Antiques Swap by Barbara Allan Page B

photo of a favorite movie star (which Mother signed); or, as in Heather’s case, a promised appearance on our upcoming cable show, which of course wouldn’t be coming up unless the pilot sold.
    â€œHi, Heather,” I said. “Would you tell Brian I’m here?”
    â€œSure, Ms. Borne. Shame about Mrs. Sinclair. . . . Where’s your mother?”
    Natural assumption. This was a murder case, wasn’t it?
    â€œShe didn’t get invited,” I said.
    Heather laughed. “Bet she loved that!”
    As Heather swivelled to a phone, I retreated to a corner chair next to a drooping rubber tree plant. The plant’s continued existence depended on Mother and me administering much needed TLC anytime either of us cooled our heels in the station’s waiting room.
    But I didn’t have time to do anything more than remove a few dead leaves before the steel door to the inner sanctum opened and Brian stepped out, wearing a light blue shirt and navy slacks, his chief’s badge attached to his belt.
    In his midthirties, Brian was boyishly handsome, with brown hair and puppy-dog brown eyes.
    But those eyes looked more pit-bullish now as he summoned me with a scolding parent’s crooked finger.
    I followed him down the familiar beige hallway, where photos of long-ago policemen hung crookedly on the walls (Mother often paused to straighten each one), then was led into one of several small interview rooms.
    Hey! It was freezing in there, and the windowless room was claustrophobic, the furniture consisting of two bolted-down metal chairs with a table between.
    Brian gestured for me to sit, and my bottom settled onto a chair that was harder than a cement slab.
    Let’s hope Mother was wrong about the coffee, at least....
    I asked for some, and Brian brought me a Styrofoam cup of black liquid with an oil-slick surface. Yuck! Why hadn’t I taken that tote?
    Brian settled into the chair opposite me, placed a small recorder on the table, and turned it on. “Interview with Brandy Borne,” he said, followed by the date and time. Then: “Why were you at the Sinclair residence this afternoon?”
    â€œVanessa called the shop wanting to sell some beer signs.”
    â€œUh-huh. Maybe you should start with the fight you had with her at the swap meet.”
    How did he know about that?
    I shifted in the uncomfortable chair. “It wasn’t a fight. Just a brief verbal scuffle. A misunderstanding.”
    â€œThat right.”
    â€œThat’s right. She saw me talking to Wes, and jumped to the wrong conclusion.”
    â€œThen you’re not having an affair with Wes Sinclair?”
    â€œWhat? Affair? No! Vanessa apologized when she called me about the beer signs. I think it was a kind of . . . peace offering.”
    Brian shut the recorder off, stood, then left the room.
    After a few long minutes, he returned and resumed the interview, switching the recorder back on.
    â€œI’ve just spoken to Wesley Sinclair,” Brian said, “and he doesn’t know anything about selling those beer signs. Furthermore, he said he never agreed to do so.”
    Was Wes in one of the other interview rooms? And was he trying to implicate me? Despite how cold it was in there, I began to sweat. Really could’ve used a tissue . . .
    A Brian who seemed colder than the cubicle was saying, “Vanessa embarrassed you at the swap meet, in front of dozens of people, and you went over there to have it out with her. You just invented the story about the beer signs.”
    â€œNo! That’s ridiculous.”
    â€œBrandy, no one’s saying this was premeditated.”
    â€œPremeditated?”
    â€œYou argued with her and things got out of hand.”
    â€œShe was alive when I left.”
    â€œCan anyone corroborate that?”
    â€œI don’t know! No one else was there. Maybe a neighbor? Have you asked?” I pointed to the recorder. “Will you turn that damn