Antiques Knock-Off (6 page)

On hand was a large cement area with mismatched patio furniture, overcrowded planters, clinking wind chimes, and whirling miniature windmills—all being watched over by hordes of ceramic gnomes.

So this wonderland of questionable taste was the
real
Connie Grimes.

Still, Sushi somehow navigated her way to a sliding patio door that stood slightly ajar. She stuck her little head inside, the rest of her not able to squeeze through, her bushy little tail twitching at me.

What the heck. I went over and slid the door open just enough to give Sushi a little more relief from the heat.

But before I could even say,
“Stay,”
she dashed inside. Instead,
I
stayed—framed in the doorway—heat on my back, air-conditioning on my front, an oddly pleasant sensation—then finally followed Sushi in.

I couldn’t even be mad at her.

Hadn’t Mother always said that an unlocked door was an open invitation? And who were Sushi and I to doubt her wisdom? (Those are rhetorical questions. No answering required.)

I stepped into the kitchen, which opened onto an entertainment room at my left—comfy couch and recliner, smallish flat-screen TV, and brick fireplace. Sushi had deposited herself on the kitchen’s cool tile floor, her legs spread out like a collapsed card table, her little face ecstatic with the coolness of the flooring on her tummy.

“Guess I don’t have to tell you to stay,” I said.

The kitchen was tiny by current standards, but had nice appliances, and was clean and neat. Some of the kitsch on the patio, however, had crept inside, like mold—starting with the collection of small frogs arranged on the sill of the sink window, and a display of Elvis plates on one wall.

Still, there was something familiar about the rooms, and then it came to me: they were similar to Peggy Sue’s—color schemes, furnishings, even wallpaper. Except this was a less expensive version, on a smaller scale.

Good grief,
I thought, and why I was suddenly talking like a
Peanuts
character I couldn’t tell you. But … was Connie obsessed with my sister? If so, why would she want to destroy the object of her obsession?

I sat on a bar stool at the kitchen counter to wait like a good girl for my hostess. But after a moment, I got bored—
and
hungry (preggers gals do that)—and slid off. Soon I was poking my head in the fridge.

And here’s where, admittedly, I may have, yes, crossed the line—I made myself a turkey sandwich, then washed it down with a glass of milk.

Followed by a couple of Twinkies.

Of course, Sushi was off the tile floor and dancing at my feet throughout, the lure of food trumping cool comfort. I slipped her some of the turkey, but said, through a mouthful of Twinkie, “Not good for dogs!”

Like it was good for me?

Finally she slunk off.

Now noon was here and still no sign of Connie, so I continued to snoop in the kitchen. I found mismatched glasses, chipped everyday dishes, an incomplete cutlery set, and pans with flaking Teflon.

In a walk-in pantry, I discovered a laptop computer, and was about to turn it on for a look when Sushi appeared in the open doorway, whining to get my attention.

“I said, not
good
for dogs.”

But that wasn’t it—her whine was something different, almost a wail.

How odd.

I exited the pantry to follow Soosh, who had
(whoops!)
left a trail of muddy paw prints down the hallway.

The prints ended at the mouth of the living room, but upon closer inspection, the prints had a reddish tinge, not like mud, not even red clay.

More like blood.

Was Sushi hurt?

Alarm spiked through me, as the animal had disappeared into the living room. Any concern of the mess she might make (beyond those bloody paws, she was house-broken)
(sort of) was blotted out by her continued whining, which was working itself into a little shih tzu howl.

Then I spotted the doggie’s tail making like a windshield wiper, between the floral couch and glass coffee table.

“Here, Soosh, here, Soosh,” I said, moving forward. “Are you okay, baby?”

Then a bare foot—not a paw, a human foot—came into view, followed by a blue dress, and I found Sushi, staring sightlessly into the equally sightless eyes of Connie Grimes.

Who looked upset.

You would be, too, with a knife in your chest.

A Trash ‘n’ Treasures Tip

Before spending a substantial amount on an antique, make sure you have a money-back guarantee of its authenticity. A reputable dealer should be willing to comply. Otherwise, bye-bye buy.

