Antiques Chop (A Trash 'n' Treasures Mystery) (2 page)

“Roger . . . what aren’t you sharing with me?” Adding, without contention, “I
am
his mother.”

He looked down at his feet for a moment. “I said earlier that Jake’s been unhappy. But I wasn’t, uh, as frank as I should have been.”

“Then you
do
know why he’s unhappy.”

He nodded. “It’s that private school. He hates it.”

“Is he being bullied?” I couldn’t imagine anyone picking on him, or him letting them do it. But bullying was so common these days....

Roger shook his head. “Claims the other kids are snobs, and into drugs.”

I didn’t like the sound of either of those.

Shielding my eyes against the sun, I asked, “Why don’t you just move him to a public school?”

Roger laughed once, humorlessly. “A public school might be fine in Serenity, but not in Chicago.”

I touched his arm. “Look, Roger . . . don’t worry about our son. Jake is one tough kid. We’ll figure this out.”

My ex cocked his head. “He misses you, you know.”

“And I miss him.”

“Brandy?”

“Hmm?”

“I . . . I shouldn’t have punished you by taking sole custody of our son. I was angry after . . .”

“After what I did?”
Went to my ten-year class reunion without him, and slept with an old boyfriend?

Oh, did I mention? I’m not perfect, but I am trying. Some of you have probably already found me “trying,” at that.

Roger winced. “Yeah. After what you did, I was . . . you know how bent out of shape I was.”

Actually, I didn’t. He’d taken it stoically. I would have preferred screaming and kicking and crying and . . . and anything that would have indicated there was still something emotional going on between us.

“If it’s any consolation,” I said, “I hear my ‘mistake’ is on his third wife, totally broke, gained fifty pounds, and has a terrible case of adult acne.”

“That’s supposed to make me feel better?”

“Doesn’t it?”

He smiled. “A little.”

I smiled back.

Roger said, “Look, uh . . . getting back to Jake? I think maybe it would be better for us to have joint custody.” He put both hands on my shoulders. “Better for us. Better for Jake. A boy needs his mother, too.”

My Prozac-protective emotional wall was crumbling. I felt tears trying to make a break for it from my eyes.

Roger, suddenly a tad uncomfortable, said rigidly, “We’ll talk about it when I come back on Sunday.”

“Okay,” I sniffed, dabbing away tears with my fingers.

I stepped back as he climbed into the Hummer with a sad little smile and a sad little wave. Then I watched until the vehicle disappeared down the street.

Returning to the house, I found Mother and Jake still at the table, having what looked disturbingly like a conspiratorial confab, and suspiciously like shenanigans.

How was I going to keep my promise to Roger with those two in cahoots? And what kind of mind in the twenty-first century comes up with words like
confab, shenanigans
, and
cahoots,
anyway?

Jake said, “Hey, Mom, Grandma wants to take us to lunch at a nice new restaurant.” He looked at her. “What’s it called again?”

“The Cottage Inn, dear. Everything is made from scratch, and is simply delicious.”

Well, nothing disturbing or suspicious about that stilted, overrehearsed exchange, right? On the other hand, I’d been wanting to try the new eatery, which also specialized in desserts to die for, so if they had a hidden agenda, I did too.

“I’m game,” I said.

Mother was studying me. “Brandy . . . perhaps you’d like to put on something . . . more . . .
presentable.
”

I looked down at myself. What was wrong with jeans and a rugby? The Cottage Inn wasn’t a fancy restaurant.

“Yeah,” Jake said. “Maybe a dress? And you’re a little smeary.” He pointed to his eyes and crossed them—nice touch.

So my mascara could use some attention. What was it to Jake?

“
Fine,
” I sighed. “I wouldn’t want either of you to be ashamed of me.”

This was where Mother and Jake were supposed to assure me that they weren’t at all ashamed . . . but didn’t.

Dutifully I trudged upstairs, thinking,
You want presentable, I’ll show you presentable.
I changed into a Ralph Lauren denim shirtdress I’d gotten 75 percent off because somebody stole its leather belt (not me!). I slipped on short brown Lucky Brand cowboy boots—legs left bare showing off the last of my summer tan—and picked out (from the tangle of purses on my closet floor) a small cross-body green parachute-material bag by Nicole Miller.

