Antiques Slay Ride Read online

  Frankly, I was hoping that neither bro nor sis would be home, and that they had remained at their stepfather’s, or were otherwise engaged in preliminary funeral arrangements.

  But Tanya answered my knock, wearing the same clothes as this morning, and not at all in mourning—no red eyes, no puffy face. Just a sullen expression, her eyes saying, “Yeah?” Her mouth didn’t bother to say anything.

  “Ah, hi,” I said chirpily. “I’m Brandy Borne.”

  “You was at the house,” she said flatly.

  “Yes. Could I come in?”

  She shrugged, said, “Knock yourself out,” then turned her back on me and wandered away, but left the door open.

  I stepped into a messy living room, littered with beer cans and empty pizza boxes. It was what happened when a high school kid’s parents were away, only no high school kids or parents lived here.

  Bo-Bo rose from a tattered couch like the hockey mask guy in the horror movies after you thought you killed him. “Who the hell’s that?” He was minus the hunting jacket and baseball cap, but otherwise dressed as before—jeans, sweatshirt.

  Tanya screwed her face up. Whether that meant she was thinking or about to spit, I couldn’t tell you. “Says her name is Brandy something—she was with that ding-a-ling woman who told us about Bernie.”

  I said, “That’s my mother.”

  Bo-Bo snorted. “You oughta stick that old broad in a nuthouse. She’s looney tunes—everybody in town says so.”

  I laughed once. “Oh, well, what can you do? You can choose your friends but not your relatives.”

  (Mother to Brandy: How sharper than a serpent’s tongue it is to have a thankless child!)

  (Brandy to Mother: Mother, I wasn’t being thankless . . . I was playing them for information. And it’s “tooth,” not “tongue.”)

  (Mother to Brandy: Oh! Good strategy, dear. Carry on. I forgive you for whatever disparaging thing you might say about me, if it helps our inquiry.)

  I told the pair, “That’s why I’m here—to apologize for her wack-a-doodle behavior. I brought a peace offering.”

  And I handed Tanya the covered plate of cookies.

  She accepted it, saying, “Well, I guess it’s all right. Relatives can be a pain, all right.”

  Bo-Bo eyed me suspiciously. “Okay, so that’s why you’re here, ’cause of that fruitcake.”

  Tanya said, “It’s cookies, not a fruitcake . . . oh. I see what you mean.”

  Bo-Bo frowned, shook his head, then said, “But what the hell were you two doin’ out at Bernie’s?”

  I gave him a smile that was at least as sweet as those cookies. “We were hoping Bernie might sell us some of his collectibles. We have an antiques shop in town. But now that he’s celebrating Christmas upstairs,”—I pointed to the ceiling—“I supposed we should ask you.”

  Bo-Bo looked upward, frowning, perhaps thinking I meant the upstairs neighbors.

  “Yes,” Tanya said brightly, then put on a sad face. “But maybe it is a little soon to be thinking about that.”

  “Hell it is,” Bo-Bo said, approaching me. “You’re welcome to make an offer.”

  “An offer?”

  “Yeah. But you’ll have to beat that other guy’s prices.”

  “Whose prices?”

  “Oddball named Lyle Humphrey—know him?”

  I nodded. Mother had been right about the need to act fast where our wealthy collector “friend” was concerned.

  “I’ll get what he gave us.” Bo-Bo left the room, came back, and handed me a computer printout with three columns, and the headings: ITEM, ESTIMATED WORTH, OFFER. I could tell at a glance that the last two columns were way below market value. Lyle may have been wealthy, but he sure wasn’t generous.

  I asked, “When did he give this to you?”

  Tanya said, “About an hour ago.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah, he said he done an appraisal for Bernie, and when he heard on the news about what happened, he made this list up for us.”

  “That’s a little cold.”

  Bo-Bo sneered at me. “Well, you’re here asking, aren’t you? Early bird gets the worm.”

  “Fair enough,” I said, and held up the sheet. “May I keep this? I can work from it so we can give you a better offer.”

  “Sure thing, honey,” Tanya said. “We got another copy.”

  “Thanks.” I turned to go, then looked back at them. “By the way, when did you see your stepfather last?”

