Antiques Knock-Off (21 page)

Tina smiled. “Brandy.”

I had just gotten my bawling under control and now
this
honor, after all I’d done….

“Really?”
Mother acted like she had tasted something sour, tending to her blubbering offspring by taking a post across the bed from Tina and Kevin, and absentmindedly handing me tissues off the bedstand. “Is that set in
stone,
dear? Because, you know old-fashioned names are making a comeback! Oh, like Abigail, and there’s Charlotte, and Ella, even Isabel, and what else? Vivian, possibly.”

I smiled, snorting snot. I wasn’t sure if Mother was kidding, but I didn’t care. She’d made me smile. Even laugh, because that’s what that snort had been, mostly.

Kevin grinned at her and said, “We like Brandy.”

Mother sighed. “Well, at least it isn’t a
made-up
name. When Brandy’s name was chosen, it was inspired by a popular song, and it never occurred to me that the little girl was being named after an alcoholic beverage. That kind of thing can haunt and traumatize a tyke and cause them to grow up to be extremely neurotic and willful. Of course, your little girl can always have it changed later if she doesn’t like it.”

“You know,” I said, not smiling as much now, “I
am
right here.”

“Yes, dear, of course,” Mother said. “I meant in no way to disparage you…. How
are
you, by the way?”

“Fine. Thank you for getting around to asking.”

Mother clapped her hands and beamed. “I have just
seen
the little angel! They had her out of the incubator for a moment, and she is drinking formula like a fish!”

Probably more like a minnow,
I thought.

Tina practically leapt from her chair. “Really? Oh, Kevin, let’s go see her. Maybe they’ll let us hold her for a second!”

In a moment the hopeful, joyful couple had gone, and Mother took one of the chairs.

“Dear,” she began, her tone shifting into serious mode, “I’m not clear on what exactly happened on your date with the chief.”

So I swore her to secrecy—as secret as Mother could be expected to be, that is—and related the events of last evening.

For a moment, she said nothing—not as unusual for her as you might think, when she was really drinking in the good stuff.

Finally she said, “You know, dear, I
suspected
that Chief Cassato had run into some trouble back East, before he came here.”

“I thought you’d just made that up.”

“Oh, no. Have you forgotten who the real detective on this team is?”

“Spill.”

Mother shifted in her chair. Her expression was an odd cocktail of equal parts pride and chagrin. “Well, dear, on a certain occasion I was left to my own devices in the chief’s office alone, and I—quite innocently—stumbled across something.”

“You haven’t done anything innocent since around 1936.”

She frowned, then huffed, “Are you interested in hearing this or not?”

“Yes. Sorry. Didn’t mean to disparage
you.”

Mother straightened, chin high, as if to suggest she was of a noble breed quite incapable of doing anything untoward.
“Quite innocently
I happened upon a letter from the Attorney General’s office in New Jersey, warning Chief Cassato about mob retaliation.”

Hence the rumor that had circulated around Serenity. And Tony’s cabin precautions.

I frowned at her. “Do you realize how dangerous spreading that around was? You could have been the instigator of what happened out at that cabin!”

“I don’t think so, dear. I don’t think any of the ladies I exchange, uh, news with would likely have any underworld connections…. Ah, speak of the devil!”

Tony was entering the room. “Nice to see you, too, Vivian,” he said flatly, looking past her to give me a warm smile.

Mother stood and arranged herself like a big bird making sure its feathers were unruffled. “Well, I’m sure you two children have lots to talk about!”

And she departed.

Tony stood at my bedside near where Mother had been seated. “How are you feeling, sweetheart?”

“Pretty good.” I smiled, liking the sound of that. “Turns out they have really good drugs at these hospitals. Don’t tell the law.”

“Promise I won’t. When will you be released?”

“Soon as tomorrow, I think. This wasn’t near as hard on me as on that little …”

I started to tear up.

Like Mother, he handed me tissues. Then he pulled up the chair she’d vacated, and said, “Once you’re home, what then?”

“Bed rest for a week or so.”

“Think you can sit still that long?”

“Probably not. But right now I feel like I could stay in bed for a month.”

