Antiques Swap (9 page)

“Guess I never told you about something weird that happened to us with Wes and Vanessa. This was a year or so before you came back to town.”

I waited.

“Out of the blue, Kevin got this call from Wes—we'd been married, oh, maybe five years. Anyway, Wes wanted to know if we were up for going to Vegas with him and Vanessa and three other couples, and get this—all expenses paid, and we'd fly there in his Learjet.”

“Whoa. The one Wes keeps at the municipal airport?”

“Yeah, in the company's name, but for his private use.”

I sipped wine. “What other couples?”

“Brent and Megan Morgan, Travis and Emily Thompson, and Sean and Tiffany Hartman.”

“His three best buds. They were at the hearing. Go on.”

She shrugged. “Anyway, since Wes assured us the invite had nothing to do with selling us time-shares or investments or anything . . . we said yes. But then Kev and I found out
Wes
was going to fly the jet, and that made us wonder.”

“Why? Does he have a bad rep as a pilot or something?”

Her eyebrows went up and down again. “No, but when you're invited on a party jet, and the party includes the pilot . . . ? Well, even though we were a little nervous, Kevin and I still went. Turns out Wes was a really good pilot, and didn't partake of the beverage service while he was in the cockpit.”

“Must've been a relief.”

“Oh yeah. So when we get there, it's really first-class all the way. We have our own suite at the MGM Grand, and everybody has a great time that first day, gambling, seeing shows, eating great food.”

“Get to the weird part.”

“I'm there. Next night, we all get together in Wes and Vanessa's suite, and, well, everybody drinks a bit too much, and after a while things start to get a touch . . . frisky.”

“Frisky how?”

“Wes comes on to me, Vanessa comes on to Kevin.”

“Wow. And you never told me about this? What else are you holding back?”

“Brandy!”

“So, what were the other couples doing?”

Tina shook her head. “It's all kind of a haze, but I think there was some . . . mixing and matching, if you know what I mean. All I remember clearly is Kevin pulling me out of there, and us going back to our room.”

“
Aaawk-
ward.”

“You'd think so, but the next morning, everybody else acted like nothing happened, no embarrassed reactions, or sorries from either Wes or Vanessa. But after that, we were . . . sort of persona non grata for the rest of the trip. Oh, we ate with the group, saw a few more shows, but by midevening, we were on our own. On the flight back, hardly a word was spoken to us. Nobody was rude or anything, we were just . . . wallpaper. We were never so glad to get home after a vacation!”

“What did you make of it?”

Tina shrugged. “Honestly? It was like Kevin and I were being
auditioned
for something—if that makes any sense.”

“You mean like . . . everybody drops a room key into a basket kind of deal?”

“Maybe. Does that kind of thing really go on? And does it go on in
Serenity?
”

“Not on my block it doesn't.”

“You sound sure of that.”

“I am. Mother would know.”

We sat and sipped our wine, both of us digesting what Teen had shared. Finally she spoke again.

“Brandy?”

“Teen?”

“Is there some reason why . . . why you haven't been to see the baby much?”

I sighed. “Teen, I really am sorry—I just wanted to give you and Kevin your space. I won't be a stranger anymore. I promise.”

“It's just . . . she's growing fast. I don't want you to miss anything.”

I smirked. “
Tell
me about it! Can you believe Jake is thirteen?”

Kevin appeared, settling in another padded chair with an exhausted sigh. “Boy . . . she
finally
went to sleep. They fight hardest when they're tiredest. Did I miss much about the hearing?”

“Just everything,” I said. “Teen will fill you in.”

I said farewell to my friends—Tina and I made a date for some summer-sale shopping—and I headed out for home. No call from Mother yet. I wondered if Mr. Ekhardt was driving her home. That was the rare situation where we'd be better off with Mother behind the wheel.

Everything was fine as I wound through lovely weather along the scenic river road, until suddenly I had to pull over because I couldn't see through my tears.

Here's the thing.

