Antiques Chop (A Trash 'n' Treasures Mystery)

by Barbara Allan

  “Not the most stunning alibi I ever heard.”

  “Well, that’s because I wasn’t aware I was going to need one.”

  We drove out of the strip mall. Rather than return downtown with Phil to take the trolley home, I asked my somewhat dejected cameraman to drop me off.

  We sat for a few minutes in front of my house, the conversation turning to what footage was still needed.

  “I’ll spend tomorrow getting B-roll of the town,” he said. “You know, just location footage. Establishing shots.”

  I nodded. “And I have some investigating to do on my own. If there’s more work to be done for Iowa Public Television, I’ll let you know.”

  We exchanged smiles, rather warmly, and I got out of the rental.

  And as my chapter winds down, I see that through efficient storytelling, I have curtailed my word count, giving me the opportunity to spend just a little more quality time with you, dear reader.

  In our last book, Antiques Disposal, I had started to relate my even funnier trolley story (funnier than the one about little Billy Buckly, whose grandfather was one of the Munchkins in The Wizard of Oz) but, apparently I had exhausted my word limit, and was not allowed to finish the tale. So, here it is now:

  There was a spinster in town who bought a chimpanzee to keep her company, and who she called Mr. Muggs (after J. Fred Muggs of the old Today Show chimp). One day she wanted to take Mr. Muggs with her on the trolley, but since the driver wouldn’t allow pets on board, she dressed the simian up as a little girl, complete with a Goldilocks wig. Well, no one seemed to notice (most were older folks with cataracts) and everything went swimmingly until an elderly fellow seated across from the monkey, reached over, saying, “Isn’t she cute,” and pinched a furry cheek. And Mr. Muggs promptly bit off his finger. It was quite funny. I mean, not right then, of course, because they couldn’t find the finger at first, but later, when you thought about it.

  Or perhaps you had to be there.

  A Trash ‘n’ Treasures Tip

  Keep a list of your customers’ purchases so you can contact them about similar items of interest. E-mail alerts are preferable to phone calls, or at least that has been the case with Mother’s customers, many of whom have caller I.D.

  Chapter Nine

  Chop Lifting

  Brandy at the helm again. Everybody feeling all right? Anyone need a break after Mother’s last chapter? Some aspirin maybe? A tiny little swig of cooking sherry? Possibly just stick your head under the faucet and run that water nice and cold for a while? I can wait. No?

  Okay, then, onward (if not upward).

  The following morning, more autumn crisp than yesterday, I walked Jake out to the Hummer, where Roger was already behind the wheel and loaded up to head back to Chicago. With Jake.

  Roger had called Brian and asked for permission, assuring him he’d drive Jake right back for any legal proceedings that might be necessary. Brian okayed that, and while Jake was not thrilled about leaving, he didn’t act out.

  Mother, who had already said her good-byes, did not make the walk to the curb with us.

  “I’m glad you’re not giving your dad a bad time about this,” I said.

  “I’d really like to stay and help you guys with your”— he lowered his voice; his father was only a few yards away at this point—“investigation.”

  “We’re gonna leave that to the police,” I said.

  “You lie worse than I do.” He shrugged. “But I guess I can’t blame Dad for wanting to get me out of here. I mean, I did bump into a chopped-up corpse, and there is an ax murderer running around somewhere in Serenity. So, you know, I guess he has a point.”

  “Uh, yeah. I guess he does.”

  “Don’t you get hurt.” He hugged me. “Really, I agree with Dad. I wish you and Grandma would leave this one to the police.”

  Then he was up in the Hummer, his dad behind the wheel, both father and son looking down at me. Good Lord, the size of that vehicle.

  “Brandy, you take care,” Roger said.

  “I will.”

  “I mean it.” He shook his finger at me in a mildly scolding way, blew me a little kiss, a sweet gesture, really, then went roaring off.

  I didn’t go back in till they were out of sight.

  Soon after, though, I was once again seated on the piano bench in the library/music room.

