Antiques Bizarre (18 page)

Anyway, I hauled her upstairs and she danced on the bed while I put on another top, and this time, when I picked her up, all I got was kisses for my trouble.

It used to be a quick ride south to the airport on the treacherous bypass, but now—in the wake of so many accidents—nearly every intersection had a light, and I managed to hit them all. I was bemoaning the lost time to myself when a little rational voice reminded me how much time had been lost by the fatalities who’d inspired these stoplights.

I glanced in the rearview mirror at Sushi in her car seat; she had been to the municipal airport only one other time, so I wasn’t sure she knew where we were going. But since Shoosh wasn’t shaking in terror, she at least understood that we weren’t headed to the veterinary, a.k.a. the House of Pain.

My thoughts drifted to Jake. Would I notice any changes
in my son since I’d seen him at Christmas? Would he be taller? More young man than child?

We were in the sandy-soil area south of Serenity, famous for growing melons (watermelons and cantaloupes, especially). Farmers, idle in the fields since fall, were out on tractors turning the fertile soil. But planting wouldn’t happen for another month, due to the chance of late frost.

As I approached the airport—used only by private and corporate planes—Sushi began to whimper with excitement, which increased into little yaps when I pulled off the highway and drove up to the small, one-story brick administration building. To the right of the building loomed two large hangars; to the left, one landing strip, where a wind sock flapped in the breeze.

Surprisingly, I had beaten Roger’s plane here. After gathering a wiggling Sushi from the backseat, I headed to the gated area by the landing strip, where I waited by the fence.

Soosh heard the distant drone of the engine before I did, and began to get squirmier.

“Stop that,” I said firmly.

She didn’t.

“No more
car
rides!”

She did.

The plane came into view, a silver speck in the sky that grew into a twin-prop aircraft, dropping lower, and lower, as the pilot lined up to land. I held my breath until the wheels hit the ground, then sighed with relief. Can any parent watch their child (of any age) come in for a landing without dying a little?

The pilot taxied toward us, the propeller blowing my hair around like Ingrid Bergman’s in
Casablanca
, and then the engine stilled, and Roger was getting out, and turning to help Jake down, my son hauling a small duffel bag.

And I was running through the gate toward Jake, with
Sushi bumping against my chest, the pooch making no noise, just going along for an out-of-the-ordinary ride.

I gave my son a one-armed hug, while Soosh frantically licked his face, then Jake, laughing, took the dog so I could talk to Roger.

His hair was a little grayer at the temples, but otherwise he hadn’t changed, wearing a tan leather jacket, designer jeans, and expensive Italian shoes—his idea of casual. (To any females in the audience who are thinking, “Brandy, you blew it,” I can only say, “Girlfriends, you are right.”)

We exchanged polite how-are-you’s, and I’m fine’s, then got down to the parameters of our son’s stay, which was four days.

After that, I said, “Say, Roger—can I ask you something a little out of left field?”

“Sure. Don’t you usually?”

“You ever hear of Clifford Ashland? A broker here in Serenity?”

“Yeah. Pretty successful one—we’ve dealt with him ourselves.”

“Really! Would you say he’s got millions?”

“Well, he and his partners own a company worth millions, certainly. So is
mine
, but don’t get any new alimony ideas. I don’t have millions lyin’ around, you know.”

“I know. But he’s not one of these successful guys who’s gone under because of the stock market.”

“No. We’ve dealt with them several times since the you-know-what hit the fan. He’s solid. Nobody’s liquid right now, but Brandy, if you’re thinking of investing, why not come to your own kid’s dad?”

“Maybe I’m afraid you’d pay me off in pennies.”

He winced but smiled. “Ouch! You ever going to forgive me for that?”

I’d once received an alimony payment from him in that form. But we were getting along better these days.

“Never,” I said, and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek.

He was brushing hair from my face, giving me a fond look when Jake, anxious to get going, said, “Get a room, or hurry up! I wanna see Grandma!”

And so ended my most recent reconciliation with my ex.

Which was maybe a good thing. I wouldn’t have wanted to answer too many “What’s new?”-type questions.

In particular, I had not yet told Roger about the baby. Jake knew, because I’d wanted his approval before going ahead with the surrogacy—I’d be having a baby brother or sister for him that would immediately leave both our lives, and I’d figured he had the right to know.

But since Roger hadn’t alluded to it, I could safely assume Jake hadn’t spilled the beans. I just had to pick the right time to tell my ex. And now was not it.

On the ride home, while Jake held Sushi, I questioned him about school, what new video games he was playing, if there was a girl he liked, and other mother-intrusive things, since he was a captive in the front seat, and I was hungry for any insight into his life.

A few blocks from home Jack said, “Okay, back off! That’s all you get. I wanna hear about this latest murder.”