Baby Brandy was not Kevin's and Tina's, but Kevin's and mine. And before you get all judgmental, let me explain: before Tina's hysterectomy due to cancer, she had some eggs harvested for my surrogate vitro fertilization. And unknown to her—but obviously not Kevin—I had some of my own eggs extracted as a backup. And when Tina's didn't take, mine were used.

Only Kevin and I didn't tell her.

And it came to me in a flash that I was no better than my sister Peggy Sue, who was really my biological mother, a secret kept from me for thirty years.

 

 

 

It's illegal for vendors to sell counterfeit designer goods. So knock it off with the knockoffs, and don't buy one knowingly just because it's way cheaper. Don't perpetrate a perp's perpetration.

Chapter Six

Nuisance Bid

 

 

 

D
earest ones! Vivian Borne with you once again, to provide you with my unique perspective on the events relating to the tragic homicide of Vanessa Sinclair.

But before I begin, I must go on the record to let all and sundry know how very disappointed I am that I have not been given a platform on this subject until now. Sixth chapter, my Aunt Fanny! Why, in
Antiques Disposal
it was
moi
who
began
the book—granted the narrative was whisked away from me after a few pages, but still, I call that progress. In subsequent volumes, however, I've been held off till midway.

This erratic use of my narrative gifts flows from our first book contract being signed by Brandy alone, setting a precedent both unfortunate and limiting. She, and to a lesser degree our editor, control just how often I am allowed the microphone, so to speak.

As such, I must call upon you, kind and gentle readers, to double-down on your efforts to convince our publisher (e-mail, texting, tweeting, and good old-fashioned snail mail) to give Vivian Borne center stage sooner, and
not
keep her waiting in the wings. Further, this limitation of a chapter or two is most unfair. Think of how entertaining these books would be with me doing more, dare I say,
all
of the writing.

Thank you!

In that regard, I'd like to give a quick shout-out to Mrs. Felicia Pemberton across the pond in Bourton-on-the-Water, Glousestershire—a lovely little village in southwest England right out of
Midsomer Murders
—who wrote to say that she has with no small effort managed to get her local bookstore to stock our series. Good show, Mrs. P! (This dedicated reader did intimate that she had something scandalous on the shop's owner, and while I don't condone blackmail to get our books stocked, if a proprietor won't come to his or her senses, any method is fair dinkum. If you'll excuse the Australian.)

To that handful of readers (fewer than thirty) who have written our editor to complain that I tend to get off the track where the story is concerned, I can only quote my late grandfather: “If you can't say something nice about somebody, shut your piehole.” (Grandpa Ray was, I would have to admit, not the soul of tact.)

Onward!

During breakfast, Brandy informed me that she would not be assisting in any further investigation into Vanessa Sinclair's murder.

This proved to be the ex-chief's doing, as I suspected, but she maintained that her Tony was just concerned about us both. That with him on the case, we really didn't need to be. It was a particularly vicious murder and she hoped I'd join her on the sidelines, where it was safe, blah blah blah.

I said I'd respect her decision, but if she interpreted that to mean I would sit next to her on the bench and watch the murder investigation go by, I can only quote the immortal Daffy Duck: “She don't know me very well, do she?”

Anyway, Brandy can sometimes be as much hindrance as help, so I took her news in stride, rather looking forward to not having to justify my actions to, or clear my plans with, the ungrateful child.

I told Brandy that I had some important errands to run today, and asked her to mind the shop, saying I would join her later. Around nine, Brandy left in the Caddy, even though the store didn't open until ten, because we had a box of head vases—including a valuable Marilyn Monroe and an even more rare Jacqueline Kennedy—that needed to be priced and put in a display case.

Sushi remained at home, as the little darling had an upset tummy from getting into a bag of Twizzlers—the red licorice had been unfortunately left on a table within her jumping reach (my bad).

So with Brandy out of my hair, and Sushi napping on the couch, I prepared for a Skype meeting with my thirteen-year-old grandson Jake. Jake lives with his father, Roger, in a suburb of Chicago. We had arranged this confab earlier, when it occurred to me that I could use the young man's computer skills in my investigation.

