Antiques Fire Sale
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
ANTIQUES FRAME
ANTIQUES WANTED
ANTIQUES HO-HO-HOMICIDES
ANTIQUES RAVIN’
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 Fire Sale
A Trash ’n’ Treasures Mystery
Barbara Allan
KENSINGTON BOOKS
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter One - In Which Vivian Faces the Music And Brandy Plays Second Fiddle
Chapter Two - In Which Vivian Flies the Coop And Brandy Calls Foul
Chapter Three - In Which Vivian Flames Out And Brandy Gets Burned
Chapter Four - In Which Vivian Can’t Stand the Heat And Brandy Gets Out of the Kitchen
Chapter Five - In Which the Ball Lands in Vivian’s Court And Brandy Goes Out of Bounds
Chapter Six - In Which Vivian Gets Up to Speed And Brandy Makes a Pit Stop
Chapter Seven - In Which Vivian Makes a Call And Jake Holds the Line
Chapter Eight - In Which Vivian Barks Up the Wrong Tree And Brandy Goes Out on a Limb
Chapter Nine - In Which Vivian Plays It by Ear And Brandy Gets Her Nose Out of Joint
Chapter Ten - In Which Vivian Takes Center Stage And Brandy Waits for Her Cue
Chapter Eleven - In Which Vivian Goes Off Course And Brandy Gets Teed Off
Chapter Twelve - In Which Vivian Gets Her Just Desserts And Brandy Takes the Cake
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2020 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: 2019953560
ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-1143-4
ISBN-10: 1-4967-1143-2
First Kensington Hardcover Edition: May 2020
ISBN: 978-1-4967-1143-4
To our readers
past, present, and future
Brandy’s quote:
Liar, liar, pants on fire
nose as long as a telephone wire
—playground song
Mother’s quote:
O for a Muse of fire that would ascend
the brightest heaven of invention
—William Shakespeare, Henry V
Chapter One
In Which Vivian Faces the Music And Brandy Plays Second Fiddle
On this beautiful fall afternoon in Serenity—our small, picturesque town nestled on the banks of the Mississippi River—I would much rather have been doing almost anything else. This was, after all, Monday—the only day of the week that our antiques shop, Trash ’n’ Treasures, is closed—and accompanying Mother to the courthouse on any day is not my idea of a good time.
But Vivian Borne (aka Mother) had been instructed to appear before the county commissioner to answer questions regarding some “unorthodox” actions she’d used a few weeks ago on her first case on the job as the newly elected sheriff of Serenity County.
Mother is in her midseventies, of Danish stock, widowed, bipolar, and quite attractive despite large, out-of-date eye-magnifying glasses. She is also a legendary local thespian, but an even more legendary local amateur sleuth, and a legend-in-the-making as our new county sheriff.
I am, by the way, Brandy Borne—thirty-three, blond by choice, a Prozac-popping prodigal daughter who post-divorce (my bad) crawled home from Chicago to live with Mother, seeking solitude and relaxation, but finding myself the frequent if reluctant accomplice in her mystery-solving escapades, now having to chauffeur her around in the sheriff’s SUV, since she had lost her driver’s license, and I don’t mean the plastic I.D. card, which actually she still carries but which is stamped REVOKED.
(Note to Brandy from Mother: Dear, you seem to have lifted our personal profiles from the previous book, which was lifted from the one before that, which I believe is called plagiarism, and I would also advise you not to use such unwisely and unwieldy convoluted sentences.)
(Note to Mother from Brandy: Maybe I did plagiarize myself, but if so, I won’t sue me. Besides, this time I added that you were sheriff and I was your driver.)
(Note to Brandy from Mother: Still, I think our profiles need freshening up.)
(Editor to Vivian and Brandy: Ladies . . . get on with it.)
Mother, riding figurative shotgun, was attired in a tan jumpsuit of her own design because the official shirt and pants were too scratchy and didn’t stretch; I, behind the wheel, wore a rust-colored sweater, brown slacks, and beige suede booties, none of which were of my own design.
Right now she was saying, “I do hope Commissioner Gordon will go easy on me.”
(Okay, Batman aficionados, snicker if you must, but that is his last name.)
I secretly hoped the commissioner would begin impeachment hearings, after what Mother had recently put me through during an Edgar Allan Poe festival in the hamlet of Antiqua (chronicled in Antiques Ravin’).
“Just tell the truth,” I replied, as if I were rooting for her. I’m not (necessarily) a bad daughter, but I feared what kind of trouble she might get herself—all right, us—into. I mean, there was a literal shotgun in back and a stun gun on her duty belt.
Mother’s head swiveled toward me. “Dear, I always tell the truth.”
When I guffawed, she qualified her statement with, “Except about my age—which is no one’s business but my own.”
We had arrived downtown at the courthouse, where I found a parking spot in front.
