Antiques Frame Read online

  Also by Barbara Allan

  ANTIQUES ROADKILL

  ANTIQUES MAUL

  ANTIQUES FLEE MARKET

  ANTIQUES BIZARRE

  ANTIQUES KNOCK-OFF

  ANTIQUES DISPOSAL

  ANTIQUES CHOP

  ANTIQUES CON

  ANTIQUES SLAY RIDE (e-book)

  ANTIQUES FRUITCAKE (e-book)

  ANTIQUES SWAP

  ANTIQUES ST. NICKED (e-book)

  ANTIQUES FATE

  By Barbara Collins

  TOO MANY TOMCATS (short story collection)

  By Barbara and Max Allan Collins

  REGENERATION

  BOMBSHELL

  MURDER—HIS AND HERS (short story collection)

  Antiques Frame

  A Trash ‘n’ Treasures Mystery

  Barbara Allan

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Also by Barbara Allan

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Tinseltown Reporter

  Chapter One - Lights, Camera, Auction!

  Chapter Two - It Takes Two to Tangle

  Chapter Three - Arrested Development

  Chapter Four - Suitable for Framing

  Chapter Five - Unlucky Streak

  Chapter Six - Alma Matters

  Chapter Seven - Blackboard Bungle

  Chapter Eight - Darkest Before the Don

  Chapter Nine - Staff Infection

  Chapter Ten - The Match Game

  Chapter Eleven - Cuckoo Ha-chew!

  Chapter Twelve - On the Fence

  About the Authors

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2017 by Max Allan Collins and Barbara Collins

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  Library of Congress Card Catalogue Number: 2016955343

  ISBN: 978-0-7582-9312-1

  First Kensington Hardcover Edition: May 2017

  eISBN-13: 978-0-7582-9313-8

  eISBN-10: 0-7582-9313-5

  First Kensington Electronic Edition: May 2017

  For Mary Minton,

  who is nice enough to love these books

  Brandy’s Quote:

  Each betrayal begins with trust.

  —Phish, “Farmhouse”

  Mother’s quote:

  O, beware, my lord, of jealousy;

  it is the green-eyed monster

  which doth mock the meat it feeds on.

  —William Shakespeare, Othello, Act III, Scene III

  Tinseltown Reporter

  Antiques Sleuths, that new reality-TV series now airing—currently shooting its final episode of the first season—opened to high numbers, pleasing network executives. But lately episodes have gone soft in the ratings.

  The show features two amateur sleuths-cum-antiques dealers, a mother-and-daughter team, who have solved a number of real-life murder mysteries in their quaint hometown of Serenity, Iowa—uncovering the mysteries behind the strange and unusual antiques and collectibles that are brought into their shop.

  Mother is Vivian Borne (age undisclosed), a widowed local theater diva with a nose for sniffing out murder and mayhem. Daughter is Brandy Borne, a thirty-three-year-old divorcée who plays reluctant Watson to her mother’s zealous Holmes, with the help of an ever so cute shih tzu named Sushi.

  But the murder mystery aspect of Sleuths is nowhere to seen on their series, other than the occasional interview segment. Bad choice?

  Producing is cinematographer-turned-show runner Phillip Dean, who stepped in to replace the late reality-show guru Bruce Spring (Extreme Hobbies and Witch Wives of Winnipeg) after Spring’s tragic death last year. Antiques Sleuths is Dean’s first foray into the reality-show biz, and this Tinseltown reporter deduces it will be his last—unless he can boost the ratings with a killer first-season cliff-hanger.

  —Rona Reed

  Chapter One

  Lights, Camera, Auction!

  Dearest ones! It is I, Vivian Borne (aka Mother), who—for the second time in our enduring, endearing series—has found herself in the position of having to begin a book, or risk missing our publishing deadline.

  Let us be clear! It is not without a pang of guilt—or, at least, a ping—that I must usurp Brandy’s usual opening chapter. But the poor girl is in the doldrums, in spite of—or is that despite? (the difference eludes me)—her daily dose of Prozac.

