Antiques Maul Read online

  Highest Praise for the Trash ‘n’ Treasures Mysteries!

  “A delight for antiques buyers and sellers as well

  as mystery lovers . . . excellent books.”

  —Antique Trader

  Antiques Maul

  “Charming . . . laugh-out-loud funny.”

  —Romantic Times

  “Antiques addicts will enjoy the ‘trash ‘n’

  treasures’ tips.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “The writers do a great job in developing the

  characters.”

  —Reviewing the Evidence

  Antiques Disposal

  “The book is so funny, I honestly couldn’t put it

  down. It’s so entertaining, pages simply fly by.

  Hey, did I mention there are recipes for chocolate

  brownies in it?”

  —Pulp Fiction Reviews

  “A zany antiques mystery . . . A classic gathering

  of suspects leads to an unexpected denouement.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Breezy, written with admirable wit. . . . a wacky,

  lightweight romp perfect for an evening’s

  escapism. Fans of ‘Storage Wars,’ take note.”

  —Somebody Dies

  “Here’s something to brighten your day . . . very

  funny, with lots of great dialogue.”

  —Bill Crider’s Pop Culture Magazine

  “This humorous cozy is framed by life in small-

  town Iowa and teems with quirky characters.”

  —Booklist

  Antiques Knock-Off

  “If you like laugh-out-loud funny mysteries, this

  will make your day.”

  —Romantic Times Book Reviews, 4.5 stars

  “An often amusing tale complete with lots of

  antiques-buying tips and an ending that may

  surprise you.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “Quirky . . . a sure-fire winner.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Scenes of Midwestern small-town life,

  informative tidbits about the antiques

  business, and clever dialog.”

  —Library Journal

  Antiques Bizarre

  “Auction tips and a recipe for spicy beef stew

  enhance this satirical cozy.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “You’ll laugh out loud at the screwball dynamics

  between Brandy and Vivian as they bumble their

  way through murder investigations.”

  —Mystery Scene

  Antiques Flee Market

  “Fast-paced . . . plenty of humor and tips on

  antiques collecting will keep readers engaged.”

  —Library Journal

  “Top pick! This snappy mystery has thrills,

  laugh-out-loud moments and amazingly real

  relationships.”

  —Romantic Times Book Reviews

  “This is surely one of the funniest cozy series

  going.”

  —Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine

  “Marvelous dialogue, great characters, and a fine

  murder mystery.”

  —Reviewing the Evidence

  Antiques Roadkill

  “Engaging and utterly believable.”

  —Sara Paretsky

  “A terrific new series. Grab it up!”

  —S.J. Rozan

  “[Readers] will love this down-to-earth heroine

  with the wry sense of humor and a big heart.”

  —Nancy Pickard

  “Fun from start to finish.”

  —Laurien Berenson

  “Funny, witty, irreverent . . . the distinctive voice

  pulls you in and never lets you go.”

  —T.J. MacGregor

  “Hilarious.”

  —Joan Hess

  Also by Barbara Allan:

  ANTIQUES ROADKILL

  ANTIQUES FLEE MARKET

  ANTIQUES BIZARRE

  ANTIQUES KNOCK OFF

  ANTIQUES DISPOSAL

  ANTIQUES CHOP

  ANTIQUES SLAY RIDE

  By Barbara Collins:

  TO MANY TOMCATS

  (short story collection)

  By Barbara and Max Allan Collins:

  REGENERATION

  BOMBSHELL

  MURDER—HIS AND HERS

  (short story collection)

  Antiques Maul

  A Trash ‘n’ Treasures Mystery

  Barbara Allan

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Highest Praise for the Trash ‘n’ Treasures Mysteries!

  Also by Barbara Allan:

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One - Them’s the Rakes

  Chapter Two - A Piece of the Auction

  Chapter Three - A Hunting We Will Hoe

  Chapter Four - Close But No Cigar Store Indian

  Chapter Five - Teacher’s Pet

  Chapter Six - Let Sleeping Dogs Die

  Chapter Seven - Assault and Pepper Shakers

  Chapter Eight - Throw in the Trowel

  Chapter Nine - Hike-and-Seek

  Chapter Ten - Fire Urn and Cauldron Bubble

  Chapter Eleven - In the Kill of the Night

  Chapter Twelve - Down by the Old Mill Scream

  Chapter Thirteen - Eat, Sink, and Be Merry

  Author’s Note and Fall Recipe

  Mother’s Autumn Pudding

  Teaser chapter

  Teaser chapter

  BARBARA ALLAN

  Copyright Page

  For the Mull siblings,

  in lieu of royalties

  “Human beings are the only creatures on earth

  that allow their children to come home.”

  Bill Cosby

  “Double, double toil and trouble;

  Fire burn and cauldron bubble.”

