Well, maybe it was the desk he was interested in....
“You mind my asking,” I said, “what it is about that desk that’s so important to you?”
Those piercing eyes narrowed and he let out an embarrassed little laugh. “Well, I guess I did misrepresent things a little. I am a picker, and I do have clients . . . but that particular desk? It’s exactly what my partner, Bruce, and I have been looking for, for a little alcove in our apartment.”
“Oh.” Should’ve known from the Italian loafers.
“Let me know!” He winked, said, “Ciao.”
And ran to his Mercedes and was gone.
I returned to the house, where Mother was showing Jane the album of autographed movie stars she had collected over the years; Roger was giving Peggy Sue some investment advice at the dining room table; and Jake was in the kitchen playing with Sushi and Brad Pit Bull.
Jake looked up with a grin. “Hey, Mom!”
“Hey.”
He left the dogs, who were flirting, and came right up to me. “Listen, uh . . . you were great today. This morning.”
“Thanks.”
“I mean—you really went all out and stuff.”
“Well, you’re my kid. I’m your mother. I love you.”
“Yeah, uh, well, me too. And I’m sorry if I’ve been a jerk and all.”
“No problem.”
“Can I tell you something? Something private?”
“Sure.”
“Promise not to tell Dad?”
“I promise—as long as it’s not something else you found in that secret compartment.”
“No! Not that. Nothing like that.” He looked around to make sure nobody could see or hear us. “I just wanted to say . . . I kinda hate to leave. I like it here. It’ll be cool, next break, staying with you guys.”
And he gave me a hug.
Funny thing, I didn’t even tear up. Not a drop.
And if you believe that, Mother and I have a number of nice things at very reasonable prices in our booth at the mall that I’m sure you’ll adore.
Exhausted, I sneaked off upstairs to plop down on my bed for a nap. I had been conked for a while, when my cell phone trilled on the nightstand.
I fumbled for it and checked the number.
Tina.
“Hi, honey,” she said. “Heard you’ve been through quite an ordeal! Jake all right?”
“Everything’s hunky-dory,” I said sleepily. “Tell you all about it later over a latte. . . . Right now I’m way too tired. Forgive me?”
“Always.”
The silence lingered.
“Everything okay on your end?” I asked out of courtesy.
“Uh, kinda not really.... There’s just something . . . I just didn’t want you to hear this from anybody else.”
I sat up, suddenly wide awake. “What, Teen?”
Deep breath. “Don’t get all weird on me, sweetie, but it looks like I, uh . . . I have cancer.”
“Oh my God. . . .”
“No, no, be cool! It’s early stages. Good prognosis.”
I breathed a sigh. “Well, thank God you got that mamogram.”
“Funny thing is, it’s not that . . . it’s cervical. See, I had a Pap test last week.”
I tried to process what this meant to my best friend and her husband who so desperately wanted children.
“How’s Kevin taking it?” I asked.
“He’s a rock, or anyway he’s pretending to be. But he’s taking time off from work to go through this with me. . . . In fact, we’re leaving in a few minutes to see a specialist. I’ll call you when I get back.”
“Tina?”
“Yes?”
“I’m here for you . . . you do understand that? Whatever you need, whenever you need it, whatever it takes ... day or night.”
“Thanks, Brandy. I knew . . . knew I could always count on you.”
I returned the cell phone to the nightstand and sat on the edge of the bed, feeling like a clubbed baby seal.
Mother entered the room.
“Fan mail from some flounder,” she said in her best Bullwinkle cartoon voice. She tossed a letter in my lap and traipsed out, still in her witch’s garb—would she ever take it off?
I don’t know how it is where you live, but in the Midwest, bad news travels in pairs, misery loving company.
I picked up the plain white envelope with no return address, my name computer-printed on the front. I opened the letter and unfolded the single sheet.
Only one sentence—also computer printed. It read Wouldn’t you like to know who your real mother is?
Don’t you just hate those season finale cliffhangers?