  The reason for Brandy’s melancholia—and since she won’t tell you, I fear I must—is the sudden and unexpected arrival in town of Camilla Cassato, the estranged wife of Serenity’s chief of police, Anthony Cassato, who happens to be Brandy’s significant other.

  (For newbies or those needing a refresher course, read on. All others may feel free to skip to the paragraph that begins “But now, with the return of Mrs. Cassato . . .”)

  Tony arrived several years ago from the East (not the Orient, but rather the eastern USA) to take the top cop position in our sleepy little Mississippi River town . . . and for a time was a man of mystery, until things got lively. By lively, I mean when an assassin came after our chief at a secluded cabin where he and Brandy were enjoying each other’s company.

  Seemed a New Jersey godfather had taken a contract out on the chief (a murder contract, not home improvement), who had testified against a certain crime family in those environs (Antiques Knock-off). Tony and Brandy managed to duck the hitman’s bullets and flee, but the chief was forced to disappear into WITSEC (the United States Federal Witness Protection Program), his situation heating up just as he and Brandy were really warming to each other.

  A subsequent mother-and-daughter trip to New York to sell an original vintage Superman drawing at a comics convention (Antiques Con) afforded me, sans Brandy, the opportunity to drop in on this New Jersey godfather (name withheld) and reason with him. My warmth and charm (and some take-out ziti) convinced him to void the contract, which allowed for Tony to return to Serenity . . . and to Brandy’s arms. A happy ending! Or happy middle, at least.

  But now, with the return of Mrs. Cassato, the couple’s happiness has once again been derailed.

  Seems Tony had assumed that divorce papers sent to him by Camilla’s lawyer, and signed and returned by him, had been properly filed; but recently Camilla informed Tony she had had a change of heart and had never followed through with the filing . . . or the divorce.

  Though Tony had rebuffed Camilla’s efforts to resume cohabitation, the idea of a married boyfriend has not been sitting well with my sensitive child.

  And, to complicate things further, Camilla has set up a rival antiques shop just a block from ours, popping up at various auctions around town, outbidding us in a meanspirited attempt (I can only assume) to get back at Brandy.

  So Brandy has had to put her relationship with Tony on hold until his marital status with Camilla is resolved. This is sensible but takes an emotional toll.

  Now that all of you are up to date, I wish to address several criticisms that having been coming my way via e-mails, tweets, and blogs. Some of you accuse me of (as we say in the writing game) telling, not showing. Had I shown the above, we’d be on page fifty. Do you really think that’s efficient?

  Also, those of you who do not like my digressions, I refer you to thousands, nay, tens of thousands, of satisfied readers who find my little side tri
ps every bit as rewarding as the journey itself. Besides, those who accuse me of such digressions are exaggerating my tendency toward such.

  By the way, do you know what really irks me? People who end every sentence as if it were a question! Here is an example: “The other day? When I went to the grocery store?” Uptalking, I call it. Some strange remnant of Valley Girl that has infiltrated the mother tongue (but not this mother’s tongue!).

  This distortion of our language seems to be spreading everywhere. Even television newscasters do it, and not only women, but men, as well. Might I suggest forming an organization against this abomination? We could call it People Against Uptalking, or PAUT. Well, admittedly, that’s not very catchy. Citizens Against Uptalking, or CAUT. No better? How about Down with Uptalking, or DWUT? I like the wordplay of “down” and “up,” although as an acronym, DWUT comes out perhaps too close to “duh.” The Anti-Uptalking League has a certain ring, although AUTL sounds a bit like “ought’ll.” As in, “We ought’ll stop uptalking?”

  Please send your suggestions, care of our publisher, to Vivian Borne.

  Oh, one more thing. If you need to use a stick to snap a “selfie,” for pity’s sake, just have someone else take the darn picture!

  * * *

  All right. Enough’s enough.

