Antiques St. Nicked Read online

  I don’t know if Mother was surprised by the banker’s sudden presence, but I certainly was. Surprised and frightened, because he was holding in a casual hand a snub-nosed revolver, trained right at us.

  He gestured with the weapon. “Cell phones down the well, please.”

  We complied.

  Sushi was growling—whether she understood Purdue had a weapon or sensed our anxiety, I couldn’t be sure; but I picked her up, holding her protectively, fearing as much for her safety as ours.

  Mother said, “You lied to me, Christopher. You said you weren’t an orphan.”

  Since Mother would hardly be indignant about a killer lying to her, I knew just what she was doing: speaking as she inched away from me so that the banker wouldn’t have two close targets. If he shot at one of us, the other might have a chance to jump him. And I was the one without bunions.

  Purdue’s smile was strangely apologetic. “I didn’t lie to you, Vivian—I wasn’t an orphan. But I did live here for a few years after my mother got sick and couldn’t take care of me . . . when I had no other relatives to go to.”

  He shifted his stance, but the gun still pointed our way.

  He gave us an awful smile. “Miss Tanner loved to pick on the weaker boys, and I was somewhat sickly myself. She knew just where to hit us so the bruises wouldn’t show. And if they did? If a bone got broken? Well, she’d say the clumsy boy just fell down the stairs.” His laugh was harsh. “But every day I got stronger, and bigger, and one night, in the final days of this terrible place, when I was supposed to be in bed, I got her to chase me outside to the well, where I’d hidden a baseball bat. I was never happier in my life than when I clobbered that witch and pushed her down the well.”

  The coldness of his voice, the placidness of his expressionless face, made me shiver beyond anything the weather could do to me.

  Mother said with sympathy, “Your actions were quite understandable, dear . . . however premeditated. You were a child, an abused child. People would have understood.”

  “Would they understand today, Vivian? There’s no statute of limitations on murder, you know.”

  “But what would have pointed to you? Why kill Simon to cover up a crime with which you would almost certainly never be connected? So what if the evil nurse’s remains were found after all these years? There would be no forensics evidence left . . . surely nothing that could point to you.”

  Something sad, something haunted, flowed across his face. Something that he had lived with for a very long time.

  “Oh, but you see, Vivian, there was something. As I started to push her into the well, unconscious, she came around, and grabbed the front of my shirt and ripped off the pocket . . . a pocket that had my name on it. It went down with her, tight in her grip. The name. My name.”

  The mistreated boy had signed his crime.

  He shook his head. “No, I couldn’t have Simon bringing in bulldozers that would dig up that well and make a discovery that would ruin my good name, my reputation, destroy a career I worked so hard to achieve.... So I kept an eye on the domestic violence center account, year after year, watching it grow slowly, certain that Simon would never get enough money to carry out his altruistic plan.”

  “And then, the night of the Stroll, at Hunter’s,” Mother said, “you overheard David Harper say his mother planned to donate that coin. Just toss it in Santa’s bag. That would put the donation account over the top. And it pushed you over the top, too, didn’t it, Chris? If Mildred Harper hadn’t done that, Simon Wright would still be alive.”

  He could only nod. “Yes. And I wouldn’t have been put into this . . . awkward position . . . now.”

  Mother, who had managed to put six or seven feet between us, made her move . . . and it was a bold one . . .

  “Well,” she said, impatiently, moving toward him, startling him, “are you going to kill us, or just stand around feeling sorry for yourself? If not, we’re leaving. It’s cold standing here. Come along, Brandy.”

  Mother marched right past the banker, making herself a target, allowing me time to take a run at him.

  But Purdue didn’t, and I didn’t have to. He lowered the gun. And his head.

  With Sushi in my arms I ran after Mother, kicking up snow. When I caught up with her, I looked back once to see Purdue sitting slumped on the edge of the well, then a second later took one last glance, and he was gone.

  The following Tuesday afternoon, Mother and I were at our Trash ‘n’ Treasures shop, enjoying a brisk business selling various Christmas items, when Tony stopped in.