  William Shakespeare

  The Witches in “the Scottish play”*

  *Mother refuses to call it by name—

  bad luck in the theater, you know

  Chapter One

  Them’s the Rakes

  With me toting the box of collectibles, Mother and I entered the unlocked back door and stepped into the darkness of the antiques mall. We had set up our booth yesterday and were here, bright and early, to do some pricing on the various treasures and trash we were foisting upon an unsuspecting public.

  I moved to an electric panel on the wall nearby and began switching switches, illuminating the large room, section by section. When I turned back to Mother, she was heading up the center aisle toward the front of the store.

  Soon I was hurrying after her and then, as I rounded the row, bumped full-force into Mother, who had doubled back, knocking the wind out of both of us.

  “Dear, please,” she said gasping for breath, “please don’t . . .”

  “Don’t what?”

  “Don’t look. It’s horrible. Simply grotesque.”

  Despite her agitated state, and the melodramatic words, Mother seemed atypically untheatrical.

  Now, I ask you . . . if somebody tells you not to look, especially if it’s “horrible,” and “simply grotesque,” what is any reasonable person going to do?

  Right.

  Not only are you going to look, but you have to look, you must look....

  Murder wasn’t the beginning. The beginning was on a lovely afternoon, not long before. Autumn in Serenity is my favorite time of the year, and this particular autumn was living up to all my expectations.r />
  The trees lining the streets and dotting yards are at their most brilliant—leaves of scarlet, orange, and golden yellow, shimmering in the warm afternoon sunlight. We were in the throes of a glorious Indian summer, yet the nights were cool enough to wear the new fall fashions (specifically, a recently purchased bronze leather jacket from Bernardo).

  Still, fall has its inherently melancholy side, a bittersweet, contemplative time—mulling what might have been . . . and then the realization that, given a second chance, you’d probably do the same dumb things all over again....

  After ten years of marriage, I was recently divorced (my bad), and had come home to live with my seventy-plus-year-old mother in the small midwestern town on the banks of the Mississippi River where I’d grown up. I had brought with me my share of the spoils of the marriage: Sushi, a white and brown shih tzu, who was spoiled. Roger had custody of ten-year-old Jacob back in Chicago, also spoiled.

  Some might think that our newly formed household unit made quite the dysfunctional family . . . Mother bipolar, Sushi blind with diabetes, me zoned out on antidepressants. But I think we functioned just fine . . . as long as we all took our medication.

  On my return to Serenity several months ago, we’d become unexpectedly involved in a couple of juicy local murders and performed what my mother insisted on describing as “amateur sleuthing.” On this fall day, thoughts of that remarkable set of experiences were among my contemplations, sure; but I figured that adventure was a one-shot.

  I had no idea, on that crisp autumn afternoon, that a sequel was looming....

  Dressed in a brown Juicy Couture hoodie and Blue Cult jeans, orange Puma running shoes, my honey-blonde hair in a ponytail, I leaned on my rake, inhaling deeply, taking in the crisp, clean, humidity-free air, then exhaling with a self-satisfied sigh. Slacking on the job, I listened to the tuneless high-pitched song of the cicada bugs while watching an ever-growing number of birds perched on an electrical wire argue over who was going to lead them south for the winter.

  Robin chirped, “I have seniority, so I’m most qualified.”

  “Hell you say!” Bluebird retorted. “You got us lost over Arkansas last year, remember? Practically got sucked into that jet’s nether regions!”

  Swallow interjected, “Well, I’m not flying all the way to Capistrano again. That about busted my feathers! I thought my darn wings would fall off.... Cancún is far enough.”

  Blackbird scoffed, “It’s still hurricane season down there, you dolt.... You wanna get blown into raven munchies?”

  Crow crowed, “Think I’ll fly to Miami, then catch a steamer across the Atlantic to Europe. Heard those Italian birds are swee-eeet. . . .”

  Swallow was saying, “Hey, Robin! What’s the matter? Suddenly you don’t look so good. . . .”

  “Yeah,” Robin answered, “I don’t feel so good either. Maybe I’m gettin’ that bird flu that’s been going around.”

  “Yikes!”

  “Let me outta here!”

  “Been nice knowin’ ya!”

  And the fine-feathered friends scattered in a flap of wings.

  Here I thought my life was stressful.

  Sushi, stretched out lazily under a nearby oak, lifted her small furry head and yapped at me, as if to say, “Get back to work!” While Sushi couldn’t see, she could hear my inactivity.

  “Yeth, Maaath-tur,” I said in my best Midnight Movie manner, and proceeded to corral some sneaky leaves with my rake, foiling their escape on a lucky puff of wind.

  A gray squirrel (meaner than their brown cousins) decided to come down from its nest at the tippy-top of the oak. The squirrel planted itself a short distance from Sushi and—thinking the little fur ball no threat—began to taunt her.

  “Na-na-na-na-na-na,” the squirrel chattered, dancing back and forth just out of Sushi’s reach.

  “I wouldn’t go there,” I warned.

