Antiques Knock-Off (23 page)

Want a quick, free getaway? Take some of those hotel toiletries you always swipe, currently gathering dust in a bathroom closet, and use them for your morning bath ritual.
Suddenly, you’re transported back to Le Meurice, the Savoy, or the Ritz-Carlton.
(Or in my case, the Peoria Super 8).

After a simple breakfast of orange juice and cereal, which settled nicely, I wandered into the music/library room,
which was crammed with the musical instruments and books that Mother keeps buying at garage sales and flea markets. Quite honestly, it didn’t smell so good in there.

No one in our family that I ever heard about was musically inclined, although Mother claimed she used to entertain returning local WWII servicemen by performing “Boogie-Woogie Bugle Boy of Company B” on the cornet. But once when I handed her one of her flea market trumpets and asked for a demonstration of her gifts, it sounded more like “Boogie-Woogie Bugle Boy of Company B-flat.”

The room was now the Music/Library/Incident Room, because, in addition to the dinged and dented musical instruments, and moldy, tattered books, Mother had dragged in an old wooden classroom chalkboard on rollers, which she used to keep track of her latest murder investigation.

(Migod, had it had gotten
that
bad? Was I now accepting, ever so casually, the reality that one murder investigation would be followed by another, and another …?)

Anyway, written on the board in pink chalk, apropos to the current investigation, was the following:

DENISE GARDNER/SENATOR’S AIDE—

9:10
A.M.
entered front. Left 9:35
A.M.

BEN TIMMONS—

9:50
A.M.
entered front. Left 10:10
A.M.

TINA—

10:20
A.M.
No entry. Left 10:25
A.M.

BLUE MINIVAN (DRIVER UNKNOWN!)—

10:30
A.M.
, Seen in driveway. Left?

VIVIAN—

11:05
A.M.
entered. Left 11:35
A.M.

BRANDY/SUSHI—

11:45
A.M.
Entered back (found body).

Apparently these notes were culled in part from the secret tape Mother had made of Rhonda’s hypnosis session. And to me it seemed clear that Ben Timmons had killed Connie Grimes—otherwise, who would have let him in the front door?

But then, Mother said the front door was unlocked when she arrived (I hadn’t bothered to try it), so it
was
possible that Denise Gardner had done the deed, and Ben Timmons invited himself in (as Mother had), saw the body, and fled.

The blue minivan (mistaken by Mother as Peggy Sue’s) might be explained as innocently as some lost soul using the Grimeses’ driveway to turn around.

Shrugging, I went back upstairs to my bedroom, where I kept my computer, and fired it up.

Soosh was on the covers, on her back, spread-eagled, as the room was beginning to get warm, the central air unable to keep up with the outside heat. Her little tongue was lolling.

I slipped the computer disc Mother had confiscated into the computer drive, and opened it, assuming it would contain nothing important, yet hoping it might.

Unfortunately, as I had expected, the files were a bunch of junk—Christmas letters, mailing lists, recipes, tax information. The typical things found on anybody’s home PC.

But one file caught my interest—labeled “SWAK,” the universal shorthand for “sealed with a kiss”—and I opened it.

Sure enough, it was a love letter, written last month to “My dearest darling.” This was, of course, none of my business. Didn’t the deceased deserve a little privacy?

Not on my watch. Not on a murder investigation (the
current
murder investigation), and not from a woman (AWOL from her sick bed) who shared DNA with Vivian Borne.

And as I continued to read the single-spaced one-page
letter, I got more and more intrigued. From the e-mail’s contents, it became apparent that Connie had been having an affair, and that funds she had been gathering (by blackmail?) were being socked away for the lovers’ future life together. The salutation was “Forever yours.” Wasn’t that a candy bar? Fitting sign-off for Connie Grimes.

One passage, however, did seem especially curious. “Soon you will understand my motives, darling, and we will be together always, living in the lap of luxury, and you will never have to slave away again.”

That made me wonder—was it possible her affection was not being reciprocated? Or that a once-attentive lover had called it off? Because there seemed to me to be a desperate edge to the letter, an almost hysterical tinge, as if Connie were trying to convince a once (and she hoped future) lover of her actions.