As we exited the vehicle, Mother—carrying a large tote bag—said, “It’s so nice being an official and not having to feed a meter anymore.”
Actually, Mother had never fed a meter in her life—not with coins anyway. She bought cheap aluminum flat washers by the gross, by way of protesting The Man. Of course, now she was The Woman....
The county courthouse, built in the 1880s, was a three-story edifice of Grecian grandeur whose cream-colored limestone bricks, columns, and clock tower reminded me of a big wedding cake, albeit a stale one. For years numbskulls (Mother’s word, one of her favorites) had attempted to have the un-air-conditioned building torn down and replaced with a modern institutional monstrosity. But so far Mother and her friends at the Serenity Historical Preservation Society had managed to thwart any such efforts.
Personally, during the hot months of July and August, I avoided going in the place, where sweat-soaked clerks could be especially mean (ceiling fans can do only so much); and savvy criminal defense lawyers maneuvered to avoid trials being set during that time or else encounter crabby or nodding-off jurors, not to mention heat-stroked judges.
Entering the cour
thouse was like stepping back in time—very little had changed, from the marbled flooring, walnut wainscoting, and pebbled-glass wooden doors to the old steam heat radiators. Even the light fixtures, converted from gas to electric, were at least a hundred years old. The only giveaway was the aluminum water fountains.
Gordon’s office was on the first floor, just off the rotunda, and Mother and I went in through a door with COUNTY COMMISSIONER stenciled on the pebbled glass.
We could only take a few steps forward before running into the desk of the receptionist, an officious-looking middle-aged woman in a navy pantsuit, looking up from her computer screen with the enthusiasm of a longtime civil servant, which is what she was.
“Good afternoon, Sheriff Borne,” she said brusquely.
I was not acknowledged. I was not an official deputy, after all. Mother said I was “ex-officio.” I think that’s Latin for “lackey.”
The woman bent to the intercom speaker on the desk and pressed a button. “The sheriff is here.”
“Send her in,” a male voice responded gruffly.
Wow. Didn’t anybody here like their job?
Mother went through the door into the commissioner’s inner sanctum, and I followed like her shadow.
Gordon’s office was larger than the receptionist’s, but not by much, and the furnishings were strictly perfunctory and almost old enough to interest the pair of antique sellers who had just entered. No waste of taxpayer’s money here.
The commissioner cut an imposing figure behind the desk—even more so as he stood. Midforties, tall, with a crisply conservative haircut, neatly trimmed beard, and a tanned face thanks to summer weekends on the golf course.
“Sheriff Borne,” he said, business-like.
“Commissioner Gordon,” Mother replied respectfully.
(Okay that did strike me as amusing; maybe, when he needed her, he could summon her from the courthouse rooftop with a batty signal.)
The two nodded in lieu of shaking hands, then Mother took a chair in front of the desk, and he returned to his behind it. I found a seat behind Mother, next to the door.
Gordon opened his mouth to speak, but words didn’t get the chance to emerge.
“How is your wife?” Mother asked. “I’m so pleased to hear that she’s no longer having to wear that horrible back brace.”
His smile was small and almost sincere. “Amanda is doing fine. I’ll tell her you inquired about her. Now, do you understand the purpose of this meeting?”
Mother smiled. “I believe you have some questions for me, which of course I’m delighted to answer, and how is the new grandbaby? First one, is it? You must be looking forward to your roles as doting grandparents!”
Mother was deluded if she thought this patter would soften him up.
“Yes, very much,” Gordon said, somewhat impatiently. “And you understand, Sheriff Borne, that your answers, if insufficient or not to my liking, will warrant a formal hearing before the entire board of county supervisors.”
“Well, doesn’t that go without saying? As the submarine captain said, fire away!”
The commissioner breathed the first of many world-weary sighs as he consulted some papers on his desk. “According to the report you filed—”
“Pardon me,” Mother interrupted. “But I suddenly sense a midafternoon drop in my blood sugar and I simply must have something to eat.” She was reaching into the tote bag, drawing out a tin. “I brought along some scones.”
So that’s what I smelled cooking in the middle of the night! I thought I’d dreamt it, since no baked goodies had been on offer for breakfast back at the Borne homestead.
Mother popped off the cover, then thrust the tin toward the commissioner. “Have one? I used lots of raisins. Big juicy ones!”
Gordon eyed the contents. “I do love raisins, but Amanda doesn’t, and won’t put them in anything she makes.”
Mother always did her due diligence.
He went on, “But I’m afraid I can’t accept, as delicious as they look. I react badly to gluten.”
“Me too!” she exclaimed. “These scones are quite gluten-free.”
Actually, Mother never met a gluten she didn’t like.
“Well, in that case . . .” Gordon plucked out a plump scone.