  Sushi sat up slowly, resting on her back legs, head tilted to one side.

  The taunter danced closer.

  “Na-na-na-na-na-na.”

  With lightning speed, Sushi struck at the source of the noise; as the startled squirrel whirled to retreat, the canine caught that long bushy tail with her little sharp teeth and clamped.

  The squirrel screeched (wouldn’t you?) and I commanded, “Let him go, Soosh.”

  She reluctantly obeyed, and the squirrel scurried back up the tree to its nest—a little bit wiser, I think.

  Mother—wearing a voluminous blue caftan and one of her large red hats to protect her delicate Danish skin from the rays of the sun—made a typically grand entrance (even though, technically, it was an exit) as she floated down the front porch steps, one part apparition, one part aberration.

  “My goodness,” she asked, “what’s all the ruckus?” Her eyes, already magnified by her large thick glasses, were owl-wide.

  I told her.

  Mother gazed up, waggling a finger in the squirrel’s general direction. “You’d better spend more time gathering acorns and not picking on a poor defenseless little doggie.”

  Soosh looked toward Mother’s voice with a cocked head.

  Then Mother added upward, “The winter of your discontent is coming, you know!”

  The squirrel said nothing; he was just a bit player in Mother’s production.

  “Brandy,” Mother said, eyes narrow yet huge, “how does a nice glass of chilled apple cider sound?”

  I despise cider. “Great!”

  I was not trying to make Mother feel better. I was merely willing to take any excuse to forestall further raking. Already I had a blister going between my right thumb and forefinger. Besides, the wind was picking up and all the leaves would blow into the neighbors’ yards if I could just be patient.

  I leaned the rake against the tree, retrieved Sushi, and followed Mother up the wide steps, across the expansive porch, and inside.

  Some months ago, I had tried to talk Mother into building a ranch-style house after our old three-story stucco had been destroyed (which is another story) (available at your favorite bookseller’s), pointing out that in the days to come she might find the steps a hardship.

  Mother flatly refused.

  “A ranch-style?” Mother screeched. “Here? On this property? Why, that would be committing architectural blasphemy!”

  “Huh?” I asked. Okay, I’m not quite as articulate as Mother.

  Mother gazed at me with haughty sympathy and benign contempt, as if I had a can of spaghetti on my face and was using the meatballs for brains.

  “Because, my dear girl, that style would not complement the array of structures along our street.”

  “Array of structures—other houses, you mean.”

  Mother puffed up. “Why, a single-story home among these two- and three-stories would look like a . . . a stumpy, filed-off tooth next to the other teeth in the block’s bright, shining smile.”

  I didn’t point out that the logical extension of her metaphorical spiel indicated that many other teeth in that “bright, shining smile” could stand some veneers or capping, or even a few Crest bleach-strips.

  But Mother was on a roll. “And as for climbing the stairs when the distant day arrives that I am indeed old and gray . . .”

  She was old and gray! Indeed!

  “. . . should the effort take me half an hour to accomplish, what then? What else would I have to do?”

  For a romantic, Mother could be awfully pragmatic.

  The new house—a virtual replica of the original three-story one—went up in record time. I asked around and found the fastest and best builders, hired them, and unleashed my secret weapon: Mother hanging around the construction site, driving the contractors crazy.

  You’d have been done in six weeks, too. Maybe five.

  I trailed Mother into the house and on through to the kitchen—the only room that had been modified and modernized from the old blueprints—and put Sushi down, watching her find her way to the water dish.

  Mother, getting
the apple cider out of the fridge, asked, “Brandy, darling, when can I expect these clothes to come down?”

  She was referring to a new pair of Citizens of Humanity jeans, a plaid L.A.M.B. jacket, and a tight Theory pencil skirt (all a size smaller than I had on), which were hanging on various cabinet doors, blocking the way to forbidden foods.

  “Five more pounds from now,” I said.

  “Good,” she sighed. “Because it’s most inconvenient to get into the cupboards.”

  “Which,” I said, “is the point.”

  Mother continued: “And last night I came downstairs for a glass of warm milk, turned on the kitchen light, and nearly fainted from fright! Why, in my sleep-addled state, I thought we had burglars!”

  Albeit chic, female ones. Standing on the kitchen counter.

  “Although, Brandy, I must admit, this new diet method of yours does seem to be working.”

  I beamed. “Good! Then you can tell I’ve lost some weight?”

  Mother frowned, as if my question had been a non sequitur. “Not you, dear, me . . . I’ve shed ten pounds.”

  Here I’d dropped only a measly three.

  Bottom line on dieting: After age thirty (which I had just reached) the only way to lose weight is to go through a divorce (not recommended) or finally get around to having your impacted wisdom teeth taken out.

  To drop the poundage, and keep it off, you must make a “lifestyle” change: i.e., You can no longer eat as you used to. And the sooner you get that through your thick skull (and thicker waistband) the better.