Antiques Knock-Off (17 page)

His eyes remained narrow and suspicious. “Really. I believe I sold your sister an Escalade just like that.”

I gave him a mischievous smile. “Boy, it would really get her goat if I got one like hers.”

Fred grunted. “Heard all kinds of reasons for buying a car—that’s a first.”

“Peg and me, we don’t exactly get along.”

“I’ve heard.”

From Connie, no doubt.

“Really just a friendly rivalry,” I said lamely.

He clearly didn’t care either way. In fact, his body language indicated he was about to turn and let me browse on my own.

So I blurted again. This time it was: “How about a test drive?”

He studied me a moment, weighing the possible waste of his time. “In this Cadillac?”

“Absolutely.” I was chipper as all heck. Making myself sick. “My ex’s money is burnin’ a hole in my pocket-book.”

But then he shrugged. “Why not.” He didn’t have enough energy to make a question out of it. “Not like we’re busy.”

Fred excused himself, walked over and into a rectangular building distinguished only by the famous automotive logos in its showroom windows, then returned a few minutes later with the keys.

I climbed in behind the wheel, adjusted the seat, fixed the belt comfortably around my baby bulge, turned the car on, and got the air conditioner going full blast—the
other
hidden agenda of this visit.

Fred, in the passenger seat, said, “If you take Tipton Road out of town, you can judge for yourself how smooth the ride is.”

The asphalt highway was notorious for cracks and potholes, and in my delicate condition I wasn’t sure such a route was wise; but this had been my idea, hadn’t it? So I steered the Escalade across the bypass and took the turnoff.

I hit a few potholes on purpose, barely feeling the bumps.

“This
is
a nice ride,” I agreed. Then said, “Fred, I know this is awkward for you. Connie and I were not exactly friends, but I really am sorry for your loss.”

He took a moment to answer. “You’re not sorry.”

That was cold.

He gave a rumpled sideways smile that ranked with the worst smiles I ever saw. “And you know what else? I’m not sorry either.”

You’ve probably noticed by now that I don’t shock easily. But Fred’s frankness left me speechless.

“Not happy she was
killed,”
he amended, “but not sorry she’s gone. I don’t like thinking she spent her last moments in pain … and fear …”

He touched the thumb and middle finger of his right hand to the bridge of his nose, momentarily.

Then he went on. “And don’t think I didn’t love her once … but we haven’t had a marriage for quite some time. She was a lovely young woman but grew into an unpleasant envious one—did you know that neither of our boys flew home for her funeral? Her own sons.”

My eyes were getting damp now. Not for her. For him.

His big shoulders shrugged. “For a lot of years, she went her way, and I went mine. We even kept separate bank accounts—along with bedrooms…. Does that cover everything you wanted to know, Brandy?”

Obviously, he was no dope. But
I
was feeling like one. I slowed the car, pulling it onto the shoulder, then, leaving it idling, looked at him. “Yes, Fred, you covered a lot of it. Could I ask you about a couple of other things?”

His grin was sudden. “Drove her crazy, you know, you and your mother, lately. Getting in the papers all the time playing
Murder She Wrote.
She hated that almost as much as she envied that sister of yours…. Go ahead, Brandy. Ask.”

“Okay, no easy way to ask this, Fred, but … I’d like to know why the police couldn’t find you the morning she was murdered.”

His eyes widened and he grinned again, bigger but not as awful; this was just amusement. Utter amusement. “Oh!
I
get it! You’re wondering if I stuck that knife in her. Sorry to disappoint you, sweetie. I didn’t. Anything else I can do for you? Wanna test-drive a Mercedes or anything?”

“Where
were
you?”

Fred turned his face to the windshield, contemplating whether or not to answer. Then he shrugged. “You’ll figure it out anyway, because we’re gonna get married soon.”

“Married?”

“Yeah.” He nodded toward my tummy. “You seem familiar with the birds and the bees. I was with my girlfriend, at
her
place.”

Some alibi. About as good as the one Fred MacMurray had in
Double Indemnity
.

“Now, turn this car around,” he growled, “and stop wasting my time. If I’m on the lot, I might even sell a damn car today. Stranger things have happened.”

