Free Antiques Flee Market by Barbara Allan Page B

know who would be perfect to cast as the male lead in the Christie play…but he can be awfully temperamental, and somewhat undependable.”
    “Glad it’s coming together.”
    Mother studied me. “Something wrong, dear? You’re frowning. You’re making wrinkles!”
    I plastered on a smile guaranteed to make even more lines. “No! Everything’s fine.”
    (You didn’t think for a moment that I would tell Mother about my surrogacy offer, did you? If so, you’re either a new reader or not paying attention. Good Lord, it would be all over town before Tina and Kevin even had a chance to think it over.)
    I said, “I take it you want to go out for dinner.”
    Mother smiled up at me. “How did you know, dear?”
    “Because it’s almost six and there’s no yummy smells coming from the kitchen.”
    All right, I’ll admit that my using words like “yummy” had something to do with my mother treating me like a child.
    “You see, dear! As much as you try to resist it, your natural sleuthing skills are a part of you.” Mother brushed the legal pad aside. “How about going to that new Mexican restaurant you’ve been wanting to try?”
    This surprised me, as Mother doesn’t care for spicy food because the resulting indigestion almost inevitably keeps her up all night watching Home Shopping Network. And I don’t care for the bills we get for the vitamin complexes, exercise gizmos, and kitchen miracles that ensue, so I hadn’t pressed my Mexican yen.
    Nonetheless, I said, “Great! But I’ll have to give Sushi her food, first.” I glanced around for the dog, who should have come trotting in at the sound of the word “food.”
    “I’ve already taken care of the little darling,” Mother informed me.
    “You have?”
    She lifted her chin, eyes sparkling with pride. “ And given her her shot of insulin.”
    “You did ?”
    Mother had only done that once before, when I was too sick to get out of bed with a migraine; she has an abject fear of needles (slightly less so when it’s someone else getting stuck).
    I narrowed my eyes. “All right…what’s going on? My natural sleuthing skills tell me you’re up to something.”
    Both her hands came up in “Lawsy, Miss Scarlet” fashion. “Why, nothing, dear! It’s simply that you’ve seemed so very down in the dumps lately, and I only wanted to please.” She gave me the kind of smile a bank teller gives a holdup man. “The idea that my gesture might be anything other than heartfelt…well, it wounds me, dear…right here.” She thumped her chest.
    As if anything could pierce that egotistical heart.
    But to keep the peace, I said, “Forgive me, Mother,” and trundled off to get our raccoon coats. It only seemed fair to warn the world we were coming.
    On the drive to the Mexican restaurant, Mother chattered on and on about her plans for the new production, and—as with most of her one-sided conversations—I had to either rise to her level of enthusiasm, or fade back entirely. Not having the energy, I chose the latter.
    Mother, tiring of own voice for a change, began to sing “Aba Daba Honeymoon,” which if you’ve never heard it (or even if you have) is about a monkey and a chimp and consists mostly of the words “aba” and “daba.” Which pretty much summed up our relationship these days.
    La Hacienda was located in South End, and everything on the menu sounded both authentic and delicious. Not knowing when I’d have an opportunity to be back, I ordered guacamole (made directly at our table), chiles rel-lenos, Spanish rice, refried beans, and for dessert, flan. Fat bucket be damned.
    Mother questioned the poor waitress exhaustively about all of the dishes, and what was in them, asking her in her best John McLaughlin fashion to assign a relative hotness on a scale of one to ten (ten being “metaphysical hotness”), finally making me kick her under the table to let up.
    After glaring at me, Mother ordered huevos rancheros, but when they arrived (the