Antiques Carry On Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  Also by Barbara Allan

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Map

  Chapter One: Carry On Girls

  Chapter Two: Carry On Regardless

  Chapter Three: Carry On England

  Chapter Four: Carry On Constable

  Chapter Five: Carry On Cowboy

  Chapter Six: Carry On Screaming

  Chapter Seven: Carry On Doctor

  Chapter Eight: Carry On Teacher

  Chapter Nine: Carry On Cleo

  Chapter Ten: Carry On Cruising

  Chapter Eleven: Carry On Spying

  Chapter Twelve: Carry On at Your Convenience

  About the Author

  Also by Barbara Allan

  Trash ‘n’ Treasures mysteries

  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

  ANTIQUES FRAME

  ANTIQUES WANTED

  ANTIQUES HO-HO-HOMICIDES

  ANTIQUES RAVIN’

  ANTIQUES FIRE SALE

  ANTIQUES CARRY ON

  Barbara Allan

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First world edition published in Great Britain and the USA in 2021

  by Severn House, an imprint of Canongate Books Ltd,

  14 High Street, Edinburgh EH1 1TE.

  Trade paperback edition first published in Great Britain and the USA in 2022

  by Severn House, an imprint of Canongate Books Ltd.

  This eBook edition first published in 2021 by Severn House,

  an imprint of Canongate Books Ltd.

  severnhouse.com

  Copyright © Max Allan Collins and Barbara Collins, 2021

  All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. The right of Max Allan Collins and Barbara Collins to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-9081-8 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-784-2 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0522-3 (e-book)

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.

  This eBook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland

  To Michaela Hamilton

  who gave Barbara Allan our start

  Brandy’s quote:

  ‘But surely for everything you love

  you have to pay some price’

  – Agatha Christie

  Mother’s quote:

  ‘To have what we would have,

  we speak not what we mean’

  – Shakespeare, Measure for Measure

  ONE

  Carry On Girls

  Dearest ones!

  This is Vivian Borne (a.k.a. Mother) speaking (that is, writing), and where to begin? The beginning, you might well suggest, and we will in fact soon resume at the start of this latest casebook in inspired amateur crime solving.

  Of course, some of you already know us well, the two authors of this book that is, while others of you are (as we say in the trade) newbies. So we will commence with yours truly – antiques dealer, legendary local thespian, celebrated amateur sleuth, hearty female of Swedish stock and a certain age (exactly how certain is irrelevant), long widowed, recently retired sheriff, with just a teensy-weensy, hardly-worth-mentioning, hint of bi-polar disorder.

  As part of my retirement package as county sheriff, I was given the like-new Vespa, which – despite my having lost my driver’s license – was a legal mode of transportation. Correction: I didn’t lose the card – I knew right where it was! It was just stamped ‘revoked’ for my having committed various trivial infractions, as when that mailbox practically leapt out in front of me.

  The severance package also included a huge send-off party in the ballroom atop the new Merrill Hotel, plus a special honorary sheriff’s badge that gets me in most doors. (My daughter Brandy tends to trivialize those honors, but who are you going to believe? An ex-sheriff or her defacto unpaid former deputy?)

  I am penning these introductory words from Serenity, Iowa, our small picturesque Midwestern town nestled on the banks of the Mighty Mississippi River. The ‘our’ of the previous sentence refers to myself and other members of the household – Brandy (early thirties, divorced, on Prozac, co-author of these books) and her precious little doggie, Sushi (shih tzu, diabetic, and sometime bloodhound).

  Now I must impart some important news, and do not mean to alarm our longtime readers, but the time has come for a change.

  It is with sadness in our hearts – except for Sushi who understands more than most canines, but certainly not this – that after fifteen years, we bid a fond farewell to our New York publisher, and jump across the pond to a new one in London. (Although, Severn is located in the borough of Kensington – a good omen!)

  All I will say about the move is that our long-suffering editor must have finally given in to her frustration with my co-narrator’s behavior – specifically Brandy’s reluctance to get involved in the murder investigations necessary for the continuation of these chronicles, and into which I must drag her screaming and kicking – because the fault certainly couldn’t lay (lie?) with moi.

  Why, everyone knows that I relish a good murder mystery, and seem to attract them like a kitchen magnet to an icebox (an old term, I know, but isn’t it evocative?). In fact, our sleepy little burg has set a Guinness World Record for the most murders per capita in the entire United States! Perhaps not the highest honor … but still, a rare distinction.

  Anywho, this beautiful spring morning I have gone off by myself, while Brandy and Sushi are tending to our antiques shop. The dear girl runs the cash register while security guard Sushi follows customers around making sure no one has sticky fingers, as we deplore any ‘check your bags or large purses’ or ‘smile, you’re on camera,’ policies. So undignified!