  Brandy stepping in, taking over for Mother after her well-intended effort to get this narrative aloft. I only hope we didn’t lose too many readers in Mother’s opening pages. On the other hand, Vivian Borne does have her fans, not to mention if she hadn’t stirred me to action, this book may never have gotten started.

  Because I have been, for the reasons Mother shared, down in the dumps of late. Not to worry! Fun will ensue. So will a mystery.

  A rather unseasonably mild November settled in during the filming of season one of our reality series. Even though we were mostly shooting inside our Trash ’n’ Treasures antiques shop—which took up an entire small house at the end of Main Street downtown—we did produce the occasional segment outdoors. Locations included flea markets, estate sales, storage-locker auctions, and the like, as Mother and I gathered stock for the shop. Not having to stand out in inclement weather was appreciated, the Indian summer occasionally giving way to some crisp fall temps that weren’t bad at all.

  My role in our show was a snap—playing second banana to Mother, and sometimes third banana, since Sushi, my shih tzu, quickly caught on to the filming process (“Mr. DeMille, I’m ready for my incredibly cute closeup”) and began upstaging Mother to the point where Phil had to limit the little fur ball’s screen time. (For those who don’t know, Sushi, once blind, after an operation can now see, although she still has diabetes.)

  I have to admit that our producer/director, Phillip Dean, who was also running the camera, and his pared-down crew—camera assistant Jamal Jeffers, soundman Steve Ballard, and assistant director Jena Hernandez—were doing a bang-up job not only at handling Mother, but also at finding unusual objects for us to identify, brought into our shop by “colorful” locals, customers we personally selected from a weekly cattle call. Many of those we selected, naturally, were locals Mother and I knew and often owed favors to.

  While our dialogue was strictly ad-libbed, ours was like any other reality show—carefully scripted, shaped, and staged.

  This Sunday morning (we usually filmed on Sundays and Mondays, when our shop was normally closed), the “customers” who just “happened” to stop in were Heather Conway, a former police dispatcher now with the forensics department, who, in exchange for a promised shot on our show, gave us sensitive information that proved vital in Antiques Swap; Matilda “Tilda” Tompkins, Serenity’s New Age guru, who also helped us in previous cases, giving Mother gratis regression sessions (did you know Mother was first handmaiden to Cleopatra, and Cleo’s head asp wrangler?); and Joe Lange (an old pal), a former marine, a confirmed bachelor, and a local institution (in the sense that he’d been institutionalized several times). Joe worked part-time at the shop, but Phil wasn’t using him as a regular, and I thought it would give Joe’s morale a boost.

  Heather—midthirties, with auburn hair and red glasses—brought in an object with four cylinder-shaped wire holders attached to a six-inch-by-two-inch piece of wood. This Mother correctly identified as a tool once used by teachers to draw straight lines on a blackboard.

  Tilda—late forties, long golden-reddish hair, freckles, and dressed in hippieish attire—came into the shop bearing a set of eight T-shaped tools, which I identified as being used for fixing a horse-drawn wagon wheel. (After the first take, soundman Steve told Tilda to remove her armful of clanking bangles.)

  Finally came Joe, tall, loose limbed, with short hair and pleasant if slightly off-center features, slim in desert camouflage utilities. I might mention that I was taking a chance using him on the show, since he’d only recently gotten back on his meds after a drug holiday, but Joe did all right, even though he spoke mostly in military jargon.

  Joe brought in a mechanical contraption that itself had a vaguely military look to it (it was used to put gunpowder in bullets), but according to our script, neither Mother nor I could identify it, and the gizmo was relegated to a section of each show where home viewers could call in their guesses (informed or otherwise) to an 800 number, with the correct answer being revealed in the next episode.

  That was this morning. This afternoon Phil wanted to shoot Mother and me (minus Sushi) at yet another storage-locker auction, but Mother had other plans.

  “Been there, done that, dear,” she told our muscular producer, a handsome forty-something with thick dark hair and a salt-and-pepper beard.

