Free Antiques Disposal by Barbara Allan Page A

anywhere.
    â€œOnly occasionally, Vivian,” he said. “When the PD’s overstretched, I’m back in harness.” He winked at me. “Or anyway, I try to squeeze into it.”
    Uniformed officer or not, Sergeant Grady was good enough a detective to have caught me glancing at his midsection. I blushed at that. Yes, I can feel shame.
    Mother tossed her head, girlishly. “Nonsense, Leonard! You look fit as a fiddle.”
    What’s so fit about a fiddle, anyway? And where would we all be without the likes of Mother to keep these mysterious old homilies in play?
    Mother was saying, “We’re delighted you are guarding our precious Peggy Sue. Aren’t we, Brandy?”
    â€œUh-huh.”
    I was pretty sure that just because he was retirement age—actually past retirement age—Sergeant Grady wasn’t likely to be fooled by a killer masquerading as a doctor, or a nurse, or an orderly. That only happens in movies and on TV.
    Right?
    â€œWell, dear,” Mother said, turning to me, “let’s see how our patient’s doing.”
    Quietly, we entered Peggy Sue’s room. Though the window blinds were closed, light filtered in, slashing white across Sis’s form in the slightly cranked-up bed. Her eyes were closed, an I.V. stuck in one hand, oxygen tube lodged in her nose. One temple had been sheared to allow tending of her wound, including bandaging.
    I whispered, singsongy, “She’s not going to be happy about her hair .”
    Mother whispered back, not singsongy, “Well, she could stand a new hairdo, at that.”
    â€œI dunno,” I replied, “another year or two, that pageboy could come back in style. Stranger things have happened.”
    Peggy Sue’s eyes popped open like a mad killer at the end of a slasher movie, and both Mother and I jumped.
    â€œI can hear you, you know,” she said.
    â€œUh, hi, Sis ... you feeling all right? They treating you okay?”
    â€œYes, darling,” Mother purred, “do tell us how you’re holding up.”
    Peggy Sue pulled herself upright a little, supported by a pillow. “You mean after suffering the insults of my loving family?” She didn’t wait for any lame response, but went on defensively, “And there’s not a thing wrong with my hairstyle—I get compliments on it all the time.”
    Dr. Tillie’s voice played in my head: Keep her quiet ... no undue excitement ... .
    â€œI’m sure you do,” I soothed. Best not point out that the side of her head was shaved like a prisoner headed to the hot squat.
    But Mother chirped, “And don’t worry about how hideous it looks now ... it’ll grow out in a month or two! At which time, why, I could even style it for you! After all, remember the nice job I used to do, cutting Brandy’s hair when she was a little girl?”
    Peggy Sue and I traded looks. Mother would have been fired from a military base barber shop for undue cruelty to recruits. Her assaults on my head of hair were an indignity I put up with till I was old enough to fight her off.
    With a pointed look at Mother, I said, “Let’s move past the warm family reunion to what happened last night. I want to know what Peggy Sue can remember.”
    Mother tilted her head at me and gave me a mildly scolding look. “We are here visiting your sister because of her injury and to show her our support, and there’s no reason to upset her by rushing into all of that unpleasantness.” Then to Sis, she said, “What do you remember about last night?”
    Peggy Sue shrugged. “Not much. I recall going downstairs for a sleeping pill.”
    Mother prodded, “And?”
    â€œAnd ... that’s about all.”
    I asked, “You don’t remember being slugged?”
    â€œReally, I don’t. Just waking up here. What did happen?”
    I let Mother reconstruct what we knew about the attack, which she