Antiques Disposal by Barbara Allan Page A

“We’ll see you then.”
    He smiled tightly. “Just you, Brandy. Your statement should cover it. I can always follow up with a phone call to Mrs. Borne.”
    â€œ Vivian, ” Mother insisted.
    â€œVivian,” he said with a nod.
    I’d expected a vehement protest from Mother, being excluded from the police station visit, but to my surprise Mother only added, “I’m quite content having Brandy speak for the two of us—after all, she was first to discover poor Big Jim Bob.”
    Munson, having stepped out of the unit, was motioning for Brian, who then left us to huddle with his officer.
    Mother whispered in my ear, “Dear, you’ll be able to get more information out of the acting chief without me along. He’s still mad about you, you know. A perfect opportunity to deploy your feminine wiles.”
    Feminine wiles: beauty and charm used by a woman to get a man to do something.
    You’re right—I don’t think it sounds like me, either.
    Brian returned to us. “The coroner is on his way.”
    I nodded. “Then it’s okay for us to leave?”
    He nodded back. “We have a lot more work to do here and ...” He flicked a glance at Mother, and I got the picture: we would just be underfoot.
    So before Mother could make any more trouble, I took her by the arm and led her to the Buick; after telling her to stay (knowing she was no more liable to follow that command than Sushi), I went over to the Caddie to see if Peggy Sue was up to driving herself home.
    She insisted she was, and in fact seemed just fine now. Soon our two-car caravan was moving slowly out of the drive, passing the paramedic truck as it rolled in with lights flashing but no siren.
    As we passed, Mother powered down her window, stuck her head out, and shrilled, “Not needed! Not needed!”
    I cringed. “Well, your yelling wasn’t needed, all right!”
    â€œIt most certainly was.” She powered the window back up and folded her arms like a nightclub bouncer. “Dear, it’s a waste of taxpayer money to send a vehicle like that out burning fuel, and wasting electricity with those flashing lights. If I don’t make my opinions known, how are improvements to be made around this town?”
    We were in the country, but I didn’t point that out. We just fell silent. Sis was back to her tailgating ways again, but this time I let her get away with it. The fog was still thick and we were just crawling, anyway.
    â€œYou know, Brian would make a suitable husband,” Mother mused, shifting gears even if I was the one driving. “He may not be the brightest crayon in the box ... but with my help he could make a decent chief of police—interim, acting, or otherwise.”
    And a great conduit for police information.
    Mother went on: “I do understand that you’re still pining away for Tony Cassato, and he was a handsome brooding brute of a man ... but, dear, you can’t be certain you’ll ever even see him again. It’s time to move on. Just step up to that counter and say, ‘Next!’ ”
    I kept quiet.
    â€œBy the way, dear, were you ever intimate with Tony?”
    Good thing I wasn’t drinking anything, because that one rated a spit-take all over the dashboard.
    I shot her a glare. “Mother, there’s such a thing as privacy! How can you ask me that?”
    She was staring into the fog, perhaps looking out for icebergs. “Because I’m your mother— and grandmother. That gives me twice the right.”
    Typical Mother reasoning.
    I said, “I was seven months pregnant at the time Tony and I got serious, so what do you think?”
    (Last year, I played a role that outperformed anything Mother had ever done at the local Playhouse—I was surrogate mother for my best friend and her husband, who couldn’t have children. Are you newbies keeping up?)
    Mother was saying, “A third-term