Antiques Chop (A Trash 'n' Treasures Mystery) (12 page)

So I wandered into the glass-and-chrome bar to ponder my next move, and quench the thirst I’d worked up not answering Chief Lawson’s questions.

I slid onto a stool and ordered a Shirley Temple from a pretty, spiky-haired barmaid, then smiled at the only other customer in the place, who sat nursing a Scotch on the rocks, three stools down.

Phil Dean himself.

I couldn’t get away with such a coincidence in a fictional work, but because this is a true story, I have no option other than to report this happy happenstance.
;)

The trimly bearded cameraman, wearing gray sweats and Angels baseball cap, didn’t seem to recognize me all gussied up and out of my DIY painter’s duds.

I slid a stool closer. “Well, well, I’ll be darned, if it isn’t ‘Dean Phillips.’ ”

He blinked at me.

I touched my bosom. “It’s Vivian Borne!”

“Oh. Yeah. Hi. Sorry, I’m . . . I’m a little out of it about now.” His eyes were bleary and bloodshot, maybe from lack of sleep or possibly the hooch.

I slid onto the stool next to him. “I quite understand. Terrible tragedy about your friend Bruce.” I went
tsk-tsk
and shook my head sadly.

Phil didn’t reply, looking down into his glass.

“He
was
your friend, wasn’t he?”

He squinted at me, like I was poor television reception that he was trying to bring into focus. “Well, sure. I mean, he was my boss. We worked on a lot of projects.”

I shifted on the stool (if bars would just make these things more comfortable, more mature women like myself would hang around and class up the joint).

“I just came from the police station,” I said, “where I got the good old-fashioned third degree.”

“Really? They gave you a hard time?”

“For what good it did them. I gave them the Fifth back for their trouble.” I leaned toward him, intimately. “ ’Twas I who found the body!”

Not sure why I said “ ’twas.” I guess I thought it might lend something. Not sure it did.

“You, huh?” he said, vaguely interested. “Didn’t know that.”

The barmaid delivered my drink.

He gave it a look. “Is that a Shirley Temple?”

“Yes! Have you ever tried one? They’re delicious, and one can drink a dozen of them without losing a single brain cell. Of course, you get your share of exercise walking back and forth from the loo!”

He just kind of looked at me. I admit I was having difficulty modulating my approach. Sometimes I get a little British-sounding, when I’m excited or anxious.

I leaned closer. “But I’m afraid I did have to mention to them that you and Bruce had a small argument the afternoon before he was killed.”

I was lying as convincingly as only a skilled thespian or sociopath can (not necessarily mutually exclusive categories). :)

He frowned. “You told the cops that?”

I waved off his concern. “But I assured the constabulary that it was just the kind of typical friction people so often experience when working closely together.”

He said nothing.

I took a dainty sip of my drink. A bit heavy on the grenadine. “I mean, that
was
the case, wasn’t it?”

He didn’t answer for a moment. Then he shrugged. “It was no big deal. I was unhappy with the location—small houses are hell to shoot in. Bruce knew that, but just figured he’d stick me with any problems.” Another shrug. “That was my beef.”

I took another dainty sip. A bit stingy with the maraschino cherries, too. “Doesn’t sound like anything worth dismembering anybody over.”

He swiveled toward me, eyes narrowed. “What the hell is this, lady?”

“Nothing to worry about, dear,” I said, patting his knee. “I merely have a proposition for you.”

Perhaps I shouldn’t have touched his knee, because he had a rather stunned look. :O

I laughed girlishly. “A
business
proposition, you silly goose.”

His expression seemed skeptical. “Really? What kind?”

I looked around the bar, which had begun serving lunch. “Let’s find some privacy.”

We slid off our stools and, taking our drinks, headed to a far cozy corner, where a brown leather couch and several overstuffed chairs were mostly hidden behind a Japanese silk screen.

Parking our glasses on a coffee table, Phil plopped down on the couch. I sat beside him, perched on the edge, angled his way but not crowding him.

“First, let me ask you,” I said. “What do you think our pilot’s prospects are at this point in time?”

He blinked, as if by “pilot” I was referring to a plane ride.