His expression turned troubled.

“Brandy,” he said, “it’s probably unkind to get into this now.”

“What?”

“We aren’t going to be able to see each other for a while.”

Normally, when someone you love—it was
love,
by now, wasn’t it?—says those words, it’s devastating.

In this case, however, I could hardly argue. He was in a dangerous place in his life, and me being part of it not only put me in harm’s way, but made his job all the tougher.

“I … I understand. But how long is ‘a while’?”

His response was indirect. “I’m taking a leave of absence for a few weeks—to find new lodgings.”

“Then you’re not leaving Serenity?”

“I don’t think so. It’s a little up in the air, but … I just can’t continue to run. But I have no right to involve you, either.”

I knew he was right, but I heard myself saying, “Why don’t you let me decide that?”

His smile was meant to comfort me, but I could see the sadness in it. “Okay … but for now—until the investigation into the attack is complete—we’d better limit it to talking by phone.”

“Tony?”

“Yes?”

“What happened to your wife and daughter?”

“Brandy …”

“Were … were
they
killed?”

He shook his head. “They’re safe.”

I should have been relieved. Only a terrible person would have preferred to hear that his wife wasn’t alive and well. A terrible person who loved him.

“They’re in Witness Protection.”

“I’m glad.”

“We’re divorced.”

I’m glad!

“My wife never forgave me for putting her and our daughter in danger. I haven’t even been able to see my daughter since they went out of my life.”

“Don’t you have any visitation rights?”

“I can’t know where they are. That’s the Witness Protection Program for you. We’ve talked on the phone a few times, under restricted conditions. But that’s it.”

“That’s awful.” I meant it.

“I appreciate that. But as far as my marriage breaking up … it was for the best.”

He stood, strode to the hospital room door, then turned. “I never tried to pass myself off as perfect, Brandy. I hope you know that.”

I smiled. “Maybe I should have mentioned that to you myself.”

“What?”

“That I’m not exactly perfect.”

He smiled, even laughed a little. Blew me a kiss.

And was gone.

Now, it’s my duty to admit to you—and to Mother—that while I was bed-bound, I was unable to participate or even anticipate what Mother was doing as a solo sleuth. I had the option of reporting what follows to you in my words, and buffering you from the full-on Vivian Borne experience, or giving her some more rope.

But, as Mother has pointed out, letters to our publisher indicate that readers don’t mind spending a little time inside my Mother’s lively head. So I am turning half of another chapter over to her.

Understood, Mother?

Half
a chapter….

Dearest ones! This is Vivian with you once more. As Brandy has pointed out, I am sharing this chapter with my darling daughter. But one and a half chapters is better than nothing (although not as good as two, so keep up your letter-writing campaign).

Once again, Brandy’s customary way of leading into my section(s) was to include certain disparaging remarks, which I feel emanate from a certain jealousy that the reviews of our nonfiction accounts often seem to single out my chapters for praise.

Perhaps that’s why this time she has not included words to the effect that you, gentle readers, should take what I have to say with a grain of salt, adding a disclaimer that she was not responsible for what I write. And to her credit, this time she didn’t do that … although by mentioning the above, perhaps, inadvertently, I just have.

But I digress.

Where to start?

Our action begins a day after I visited Brandy in the hospital. In the morning, Peggy Sue brought Brandy home, where she (Brandy) was to remain in bed for a few days to fully recover. I am happy to report that the wee one in the incubator was doing splendidly, although the same could not be said about
my
wee one.

I could tell by her lethargic demeanor that Brandy was having postpartum depression, and so I brought the dear girl a Prozac capsule to get her back on the road to blissful mental stability.

(These past months, living with Brandy
off
her medication was stressful for me, to say the least, and hazardous to my own mental heath. Contrary to what Brandy thinks,
I
only take
my
medication to please her, as I really have no need for it.)

Brandy—propped up with pillows, Sushi snoozing contentedly
by her side—was asking grumpily, “What am I supposed to do while you’re gone?”