  He was returning our cell phones, which had been retrieved from the bottom of the well, along with Purdue’s body and the bones of Maude Tanner, with which the banker had become entwined on impact.

  I got queasy at the notion of using the cell again, so I set it aside to recycle it. Mother, however, had no qualms about reclaiming hers.

  “It would take me years to enter all my contacts again,” she said later.

  Right now Mother and I were behind the counter, Tony across.

  “What’s going to happen with the silver dollar?” I asked Serenity’s chief. “Will it go back to Mrs. Harper?”

  Tony said, “Technically it’s the property of Simon Wright’s estate. Dumpster Dan’s out of luck because, thrown away or not, the coin was stolen property.”

  Mother said, “And Simon Wright’s dream of a domestic violence center is out of luck, too, because the coin’s worth never made it into the designated account.”

  I frowned. “Does that mean Della and Rod Conklin will get the coin?”

  Mother said confidently, “A good lawyer could prevent that from happening by proving Mildred’s intent.”

  “Moot point,” Tony told us. “The Conklins stopped by the station this morning to say they’re going to honor Della’s father’s intent, and fulfill Simon’s dream.”

  Mother slapped the counter. “Well, you just have to love a happy ending!”

  Tony straightened. “We’re lucky this did have a ‘happy ending,’ Vivian. You and Brandy could have wound up at the bottom of that well yourselves.”

  Mother hopped off her stool. “I would simply love to discuss this with you further, Chief Cassato, and I do appreciate your implied thanks for clearing up another homicide for you. But for now, there’s still one more box of Christmas decorations that need putting out before we close.”

  And she disappeared faster than Old St. Nick going up a chimney. Even one without an evil dead nurse stuffed up it.

  I gave Tony half a smile. “Why do you bother?”

  “I should make a New Year’s resolution not to,” he said wearily. Then a smile blossomed and he asked, “Dinner later? My place?”

  “Love to.” Picking up some greenery from the counter, I held it over my head.

  Tony leaned forward, and I leaned in, and we kissed under the mistletoe.

  Mother was right—don’t you just have to love a happy ending?

  A Trash ‘n’ Treasures Tip

  Vintage ornaments add a special touch to any Yuletide tree, but make sure when using old lights that their cords and/or wires are not frayed. One year we used a set of 1950s Noma twinkle lights that did more than just twinkle—they set our live tree aflame. Oh Tannenbaum!

  Don’t miss the next un-put-downable Trash ‘n’

  Treasures Mystery by Barbara Allan

  ANTIQUES FATE

  Coming from Kensington in 2016

  Continue reading to enjoy a teaser excerpt . . .

  Brandy’s Quote:

  “Fate is getting a tax refund check and finding a

  pair of designer shoes for that exact amount.”

  —Brandy Borne

  Mother’s Quote:

  “Deep in man sits fast his fate to mold his fortunes,

  mean or great.”

  —Ralph Waldo Emerson, Fate

  Tinseltown Reporter

  September 2015

  Antiques Sleuths, a new reality TV series sche
duled to air next summer, is set to go into production this winter in the small Iowa town of Serenity. Producing is cinematographer-turned-showrunner Phillip Dean, stepping in to replace late reality-show guru Bruce Spring (Extreme Hobbies and Witch Wives of Winnipeg).

  But will shooter Dean be able to fill a showrunner’s gumshoes? And what motive beyond ratings instigates the new series?

  Dean, contacted for evidence at his California home in Holmby Hills, said, “The premise of Antiques Sleuths is unique: two amateur sleuths—a mother and daughter team—who have solved a number of real-life murder mysteries in their quaint hometown, uncover the mysteries behind the strange and unusual antiques that are brought into their shop.”

  Mother is Vivian Borne (age unavailable), a widowed antiques dealer with a bloodhound’s nose for sniffing out murder and mayhem. Daughter is Brandy Borne, a thirty-two-year-old divorcée who plays reluctant Watson to her mother’s zealous Holmes, with the help of an ever-so-cute shih tzu named Sushi.

