Antiques Knock-Off (19 page)

P
olice Chief Tony Cassato lived in a remote cabin out in the country, about a fifteen-minute drive from Serenity. I say “about” because—although I’d been to the cabin half a dozen times—Tony has never taken the same route when I was in the car with him.

I’d never been certain why his living quarters were only a little more secret than whatever undisclosed bunker they used to keep Dick Cheney in. Maybe Tony was protecting me from accidentally divulging the location during one of Mother’s inquisitions. Maybe he was shielding himself from me dropping by unannounced—he obviously valued his privacy. I couldn’t say.

As usual, he picked me up in his unmarked car promptly at the designated date time (seven
P.M.
), and also as usual, I was waiting on the porch, ready to hurry down the steps and hop in the front seat before Mother could waylay him. This I easily accomplished, so easily I suspect Mother was keeping a low profile after successfully pulling off her tape-recorder stunt that afternoon.

With the sweetest little smile, he said, “You look nice,” referring to my for-once styled hair, made-up face, and
low-cut pastel-floral maternity dress, showing off my swell new swell of bosom. (Might as well accentuate the positive.)

“It’s hard not to feel like a cow, at this stage,” I said.

“That’s bull,” he said with a twinkle, eyes on the road ahead, and we fell happily silent for the remainder of the drive.

One of the greatest things about Tony and me was that we could be quiet together—silence was not awkward for either of us; in fact, we welcomed it, after life with Mother (me) and life in a pressure cooker (him).

He took yet another route—I’d been born in Serenity, but he somehow knew the area far better than I—and it was twenty minutes this time before we slowly bumped down the narrow, foliage-chocked dirt lane that led to the cabin.

Tony’s dog, Rocky, alerted to our arrival, was waiting on the small wooden porch as we pulled up. To a stranger, the black-and-white mixed breed mutt with a k.o.ed circle around one eye (like the Little Rascals fido), could be taken for a formidable guard dog; but I had gotten to know the canine’s true nature: a lazy, lovable, slobbery kisser.

I got out of the car and Rocky trotted up, sniffing me, searching for a tantalizing whiff of Sushi. Since I’d just had a bath and the dress was new, the mutt gave me a “phooey” look, losing all interest, and quickly went over to his master, who was after all retrieving a sack of groceries from the back of the car. Even if I’d carried a whiff of shih tzu, food would have trumped it.

“I’m afraid there’s no air-conditioning,” he said as we went up the few steps to the porch. “But I’ll open all the windows, and there’s a nice breeze….”

Indeed, the wind had picked up, rustling the tall pines
surrounding the cabin in a whispered promise of a cooler night.

Inside, a pleasant, woodsy aroma awaited, the place roomier than it appeared from without. To the left as you went in was a cozy area with a fireplace and an overstuffed brown couch, along with a matching recliner; to the right, a four-chair round oak table shared space with a small china hutch. A short hallway led to a single bedroom, tiny bath, and kitchen, with a small porch on the back.

I noticed a certain change in decor immediately.

“What happened to your collection?” I asked, referring to the half dozen or so antiquated wooden snowshoes that had been nailed haphazardly to one wall.

Tony, having set down the bag of groceries, was hanging up his suit jacket and gun-in-shoulder-holster on a peg by the door. “It looked out of season,” he said with a shrug. “So I replaced it with my collection of fishing gear.”

And indeed he had: antique rods, wicker creels, and nets now graced the wall (also haphazardly). An attractive, slightly older man with a cabin in the woods and a decorative knack. What more could a girl ask for?

I nodded my approval. “The old rubber boot is a nice touch.”

He had such a nice smile when he bothered to use it. “Didn’t want you to think I’d never hooked anything with that gear—I landed that baby in the pond behind the cabin.”

And Mother said he didn’t have a sense of humor.

In the kitchen Tony unpacked the groceries (nothing that required a hot oven), and I set the table in the main room, using mismatched dishes from the hutch. While he arranged a variety of cold meat and cheese slices on a platter, I prepared an old family recipe from a list of ingredients
I’d provided Tony earlier for his grocery-shopping trip.

