Antiques Knock-Off (10 page)

“What if Mother refuses her so-called ‘rights’?”

“Then it’s important for
you
to understand them, so that she can still receive the best care possible.”

Good. That made sense.

The waitress brought our drinks, and trundled off (others can trundle in this book—it’s just me who isn’t allowed).

I said, “I can tell you for certain that Mother won’t go back on her medication … but she does love to blab and blather at her psychiatrist—he’s from India, and has a lot of patients
and
patience.”

Judith took a sip of her iced tea, then said, “Well, that’s one thing we have going for us. Having a psychiatrist monitor her mental condition is
very
important—especially for documentation.”

“How so?”

“I’m sure your attorney is preparing to contest that guilty plea, based upon your mother’s past history … but he will need your help. Do you think your mother would
sign a form giving you access to her mental health records?”

“She has in the past—several years ago. Is that one still good, d’you think?”

Judith shook her head. “You’ll need a new one signed.” She tapped the papers on the table. “There’s one in here I can leave with you—along with a list of minimum requirements for mental health services in jail.”

“Thanks.” I pulled the papers over to my side of the table. “You’re a lifesaver.”

“That’s an exaggeration, but you’re welcome. Now your lawyer … what was his name?”

“Wayne Ekhardt.”

“Mr. Ekhardt will want her to stay
off
the meds in order to have a stronger case.”

I nodded, my eyes wide. “I can see why sometimes families and lawyers can be at odds.”

“Which is why monitoring by a psychiatrist is so very important. If your Mother’s mental health deteriorates too much, she could suffer, and you don’t want that.”

Judith and I talked a while longer, until our waitress gave us the evil eye because the lunch hour was approaching. Then I paid the check, and we parted ways, each pledging to stay in touch.

Since I had left my car on Main Street in front of the Laurel Building, I took a shortcut through the back alley of the restaurant.

Halfway down the alley, I became aware of a car behind me, and moved over to let it pass. A black Lincoln Town Car with heavily tinted windows rolled slowly alongside me, then stopped.

A window powered down to reveal a female driver. “Senator Clark wishes to speak to you,” she said.

This was a woman with almond-shaped dark eyes and
straight black hair with bangs, cut chin-length, her scarlet red lipstick making a striking contrast against flawless skin, and matching the long red nails of her hands, which gripped the wheel. The top part of her—which was all I could see—was clothed in a tailored navy jacket over a cream-colored lace camisole.

The Lincoln’s rear door opened, revealing Senator Edward Clark himself, his hand on the handle.

A crummy alley was
not
where I had imagined meeting my biological father for the first time.

He gestured for me to climb in. I debated whether or not I should accept this invitation, but finally I did.

You probably know from TV what the senator looked like—about sixty, movie-star handsome. Hollywood might have cast Paul Newman to play this elder statesman, with his silver hair, tanned face, and sky-blue eyes. But Paul Newman was gone, and I had only the genuine article, outfitted in an expensive gray suit and white shirt with cuffs.

Anyway, he didn’t look
exactly
like Paul Newman. His facial features sort of looked like …

… mine.

He bestowed a disarming smile, showing teeth so perfect they surely were capped. “I’ve been trying to reach you since coming to town, Brandy—may I call you Brandy?”

My response was stilted and lame. “It’s my name.”

He went smoothly on. “But you either haven’t been home, or you weren’t answering the cell number Peggy Sue gave me.” His eyes went to the back of the driver’s head. “Denise …”

The woman turned; her gaze couldn’t have been colder if carved from granite.

“Brandy, this is Denise Gardner, my top aide.”

We nodded at each other.

“Denise, I need to speak to Ms. Borne privately. Please step out of the car for a few minutes, would you?”

She reacted, for just a split second, as if she’d been slapped; then she nodded again, and got out. Didn’t slam the door or anything. She walked down the alley, folded her arms, then turned her back to us.

“Now we can speak freely,” he said.

“What is it you want, Senator?”