  The duo has written a number of popular books chronicling their cases under their joint pseudonym, Barbara Allan. The series, however, will not focus on their amateur detecting, but on their antiques shop.

  As mysteriously intriguing as this new show may sound, this Tinseltown detective deduces that in a saturated reality TV market, the verdict may already be in: Antiques Sleuths risks arriving DOA.

  —Rona Reed

  Chapter One

  All the World’s a Stage

  Have you ever had a moment when everything was so perfect that you wanted to stop time?

  Well, that moment was now. And now was me curled up with my boyfriend Tony on his couch in front of a lazy fire, the fragrantly nutty smell of hickory logs permeating the rustic cabin. The only sound was an occasional snap, crackle, and pop of the wood—with no resemblance to Rice Krispies and with a counterpoint of light snoring from Sushi, my shih tzu, nestled on the floor next to Tony’s dog, Rocky, a mixed-breed mutt with a stylish black circle around one eye.

  I was (and for that matter am) Brandy Borne, a bottle-blonde with shoulder-length hair of Danish stock, casual in a plaid tan-and-red shirt from J. Crew, my fave DKNY jeans, plus sparkly gold flats by Tom (because a girl always needs some bling).

  My bf’s idea of dressing casual was a pale yellow polo shirt, tan slacks, and brown slip-on shoes sans socks. In his late forties, with graying temples, a square jaw, thick neck, and barrel chest, Tony Cassato had taken a rare day off from his job as Serenity’s Chief of Police, and we had spent a pleasant afternoon together in his hideaway home in the country, making a midday meal, grilling steaks and fall vegetables from his garden, which we then ate on the porch in the warm autumn sunshine.

  I was supposed to have brought the dessert—and, to my credit, I had given it my best shot. As promised, I’d made the dessert and conveyed it to my car. But en route I noticed the cheesecake that I’d placed in its pan on the passenger’s seat had liquified. In horror and disgust, I picked up the pan and pitched it and its contents out my window, flying in the face of a possible arrest by my boyfriend (if apprehended, I would plead justifiable littering).

  What a waste of time and money! And to think, I had a perfectly good family cheesecake recipe, but no, instead I had to take one from a “healthy” food Internet site that called for low-fat cream cheese. So cheesecake lovers everywhere, be forewarned. Ain’t nothin’ like the real thing, baby. Here’s what I should have made:

  Perfectly Good Chees ecake

  (No Health Benefits Promised)

  1 graham cracker pie crust

  4 packages (8 oz each) cream cheese, softened

  1 cup sugar

  1 tsp vanilla

  4 eggs

  Beat cream cheese, sugar, and vanilla with mixer until blended. Add eggs, one at a time, mixing on low speed after each just until blended. Pour into crust. Bake 1 hour at 325 degrees or until center is almost set. Cool, then refrigerate 4 hours.

  Tony, his arm around me, asked, “How’s Vivian doing?”

  I twisted my neck to give him a squinty look, like a pirate captain about to clobber his too-talkative first mate. “You’re breaking our rule. . . .”

  While at the cabin, two subjects were strictly off-limits: his job, and my mother.

  His eyebrows shrugged above the steel-gray eyes. “I know, but it’s been awfully quiet out there. You know, like in the old cowboy movies? Too quiet?”

  By this he meant that Mother hadn’t gotten herself (and me) tangled up in another murder as of late. In other words, Tony’s business. In Mother’s slight defense, sometimes she got us tangled up in the county sheriff’s business instead....

  I said, “We’ll start shooting the reality show in another month, and that should keep her out of mischief. Or anyway, occupied.” I lay my head back on his shoulder. “I have to admit I am enjoying this lull.”

  Which was why I wanted to stop time.

  “Ditto,” Tony said.

  We fell into a comfortable, cozy silence.

  Have you ever been at a restaurant and noticed a couple at another table hardly speaking to each other throughout their entire meal? And you thought, well, that’s a marriage (relationship) in trouble. Au contraire! Perhaps they prefer silence. Like Tony and me: I was constantly being subjected to Mother’s jabbering, and he had a stressful, high-pressure job, people yakking at him all day.

