Free Antiques Disposal by Barbara Allan

listed, or left unmarked? Carefully stacked, or tossed in? The former indicates a higher value, the latter a bad risk. As Mother says, “Even a pig in a poke should have decent grooming.”

Chapter Four
    X Marks the Spot
    T he next day, I arose midmorning, after only a few hours of rest. I probably should have slept till at least early afternoon, but the moment I woke, thoughts of yesterday’s troubles kicked in and I couldn’t have gone back to sleep short of somebody conking me with a big cartoon hammer.
    I had just gotten out of the shower—washing the long night away—when Dr. Tillie called with an update on Sushi.
    â€œShe’s doing fine,” he assured me. “Undoubtedly she’s a tad sore, but there’s been no internal bleeding.”
    I sighed with relief. “Oh, thank you, Doctor.”
    â€œI would like to keep her for another twenty-four hours, for observation. Better safe than sorry.”
    â€œCan I come out and see her?”
    There was a slight pause. “I know you’re anxious to visit the little angel, but right now I’d prefer you didn’t. Best to keep her quiet—no undue excitement.”
    â€œI understand.”
    â€œCall at the end of the day, if you like.” His tone was upbeat. “Otherwise, we’ll see you tomorrow morning.”
    I began thanking him effusively, particularly for having let me interrupt him in the middle of last night, but when I could tell I was embarrassing him, signed off.
    As I hung up the phone, I thought of Peggy Sue, hoping she was faring as well as Soosh.
    Wondering if I was the worst daughter in the world, when my first concern seemed to be my dog... .
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    Half an hour later, Mother and I headed to the hospital. La Diva Borne, too, had managed precious little sleep, but it didn’t seem to have done the old girl any harm. She was chipper in her favorite Breckenridge emerald green slacks and top, while I wore a black cashmere sweater and DKNY jeans.
    Jeaggings —really? Skinny jeans weren’t skinny enough? How much more torture must the female sex endure at the hands of the fashion fascista? And while I’m at it, here’s my take on the correct jean cotton-to-spandex ratio:
    100% cotton: girl, you rule! Unless those jeans get unbuttoned after every meal.
    99% cotton, 1% spandex : the best; that touch of stretch will keep you from strangling the next passerby, or yourself at the waist.
    98% cotton, 2% spandex: a deal with your inner devil to gain five pounds.
    97% cotton, 3% spandex: admit it, honey—you just don’t care.
    The intensive care unit was located on the hospital’s top floor, and when Mother and I arrived at the nurses’ station, we were given the good news that Sis had regained consciousness. Seemed her vital signs were strong enough that she’d been moved to the floor below. Apparently, with each improvement a patient was transferred downward, until, woosh , out the door. Then came the bill, which was enough to woosh you back in again.
    Peggy Sue had a private room at the end of the hall, and, as Mother and I stepped off the elevator, we could see a uniformed police officer seated just outside her door.
    As we walked closer, the identity of that officer was another pleasant surprise.
    â€œMr. Grady,” I said, approaching. “I thought you had retired some years ago.”
    The former sergeant—neat as a pin in his uniform, albeit the shirt buttons straining at his midsection—stood to greet us, beaming. Pushing seventy, medium-height, Sergeant Grady had a silver crew cut and light blue eyes that had a twinkle. Over the years, whenever Mother hit one of her “rough patches,” he’d been helpful and kind.
    â€œYes, Leonard,” Mother asked, “have you gone back on the job?”
    â€œOn the job” was police jargon Mother had picked up from TV. I had no idea whether real officers used the term in Serenity or