And we can’t talk to Madam Petrova, can we?”

“No. But we can talk to your favorite least likely suspect.”

She nodded crisply. “So let’s drop by Mr. Ashland’s brokerage firm and ask
him
what the purpose was for Martinette’s trio of visits.”

“It’s a little late in the day, isn’t it?”

It was after four
P.M.

Mother’s eyes flashed. “We’ll take a chance.”

“I could call ahead on my cell, and get an appointment….”

“No, dear. He might say no. But with the Borne girls before him in the flesh, he won’t
dare!
”

And off we drove.

Ashland Investment Incorporated had recently moved from the top floor of the First National Bank to its own newly constructed glass, steel, and cement building near to the mall. Peggy Sue would appear to be right—business
must
have been good.

We parked, entered the marble lobby, and passed through glass doors to a waiting area, which had all the comforts of home, if you were frickin’ rich, that is: thick Persian rug, overstuffed leather couches (money green), cherry-wood armchairs, fresh flowers on the coffee table, a gas fireplace, and even a big flat-screen TV tuned to a cable business news station.

Our tushies had barely touched a two-seater couch when a pretty, young, dark-haired woman in a pin-striped power suit appeared to ask if we had an appointment. She was as friendly as she was businesslike, though, and there was nothing snooty or accusatory about it.

Mother, dragging out her fake Brit accent (
omigod!
), said, “I’m afraid not, my dear—spur of the moment. We wish to offer our condolences to Mr. Ashland on the passing of his beloved aunt.” She paused, adding, “We of course
have
done our share of business with Clifford. But we hoped to catch him at the end of the day to deliver our personal well wishes.”

By “share of business,” I guessed she was referring to the trinkets Clifford bought from our booth, because the only investment Mother made lately (with the exception of antiques, obviously) was in a new mattress where she hid her money.

Taking no chances, the young woman smiled and said
evenly, “Certainly, and we’re glad to have you stop by. If you give me your names, I’ll let Mr. Ashland know you’re here.”

“Vivian and Brandy Borne,” Mother told her.

I wondered if the names would ring a bell, and not a good one, because we had been in the local media a lot in recent months over Mother’s meddling, that is, sleuthing. But the woman must not have lived locally—probably from the nearby Quad Cities.

Before she left us, our hostess asked if we wanted anything to drink while we waited—coffee, espresso, latte, cappuccino, tea, a seemingly endless list that devolved into various soft drinks. I requested a latte, while Mother opted for cappuccino; we might as well get our thirsts quenched before we were thrown out bodily.

Actually, I had little hope that Ashland would see us, and on some level was just humoring Mother, because of her rocky morning. So I was surprised when, after only a few minutes (we hadn’t even gotten our drinks yet!), the professional woman returned to escort us to the big man’s office.

I think Mother was a little surprised, too, but quickly regained her haughty air, ever anxious to display her theatrical chops. We followed the woman down a plushly carpeted corridor, passing well-appointed executive rooms, where other investment brokers were hard at work.

The last office was double the size of the others, and twice again as lavishly decorated. Clifford Ashland stood by the large window, his back to us as we entered. We were announced by the young woman, who then departed.

Ashland turned slowly. I tried to read his face for some clue as to his temperament, but it was a slate as blank as Mother in her hypnotic state, minus the idiotic part.

He did, however, provide a “tell” as to how our meeting might go—he didn’t ask us to sit down.

Afraid that Mother might blow the encounter, or turn a few simple questions into a melodramatic showdown, I stepped forward.

“First, Mr. Ashland,” I said, “Mother and I want you to know how very sorry we are about the death of your aunt. She was a lovely, caring person, and we know you will miss her greatly. We deeply regret the inadvertent role we played in arranging the auction that turned out so tragically.”

A bittersweet smile etched itself on the otherwise still-blank slate.

“Thank you,” he said. “I do appreciate your thoughtful words.” Ashland moved toward me. “And please understand, Ms. Borne, that I don’t hold you and/or your mother personally responsible in any way. You had an indirect role in all of this, of course, but obviously a well-meaning one. Anyway, what’s done is done.”

I said. “Thank you for that. We do feel your loss.”

He nodded. “Well.” The tiniest flicker of a smile. “It was nice of two of you to come by.”

When neither of us moved, however, Ashland raised his eyebrows. “Was there something else?”

My look to Mother said silently,
Okay, I softened him up—now
you
take over
.

Mother said, “We do have one, small question to ask you. We were wondering why Louis Martinette would come back to see you here in Serenity, from time to time? Including a visit six months after he was first here to estimate the value of the egg?”

The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees. “And this is your business
how?
”

Nicely done, Mother!
She had confirmed with one ques
tion that the mystery man who’d met with Martinette at Hunter’s was Ashland himself.