  See you next chapter!

  Brandy, the ‘dear girl,’ speaking. For those of you who might have found the preceding paragraphs a bit like chugging condensed milk from the can, I assure you that from here on out I will be handling the lion’s share of the narration (as opposed to the lyin’ share).

  I’m afraid Mother insisted on beginning our story this time, and for you newbies (as she says) I thought perhaps, before the express train leaves the station, fairness r
equired giving you an idea of just what kind of trip you’re embarking upon … because once this journey starts, there’s no way off unless you jump.

  Firstly, I think we all know who taxed our former editor to the breaking point, and it wasn’t me. Secondly, Mother’s short reign of three months as county sheriff ended in a backroom deal in which she agreed to step down in exchange for 1) a small retirement party, 2) a used Vespa, and 3) an honorary badge one step up from a toy prize in a cereal box.

  It was either accept those terms or face impeachment.

  Granted, Mother did solve one of the most baffling and vicious cases she (we) had ever become involved in, held at a neighboring town’s Edgar Allan Poe festival (Antiques Ravin’); but her decidedly inventive – if sometimes illegal – methods of law enforcement did not sit well with the powers that be of the county seat. In fact, it got them off their seat and on their feet in indignation.

  This morning, Mother was gone by the time I climbed out of bed, roused by Sushi, who wanted her breakfast; the little furball had long ago learned not to come too close to me while barking her wake-up call, else getting stuffed unceremoniously under the covers.

  In the kitchen, a thoughtful Mother had set out a plate of baked waffles, which were still warm, so she must have just left. This made me smile, whether in response to the waffles or her absence, I leave for you to determine.

  There was also a note saying she didn’t know when she’d be back; nearby was her cell phone, which Mother never took with her when out ‘investigating.’ Or as I like to call it, ‘stirring up trouble.’

  This did not make me smile.

  Well, actually it did, if a smirk counts as a smile. Because for once I wasn’t worried about her shenanigans, as this time I would be on top of her whereabouts, having put a GPS tracker on the Vespa. I could summon the scooter’s location with either my phone or the computer at the shop.

  Cue the evil laugh.

  And now cue a family recipe.

  Waffles (Frasvafflor)

  2 cups heavy sweet cream

  1 and cups sifted flour

  4 tablespoons ice water

  ½ cup butter

  Whip the cream stiff, whip in the flour, then the ice water. Chill the batter in the fridge for one hour. When ready to use, melt the butter and stir it into the batter. Heat a waffle iron and spoon a little batter into each section. Bake like any waffle. When browned, remove with a fork. Sprinkle waffles with powdered sugar, and serve with jam or fruit compote or whipped cream and almonds. Makes enough crisp waffles for six servings.

  Before continuing on with our story, I would like to take this opportunity to address those who contacted me on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, WhatsApp, and snail mail, complaining about the recipe I shared in Antiques Bizarre, for ‘Mrs Mulligan’s Spicy Beef Stew.’ I must point out that the recipe was Mrs Mulligan’s, not mine. And since the main beef (pun intended) was its spiciness, the recipe does say spicy. When the book goes into another printing, I will adjust the measurement of cumin – or perhaps substitute mild chili powder for hot – or maybe suggest an after-dinner antacid in place of a mint.

  After feeding Sushi and giving her an insulin shot, and feeding myself, I took a quick shower, then threw on my favorite skinny dark-washed jeans, a flowy floral shirt, and designer flats that had been mismarked down, a fact I neglected to point out to the shop. (Best you know at this stage of the proceedings that I am not without flaws.) (Also, that the one thing Mother and I have in common in our writing styles is a use of parenthetical remarks that drives some people crazy.)

  (Sorry.)

  Ready to face the world on a sunny spring morning, I scooped up Sushi, made sure the house was locked, went out to our recently purchased Ford Fusion, then headed downtown to open the shop.

  Our antiques store, Trash ‘n’ Treasures, is located at the end of Main Street, in an old house at the base of West Hill, the area of town where all the lumber barons, pearl-button manufacturers, and bank founders had long ago built their mansions; the higher you climb, the grander they get, each trying to outdo the other.

  Mother and I had been able to buy the somewhat-dilapidated two-story clapboard on the cheap, because during the 1950s an unsolved Lizzie Borden-type axe murder had taken place there. Over the years, an array of owners quickly fled, claiming the place was haunted. But the idea of ghosts didn’t bother either of us. Anyway, Mother may well have scared the spooks off.

  There had been a few strange occurrences when we’d first opened, like objects being moved from one room to another, and a rocking chair that, like Bruce Springsteen, just wouldn’t stop rocking. Plus, once I felt a rush of cold air and thought someone brushed past me. But after Mother and I solved that long-ago murder – which had been related to a current, similar one (Antiques Chop) – we’ve had no bumps in the night (or day) since.