“How’d you know about
that?
”

“Grandma texted me this morning.”

“Oh, she did, did she?”

“Uh-huh. Pretty tech-savvy old girl.”

“Look, Jake,” I said, “you’re supposed to be helping me keep her
out
of trouble, not encourage her to get into more. I don’t want us involved in this ‘mystery’ anymore.”

“But you’re
already
involved. It’s like…you can’t be a
little
pregnant.”

“Don’t get smart. Anyway, we’re gonna get
un
involved. Understand?”

“Okay, okay.” Sushi was whimpering for attention.
“Quiet, girl! I’ll play with you when we get home! Mom, it’s okay, isn’t it, if Grandma tells me all about it, kind of fills me in?
That
wouldn’t hurt, would it?”

“I…I guess not.”

Later, after dinner, against my better judgment (as if I had any), Mother did indeed entertain Jake in the dining room, regaling him with her version of the events, from the poisoned audience, the murdered Madam Petrova, the murdered bidder Martinette, the suspiciously deceased gossip down the block, the priest stabbed in his own sanctuary, and of course the fabled, incredibly valuable, missing Fabergé egg.

I chose not to be present for much of it. I had to field phone calls once again from a concerned Peggy Sue and an at least as concerned Tina, who’d heard about the latest murder at St. Mary’s. But several times I watched through the closed French doors, where Jake, riveted to his chair, was hanging on his grandmother’s every word.

That was when I realized I couldn’t count on Jake. Apparently the same Curiosity DNA that ran through Vivian Borne had gone on to infect me and now my only son.

Exhausted from the long day, I went off to bed, taking Sushi with me, and fell asleep almost immediately….

I was at St. Mary’s, climbing the spiral staircase, which broke away from the wall, taking me with it, in a crash of metal gnashing on metal and on an endless slow-motion fall….

Willing myself to wake up, I became aware of another presence in the room.

A dark figure was reaching for me with clawed fingers.

Which was when I did what you would done.

I screamed.

A Trash ‘n’ Treasures Tip

When going to an auction, come prepared—this means comfortable clothes, water, snacks, a book and, most important, a soft cushion. You picture yourself on your feet, waving your auction card or going off to collect your prize; but mostly you’ll be on your backside, for a long, long while.

T
he figure gripped my shoulder and shook.

“
Wake up
, dear! It’s me—
Mother!
”

All right, I realize some of you (perhaps all of you) are thinking,
What a cheat!
You end a chapter with a spooky scare, and then it’s just your mother. Like one of those cheesy fake “boo” moments in a movie, where it turns out to be some good guy coming up behind another good guy, in a sudden and unjustified manner; or the frightening sound, the metal clunk that echoes maybe, or the ominous rustle of drapes, and then it’s just a cat.

Fine. But remember two things: people were dying mysteriously, including Mrs. Mulligan down the street; and, anyway, with apologies to Count Floyd of
SCTV
, if you don’t think my mother coming up on you in the dark is scary, kids, then you haven’t been paying attention.

I sat up in bed and said, “I’m
awake
, already! I’m awake! You wanna give me a damn heart attack?”

Despite the darkness, I could tell Mother was shaking her head at me. “
Language
, dear—and in front of the boy…!”

Jake materialized, shining a flashlight my way.

I squinted. “Okay, it’s not
X-Files
, you two—get that
out of my face, please! And someone feel free to turn a light on.”

“Better to light one small candle,” Mother said, “than to curse the darkness!”

It wasn’t the darkness I felt like cursing.

Jake retreated to the wall switch, turning on the overhead light. Immediately I wished I could switch it off—he and Mother were dressed all in black, Jake in a black sweatshirt and jeans, Mother in a black turtleneck with sweatpants, both with black commando smudges under their eyes.

“All right,” I demanded, “what are you trick-or-treaters up to? Haven’t you even been to bed? What time is it, anyway?”

Mother said, “Taking your questions in order. First, no, we haven’t been to bed, we’ve been in a planning session, and second, as for the time, it’s a little after one
A.M.
, dear—there’s a clock on the nightstand, if you’d care for something more precise.”

I pointed at Jake. “Wash your face and go to bed.” I pointed at Mother. “Wash your face and go to bed.”

Jake was frowning in disappointment, Mother frowning in irritation. She said, “We need you to drive us to St. Mary’s.”

“No!” I got the covers up over my head. My voice, muffled but my crisp delivery cutting through, said, “Turn the light off on your way out, one of you.”

“Perhaps you didn’t hear me, Brandy. We need you to drive us to St. Mary’s.”

Under the covers, I said, “Like
that’s
going to happen.”

“If you’d rather
I
drive, dear, because I consider this an emergency, and could do so, unless…Jake, darling, do you have your learner’s permit?”

“I’m only twelve,” Jake said, “but I’ve played lots of driving games.”