The smiled faded a little. “Why, to meet you, of course.”

In a dark alley?

“You mean,” I said, “to find out if I’m
really
your daughter? Well, for that, you need a DNA test.”

Or a mirror.

I dug into a pocket of my yellow dress and withdrew the tissue I’d used in the courtroom, tossing it on the seat between us. “Maybe you can get something out of that,” I said.

He appeared hurt. “I can understand your hostility, Brandy … but you need to know that
I
didn’t know Peggy Sue had gotten pregnant. You simply
must
believe me.”

I said nothing.

He went on. “I was young, and made a terrible mistake. If I had known Peggy Sue had conceived, I promise you that I would have done the right thing.”

“You mean, married her? Or arrange an abortion? In which case, we wouldn’t be having this conversation, I guess. Kind of fitting we’re talking in a back alley, though.”

The senator didn’t miss a beat. “I wouldn’t have married her. I wasn’t in love with Peggy Sue …”

Wow! An honest politician.

“… and abortion is against my religious and personal beliefs. But I
would
have taken financial responsibility for you and her. And you would have had me in your life, as a father. A part-time father, but a father.”

I said, “It’s too late to talk about fatherhood, Senator. Not when my mother —I should say, my grandmother—will probably go to prison for the rest of her life because she wanted to protect your dirty little secret.”

“But what about
you,
Brandy?”

I grunted a nonlaugh. “You want my assurance that I won’t say anything? Well, don’t worry. I don’t want the embarrassment or the grief.”

“No, that isn’t what I meant. I … I’d like to get to know you better.”

I shook my head. “You don’t know me at all.” I reached for the door handle. “Excuse me. Sorry. I have to go.”

And I got out.

Denise heard the car door shut, wheeled. The aide’s sky-high tan heels seemed as inappropriate as the short navy skirt. As I was exiting the alley, she stepped forward, blocking my path. She grasped my arm, her clawlike nails digging in.

“The senator has spent a lifetime building his career,” she said sotto voce, to keep my father from hearing. “You better understand that I will
not
see it ruined.”

She may have been excluded from our private conversation in the car, but she knew
something.

“Let go,” I said, wrenching away, the sharp nails scratching my skin.

“Call it a friendly warning,” she whispered.

What I said in response was neither friendly nor fit for publication.

I backed away as the aide, heels clicking on brick, returned to the Town Car and resumed the driver’s seat. In another moment the vehicle was speeding off down the alley. I watched, wondering just how far the aide would take her “friendly warning.”

And I had to wonder whether the good senator had given up on fooling around with attractive female staffers.

A Trash ‘n’ Treasures Tip

For a novice collector, the best place to get the look of what authentic antiques are like is by visiting an exhibit at a museum or other facility. Look but don’t touch, however—I found out the hard way that a busted Weller vase can set you back a couple hundred bucks.

A
h, my dearest ones! This is Vivian Borne speaking, or should I say writing, or better yet
communicating,
because that is, after all, my speciality—communication at its most forceful, direct and succinct.

As my darling daughter Brandy allots me only one measly chapter per book (in
Antiques Flee Market
I was granted two, but again she has cut me back to a meager one, perhaps because I have upstaged her), this is my moment to set things straight, and defend myself.

In our first book,
Antiques Roadkill,
Brandy explained to me “point of view”—or POV as we novelists refer to it. She had told me that when I write my chapter, I am to remain in my own head. Now I ask you,
Who else’s head would I be in?

But to be fair, Brandy did point out something valuable and important about mystery novels: a who-done-it cannot be written from the
murderer’s
POV, because the reader would immediately know that the protagonist, often the very narrator, is the killer.

(Agatha Christie once broke this rule, and to this day there are those who criticize her for cheating. One can
only wonder if Miss Christie might have been more successful had she played by the rules.)

So, let’s get
that
out of the way!

Yes, I stabbed Connie. With the knife. I freely and fully admit it.