DANISH SALAD

1 cup unpeeled, cored, diced apples

⅓ cup blanched almonds, chopped

½ cup mayonnaise

1 tsp. sugar

2 stalks celery, diced

¼ cup plump raisins

¼ cup cream, whipped

White pepper

Combine apples, almonds, celery, and raisins. Mix together mayonnaise, sugar, and whipped cream. Combine fruit mixture and dressing. Season with pepper to taste. Chill.

While we were completing our kitchen tasks, Rocky stood by, ever watchful for spills. Since there weren’t any, which was driving the poor pooch bonkers, I waited till Tony turned his back for a moment, then slipped the mutt a slice of turkey.

“I saw that,” Tony said.

Cops. He either had eyes in the back of his head, or knew me too well.

“Once you start that,” he chided, “he won’t let you stop. Fair warning.”

As the salad chilled in the small fridge, we made fresh lemonade, using real lemons, sugar, water, and ice.

Dinner was peaceful and pleasant, with the breeze flowing in from the windows, and we kept to safe, crime-free,
Mother-free
topics (no sense in getting indigestion), like our mutual interests in movies and antiques.

The aftermath of the meal required little cleanup, and by eight-thirty, we had retired to the couch, Rocky plopping down in front of the fireplace on a tan throw rug, his large head resting on crossed paws, his belly full of the meat and cheese I had snuck him under the table (as he kept nudging my leg with his nose—Tony was right).

But the subterfuge cemented our friendship—Rocky and me were tight now.

And if a man’s dog loves you, you are in solid.

I stretched my legs out on an ottoman, kicking off my pink flats, revealing my poor feet, swollen from the heat, not to mention pregnancy. Tony noticed, too, and leaned forward to massage them.

“No Technicolor toes this time?” he asked, referring to my penchant for multiple neon nail polish.

“Not since you made fun of me,” I said, faking hurt feelings.

“Don’t give me that. You like the attention. Like this …” And he ran his thumb along the sole of my right foot.

I let out an orgasmic sigh. This was about as much fun as a seven-month-plus-preggers girl could manage on a hot date….

Finished with the massage, he sat back, put one arm around me, and I leaned my head against his strong shoulder; we stared at the unlit fireplace, where in cooler weather, flames had danced, warming our bodies and our hearts. Somehow the memory of the fire seemed just as warm.

“Tony?”

“Ummm?”

“Can I ask you something personal?”

“Maybe.”

“Why do you like me?”

“What kind of question is that? Of course I—”

“I’m not looking for compliments or anything.”

He breathed in deeply through his nose. “Well … let me count the ways. You have chutzpah—although it doesn’t always manifest itself in a good way.”

“Oh?”

He nodded. “You can be reckless. But your heart’s in the right place.”

“Yeah, it is. Right here …”

And I placed his hand over a very plump breast.

“Now you’re just being mean,” he said.

But he left it there.

“Tell me more good things about me,” I said.

“Okay. I admire the way you’ve overcome adversity.”

“Like having Mother to deal with on a daily basis?”

“That, and more.”

Pause. “Any time you want to say ‘pretty,’ I think I’m ready.”

He squeezed my breast very gently, removed his hand, and kissed the tip of my nose. “That goes without saying.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Okay. But you’re not pretty.”

“No?”

“You’re beautiful.”

And he kissed me.

To the outside world, he seemed cold; but this kiss wasn’t cold. Nor was the way I returned it. When our lips finally parted, he asked, “And what about me?”

“Okay. You’re pretty.”

He laughed. “I gave it a serious shot. Come on. You, too.”

I thought for a moment. “You’re intelligent—if a little bullheaded … strong, and … mysterious.”

“But not
really
pretty?”

“No.”

“How about … handsome?”

“Oh. Well. That goes without saying….”

We kissed again.

Some minutes later, we settled back against the couch, and I broke the romantic mood. Partly I did that because there was only so far and only so many places a make-out session with a thoroughly knocked-up Brandy could go. But also because there was a subject that needed broaching.

“Senator Edward Clark is my father,” I announced.

Tony didn’t surprise easily. But the only way to accurately describe his expression was “agape.”

He blinked and managed,
“What?”