If you are a grandparent whose well-meaning grandkids insist that you use this newfangled means of visual communication via computer, take heed! While Skype is all well and good for younger people with tight skin, it bodes far less well for those with wrinkles, bags, and sagging jowls (I'm admitting to nothing). Therefore, a little knowledge and preparation may make your experience a more positive one, guaranteed not to scare the little ones (or at least minimize same).

 

 

DOs AND DON'Ts ON SKYPING FOR THE
OVER-FIFTY CROWD
Respectfully submitted by Vivian Borne

 

1)
DO
position the webcam at eye level so that you won't be looking down, which will give you a double chin. (If you already have a double chin, improper webcam placement will give you a triple.)

 

2)
DO
place a light source in front of you to soften your features; an overhead will only serve to make you look like Lon Chaney in
The Phantom of the Opera
. (Possible exception: Skyping on Halloween.)

 

3)
DON'T
lean into the computer screen, which will distort your face, creating a large proboscis. (Jimmy Durante impressions mean nothing to the younger generation. More's the pity.)

 

4)
DO
make sure a ceiling fan isn't twirling directly over your head, giving the effect of wearing a giant beanie with propeller. (This may come as a shock, but such headgear is now out of style, even on college campuses.)

 

5)
DO
wear a colorful chin-high scarf to detract from your face. (Suggestion: pile on the bling to dazzle—and distract—the viewer.)

 

While I'm on the subject of computers, I have a little comment I'd like to make, and it's about the symbol
#.
We already have two words for
#: number
and
pound key.
Do we really need another, particularly one nicknamed
hashtag?
Especially since said word is a derivative of the word
hashish?
Let's stop messing with the English language! Just say no to hashtags!

I got myself situated in front of my computer at the library table in the music room, and soon Jake popped onto the screen.

The handsome blue-eyed boy, his hair as blond as Brandy's back when she achieved that color naturally, flashed his infectious smile.

“Hi, Grandma. What's up?”

I beamed at him. “
Me,
dear—to mischief!”

“That's no surprise. How are Mom and Sushi doing?”

“Everybody's hunky-dory.” I could see by the background that he was seated in his room. “No school today?”

“I'm on a two-week vacation.”

Jake attended a year-round private school, getting time off for good behavior every two months.

He was saying, “I wish I could come stay with you guys for a couple of days . . . but you can probably guess that Dad said ‘no way' . . . 'cause of what happened the last time.”

Jake had become involved in a previous investigation of ours (
Antiques Chop
), which made his father extremely cross with his mother and me.

I said, “Well, I'm on another case, dear, and I could really use your help.”

“That woman who got killed that you texted me about.”

“Yes indeed.”

“Isn't Mom on the case, too?”

“No, she's sitting this one out, my darling. That ex-chiefie boyfriend of hers is turning into as great big a party-pooper as your daddy. Meaning no disrespect to either.”

His face brightened. “So I'm your backup man on this caper.”

“Yes, dear. My little long-distance Watson. Just don't mention it to your father. Or your mother. Or anyone.”

“But
especially
not Dad.”

“Especially not.”

His father, Roger, and I were oil and water. Exxon-Valdez level.

“So, Grandma, how can I help?”

Unlike his mother, Jake was always game for a good murder mystery.

“I need some information, dear,” I said. “The kind only a knowledgeable young person like yourself might know.”

“Sure.”

“Can a person break into another person's e-mail account?”

He shrugged. “Happens all the time.”

“How?”

“Pretty easy. But, Grandma—if you're thinking of trying it yourself, you could get into real trouble.”

“Don't you worry about that, sweetheart. It's not likely the murdered woman is going to file a complaint.”

His eyebrows went up. “Good point.”

“So how do I go about it?”

His eyebrows came down. “Well, have you ever forgotten your password?”

