Antiques Fruitcake (8 page)

Caught yellow-handed, we both laughed.

“What would your wife say?” I asked.

“What would the stockholders say?” Wes Sinclair responded. He wore a pale yellow polo shirt, tan Bermuda shorts, and expensive slip-on shoes, sans socks.

I laughed again (more of a snort). “I can practically hear the market price dropping on your company.”

He settled next to me in the grass, a literal wealth of Serenity money and history right next to me, eating fried butter.

Wesley Sinclair III was a fourth-generation blue blood, or anyway, his was as blue as blood got in Serenity, Iowa. His great-granddaddy had founded the corn processing plant south of town, which recently became a Fortune 500 company (493, but who's counting?) under Wesley's savvy leadership, the thirty-two-year-old having taken over as CEO after his father's death.

Wes and I were the same age, and had dated a few times at community college after his partying too much got him flunked out freshman year at Columbia University. He came to his senses after his sophomore year and went back to Columbia, graduating with honors.

With that easy manner and a great sense of humor, and with his reddish brown hair, boyish face, and well-toned body, Wes was a guy I could have easily fallen for. But back then he'd had a self-destructive recklessness that made me nervous, the only part of him that said “rich kid”—that he was somebody untouchable from harm. Besides, I never would have been accepted by his (obviously) socially prominent parents.

He was saying, “Haven't seen you around much, since you got back in town.”

“That's because you and Vanessa don't eat at McDonald's and shop at Wal-mart.”

Vanessa was the sorority beauty he'd met at Columbia and married upon graduation.

“Sometimes we do,” Wes said with a grin. “Vannie and I don't
always
eat at the club, you know.” He meant the country club, where they didn't serve fried butter, which was maybe why he bit so greedily into his, squirting himself and me with the melted liquid.

“Hey!” I said, laughing but a little irritated. “This was a spotless shirt.”

“
Not anymore
,” he said in an Inspector Clouseau accent. We'd gone to a couple of those movies together, back in the day.

Trying not to laugh, I slugged him in the arm.

Rubbing the spot, pretending it hurt, he said, “So send me the dry-cleaning bill.”

“Don't think I won't. Some of us aren't independently wealthy.”

“Low blow. Aren't you making any money from those books of yours?”

“Enough to afford a stick of fried butter.”

We ate for a moment in silence. Eating fried butter takes concentration.

Then Wes, wiping his glistening chin, said, “What's this I hear about you dating Tony Cas-sato, now that he's back in town?”

“We'd just started dating before he suddenly left,” I said with a shrug. “We're kind of picking up the pieces.”

I didn't care to add anything more—early days for Tony and me, after our time apart.

Wes was saying, “Well, that's great. That's fine. Tony's a good man.”

“Yes he is.”

“Serenity is lucky to have him back on the force, even if he's no longer chief of police. Is it true he was in Witness Protection for a while?”

I nodded.

“Rumor is he testified against some mobsters in New Jersey, where he's from,” he said, watching me carefully. “And there's a really crazy rumor that your mother had something to do with resolving his differences with . . . I mean, it's nutty, but . . . some godfather back there? I mean, come on—that's crazy, right?”

“Sure is.” See
Antiques Con
.

“So”—Wes gave me a sly sideways smile—“will his presence cut down on the murders you and your mother have been getting involved in?
Solving?
I read the
Sentinel
.”

I gave him an embarrassed smile. “Honestly, it's not our fault. It's ridiculous, isn't it? I mean, what are the odds that a town our size has had so many, uh . . .”

“Murders? Pretty outrageous.”

“So it's gotta end sometime, right?”

He grinned. “If not, you should contact Guinness.”

We fell silent for a few moments. Maybe we were both thinking about how our lives might have been different if our casual dating in community college days had become serious. Of course, I wouldn't change anything, not for all the tea in China or Wes Sinclair's money. My marriage had gone awry, but my ex and I had a great son, Jake, who means everything to me.

Maybe Wes had gone through similar calculations, because he sighed and said, “Well, I should go find Vanessa.”

“And I need to locate Mother.”

“Probably shouldn't have seconds on fried butter.”

“Probably not. Unless you've got a defibrillator handy.”

He chuckled and stood, offering me a hand, which I took. But my legs had gone numb and tingly from their crossed position, and as I rose I fell against him, and he grabbed me, and I grabbed him, both of us laughing, and then a woman asked, “Having fun?”