I had just informed her that I would be leaving to do a little investigating on my own steam—which was actually more than a “little.” In fact I was sure—after listening to the tape recording of Rhonda’s hypnosis session—that I knew precisely who Connie’s murderer was, and planned to confront the killer.

But I knew it was probably not wise to tell Brandy my plans.

(NOTE FROM BRANDY:
The last time Mother decided to go out and “confront the killer,” she managed to burn down the fairgrounds grandstand.)

(NOTE FROM MOTHER:
But the killer was caught—see
Antiques Flee Market
—and we now have a splendid new grandstand, although my efforts to have it named after myself were to no avail, though the mayor seemed interested. In fact, he said to me, “I would be delighted to see it called the Vivian Borne Memorial Grandstand.” A lovely sentiment from a lovely man.)

(NOTE FROM BOTH:
But we digress.)

“Well, dear,” I said, “you
could
find out if this thingamajig is important.”

And, just to keep her occupied and make her feel of some small importance to our investigation, I tossed a little silver disc on the bed.

Brandy frowned. “That’s either a CD or … a computer disc. Where’d you get it?”

“Why, from Connie’s house the morning I was there. It was beside her little laptop computer, actually. I’d put it in a pocket of the housedress I’d been wearing, and had completely forgotten about it, in the hubbub around getting arrested and incarcerated. I only just now rediscovered it.”

“Right,” Brandy said, frowning in thought. “I brought
your clothes home when you traded them for prison wear. And please don’t tell me about your ‘fall colors’ again.”

“I know you don’t feel well, dear, but that’s no license to be rude.”

Brandy was holding the disc in her fingers, as if it were worthy of care. “Well, I
guess
I can take a look at it,” she said. “But it’s probably nothing.”

“If you do decide to pop it into your computer, be careful getting out of bed. If you feel woozy, get right back under the covers.”

“I will.” She seemed distracted by the silver disc.

“Very good, dear. Well, I’m off. Toodles!”

“Yeah, right. Toodles.”

I hurried away, before Gloomy Gusina could dampen my spirits. Sometimes depression can be contagious, you know, and I certainly had no desire to catch it from her, like a common cold.

The trolley-car-converted-to-gas was a little late arriving at its scheduled stop a block from the house, which I attributed to the current driver, who was actually a reinstated
former
driver.

Maynard Kirby—a retiree from the fish hatchery—once upon a time had taken the job when his wife lost their (actually his) retirement money on the
River Queen
gambling boat, inspiring him to seek a new occupation. As luck would have it, however, Mrs. Kirby hit the jackpot with her (his) last dollar, and Maynard once again went into happy retirement.

It took many months for Mrs. Kirby to gamble away her new jackpot winnings, but now, finally, Maynard found himself back behind the wheel of the trolley, again pursuing his late-in-life new career.

Climbing aboard, I gave Maynard—a bespectacled gentleman with salt-and-pepper hair, and matching trimmed beard—a curt hello. No need to waste time buttering him
up for special treatment, as the two places I wanted to go were downtown, and already on the regular trolley route.

The trolley was half full and I found my way to a vacant seat near the back, settling in.

I will now finally finish the amusing story about Billy Buckly—the town’s famous little person, whose grandfather was a Munchkin in
The Wizard of Oz.
I began telling the tale in
Antiques Flee Market
(another reason to buy that one, if you haven’t already!), but at the very end of my chapter, Brandy—who was holding me to a strict word count—cut me off in midsentence! Talk about your serpent’s tooth!

Then, in
Antiques Bizarre
(collect them all!), I tried once again, only to be hampered a second time by that blasted word count. I know the publishers are trying to save trees, but honestly, can one little paragraph more matter that much? I suffer this indignity only because Brandy is the one signing the book contracts, which she says makes her “the boss.”

So, here, at long last, is my trolley story. One day a summer ago, Billy Buckly had been sitting on my lap—not out of amorous intentions but due to a shortage of seats—when the trolley inexplicably braked. Well, little Billy flew through the air as if he’d been shot out of a cannon (we were in front, facing the back of the bus), and he landed on the lap of recently widowed Mrs. Snodgrass. She took him home to tend to his bruises, and consequently, they fell in love and got married.