Antiques Knock-Off (18 page)

The sigh must have started down around the toes of his Florsheims. “All right, Brandy.” He pointed a finger like a gun at Mother. “But no shenanigans.”

She had a loony smile on her mug as she crossed her heart.

He frowned at her. “And don’t think you’ll be getting any information out of that cat-happy hypnotist, either. She’ll be asked to leave the room once Rhonda has been put under, and instructed to answer our questions.”

Mother acted hurt. “Why, I wouldn’t do anything so unethical as to pry sensitive information out of Tilda … and Chief, a word of advice—you may not want to disparage the woman’s cats. Who knows? You may be buried across the way yourself someday, and might wind up wanting a saucer of milk.”

“Very funny,” Tony grunted.

Mother glanced at me. She hadn’t been joking.

Tony stood, thanked us for coming, and ushered us out into the hall. Mother marched victoriously on ahead, but Tony took my arm, gently.

“I’d like to see you tonight,” he half whispered.

I smiled. “Thought you’d never ask.”

“Pick you up at seven?”

“I’ll wear my dancing shoes.”

But of course, we wouldn’t go dancing, or anywhere else the public could cast its disapproving eye on Serenity’s Top Cop, out with a divorced woman (pregnant at that) and at least fifteen years younger than him.

Instead we would go to his secluded cabin, fix dinner together, and cuddle by the fire. What more could a girl want? (A sane mother, maybe?)

By midafternoon, Tony had arranged for Rhonda to be released into police custody, with the hypnosis set to take place in Matilda’s home at four o’clock. Of course,
Mother insisted we be there an hour beforehand (Mother trusted Tony even less than he trusted her).

The house across from the cemetery was the kind of white two-story clapboard that people nowadays call shabby chic, but with an emphasis on the shabby. And, in Tilda’s case, the tabby.

The hypnotist was one of Mother’s hundreds of “very close friends,” a list you got on via your willingness to put up with her. As I pulled our currently air-conditioning-free car up to the curb, our hostess was waiting in the shade of the weathered porch, seated in a white, paint-peeling wicker rocking chair.

Tilda was pushing fifty but could easily pass for forty with her slender figure, long golden red hair, and translucent skin, usually sans make-up, youthful freckles scattered carelessly across the bridge of her nose. She was wearing her standard Bohemian attire—plaid madras long full skirt, white peasant blouse, and Birkenstock sandals.

As Mother and I approached, Tilda stood and displayed an obviously anxious expression.

“Why, Tilda,” Mother said, “you’re looking lovely as ever.”

“Thank you, Vivian,” the woman said. “Come inside, out of the heat.”

Soon we were in a small living room that had been transformed into a mystic shrine of soothing candles, healing crystals, and swirling mobiles of planet and stars—all for sale, as this was also her shop. Incense scent tinged the air, and from somewhere drifted the tinkling electronic sound of New Age music.

At the moment, only five cats were at large, lounging on the couch, recliner, and an oak rocker, over to which Tilda went, making a shooing motion.

“Scat, Eugene Lyle Wilkenson!” she commanded. “Make room for Brandy.”

The yellow tabby regarded Tilda with bored eyes, then jumped down, and I took its place.

I had kind of a hard time believing this particular cat—which showed up as a kitten on Tilda’s porch the day after Mr. Wilkenson’s funeral—was the incarnation of the man, who had owned a dog kennel. If so, the dog lover must have had some bad karma to wind up a kitty.

(NOTE TO SELF: do not be buried across the street from Tilda Tompkins.)

Mother said to me, as if I were another of the cats, “Now, stay put, Brandy—Tilda and I have some business to attend to in the hypnosis suite.”

I stopped rocking.
“Mother!
Remember what the chief said? No shenanigans! You agreed.”

Mother laughed once. “My dear, I don’t remember agreeing to any such thing. Perhaps
you
agreed, but
I
didn’t. And in any case, Webster defines a shenanigan as ‘a devious trick used especially for an underhand purpose,’ and nothing I have in mind would
begin
to so qualify.”

How many times had I been caught in Mother’s web over such technicalities?

I pointed a warning finger. “Fine! But if you get into trouble, I won’t help you get out of it!”

Mother smiled sweetly. “In the unlikely event that I should ‘get into trouble,’ I of course know that I can always depend upon you, my dear, for your aid and assistance.”