Suppose Connie’s paramour had been Ben Timmons? And the real reason she was angry with him that morning at the clock repair shop had nothing to do with an overcharge (as Timmons had claimed). Had the clock fixer either dumped her, or rebuffed her advances?

Interesting questions. But who could confirm or deny this theory besides the principles? Then it came to me—if anyone might know of the affair, it would be Peggy Sue!

Even though it was the morning of Peg’s weekly country club bridge game, I thought I could catch Sis alone when she was the dummy, or in the tank, or rubberized, or whatever it’s called—I don’t pretend to understand the game, nor do I understand why anybody’s still playing the dumb thing in the twenty-first century. (No letters, please! I have a right to my opinion.)

I intended to leave Sushi behind, placated with a doggie treat, but when she heard the jingle of the car keys, she had a hissy fit, barking and hurling herself at me like a fur-ball
kamikaze. Evidently she felt neglected these past few days, with me in the hospital, and Mother out and about.

I warned her, “It’s hot outside—you won’t like it.” But the words (Sushi understood “hot” and “outside”) failed to dissuade her.

From experience I knew that if I left Soosh alone, she might well apply her sharp little teeth to one of my expensive leather shoes. And if there’s anything sadder in life than a chewed-on Stuart Weitzman, I haven’t encountered it yet.

So from the front closet I retrieved the leopard tote with the pink boa feathers that made her sneeze, and rather than strap on a hot dog (hold the mustard) to my chest, I just placed Sushi in it, and hauled her and myself out to the un-air-conditioned car.

I was feeling good. You can’t
prove
that I doubled my pain-killer dosage before I left.

Thankfully, the country club was only minutes away, and soon Soosh and I were entering the modern, sprawling, tan-brick building, through fancy etched-glass front doors into a cool (temperature-wise, anyway) octagonal lobby, with its formal carpeting, golfer landscapes, and mahogany furniture.

Mrs. Crumley—who, thanks to a wealthy husband, never had to do a lick of work in her life, and who bore a general contempt for any who had—was the self-imposed country club gatekeeper on bridge mornings. The hefty middle-aged woman, who possessed short lacquered hair that bullets could bounce off of, gave me a frown as I approached the small secretariate desk, at which she sat.

“You can’t bring that creature in here,” she said, waggling a finger Sushi’s way, like she was scolding the animal for existing.

“Of course I can,” I said. “The dog is blind—I’m her
seeing eye person.” I lifted the tote. “Haven’t you ever heard of having a license to carry?”

One would think women of leisure would have plenty of time to cultivate a sense of humor, even if they hadn’t been born with one. But Mrs. Crumley didn’t find me the least bit funny, as she continued surveying us disapprovingly. Here’s an interesting question—how can somebody sitting down still look down her nose at you?

Finally she said, “All right, Ms. Borne. I understand you are Peggy Sue Hastings’s sister, but that carries little weight. That …
thing
can’t go any farther than where you stand
right now
—we have rules here, you know.” She paused. “What is it you want, anyway?
You
are not a member.”

I found a smile. “I can dream, can’t I?” I hadn’t put any sarcastic spin on that at all, but I kind of wondered if Mrs. Crumly would have noticed if I had. “I’m here to see my sister. Who is a member, as you pointed out.”

“Well, she’s playing bridge and can’t be interrupted.”

Now I made an apologetic face. “I know, I’m so sorry—but this is an emergency.”

She sighed heavily. “Oh, all right … I’ll see if she can come….” The woman stood. “Why don’t you people stop
bothering
her during bridge club—first last week, then this week! Doesn’t she deserve a respite like anyone else?”

What was she talking about?

Mrs. Crumley had come around the desk to face me, standing with hands on expansive hips. Some of the boa feathers tickled Sushi’s nose and the pooch sneezed, sending canine spittle flying upward toward the woman’s heavily made-up face.

I suppressed a smile.
Score one, Sushi!

Mrs. Crumley wiped her puss with a paw. She
hummped.

“At least your sister’s
husband
knew enough not to interrupt the game.”

Well, of course not. Mild-mannered Bob wouldn’t have a confrontation with anyone, least of all this Cerberus at the gate.

