Antiques Fate by Barbara Allan Read Free Book Online Page A

it?”
    The Community Center was on the first floor of a Tudor-style building sandwiched between a tearoom and an apothecary. After entering through an etched-glass door into a long, narrow room with a low ceiling crisscrossed by wooden beams, we moved through a sitting area where several mismatched couches and overstuffed chairs huddled around a scarred coffee table. Beyond this was an area used for meetings with banquet-style tables, both rectangular and round, set with metal folding chairs, off of which a kitchenette was home to an old refrigerator that hummed and a coffeemaker that gurgled.
    Mother and I approached a round table where what I assumed to be the remaining five trustees were seated.
    Celia stood, her expression pleasant. “Everyone . . . this is Vivian Borne and her daughter, Brandy. As you know, these girls were supposed to put on a play at the New Vic Saturday night.”
    At the words “supposed to,” Mother flinched, but held her tongue. I did the same on the word “girls.”
    The innkeeper introduced the trustees, gesturing to each one as she went clockwise around the table.
    â€œThis is Digby Lancaster, Old York’s resident land developer.”
    Around sixty, heavyset, Lancaster had bulldog features and a belly that strained the middle of his blue button-down shirt.
    â€œAnd this is Father Cumberbatch, priest at the Episcopalian Church.”
    Perhaps thirty-five, Cumberbatch was slender, his sandy hair unruly, his eyes a light blue. He wore the traditional dark suit with white collar.
    â€œThis is Barclay Starkadder, manager of the local museum, a favorite tourist stop of ours.”
    Pushing sixty, distinguished-looking in a three-piece suit, Starkadder sported carefully groomed silver hair and a neatly trimmed beard; he had the general appearance of a matinee idol gone long in the tooth.
    â€œAnd, finally,” Celia said, “this is Flora Payton. She owns our floral shop.”
    I wondered if somebody named Fawna ran the local pet shop.
    Flora, about forty, was a beauty with flowing red hair, green eyes, slightly freckled translucent skin, and lips stained a startling red. She wore a fuzzy black sweater with a low neckline better suited for clubbing.
    Celia sat down. No chairs were offered us.
    Mother said in her faux English accent, “I’m most honored to meet you all, gentle people,” and I gave her a little kick below the table line. That would be enough of that.
    Only then she gave the trustees an obsequious bow—with hand gesture! Salami, salami, baloney.
    Their expressions ranged from bemused to appreciative.
    Me? I wanted to crawl under that table and maybe suck my thumb.
    Mother went on, minus the faux Britishness. “I understand there may be some hesitance among you in proceeding with the performance Saturday night . . . but I am here to share with you Millie’s last words to me . . . her final words to anyone, on this mortal coil.”
    Everyone sat forward. Well, me, I just stood there, arms folded. This would be good. Which is to say, would be bad.
    â€œAs I held her in my arms, the lovely lady looked up at me, and somehow she summoned a smile . . . and she said . . .” Mother’s voice turned raspy and she gasped for breath. “The . . . show . . . must . . . go . . . on !”
    Roll your eyes if you must, but as for the eyes of the trustees, a few tears flowed in response and even a chin or two quivered. Shameless.
    â€œThat is so Millie,” Celia said, sniffling, and then blew her nose into a tissue. Kind of a honk. How do people do that?
    Flora, dabbing under her eyes with a lacy hanky, said, “Millicent was so dedicated to that theater—keeping it afloat all these years, lately out of her own pocket. We simply must honor her wishes.”
    Barclay didn’t seem so sure. “We could be perceived as being unfeeling—more interested in the box-office proceeds than being respectful of