Antiques Roadkill Read Online Free Page A

mortified Peggy Sue, glancing our way, didn’t seem to realize how well received and even cathartic Mother’s little outburst had been.
    “However … however,” Mrs. Lindel continued, “we have a wonderful substitute speaker, Clint Carson, who moved here recently from Boulder, Colorado. Many of you already know Mr. Carson, and are familiar with his antique shop in Pearl Button Plaza. So, without any further introduction, let’s give him a warm welcome and a big hand!”
    And she began clapping wildly to rouse the crowd.
    I’d bet Mrs. Lindel had the man waiting in the wings like an understudy ready to go on, should something go wrong with the featured guest. The substitute came out (stage right) to polite applause, and the director returned to her seat.
    Clint wasn’t bad on the eyes: tall, slender, youthful, yet old enough to have some gray in his brown ponytailed hair. He wore a black Stetson, a tan and brown plaid western shirt, and dark slacks. I couldn’t see his feet, but I was betting on tooled leather boots.
    “Good afternoon, darlin’s,” the man drawled into the mike. “I’ve never seen so many pretty faces—not to mention
hats
—all in one little ole room.…”
    I was thinking,
Lame,
but then noticed that the women all around me apparently liked this chicken-fried blarney, some even giggling.
    Carson began to talk about his love of antiques, and I looked over at Mother, to see if her disappointment had been placated. Unlike the women surrounding us, who were eating this up, Mother’s head was lowered, the wide-brimmed hat mostly covering her face. Her normal outgoing self seemed to be shriveling, as she withdrew into herself, in a way that often signaled a bout with the blues.
    And I could see a tear trickling down one cheek.
    Now, I knew she loved
Antiques Roadshow
—especially when the Keno twins were on—and surely had been looking forward to today; but her reaction didn’t seem right—perhaps her medication made her overemotional … or needed adjusting.
    I leaned in, peering under her hat. “Hey, we can always go to Des Moines to see the twins. When are they taping—do you know?”
    But my normally outgoing Mother said nothing.
    And the tears were streaming now.
    “What is it, dear?” I whispered, alarmed at her distress. The other ladies at our table had noticed, and concern registered on their faces, too.
    “That … that …
terrible
man … is … the one …” Her whispered words came in little choking breaths. “… the one who … took advantage of me.…”
    And I knew what she meant; we hadn’t even discussed it at home, I hadn’t wanted to upset her, or hurt her feelings, but I knew exactly what she was talking about: folksy Clint Carson had scammed my mother out of our precious furniture!
    A ball of fire rose from my stomach to my throat, the worst heartburn I’d ever had.
    Carson spoke for fifteen minutes on the subject of unscrupulous dealers who passed off replicas as antiques (“A good way to tell the real antique from the reproduction is to look at the manufacturer’s mark …”).
    I sat through it seething, my face getting redder than my hat. But I waited for the Q-and-A portion, at which time I flew to my feet and did not wait to be recognized.
    “I have a question, relating to unscrupulous dealers.”
    Red hats swiveled my way. Dozens of eyes locked on to me, amid murmurings of (no doubt) how rude I as.
    The speaker seemed a little thrown himself, and a touch irritated at my presumption, but he gave me a patronizing “Yes?”
    “Is it ethical for a dealer,” I said firmly, “to take advantage of a seller? I don’t mean a seller who hasn’t done the research, and is just carelessly getting rid of items that are actually valuable.”
    Carson was frowning.
    “What I mean is, is it ethical for a dealer—let’s say … oh, you for example—to buy treasured family heirloomsfrom anyone who is not, well, aware, for one reason or another, of what they are