(Regarding big, heavy, leather designer purses: I get crabby just toting my airport bag from one gate to another—why would I want to lug a monster purse around
all day?
)

At my round-mirror Art Deco dressing table, I reapplied make-up, then—convinced any further spackling would be counterproductive—headed downstairs.

Sashaying into the dining room, I smirked at the nonbelievers. “Now, is this presentable or is this presentable?”

Jake was grinning. “I knew you could do it, Mom.”

Mother nodded. “Indeed, dear. You will make a
splendid
impression.”

For what? On whom? The restaurant owner? The other diners? Somehow I couldn’t imagine my fashion sense being a topic of discussion.

“Can we go?” I asked. “I worked up an appetite, looking this good.”

Suddenly, Sushi began dancing excitedly in front of us.

“What’s up with her?” Jake asked.

Mother sighed. “Your mother said a
no
-
no
.”

Jake frowned. “All she said was, ‘Can we go?’ ”

Sushi’s excitement escalated, stopping just short of jigging on her hind legs and doing a back flip.

“The no-no word is G-O,” I explained, “because she wants to G-O with us.”

Now Sushi began twirling in a circle, as if chasing the tail she couldn’t see.

“I hate to break it to you,” Jake said, smirking, “but that dog can
spell
. Anyway, she can spell
go
.”

And Sushi began to punctuate her canine choreography with barks.

“Oh, dear,” Mother sighed. “Now we have to appease the little rascal, and we’ll be late to lunch.”

I frowned. “We have a reservation?”

“Oh, yes. This bistro is very hard to get into because it only opened recently.”

Which was typical of a small town with limited cuisine . . . although I doubted any restaurant in Serenity could ever be worthy of the designation “bistro,” much less “cuisine.”

I was shaking my head. “We’re out of turkey, and I can’t think of anything else on hand that Sushi really likes.”

“I brought some beef jerky along,” Jake offered, “in case I got hungry on the bus.”

“Probably not the best thing for her,” I said, “but it’ll have to do.”

He dug into the duffel bag by his chair, then handed Sushi a stick of the stuff. Rocky, stretched out contentedly in a stream of sunlight, smelled the treat, and gave a low ruff, and Jake tossed him a piece, to keep the peace.

Mother, standing, emitted a Nero Wolfe–like “Satisfactory,” but
I
knew we wouldn’t be sure if the bribe had taken until completing a full inspection of the house upon our return for tooth marks and/or piddle. (Sometimes I didn’t find Sushi’s latest little “gotcha” for days.)

We hurried out to the battered Buick and climbed in, Mother riding shotgun, Jake in back. I had a little trouble coaxing the car to life, but after a symphony of sound effects worthy of Golden Age radio—a rattle, a clank, and a couple of backfires—we were backing out of the drive.

I took Mulberry Avenue, so Mother could view the still-grand homes set back from the street, porches decorated with pots of colorful fall mums, towering trees in full autumn glory, some beginning to drop their leaves on the grass in paintlike splashes of red, orange, gold.

Jake said, “I’ve read some of your books.”

Mother twisted her neck. “
Have
you, dear? How do you like them?”

“Oh, they’re pretty cool for something by old people—’specially the one I was in—
Antiques Maul?
Only—”

“You wish
I
had written more of the chapters?” Mother prompted, rotating her head Linda Blair–style.

“No, Grandma. I was going to say that
sometimes
you
seem
to not be telling the, uh, whole truth . . . exactly.”

A diplomatic way of calling her a liar.

“Goes for you, too, Mom.”

Us liars.

With a cracking swivel, Mother returned her head to its forward position, then blew out a
pshaw
. “Jake, dear, sometimes a writer must embellish the truth just the teeny-weensiest bit.”

“Why?”

“Well, in order to make a book more interesting or advance the plot, we take what’s called ‘artistic license.’ ”

“Didn’t you have your license revoked?”

She frowned at Jake in the mirror (I was smiling). “That was my
automobile
license, dear.”

