8 Antiques Con by Barbara Allan Page A

corps and thrust out her arms, like a desperate hitchhiker before an oncoming car.
    Her theatrically schooled voice managed to cut through the dealers’ room din.
    “ I can give you the straight skinny on Tommy Bufford! ” Mother announced. “ I am Vivian Borne, honored guest of the convention! And I found the body! ”
    So, do you see what I mean about not ever losing the ability to be embarrassed by Mother?
    A thirtyish newscaster, in tan slacks and black polo shirt with a Channel 6 logo, eagerly thrust his microphone in Mother’s face, as a cameraman locked onto them.
    “You found the body?”
    “Indeed, yes.” Mother, in a relatively subdued version of her fake Brit accent, declared, “My darling daughter Brandy and I discovered Mr. Bufford’s body. As to the particulars . . .”
    “ Mother! ”
    I had finally clawed my way close.
    My stern look reminded her of the pledge to secrecy we’d made, and with nary a hint of Merry Olde England in her voice, she went on, ridiculously: “. . . I am afraid I am committed to confidentiality.”
    I was wishing she were “committed” period, about now.
    The reporter pressed: “Is ‘suspicious death’ code for murder in this matter, Mrs. Borne?”
    Flustered now, Mother said, “I’m afraid I can’t speak to whether that term is code for matter in this murder. I can tell you only that my daughter and I are consulting with the police on this . . . matter. We are the famous Borne sleuths from Serenity, Iowa.”
    A blond woman, so attractive it seemed unreal, moved in with her mic: “Are you the Vivian Borne involved in a reality show pilot?”
    “Why, yes. Thank you for asking. We’ll be shooting it very soon, in our quaint hometown on the Mississippi. The show’s called Antiques Sleuths , and—”
    The male reporter cut in, dueling mics with the blonde. “Aren’t you and your daughter the Bornes who were implicated in the Senator Clark scandal last year?”
    Now all the mics and cameras were pressing in. For a moment, I thought Mother might be crushed under the weight of this media frenzy. And for a moment, I wasn’t sure I minded. . . .
    But when Mother glanced at me helplessly, I grabbed on to her arm, pulling her away from the closing-in newscasters. We were quickly swallowed up by the sea of fans, a tide we swam against until I was able to propel us out the door we’d come in fifteen minutes (or was it five hundred years) ago. The media horde, however, was in pursuit, the fans jumping out of their way....
    Getting a frown from the pierced-nose staffer at the door, we ran past her and down the carpeted corridor. All the while, a confused Sushi was thumping against my chest, before we took refuge in a ladies’ room, which would at least keep the males among the newshounds at bay.
    I turned on Mother. “Take the bull by the horns? More like the tail, you mean!”
    Mother, out of breath, managed a weak, “ Olé? ”
    “Now we’re stuck in here,” I grumbled.
    Mother was still catching her breath. She had the expression of somebody in a zombie movie looking for nails to board up a window with. “It . . . it won’t be long, dear, before the females among them make their move—and then we’re done for.”
    There were already other females among us, con-goers and not reporters, thankfully, using the stalls, washing hands at the sink, touching up or applying makeup, particularly those in costume.
    Of the latter, two young women in particular caught my eye. They stood at the far end of the ladies’ room, in front of a full-length mirror, making adjustments to their look—specifically, Alice in Wonderland and the Queen of Hearts.
    In the vein of the Tim Burton movie remake of a few years back, Alice wore a powder-blue dress with tight bodice and little puff sleeves, her white shoes reminiscent of Victorian button ankle boots. Innocent-sexy.
    The Queen was in a red-and-black velvet floor-length gown, red hearts sprinkled across the front, gold stripes