I arrived home, sweaty and crabby. Although the house was cool inside, it apparently wasn’t cold enough for my furball friend, who for once did not greet me dancing at the door, wanting to play. Instead I found her in the kitchen, on her tummy, spread-eagled on the cool tile floor.

Mother flew in from the dining room.

“It’s about
time
you got home!” she said, eyes wild behind the glasses. She was wearing the blue cotton housedress she reserved only for the hottest of days. “We haven’t a moment to lose! Chief Cassato has agreed to see me, and we
must
go before he changes his mind.”

Or came to his senses….

I groaned. “Please tell me this doesn’t have anything to do with hypnosis.”

“Look into my eyes! It has
everything
to do with hypnosis, dear. I’ve already spoken to Tilda, and she is ready, willing, and able to put Rhonda under her spell.”

For the uninitiated, meet Matilda “Tilda” Tompkins—New Age guru, part-time hypnotist, and full-time kook. She lived in a dilapidated house opposite the cemetery,
rooming with a dozen cats, all (she claims) reincarnations of souls dead and buried across the way. Any questions?

“Mother,” I said, straining for patience, “you’ll just be wasting the chief’s time.”

“No, dear,
you’re
wasting
our
time. Now chop chop!” And she brushed by me, heading out the door to the car.

There was no dissuading Mother once she had that determined look on her face. And hadn’t I promised to take her wherever she wanted to go, if she took her medication? A deal was a deal.

I did find solace in the fact that at least I’d get to see Tony. We hadn’t had a chance to spend any time together since Sushi and I stumbled onto the late Connie Grimes.

The modern redbrick building of the dual police station/fire department was located next to the jail, kitty-corner from the courthouse. As per Mother’s instructions, I parked in a handicapped spot near the front entrance, hanging the required tag from the rearview mirror.

(Mother had gotten the tag years ago when she had surgery for an ingrown toenail, and continues to make use of it, even though I have consistently warned her that she will spend an eternity driving around Hell, looking for a parking place.)

We entered the station, then walked through the utilitarian waiting area and up to the female dispatcher, sequestered behind the bullet-proof (but, unfortunately, not Mother-proof) glass.

The middle-aged, brown-haired, bespectacled woman, whose name tag said DIANE, glanced up from her monitor. Mother leaned in to the microphone embedded in the glass, announcing herself using the painfully artificial British aristocrat accent she reserved to impress peons. “Vivian Borne to see the chief at
his
invitation.”

Diane just looked at her.

Mother continued. “The chief and I have vital business to conduct, so your prompt attention would be
most
appreciated.”

I had learned that in moments like this, I could do one of two things: (a) retreat a few steps behind Mother’s back and make “crazy” circles with my finger at my head, or (b) pretend nothing was wrong, taking a perverse pleasure in watching Mother’s victim squirm.

I usually chose “b.” Quality entertainment comes no cheaper.

But the dispatcher did not squirm; neither did she smirk at Mother’s behavior, merely saying in a businesslike manner, “I’ll buzz you on in, Mrs. Borne.”

“Thank
you, my dear,” said Lady Vivian Borne. Then to me, her accent suddenly gone, she whispered, “I think Diane is on the brink of cultivation.”

Here’s what Mother meant: once she had found a dispatcher’s weakness—which could be anything from a desire for a part in Mother’s next play to an autographed glossy of George Clooney (secretly signed by Mother, of course)—Mother would have an “in” at the police station. Since the previous, Mother-cultivated dispatcher had been dispatched to another assignment (precisely for helping her), Vivian Borne was in need of a new mole.

We moved through a steel-plated door—Mother in the lead—into the inner-station sanctum, then down a long beige-tiled corridor whose tedium was broken by walls lined with group photos of policemen of bygone days. Somehow I always felt they were looking at us in an accusatory fashion, but Mother never seemed to notice.

As we went by the interview room, where only a short time ago Mother had been languishing on a murder charge, she gave it not a glance, marching on ahead of me as if she were the chief herself or maybe the mayor.

The office of the actual chief was the last door on the
left (didn’t that sound ominous?), and Mother beat me there, sailing on in—it stood open. As I trailed after, she was already plopping down in the nearest of two chairs opposite the chief seated at his desk.

