Antiques Fate by Barbara Allan Read Free Book Online

under broiler until the top is brown and crisp.
    Â 
    Mother had once made this recipe for little Brandy who refused to eat it because of the lamb. (PBS had been showing the old Shari Lewis Show , with the talented ventriloquist and her cute puppet, Lamb Chop.) Hamburger can be substituted for the lamb, as Mother did for me from that point on, but then what you’re eating is Cottage Pie.
    We were finishing our hearty meals—no complaints from either of us—when Celia swooshed over. Our hostess’s big smile said she was bearing up well under the news of Millie’s death.
    â€œI’m going to be gone for about an hour,” she told us, a hand on the back of my chair. “Should you need anything, Seabert will tend to it. Ask him twice if necessary.”
    Mother said innocently, “I would imagine you’re off to a meeting of the trustees.”
    Celia’s smile faded. “Why . . . yes. How in heaven’s name could you guess, much less know, that?”
    Mother dabbed her mouth daintily with the napkin. “It just stands to reason, after Millie’s sudden death.”
    Good lord! Was Mother actually going to come right out and say that the votes for incorporation, and bringing progress to Old York, now swung three for and two against?
    But instead Mother said, “I wonder if the board might not like to have someone present a brief eulogy before my performance Saturday night?”
    â€œAh . . . that does sound appropriate,” Celia said, somewhat blindsided. “That is, if there’s a play at all.”
    Mother was quick to rise from her chair, a testament to the high quality of her double hip replacement.
    Chin high, swathed in indignation, she said, “Madam! If that is indeed an issue, shouldn’t I be included in this meeting? And my daughter, as well, the other half of the Borne troupe. After all, we’ve come quite a distance.”
    Sixty miles.
    â€œAnd might I point out,” Mother added imperiously, “we gave up another engagement to take this one!”
    Not really.
    Celia, frowning, shaking her head, the friendly hand off the back of my chair now, said, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Borne—only trustees are allowed at our meetings.”
    â€œI see,” Mother replied. “Then I guess they wouldn’t be interested in hearing Millicent Marlowe’s last words.”
    Celia’s eyes widened. “Well, I am. What were they?”
    Yes, what? Mother hadn’t mentioned anything about this to me.
    â€œI’m so sorry, Mrs. Falwell,” Mother said sweetly. “I’m afraid Millie’s final thoughts were intended for all of the trustees to hear.”
    Our hostess stood frowning in thought. Then, with obvious reluctance, she said, “All right—you may attend.”
    â€œMy daughter, too.”
    â€œYes, yes, yes.” She checked her wristwatch. “Come to the Community Center in ten minutes—it’s just across the village green, on Brighton. I’ll go on ahead and inform the others that you’ll be dropping by.”
    She hurried off.
    After signing the meals to our rooms, Mother and I stepped out into a brisk autumn night air that made me wish I’d brought along a jacket. The sky was nearly cloudless and the moon was full and glowing. Speaking of the moon, our unknown prankster had struck the standing sign again: W ELCOME —D ARN H ORSE ON THE M OON .
    As Mother and I cut across the lush, ivory-washed grass, I asked, “What were Millie’s final words?”
    She gave me a sideways glance. “I’ve been mulling that. Haven’t settled on anything just yet. What do you think they should be?”
    I stopped short, but she kept on going.
    â€œMother, you didn’t. . . .”
    â€œActually, Millie didn’t.”
    â€œOh, Mother.”
    As I caught back up with her, she shrugged and impishly grinned. “Got us into the meeting, didn’t