Antiques Knock-Off (8 page)

She turned to me and beamed. “You see, dear, I
told
you everything would be all right!”

A Trash ‘n’ Treasures Tip

Sometimes, a disreputable dealer will disassemble an authentic antique and create several copies by mingling real with fake parts, and pass them off as 100% originals. Mother once bought a small Victorian chair whose graceful, genuine back tapered into legs stamped—too tiny for her eyesight to capture—“Made in China.”

A
t nine the next morning, with Mother’s arraignment scheduled at ten, Peggy Sue and I met with our family lawyer, Wayne Cyrus Ekhardt, at his office downtown in the Laurel Building.

Mr. Ekhardt had rocketed to fame around here in the 1950s when he got a woman off for “accidentally” shooting her cheating husband in the back four times. He was a little older than the eight-story Art Deco edifice he once owned, having run a thriving law practice there for five decades before selling the property to an engineering firm, on the stipulation that he could have the top floor rent-free for life.

Whoever made that deal had probably long since been fired, because Ekhardt was now ninety with his practice still ongoing, if limited and by appointment only—pretty much us, and a handful of other longtime clients. Of course, Mother alone kept him busy.

Sis (wearing a Burberry plaid cotton shirtdress) and I (wearing the yellow Juicy Couture sundress) stepped off the elevator and into a film noir world unchanged since the Laurel Building had been erected. While the other floors had been modernized with the times, the eighth
retained the old scuffed black-and-white speckled ceramictile flooring, scarred-wood office doors with ancient pebbled glass, Art Moderne sconce wall lighting, and even an old porcelain drinking fountain.

Mr. Ekhardt occupied the last corner office with a scenic view of the river. Usually it was Mother and I who made the long walk down the hallway to see the lawyer, with Mother trying every doorknob of the unoccupied offices, hoping to find one unlocked, and discover a roomful of abandoned furniture that had become antiques—a procedure that would continue until I would finally go (in full Jack Benny mode), “Now cut that out!” Or words to that effect.

Now
I
found myself doing the same knob-jiggling thing, and it was Peggy Sue who snapped, “Will you quit doing that please?”

“Okay,” I said sheepishly.

We walked through a patch of striped crime-shadow lighting courtesy of some Venetian blinds.

“I thought Mr. Ekhardt had passed away,” she said.

“Not so that you’d notice,” I said. “And it’s unlikely you would, since
you’ve
never been the daughter who accompanies Mother when she’s dealing with her legal problems.” Couldn’t resist the dig.

“Why can’t we get a
real
lawyer?”

“You mean, one who is more socially prominent?”

“Must you make me sound terrible? I simply mean an attorney who doesn’t make his reputation getting criminals off.”

“First of all, Mother is accused of murder—no, make that, she has
confessed
to murder. That would make her a criminal.”

“Brandy, don’t be ridiculous.”

I stopped, and she stopped, interrupting our gunshot footsteps on the ceramic flooring. “Do
you
want to pay
for the services of some hotshot attorney?” Then added, “You may find it interesting to know that Mr. Ekhardt discounts
his
services for Mother.”

Actually, sometimes we never even received a bill. Whether the elderly man forgot, or was just being nice, I couldn’t say. But we certainly never questioned it or reminded him.

We were walking again when Sis said, “Well, I can tell you why Mother gets special rates from Mr. Ekhardt. Actually, I’m surprised he even sends her a
reduced
bill.”

“Really? Why is that?”

She shrugged and her expression was knowingly smug. “It’s because he was once in love with her.”

I stopped again.
“What?”

So did Peg. “That’s right. They once had …” And, I swear to God, she sang, “… a thing going on.”

Actually, I wasn’t surprised—well, the singing part surprised me a little; but not this juicy vintage item about Mother and our lawyer. Mother had remained a statuesque, lovely Dane, well into her sixties; after Dad had passed, she received many marriage proposals. There were probably any number of old boys who would overlook her eccentric reputation for a slice of that well-preserved Danish strudel. (I think I just made myself sick….)

Anyway, Peggy Sue and I arrived at the last pebbledglass door, where stencils applied many decades ago now read:

WAY E EK ART ATTO NEY AT LA

Sis gave me a look—definitely
not
her idea of a socially prominent attorney….

