“What a crook!”
“Wasn't he though? An untrustworthy, low-life S.O.B. When I confronted him, he insisted the horn had never been in the locker. That he'd done an inventory and it simply wasn't there. But I knew he was lying. We argued, and I was threatening him with that cutting tool when finally he admitted that he'd sent the horn home with youâbut that you didn't know the instrument's value. He tried to convince me we should throw back in together, and go to your house to retrieve the thing ... but I was having none of that, and we argued some more, and scuffled some more, and ...”
“Another accident?”
He again nodded glumly.
That seemed about it; but I decided to try to tie up a loose end or two.
I asked, “What about Big Jim Bob's cottage? When did you go there?”
“After I discovered the cornet I took from your house was not the right one, I thought perhaps Big Jim had lied about you having it, and that it was really hidden at his place.”
One detail remained unanswered.
“What happened to the boxes Brandy and I had left in the storage unit?”
He shrugged an apology. “Sorry, Viv. Bottom of the river, after I didn't find the cornet in them. I don't think there was anything very valuable, but I am sorry.” He seemed more regretful about that than the murders.
He leaned closer to the Plexiglas, eyes pleading now. “You understand, don't you, Vivian? I'm really not a bad person. I lived a good life, working diligently for a man who treated me like a son and then cast me off like an old shoe. You do understand, right? That I was forced to do what I did?”
“Yes, dear,” I said, “these things happen ... just as the legal system will be forced to do what
it
has to do, no matter how much of an âaccident' it all wasâbut you do have one source of solace.”
“I do?”
“Oh yes. You have the state to take care of your retirement plans now.”
I replaced the phone and he was still sitting there, when I left.
Â
Brandy back.
And let me say, bickering aside, that I can only admire Mother for the manner in which she got Lee Hamilton to open up and explain himself. Unfortunately for Lee, while Mother indeed hadn't been wearing a wire, all conversations in the visitors' area were recorded. No biggie, since he was already as good as convictedâthe print on the murder weapon matching the handprint on our library's glass door.
A few days had passed since the auction, and things had calmed down regarding the senator and Peggy Sue and myself, the senator's poll ratings actually benefiting from all the media attention, the public (in general) loving the reuniting of two parents and their childâhip hip hooray for family units, family values, and the family way.
I was outside playing with Sushi and Rockyâor rather, I was watching them play in the piles of leaves I had rakedâwhen my cell phone rang in my jacket pocket.
Delighted to see my niece Ashley's I.D. on the screen, I chirped, “Hey, girl! What's up?”
All I heard in response was sobbing.
“Honey, what's wrong?”
I waited for Ashley to compose herself.
“Brandy, how can you be so
happy?
”
Confused, I asked, “Why wouldn't I be happy?”
You would be, too, if your Prozac had kicked back in.
She went on. “I mean, after what Mom and that ... that
senator
did to you? Not to mention
me!
I had to find out on TV that you were really my
sister!
Couldn't you have
told
me?”
Oh, for blankety-blank sake. Peggy Sue hadn't told her.
“Half sister,” I corrected.
“Like that makes a difference! Do you know what this means? My whole life has been a lie! I am never going to speak to Mom again. Never.”
“Ashley, I know how you feel, believe me ... but don't you think that's a little harsh? Your mother was barely out of high school. She did what she thought was best at the time.”
“How can you
defend
her?”
Yes, how could I? Only a few months ago I had been as angry and disillusioned as Ashley.
Who was saying, “I'm
especially
mad about what they did to you.”
“Look,” I said evenly, “I can fight my own battles and handle my own neuroses. I have come to grips with my parentage, and I suggest that youâ”
“I don't mean
that!
The photo!”
“What about it?”
“Don't tell me you don't know?
They
leaked it! It was
them!
Mom told me one of Senator Clark's aides took it, on his cell phone. Sneaked it of you two at the hospital. The whole thing was
planned
to get him ahead in the polls. You were
used
to get him reelected.”
I was unable to speak, as if I'd been kicked in the stomach.
Ashley continued: “Anyway, I just called to say I'm dropping out of school. You can tell Mom because I have no intention of doing so.”
Finally locating my voice, I pleaded, “Don't fly off the handle, honeyâcollege is too important.”
“Already quit. I'm leaving for New York tomorrow.”
“But New York ...” She was just a kid! “What will you do there?”
She laughed humorlessly. “Oh, I don't know. Maybe I'll join an escort serviceâlet
them
explain
that
to the media.”
“Stop it. If you do something rash, you'll only end up hurting yourself.”
Which, from experience, I knew for a fact.
