Antiques Roadkill (19 page)

He nodded, the puppy-dog brown eyes sympathetic (and by “puppy-dog” eyes, I don’t mean he had cataracts). “Ms. Borne, did you hear anything out of the ordinary during the night?”

“What happened to ‘Brandy'?”

He smiled a little. “That’s what I’m here to try to find out.”

I smiled back; he was pretty cute—probably as cute as I wasn’t right now.

I asked, “What did you mean by, did I hear anything ‘out of the ordinary'?”

“Like someone in the house. An intruder.”

“A burglar, you mean? Fat lot they’d find at
our
place!”

He shook his head. “It’s a nice house, and a burglar wouldn’t necessarily know about the lack of furnishings, till he or she got inside.”

I shrugged. “Maybe—but I didn’t hear anything. Like I said, I was way tired, sleeping pretty deeply.”

He nodded. “Do you usually lock your doors at night?”

“Well … sometimes Mother can be lax about that,” I admitted.

“Some older people are,” he said, with a smile and a head shake. “They grew up in a different world than we did.”

“Mother’s
still
in a different world.… If someone
had
broken in, wouldn’t it be hard to prove? I mean, what with the house blown to smithereens?”

“It would.” Lawson scribbled on his pad.

“What
is
a smithereen, anyway?”

He smiled again. “I’ve never actually seen one. But I’m glad you weren’t blown into ‘em.”

“You and me both.… By the way, who called 911? I’d like to thank whoever it was. Talk about a good neighbor.”

Lawson stopped writing. “You mind if I sit?”

“No. Please.”

He pulled up a chair, settled in. “Actually, Brandy, I was the first one on the scene.”

“Really? You weren’t responding to a call?”

“No—I’d been patrolling a few blocks away when I heard the explosion. I was the one who called it in.”

“You always seem to be around when we’re in trouble.”

His expression turned shy. “Small town,” he mumbled.

“You know my first name—what’s yours? Or is it really ‘Officer'?”

He grinned. “I told you before, Brandy—”

“Sorry. I’m a little … ‘almost blowed up.’”

“Good excuse.”

“Anyway, thanks for being there, Brian.”

Lawson swallowed and became businesslike again, flipping his notebook back open. “Has anything unusual happened recently to you or your mother?”

I half smiled. “Brian, it’s starting to feel like every
day
is unusual for us.”

The officer studied me, then said, “For somebody in a hospital bed, you’re sure dancing around, aren’t you?”

“I don’t know what you’re getting at,” I said, but of course I did.

“What’s been going on with you and your mother, since that night out at Carson’s?”

“Not that much.”

But I wasn’t feeling well enough to lie worth a damn.

The flirty friendliness was out of the air. Brian was gone and Officer Lawson was back, frowning at me. “I understand you don’t feel well, Ms. Borne, but I’d appreciate a little more cooperation.”

My smile was weaker than I was. “Sorry.”

“I’m waiting,” he said, pen tip to pad.

I began tentatively: “Mother and I
have
been doing a little …” I searched for a word not as silly (and for that matter, self-condemning) as
snooping.
“…
inquiring
into the death of Clint Carson.”

I could tell he didn’t like the sound of that. An edge—and some amped-up volume—was in his voice as he said, “After the chief advised you
not
to?”

My roommate moaned.

I put a finger admonishingly to my lips. I whispered, “Please—people are trying to recuperate, around here.”

Lawson lowered his volume but the edge remained. “All right, Kinsey Millhone—who have you and Jessica Fletcher been bothering?”

I put as much innocence in my tone as I could muster. “We haven’t been ‘bothering’ anyone. You know how this town likes to gossip.”

He just arched an eyebrow at me—an attractive if intimidating gesture.

“Mother talked with two other people—men—who were also swindled by Carson. I don’t remember their names, they’re some older gents she numbers among her friends—you’ll have to ask Mother … I believe one was a former mayor.”

“That takes care of what your mother’s been up to. What about you? Who have you been talking to?”

I shrugged. “Besides you and Chief Cassato? Only one person, really. Old high school pal.”

“Who?”

“Uh, Joe Lange. You probably don’t know him.”

Did I detect a reaction in those brown eyes? Or was the pain medication distorting my perception?

