Free Antiques Swap by Barbara Allan Page A

for you both, yesterday. And of course Vanessa was one of our own.”
    â€œOh, we’re just fine, Pastor,” Mother chirped.
    Her cavalier attitude seemed to startle him.
    Not me—Mother was not an unfeeling person, merely one who compartmentalized. Regarding another murder I accused her of being insensitive about, she had said, “Dear, blubbering won’t help that poor victim. The best thing that can happen is to bring the killer to justice.”
    And yesterday she had said much the same thing. Only this time the killer—Wes Sinclair—had already been arrested, with justice waiting around the corner.
    Trying to smooth over the awkward silence, I said, “I thought today’s sermon was very insightful, Pastor Tutor. I’m sure both Mother and I will find it very helpful.”
    He nodded solemnly. “I felt it necessary to remind our New Hope family that careless words can be hurtful at a time such as this.” His sigh was deep, the weight of his congregation on his shoulders. “And when someone of prominence in the community dies—and another is incarcerated—tongues do tend to wag.”
    â€œI agree,” Mother said, then raised a qualifying finger. “But sometimes wagging tongues can be constructive.”
    â€œI must disagree, Vivian.”
    â€œReally?” Adding cryptically, “Even if those wagging tongues lead to the truth?”
    Tutor’s frown was in contrast with his next words. “Perhaps even then.”
    â€œAs it says in the Good Book,” Mother sermonized, “truth will out.”
    His eyes widened. “I believe that’s Shakespeare, Vivian, not Scripture.”
    â€œOh, that’s right! The Merchant of Venice . Well, you know the Bard is sacred to us thespians!”
    Tutor seemed to be studying her, like a scientist looking through a microscope at a troubling slide. Then he said, almost to himself, “You know, before the tragic news reached me, today’s sermon was to focus on the Tenth Commandment.”
    â€œAh!” Mother said. “An often undervalued teaching, if a tad politically incorrect by current standards.”
    My stomach growled, and—not relishing a theological discussion between Mother and a real pastor—I said, “Well, okay, then—guess we’ll be going.”
    As we walked out to the parking lot, Mother said, “Little bit brusque, dear, weren’t you?”
    â€œI’m sure Pastor Tutor will forgive me.”
    â€œI’m sure he will,” she said brightly. “Anyway, we were done.”
    â€œWhat was all that about the Tenth Commandment, Mother? Which one is that, anyway?”
    â€œThe one about not climbing over fences to get at the greener grass, dear.”
    I thought Mother might be miffed that there wasn’t anyone left in the parking lot to talk to her about the murder, and her role in its discovery. But everyone had headed home or to a restaurant.
    And she seemed uncharacteristically quiet on our drive downtown to the Button Factory, where we always ate post-church with her gal pals.
    The eatery was located on the riverfront, in a refurbished building that had once been (ahead of me, are you?) a thriving button factory—one of half a dozen such businesses that sprouted up along the Serenity banks of the Mississippi during the mid-1800s because of the (then) abundant supply of clamshells. But then plastic came along and replaced the pearly white buttons, and the factories closed and all but one shuttered.
    â€œThe girls” were already seated at our usual round table in a little alcove set apart from the main dining area. The restaurant wasn’t supposed to take Sunday reservations, but the management made an exception for the Red-Hatted League, because Mother had cast the owners’ teenage stagestruck daughter in one of her theatrical productions at the Serenity Playhouse. The girl’s performance did not