A woman named Vanessa Sinclair.

The dark-haired beauty stood with hands on hips, wearing a pink floral sundress more befitting an afternoon wedding than a downhome swap meet.

Having regained my balance, I said, “Oh, hello. We were just—”

“I have
eyes
,” she snapped, her anger shimmering like heat off asphalt.

Wes spread his hands. “Honey, you remember Brandy. We're old friends from community college.”

“Hey,” I said, wiping butter off my hands with a paper napkin, “this is innocent.”

“I'll just bet it is,” she said with a sneer, distorting her pretty features. She was talking to me, but looking at Wes.

I took a step forward and said, “Honestly, Vanessa, I lost my balance and fell—”

“Into my husband's arms!”

I shut my trap.

Vanessa turned on her husband. “Isn't it enough that I joined your stupid
bridge
club? How would you like me to
quit?
”

That was a strange threat—is that where an angry wife drew the battle line? Over a card game?

She poked his chest with a French-manicured finger. “This is the
last time
you embarrass me in public, Wesley Sinclair the
Third
. Do it again, and I
promise
you, you'll regret it!”

And Vanessa wheeled in her jewel-encrusted sandals, and strode off.

Wes, chagrined, ashen, turned to me. “I'm . . . I'm so sorry, Brandy. You didn't deserve that.”

“Neither did you.” I looked over his shoulder at the small crowd that had gathered. “
All over folks!
Nothin' more to see here.”

And the gawkers dispersed, exchanging frowns and muttering comments.

“Thank you for standing up for me,” Wes said.

“For us,” I said, and shrugged. “Anyway, so she doesn't want to be in your bridge club. So what? Mother tried to teach me that game, but it was way too hard.”

He sighed. “It's not that. Vanessa
enjoys
the club. It's a social thing.”

Status, he meant. Now maybe I understood the threat.

“That's Vanessa all over,” he said, shaking his head. “Funny thing is? By the time we get home, she'll have forgotten all about this.”

I doubted that; the woman seemed pretty PO'd.

He lowered his voice. “She's under a lot of stress lately. You'll have to forgive her.”

“Pretty stressful existence, huh? Being rich and beautiful.” My response came out cattier than I meant it to.

“No, it's . . .” We were still standing under that tree, alone at the busy swap meet. Very softly he said, “Brandy, we're trying to start a family, and it's . . . tough going.”

“Oh. I'm sorry. It's none of my business. Had no idea.”

I don't know why I said that. Everyone in town knew, thanks to certain big-mouth gossips—one of whom lived in the same house as me.

He went on, very quietly, almost inaudible. “She's been taking a lot of hormone pills and well, let's just say . . . just about
anything
sets her off.”

I was waving both hands at him, like I was guiding somebody backing up a car to stop. “Really, Wes. You don't have to explain. . . .”

“But you
deserve
an explanation.” He took my hand. “We've been friends a long time, Brandy, and that means a lot to me.”

“
Really?
” It just came out. I mean, I already had a boyfriend. But not a boyfriend who was maybe the richest man in town.

“If it weren't for you, I . . . I wouldn't have gone back to Columbia.”

I smirked. “You saw yourself stuck here in Serenity, with some girl from the community college, you mean.”

“Don't be silly. Don't you remember? It was
you
who told me to get my act together.” He squeezed my hand. “That night you read me the Riot Act? Remember?”

I frowned. “Uh . . . over shots at the Brew?”

He nodded.

“I kinda remember. Sorta kinda. Maybe.”

Suddenly embarrassed, Wes released my hand. “Well, I better go find Vanessa.”

“Good luck,” I said.

After he'd gone, I sat back down in the grass, mulling the unpleasant scene with his wife.

Was there something different I could have done? Maybe reached out for that tree, caught myself, and not tumble into Wes's arms? I hadn't done that on purpose.

Had I?

Either way, I figured Vanessa would have been furious; just seeing us together would have been enough.

And I had another strong feeling—that her promise to Wes that “he would regret it,” sounded more like a threat.

Or maybe it
was
a promise....

 

 

A Trash ‘n' Treasures Tip

 

At a swap meet, you can find everything and anything under the summer sun—from antiques to auto parts, household cleaners to clothing, darning needles to diapers. One vendor was doing brisk business selling discounted male enhancement drugs before the swap meet association shut him down, making him dysfunctional.