Antiques Chop (A Trash 'n' Treasures Mystery) (13 page)

If that didn’t move them, I should stop treading the boards.

Sarah and Andrew exchanged looks. Hers seemed to say, “What do you think?” His seemed to say, “It’s the only way we’ll get rid of her.”

“All right,” the man of the manor said with a resigned nod. “You have one hour.”

“You won’t regret it,” I lied, jumping up, swinging into director mode. “Phil, set the tripod over there, with a nice wide angle of the fireplace. I’ll be seated to the left, angled slightly. Our guests to the right, facing me. We can go in later for some closer shots. Let’s get them miked up. Oh, and where are the releases for them to sign?”

Soon we were all in place and, most important, with papers signed. Phil positioned himself behind the tripod, looking into the camera’s viewfinder.

“Let me know when you’re ready, Vivian,” he said.

“Why, Phil, I was born ready!”

Everyone but me sighed. Strange.

“On one,” the cameraman said. “Three, two, one.”

I gave the camera my best smile. “Hello, my fellow Iowans! This is Vivian Borne, bringing you a special presentation—Fireplaces of Serenity! With me are local businessman Andrew Butterworth and his sister, Sarah, visiting from Chicago. We are filming in the lovely Butterworth Prairie Arts home, in front of a most unusual fireplace.”

I turn to my guests. “I say ‘most unusual’ because of the center placement, which makes the fireplace the focal point of the room.” I gestured with a hand. “I understand that only
local
materials were used to build it—the large stones culled from a nearby quarry, accented by smaller ones from the Mississippi River. And the timber for the mantel was indigenous, as well. What else can you tell our viewers, Andrew?”

Andrew said blandly, “I rather think you said it all.”

“Oh, did I? My bad!”

Sarah was giggling. I considered her officially won over!

She said, “Vivian, you did say you’d do most of the talking, but, really dear, try to save
something
for us.”

“I
do
apologize.” I looked at Phil, who wore an oddly shell-shocked expression. “Let’s go again.”

“Three, two, one,” he signaled.

This time, after my introduction, I threw the ball to Sarah first.

Then tossed it to Andrew.

After five minutes of this twaddle, I thanked my old friends for allowing me into their home and to take up a few minutes of their precious time.

Then I again addressed the camera. “But the Butterworths are not the only bearers of a fantastic fireplace here in Serenity. Stay with us after the break for another thrilling heartland hearth!”

I smiled broadly and held it.

Then said, “Cut!”

Sarah was frowning. “Vivian, why the commercial break? You said this was for public television.”

“Ah, it is,” I said, thinking fast, “but it’s one of their special pledge programs, with breaks to raise funds. That fireplace of yours is going to really light up the phones!”

Andrew, shifting in his chair, said, “Are we done?” “I’m afraid not,” I said. “Phil is going to do a number of close-ups of the fireplace, and then some close-up reaction shots on all of us.”

Sarah nodded. Andrew just sat there.

Phil addressed me: “Mrs. Borne, do you mind if I take a break?” He smiled at our hosts. “Okay if I step outside for a smoke, before doing the rest? Filthy habit, I know. . . .”

“Not at all,” I responded on cue. “I wouldn’t mind having a word or two with my friends in private.”

After Phil disappeared, leaving the red eye of his camera on, I looked from Sarah to Andrew and back again.

“I just wanted to say how sorry I am about what happened”—I grimaced—“down the street.”

Andrew sat stone-faced.

Sarah, once again, was the more gracious of the siblings. “You were hardly responsible, Vivian.”

“Not directly,” I said, shaking my head, “but you both put your trust in me, allowing me to use the house, and all I’ve succeeded in doing was open old wounds.” I let out a deep, regretful breath, then added, “And with this second murder, you just
know
tongues will start wagging again.”

Arching an eyebrow, Andrew said, “I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do about that. Except ignore it.”

I said, “I suppose one way to silence those tongues will be to have an alibi. You do both have an alibi for Tuesday night?”

Sarah looked stunned, like I’d slapped her in the face with a mackerel.

Andrew asked angrily, “Why in the world would
we
need alibis? Neither one of us ever even
met
the man.”

I sat forward and my voice was gentle, and again I looked from one to the other. “Were you aware that Bruce Spring was the producer of our show, the same man who put together that odious documentary about your father’s murder? I
wasn’t
aware, I assure you, until after the fact.”

Andrew stiffened. “Yes. We were informed of that.”

“How, might I ask?”

Sarah, who had gone rather pale, said, “We received a phone call from that Beckman woman. She’s
odious
herself.”