  Mother was saying, “Well, I’m glad they’re gone.”

  “What a terrible thing to say.”

  She was standing at the blackboard, pondering the suspect list, which had been updated. “I am merely glad to have Jake out of harm’s way, and not to have your ex hanging around, inhibiting our inquiries. If that Roger had his way, we’d butt out of this one!”

  “He’s probably right to think that. Jake just reminded me that we are dealing with a very violent culprit here. This isn’t fun and games, Mother. Not this time.”

  “Pish posh,” she said. “I’m certainly having fun, and any time you pursue a murderer, it’s a game of sorts—cat and mouse.”

  “Well, this time the cat has an ax.”

  Mother turned and frowned at me. “Not true. That ax is in the evidence lock-up at the police station. And would I like a look at it! Now. Study the blackboard, dear. You’ll note I’ve added a new category.”

  Rocky and Sushi drifted in to join our little confab. Rocky sat on the floor next to my bench, and appeared to be listening, while Sushi curled up on the Persian rug and promptly began to snore.

  Dutifully, I studied what Mother and her piece of chalk had wrought.

  MURDER OF BRUCE SPRING

  I said, “You should just go ahead and write ‘none’ next to both Andrew and Sarah.”

  Mother nodded, stroking her chin like the Big Bad Wolf contemplating a straw house to blow down. “They could very well be covering for each other. At the very least, they’ve made no mention of Andrew leaving the house for a late-night stroll.”

  Earlier Mother had told me about Andrew having been seen walking near the murder house the night of Spring’s demise.

  “I think,” she said, “it’s about time we dropped by the Butterworth place, to confront them about their duplicity.”

  “You mean, accuse them of lying? I’m up for that.”

  We gathered our coats and, as we went out the door, Rocky did his best to go with us.

  “We’ll be back soon,” I promised him, “and then I’ll take you and Soosh for a walk.”

  That last word I whispered, to keep Sushi, dozing in the other room, from hearing. But Rocky was clambering at the door, up on his hind legs, batting at the wood with his paws, barking as we left.

  So much for Sushi’s nap.

  “Poor dear,” Mother said over the dog wails, which included Sushi’s yapping now. “He just hates to be left out of the fun.”

  And games.

  In just over ten minutes, we were on the porch of the Butterworth mansion, Mother again cranking the handle of the ancient doorbell.

  After three or four more tries, and still no answer, I said, “They must be out.”

  “No way, Jose,” Mother replied. “I saw a curtain drawn back. They just don’t want to face the music!”

  Raising her voice, she called out in her patented singsong fashion, “I’m not leeeeav-ing!”

  Persistence was one of Mother’s best traits. Also one of her worst. Yin and Yang kind of thing.

  After some more spirited ringing of the non-electric doorbell, the front door opened, the space all but filled by the tall, mannishly attractive Sarah Butterworth, exhibiting colors perfect for this late fall day—green wool slacks, orange cardigan over gold blouse, over which blazed a scarlet face.

  “I can’t believe,” Sarah said, biting off the words, “that you have the audacity to come back here.”

  “My dear, you simply must calm yourself,” Mother responded, the soul of concern. “All that blood rushing to your face just can’t be good for your rosacea.”

  “I don’t h
ave rosacea!”

  “You don’t? Oh, well, I do. It’s the Scandinavian curse, you know. Red patchy spots on both cheeks—most annoying—and I’ve tried cutting out spicy foods, to no avail I’m afraid.”

  “What do you want, Vivian?”

  Mother pointed toward the inside of the house, past Sarah, whispering, “I think this topic of discussion might be better handled inside. The neighbors, you know. The last thing I would ever want is to embarrass you.”

  Sarah’s eyes and nostrils flared, and she folded her arms across her chest, ever more the sentry. “And what topic of discussion is that?”

  “Why, dear,” Mother said, still sotto voce, “I have learned that the alibi you and Andy provided me was a big old fib. And I wanted to give you the chance to correct the record.”