There is, however, one small detail that I must keep from you, dear reader. And I will accomplish this by simply
not thinking about it
while in my point of view!
Not thinking
is difficult, I admit, but I believe I can manage it….

Upon my arrival at the county jail—a new state-of-the-art brick building conveniently located across from the courthouse, meaning hardly anybody ever escapes en route to an arraignment—I was first placed in what they call a pod: a separate area to determine whether or not I was mentally capable of joining the rest of inmate population.

Well, of course I was capable! It’s not as if I’m deranged. Merely artistic.

Then, after my arraignment (little pregnant Brandy looked so sad that it almost broke my heart!), I was given my very own cell on the third floor, which was restricted to the female prisoners. The room was small but clean. There was a single bed (not too hard), a stainless-steel toilet and sink with mirror (not glass), and several shelves for storage.

A window—sans bars because it was too small for anyone to climb through (even Billy Buckly) (more about him later)—was nonetheless large enough to have some lovely sunshine stream in during the morning (vitamin D is so very important).

You may not realize this, but a great deal of thought goes into the sparse furnishings of a cell, due to various security issues. I would imagine there is some individual who goes around visiting cells, trying to hang him-or herself,
or cut him-or herself, or perhaps pry something up to use against a guard.

And should he/she succeed, that element is changed or removed. Maybe his/her occupation even has a name, perhaps Prison Cell Checker-Outer … which I think would be a marvelous line of work. Unless, of course, one managed to hang oneself.

But I digress.

In the county jail (hereafter referred to as CJ), the inmates wear identical garb, both men and women: orange short-sleeved V-neck top and matching pull-on slacks (elastic waistband, thank goodness), plus orange slip-on sneakers.

Years ago I had my skin and hair coloring evaluated, and it turned out that I was a “Fall,” meaning that I should wear clothing in the autumn color palette. And
nothing
says “fall” better than bright orange! Now I ask you, how lucky is that?

Bragging rights: I was responsible for this lovely new facility, because after I had landed in the crumbling, bug-infested old CJ on two occasions—once for trying to stop the destruction of one of Serenity’s historic buildings, later for driving through a cornfield to make curtain time, hitting a cow (accidentally)—I vowed to campaign for a new jail, just in case I continued to now and then vacation there.

So! My hard work had paid off—although I felt sure that after my sentencing, I’d be heading off to the Big House (as they say in the cinema), because few inmates remain in CJ for more than a year. But until then, I would have it pretty cushy. Three hots and a cot!

The first night in my cell was moderately pleasant if uneventful. I had decided to scratch a mark on the cement wall by my bed for each day that I had spent here, to keep
track of the time; but that ever-crafty “Prison Cell Checker-Outer” had done his/her job well, because I could find nothing around me that would make even the slightest scratch.

But he/she had not counted on Vivian Borne being in residence, because I was able to use my eyeglasses (the end thingamabob that goes around the ears) to accomplish my purpose.

I had also thought it would be apropos to print the words “Vivian was here” (a variation of the classic “Kilroy was here”) in some discreet place, so as to lift the spirits of the cell’s next inhabitant, and perhaps bring a smile to an unfortunate face. I was forced to abandon this project, however, as I was afraid of breaking my glasses with all that scratching, and I’m blind as a bat without them.

After lights out that first night, I lay on my small bed and began to sing, “Nooooo-body knows de trubble ah seen,” which I thought was appropriate and a really nice touch.

But apparently not everyone on the cell block agreed, because I only made it to “mah sorrow” when one of the women rudely shouted for me to shut the fudge up. (I have substituted a word to protect you from the harshness of jailhouse vocabulary, but the more worldly among you may be able to see through my subterfuge.)

Amazingly, several other inmates shouted agreement to this nasty sentiment, which I thought was wholly inappropriate (we’re not animals in cages, after all!). Still, as far as music goes, some people just don’t appreciate spirituals. Perhaps one of the modern classics would do the trick.

But when “Jailhouse Rock” brought a similar reaction from a few more women, I gave up. If they didn’t like the King, there was little use trying.