“I probably
do
know him,” Lawson said. “That oddball who likes to hang around out at the state park.”

“That’s harsh—he’s just a guy who enjoys the great out-of-doors. No law against it. Anyway, Joe’s in a position to see lots of things.”

His eyes narrowed. “Such as?”

Such as you and Mia having a little get-together, maybe?
I thought.

But I said, “Excess activity around Carson’s place. It’s not Wild Cat Den, but it’s in the same general vicinity.”

Lawson grimaced and flipped the notepad shut. “All right, Ms. Borne—I guess that’s all for now.”

He was on his feet again when I asked, “The explosion? It
was
an accident, wasn’t it?”

His expression told me nothing; his words weren’t much more informative: “We won’t know for sure until the gas company and fire department give us their reports—and maybe not even then.”

I sat up some more. “You don’t think … Do you think Mother and I stirred something up?”

He shrugged.

“Brian—are we in any danger, Mother and I?”

A long sigh. “I don’t think
anything
at the moment … but it could be possible that one of you’s come too close to the killer for comfort.”

“The killer’s comfort?”

“Anybody’s comfort. Where’s your mother right now?”

I swallowed. “Staying with my sister. She lives out in the Mark Twain addition with her husband and daughter.”

He drew in air, filling his admirable chest, and nodded again. “I’ll have a patrol car make a few extra more runs through there—especially at night.”

“Officer Lawson … Brian … you’re scaring me.”

“Good,” he said. “Meddling in police work is a dumb idea.”

I must’ve looked white around the gills, because Lawson said reassuringly, “You’ll be all right in here. I’ll stop by the nurses’ station and fill them in.”

“Thank you,” I responded weakly.

“See you … Brandy.”

A while later, Dr. Englund came by on his rounds. He’d been working in the ER when I was brought in, and now he was stuck with me.

The doctor was in his early forties, slender, with black wavy hair, dark penetrating eyes, and a thin long nose.

“And how are we today?” He had a nice smile that included lots of very white teeth.

“You’re the doctor,” I said.

Dr. Englund consulted the chart in his hands. “Well, Miss Borne, you have three broken ribs, a punctured spleen—which we’ve operated on—and a mild concussion. I’m going to order another CT scan, to make sure there’s no fluid buildup on the brain … so you’re going to be with us for another day or two.”

I raised my black and blue hand with the IV. “When can I get this thing out?” I asked. “Gives me the creeps.”

“It gives you what you
need,”
he said. “For today, anyway … and in the meantime, I want you to do some leg exercises, every hour—just bend your feet back and forth slowly, to prevent blood clots.”

Didn’t
that
sound scary?

“Okay,” I said timidly.

“And we’re going to get you up and walking this afternoon.”

“You have to be kidding! I can barely sit up.”

“Sooner the better. You want that IV out, right?”

“Right—but how can I go for a stroll hooked up to it?”

The doctor shared the nice, toothy smile with me again. “You’ll take it along,” he said. “That’s your new best friend.”

“I guess I can use a friend about now.”

“I hear you. Hang in there, Miss Borne.”

Dr. Englund moved on to my neighbor, their voices muffled behind the drawn curtain. But soon the woman’s high, whining pitch came through loud and clear.

“I was supposed to have a
private
room!”

“I’m sorry. If one becomes available we can move you, Mrs. Taylor, but as it is right now …”

I only caught snippets of the woman’s indignant but lowered-voice rebuttal, including “like Grand Central Station,” and “can’t get a moment’s rest,” and “is this a hospital or a kennel, are you a doctor or a vet?” and “like something out of
The Beverly Hillbillies.”

I called out to Dr. Englund.

He poked his head around the curtain. “Yes?”

“We could trade bed stations,” I whispered. I really didn’t care where my bed was. “That is, if it won’t confuse matters, or make things any more difficult for you or her.…”

The doctor thanked me for being so magnanimous (I was just trying to minimize the whine, tell the truth) and said he would take it under consideration. Then he disappeared behind the curtain again, returning to his consultation with my unhappy roommate.

In the afternoon, as promised, another nurse clad in one of those unfortunate teddy-bear smocks came around and made me get out of bed. The pain medication had worn off, and it was too early to get more, so I was in a lot of discomfort.