I was out from under the blankets. Realizing I was dealing with
two
twelve-year-olds, I decided a calmer, more rational approach was needed.

I asked, “Why St. Mary’s in the middle of the night?”

The Mutt and Jeff commandos exchanged looks, then G.I. Joe Mutt said, “We have to, ’cause Grandma figured out where the egg is hidden. You know, the valuable fabric egg?”

Patiently, Mother said, “Fabergé, Jake. Fabergé.”

“Mother,” I said, “why would you fill Jake with such nonsense?”

“Because I
do
know where the egg is, dear.”

“After all these days, it just
came
to you?”

Mother sat on the edge of the bed; in her commando outfit, she looked crazier than usual, which of course was saying something, but the tone of her voice lacked hysteria. She seemed alarmingly self-composed.

“Because of the
Scriptures
, dear—haven’t you been paying attention? That’s why I wanted to talk to Father O’Brien, until some thoughtless person killed him.”

“You mean, the Scripture lesson Father O’Brien read at the memorial service?”

I did remember she’d gone on about it, though the topic had fallen by the wayside when police interrogation at the murder scene kicked in.

“It’s not what he
read
, dear.”

“Then what is it?”

“It’s what he
didn’t
read.”

“You lost me.”

“At what point, dear?”

“Somewhere around when Jake switched on the light.”

Mother frowned. “Be serious, you imp.”

Imp? Now I was an imp?

Jake was frowning, too. “
Show
her, Grandma.”

Mother withdrew a folded sheet of paper from her black sweatpants’ pocket, and said, “I was troubled by Father
O’Brien’s choice of Scriptures. If you’ll recall from your Catholic upbringing—”

“
Brief
Catholic upbringing,” I corrected, yet I was paying close attention, remembering that Mrs. Hetzler had complained about the Scripture reading, as well.

“Yes, dear, brief upbringing, but not so brief that
I
didn’t remember that the correct procedure at funeral mass is to read Scripture from the Old Testament, New Testament, and the Gospel.”

Same complaint Mrs. Hetzler had made!

“All right,” I said. “I’m listening.”

“Well, besides leaving out the Gospel
entirely
, the late father was combining verses while leaving others out.”

My eyes tightened. “Why would he do
that?
”

“I don’t believe out of carelessness. I think this was a well-considered revision.”

“Why?”

“I can’t be sure, dear. But my guess…my
educated
guess…is that he wanted to put the murderer on a kind of notice.”

“You’re saying Father O’Brien knew who killed Martinette?”

Mother’s eyes narrowed and, with the commando black beneath, they seemed to disappear, despite the magnifying eyeglasses. “He may have. I think it’s more likely he suspected someone, suspected them strongly.”

“If he knew for sure, wouldn’t he have told the police?”

“That’s my view. But then again, the other day I heard him in a heated discussion with someone—wouldn’t go so far as to characterize it as an argument. Still, he may have been confronting the killer with his suspicions.”

“And the killer was threatening him?”

“No. I would say the killer was reacting with indignation. Trying to intimidate the good father into forgetting about these suspicions.”

“But Father O’Brien
didn’t
forget.”

“That’s right, dear, and he restated them in public—granted, in a disguised fashion, but enough so to inform the killer that he must come forward and tell the truth, else the father would go to the authorities with his suspicions.”

Jake jabbed at the paper Mother held. “The
line
, Grandma—read Mom the line!”

Mother unfolded the note. “I wrote down Scripture from the Old Testament that he read—from the
Book of Wisdom
, Chapter Three, verses one through nine.” Mother raised a finger. “But Father O’Brien made a significant omission—he left out verse
six
.”

When Mother paused, I said, “Please don’t make me ask.”

Which was sort of asking.

“The missing verse,” she said with just a hint of triumph over me, “reads: ‘
As gold in the furnace, he proved them, and as sacrificial offerings he took them to himself
.’”

When I remained mute, Jake said,
“Well?”

I said, “Let me read.”

Mother handed me the sheet of paper.

“Mom?”

“I’m thinking….”

Prozac Brandy would have nixed this middle-of-the-night Easter egg hunt; but the unmedicated Brandy felt Mother might be on to something.

I said, “Would be pretty cool to find it.”

“Think of the money it would mean for flood relief,” Mother said. “And think of what a
clue
it will be to the murderer’s identity.”

“Yes!” Jake pumped a fist.

“But how are we going to get into the church at this time of night?”

“God works in mysterious ways, dear.”

I raised a stop palm. “I’m okay with entering, it’s
breaking
and entering I’m not on board with.”

“Dear, how often have I instructed you in the need to think and plan ahead?”

“Never?”

“How often have I made the point that life is a game of chess, and you must always plan ahead?”

“You don’t play chess. You get a migraine over checkers.”