  Tanya and Bo-Bo exchanged glances before she answered. “About a week ago. We tried calling him yesterday and didn’t get an answer. Tried again this morning, and finally went out to see if the old fella was okay.”

  Bo-Bo shrugged. “And, of course, he wasn’t.”

  I nodded. “I’ll be in touch. Enjoy the cookies.”

  Part of me wished I’d sprinkled them with chocolate-flavored ex-lax shavings. But that wouldn’t have been in the Christmas spirit, would it? Though it would have been a gift that kept on giving.

  Chapter Five

  Makin’ a List

  It was late afternoon by the time I returned home to find that my new UGGs had mysteriously reappeared in the foyer. Some mysteries just can’t be solved, can they . . . Mother?

  Speaking of whom, I found La Diva Borne seated at the dining-room table, hunkered over a spread of official-looking papers.

  “How did it go, dear?” she asked.

  Sitting down, I recounted my conversation with Tanya and Bo-Bo, then handed her the printout of the prices offered them by Lyle Humphrey.

  “That fits in interestingly with what I’ve found,” Mother mused, eyes narrowing to normal size behind the large lenses as she looked the printout over. “I think our old bidding rival Lyle Humphrey intends to dupe the pair.”

  “Couldn’t happen to a nicer couple.” I gestured toward the papers before her. “What are those?”

  “Among other things, a copy of a new will Wayne had prepared for Bernie, which would have cut Tanya and Bo-Bo out.”

  “Would have? You’re saying it’s not signed?”

  “That’s right, dear.”

  “Talk about a motive for murder,” I said. “Can an unsigned will be legal? It was Bernie’s intention, after all.”

  Mother shook her head. “Not if there is a signed one—of which Tanya and Bo-Bo are the beneficiaries. Of course, we don’t know that they were aware of this new document.”

  Few lawyers knew more about wills than Mother, who had done her studying on the subject by reading Agatha Christie.

  I nodded toward the thing. “Where’d you get it?”

  Mother smiled slyly. “Sometimes ignorance is not only bliss, but a self-protective posture.”

  “You mean, what I don’t know won’t hurt me.”

  “On the nose, dear.”

  “Like I can’t figure out that you broke into Mr. Ekhardt’s office with that pass key you pilfered from his desk when he fell asleep the last time we met with him.”

  Mother frowned. “Now you’ve just made yourself an accessory after the fact. Happy?”

  “You’ve gotten me into worse trouble.” (See any of our books.)

  I picked up the copy of the new will and leafed through it, noting that—along with several monetary bequeaths to various charities—a museum in Pella had been designated to get Bernie’s collectibles and antiques. Of course, now everything would go to his stepdaughter and stepson.

  Attached to the back of the will was another printout of an antiques appraisal, but this time with only two columns: one listing the antiques, the other their current worth—more in line with reality. It was dated five days ago—last Wednesday.

  “Hey, it’s Humphrey again,” I said. “This seems to be the source of the inventory list he gave Bo-Bo and Tanya.”

  “I’m sure it is. According to documents in the file, Bernie hired Lyle to make an appraisal of his collection, as a formality for tax and various legal purposes in leaving his things to the museu
m.”

  I returned the papers to Mother, then went into the kitchen to warm up our dinner—leftover lasagne (always better the second day).

  When I returned to set the table, Mother was making a closer comparison of the will’s inventory with Tanya and Bo-Bo’s printout.

  She handed the documents to me. “Dear, take a gander at these. See if you find something suggestive, as Hercule Poirot might say.”

  I sat and studied them. “They match up almost perfectly. Almost. There’s one item on the earlier list that isn’t on the recent one. Did Bo-Bo and Tanya doctor their list for some reason? They said they had two copies, so maybe Mr. Humphrey gave them a computer file and they edited it. Why, I can’t imagine.”

  Mother’s eyes flared, like somebody had thrown a log on the fire. “Dear, after we eat, why don’t we drop in on our old friend Lyle Humphrey, for a little clarification.”

  “Remember that parking lot hissy fit of yours, after that auction? He won’t exactly be thrilled to see us.”