I
waited on the stoop of Connie’s split-level home for the paramedics to arrive. After calling 911, I had washed off Sushi’s bloody little paws in the sink, wondering if I was destroying evidence or something, then tied her up with her leash to a well-shaded wrought-iron patio table, providing her with a dish of water. Tampering with a crime scene? I was in so deep, it could hardly matter.

Finally the ambulance arrived, with no siren. No need. A Mutt and Jeff team emerged, one man tall and slender, the other short and stocky (reverse that: isn’t Mutt the little one?).

“The dead woman’s in the living room,” I told them. “And it’s a crime scene, so please take whatever precautions you need to.”

They both gave me a funny look, clearly taken aback, receiving policelike instructions from a pregnant woman in a gray T-shirt and sloppy shorts.

Maybe it sounded funny to them. But the last thing I needed was the area compromised any more than I already had, and make me even more the prime suspect.

But they didn’t say anything, just hurried inside, and I followed, retreating to the kitchen to wait for the actual
police to arrive, which would most likely be two uniformed officers in the closest patrol car. Unfortunately, thanks to Mother’s penchant for involving herself in murder cases, I was becoming an old hand at this.

So I was a little surprised when the chief himself walked into the kitchen.

Chief Tony Cassato, that is.

Serenity’s top cop, a man of mystery whose background was the source of many rumors (any number generated by Mother) and whose big-city no-nonsense demeanor made him one of the most respected, if controversial public servants around.

Also my current boyfriend.

Our friendship went back a few years—when I was home for a while to guide Mother through one of her mental crises, I’d helped Tony institute a new policy of handling mentally ill perps. That friendship had blossomed over the past six months and—while we were not exactly, shall we say, full-fledged lovers (due to the condition I was in)—we were certainly more than just friends.

Tony—late forties, barrel-chested, gray temples, steel-gray eyes, bulbous nose, square jaw—wore his usual summer attire of short-sleeved white shirt, gray slacks, and black Florsheims.

Those bullet-hard eyes, though laced with concern, bore into mine. “Brandy, are you all right?”

“Yes, considering.” Then I whispered, “Please, don’t let them louse this up—your forensics team?”

He frowned, half-concern, half-irritation. “What?”

“I
really
don’t want to have this baby in jail….” My voice cracked at the end.

Tony pulled up a bar stool. “Okay, let’s just take it easy,” he said. He managed to smile. I could tell it took some effort. “Nobody’s going to louse anything up—my guys know what they’re doing.”

I fluttered a hand; I had a queasy feeling. Probably the Twinkies. “But I’ve been here at least an hour, and my fingerprints must be all over this kitchen.”

I was thinking specifically about the cutlery set that I may or may not have touched—whose missing knife was lodged in Connie’s chest.

Tony was working at keeping his voice gentle, calm. “Brandy, why were you here?”

“Waiting for Connie. We had a sort of appointment, to talk.”

“What about that restraining order?”

“She invited me. I had her permission. Of course, I can’t
prove
that now….” I put a hand to my head. “Oh, Lord …
please
let her have been dead a while.”

Tony apparently did not know what to say to that.

A uniformed cop appeared. I knew the tall and gangly Officer Munson from several murder investigations Mother and I had (let’s say) helped with in the past.

If I had been Chief Cassato, about now I’d be wondering if Mother and I were serial killers who had framed all those brought to justice in the other murder cases. Weren’t
we
the common denominator?

If “common” was the right word.

“The coroner’s here,” Officer Munson told Tony.

I touched the chief’s hand, where it rested on the counter. “Do we
really
need the coroner? I mean … you don’t have to be a doctor to tell the woman’s dead. And that’s just one more person to tromp through this crime scene and—”

“Will you let me do my job?” Tony cut in, not unkindly.

Munson was giving me a look as if I were half out of my mind, which was most uncalled for.

Tony told the young officer, “Tell Bert to examine the body later, at the hospital.” The morgue was in the basement. Of the hospital, not Connie’s house.

Munson nodded and scooted.

The chief’s attention was back on me. “Brandy, let’s go over it. Nice and calm. Step at a time. Now—what are you doing here?”