“We considered,” Andrew said, “calling you and withdrawing our consent for the use of that house. We frankly would have discussed that with you, probably today, if the . . . the murder hadn’t occurred.”

Murders didn’t actually “occur,” did they? Someone had to make them happen.

“The fact that you knew about Bruce Spring’s involvement,” I said, “before his murder? That puts both of you in a rather delicate position.”

Sarah fumed, “Are you implying that we have a motive?”

I raised my palms in gentle surrender. “Not me, of course, but others might—like the police. Have you heard from them yet?”

Andrew stood abruptly. “I think we’re at the end of this farce.”

Sarah stood as well. “Yes, Vivian. Please go.”

I sighed. “So then you
have
no alibi . . . that
is
bothersome.”

“We do have one,” Sarah said indignantly. “We were here, all evening. We had a late dinner, then watched an old movie on Turner Classic, which didn’t get over until midnight. At which time we went to sleep.”

“Then you are . . . each
other’s
alibi? Oh, dear. I’m afraid that won’t put the naysayers to rest.”

“Ready for those pick-up shots?” Phil asked, returning.

And I told him we wouldn’t be needing any.

Back in the rental car, I asked Phil, “How much of that did you hear?”

“All of it. I only pretended to go outside.”

“Then you know how weak their alibi is?”

He grunted. “Each other? And watching an old movie on cable doesn’t help. They could easily have seen it before, and all they have to do is check the listing.”

“So no alibi at all, then,” I said.

“I know you would like to have cleared them,” Phil said, “being your friends and all. But look at the bright side—we got some
killer
footage.”

“Yes we did!”

And I gave him a
^ 5
.

But the high of the five lasted only momentarily, because Phil was right—these were indeed my friends, and I’d had to play a sneaky trick on them. Even for
moi
.
:(

I would like to continue on with my story, dear reader, but I approach the limits of my word count. So the exciting information revealed by our other interviews of suspects—including the revelation of vital clues—will have to be imparted to you in some other fashion, probably a banal, unexciting one.

(
Brandy to Mother
:
All right. You can have another chapter, but on two conditions.
)

(Mother to Brandy: The first being?)

(Brandy to Mother: There will be a chapter of mine between your two.)

(Mother to Brandy: Excellent idea, dear! Variety is the spice of life, to coin a phrase. Let the reader’s suspense build in anticipation of returning to my narrative stream.)

(Brandy to Mother: I was thinking more along the lines of giving the reader a break.)

(Mother to Brandy: Very droll, dear. And the other condition?)

(Brandy to Mother: Enough already with the silly emoticons.)

(Mother to Brandy: You do drive a hard bargain, dear, but I accept. :p Last one, I promise.)

(Editor to Vivian and Brandy: Have the pencils arrived yet?)

 

Shop owners should periodically rearrange existing merchandise, which allows customers to discover something they may have missed on their previous visit. But no matter where we move it, Mother’s autographed photo of Sonny Tufts just never attracts a buyer.

Chapter Seven

Chop Chop

I
t was approaching lunchtime when I parted with park ranger Eddie in front of the jail, feeling more convinced than ever that Joe Lange had not killed Bruce Spring. Clearly Joe had come upon the producer dead, and then gone into combat-related post-traumatic shock, picking up the ax reflexively.

I got into my car, looking forward to an egg-salad sandwich (so simple, so good), when I spotted Mother several blocks away, walking briskly toward Main Street. She had a spring in her step and determination in her jaw, and God help the good people of Serenity. And the bad ones.

She must have finished with her interview at the police station, and was now about to unleash herself upon the unfortunates on her suspect list. I might have offered her a lift, or joined in on her interviews, but
she
was the self-styled sleuth, not me. I was just a woman who had a date with an egg sal’ san’.

I pointed the Buick’s nose homeward, and was cruising through a green light when a Lincoln Town Car ran the red and nearly sideswiped me. (I would use an emoticon here, but I have my standards.)

At large in the large Lincoln was our attorney of record, Wayne Ekhardt, his head barely visible above the steering wheel. It might have been a chimp driving. If that image wasn’t disturbing enough, the elderly lawyer continued on through the intersection, unfazed, apparently not realizing his near miss (no such thing as a near miss—they’re all near
hits!
).

I made a mental note to make sure in future to build some time/distance into Mother’s schedule and mine, whenever she had the ancient barrister in the mix.

By the time I was tooling along Mulberry, one of the main arteries from the downtown to home, my heart (speaking of arteries) had found its way back inside my chest and slowed to a normal beat.