“I mean,” Jake said, “take that part at the Old Mill when—”

“Honey,” I interrupted. “Some people haven’t read that book yet . . . you don’t want to spoil it.”

“Oh. Yeah. Sorry.”

“Anyway, the unreliable narrator is a well-accepted literary device.”

“Well, then,” Jake said with a shrug, “I guess you and Grandma are doing great.”

We had arrived in the quaint downtown—snugged on the bank of the mighty Mississippi—four blocks long, three wide, consisting of everything a little burg such as ours might need, modern buildings blending well with structures of the past in a sort of aesthetic stalemate.

The Cottage Inn, neither a cottage nor an inn, was located on Main Street on the first floor of a recently regen-trified Victorian building.

Main Street had free curbside parking, and I kept circling the block to find an open space—if I took a metered side street, Mother would start digging in her purse for slugs instead of coins to feed the meter. And I was pretty sure city hall was on to her.

Jake leaned forward from the back seat. “Mom, you better call on that magical feather of yours.”

He was referring to my Indian spirit guide, Red Feather, who was great at getting me parking places. (I was working on winning on the lottery, but so far, no dice. Perhaps I needed to actually buy a lottery ticket for that to work out.)

“Red Feather,” I murmured as we again approached the Cottage Inn, “parking place, please. . . .”

Suddenly a middle-aged man in an unzipped navy Windbreaker, sides flapping like wings, came running out of the restaurant, jumped in his car, and took off, leaving me a space right in front.

Mother said, “I bet the poor soul doesn’t even know where he’s headed.”

“Probably just got the sudden urge to leave,” I said, “in the middle of his meal.”

“Spooky,” Jake said.

I claimed the spot, we exited the car, and entered the eatery through an antique etched-glass-and-wood door. The restaurant had retained its original wood floor and tin ceiling, but had added a German/Swiss theme of stenciled walls, blue-and-white-checked tablecloths, and mismatched secondhand-shop wooden dining sets.

The entry area—where we stood waiting to be seated—was a bakery with a glass display case filled with homemade pies and cakes and cookies, sweet enough to give your diet amnesia.

A young woman greeted us, menus in hand. She had a heart-shaped face, dark hair neatly pulled back, and was wearing a red gingham full-skirt jumper over a white dotted-Swiss blouse. Thanks to our reservation, we were ushered swiftly away from those tempting treats.

The dining room was packed with patrons—mostly women, but a few families, farmers, and businessmen, talking and laughing between bites of delicious-looking homemade meals, their voices drowning out the polka-style background music, which was muted already, thankfully.

Since the restaurant was full, I couldn’t see where the waitress was going to put us; the only chairs left were at a table for four, where a male patron was already seated, busy texting on his cell.

When it became clear we were going to have to eat with a stranger, I almost protested . . . but he
was
good-looking. Or maybe
he’d
protest at the intrusion....

But Mother shushed me, saying, “Dear, I’d like you to meet Bruce Spring.”

Good Lord! Was Mother playing matchmaker again? Was
that
what this luncheon was about? She knew I had just started dating Brian Lawson, the current chief of police. But
I
knew she didn’t entirely approve of Brian. . . .

The man stood, smiling. Perhaps mid-thirties (judging by his line-free face) with prematurely white hair (judging by the black eyebrows), alert sky-blue eyes, prominent nose, and sensual mouth, he was wearing an expensive black tailored suit jacket over a shirt the color of his eyes, and designer blue jeans. He had a great tan. As he extended a hand toward me, a diamond ring winked on one finger while a gold Rolex watch glimmered on his wrist.

“I’m very pleased to meet you, Miss Borne.”

“If this was my mother’s idea,” I said, “I do apologize. Mother . . . shall we go?”

Mother was struck temporarily (and atypically) mute, but Jake blurted, “Mom . . . that’s
Bruce Spring,
” as if I should have known. Then, responding to my blank stare, he added, “You know! Host of
Extreme Hobbies?
And
Witch Wives of Winnipeg?”

“Oh,” I said, nodding. “Reality TV. I’m afraid I don’t watch it.” I had enough reality in my life as it was.

In case you’re wondering, I knew I was being boorish; but I’d been bamboozled by not only Mother (which was to be expected), but my own son!