  “Nonsense. He’s an old veteran of the bidding wars, and knows how high emotions can run.” She was paging through again. “Dear, I need to study these documents more closely, so you’ll have time to—”

  “Don’t tell me—frost some Christmas cookies to take him as a peace-on-earth offering.”

  Lyle Humphrey lived on East Hill, a once ritzy part of Serenity first settled by bankers, lumber mill barons, and pearl button factory owners, who built their fabulous mansions overlooking the Mississippi. Some very rich folks still live there, though it’s more of a mix now, and not all of the homes have been well maintained. Lyle’s home fell somewhere in the upper reaches of that spectrum.

  I didn’t know Lyle all that well, despite our occasional encounters at area auctions; but, of course, Mother knew him better, and filled me in on the way over.

  “I would say Lyle is a man of perhaps fifty-five or -six or -seven or -eight,” she said.

  “A man in his fifties, then.”

  “Isn’t that what I said, dear? He was always something of a momma’s boy, and I don’t think he ventures out of the family manse very often for anything other than his antiquing quests.”

  “So he doesn’t work or anything?”

  “Oh, no, dear. He had a substantial inheritance. I’ve been meaning to arrange a viewing of what I understand are considerably impressive displays of his various collecting passions. But, lately, after our auction run-ins . . .”

  “You called him a ‘horrible little man,’ remember?”

  “Yes, but I meant that only in a positive sense. Everyone can benefit from a soupçon of constructive criticism.”

  “Really? Then why did we drop the Serenity Sentinel?”

  “Pish posh,” Mother said.

  Is that a thing? Pish posh? Somebody please write in and tell me.

  I pulled the Buick into the drive of the imposing Renaissance Revival mansion, parking beneath a covered portico. Mother and I got out, me lugging Sushi under my coat (she’d thrown a mini-fit when we started to leave again) (single mothers spoil their children), Mother carrying the plate of cookies.

  We stood for a moment in the frosty air, admiring the cube-shaped structure silhouetted against a night sky, admiring too its smooth stone walls, wide eaves, and ornately trimmed windows buttressed by columns, which gave the old place a palatial feel. We were visiting Serenity antiquing royalty.

  Mother’s eyes shone as brightly as the stars (granted, the stars never carried that maniacal gleam).

  “Why, I’m as giddy as a schoolgirl,” she said. “To think that I may finally, actually see the inside of the Humphrey home!”

  “One to check off on the ol’ bucket list.”

  We climbed the wide cement steps, Mother singing “Master of the House,” Sushi whining her objection. I hated that song, too (we were a divided family on the subject of Les Miz).

  Mother approached the imposing door, studied it like Scrooge seeing Marley’s face on the knocker, then, extending her arm straight, rang the bell.

  We waited. My mind played the tune Jeopardy does when the contestants are writing out their answers.

  She rang again.

  And again we waited. Dum, dum, dum, dum, dum, dum dum . . . or was that dumb?

  “Not home,” I said.

  “Nonsense. I saw a curtain ruffle out of the corner of my eye.”

  Even with glaucoma, the corners of her eyes were twenty-twenty.

  The next ding-dong brought results, Lyle apparently having reached the conclusion—as had so many Serenity residents before him—that Vivian Borne was not going away.

  “Vivian,” he acknowledged with a bland little smile, then politely nodded to me. He clearly didn’t know my name, despite our various auction encounters.

  The childlike chubby man wore a navy silk smoking jacket over a white shirt with no tie, dark slacks, and slippers, looking like a boy playing dress-up in his father’s clothes. Assuming there were still fathers around who wore silk smoking jackets.

  “Merry Christmas, Lyle,” Mother said cheerfully, extending the plate of cookies. “My daughter, Brandy, and I were just thinking about our various friends, as one tends to do at this time of year, and remembered that on our last meeting—at that Wilton auction—we may have come off a trifle . . . brusque.”

  “You called me a horrible little man, Vivian.”

  “And I am here to apologize and wish you the most felicitous greetings of the season. Please accept these delicious Christmas cookies by way of my amends.... May we come in, dear?”

  Before he could answer, she thrust the plate of covered cookies into his hands, distracting him as she brazenly pushed by. I followed, giving our very reluctant host my sweetest, most sincere smile. Because, you know, once you learn how to fake sincerity, you’ve got it made.

