Antiques Chop (A Trash 'n' Treasures Mystery) Read online

  “We’ve decided that you may lease the house,” Sarah announced, smiling.

  Andrew’s steely expression seemed to state otherwise, but no words emerged from him to contradict his sister.

  Sarah raised a finger. “But understand, Vivian, Brandy . . . any renovations or expenses to the property will be your responsibility.”

  “But of course!” Mother responded. “As a matter of fact, the show’s producer has a budget for improvement.”

  There was an awkward silence, after which a glum Andrew said, even more awkwardly, “I suppose you’ll want a key.”

  “Yes, thank you, thank you, my dear friends,” Mother said, no longer underplaying. “You won’t regret this!”

  “I hope not,” Andrew said, and went back out on the veranda.

  A Trash ‘n’ Treasures Tip

  To ensure repeat customers, stock your antiques store with unique merchandise. I suppose Mother’s dress shield autographed by Frank Sinatra qualifies.

  Chapter Three

  Chopped Liver

  Shortly after arriving home from our afternoon visit with the Butterworths—and while Jake was taking both dogs out for a walk—I used the landline on the little table near the kitchen so that Mother, getting ready to prepare dinner, could overhear my call.

  “Hello, Mrs. Lange,” I said. “It’s Brandy.”

  There was a pause while the woman processed my name. Then: “Why, Brandy, how nice to hear from you!” She was a plump, pleasant widow of about sixty who reminded me of Aunt Bea in the old Andy Griffin reruns.

  (Vivian to Editor: Brandy has gone and done it again! Confused poor Andy with Merv!)

  (Editor to Vivian: We’ll change it in the editing process.)

  (Vivian to Editor: I hope so. We can’t afford to alienate any more readers. But I do wish we had an actual Merv Griffin reference in the book—I did so love those wonderful sportcoat linings he liked to show off!)

  Mrs. Lange was saying, “Joe will be thrilled that you’ve called, Brandy. I’ll get him—he’s upstairs.”

  Joe, an only child and self-styled oddball, had been a friend since high school when we were thrown together as lab partners in biology class, and I had to learn to either tolerate his nerdy eccentricities or throw him out a window.

  “Before you do,” I said quickly, “do you mind if I ask . . . is he back on his meds?”

  Joe had served in the Middle East and came back traumatized. He went to the same mental health clinic as Mother and me, but come summer, he had a bad habit of going off his meds. He would put on his old fatigues, pack up his survivalist gear, and go live in a cave at Wild Cat Den State Park until fall (ostensibly protecting the hikers and picnickers from terrorists). Occasionally he would sneak home at night to collect food left out by his mother.

  Mrs. Lange, relief in her voice, said, “Oh, yes, I’m happy to say that Joe’s back on his medication again.”

  “That’s nice.”

  A relief is what it was.

  I gave a thumbs-up to Mother, who was stirring batter in a mixing bowl, and she nodded, giving me the go-ahead.

  “Mrs. Lange,” I said, “the reason I’m calling is that Mother and I have some work for him to do for us—a bit of remodeling.”

  “Well, that’s wonderful! He does so need to get out of the house.”

  Meaning she needed him to get out of the house.

  Mrs. Lange continued. “There is one small issue, though. . . .”

  I waited. How bad could it be? Actually, fairly bad—like the time he knocked me in the noggin out at Wild Cat Den, mistaking me for a terrorist.

  “The pills haven’t quite taken full effect,” she said. “He’s still talking, well . . . military.”

  “Not a problem,” I assured her. I had gotten quite good at deciphering his Marine-speak. Even fully medicated, Joe would sometimes ask a waitress the ETA (estimated time of arrival) of a cheeseburger.

  I asked her to call him to the phone.

  A full minute passed before Joe’s baritone voice barked, “Lange here.”

  With little fanfare, I filled my friend in on the pending reality TV pilot show, and how we wanted to use the old Butterworth home, but that repairs would be necessary. Which was where he came in.

  “You’ll be paid, of course,” I concluded. “Are you interested?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “Civilian clothes.”

  “Negatory.”

  “Come on, Joe. Consider it a spy mission.”

  “They shoot spies. Khakis mandatory.”