I said, “My mother was responsible for the auction, and eventually something will have to be done, assuming the Fabergé egg ever turns up. And, frankly, even if it doesn’t. We’re trying to gather information about the bidders.”

This didn’t exactly answer his question, but apparently it was enough. Ashland sighed and said, “If you
must
know, on his second visit, Louis was returning the egg to my aunt.”

Mother frowned. “Returning it from where?”

“From Chicago! Where he had it appraised by scholars? Tested for authenticity? Carbon-dated and so on?” These were obvious questions proposed to the simple-minded.

“It took
that
long?” Mother asked. “Six months?”

“Well, you don’t think he could do all that here, on the spot, in my aunt’s parlor, do you?”

I asked, “And you trusted him with a priceless Fabergé egg?”

Ashland was clearly working not to get agitated, a vein throbbing in a temple. “I had the man thoroughly vetted. He was legitimate.
And
bonded. Besides, frankly, I wasn’t convinced at the time that the damned thing
was
authentic. Scholars doubted its existence—why shouldn’t I?”

“We weren’t suggesting otherwise,” I said. “But what was Martinette doing back in Serenity, just a month ago? Meeting you again at Hunter’s?”

Clifford’s eyes narrowed to where only a tiny glittering indicated eyes were in those slits at all. “As the expert collector who had authenticated the Fabergé egg, Martinette came to see me about the auction.”

Nicely done, Brandy! Now he’d admitted to meeting with Martinette a second time, and recently.

“Consult in what way?” Mother asked waspishly. “I
was in charge of the auction. Why wasn’t I part of any such meeting?”

“Have you forgotten? We agreed the original appraiser, which was Martinette, needed to provide a current written statement regarding the egg’s authenticity.”

He was right—neither Mother nor I had remembered that.

But I said, “And he did his appraisal at a
bar?
”

“Martinette asked, as a courtesy, if he might make a preemptive offer on the artifact. Apparently—and I’d quite forgotten this myself—he had asked when he was called in for authentication purposes, back in ’92, if he might not be given a chance to buy the egg, should my aunt ever want to sell it.”

I asked, “What was his preemptive offer?”

“Martinette said he was willing to offer half a million dollars, if we shut the auction down. I told him I had no authority to accept or for that matter decline his offer. In fact, Mrs. Borne—Vivian—I gave him your name and number. Did he ever call you?”

“No,” Mother said. “But I would have turned him down. After all, he ended up paying one million!”

“
Bidding
one million,” Ashland corrected. “The fact is, the auction is null and void. Mr. Martinette did not live long enough to sign the paperwork or make out his check. Beyond that, I’ve been informed that my aunt may well have died
before
the gavel fell, and my attorney tells me that if the egg ever does turn up, it will be returned to the estate.”

Mother’s eyes and nostrils flared, giving her a dangerous rearing-horse expression. “Then
you
would inherit it?”

His expression grew patronizing. “Should it be found, I suppose so. But whoever killed Martinette presumably stole the egg, and I’m unlikely ever to see it again.”

Which made him an even less likely suspect—why steal something you would inherit?

“It’s St. Mary’s who benefits from my aunt’s passing,” he was saying, “and I can tell you from personal experience that the church is in considerable financial peril.”

I said, “Then you only inherit the house and its contents?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but yes—my aunt’s funds and investments and so on will be divided by St. Mary’s and her Russian Orthodox church, in Chicago. As a faithful member of the St. Mary’s family, I was fully in favor of that bequest.”

Mother and I glanced at each other—one least likely suspect was sending us off in the direction of the other least likely suspect: Father O’Brien.

Clifford took a deep breath, let it slowly out. “Ladies, I have been more than patient with you, but I’m not going to answer any more of your questions. I know your reputation,
reputations
I should say, of sticking your nose in, snooping around, and generally being busybodies and nuisances.”

Mother said (actually said), “Well, I
never!
”

Me, I was thinking,
That’s pretty dead on
.

He raised a gently lecturing finger. “You really should take care. There have been two, perhaps three murders, and why you’d want to put yourself in harm’s way is the real mystery here.”

Was that a threat?

“Now, if you don’t mind, I still have
actual
clients to see yet this afternoon….”

We returned to the waiting area, where our hot drinks—in Ashland logo mugs—had been placed on the coffee table in our absence.

Mother and I picked them up, and made our getaway.

These cups would never be valuable antiques, but who couldn’t use an extra coffee mug or two?

A Trash ‘n’ Treasures Tip

Seating can fill up fast at an auction, so unless you like standing, get there early. Or you could do what Mother does—arrive late, toting a lightweight folding chair, which she puts up in front, making a new row of one, to the consternation of those who have been there for hours…and the embarrassment of her daughter, hiding in back.