And Mother took Tilda by the elbow, as if showing a guest to a church pew at a wedding, leading the hypnotist helpfully off to her own hypnosis room.

When is that medication going to kick in, anyway?

Fuming, I rocked faster, wondering what Mother had promised Matilda for her part in the conspiracy. What were they up to? Should I sneak in there and find out?

Thinking about Tony, I decided that the less I knew the better. Better a victim in this than an accomplice.

After only a few minutes, the two ladies returned. Tilda was in the process of shooing several other cats off the floral cat-hair-covered couch so the two women could sit, when Mother gasped.

She was staring out the front window. “They’re
here
already!” Eyes and nostrils flaring, Mother turned to Tilda. “Didn’t I tell you that that Tony Cassato can simply
not
be trusted? Thank goodness
we
came early!”

I stood and crossed to the window, also registering surprise. Not because the police car arrived ahead of schedule—I had expected that—but because it wasn’t Tony exiting the vehicle.

The officer in charge, and now opening the back door for Rhonda, was Brian Lawson.

Mother said, “Oh, Brandy! Look! How nice—it’s your old boyfriend.”

Where was
Tony?
Why had he entrusted the session to someone else? Brian was certainly competent enough, under normal circumstances, just no match for Mother.

Rhonda, in her orange prison garb, hands shackled behind her, was escorted up the walk. Her brown hair stringy, she had a smug look going, and I wondered if once she got inside, the prisoner might have a change of mind and not go through with the hypnosis. Or make a break for it or something….

Tilda opened the front door, and Brian—hand on the arm of his charge—stepped through with Rhonda.

Mother said cheerfully, “Ah, Officer Lawson—how nice to see that
you
will be handling the session. You have a much lighter, more compassionate touch than your chief.”

The prisoner gave the young officer a sideways smirk.

“And how thoughtful it was of you to help me, Rhonda.”

Now Mother was doing the Beach Boys….

Brian’s puppy-dog brown eyes went to me and—perhaps because of my quizzical expression—he offered, “The chief had a problem at the station and couldn’t be here.”

But he gave no details.

“Oh, that’s unfortunate,” Mother said disingenuously. “For all his faults, he is a
very
experienced officer.” Her eyes went to Rhonda. “My, you’re looking well, my dear. Have you lost some weight? The Pilates balls must be working.”

“It ain’t the balls,” she snapped. “It’s the lousy food!”

“Yes, it
was
terrible …”

“That’s not what I mean, Viv! Thanks to
you
stickin’ your nose in, now all we get is healthy stuff. Ugh!”

“You’ll come to thank me for it, dear,” Mother said, adding, “and again I’d like to thank you for agreeing to a mind-probe session.”

“Ain’t doin’ it for
you,
Viv,” Rhonda said with a sneer. “Doin’ it for
me.”
Her angry eyes looked at Brian. “I better get a reduced sentence, if I give you guys good info.”

Patiently Brian said, “You’ve been told, Rhonda, we can’t promise anything. But the judge will be informed of your cooperation.”

The sneer vanished, her expression almost pleading. “Come on, it’s gotta look really good on my record, right? Small change like me helping catch a killer? That’s gotta be worth
something.”

Brian’s voice turned gentle. “Rhonda, you cooperate today, I will personally put a good word in.”

The woman sighed. “All right, then—let’s
do
it….”

Tilda, silent until now, spoke in a firm, businesslike manner. “How shall we proceed, Officer?”

“Well, first,” Brian said lightly, “I need your permission
to inspect the hypnosis room, to make sure that there’s nothing in there that might compromise the session.”

I glanced at Mother, who wore her most angelic face.

Tilda seemed a little apprehensive, but compliant, saying, “I’m all right with that, Officer. The suite’s just off the kitchen. Shall I take you there?”

“I’ll find my way, thank you.”

Leaving Rhonda with us, Brian disappeared into the back. I returned to the rocker while Mother and Tilda sat on the couch, a couple of cats materializing to curl up at their feet. Rhonda, preferring to stand, seemed to notice the decor for the first time, her eyes flitting over the New Age trappings.

Several minutes passed in silence, before Rhonda said, “What kind of crap is this, anyway?”

Tilda sat forward, poised to defend her lifestyle to her shackled guest, when Brian came back in, moving quickly to an abrupt halt.

