Ginger, not Mary Ann.…
“She’s an associate of that terrible Carson person, and said he wanted you to come out to his house. He was willing to talk about letting us have our furniture back.”
The redhead had seemed rude and uninterested in me, but maybe she’d conveyed my desire to rebuy our stuff to her boss.
“Well,” Mother was saying, “I’d thought maybe you’d already gone out there, and saved the message … so I’d know where you were.”
“And then what, Mother?”
She nodded. “I got to thinking …”
Never a good sign.
“… and finally I decided to take my car—yes, I know I
shouldn’t
have, but I was
frightened
for you. That man Carson can be
awfully
mean.”
As the great Inspector Clouseau once said, in regard to a priceless Steinway he’d destroyed,
Not … any … more.
“I pulled into that circular drive of his, drove past the farmhouse and barn, but saw no sign of you, Brandy dear … so I hit the gas and headed home.”
“And also hit Carson?”
“No. Well, yes—he was in the road, prone there, and I didn’t see him. I sort of … bumped and thumped over him.”
Yikes,
I thought.
“Brandy, I got out to check—he was, not surprisingly, dead.” She straightened. “But. I think he must’ve been dead already. In fact, I assumed
you
had done it. So … so I turned myself in!”
Mother leaned forward, put a hand on mine, as if I were the one who needed comforting; maybe I was.
“Brandy,” she said, with considerable drama (make that melodrama), “you mustn’t worry about your old mother. Why, I’ve lived a good life, a long life.”
“Save it for the matinee, Mother. We need to call Mr. Ekhardt.”
“And that’s exactly why you needn’t worry! We will have Mr. Ekhardt in our corner! Don’t forget about that!”
Assuming the old gent lived long enough to defend her.
One thing was clear to me: Mother could not survive the ordeal of a trial. Or at least, her mental state couldn’t, and I was not about to see her institutionalized again, not after we’d made so much progress.
I stood, sighed, swallowed, opened the door, and asked Officer Lawson to step back in.
Calmly I said, “I don’t know what my mother told you, but
I
was the one who ran Carson over.”
“… Really?”
“It was dark and I just didn’t see him.”
Mother bolted up from the chair. “Brandy! What in heaven’s name are you saying? Officer, don’t you believe her. She’s just trying to protect me!”
I shook my head and pointed at Mother accusingly. “No …
she’s
trying to protect me.”
Lawson raised a traffic-cop palm. “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he said, as if we were a couple of brawling kids. “Settle down, ladies. Do I need to separate you two?”
Mother and I said nothing, not looking at each other.
“If I took your statement tonight, what—”
“I did it,” Mother and I said.
The officer took a long look at us, giving each of our faces a thorough going-over; he shook his head, sighed, smiled in a rumpled way, then crooked a finger at me, as if I were a grade-school student being summoned to the principal’s office.
And he said, “Ms. Borne, a word in the hall, please?”
I stepped out there with him, after he shut Mother back in.
“Can I give you a small word of advice?” He wasn’t really asking. “Stop covering for your mother.”
“I’m not—”
“Look, it’s not gonna take TV show forensics to know which of your cars was involved, and we’ll soon know who was behind the wheel, too. Pretty rudimentary police work.”
The thought of Mother facing a trial and even a prison sentence sent tears trailing down my cheeks. I didn’t have a tissue, but he found one for me. I used it.
His voice softened. “I’m not going to take your statements tonight. Neither one of you is a flight risk, and I know the police chief will want to talk to you, personally. Isn’t the chief a friend of yours, Ms. Borne?”
“Y-yes.”
“Look,” Lawson said,
“She’s an associate of that terrible Carson person, and said he wanted you to come out to his house. He was willing to talk about letting us have our furniture back.”
The redhead had seemed rude and uninterested in me, but maybe she’d conveyed my desire to rebuy our stuff to her boss.
“Well,” Mother was saying, “I’d thought maybe you’d already gone out there, and saved the message … so I’d know where you were.”
“And then what, Mother?”
She nodded. “I got to thinking …”
Never a good sign.
“… and finally I decided to take my car—yes, I know I
shouldn’t
have, but I was
frightened
for you. That man Carson can be
awfully
mean.”
As the great Inspector Clouseau once said, in regard to a priceless Steinway he’d destroyed,
Not … any … more.
“I pulled into that circular drive of his, drove past the farmhouse and barn, but saw no sign of you, Brandy dear … so I hit the gas and headed home.”
“And also hit Carson?”
“No. Well, yes—he was in the road, prone there, and I didn’t see him. I sort of … bumped and thumped over him.”
Yikes,
I thought.
“Brandy, I got out to check—he was, not surprisingly, dead.” She straightened. “But. I think he must’ve been dead already. In fact, I assumed
you
had done it. So … so I turned myself in!”
Mother leaned forward, put a hand on mine, as if I were the one who needed comforting; maybe I was.
“Brandy,” she said, with considerable drama (make that melodrama), “you mustn’t worry about your old mother. Why, I’ve lived a good life, a long life.”
“Save it for the matinee, Mother. We need to call Mr. Ekhardt.”
“And that’s exactly why you needn’t worry! We will have Mr. Ekhardt in our corner! Don’t forget about that!”
Assuming the old gent lived long enough to defend her.
One thing was clear to me: Mother could not survive the ordeal of a trial. Or at least, her mental state couldn’t, and I was not about to see her institutionalized again, not after we’d made so much progress.
I stood, sighed, swallowed, opened the door, and asked Officer Lawson to step back in.
Calmly I said, “I don’t know what my mother told you, but
I
was the one who ran Carson over.”
“… Really?”
“It was dark and I just didn’t see him.”
Mother bolted up from the chair. “Brandy! What in heaven’s name are you saying? Officer, don’t you believe her. She’s just trying to protect me!”
I shook my head and pointed at Mother accusingly. “No …
she’s
trying to protect me.”
Lawson raised a traffic-cop palm. “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he said, as if we were a couple of brawling kids. “Settle down, ladies. Do I need to separate you two?”
Mother and I said nothing, not looking at each other.
“If I took your statement tonight, what—”
“I did it,” Mother and I said.
The officer took a long look at us, giving each of our faces a thorough going-over; he shook his head, sighed, smiled in a rumpled way, then crooked a finger at me, as if I were a grade-school student being summoned to the principal’s office.
And he said, “Ms. Borne, a word in the hall, please?”
I stepped out there with him, after he shut Mother back in.
“Can I give you a small word of advice?” He wasn’t really asking. “Stop covering for your mother.”
“I’m not—”
“Look, it’s not gonna take TV show forensics to know which of your cars was involved, and we’ll soon know who was behind the wheel, too. Pretty rudimentary police work.”
The thought of Mother facing a trial and even a prison sentence sent tears trailing down my cheeks. I didn’t have a tissue, but he found one for me. I used it.
His voice softened. “I’m not going to take your statements tonight. Neither one of you is a flight risk, and I know the police chief will want to talk to you, personally. Isn’t the chief a friend of yours, Ms. Borne?”
“Y-yes.”
“Look,” Lawson said,
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