Mother helped herself but didn’t offer me one, knowing I sided with Amanda in the firm belief that cooked raisins are slimy. (Longtime readers expecting a gluten-free scone-with-raisins recipe at this point are out of luck, I’m afraid.)
Then—from out of the tote bag, like a rabbit from a hat—Mother produced a thermos. This was followed by two cups.
“Coffee?” Mother asked him.
“Why, uh . . . yes. Please.”
She set the two cups on the edge of the desk and poured from the thermos. “I hope you like hazelnut.”
“My favorite,” he said.
Whodathunkit?
Mother handed the commissioner a cup, took the other, and sat back. “Now about these questions . . . ?”
Gordon chewed, brushing crumbs off of the papers, then swallowed.
(Note to Reader from Brandy: So as not to spoil our previous account, Antiques Ravin’, for those who haven’t read it—you will though, won’t you?—some words in the following conversation have, at Mother’s request, been redacted.)
“After reading the report you filed, Sheriff Borne,” Gordon began sternly, “I’m concerned that you sometimes didn’t follow law enforcement standards and protocol. In fact, in one instance, you actually broke the law.”
“Might I suggest,” Mother said sweetly, “we start with the smaller infractions and work our way up?”
Ignoring that, he went on. “According to your own words, you commandeered a REDACTED.”
Mother shifted in her seat. “Perhaps ‘commandeered’ is too strong a verb—I’m afraid that was the wordsmith in me, embellishing a bit.”
“Reports are to be strictly factual, Sheriff,” Gordon advised. “But you did operate the REDACTED?”
“Yes, for about five miles, to the next crossing. But the REDACTED was sitting right there next to me—a nice young man named REDACTED. He even let me wear his hat and blow the whistle.”
Gordon was making little notations in the margins of the report. “Let’s move on. After Mr. REDACTED was REDACTED, you failed to notify the FBI. Why was that?”
“I had to be sure he really had been REDACTED. The FBI are very busy people—and getting busier every day! And as it turned out, they weren’t needed after all. In fact, I did their work for them. Win-win!”
“Can you explain your actions to involve the REDACTED Indian Nation, which is outside your county jurisdiction?”
“Commissioner, if I hadn’t, Mr. REDACTED would have died. The REDACTED Indian Nation was also instrumental in providing key information that lead me to the killer.”
“Information obtained at their casino, where you admit you REDACTED while on duty.”
Mother raised a finger. “One measly quarter! Which I found on the floor as I was going out and simply slipped into a slot. How was I to know I’d get lucky? Besides, I donated my entire winnings of REDACTED.”
“And how did you get yourself to the REDACTED?” Gordon asked, his expression telegraphing he knew the answer.
“Yes, I admit I drove. I know that was technically wrong. But my poor ex-officio deputy here—my daughter, Brandy—was down with a migraine, and after all, there was a killer on the loose.”
More note-taking, accompanied by another of those world-weary sighs.
“Any explanation for the destruction of private property,” the commissioner said, “does not appear to be included in your report, Sheriff Borne.”
“Oh?” Mother asked innocently. “I don’t recall anything of that nature.”
I piped up, “Three farm REDACTED and a REDACTED from Antiqua City Hall.”
Mother said acidly over her shoulder, “Thank you, Deputy dear, for reminding me.” Then back to Gordon: “Of course, I
will personally pay for any and all damages. Anything else, Commissioner?”
He nodded gravely. “This is not concerning your report, Sheriff, but it has come to my attention that three cases of the soft drink REDACTED were sent to your office by the REDACTED Company of Atlanta. You should know that accepting any gift can be seen as a bribe.”
He didn’t realize a few scone crumbs remained in a corner of his mouth.
“Well, that was quite unexpected! How was I to know that the president of the REDACTED Company would so appreciate my suggestion of stocking their vending machines with REDACTED that he would instruct his minions to send me some! But in the future I will guard against such acts of appreciation and make sure any gifts are returned.” Mother paused. “However, could you please overlook this gift, just this one time? REDACTED is so hard to come by, and half a case is gone.”
The commissioner scratched his chin. “I didn’t know they even still made that stuff,” he said. “I used to be chubby in my teens, and lost a lot of weight drinking REDACTED—tasted terrible, but I got to really like it.”
“I believe the formula was recently changed from saccharin to NutraSweet—which, to me, ruined the product—but what I received was the original stuff.”
The commissioner sat forward, tented his hands, eyes wide. “Could you . . . Vivian, is there any chance you could spare a case?”
“Of course! In fact, I’ll have my deputy send over some.”
You may have figured out the drink in question was TAB, and the company Coca-Cola. I don’t know why Mother insisted that any of this be redacted.
I stood. “Commissioner Gordon”—and I had to suppress a smile at the silly sound of that—“if the only law the sheriff broke was driving the SUV, can’t something be done to reinstate her license?”