In one hand was a small tape recorder, which he held up accusingly.

Mother’s face turned crimson, and she stuttered, “Oh, my, how … however did
that
get in there?”

“However indeed?” Brian said dryly. He crossed to the couch, tossed the recorder between Mother and Tilda. “Yours I presume?”

Mother’s expression turned sheepish. “Yes, I’m afraid it is. Well! You can’t blame a girl for trying! Brian, I don’t have to tell you how much the police have benefitted from my, and Brandy’s, sleuthing efforts. Your chief is cutting his own throat, keeping me out of the loop!”

“Is
he?”

Her expression now became contrite. “Please don’t blame Tilda for this, or Brandy—they were both blissfully unaware of the little gizmo’s presence.”

Well, I had been, anyway. But I wouldn’t say “blissfully.”

Brian straightened and let out a deep sigh. “All right, then. I think we’re ready for the session.” And he proceeded to set the ground rules.

Mother and I were to remain in the New Age shrine/shop, while Brian, Matilda, and Rhonda would be sequestered in the hypnosis suite. Once Rhonda had been hypnotized and instructed to answer Brian’s questions—restricted to who and what she had seen the morning of the murder—Tilda was to leave the room, reentering only when summoned by Brian, to bring Rhonda out of her trance.

During the session I spent my time (a) chiding Mother about her failed espionage attempt, (b) petting the cats, and then (c) ignoring those cats because my eyes began to itch.

After about half an hour, Brian called out to Tilda—who had spent her time dusting the many sale items in her living room—and she set down her duster and scurried off.

In another few minutes, Brian appeared with the handcuffed Rhonda, Tilda bringing up the rear.

Mother jumped up from the couch. “Well, how did it go? Was my suggestion a success?”

As if Brian would actually tell her.

“Fine,” he said pleasantly. “But that’s
all
you get, Vivian.”

Mother guffawed. “Well, yes, certainly! It’s not as if I were trying to pry any information out of you, Officer Lawson. I am merely an interested member of the public.”

“Right,” Brian said.

Behind the thick lenses, Mother’s tiny magnified eyes bore in on Rhonda.

The woman shrugged. “Don’t ask me, Viv—I don’t remember
nothing … but funny thing is, I feel like I had a good rest, and yet I’m sleepy at the same time. Weird, huh?” She yawned loudly, then turned to Brian. “Can we go? I want that butterscotch Dilly Bar from the Dairy Queen you promised me.” Her eyes flashed accusingly Mother’s way. “We don’t get anything good like that in jail anymore.”

I said, “We better go too, Mother.” The sooner this afternoon came to an end, the better I liked it. Besides, I needed some time to get ready for my date tonight with Tony.

“Very well, dear,” Mother said, picking up her purse from the floor by the couch. “But first, I need a glass of water—why, I’m so dry I could spit cotton! Tilda, I’ll get it myself.”

Outside, the car had turned into an oven even with the windows rolled down.

“Well, that sure was a waste of our time,” I grumbled, climbing behind the wheel.

Next to me, Mother in mock innocence said, “Was it, dear?”

I twisted toward her.
“Wasn’t
it?”

“I shouldn’t think so! I have the whole session on tape.”

“But Brian found the recorder!”

“He found the decoy—the one I
wanted
to be found—not the
other
one, more carefully concealed.”

Which she must have retrieved when getting the glass of water.

I groaned, “Oh, Mother! You’re going to get us into
so much
trouble!”

Her brow furrowed and she rested a thoughtful finger against one cheek. “In a way, dear, it’s a pity that you ever broke up with that nice young Brian Lawson—such a nice young man, handsome … and putty in my hands. Chief Cassato makes a much more formidable opponent.”

“So this is just a game to you?”

She gazed at me with eyes as serious as the intent behind all her seeming fun and games. “No, dear, not in the least. I am trying to catch a murderer who killed a woman in cold blood. Even if she did deserve it.”

Interesting point of view.

“Did it ever occur to you, dear, that if you had arrived at the house and strolled in a while earlier, and the killer had still been there—there might have been
two
women on the floor with knives in their chests?”

Actually, it hadn’t. The car remained an oven, but I felt a chill.

A Trash ‘n’ Treasures Tip

If duplicates of the same antique begin popping up at a number of shows and fairs, it’s safe to assume they are reproductions. Buy one of these, and you’re the dupe.