“Shush, dear.” Her smile turned devilish. “When I was in the church secretary’s office the other day, I thought ahead and borrowed an extra
key
to the back door…just in case we might need it.”

Mother always “borrowed,” by the way, and had never been known to filch, pilfer, swipe, or steal. Semantics were everything to Vivian Borne.

“All right!” Jake said, with a grin and a swing of a fist. “We’re in like Flynn.”

I squinted at him. “Where did you hear
that
saying? Your grandmother?”

“No,” he said, and pointed at me. Gently, but pointed.

“Oh. Well. It is colorful. Do you know who ‘Flynn’ was, Jake?”

“No.”

“Or what exactly what it was he was ‘in’?”

“No.”

“Good. Keep it that way.” I threw back the covers. “Just one condition, before I join
Farce Ten from Navarone
—I do
not
wear commando grease under these eyes. Capeesh, gang?”

“Capeesh, Mom.”

Mother said, “Ditto, dear.”

“Okay, then. Go downstairs and wait for me. I have to find something black to wear.”

At this early-morning hour, the streets of Serenity were deserted, stoplights flashing, houses dark, sane people in
their beds. A spring shower perhaps an hour ago had dampened the streets and made them black and glisteny under the streetlights. There was an unreality to it, a quiet surrealism heightened by our black commando garb, and I felt in a sort of dream state. But reality kicked in when we came to the hillside drive up St. Mary’s.

A floodlight gave modest illumination in the parking lot, and I didn’t want to leave the car there, not caring to be spotted—by whom, I couldn’t say. Might be the church was on a security firm’s rounds or a police patrol car’s or even a night watchman wasn’t out of the realm of possibility.

So I drove around to the rear of the church, taking a gravel service road, then parked the Buick along a row of bushes.

Mother, “borrowed” key in hand, led the way, unlocking the back metal door, where, in less time than it takes to say, “In like Flynn,” we were in like Flynn. (
Really
had to learn to watch my mouth around Jake….)

Our flashlights did their light-saber number, even crossing sometimes, on the stone walls, racks of hand tools, stacked boxes, our beams landing simultaneously on the ancient furnace hunkered near the spiral staircase. It felt as if the furnace had been sneaking around and froze in our lights, like an escaping prisoner about to go over the wall.

With hushed excitement and not a little trepidation, our little group approached the slumbering beast, with its large round heat ducts bound in tattered insulation tape reaching like agonized arms severely injured in battle.

We circled the furnace, our flashlights probing, looking for any possible hiding place that might conceal the precious little item that was the Fabergé egg.

Finally, Mother whispered, “I wonder if it’s in with the pilot light?”

Her beam found a rectangular panel, about six inches
by eight. Unlike our furnace at home—which required a screwdriver to remove the pilot-light panel—this one had no such safety feature, and popped open on hinges.

Mother reached a hand in.

“I hope it’s there,” Jake whispered.

She fished around.

And pulled out nothing but a dirt-smudged paw.

“Try again, Grandma!” Jake said. “Stick your hand
way
in, way back, this time….”

She obliged, and we watched in wide-eyed silence as she reached and probed and frowned and fished and I was just wondering if she was milking it when she said, “Bingo.”

Jake and I crowded around her as she withdrew her hand, revealing the missing if unimpressive-looking Fabergé egg. The light-wooden treasure was dirty from its nesting place, but seemed to be in one piece. Not a crack.

Jake asked, disappointedly, “That’s
it?
That piece of junk is worth a million bucks? I thought the Bible said there was
gold
in the furnace—”

“There
is
gold inside, young man,” a male voice said, and we three jumped, with Mother almost dropping the egg, even bobbling it in a one-handed juggling act that caught everyone’s breath.

John Richards—the slender, boyish bespectacled Brit, attired in a black long-sleeved t-shirt and black trousers (but not commando eyeliner)—stepped from the darkness and into the outer rim of our lights.

He held out a palm. “
We’ll
take that….”

We?

He was quickly joined by Katherine Estherhaus, looking curvy in a black pants suit, and Sergei Ivanov, who wasn’t quite with the program, his shirt navy and his slacks a dark shade of charcoal. Every commando unit has one screw-up.

Mother, rarely one to stammer, was so flabbergasted by
these interlopers that she said, “You…you…you’re
all
in this
together?
”

“That’s right,” Estherhaus said. “Now hand us the egg.”

“Da,”
the stocky Russian said, scowling, looking pretty formidable. “We want egg!”

Mother thrust her hand-with-egg behind her back and her chin went up and her bosom went out. “
Never!
You’ll have to kill all
three
of us first!”

“No, you won’t,” I said, and took the egg out of Mother’s hidden hand.

She gave me a pop-eyed look that called me a betrayer, but I simply said, “But before I hand it over, what right have you to it? What are you, a bunch of thieves?”