Read Online Antiques Roadkill by Barbara Allan - Free Book Online Page A

his voice softening. “I’m sure everything will straighten out—it’s clear you’re covering for each other.”
    “I can—”
    “No, you can’t. If either of you were involved, it was likely an accident. Everybody in town knows your mother has a history of mental illness—”
    “What are you—”
    “Quiet. I’m not going to report that your mother confessed to this, only that she was dazed and confused. And anything you said, well, I hadn’t advised you of your rights.”
    I frowned at him. “Are you
now?”
    “No. But I
am
advising you to contact your attorney, first thing tomorrow. And to stay in town.”
    “We’re not going anywhere.”
    “You sure aren’t. There’s a little matter of your mother driving with a suspended license to sort out, at the very least.”
    I nodded. Sniffed.
    “I’ll come around to your house in the morning, after I’ve had a chance to talk with the police chief. We’ll know more tomorrow.”
    Since the PD had impounded both our cars, Officer Lawson had to take us home.
    Mother and I sat in exhausted silence in the backseat of the squad car, fenced in behind the wire barricade like a couple of criminals. Maybe one of us
was.…
    Lawson pulled in our drive, got out, and opened the car door for us. Mother loped on ahead, disappearing into the darkened house surreptiously, a prisoner making a break for it. Lawson saw me up to the front steps, like a polite suitor; crickets and bullfrogs serenaded us.
    I said, “Thanks for taking us home … and thanks for being decent to Mother. And … and for taking this slow.”
    “I always take things slow,” he said with a shy smile. “By the way, my first name’s Brian.”
    “Brian. Glad to meet you.”
    “Oh, we’ve met before.”
    In the darkness I could see a tiny smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
    “Really?” I squinted at him; I was sure I would have remembered those puppy-brown eyes.
    “Yes, about five years ago. Back when I was a state trooper.”
    State trooper, five years ago …
    Lawson’s small smile got bigger. “I stopped you one summer afternoon … along Highway 22?”
    My eyes widened. Oh my God, was that
him?
    Okay, here’s what happened …
    … I was driving back from Chicago by myself, for Tina’s wedding, wearing a St. John’s navy and gold cotton knit cardigan and skirt, and a new Victoria’s Secret lace bra. All the way home, the bra was pinching and scratching, and I was getting crabbier and crabbier, until—by the time I hit the outskirts of town—I just couldn’t stand it one minute longer. Driving with my knees, I proceeded to remove the bra from under my top, rolled down the BMW’s window, and flung the offensive item out.
    In immediate response, lights flashed behind me.
    Pulling my arms back inside my top, continuing to steer with my knees and the occasional elbow, I managed to ease off the road. In the rearview mirror I saw a highway patrol car roll up behind me.
    And wrapped around the patrol car’s antenna was my white lacy bra, flapping in the breeze like a flag of fancy surrender.
    The tall trooper, in those patented highway patrol wraparound sunglasses, retrieved the undergarment, then handed it back to me with an expression that said,
Well, that’s one for the books.
    I had swallowed and placed the bra on my seat. “I guess … I littered or something.”
    “Or something,” he said. “Try to stay in that thing, in the future … while you’re driving, anyway.”
    “… Okay.”
    “Step out of the car, please?”
    A few minutes later, after he’d put me through some very demeaning motions, he had smiled, wished me a pleasant day, put a finger to his cap in a small salute, and turned away … while I’d created a thousand baby wrinkles in my red-faced crinkly frown that shot impotent daggers at his cocky back.
    I number that encounter among my more humiliating moments, so when my new policeman pal Brian brought it all back to me, I was chagrined and dumbfounded