A Trash ’n’ Treasures Tip
A few dealers do not bother to tag their merchandise. Instead, they will quote you a price, depending on what they think you can pay. . . . So go wearing your worst clothes and carry your money in an old gym sock. That’s me right behind you, in the baggy running suit.
Author’s Note and Fall Recipe
We were thrilled when our ebullient editor at Kensington, Michaela Hamilton, informed us that the long-out-of-print Antiques Maul was coming out again—with a new cover and added bonuses! We’ve had many inquiries about this title, and have even sent out perhaps a dozen copies ourselves to fans who wrote sad letters of frustration at their inability to find the second novel about Brandy and Vivian Borne.
The only thing harder to write than the first novel in a series is the second one. Our Antiques series (a.k.a. the Trash ‘n’ Treasures Mysteries) proved no exception—we were still finding our way, trying to strike a balance between the personal lives of the characters and the mystery element. In Antiques Maul, the personal lives got a little more play than before, although we feel the mystery here is a good one.
A mystery novel is more than just crime and dead bodies and the sleuthing they require. Mood is a key element, and toward that end we paid special attention to the Halloween time frame, All Hollow’s Eve being a favorite holiday of ours, free from the stress of, say, Christmas. It is also a time when our small town of Muscatine (on which Serenity is patterned) goes all out in decorations and parties, and hordes of little goblins traverse the streets to ring doorbells for treats. Our house is well-known in this neighborhood for its elaborate front-porch display of things that go bump in the night (to the accompaniment of “Monster Mash” on an old boom box): a dismembered leg dangling from a garbage can, a wiggling-fingered hand extending from the mail slot, a cobra rattling when its territory is encroached upon, a dying rat in a trap similarly pulsating when footsteps near. We also have candy.
Why does Antiques Maul spend so much time on its recurring cast and their problems? Probably because we are still getting things in place and introducing those characters. Brandy’s young son, Jake, makes his first appearance (he’s mentioned in Antiques Roadkill but is an off-camera presence only), and the same is true of Brandy’s long-suffering ex, Roger. Yet both are integral to the mystery, and we think you’ll find Mother at her bewildering, bewitching best.
We hope you enjoy this new reprint, and we’re providing a fall recipe by way of thanks for your support. Oh, and one other thing . . .
. . . BOO!
Barbara Allan
Mother’s Autumn Pudding
8-10 cooking apples
1 cup sugar
1 stick sweet butter
1 cup flour
dash of cinnamon
Crumble together the flour, sugar, butter, and cinnamon. Peel, core, and slice the apples and layer them in a baking dish. Sprinkle the crumble over the top and bake at 350 degrees for about one hour. Serve warm. Vanilla ice cream or whipped cream optional.
It happened at Serenity's swap meet, right after Brandy Borne and her ever-more-eccentric mother Vivian finished shooting the pilot for their very own TV show, Antiques Sleuths. Brandy just, well, lost her balance and fell . . . into the helpful arms of an old flame, local tycoon Wesley Sinclair III. But did Brandy's innocent
slip lead to the murder of Wesley's wife, Vanessa?
Sure, Vanessa was furious that she caught Brandy in Wesley's embrace. And she did storm off threatening dire consequences for her humbled husband. So when Vanessa turns up very dead, the local tongue-wag is that Wesley may have permanently dethroned the queen of his castle. But Brandy--along with her notoriously nosy mother and their sleuthing shih tzu Sushi--is determined to dig for the whole truth.
Each new clue points in a different direction. What about this suspicious Club of Eight, a super-secret high-society bridge group that supposedly has very liberal rules about "partners"? When a key witness joins the dead list, Brandy and Vivian know they've got to crack this case before the remorseless killer puts an end to their antiquing days--forever!
Turn the page for an exciting sneak peek at the next book in the Trash 'n'
Treasures Mystery Series
Chapter One
Opening Lead
(In the game of bridge, first bid by defenders.)