But my niece / half sister wasn't listening. “I'll send you my new e-mail, Brandy, and cell number. But don't you
dare
give it out.”
Her only good-bye was the click in my ear.
I don't remember walking around the side of the house to the front porch, to sit in the old rocker; but I must have, because half an hour later I was still there, rocking listlessly, weighing what I could, or should, do to help Ashley, when a huge silver Hummer pulled into the drive.
I wondered what kind of moron would drive such a gas-guzzling monster these days. My question was answered by the driver who jumped out.
My ex-husband, Roger.
What was he doing here, showing up unannounced, coming all the way from Chicago?
Wearing a navy jacket over a pale yellow shirt, and tan slacks, he hurried toward me, locks of his brown hair flying out of place, his normally pleasant features clenched grimly.
Immediately my adrenaline began to rush.
I flew down the porch steps to meet him.
“Is it Jake?” I asked.
“Brandy, is he here?”
“No! Why ... what ... ?”
His sigh quavered. “I was afraid of that.”
“Roger! Stop scaring me. What's going on?”
“Jake's run away.”
Â
Stay tuned for more exciting adventures of Brandy Borne.
Â
Vivian:
Excuse me? Shouldn't that be “More Exciting Adventures of Vivian and Brandy Borne”?
Editor:
How about “Brandy and Vivian Borne”?
Vivian:
Agreed! I may not have gotten the entire last chapter, but for once I got the last word.
Â
A Trash ân' Treasures Tip
Â
If your conscience bothers you about taking other people's possessions, turn over personal items such as photos to the storage unit ownerâmost are far more trustworthy than Big Jim Bob. And by the way, since (for better or worse) I, Brandy Borne, write these tips ... ? Mother did
not
get the last word.
About the Authors
BARBARA ALLAN
Â
Â
is a joint pseudonym of husband-and-wife mystery writers Barbara and Max Allan Collins.
Â
BARBARA COLLINS
is a highly respected short story writer in the mystery field, with appearances in over a dozen top anthologies, including
Murder Most Delicious, Women on the Edge, Deadly Housewives,
and the bestselling
Cat Crimes
series. She was the co-editor of (and a contributor to) the bestselling anthology
Lethal Ladies
, and her stories were selected for inclusion in the first three volumes of
The Year's 25 Finest Crime and Mystery Stories
.
Two acclaimed hardcover collections of her work have been publishedâ
Too Many Tomcats
and (with her husband)
MurderâHis and Hers
. The Collins's first novel together, the Baby Boomer thriller
Regeneration
, was a paperback bestseller; their second collaborative novel,
Bombshell
âin which Marilyn Monroe saves the world from World War IIIâwas published in hardcover to excellent reviews.
Barbara has been the production manager and / or line producer on various independent film projects emanating from the production company she and her husband jointly run.
Â
MAX ALLAN COLLINS
has been hailed as “the Renaissance man of mystery fiction.” He has earned an unprecedented sixteen Private Eye Writers of America “Shamus” nominations for his Nathan Heller historical thrillers,
True Detective
(1983) and
Stolen Away
(1991). The first Heller novel in ten years,
Bye Bye, Baby,
was published in 2011. His other credits include film criticism, short fiction, songwriting, trading-card sets, and movie / TV tie-in novels, including the
New York Times
bestsellers
Saving Private Ryan
and the Scribe Award-winning
American Gangster
.
His graphic novel
Road to Perdition,
considered a classic of the form, is the basis of the Academy Award-winning film. Max's other comics credits include the “Dick Tracy” syndicated strip; his own “Ms. Tree”; “Batman”; and “CSI: Crime Scene Investigation,” based on the hit TV series, for which he has also written six video games and ten bestselling novels.
An acclaimed, award-winning filmmaker in the Midwest, he wrote and directed the Lifetime movie
Mommy
(1996) and three other features; his produced screenplays include the 1995 HBO World Premiere
The Expert
and
The Last Lullaby
(2008). His documentary
Mike Hammer's Mickey Spillane
(1998 / updated 2011) appears on the Criterion Collection discs of acclaimed film noir,
Kiss Me Deadly
.
Max's most recent novels include
No One Will Hear You
(written with Matthew V. Clemens) and
Lady, Go Die!
(completing an unfinished Mike Hammer novel from the late Mickey Spillane's files).
“BARBARA ALLAN” live(s) in Muscatine, Iowa, their Serenity-esque hometown. Son Nathan graduated with honors in Japanese and computer science at the University of Iowa and works as a translator of Japanese to English, with credits ranging from video games to novels.