  This was Joe on his meds, huh?

  “Okay . . . but leave the artillery at home.”

  “Affirmative.” Then: “Coordinates?”

  I gave him the address, and told him to be there in the morning at nine, when the show’s producer and cameraman would be doing a walk-through.

  “Roger,” he said. “Oh-nine-hundred.”

  The phone clicked dead.

  I wandered into the kitchen, wondering if I’d done the right thing in contacting Joe. Despite Sushi’s pedigree, I had a bad habit of taking in strays—Rocky a case in point. I perched on a red 1950s step stool to watch Mother bake cookies, like I was still just a little kid.

  Mother was Danish, but there was some Norwegian in there as well, and this recipe was her nod to them.

  NORSK SMAA BROD

  (old Norwegian Cookies)

  BATTER:

  ½ cup butter

  1 cup sugar

  2 eggs

  4 tbsp. sweet cream

  3½ cups sifted flour

  1 tsp. soda

  1 tsp. cinnamon

  ¼ tsp. ginger

  1 tsp. vanilla

  1 cup raisins, chopped

  GLAZE:

  1 egg white, beaten

  4 tbsp. sugar

  5 tbsp. shredded almonds

  1 tbsp. cream

  1 tsp. cinnamon

  Cream butter and sugar. Add eggs and cream, beating well. Add flour sifted with soda and spices. Then add vanilla and lastly, chopped raisins. Chill thoroughly. When ready to bake, roll small pieces of dough into pencil-slim lengths to form circles. Spread glaze over top of cookies. Bake 12 minutes at 350 degrees. Makes five to six dozen.

  Mother always made some of the cookies with chocolate chips, because little Brandy didn’t like raisins, no matter how finely chopped (ditto for big Brandy), but she did so reluctantly, saying this substitution was a slap in the face to good Norwegians everywhere. (Sorry, Norwegians, but I’m a chocolate gal. Anyway, the weather in Norway is so cold, the occasional slap might be beneficial.)

  While Mother readied what she called her “trademark pot roast” for dinner (not worth a recipe), I set the antique Duncan Phyfe table in the dining room with our green-jade (is that redundant?) Fire King dishes. I loved the large plates, which had raised surfaces to keep the foods separated, just like the plastic ones in our old picnic basket.

  (Vivian to Editor: There is nothing wrong with my pot roast! Brandy is out of line disparaging this dish, which won first prize at the 2009 Iowa State Fair.)

  (Brandy to Editor: It won, all right . . . after person or persons unknown doused all the other entries with Tabasco sauce.)

  (Vivian to Brandy: I resent your insinuation, and would remind you that we have slander laws in this country.)

  (Brandy to Vivian: In a print work, it’s libel, not slander, and anyway the truth is the best defense.)

  (Editor to Vivian and Brandy: Ladies, we’ve been down this road before—no more authorial discord. Write any comments you might have about each other in pencil in the margins of the copyedited manuscript—not in the body of the work. Unfortunately, in the last book, such squabbling made you both look foolish.)

  (Brandy to Editor: Point well taken.)

  (Vivian to Editor: A No. 2 pencil?)

  I prepared my contribution to the meal, a garden salad, then wandered into the living room, where through the picture window I could see Jake and the two dogs
coming up the front walk.

  I had to laugh because a tuckered-out Sushi was getting prodded along by Rocky, who was right behind her, nudging her in the rump with his nose. Sushi was too tired to growl or otherwise complain.

  Inside, Sushi rolled onto her back, her tongue lolling, submissive and exhausted. But when Rocky trotted off toward the kitchen, she clambered onto her feet and back into the game, to see what was cookin’. Meanwhile Jake replaced the leashes on a hook by the door.

  “Every squirrel and his brother was out,” he complained, which explained why he seemed a little winded. He held up a blue plastic bag. “Where does this go?”

  “There’s a can by the garage marked DOGGIE DO-DO.”

  He made a face. “You are a girl, Mom. Oh, hey! Know anybody who drives a red Toyota?”

  I thought for a moment. “No . . . why?”

  “ ’Cause I swear one was tagging along while I walked the dogs.”

  “Tagging along?”