  So we took it easy on each other.

  As if contradicting that, Tony was saying, “Don’t you think it’s about time we talk about us?”

  Okay, fine—that wasn’t Mother and it wasn’t the police department, either. But the subject wasn’t necessarily one I was anxious to explore. Our blossoming relationship had recently become complicated when Tony discovered he wasn’t divorced.

  I realize that sounds about as likely as remembering you forgot to put your clothes on before leaving the house, but let me explain. Several years ago, when Tony Cassato was a police officer in Trenton, New Jersey, he testified against a New Jersey crime family, and his own family—that is, his wife and daughter—were forced into the Witness Protection Program. Mrs. Cassato, livid that Tony had put them in danger, served him with divorce papers, which he had signed and returned to her lawyer.

  But it turned out the papers had never been officially filed. Perhaps she’d had second thoughts about ending the marriage, or wanted to maintain some kind of hold over her husband. But whatever the reason, Tony had been unable to locate her since she and the daughter were still in WITSEC, who even when he left the program honored Mrs. Cassato’s desire not to be contacted by him.

  “Can we talk about us later?” I demurred, explaining, “Today has been just too perfect.”

  Well, except for the cheesecake.

  “All right. But soon, okay?”

  “I promise.”

  “Can’t put it off forever.”

  “Right.”

  As always, first-line-of-defense Rocky heard a noise outside before we did, raising his large head off the floor to emit a long low growl, his alert eyes going to Tony.

  Then I heard the snap of dry twigs and pinecones beneath car wheels, and I gave Tony a sharp look of concern, feeling his body ever so slightly stiffen.

  Sushi, roused from her slumber, gave out a high yap, better late than never from our second line of defense. Maybe third. Make that fourth . . .

  We had a right to be nervous. Last summer, Tony and I had been seated on this very couch when a contract killer sent by the New Jersey mob fired bullets through the windows (Antiques Knock-Off). We managed to escape, and the contract since withdrawn (thanks to Mother) (but that’s another story) (Antiques Con). Still, the memory of that night was all too fresh, and it had begun a long separation between us when Tony went back into WITSEC.

  I followed Tony to the window, where a blue four-door sedan was pulling up to the cabin’s front porch.

  The car stopped, and the front passenger door opened, and Mother got out.

  As I breathed a sigh
of relief, Tony commented wryly, “For once I’m glad it’s her.”

  My sigh of relief was in part because Mother hadn’t driven herself. She was notoriously unlicensed, her driving privilege getting lifted more times than Joan Rivers (RIP).

  “Thanks for the ride, Frannie!” Mother called to the driver, one of her gal pals. “Toodles!”

  As the vehicle pulled away, Mother headed toward the porch with the determined purpose of an invading army.

  Sushi and Rocky, having recognized Mother’s voice, scrambled over each other to get to the front door as Mother sailed in without knocking.

  Mother was statuesque and still quite attractive at her undisclosed age—porcelain complexion, straight nose, wide mouth, wavy silver hair pulled back in a loose chignon; the only downside to her appearance was the large glasses she wore that magnified her blue eyes to owl-like size.

  She was wearing a fall outfit from her favorite clothing line, Breckenridge: an orange top featuring a pumpkin patch and green slacks (no pumpkin patch) (thankfully).

  After affording each dog a quick pat on the head, Vivian Borne said cheerfully, “Hello, dear! And hello to you, too, Chiefie! Sorry to disturb your tête-à-tête, and I realize I risked catching you in flagrante, but I have simply wonderful news.”

  Tony and I had returned to the couch, with the resignation of defeated warriors, and Mother plopped down, squeezing to make a space between us.

  She announced, with just a little more pomp than somebody about to break a champagne bottle over the prow of a ship, “I am sure you will be as thrilled as I was to hear that I have been asked . . . are you ready for this?”

  Probably not.

  “I have been asked to perform this coming weekend at Old York! At the New Vic!”