Read Online Antiques Knock-Off by Barbara Allan - Free Book Online Page A

once bought a small Victorian chair whose graceful, genuine back tapered into legs stamped—too tiny for her eyesight to capture—“Made in China.”

Chapter Four
Knock-kneed
    A t nine the next morning, with Mother’s arraignment scheduled at ten, Peggy Sue and I met with our family lawyer, Wayne Cyrus Ekhardt, at his office downtown in the Laurel Building.
    Mr. Ekhardt had rocketed to fame around here in the 1950s when he got a woman off for “accidentally” shooting her cheating husband in the back four times. He was a little older than the eight-story Art Deco edifice he once owned, having run a thriving law practice there for five decades before selling the property to an engineering firm, on the stipulation that he could have the top floor rent-free for life.
    Whoever made that deal had probably long since been fired, because Ekhardt was now ninety with his practice still ongoing, if limited and by appointment only—pretty much us, and a handful of other longtime clients. Of course, Mother alone kept him busy.
    Sis (wearing a Burberry plaid cotton shirtdress) and I (wearing the yellow Juicy Couture sundress) stepped off the elevator and into a film noir world unchanged since the Laurel Building had been erected. While the other floors had been modernized with the times, the eighthretained the old scuffed black-and-white speckled ceramictile flooring, scarred-wood office doors with ancient pebbled glass, Art Moderne sconce wall lighting, and even an old porcelain drinking fountain.
    Mr. Ekhardt occupied the last corner office with a scenic view of the river. Usually it was Mother and I who made the long walk down the hallway to see the lawyer, with Mother trying every doorknob of the unoccupied offices, hoping to find one unlocked, and discover a roomful of abandoned furniture that had become antiques—a procedure that would continue until I would finally go (in full Jack Benny mode), “Now cut that out!” Or words to that effect.
    Now
I
found myself doing the same knob-jiggling thing, and it was Peggy Sue who snapped, “Will you quit doing that please?”
    “Okay,” I said sheepishly.
    We walked through a patch of striped crime-shadow lighting courtesy of some Venetian blinds.
    “I thought Mr. Ekhardt had passed away,” she said.
    “Not so that you’d notice,” I said. “And it’s unlikely you would, since
you’ve
never been the daughter who accompanies Mother when she’s dealing with her legal problems.” Couldn’t resist the dig.
    “Why can’t we get a
real
lawyer?”
    “You mean, one who is more socially prominent?”
    “Must you make me sound terrible? I simply mean an attorney who doesn’t make his reputation getting criminals off.”
    “First of all, Mother is accused of murder—no, make that, she has
confessed
to murder. That would make her a criminal.”
    “Brandy, don’t be ridiculous.”
    I stopped, and she stopped, interrupting our gunshot footsteps on the ceramic flooring. “Do
you
want to payfor the services of some hotshot attorney?” Then added, “You may find it interesting to know that Mr. Ekhardt discounts
his
services for Mother.”
    Actually, sometimes we never even received a bill. Whether the elderly man forgot, or was just being nice, I couldn’t say. But we certainly never questioned it or reminded him.
    We were walking again when Sis said, “Well, I can tell you why Mother gets special rates from Mr. Ekhardt. Actually, I’m surprised he even sends her a
reduced
bill.”
    “Really? Why is that?”
    She shrugged and her expression was knowingly smug. “It’s because he was once in love with her.”
    I stopped again.
“What?”
    So did Peg. “That’s right. They once had …” And, I swear to God, she sang, “… a thing going on.”
    Actually, I wasn’t surprised—well, the singing part surprised me a little; but not this juicy vintage item about Mother and our lawyer. Mother had remained a statuesque, lovely Dane, well into her sixties; after Dad