Antiques Knock-Off Read Online Free

churchlike stained-glass windows.
    Timmons Clock Repair was at the end of the hallway, beyond a pebble-glass door on which the faint outline of PREPARATION ROOM bled through the current business’s name. We stepped inside.
    Another creepy funeral home reminder greeted us—affixed to the back/front walls were ancient embalming paraphernalia, including black rubber hoses and preparation tools, sort of like the way a country-style restaurant might display small antique farm implements.
    A long counter bisected the room, separating us from Ben Timmons, bent over a former embalming table, doingan autopsy on a clock. He’d heard our entrance, and as we approached, he straightened, pushed a magnifying eyepiece to his forehead like a third eye, and came forward.
    Timmons, in his mid to late fifties, was a short, compact man, with a blossoming middle-age spread, salt-and-pepper hair, all-salt beard, and pleasant features. He wore a suit, or anyway the vest and pants of one, his sleeves rolled up, a red bow tie giving him a crisp look. He had the demeanor of someone who was doing the kind of work that he loved. Nothing funeral-home creepy about him at all.
    He asked with a smile, “What brings you inside on this lovely day, ladies?”
    Apparently he hadn’t heard about the heat wave.
    Mother, who had placed our boxed clock on the counter, leaned toward our pleasant host with a narrow-eyed glare. “I just saw Mrs. Vancamp outside … and she
thinks
her clock is an
Acklin!”
    My Prozac-free mind (I’d been off the little capsules since getting pregnant) began to register anxiety at Mother’s confrontational tone.
    Two of Timmons’s three eyes briefly looked downward, then back to meet Mother’s. “Yes, Mrs. Borne, poor Mrs. Vancamp
does
believe the clock is authentic. And, of course, it isn’t.”
    Mother drew herself up.
“How
could you not
tell
‘poor Mrs. Vancamp,’ Ben?” Vivian Borne was on a first-name basis with everyone. “Don’t you have
some
sense of ethical responsibility?”
    Timmons took a moment to answer. “Actually, I do. But sometimes it’s not as easy as you might think. Did Mrs. Vancamp explain how she got the clock?”
    “Well …
yes,”
Mother said, irked at the dodging of her question. “She said her husband bought it, just before he died.”
    “Supposedly,” he responded coolly.
    Mother’s frown deepened. “And what does ‘supposedly’ mean?”
    While I stood by silently, the clocksmith explained that Mrs. Vancamp had told him an antiques dealer called her a few days after the funeral, saying her husband had put a down payment on an Acklin clock intended as a sixtieth wedding anniversary present. Did she still want the clock? Of, course, the balance of a thousand dollars would be due.
    Mother and I exchanged sickened looks. This type of scam was one of the vilest, preying upon the sentiments of the bereaved at a vulnerable time. Usually, however, the merchandise—often diamonds or other valuable jewelry— was authentic, to keep the seller out of trouble. But the scam perpetrated on Mrs. Vancamp had taken another, nasty twist: the merchandise was fake.
    I asked, “Did Mrs. Vancamp mention who sold her the clock?”
    Timmons nodded. “And there’s no such person. I checked. The creep even used a phony post office box on the receipt.”
    Mother’s manner softened. “I’m afraid I wouldn’t have had the heart to tell her, either, Ben. Luckily, since her eyesight is so bad, I doubt she’ll ever be the wiser.”
    “Unless she tries to sell it,” I pointed out.
    Timmons said, “Mrs. Vancamp wouldn’t likely ever do that—that clock means too much to her. But, if she ever should, I’m sure she’ll come to me for an estimate … and then I guess I’ll have to come clean.”
    “I can live with that,” Mother said crisply, as if her consent was needed.
    Timmons looked at our box. “Now—what have you here?”
    “Well, Ben,” Mother said with an only slightly demented smile,