“I mean, he’s my
real
father. As in biological? Mother is really my grandmother … biologically speaking. Are you okay? That vein in your forehead is throbbing….”

Tony pulled away enough to look at my face, a wide-eyed questioning look on his.

“It’s true,” I said with a matter-of-fact nod. “I spoke to Senator Clark just the other day. The senator admits that he and Peggy Sue had an affair the summer she was working on his campaign … thirty years ago or so. She got pregnant. You’re looking at the result.”

I didn’t mention that Peg had been seventeen at the start of the affair. He was a cop, after all, and certain uncomfortable statutory issues were better off not explored.

No longer agape, his expression serious, in full interrogation mode, he asked, “Did you hear this from Peggy Sue?”

I nodded. “But only
after
I confronted her—she originally claimed my real biological father was some auto mechanic who died in Vietnam. But it was Connie Grimes
who shared that scandalous little tidbit about my birthright.”

“How did she tell you?”

“In one of her frequent anonymous letters a few months ago.”

He frowned. “Anonymous letters—did she threaten you in any way?”

“Why? Were you thinking of prosecuting her? We’d need a Ouija board. You aren’t looking at me like a … a suspect, are you?”

“No. Not at all. But please go on. This is information I need to have.”

“Okay.” I paused, then continued. “I don’t know
how
Connie knew about the pregnancy. She worked at that campaign office, too, way back when, so maybe she saw something, heard something, even just guessed.”

He was nodding.

“Or figured it out from something Peggy Sue said, either at the time or over the years—hard to believe, but Peg and Connie were friends, ran in the same social-climbing circles. Whatever the case, once Connie knew about me and my real father, that was all it took to send her into high gear and start causing
real
trouble.”

I then told Tony about my morning meeting with the senator, who had divulged that Connie tried to blackmail him to keep the information quiet, but that he sent her packing. I realized my father had probably told me this in confidence, and telling the Serenity chief of police about the attempted blackmail almost certainly would have repercussions.

But this was a murder case. And even Connie Grimes deserved to have her murder solved. And her murderer caught and punished. And maybe thanked….

Tony had removed his arm from around me, and was sitting forward in thought. As I had suspected, this information was news to him.

I continued. “Please understand—I’m not trying to cast suspicion on Senator Clark for Connie’s murder. I really don’t think he had anything to do with it … but I’m not so sure about that aide of his—Denise Gardner?”

Tony frowned, glancing back. “What makes you say that?”

“Oh, only her threatening me twice about keeping my mouth shut about my relationship with the senator … because of the upcoming election.” I laughed bitterly. “I think she thinks this”—I gently patted my bulging baby bump—“was
more
of the senator’s handiwork.”

Tony’s eyebrows went up.

“No, she isn’t
that
twisted…. I just don’t think Senator Clark has shared any of the particulars with her. She did know Connie was trying to blackmail him, but I don’t think she knows the details.”

“If she thinks the senator is responsible for that”—he looked pointedly at my tummy—“maybe she
should
be told.”

I shrugged. “Anyway, I … I just wanted you to know that. All of it.”

Tony’s face turned darkly serious. “You’re afraid of the Gardner woman?”

“I don’t know!” But the way I blurted that said
yes.
“Maybe I’m just paranoid, or maybe my pregnant hormones are running wild—but sometimes I feel like I’m seeing a killer around every corner.”

He took my hand in his. “If it’s any consolation, Brandy, we are very close to making an arrest—we just need more evidence. I’m just glad that this time you and your mother are not sticking your noses in … her big one
and your pretty little one. If you
were,
I’d be worried for your safety.”

“Well,” I said, with a smile that I hoped was credible, “thank heavens for that. The sooner this investigation is over, the better. You wouldn’t want to tell me who your suspect is …?”

“No.”

“Even if I promised not to tell Mother?”

“No. She might chloroform you and haul you over to that Tilda woman to hypnotize it out of you.”

That made me giggle, but I wasn’t entirely sure he was kidding.

“All things considered, though,” Tony said, “please stay home—unless you’re with
me
… you’ll be safe then. And if it’ll make you feel better, I can have a patrol car make regular swings by your house.” He patted the hand in my lap. “But I don’t think you’re in any danger.”