Antiques Knock-Off - 5- Barbara Allan by Barbara Allan

Author:Barbara Allan
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Kensington
Published: 2011-02-28T16:00:00+00:00

Sometimes, a knock-off will be priced high, to help convince the buyer that it is real. If the owner suddenly gets cooperative and begins to reduce the price dramatically, the antique may be a fake. Unless the owner is trying to make bail, like Mother.

Chapter Seven

Don’t Knock It

Senator Clark’s campaign office was located in Pearl City Plaza—which wasn’t really a plaza at all, rather the last block of Victorian buildings on Main Street. These grand old structures had been re-gentrified and transformed into bistros, boutiques, and specialty stores, giving downtown Serenity a much-needed boost.

Due to the senator’s upcoming November midterm election, a team of young people had descended upon Serenity at the beginning of the summer, moving their operations into a storefront that had been abandoned by an antiques dealer who hadn’t been able to compete with the nearby larger antiques mall where Mother and I had our booth.

Per Peggy Sue’s arrangement, I had a late-morning appointment with the senator—I can’t bring myself to write “my father,” not yet anyway—and my first impulse had been to show up looking a slovenly mess (I’ll let my therapist, Dr. Cynthia Hays tell me why, at my next appointment—if I think there’s anything to it, I may share it with you).

But, since I was also meeting Tina for lunch afterward—and she was such a worrywart lately that if I had even one hair out of place, she might call 911—I fixed myself up and put on a leopard-print maternity sundress and gold gladiator sandals. (I guess we don’t need Dr. Hays to interpret that choice of wardrobe.) (I think I’ll also ask Dr. Hays about my compulsion to litter my writing with all these asides.)

Outside was gearing up to be another hot and humid August day, and I quickly exited my car parked on Main Street in front of the campaign office, then hustled through the slogan-plastered glass front door where an old air conditioner rattled and wheezed above the door, barely winning its campaign against the heat, greeting me by dripping water on my head.

The front room (there were others, trailing back in boxcar fashion) also hummed noisily, as mostly young volunteers worked the phones at various desks and tables. This was a grass-roots effort, typical of the Midwest, nothing fancy: donated furniture, stained carpeting, scrounged amenities, poorly (and un-) paid staffers. Still, electricity sparked the air with the positive charge that only a campaign bullpen can generate.

A petite, pretty woman of about twenty, clipboard in hand, stepped forward to acknowledge me. She had a sorority girl look—long blond hair, tennis court tan, pink polo shirt and white slim skirt, a RE-ELECT EDWARD CLARK button pinned above one perky breast. Did the senator do his own job interviews for staffers?

“Hi,” she chirped. “My name is Kara. Are you here to volunteer?”

“No,” I said, businesslike. “I have an appointment to see Senator Clark.”

“Oh.” She sounded disappointed, probably hoping for another door-knocker willing to brave the heat. (Really? A pregnant woman with swollen ankles? In the world of volunteer politics, hope springs eternal, if not logical.

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