The door was unlocked and I pushed it open, the ancient hinges squeaking long and loud, like in a haunted
house in an old movie, but still not loud enough to wake the room’s only inhabitant, sitting back in his chair, mouth open, eyes shut, behind an old, scarred oaken desk. He was dozing so deep, in fact, that for a few moments—Peggy Sue gave me a startled look to confirm she had the same thought—I really did think the old barrister had finally passed away.

Then he snorted and his chest rose and my sister and I exchanged relieved glances.

Mr. Ekhardt, in a light blue seersucker suit and white shirt appropriate for summer around the turn of the century (century before last I mean), sat slumped, his nearly bald, liver-spotted head bowed. He seemed to all but disappear into the clothing—like a small boy who had tried on his father’s suit.

Peggy Sue gave me a disgusted smirk. She whispered, “Are you
trying
to send Mother to the electric chair?”

“We don’t have the death penalty in Iowa,” I whispered back defensively. “Anyway, if they repealed that, it would probably be by lethal injection.”

“That’s comforting,” Sis said, with an eyeball roll.

Ignoring that, I reached back and rapped on the glass of the door, keeping it up until Mr. Ekhardt woke up with another, more decisive snort. He drew himself up into the suit, like the Invisible Man getting dressed, then blinked his rheumy eyes several times. His smile told me he’d accomplished focusing them.

“Ah … little Brandy. You’re here. And who’s this lovely young thing?”

I approached the desk, Sis trailing reluctantly.

“This is my sister, Peggy Sue.”

“Yes … yes! Certainly. Vivian’s eldest.” He gestured with a bony hand to the two old oak chairs in front. “Please, have a seat.”

Once we were settled, I asked, “Have you seen Mother?”

He nodded.

“And?” I prodded.

His weary sigh began at his feet. “I’m afraid she’s determined to plead guilty.”

At past arraignments, no matter what the circumstances, Mother had always said, “Nolo contendere,” just to be difficult.

“Is there anything you can do about that?” I asked. “I mean, Mother pleading guilty to a traffic violation is one thing, but—”

“I don’t understand how the police got to her so fast,” Peggy Sue interrupted, obviously on a different wavelength.

I stared at her.

“Well?” she said, glaring at me. “How did they know it was her?”

“I told you,” I said patiently, “Mother’s prints were on the knife handle. And Mother has been fingerprinted before. Plenty of times.”

“Why,” Peggy said rather grandly, “would
our
mother be fingerprinted?”

“Hello? Remember her stay in the county jail when she tried to stop the demolition of the old Uptown Theater?”

“Fine!” Sis snapped. “Even so, how could the police
positively
identify the prints as hers in a few short hours? Doesn’t print identification analysis take a while? I’m just saying, maybe someone jumped to a conclusion just because Mother had that little incident with Connie at the clock repair shop. And perhaps because Mother does have a certain … reputation for eccentricity.”

My eyebrows were doing their best to climb up off my forehead. “You think?”

Mr. Ekhardt interceded. “Your comments and questions are valid, Peggy Sue….”

Sis shot me a
“See?”
look.

“… but the reason your mother was charged so quickly is because Chief Cassato was a fingerprint identification expert with New Jersey law enforcement before he came to Serenity.”

“Oh!” Sis said, like a car coming to an abrupt stop. “Well, then, I guess that’s understandable….”

That information I only recently learned from the chief himself, during one of our “date” evenings at his remote cabin hideaway. Also, that his expertise and testimony had been crucial in solving several big-city, mob-related killings.

But I felt we were getting sidetracked, and said, “Can we please get back to the arraignment? In less than an hour? What can be done about Mother pleading guilty?”

Ekhardt leaned forward with his elbows on the desk and tented his bony hands. He might have been praying. Seeing your mother’s attorney praying is not the most encouraging sight.

Then he said, “I’m afraid … please, Brandy, Peggy Sue, understand the gravity of this situation … but my only option is to bring up Vivian’s mental illness.”

Sis looked horrified. “But then … everyone in town will
know!”