You know that expression, “Be careful what you wish for”? Well, in my case, it’s “Be careful what Mother wishes for.” Mother being Vivian Borne, seventy-threeish, Danish stock, widowed, bipolar, local thespian, part-time sleuth, full-time gossip, and sometime county jail resident.
And me being Brandy Borne, thirty-two, divorced, Prozac-popper, audience member, reluctant sleuth, subject of gossip, and onetime loser (breaking and entering) with a record in the process of being expunged, since I was helping solve a murder at the time.
The third member of our sleuthing team is my blind diabetic shih tzu, Sushi, who accompanied me to my little hometown of Serenity, Iowa, after my divorce two years ago.
Only . . . wait for it, longtime readers . . . Sushi is no longer blind! That’s right, no more spooky white Exorcist orbs. No, we did not make a trek to Lourdes (meaning you did not miss a series entry entitled Antiques Pilgrimage).
We did trek to New York, however, to attend a comics convention several months ago (Antiques Con), where Mother and I auctioned off a valuable 1940s Superman drawing acquired in a storage unit auction (Antiques Disposal). With part of the proceeds, we funded an operation for Sushi to remove her cataracts (a result of her diabetes) and implant new lenses, and now I assume she can see perfectly. I say “assume” because a dog can’t exactly read an eye chart. Do dogs really see in black-and-white? Well, I guess with an eye chart they do. . . .
It’s been fun watching the little fur ball explore a world she hasn’t seen for years. Sushi is now a Super Dog, minus only the cape, her other senses honed to perfection. I don’t mean to imply her sleuthing powers have increased, but it’s true that the little mutt seems to know when I’ll be going into the kitchen for a bag of potato chips even before I do!
But Sushi can sometimes be a little stinker, and her reprisals were numerous and varied, according to the degree of her ire: peeing on my pillow (ten on a scale of ten), chewing a new pair of shoes (eight), leaving a little brown carrot inside the house in plain view (six). One through five were various barks, growls, or dirty looks. Just where the little tyrant learned such vindictiveness, I have no clue.
As for Mother’s aforementioned wish, it was for our TV pilot to be picked up, a reality show shot at our new shop, an expansion of our old antiques mall stall underwritten by the pilot’s producers.
Perhaps the best way to bring you up to speed is to reprint a recent interview with Mother conducted by a young male reporter from the Serenity Sentinel. So hold on to your hats—especially the Red Hat Society kind.
Serenity Sentinel: Why you?
Vivian Borne: Dear, not meaning to be critical, you understand . . . but it’s always best to begin an interview with a complete sentence. Such as “Why were you and your daughter chosen from among the many ‘wannabes’ for a reality TV show?”
SS:Why were you?
VB:Phillip Dean—a veteran cameraman turned producer—thought that the antiques business run by myself, Vivian Borne, V-I-V-I-A-N B-O-R-N-E and Brandy Borne, B-R-A-N-D-Y, Borne Again . . . no religious connotation intended . . . would make a perfect series because—
SS:I heard the show was called Antique Sleuths.
VB:Dear, it’s not polite to interrupt. If you want to be a responsible member of the ourth Estate, you must—
SS:Fourth what?
VB:—pose your questions in the form of a question.
SS:That was a question.
VB:The name of the show is Antiques Sleuths, in the plural, not Antique Sleuths. You do perceive the difference?
SS: Now you’re asking the questions.
VB: (sighs) Yes, because it has become clear that I need to commandeer this interview, if anything of substance is to be conveyed.
SS: Go for it.
VB: The concept of the show is that a mother and daughter, who have solved numerous mysteries in real life, as amateur sleuths . . . that would be my daughter and myself. . . also solve the mysteries behind various unusual antiques brought by clientele into their, which is to say our, Trash ‘n’ Treasures shop.
SS: But right now there’s only a pilot. I mean, right now there is only a pilot, right?
VB: I congratulate you on that recovery. That is correct. Most of the pilot was filmed last week, with a little more footage—“B roll,” they call it in the industry—to be shot this Saturday at a local swap meet. The finished product will be shown to several cable TV networks.
SS: So it’s not a done deal?