At first, I was too dizzy to even stand; the nurse, steadying me, told me to keep my eyes open and focused. Then slowly the three of us (me, nurse, and my new friend) (you remember IV Poley) made our way to the door, down the hall a smidgen, then turned around. The ties on my thin hospital gown did little to keep me from feeling that my personality was hanging out.

As I returned to my bed, I got a good look at my roomie, who was also hooked up to her own friendly IV: middle-aged, shoulder-length curly light brown hair, puffy eyes, blotchy face. Well, no patient looks good in the hospital. But surely the dirty look she shot me wasn’t necessary.

The nurse helped me back into bed and was gone before I could ask for another blanket.
God,
but the room was
cold!
I was staring at the blank television high on the wall, wondering if I dared watch
Reno 911
and risk the wrath of my neighbor, when another visitor took me completely by surprise.

Jennifer Kaufmann stood at the foot of my bed with a vase of yellow roses in her hands.

You may remember Jennifer from our restroom confrontation
at the Red Hat mother/daughter day. And I could not process her presence here: why would the wife whose cheating husband had cheated with yours truly be bringing me flowers? I would have doubted she’d do that for my funeral, much less hospital stay.

Then I noticed the pink and white candy-striped apron over her lilac silk blouse and slacks. She was one of the volunteer workers from downstairs in the gift shop, and I was nothing special, just her latest stop.

“I, uh, heard what happened,” Jennifer said, her voice soft. “How awful for you and your mother.”

I tried to look beyond the compassionate smile and the sympathetic eyes, for the slightest hint of malice.

None.

Damnit.

This was truly rotten of her—the last thing I wanted to do was
like
her.

I said, “Those are for me?”

Jennifer blinked, then said, “Oh yes,” as if she’d forgotten about them. She handed me the little envelope that had accompanied the roses and asked, “Would you like me to set these with the others?”

“Oh, ah, yes, please.”

Jennifer made room on the window ledge, which was already loaded with arrangements: Mother had given me a pot of red geraniums; Peggy Sue a mixture of white mums and pink roses; Ashley, yellow daisies; and Tina, some of her own prize-winning irises for me to plant later. If I couldn’t find a job, I could always open a slightly-used-flower shop.

I said, “Thanks for bringing these.”

“That’s all right. It’s my job.”

“I know. But when you saw it was me … you could have asked somebody else to bring them. And you didn’t. And that was decent of you.”

She swallowed—I actually heard the gulp. “We’d be kidding ourselves if we thought we’d ever be friends, Brandy. But it’s a small town, and we have some mutual acquaintances, so … the past is the past. Let’s just leave it at that, and move on.”

And she moved on.

I waited until she’d gone before opening the small white envelope and pulling out the card, which read:
Dear Mom, hope you get feeling better. Love, Jake.

The message wasn’t in my son’s cramped handwriting, of course—the flowers having been called in, probably by his dad (whose presence by way of flowers was noticeably absent)—but it still meant the world to me. I clutched the little note to my chest and allowed myself a few tears.

Midafternoon, Tina breezed in, carrying a black gym bag loaded with lotions, makeup, and other assorted goodies.

First, she gave me a sponge bath, mindful of the stapled slit on my stomach, about which she commented, “You were never much for bikinis, anyway.”

Next she slathered on this great-smelling Victoria Secret’s body lotion, followed by a foot massage.

We didn’t talk much, throughout all this attention, and that’s one of my favorite things about my friendship with Tina: we’re comfortable enough with each other
not
to make conversation for its own sake.

But she did say, “What happened, honey—did it have anything to do with this silly Sherlock Holmes stuff?”

“I don’t know, Teen. I really don’t.”

“Well … I know I kind of encouraged you to do that.”

“Not really.”

“No, yeah, but I did. And that was probably stupid. I hope you’ll forgive me.”

“I will if you’ll wash this greasy hair of mine.”

She did, which we accomplished by me hanging my head over a plastic tray, with her blowing it dry, and styling my
naturally wavy locks with a straight-iron. When Tina was finished, I couldn’t believe how sleek and modern my hair looked. Wow!