8 Antiques Con Read Online Free

one floor. I haven’t moved in yet. Until tonight, it’s been easier for me to work out of the convention’s office a few blocks from here.”
    I was feeling a little bad about my behavior, and heard myself saying, “You’re sure? Because that would really be wonderful.”
    “Yes, it would,” Mother chimed in. “Not having to share a bed with Brandy is a lifesaver. The girl kicks like a mule.”
    Maybe so, but not when I’m sleeping....
    After exchanging keycards with Tommy, we thanked him again, and he left.
    “You forgot to mention I snore,” I said.
    “Dear, we needn’t air all our dirty laundry.”
    “Just mine.” I sighed, but my mood was improving. “Help me pick up the fruit.”

    Our new digs were a corner suite with two rooms elegantly decorated in gold and blue, the bedroom separate from an outer area that had a fold-out couch, coffee table, desk, and mini-kitchen with sink and small fridge.
    While Mother disappeared into the bathroom to wash off the dust from our trip, I put her suitcase on the king-size bed, leaving my things in the outer room by the couch, where I would sleep. Fold-out beds were never wonderful, but compared to sleeping with a world-class snorer, this one would be a magic carpet to slumberland.
    After giving Sushi her insulin, followed by a dog biscuit reward for taking the shot, I helped familiarize the blind little darling with the layout of the suite so she could move around and about without bumping into anything.
    I also set up a little pee station for her, having brought along a plastic tray with pads designed for emergency situations.
    Finally, Sushi and I played the “maid game” I had taught her on other trips (including at those accommodations where dogs were not welcome): I would rap on the door and call, “Housekeeping, housekeeping,” and she would scurry into the cracked-open closet, out of the way, until the maid had gone.
    Mother, now dressed in her favorite emerald green velour top and slacks, held out a hand to me.
    “What’s this?” I asked, taking the silver object she offered.
    “A rape whistle, dear.”
    “Oh-kay . . . I’m not wearing that.”
    “Then keep it in your pocket.” She had hers around her neck on a silver chain.
    “No, I don’t think so.”
    Mother shrugged. “Suit yourself. But we’re in the Naked City now, where there are eight million stories, few with happy endings.”
    She had conveniently forgotten that I’d lived in Chicago for ten years before my divorce.
    But to placate her, I said, “I’ll think about it,” and set the whistle on the coffee table.
    Mother stared at me with a frown. “Dear, meaning no offense and not intending in any way to redraw battle lines, but . . . you do look a fright. I hope you’re going to freshen up before we go to the reception.”
    There was a preconvention get-together in one of the ballrooms for the guests and professionals—artists and writers—along with staff members. Most of the pros were involved in the comics industry, but others—like Mother and me—were from related fields, like movies and books.
    This was also preview night—when preregistered attendees got a three-hour “sneak” look at the vendors, before opening tomorrow to the general public. But we were skipping that.
    “This is as fresh as I’m gonna get,” I said grumpily.
    Mother took my hand and led me to the couch, pulled me down to sit with her.
    “Brandy,” she began gently, “I know what’s troubling you.”
    “You do?”
    “Yes. You miss him .”
    By “ him ,” I knew she meant Tony Cassato, former Serenity chief of police, with whom I had begun a romantic relationship before circumstance and fate intervened. Tony had been forced to flee into witness protection after New Jersey mobsters dispatched a contract killer to retaliate for his testimony against them.
    Mother was saying, “Taking your frustration out on me won’t help, dear. You’ve been a grouch all day. You are better than