VB: No . . . but we’re hopeful. We have an undeniable advantage, factoring in my considerable history in local theater, not to mention my experiences off-Broadway.
SS: I’m not to mention that?
VB: Well, certainly you may mention it. Why would you not ? Next question.
SS: You’ve recently moved your antiques business to a house where two murders took place. Isn’t that creepy?
VB: Dear, I don’t think the demise of those poor vic-tims—murders separated by many years, both of which we solved, by the way—need be referred to as “creepy. ” Let us just say it lends a certain resonance to the undertaking.
SS: So does “undertaking.” Sounds like you’re capitalizing on the infamous notoriety of the house. I mean, are you capitalizing on—
VB: Certainly not! It just happened to be vacant when we were looking for an appropriate venue for our expanded business, and the prospective television show. We would not think of tastelessly exploiting the tragic history of that structure.
SS: Then why does your website say, “Come and visit us at the Murder House”?
VB: Does it? Well, that’s a minor lapse on the part of our web designer. I’ll give him a real talking-to.
Had enough? I have! But I do think Mother came off better than the interviewer.
Where were we? Ah yes—Saturday morning, and Mother and I were getting ready to open for business at the Murder House—a designation that was not our doing, a local nickname dating back to the axing of the patriarchal owner some sixty years ago, and a copycat killing last year, about which I won’t go into, for those among you who haven’t (as yet) read Antiques Chop.
Maybe it was my mildly mind-altering Prozac, or possibly a numbness that’s set in due to the number of murders Mother and I have solved since my homecoming two years ago, but I’ve come to like that historically homicidal house, perfect as it was for our expanded business.
The large two-story white clapboard with wide front porch and modest lawn was situated downtown just after commercial Main Street begins its rise into East Hill residential. Built around the turn of the last century, the place had a downstairs parlor, a music room, a formal dining room, and spacious kitchen; four bedrooms and a bath occupied the upstairs.
In setting up our shop, Mother and I decided to slant each room toward its original pur-pose—that is to say, all of our kitchen antiques were in the kitchen, bedroom sets in the bedrooms, linens in the linen closet, formal furniture in the parlor, and so forth—even the knickknacks were placed
where you might expect them to be (only with price tags).
Our customers often had the vague sense that they were visiting an elderly relative—a grandmother or kindly old aunt—with so many lovely things on display. Only at Trash ‘n’ Treasures, you didn’t have to wait to inherit something; for the listed price (or maybe a haggled-over lower one), you could walk right out with whatever caught your eye.
The spacious entry hallway was where we put our checkout counter, so that we could greet customers, and also keep an eye on the downstairs rooms. Mother and I believed a certain amount of pilfering was better business than security cameras hovering high in every corner announcing: “We don’t trust you.”
Besides, even a state-of-the-art system couldn’t compare to our secret weapon: the all-knowing, now all-seeing shih tzu, who with her Sushi sense could detect a nervous shoplifter, following him or her from room to room with an accusatory glare. (Now if someone would only steal that darn smiley-face alarm clock!)
Mother, Tilda, and I had sat in a circle on the floor of the empty parlor holding hands, while the guru closed her eyes, chanting softly, summoning any willing visitor from the other side.
But, much to Mother’s disappointment, no one answered. Oh, there was a sneeze. But it turned out to have come not from a departed one who’d died of pneumonia, rather from Sushi, thanks to some antique dust she’d breathed in.
The next day, still uncertain, Mother asked Father O’Leary to come bless the house, which he did, even though we belonged to New Hope Church. For flood relief, Mother had organized a charity bazaar at St. Mary’s, which brought in a lot of money (Antiques Bizarre), so we’d racked up some good Catholic-style karma there.
Father O’Leary intoned a prayer in the entryway, then went from room to room, sprinkling the air with Epiphany water, and marking each door in chalk with the initials CMB—“Christ bless this house.” If Linda Blair happened to drive through Serenity, and stopped to do some antiquing, she’d be just fine, though some of our collectibles were real head-turners.
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