  Lyle hurried to catch up, as Mother was moving through the large entry hall, with its impressive crystal chandelier and massive antique grandfather clock, on her way to who-knew-where. And wherever that was, I was following right behind, with Sushi under my coat, her head popping out like a cute version of an Alien chest-burster.

  Our unhappy host blurted, “Ladies! Let’s use the parlor, please.”

  Mother turned and made a sweeping bow. I swear she did.

  “Why,” she said, “that’s very gracious of you, Lyle. I’d love to see the festive treasures I’ve heard so much about. Your Christmas collection is legendary!”

  With a weak smile, put-upon Lyle pushed apart two large, sliding oak doors, and we entered into a twinkling, glittering Christmas cornucopia of eras-gone-by.

  Mother and I stood agape.

  In the bay window stood an enormous real fir tree (thankfully, not upside down), resplendent with antique glass ornaments, tinsel, and large, old-fashioned lights, circa the 1950s. Seated on a Victorian needlepoint couch was a row of bears, several of which I recognized as from Steiff, the venerable German toy company—worth a small furry fortune.

  Elsewhere—in this corner, on that table—were other displays of Christmas collectibles: antique Nativity scenes; little candle figures of choir children, Christmas trees, and reindeer; plaster Santa banks, including the one he had outbid Mother over; children’s sleds, red wagons, and skates; and an assortment of old parlor games, in their original boxes.

  Mother turned to Lyle with eyes so wide behind the magnifying lenses that you’d bet she could spot a flea on a reindeer’s derriere.

  “My dear,” she breathed, “never have I seen such an impressive Christmas collection in all my born days . . . and that’s Vivian Borne days!” She laughed gaily.

  Suddenly, our host’s demeanor changed. “Why, thank you,” he said, beaming back at her. The way to a collector’s heart is through his possessions.

  I nodded, the room sparkling around me red, white, and green. “It’s . . . I mean, it’s absolutely breathtaking.”

  He beamed at me, too. “Thank you. . . . Uh, is that a dog?”

  “Yes, I
’m sorry . . . I should have left her in the car.”

  Vivian said, gesturing toward us, “Not to worry. She’s housebroken.”

  I trust she meant Sushi.

  “Do . . . do you mind if we sit down?” She raised the back of a hand to her forehead. “This overwhelming array has simply bowled me over. I actually feel a little faint . . .”

  Okay, now that was faking.

  Lyle, concerned, said, “Shall I get you some water, Vivian?”

  “No . . . no. I’ll be fine.” Then she added, “Well, perhaps some eggnog, if you have any handy.”

  “I do. I’ll get it.” He handed her back the plate of cookies.

  “No rum, though. We’re on medication.”

  “All right, Vivian.”

  He scurried off.

  I asked, “What are you up to?”

  She moved over to the edge of an Oriental rug on which was assembled an assortment of old painted castiron doorstops; about six to nine inches tall, they included a Christmas tree, reindeer, sleigh, and a bag with presents.

  Bending down, risking her knees, her behind high, she glanced back and asked, “Didn’t you notice the doorstops?”

  “Oh yes.” And my next comment reflected information I had that I haven’t shared with you yet; if you want fair play, go to bingo at your local church. “Is it there?”

  Mother shook her head, and stood abruptly. “Shhh . . . he’s coming back.” Then, “Follow my lead.”

  Those three words coming from Mother never failed to chill me to the bone.

  Since Sushi was squirming in my arms, I looked for a place to sit down unoccupied by bears, then selected a straight-back Hitchcock next to the tree. I slipped out of my coat, letting it huddle around my shoulders, and settled the pooch on my lap.

  Lyle, having returned with a silver tray holding three tumblers of creamy liquid, smiled. “I thought we all might as well have something to drink with the cookies.”

  Setting the tray gently on the edge of a collectibles-arrayed table, he moved a gaggle of Christmas geese off a settee, and he and Mother sat there.

  Mother, fully recovered from her fake fainting spell, removed the plastic wrap from the cookies, and offered him one.

  Lyle selected a tree-shaped cookie, took a bite, and closed his eyes. “Say, these are wonderful.”