Free Antiques Maul by Barbara Allan Page A

just piled into my car when a powder-blue Cadillac pulled up in front of the house and an older woman climbed out in an array of endless limbs.
    Tall, slender, with striking, shoulder-length, gunmetal gray hair (fixed in a forties Joan Crawford pageboy), she wore black tailored slacks and a tan cardigan over a crisp white blouse. It took me a moment to separate this Bernice from the little stooped-shouldered old lady murderess she had played opposite Mother this past summer.
    Mother, seated next to me, became immediately agitated and got out of the car. Sensing disaster, I did likewise.
    Bernice strode purposefully toward us. Her expression seemed pleasant enough, although it was hard to tell because of the troweled-on makeup (a hazzard of show business, I suppose).
    “Thank goodness I caught you before you left,” Bernice said, smiling at Mother. “I want to apologize, Vivian, for my absolute rudeness on the phone…I’m afraid I was having a personal problem at the moment, and I took it out on you, my darling, which was an inexcusable thing to do to a dear, close friend…. You will forgive me, won’t you?”
    I was ready to forgive her, just in hopes she’d stop making speeches.
    But I wasn’t sure about Mother, who only grunted.
    Bernice stepped closer to Mother. “Why, what an adorable dog!” she said with a smile displaying lovely, expensive choppers. “I wish I could have a pet…but they’re not allowed by my condominium association.”
    “What do you want?” Mother asked coldly.
    Bernice’s smile vanished, hurt showing in her eyes. “Why, I’ve come to buy the cigar store Indian. You were right, Vivian…I did give the statue to you, wholly and completely, and it’s yours to do with as you please…and if that means selling it, well, then, I’m willing to pay for it.”
    Her saddened eyes moved past Mother to the backseat of my car where the leaned-back Indian stared stonily straight ahead. This calculated slice of ham put both Mother and Sushi to shame. Like many stage actresses’ performances, Bernice’s were better viewed from a distance.
    Mother said haughtily, “It will be available this afternoon in our booth at the antiques mall!”
    I butted in. “Mother! Bernice is here now, and it will save us hauling the stupid thing downtown.”
    Mother said, “Brandy, I’ll thank you to stay out of this. And it’s a precious collectible, an American artifact, not a ‘stupid’ thing.”
    I tried again, because Bernice’s eyes now had tears in them; these seemed genuine, unless she’d doused her orbs with glycerin when I wasn’t looking.
    “Well,” I said, “what difference does it make if she buys it now, or in a few hours at the shop?”
    Mother put her hands forcefully on her hips, jostling Sushi. “It matters a great deal! An immediate sale in our booth today will make us look good…plus, I’ll see to it Bernice will receive a store discount—perhaps as much as fifteen percent—off the purchase price.”
    “Oh.” I shrugged and looked at Bernice.
    Bernice, blinking away the tears, said, “What if…if someone else buys the statue before I get there? I have a director’s meeting at the playhouse this afternoon that could last quite a while….”
    Uh-oh. Not the right thing to say.
    Stiffening at the mention of the lost director’s position, Mother sniffed, “Well, then, you’ll just have to take that chance. We all have our priorities.”
    And Mother abruptly left us and got back into the car.
    I said softly to Bernice, “Don’t worry…I’ll put a sold sign with your name on it.”
    Bernice smiled warmly. “Thank you, Brandy. I would so much appreciate that. I’m…I’m afraid I’ve permanently damaged our friendship, your mother and me.”
    “Give it time. Offer her a nice role, and all will be forgiven.”
    Bernice nodded and smiled and clasped one of my hands in both of hers. All of it played a little phony to me. Mother, for all her theatricality, was real. Had