If I’d been drinking, I would have performed a world’s record spit-take. I said to her, “You mean there’s somebody in Serenity who
doesn’t
know?”

Mr. Ekhardt patted the air with his hands, calming us, or trying to. “Now, ladies, please … we really haven’t much time. I can assure you I will handle this with as much discretion as possible.” He turned his somber visage my way. “How long has Vivian been off her medication?”

“About three months,” I said.

He nodded in thought. “Good. Good.”

Sis was frowning. “What’s good about it?”

The attorney said, “It paves the way for me to make a case with the judge that your mother is not currently able to make decisions for herself … at least not decisions that are in her own best interest. Is that all right with you?”

“Yes,” I said.

Peggy Sue sat frozen.

“Sis? How’s this for a headline—‘MOTHER OF PEGGY SUE HASTING FOUND GUILTY OF MURDER’?”

Finally, she gave a reluctant nod.

Ekhardt stood from his desk, using it for support, the elderly gent seeming exhausted after our mildly confrontational consultation.

“Why don’t you both run along to the courthouse,” he said. “I’ll be there in about ten minutes.”

I was thinking that if he was going to make it over there in ten minutes, he’d better get started. But I said nothing.

Sis and I were silent as we walked back down the long corridor, passing through more film noir stripes.

At the elevator, looking rather stricken, she said, “Brandy, I … I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can go with you to the arraignment.”

“That’s okay.” No stomach for it.

“It would be just too … too …”

She should have let it go when I said okay. I blurted, “Embarrassing? Humiliating? A three-ring circus with Mother the demented ringmaster?”

Her smile was sickly. “I might not have put it just that way but … yes.”

The air went out of my irritation. “That’s all right, Sis … I do understand.”

She sighed with relief. She swallowed very hard, and maybe she was tearing up.

The elevator arrived and we stepped on.

And me? Why, I wouldn’t trade one of Mother’s court appearances for a DVD boxed set of
Perry Mason
episodes.

Arraignments were held in a secondary courtroom on the second floor of the Serenity courthouse, a late nineteenth-century edifice of Grecian grandeur that the numbskulls (as Mother so delicately referred to them) who worked there kept trying to get torn down to make way for a new building with more space and central air-conditioning. So far Mother has been able to thwart such architectural genocide.

(I make a point of never taking Mother along when going to the courthouse for Sushi’s dog license or to take care of property taxes or deal with license plate renewal … especially not in the summer. Some of those sweat-soaked clerks can be spiteful.)

In the mornings, the smaller courtroom was used for traffic court, when herds of ensnared citizens were processed in a quick, noisy cattle call to vehicular justice. I’d been to several of these sessions, Mother having racked up various traffic violations over the past few years. (As of now, Mother will not be eligible to drive again until she’s one hundred and nine; but since she might now go to jail for the rest of her life, reclaiming her driver’s license became something of a moot point.)

In the afternoons, however, this same courtroom was used for felony arraignments, with the atmosphere strikingly different: quiet, somber, and decidedly depressing, due in part to the loss of morning sunlight. I’d only attended one felony arraignment for Mother—I’d been married to Roger at the time, and came back from Chicago because the diva had chained herself to a wrecking ball that was about to demolish the old red brick YWCA building
downtown. That resulted in a misdemeanor after a plea bargain; Mother served sixty days, and the YWCA became a parking lot.

Not every story has a happy ending.

The courtroom gallery consisted of two sections of benches separated by a center aisle in bride’s-family, groom’s-family fashion. I sat in the front row, facing the judge, to be nearer Mother, when she would appear.

It was five minutes to ten and only a handful of people were present: a middle-aged female court reporter at her machine; a young male journalist from the Serenity newspaper; a male student from the community college (I deduced this from his SCC T-shirt); and nosy Mrs. Mackelrath, who (according to Mother) attended all arraignments because of her “interest in community affairs, dear.” In other words, she had nothing better to do.

A word about court reporters: think twice before going into the profession, as some states have replaced humans with a computer system called DART. But not our state—when Mother heard about the possible transition, she sprang into action, tirelessly collecting data that the new technology was too expensive, and not as reliable as the high quality of the personal touch. This research she systematically forwarded to various powers-that-be.