  Sarah’s face, the red having softened to pink, now paled. She drew in a deep breath, then let it out. Then, with some reluctance, she took a step back and another to one side, allowing us to enter.

  In the foyer, Mother said, “I think it would be best if Andy were a part of this conversation, too, my dear.”

  “He’s not in.”

  Mother raised an eyebrow.

  Sarah closed her eyes in a moment of frustration, then said, “We do go out from time to time, Vivian. And Andrew isn’t here right now. And he did not say when he’d be back.”

  I touched Mother’s arm and gave her a glance that said, Maybe that’s just as well. Maybe we could get more out of the sister without the brother around.

  Mother nodded to me, then turned to our reluctant host, saying, “Could we go somewhere and sit down? I do so hate to impose, but my darn bunions are just killing me.”

  Sarah sighed and nodded, and led the way.

  She took us only a few paces into her domain—no veranda with wicker chairs and fabulous river view this trip—gesturing for Mother and me to sit on a mission-style couch, while our put-upon hostess took a matching chair.

  “I won’t beat about the bush,” Mother said, settling back. “I have it on good authority that Andy was seen walking out of the old Butterworth homestead, the very night Bruce Spring was killed.”

  She was taking some liberty with her statement—Andrew had been seen walking near the murder house, not exiting it. Whether this was theatrics or entrapment on Mother’s part, I couldn’t say.

  Either way, it certainly got results.

  Sarah buried her face in her hands and a wail came out that echoed through the big room like a banshee. I jumped in my chair a little, but Mother only sat forward, eyes glittering.

  Then, with little choking sounds, Sarah moaned, “It’s . . . it’s going to start all over again, isn’t it?”

  She meant that Andrew would be accused of another murder. Another ax murder, at that.

  I dug in my purse, found a tissue, and leaned forward to hand it to Sarah. She snatched it from my fingers as if the thing had always belonged to her. She dabbed her eyes, but said nothing.

  Mother made the terrible silence go away by asking, “Had Andy arranged to meet Bruce Spring that night, for some reason? Perhaps something to do with that scurrilous documentary?”

  “Yes,” Sarah sniffled, looking down at the wadded tissue in her hands. “My brother discovered from that horrible Beckman woman that it was Spring who produced that awful program. So Andy went down there to meet with him, and tell him in no uncertain terms that he was withdrawing the use of the house for your series.”

  Mother frowned, and I was afraid she was going to say something inappropriate, so I took the lead, asking, “The meeting did take place?”

  “Yes.”

  “Had it been arranged in advance?”

  Sarah nodded. “Andy called Spring at the Holiday Inn, and insisted on a meeting at the old house, that evening. That man could hardly turn him down.”

  “How did Spring react, learning that use of the location was now denied him?”

  Sarah shrugged, fingering the tissue. “Well, obviously, he wasn’t pleased, but what could he say? What could he do? Anyway, for a gentle, genteel human being, Andy can be quite forceful and even stubborn.”

  She looked up sharply, realizing her last words might condemn him.

  “But my brother swears Spring was alive when he left that house! He never laid a hand on him.”

  Mother had been strangely silent as I’d taken over the questioning. I think for a while she was sidetracked by the news that the murder house wasn’t going to be available for our series—like that would still happen!

  But Sarah, sitting there crying, was an old friend of hers, and while Mother can have a cold, calculating streak where her sleuthing is concerned, the sight of her old chum wracked with dismay did seem to move her. She got to her feet and stood next to the seated woman and slipped an arm around her.

  “I’m telling the truth!” Sarah blurted.

  “Of course, dear,” Mother said soothingly, patting a shoulder in there, there fashion. “I believe you. I do believe you. . . .”

  I wasn’t sure I did. Couldn’t the sister be covering up for her brother again? Just as she must have done, all those years ago, for a disturbingly similar murder?

  Leaving Sarah with her thoughts, we returned to the Buick to discuss ours, and were about to climb in, when a squad car rolled up behind us, and Officer Munson got out.

  As he approached, he said, “The chief wants to see the both of you—toot sweet.”