  “Yeah, going real slow. It was kind of creepy.”

  “Did you see the driver?”

  He shrugged. “Naw . . . but the plates were Illinois.”

  I shrugged. “I’m sure it’s nothing.”

  There were plenty of red Toyotas around. And lots of folks from neighboring Illinois, across the river, worked and played in Serenity. Or maybe somebody was looking for an address. Probably nothing.

  And I put it out of my mind.

  The following morning at oh-nine-hundred-ish, Mother, Jake, and I piled into the old Buick, and a quick five minutes later pulled up in front of the murder house (would we always call it that? I wondered).

  We were dressed for work: Mother wearing her old painting clothes—slacks and top (once gray) splotched with a Jackson Pollock rainbow; Jake in a pair of old jeans and a Da Bears sweatshirt left behind on his last visit (now a little too small); and me sporting torn overalls and faded plaid shirt (I decided to pass on a country-bumpkin straw hat).

  Joe had beaten us there, of course, standing at parade rest on the front stoop, wearing beige fatigues, nary a grenade nor Glock in sight, I was pleased to note.

  Jake, in the car next to me, whispered, “You sure that screwball is okay?”

  I whispered back, “That screwball is a friend of mine.”

  “I know. But is he okay?”

  I shrugged. “I guess we’ll find out.”

  We climbed out of the Buick, but Jake still had misgivings. “Mom, didn’t that guy knock you out in one of those caves at Wild Cat Den?”

  “That was last summer. He’s better now.”

  “Do you know anybody who isn’t on medication?” he asked.

  I just gave him a look. “Why, would you like to be?”

  Mother called out to Joe. “Ahoy there, matey! Permission to come aboard.”

  “He’s a Marine, Grandma,” Jake said with the superior smirk of the young.

  “Yes, and the Marines are a part of the United States Navy, in case you didn’t know.” She giggled like a schoolgirl, possibly summoning memories of Marines she’d dated. “ ‘From the halls of Montezuma to the shores of Tripoli!’ ”

  I asked, “Anyone else here, Joe?”

  Meaning our producer or cameraman.

  “Negatory.”

  Mother went tsk-tsk. “That’s showbiz folk for you—they just don’t have the discipline we denizens of the stage possess.” She sighed, weight of the world. “Well, we might as well go in.”

  Producing a key, Mother worked it in the lock of the ancient front door, and in another moment our little group was stepping inside, where we were greeted by darkness and the musty smell of a house vacant for too long.

  “The electricity probably isn’t on,” Mother said.

  I tried a nearby wall switch, and she was correct. “Jake,” I asked, “would you raise all the shades?”

  “Sure.”

  He did, and sunlight flooded in.

  The downstairs floor was typical of a clapboard turn-of-last-century house: small foyer, open parlor/sitting room to the right, library/den to the left, and center hallway leading back to the kitchen and formal dining room. Since no stairs to the second floor were visible from where I stood, they most likely would be off the kitchen, leading up to three (possibly four) bedrooms and a single bathroom.

  The austerity of the home, with its rooms smaller than the norm for their era, confirmed what Mother had claimed about its long-deceased owner: that the wealthy Archibald Butterworth had been a skinflint who denied his two children the luxury they might have enjoyed.

  Mother, hands on hips, surveyed the area like a sergeant might a beachhead. “Well, we certainly have our work cut out for us.”

  “Roger that,” Joe said.

  The prior renter, Mary Beth Beckman, had apparently packed her bookstore belongings and left in a hurry, and with no consideration for any future renter. Trash was scattered everywhere: discarded pizza boxes, diet soda cans (with a large pizza? why bother?); wadded-up wastepaper. The carpet was stained and littered with cat hair.

  Jake crinkled his nose. “Yuck. If I wanted to deal with this kind of mess, I coulda stayed in Chicago and cleaned my room.”

  Mother huffed, “Apparently that Beckman woman has no pride or breeding.” Then, to no one in particular, but everyone in general, she commanded, “Pull up that loose carpet over in the corner—I want to see what’s under there.”

  Joe, accustomed to taking orders, walked briskly across the room, bent, grabbed a loose piece of carpet, and yanked it back.