“You mean
Antiques Sleuths?
” he asked. “Probably just a little deader than Bruce.”

“That’s a shame. Is that a certainty?”

He thought it over. “Well, the show was Bruce’s baby, his concept . . . but it may depend on how the publicity goes. Your local cops won’t keep the media off this thing forever, you know.”

“Oh, I know. And the publicity might keep the show alive . . . don’t you think?”

“I’m a tech guy, Mrs. Borne. I don’t really know for sure. . . .”

“Make it ‘Vivian.’ So this is my proposition, my idea. Why don’t we go ahead and put together a project ourselves? In the remaining days that you’re here, I mean. And it does look like you may be stuck in Serenity for a while.”

He eyed me warily. “What kind of project?”

“It might be a pilot for a different series, or else footage that could be used to spice up the eventual pilot that we might yet make. You’d be the producer yourself, this time.”

That had him interested. “Go on.”

“Surely you’ve heard that I have quite a reputation for solving crimes—with my daughter as my little helper.”

He nodded slowly.

“And I intend on finding Bruce Spring’s killer. Toward that end, I’ve compiled a list of suspects and together we can interview them on high def.”

His laughter had a hollow ring. “You have to be kidding—why would any suspect, or anybody else, for that matter, cooperate with something like that?”

“Sir, despite a certain whimsical bent to my nature, I assure you I
never
kid about murder.”

He shook his head. “Maybe so, but lady, you’re nuts if you think a potential suspect would agree to a taped interview.”

“What if the suspects don’t know what the interview is
really
about?”

“How would that work exactly?”

My shrug was grandiose. “I’ll tell them we’re doing a little piece for Iowa Public Television. Something called”—I painted a picture in the air with a sweep of a hand—“Fireplaces of Serenity.”

“Would anybody believe a program like that existed?”

“Well, they did Doorways of Ft. Dodge last season, and Tulips of Pella the season before that.”

“Okay. So that gets us into their homes. Under false pretenses, but in.”

“Who’s to say we’re
not
doing a fireplace documentary? Then, after shooting a short little bit on the history of their stupid fireplace, you’ll step outside for a smoke or something . . . You
do
smoke?”

He nodded.

“Wonderful! So you step outside, leaving the camera running. Inconspicuously, of course.” I drew a breath. “Then, while you’re gone, I’ll just move the conversation to the murder—where they were at the time of, and so forth. Later, we can intersperse the interviews with reenactments of the murder, and at the end of the pilot, I’ll announce who the killer is!”

His eyes were wide. “That would be cool, actually, though I’m not sure what it has to do with antiques.”

“The murder was in an antiques shop, wasn’t it? Think outside the box, man!”

Phil nodded, but also frowned. “Using what’s essentially hidden camera technique to tape a subject is on
very
shaky ethical grounds. . . .”

Goodness gracious! Since when did anybody from Hollywood ever worry about being ethical?

“We’re
not
hiding the camera,” I insisted. “It’ll be right there in plain sight!”

“It’s still a trick. And the footage won’t be usable.”

“Why not?”

“Because everybody you interview has to sign a release—which, even if they sign, will not cover the secret footage. Unless . . .”

I liked the sound of that. “Unless . . . ?”

He was scratching his bearded chin in thought. “I can work up a release on my laptop that just says, ‘Serenity Documentary’ on it. That should cover us.”

“You’re thinking like a Hollywood producer already!”

He reached for his drink and finished it. Then he said, “Might work. But what if you
don’t
solve the murder?”

Oh, ye of little faith! I shrugged. “Then our pilot will be about an
unsolved
mystery case. They didn’t find out who killed Laura Palmer in the first episode of
Twin Peaks,
did they? That
Killing
series went a whole silly season without solving the darn thing!”

Phil was smiling at me. “Well, this may land me in jail even without committing a murder. But why not? It’s a shot at saving our show, and what else do I have to do, stuck here in fly-over country?”

Like wherever he was, he wouldn’t be sitting in a bar with a drink about now.

He asked, “When do you want to start?”

“How about now?”

“Right now?”

“Why not? What else is there to do in fly-over country?”

He grinned. “That was a dig, wasn’t it, Vivian?”