Mrs. Crumley disappeared down the carpeted hallway in the direction of the dining room, where the bridge games were held. And in less than a minute, Peggy Sue came hurrying toward me, typically lovely in a cream-color wrap dress with a handkerchief hem that I recognized from Donna Karan’s summer line. Like I said, I can dream, can’t I?

“What is it, Brandy?” Sis asked, alarmed, out of breath. “What are you doing out of bed!”

“I’m fine,” I assured her. “I’m just getting a little exercise.”

“Exercise!”

“Peg—please. I need to ask you something important.”

“What?”

I pulled her over to the etched-glass doors, out of earshot of Mrs. Crumley, who had resumed her station and was staring from behind the desk at us.

I whispered, “Do you know if Connie ever had an affair? Particularly lately?”

Peggy Sue’s concern morphed to annoyance.
“That’s
your ‘emergency’? You’re not
still
looking into her murder, after all that has happened to you? Putting that baby at risk wasn’t enough? Now you have to endanger your own health?”

I ignored all that.
“Was
she having an affair?”

Peggy Sue sighed. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Maybe? You want to be a
little
more specific?”

Reluctantly, she played along. “Just a feeling. She seemed so happy—for
Connie,
anyway … in light of the fact her husband was cheating with his secretary.”

“Connie knew about that?”

Sis shrugged. “Everybody knew. But Connie didn’t seem to care.”

Sushi was getting heavy, and I switched the tote to my other hand. “Could Connie have been carrying on with Ben Timmons?”

“Who? The clock repairman?” Sis laughed. “Whatever would make you think
that?”

“He has money, doesn’t he? Owns his business.”

“That doesn’t mean he isn’t in debt up to his you-know-what.”

Like Bob.

“Anyway, isn’t Ben Timmons gay?” she asked.

“I don’t know. Is he?”

“I always thought so. He’s not married.”

“Which automatically makes him gay?”

“No, of course not. But gay or straight, he certainly isn’t the kind of man Connie would have gone after. A clock repairman working out of an old funeral home? Please.
You
knew Connie.
You
know the type. A real social climber.”

My jaw would have dropped if that lack of self-insight on my sister’s part hadn’t already frozen my face.

“Connie Grimes had a husband with a respectable job. She’d been around the car business long enough, Brandy, to know
not
to trade
down.”

Mrs. Crumley snapped, “Mrs. Hastings! Please don’t keep the other ladies waiting!”

Sis touched my arm. “Sorry, honey. I’ve got to get back to the game.”

As I watched Peggy Sue disappear back down the hall, it occurred to me her husband might be more helpful than she’d been. Since he’d partnered his insurance agency with an investment brokerage, Bob might be just the person to find out for me whether Connie had been investing large
sums of money. If not with him, then some other firm. Couldn’t he place a few calls—one agent to another?

Seemed worth a try.

Since expanding his business, Bob had moved his operation from a strip mall on the outskirts of town to the old five-story First National Bank building downtown on Main Street, purchasing the white-stone Grecian fortress and saving it from demolition, forever buying Mother’s gratitude.

This was my first trip to Bob’s newly remodeled digs—not exactly having a lot of cash lying around to invest, nor needing new car insurance on a vehicle that was probably already technically totaled. By the time the Buick putt-putted into the spacious parking lot, Sushi was whimpering from the heat, regretting the jaunt with me.

“You need to learn more words,” I advised her.

Her fuzzy face said,
Huh?

I wasted no time in entering the old bank, the former lobby transformed from a stodgy, cold, gray-marbled teller area to a warm, inviting waiting area with all the comforts of an expensive family room.

To the left were matching overstuffed couches and chairs arranged around a huge flat-screen TV (turned to the business channel, of course), positioned above a modern fireplace. To the right were Internet stations, and a coffee bar with several canisters of hot java, pitchers of ice water and lemonade, plus complimentary fancy cookies and scones.

Free grub! Brandy likes. I poured some water into a cup and let Sushi lap it, while I stuffed a frosted cookie in my mouth, already beginning my post-baby diet.

A directory on the wall said Bob’s office was on the top floor, so I caught an elevator up. As I got off, an attractive thirty-something black woman with sleek chin-length hair
stepped from behind her desk to greet me. Her short peach cardigan over a ruffled silk cream blouse, with a short brown tiered skirt, was likely J. Crew. See, I am a detective.