“Why, all the time. Just last week . . . oh! I see! I need to be able to answer Vanessa's ‘secret question,' to reset her password.”

“You got it, Grandma. But there are other ways. Let me handle it. There's a hacker's site I belong to.”

What a sweet, thoughtful, resourceful child!

“Grandma, do you know the murdered lady's e-mail address?”

“Yes, dear. The victim quite fortuitously belonged to New Hope, and it's listed in our church directory. You see how regular church attendance can pay off?”

So many of our young people have fallen away from the church and its teachings. Anyway, having come prepared, I had the directory with me, and gave Jake the information, which he jotted down.

We visited a while longer, but I could sense he had better things to do than jabber with his grandmother. And I was eager to get my day of sleuthing underway.

Since Brandy had taken the Caddy, my mode of transportation would be the traveling trolley, which made a regular stop “on the hour” about a block from our house. The old gas-converted trolley car was provided free by certain merchants to encourage Serenityites to cast their hard-earned bread into the waters of the downtown, instead of out at the mall.

And I was often able—depending upon the driver of the day—to talk him or her into veering off the scheduled route, to take me where I really wanted to go. But today, no wheedling was needed—in true Petula Clark fashion, downtown happened to be my destination.

As regular readers of these nonfiction accounts are well aware, I have a bottomless font (not in the apparel sense!) (or the typesetting one, either) of amusing trolley stories, and here is another one that I'm sure will make you smile if not outright chortle.

One fine day I was riding the trolley while I was in the midst of rehearsals for a Playhouse production of
Meet Me in St. Louis.
I was playing the Judy Garland part—I did receive some close-minded opposition from the director who felt I was somewhat too mature for the role; but I successfully argued that with the right stage makeup and wig, not a soul would notice, and besides, 99.9 percent of the audience was elderly and afflicted with cataracts.

Where was I? Oh, yes. On the trolley. I was in a euphoric mood that day riding the colorful nostalgic vehicle, this being a beautiful spring morning off my medication, when a sudden, irresistible urge (like the one in
Anatomy of a Murder
) came over me. I rose from my seat and burst into the production's signature number, “The Trolley Song.”

(I have been informed by the publisher's legal department that I cannot reprint the lyrics without incurring a considerable fee. Let us leave it at this: they had to do with clanging and dinging and zinging.)

Well, for some reason my spirited vocal rendition startled the driver—true, I
had
been sitting right behind him—and he swerved off the road and hit a telephone pole, which snapped like a toothpick and tipped over on a dry cleaning establishment, whose roof burst into flames. There was reportedly a fire hydrant that the trolley ran over—sending water geysering—but I can't be sure. I was knocked out cold, having been thrown forward and hitting my head on the windshield. Fortunately, no one else on board was the worse for wear.

There was an effort made to ban me from the trolley, but I threatened a lawsuit for my injuries and we came to terms.

Today the trolley was right on time, and I was pleased to see Shawntea Monroe at the helm.

As I climbed aboard, Shawntea—wearing a summery pink blouse and jeans, her lovely black hair cascading in tight curls—gave me a winning smile. “Hello, Ms. Borne. How are you this lovely mornin'?”

“Peachy-keen,” I said, adding, “and, dear, we've known each other too long for you to call me anything but Vivian.”

I slid into the closest seat opposite her (having learned not to sit directly behind the driver—though I am sure my vocalizing would not have fazed this skilled driver).

Right now the trolley was hauling only a few passengers, this being an off-time for travel, what with people already at work, and the downtown shops not quite open for business.

“And how are Kwamie and Zeffross?” I asked.

Pulling away from the curb, Shawntea afforded me a glance. “Oh, just fine, Ms., uh, Vivian. Kwamie starts kindergarten in the fall, and Zeffross will be in the second grade.”

“Delightful. And, tell me, how do you like community college?”

“Girl, I love it! All the teachers are just so
nice
. There's a nursing degree I'm lookin' into.”

“Why, dear, you'd do wonderfully in that field.”