Antiques Roadkill by Barbara Allan

and his subsequent performances were perfectly realized, although perhaps too much so on the final performance (he passed out in the middle of the second act).
    But I digress.
    The proprietor of the store, Junior, was polishing tumblers behind the scarred counter; in spite of his youthful name he was about my age (which is none of your business, and you shouldn’t believe everything Brandy tells you). Balding, paunchy, and wearing a short-sleeve white shirt with red, white, and blue suspenders, Junior had a winning if buck-toothed smile.
    Back when I was still a legal licensed driver, I would sometimes offer to take Junior’s wife places because she had a wooden leg. But it kept falling off, and I didn’t want to be responsible. Again I digress.…
    Junior spotted me and grinned his patented grin. “Well, hello, Vivian. Haven’t seen you for a while. Your usual?”
    I slid onto one of the torn leather counter stools, next to Henry. Putting a stool between us would have seemed rude.
    “Please, Junior.” I waggled a scolding forefinger. “And don’t forget the cherries this time.”
    I could tell immediately that Junior, a terrible busybody, had not heard about his antique dealer neighbor down the block; otherwise he’d have started in on me.
    For once I had the jump on him.
    “I suppose you’ve heard,” I said, “that Clint Carson is now deceased.”
    Junior, in the process of assembling my Shirley Temple, spilled a little on his otherwise spotless counter. “No! What the heck happened?”
    Even Henry perked up in his permanent daze, and took notice.
    Casually, I said, “Struck by a car.”
    “Really! Who was driving?”
    Just as casually, I said, “I was.”
    Junior’s mouth made an O. Henry’s rheumy eyes made two Os.
    “
But
—he was already dead.… Somebody murdered him before I ran into the speed bump he’d become.” I took a dainty sip of my Shirley Temple and let that sink in. Timing is everything, you know.
    Junior was shaking his head, and I would swear I perceived a rattle. “You don’t say!”
    In fact, I believe I just did.
    “Oh, but I do.”
    “Murdered
how?”
    I leaned forward. Traded conspiratorial looks with my two companions. “Possibly … poisoned.”
    I thought that was being truthful, or at least truthful enough. After all, as Officer Lawson said, the tox report wasn’t back yet.
    “Pizened,” Henry said, nodding reflectively.
    “Whaddya know,” Junior said, and it wasn’t a question. He made a clicking in one cheek. “Well, I can’t say I’m surprised.
Nobody
liked that horse’s patute. Especially the Downtown Merchants’ Association.”
    Junior was referring to a local retailers’ group associated with the chamber of commerce.
    I gazed over the rim of my Shirley Temple. “And why is that, pray tell?”
    Junior frowned. “Prayin’ don’t have a damn thing to do with it, Viv. That buzzard refused to have anything to do with the rest of us. We’d hold meetings, you know, to discuss things? Like when to hold the watermelon toss, and what hours we should all stay open Christmas season.”
    “Coordination between merchants. A reasonable goal.”
    “Carson
didn’t think so! He said he didn’t give two hoots in hell about watermelons, and that he’d set his
own
damn hours! Arrogant SOB, you ask me.”
    I sucked on a cherry and waited; once Junior got started, he couldn’t stop gabbing. Conventional wisdom is that women are the big gossips, but we know better, don’t we?
    “As a matter of fact,” Junior continued confidentially, “a fella came in here just last week, askin’ about Carson. A real rough customer.”
    Delicately removing the stem from the second cherry, I asked, “Who was he?”
    Junior shook his head. “Never saw the bozo before. Every second word was the ‘f’ one, and he had tattoos and lots of hair and a black leather jacket.… Like I said, he asked where he could find Carson. I gave him directions down the block to the antique