He had already dug in a pocket of his slacks and withdrawn a pen and small notepad—which I liked, because it was not nearly as intimidating as a tape recorder.

Still, a little too defensively, I answered, “I told you I had an appointment. I was invited.”

“Okay … but
why?
You weren’t exactly friends with the woman.”

He was referring to that public row I’d had with Connie last year, requiring me to take an anger management course. And inspiring that damned, damning restraining order.

Choosing my words carefully, I told him what had happened yesterday morning at the clock repair shop. But not
why
it happened. And I left out Sushi ripping Connie’s dress. No need to make a suspect out of Soosh.

“What did the Grimes woman say,” Tony asked, “that made your mother attack her?”

“Mother didn’t attack Connie, exactly.”

“What did Vivian do, exactly?”

“She … gave Connie a little push.”

“A little push?”

“A push.”

“Okay, a push. Now back to my question
—why
did she give the Grimes woman a push?”

The answer was tricky. What could I say that was the truth, if not quite the whole truth? Something that wouldn’t contradict what Mr. Timmons might say?

I pretended to be working to summon up the precise words and finally came out with, “Connie said something like, ‘Well, if it isn’t mother and daughter.’ “

When I didn’t continue, a frowning Tony asked, “That’s
it? That
caused your mother to shove her?”

I shrugged. “I was busy with Mr. Timmons, showing him our clock. Besides, it wasn’t
what
Connie said so much as
how
she said it. Her tone was all nasty, and her face was all screwed up.” I stopped, then added, “I don’t know
why
that woman hates us so much …
hated
us so much….”

I was fishing for a little sympathy, but I didn’t get a nibble.

Tony sighed. Weight of the world. “All right, Brandy. So you came here at Connie’s invitation. To do what? Make amends?”

“That’s it,” I said, perhaps too eagerly. “Make amends.”

“And?”

I shrugged. “And she wasn’t home yet, and it was hot outside, and the patio door was open. Sushi nosed her way in, to get into the air-conditioning, and I just … followed. I figured Connie left the door open for me. So it wasn’t breaking and entering or trespassing or anything.”

“I didn’t imply it was, Brandy.”

Officer Munson reappeared. “Chief! I can’t locate the husband—Fred Grimes? Apparently he’s still at lunch, and his cell phone is going to voice mail. I suppose we could wait till he contacts us.”

“I
suppose,”
Tony said as if to a small, slow child, “you could go over there and wait until he
does
show.”

The officer gulped and nodded and disappeared again.

Tony turned to me. He clearly did not want to upset me, however upset
with
me he might be. “Brandy, did you go anywhere else in the house?”

“No. Just here. And the pantry.”

“The pantry?”

“I, uh … made myself a sandwich.”

Tony raised his eyebrows.

So I raised mine back at him. “I was
hungry.
I’d been here a while. I’m eating for two, you know!”

He let out some air, apparently trying to make it sound like something other than a sigh, as he scribbled in the little notebook.

I volunteered, “Then I heard Sushi whining and went to see what was wrong … and that’s when I saw Connie.”

He wrote some more.

His eyes raised to mine; they were hooded and unblinking. “Anything else you think you should mention?”

“Such as?”

“Oh, I don’t know … maybe something you may later regret
not
mentioning.”

“Well.”

“Well?”

“I did eat a Twinkie.”

“You ate a Twinkie?”

“All right—two Twinkies. You know, one package. You don’t eat one and let the other go to waste, right? Right?”

This time he didn’t disguise the sigh. He closed the notebook and it was like a tiny slap. I jumped a little.

“All right, Brandy,” he said. “That’s all—for now.”

Cops loved to say that.

I said, “And I won’t leave town.”

“What?”

“Isn’t that what you always tell suspects? Don’t leave town?”

“Is that what you are, Brandy? A suspect?”

“You tell me.”

“Okay. Don’t leave town.”

If there was sarcasm in that, it was very, very dry.

I slid off the stool. Tony escorted me gently by the arm down the short hallway, and past the living room, where the forensics team—two men and one woman in those
plastic suits that are like full-body condoms—were still working in the room. Connie’s corpse
(yikes)
had been quietly removed during my questioning.