“Maybe a little. Can you get that release form typed up and run off?”

“Sure. The hotel has a business center. Give me half an hour.” He got to his feet, but with a little difficulty.
+_+

“Assuming you’re up to it, that is,” I said.

“Oh, I’m up to it. But I may regret this when I sober up.” He threw a ten spot next to our empty glasses, paying for my drink. “By the way, am I on your suspect list?”

Of course he was.

“No, certainly not, dear,” I answered angelically. O:) “I would never keep company with a murderer.”

Three more Shirley Temples and two trips to the ladies’ room later, I saw Phil—now professionally dressed in black polo shirt and dark jeans, sans cap—returning to meet me out in the lobby. He was loaded down with the camera, tripod, and black gear bag, the releases tucked away in the latter.

Soon we were settled in his Ford rental car, me riding shotgun, the equipment in the back. Our first stop was to interview Andrew and Sarah Butterworth, just a short distance from the hotel on West Hill. We arrived at their mansion a little before noon.

Parked at the curb, Phil said uneasily, “Maybe we should’ve called. What if they’re not home? Or refuse to see us?”

I gave him a short laugh. “They’re always home, dear. And as far as refusing to see us, why we’ll be seen and inside before they have the chance.”

“In other words, we’re just gonna barge in?”

“They won’t know what hit them. I’m afraid I can’t help you with your gear, dear—I’m not union.”

He gave me half a smile for that jest before loading himself down like a native bearer on safari.

We climbed the wide cement steps to the low-slung sprawling home, me in the lead, Phil trudging behind. Then I cranked the round metal plate of a doorbell.

Sarah answered. The tall, big-boned woman was wearing tan wool slacks, a brown cashmere turtleneck, and a surprised expression.

“Why, Vivian! Of all people. . . .”

“Wonderful to see you again, too, Sarah,” I said as I pushed by her.

“What . . . who is your friend? What is that
equipment?
Is that a camera?”

“As you’ve probably heard, Sarah, darling,” I said, talking a mile a minute now, “my antiques reality show has been put on hold due to the untimely death of its producer. But in the meantime, I’m switching over to
another
pet project of mine with our cameraman, Phil Dean—Phil, Sarah, Sarah, Phil—best shooter in the biz, our Phil. We’re not missing a beat, going right into production on a special for Iowa Public Television entitled Fireplaces of Serenity . . .” Once again I painted the air. “Don’t you just love it! Of course, I thought of you and your
unique
fireplace first. Hello, Andy, I was just saying—”

White-haired Andrew, wearing a light blue pullover sweater, navy slacks, and an annoyed expression, had materialized as if from the ether (or a nearby room).

“I heard,” he said coldly, “and I
don’t
love it. Vivian, we’re not interested.”

Phil and I had made it through the entryway and to the grouping of mission furniture with Native American artifacts. Since Andy’s words had an air of finality, I summoned my theatrical talents, sank down in a chair, and whipped up a few tears. :’(

(That approach worked for Brandy with Roger, didn’t it?)

“You have no idea,” I sniffled, “how
terribly
disappointing it is to have my reality show face probable cancellation even before it’s been shot, much less aired. I am trying to fill my time with creative endeavors, to ward off despair. All I’m asking are a few moments with my old dear friends—is that so much to give to a
loyal
Musketeer?”

Andrew still looked resolved, but Sarah’s expression had softened, and she put a hand on my shoulder.

“No, of course not, Vivian,” she said soothingly. “And we
do
understand your disappointment—don’t we, Andy? It’s just that we’re not comfortable being on camera.”

I dabbed my eyes with a hankie from a pocket. “But I’ll be doing most of the talking.”

“No surprise,” Andrew said.

This atypical unkindness I ignored, pressing on: “And the interview won’t take but a short while.” I spread both hands, the hankie waving. “You know the high quality of Iowa Public Television, yet how
seldom
Serenity has been featured! Think of how proud our local residents will be to finally be showcased. And the rest of the state will learn something about our proud community! Oh, I know it’s a far cry from a national show, but I’ve got to start somewhere . . . do something . . . to save face, and my sanity.”