Free Antiques Slay Ride by Barbara Allan

didn’t have a quid on her.
    I’ll give the doorman this much: he didn’t flinch. And after Mother turned away, I slipped him a fiver. I mean, five spot.
    We made our way into the vast rectangular lobby with its tan/gold marbled walls, mirror columns, and shining floor with motif of large diamonds and circles.
    In case you were wondering why I sauntered into a hotel brazenly brandishing a dog, the Pennsylvania was (and as far as I know still is) pet friendly, playing host every year to the Westminster Kennel Club dog show.
    The check-in counter ran the distance of the cavernous room, above which rows of flat screens projected a variety of cable shows—from business to politics to sports to reality programs. But despite the possibility often check-in stations, only two were open. And to my dismay (and my stomach’s), a long line of patrons snaked around, corralled by black nylon ropes, as if they were trying to get tickets to the latest blockbuster flick.
    â€œWell,” an unhappy customer said, passing us, having finally checked in, “at least I got to see a complete episode of Storage Wars .”
    â€œMother?” I whined. My stomach seconded that question with a growl.
    â€œCourage, dear,” she responded. “I just spotted another Good Samaritan.” Waving her free hand wildly, she called out, her voice echoing across the lobby, “Oh, yoo -woo! Mr. Bufford! It’s Vivian!”
    A heavyset, unmade bed of a man with a convention bag dangling from a shoulder, gave us a momentarily bewildered look that turned into recognition and a wave back at us, before hurrying our way.
    Mother whispered, “Mr. Bufford is the convention organizer, dear.”
    â€œYes, I know,” I whispered back. She’d had many conversations with him on the phone and on Skype, arranging for us to come, and I’d spoken to him once or twice myself.
    Our host—who I guessed to be about forty—wore wrinkled khaki shorts, a plaid short-sleeved shirt open over the convention’s logo T-shirt, and white socks with sandals. His black-rimmed glasses, which rode his night-lite bulb of a nose, were adhesive taped at one temple. The comb-over of his thinning sandy-colored hair seemed to have exploded, and he bore the wild-eyed look of a dude rancher who had just been tossed off a bull.
    And the convention didn’t even officially start till tomorrow.
    Mr. Bufford stuck out a chubby hand to Mother. His smile was as big and sincere as it was yellow. “Vivian, so nice to finally meet you in person!”
    Mother had taken the hand. “And you, likewise, young man.”
    â€œAnd this must be Brandy.” He had stepped my way. “This is a real thrill. You know, first and foremost, I’m a fan.”
    â€œPleasure is mine, Mr. Bufford,” I replied, my smile straining a little. Frankly, our host could have used a stronger deodorant. But then, after our long day, I probably didn’t smell dew-drop fresh myself.
    â€œPlease, call me Tommy,” he said. “All my friends call me Tommy.” He scratched Sushi’s head. “Cute dog. Just like in your books!”
    Soosh sniffed at him, and (unlike me) seemed to relish his bouquet as she licked his thick hand.
    Then his eyes flew to Mother’s handcuffed briefcase like magnets seeking metal.
    â€œIs that the Superman drawing?” he whispered, eyes wide.
    â€œYes, indeedy.” Mother nodded, patting the case.
    â€œYou know, Vivian,” Tommy said, an eyebrow arching above a slightly tilted black eyeglass frame, “that might be better kept in the hotel’s safe.”
    â€œOh, no,” Mother replied, tightening her grip. “This super-duper drawing doesn’t leave my sight. It will go to bed with me. It will go to the bathroom with me. Of course, I will entrust it to Brandy when I shower, but—”
    â€œMother,” I said, “too much information.”
    Tommy was