  Mother went over for a look. “Just as I thought,” she exclaimed, her tone positive now (not “negatory”). “A parquet floor. Joe! More.”

  She unleashed a Sgt. Bilko-style nonsense command, “Hay yah hay ruuup!”

  And Joe hopped to it, uncovering a larger section of flooring, revealing an intricate geometric design—a surprising slice of extravagance in the otherwise dreary house.

  “Oh, goody-goody,” Mother said happily, clapping her hands, a child given her birthday wish. “What production value!”

  Production value, I would learn, was anything that didn’t cost you much that made a TV show or movie look like it had spent some money.

  “I doubt the floor will make it into any shot,” I said. “Besides, some of it looks to be rotting away.”

  Mother frowned, her birthday wish already failing to come true. “Nonsense! All we have to do is replace a few questionable boards here and there—and”—she pointed to the wall separating the two front rooms—“knock that out to make one large room.”

  “I hate to be a Debbie Downer,” I replied, “but I believe that’s a supporting wall.”

  I had taken a CAD course in architecture at our community college, thinking I might become the next Frank Lloyd Wright. I never did, but I knew a supporting wall when I saw one.

  A voice from the foyer spoke. “I’m afraid your daughter is correct, Mrs. Borne. The wall stays . . . much as my cameraman might wish it gone.”

  Bruce Spring gestured to the man with him. “I’d like you to meet Phil Dean—best shooter in the reality game. His hand-held is better than Steadicam.”

  That sounded impressive, though I had no idea what it meant.

  Phil, early forties, was muscular, with thick dark hair tinged with silver at the temple, a salt-and-pepper beard, and intense dark eyes. He wore scuffed white Nikes, torn Levi blue jeans, and a wrinkled black polo shirt with the production company’s logo on the pocket; he also lugged a black Sony HD camera—the kind newscasters used.

  Phil’s casual attire said, “I’m the worker,” while Bruce’s polo shirt, tailored slacks, and Italian shoes, reminded, “I’m the boss.”

  Mother skirted around the pulled-back carpet and approached the men.

  “Bruce, daaahling,” she drawled, going Hollywood, the British accent a distant memory, “it’s a delight seeing you again.”

  As if it had been ages, not yesterday.

  To the cameraman she cooed, “I j
ust know we’ll do a simply maaahvulous show together, Mr. Dean.”

  Mother extended a languid hand. The cameraman hesitated, perhaps not knowing whether to shake or kiss it, finally settling on the former.

  Then he said, “Mr. Dean is my father. Call me Phil.”

  “And I am Vivian”—she let out a brittle Katharine Hepburn laugh—“the star of our fledgling production.”

  Further introductions were made—Joe, Jake, and myself. None of us used a Hollywood accent, if that’s what Mother had been doing, and I whispered to her to knock it off before I kicked her in the theater seat.

  “Vivian,” Bruce said, glancing around, “correct me if I’m wrong . . . but isn’t this the Butterworth murder house? We did an episode about that unsolved crime on Heartland Homicides.”

  “Yes,” Mother said, grinning like a skull. “This is indeed the infamous murder house. What better home for Antiques Sleuths?”

  Then she clamped a hand over her mouth, and glanced around like she was looking for the other two monkeys. She withdrew her palm and stage-whispered, “Of course, we mustn’t refer to it as such—ix-nay on the urder-may! A condition of the owners, you see . . . they’re the family connected to the crime. But! . . . people in the know will, uh . . .”

  “Know,” I said, crooking my finger for her to come over for a private conference.

  “What is it, dear? We have important Hollywood people here—let us not be rude.”

  “Not be rude? ‘Rude’ doesn’t cover what you’ve done. You duped your old friends up the street into providing this house for our show when you knew Bruce Spring was involved with that documentary on the murder. They’re going to be furious!”

  That Heartland Homicides episode had brought national attention to the crime and stirred up local interest.

  “Fiddlesticks,” she said. “We’re not going to do anything about that case on Antiques Sleuths, are we? Bruce won’t be hosting that show, we will be.”

  “No,” I said tightly. “He’ll just be producing it.” I held up my hands in surrender. “They’re your friends. If you think you can get away with this, fine by me.”