  The officer’s hound-dog face was hard to read. But this didn’t feel like a social visit.

  Mother, on the other hand, seemed pleased to be summoned by the town’s top cop.

  “No problem, Officer,” she said cheerily. “We’ll be along shortly. I think we’re all due about now for a debriefing.”

  I wondered if that would be the kind of “debriefing” where they took your clothes and underthings and gave you a shower and a cell.

  “No,” Munson said firmly, “you’re going to the station right now.”

  “Very well, Officer,” Mother replied politely. “Never let it be said that Vivian Borne does not pay local law enforcement the respect it deserves.”

  Just don’t ask her how much respect that is.

  On the short drive to the station, Munson was so close behind us, he must have figured we might make a break for it.

  “Doesn’t that imbecile,” Mother said, in a typical display of her respect for local law enforcement, “know that tailgating is illegal? In the sense of following a car too closely, I mean. It’s quite legal to have baked beans and beer out of the back of your vehicle in a parking lot before a football game.”

  “Good to know, Mother. But what is this about, do you think?”

  Mother shrugged rather grandly. “The chief likely wants to know what we’ve learned about the murder. Those poor boobs probably haven’t gotten past first base.” A less grand shrug. “Well, I suppose we can throw him a bone.”

  I’d leave the bone-throwing up to her.

  In the station lot, I took a visitor’s spot while Munson moved past us to park with the other police cars. We waited dutifully for him to join us and, shortly, he was escorting us into the station via the side door, where perps were hauled in.

  An omen perhaps?

  But once inside, it was just a few short steps to the chief’s office, where Munson deposited us in visitors’ chairs, then disappeared.

  Brian, sitting behind his big metal desk, did not rise to greet us. His face—unlike hound-dog Munson’s—was about as hard to read as Dick and Jane.

  “I told you two to stay out of this case,” he said, voice dripping with rancor.

  I was flying low, hoping to keep under the radar, letting Mother take the blame and the lead, expecting her to rush to our defense. But she appeared uncharacteristically tongue-tied, as if she’d stepped out on stage having learned the script for one play only to find herself in the midst of another, already going on.

  As Brian ranted, his perhaps unintentionally patriotic-themed attire (w
hite shirt, red tie, navy slacks) somehow added weight to his righteous indignation. At least it went well with the American flag behind his desk, anyway.

  “It has come to my embarrassed attention that you have been sticking your noses into the Spring investigation, interfering with police business! You are treading very close to obstruction of justice charges.”

  Mother finally found some words, if not very original. “There is freedom of the press in this country, young man. Or have you forgotten that?”

  “You aren’t reporters.”

  “We are the authors of a number of nonfiction true crime works, I’ll have you know.”

  And she stuck her tongue out at him.

  I slumped in my chair and covered my eyes, but I didn’t have to see Brian to know that Mother had only turned him whiter with rage.

  Still, he worked to contain himself. “Vivian. Brandy. Do you have any idea what this case means to me, personally?” He swallowed thickly. “The D.C.I. is watching my every step.”

  That was Iowa’s Division of Criminal Investigation. “Hell,” he continued, “once this finally hits the media, the whole nation will be watching! I’ll be lucky to find a job as a mall cop. Brandy, I expect this kind of self-absorption from your mother. But I thought I deserved better from you, at least.”

  So this was about him. Talk about self-absorption....

  I raised a hand like a kid in class. “Brian, we’re not interfering. We’re caught up in the middle of this, through no fault of our own. So we’re merely conducting a few inquiries.”

  “There’s no ‘merely’ about it!” He glared at Mother but spoke to me. “This Looney Tunes has been questioning our suspects! And taping those interviews.”

  How could he know that? And how could I get that darn “The Merry-Go-Round Broke Down” song from playing in my brain, after his Looney Tunes crack?

  Mother laughed unconvincingly. “Why, you’re the loon, young man. All I’ve been doing is working on a documentary for Iowa Public Television. It’s all about the fireplaces of—”