  We were standing in the living-room area of the shop/ house as Jamal, Steve, and Jena were packing up for the move. The show did not provide our wardrobe, and Mother was wearing her favorite emerald-green velour pantsuit. I was in black leggings and a gray silk tunic, with a David Yurman necklace I’d snagged on eBay.

  Mother was saying, “I have a far more interesting segment—something to entice the male audience.”

  Phil—in his traditional plaid shirt, jeans, and Nikes—frowned. “We could use more male viewers. What do you have in mind, Vivian?”

  “A farm-tool auction.”

  Phil’s frown deepened. “Good idea, Vivian, but we’d need a full crew for that, including another camera.”

  “Pish-posh,” she retorted. “It’s a small event at the O’Grady farm, exclusive only to a local antique tool club, fifty people, tops. It’s not been advertised, and I only found out about it yesterday through the grapevine.”

  The vines of Mother’s grapes twined everywhere.

  Phil was stroking his beard. “I don’t know. . . .”

  His eyes went to soundman Steve Ballard, a good guy of maybe thirty-five, with an oval, lightly pockmarked face.

  Shrugging, Steve, in a voice ravaged by cigarettes, said, “No problem on my end.”

  Phil looked at first AD Jena Hernandez—in her early twenties, attractive, clad in a black leather jacket over a white T-shirt, and tight jeans—who nodded. “I like the idea. Shouldn’t be any problem handling a small crowd.”

  Still, Phil hesitated.

  Jamal said, “We can cover it, boss. Nobody’s better at handheld than you.”

  To that, Phil smiled and nodded.

  I spoke up. “I know the farm, and it’s a really picturesque place. Should make for good coverage.”

  Actually, I’d never been to the O’Grady farm, but I just didn’t want to go to yet another storage-locker facility.

  “All right,” Phil granted. “Who should I contact to say we’re coming?”

  Mother, eyes gleaming behind her large-framed glasses (themselves collectible, if not quite antique), said, “I’ve already called Mrs. O’Grady, in anticipation that you would see the wisdom of this change of venue. She’s thrilled to her toes, of course, and pledges cooperation in any way possible.”

  Phil didn’t bother being irked with Mother; he’d long since learned not
to waste the energy. “Well, all right, then. Where’s this farm?”

  While Mother gave him directions, I had a little talk with Sushi, whom we’d be leaving behind at the shop.

  “Now, be good,” I said, placing her in the leopard-print bed behind the checkout counter. “We’ll be back in a few hours.”

  She looked up at me with her lower teeth jutting out in a pout, which said she was not pleased. And, despite my warning—or is that in spite of? (I don’t know the difference, either)—I knew I’d have to search the store later for any cigar-shaped symbol of her displeasure she might have bestowed.

  While Phil, Jamal, Steve, and Jena finished packing up their gear—they would follow in the equipment van after locking up the house—Mother and I got our coats and bags, then headed out into a cool yet sunny day, where our Ford C-Max hybrid waited at the curb.

  With me behind the wheel, and Mother riding shotgun—she had lost her driver’s license for various infractions too numerous to mention—we were soon tooling out of town, heading west on a two-lane highway, harvested fields gliding by on either side.

  I knew darn well that Mother had a secondary reason for wanting this afternoon’s shooting schedule changed—though a better venue than a storage-locker auction was plenty—and I said, “Smart ploy.”

  Mother turned her head. “Whatever do you mean, dear?”

  “You know what I mean. Good move.”

  A wicked little smile appeared on her still pretty Nordic face. “I’m glad you agree. This should throw her well off the scent.”

  Mother was referring to Camilla Cassato. The Serenity Sentinel had been publishing a daily schedule of where Antiques Sleuths was shooting, and the nasty woman had been using that information of late to disrupt our location segments. It gave me great pleasure knowing she’d be showing up at that storage-locker facility this afternoon, and we wouldn’t be there.