  Of course life with Mother is always at least a little bumpy.

  I parked in a spot behind the house, and we went in through the back, stepping into a mudroom lined with old crocks, then entered the kitchen, Sushi leading the way – like most dogs, Soosh never met a kitchen she didn’t like.

  Mother and I had decided to gear each room toward its original purpose – that is to say, all of our kitchen antiques were in the kitchen, bedroom sets in the bedrooms, linens in the linen closet, steamer trunks and old doors in the attic, formal furniture in the parlor, books in the library, and ‘mantiques’ like beer-signs and tools in the basement. Even the knickknacks were placed where you might expect them to be.

  Often the wafting aroma of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies would lure patrons to the kitchen, where they were welcome to sit at the red-and-yellow boomerang-print laminated table and partake of the free goodies, along with a cup of strong coffee (no purchase of merchandise required).

  Our customers often claimed that shopping at Trash ‘n’ Treasures gave them the vague sense of visiting an elderly relative – a grandmother, perhaps, or kindly old aunt. Only here, you didn’t have to wait to inherit something; for the listed price (or maybe a haggled-over lower one), you could walk right out with whatever caught your eye.

  The first thing I did was get the cookies baking and coffee going, before walking down the center hallway to the foyer, where we had installed a checkout counter. From a drawer, I selected two flags; one with my name, the other, Sushi’s, which would be run up a pole attached to the front porch to tell customers who was in.

  Mother had gotten the idea from Buckingham Palace, where a flag would fly when the Queen was in residence. Besides Mother, myself and Sushi, Joe Lange (a friend from my community college days who we employed part-time) also had one. When we were really busy, like at Christmastime, all four flags might be flapping. Other times, if Mother and I were off on a case, and Joe was having a PTSD attack from his tour in Iraq, nobody’s flag was flying, meaning the shop was closed.

  Then I settled in at the counter – I’d left Sushi in the kitchen, to sit staring at the oven as the cookies cooked – and turned on the computer, bringing up my GPS tracker app. The red teardrop on the map represented Mother, indicating she was currently at the Dunn Crematory, no doubt bothering poor grieving folks at some visitation or funeral.

  After that, the morning got off to a slow, customer-free start, allowing me to work on the inventory spreadsheet; but then things began to pick up. Which was good, because we could use the income, what with a trip to London coming up – we had an as yet un-alienated editor to meet at our new publisher’s.

  For the next two hours, I was kept busy at the register – Sushi was busy, too, as she followed people around. Most of the customer flurry occurred in the kitchen, with purchases of old cast-iron skillets and bakeware, mid-century casserole dishes like Pyrex and Corningware, and jadite Fire King dishes. Also, older cookbooks, before preparing meals got so fancy and time-consuming.

  From the basement, I sold a large authentic Coca-Cola red round thermometer, a red-and-blue neon Standard Oil sign with fl
ickering flame, and a wooden crate advertising Sky Ranch Washington apples, with an apple-headed cowboy getting ready to lasso another apple. (I don’t explain such things, I just sell them.)

  Upstairs, the bathroom medicine cabinet relinquished a silver double-edged men’s razor, and an unopened pack of old double-edge blades; the ‘teen’ bedroom was cleared of a movie wall poster of Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, along with a stack of vintage 70s LPs, which we had taken a chance on buying after learning vinyl records had become hot items.

  I also got some real interest in a Heywood Wakefield bamboo bedroom set that Mother had cherry-picked from a motel that hadn’t remodeled since back when everybody liked Ike … but the potential buyer would have to go home and talk to his wife about it. So I didn’t expect to see him again.

  Around noon the dust settled. In Serenity, the antiquing bug usually bites in the morning, then our buyers and browsers are off doing other things. I took a welcome cookie/coffee break at the counter – carefully breaking off bitty bites that did not include chocolate to share with Soosh – only to be interrupted by the arrival of Dumpster Dan.

  Before you think I’m being derogatory, that title was given to Dan for and by himself, because his M.O. was scouring downtown dumpsters, looking for something, anything, he might be able to sell.

  I gave him a cheery hello and a smile, and he shyly returned both, as if embarrassed to be alive. He had wispy white hair and glasses, the thick lenses reducing his eyes to the size of raisins, and was wearing his usual wrinkled khaki cargo pants and safari-type jacket, his world a concrete jungle.

  I asked him, ‘Still at the old Y?’

  When a new YMCA was built, the old former building, with its many small rooms, was turned into a refuge for those who needed somewhere to stay until they got on their feet (mostly men), with a separate wing for others suffering from physical abuse (mostly women). A few folks, like Dan, have made Heart of Hearts, as the building was re-christened, their permanent home, paying whatever they could afford.