Tony, in a starched light blue shirt and navy tie, gave me the briefest of smiles before reverting to his standard expressionless mask.

Mother chirped ridiculously, “You wanted to see me, Chief?” Fortunately, the British accent was gone; but now she sounded jaunty, like Jean Arthur in a Frank Capra movie or maybe Lois Lane on the old
Superman
show.

I rolled my eyes. Do you think if a person rolls her eyes too much that they eventually might just fall out? And bounce away like little rubber balls? I was starting to wonder.

Tony was saying with admirable patience, “I believe
you
asked to see
me,
Vivian. Well, here we are.”

“Yes! Here we are. Together again.”

Perhaps Tony had a similar concern for his eyes, because he managed not to roll them. “Please make it brief. I’m busy.”

Mother waved one hand. “Well,
of course
you are! Do you think I don’t understand the grave responsibilities you face? The pressures and demands of your high office? Would I waste your time just to come in and babble on and on and on, like The Madwoman of Chaillot? No. I will be succinct.”

Bouncy bouncy. Bouncy bouncy.

She was settling into the chair like she might stay a while. “As you’ll recall, I was recently in the hoosegow …”

Tony closed his eyes.

“… and while I was serving my time, I had the pleasure of making the acquaintance of a charming young woman named Rhonda.”

“Yes,” Tony snapped, “I’m well aware of Rhonda.”

So much for patience.

He was saying, “We’ve questioned her in relation to the Connie Grimes investigation. And she could give us no pertinent information. Is that all, Vivian?”

I asked, “Was Rhonda cooperative?”

Tony nodded. “I believe she understood that helping us might benefit her when it comes time for sentencing. But I’m afraid she couldn’t come up with anything useful.”

Mother raised a finger. “Ah … but I believe she still
can.”

She made him wait for it.

With perhaps a hint of Brit, she intoned, “I have been doing some research on the Internet …”

Oh, no,
I thought.
Not
the Internet, where anyone can make a case for anything, true or false. Not the fine folks at Wikipedia again!

Mother went on. “I feel quite certain that if Rhonda is put under hypnosis, she will remember who came and went from the Grimes habitat the morning of the murder. She may have seen a good deal, while holed up with her loot in the house across the street.” She pressed on before Tony’s open mouth could produce a word. “I would assume you have heard of Serenity’s own Matilda Tompkins, and her amazing powers of hypnosis?”

Tony’s eyebrows shot up. Who in town didn’t know about the crazy cat guru? His mouth remained open. And wordless.

“Well,” Mother said, with the sly smile of Perry Mason just as the final clue came to him and the culprit was about to be unmasked in the courtroom, “Tilda has agreed—with your
permission,
of course—to hypnotize Rhonda.” She cackled. Yes, cackled. “You would be astonished by the secrets we all have running rampant in our subconsciousness.” That didn’t sound quite right to her, and she added, “… es.”

Tony sat forward slowly, eyes glued to Mother. “In certain cases, Vivian, I don’t think I’d be ‘astonished’ in the least.”

I almost giggled. But we were in a police station, after all.

“Then you agree we should put Rhonda with Tilda,” Mother said, a statement not a question.

I sat forward. This would be a new record for the chief—shutting down Mother’s latest wild scheme in five minutes flat….

But Tony said, “Yes, Vivian. I agree. But
I’ll
make the arrangements.”

“Excellent!”

“And
you
are not to be present during the hypnosis.”

Mother sat forward, alarmed. “By ‘present,’ do you mean, in the room during the process?”

“No. I mean on the premises.”

Mother scoffed, “Surely I can be in the
outer
room.”

“No.”

“How about on the porch?”

Tony shook his head.

“In the front yard?”

“No! And not in the backyard, either. You will be at
home,
Vivian, minding your own business, and out of our hair.”

Mother looked crestfallen.

I said, “What if I promise to keep Mother under control in the outer room? After all, it’s because of
her
that both Matilda and Rhonda have already agreed to the session. You take Mother entirely out of the equation, and who’s to say whether these women will even want to cooperate with the police?”

Tony studied me for a moment. Could I be trusted?

Well, could I?