Antiques Bizarre by Barbara Allan

Yuppie-ish magazine publisher, “because now your publication won’t have to cough up any matching funds.”
    “Your mother must not share all her responsibilities with you,” Woods said patronizingly. “If she did, you’d know our commitment to match auction funds was capped at $100,000. That was in writing , Ms. Borne. But you’re correct that we are now no longer obligated, since the artifact will surely be returned to the estate, and the auction, if there is another, will start from scratch at some other time and date.”
    “And what about you?” I asked the Russian Cootie Head. “How disappointed are you not to return to Mother Russia with the Tsar’s grade A egg?”
    He pushed his banana split aside, the dessert having gotten the better of him, the contents of the dish looking like Vincent Price at the conclusion of a sixties horror film.
    “I am disappointed,” Sergei said with strained dignity. “But if this foul egg is mine? I not return it to Russia.” He made a fist with one bearish paw. “I crush the shell in my hand…like this! ”
    That revelation left me slack-jawed. But the collective eye-rolling from the others around the table told me the Russian’s plan was anything but news to them.
    Kaufman explained, “Sergei’s great-grandfather died in prison, thanks to the Tsar.”
    “Brother,” I said, “do you Rooskies hold a grudge!”
    The Russian’s chin rose and he oozed pride, much as his dish oozed melted ice cream.
    “Let me get this straight,” I said. “If you had won the egg, Sergei—you’d have destroyed it?”
    “Da.”
    The Brit with the dark-framed glasses sniffed at that. “That’s an easy claim to make, when the egg is not in one’s grasp. I have enough faith in what remains of the Capitalist system to think anyone at this table would do the right thing…and sell the damned bauble to the highest bidder!”
    “But that,” I reminded them all, “was Louis Martinette. And where did it get him? ”
    I was my Mother’s daughter—I knew a curtain line when I heard it, and got off stage.
    Back at the booth, Tina was miffed by my long absence, which I deflected by telling her I’d run into some friends, and then giving her the news about an online-only sale on Kate Moss Topshop.
    Soon, we split the check and left.
    The next hour was spent in the baby department of Ingram’s department store, and I have to admit, I was miserable, although I tried hard not to show it. You may have already discerned that I am not the most noble human on the planet, and I admit that the person I really love to shop for most is…you guessed it… moi.
    What was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I share in my best friend’s joy? Was I putting up an emotional wall of protection, since the baby wasn’t mine? Or wouldn’t be, after I delivered? Or was I just being my usual selfish self?
    No answers are required—these are what we call rhetorical questions. You don’t need to post at Amazon about what a bad person I am.
    Thankfully, our baby shopping excursion came to an end, and we hauled our purchases—mostly little unisex outfits the size of doll clothes—out to my car.
    After dropping Tina off, I drove home in a funk. I felt I’d made a fool of myself in front of that room of suspects, right down to thinking of them that way. I was no more Nancy Drew than Mother was Jessica Fletcher. Couldn’t I get real?
    But my thoughts screeched to a stop when I spotted Chief Cassato’s unmarked car parked in our drive. Why was he here? To get our official statements maybe? Or had Mother gotten into (more) trouble…?
    As I wheeled into the drive, Mother rushed out the front door and down the porch steps.
    I got out, and met her halfway on the sidewalk.
    “What is it?” I asked, alarmed.
    Mother was breathing hard, her face flushed. “Dear, he insists on seeing you. I’ve told him you shouldn’t be interrogated in your tender condition…. She’s expecting , you brute!”
    I looked behind her