I began thinking about that sandwich again, with its diced celery, hot-and-sour mustard, salt and pepper, and just enough mayonnaise (
not
Miracle Whip) to hold the chopped eggs together. And, on the side, locally produced Sterzing’s potato chips and tiny gherkin sweet pickles. Ah, life’s simple pleasures....

Salivating, I was a block from home when I spotted the red Toyota.

Just up ahead, it was parked at the curb on the right, across from our house and down a little. I slowed, pulled over, then eased up behind it, all the while fumbling for my phone in my purse.

I threw the car in park, jumped out, and snapped a picture of the car’s back plate. Then, faster than you could say “gotcha,” scurried to the driver’s side and grabbed a second photo, this time of the driver.

He was a squat, balding, puffy-looking guy puffing on a cigar, with smoke about the color of his five o’clock shadow trailing out the open window. He hadn’t seen me until I was right in his face, which startled him into dropping the cigar in his lap. He did a squirmy little seated dance, trying to recover it.

Around fifty, froggy-looking, wearing a tan raincoat, he used thick fingers to retrieve the cigar, then growled, “Hey! What the hell’s the idea?”

“You tell me,” I said through tight teeth. I was shaking a little, half of it anger, the other half fear. “Who are you? What are you doing parked across from my house?”

He stuck the cigar in his mouth and spoke around it. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t you? Why are you hanging around here?”

His voice was rough-edged but he was at least as nervous as I was. “I can park where I want, however long I want. Last time I looked it was a free country.”

I showed him my teeth and it was less a smile and more like the way Rocky looked at suspicious passers-by. “You just stay away from me, and my
mother,
and my
son,
and our
house
.”

“I have friends in this neighborhood. I don’t know who you are, lady, or what you’re talking about.”

“Maybe I should just call my boyfriend and have him check you and your story out.”

“My
story?
” He laughed roughly, but his eyes were jumpy. “So call your boyfriend already. Am I supposed to be scared? What, is he a bodybuilder or something?”

“No, he’s the chief of police.”

No laughter now.

“You are way out of line,” he said. “You are imagining things. Me being around here has nothing to do with you.”

I raised a finger. Not a middle one or anything. I’m much too ladylike for that. It was more like a teacher gesturing for silence in the classroom.

“Fine,” I said. “But remember—I’ve got pictures of you and your car. Just in case I catch you stalking us again.”

I didn’t give him a chance to respond, just trotted back to the Buick, got behind the wheel, and sat there staring until Froggy and his Toyota pulled away. I watched the red car recede as he put several blocks between us, then disappeared down a side street.

Had I done the right thing by confronting the guy? Or should I have gone straight to Brian? There had been an ax murder, after all. What if Froggy had had a gun? Or an ax? Of course, it’s tough chopping somebody up when you are behind the wheel of a car and they’re leaning in like a crazed carhop.

Anyway, what was done, was done.

At home I found Jake and Roger back from their shopping trip, seated at the dining room table, chatting over cans of Coke Zero.

“Hey, Mom,” Jake said when he saw me. “Where have you been? And where’s Grandma, anyway?”

I took the chair next to my son. “We both had errands downtown,” I said, keeping it nicely vague. “Grandma won’t be back for a while.”

“Is she off playin’
Murder, She Wrote
again?”

I smirked. “Well, she’s ‘off,’ anyway.”

Looking casual in a light blue polo, Roger kept his tone breezy though his forehead was creased with concern. “Everything all right?”

“Sure. Why not?”

“You look a little . . . tense.”

I guess the showdown outside had stayed with me.

“Yeah, Mom,” Jake said. “You seem kinda wound up.”

I managed a smile. Tried to relax. “Everything’s cool.”

Jake took a swig of soda. “What’s for lunch? We’re starving.”

“I was thinking egg salad sandwiches,” I said, not giving it much of a sell job, since Froggy had killed my appetite.

Jake crinkled his nose. “Ick. I had eggs for breakfast. Anyway, egg salad is all cold and stuff.”

Playing peacemaker, Roger said, “Well, it sounds good to me. Your mom has a great egg salad recipe.”

“Let her save it for her bridge club or something,” Jake said.

I had never played bridge in my life, but my son had made his point.

“Okay,” I said. “But I don’t have the fixings for much of anything else.”

Jake shot forward in his chair. “I
got
it! It’s really, really nice out. Let’s go on a picnic to Wild Cat Den.”

Without realizing it, my son had set in motion a monster that no one in heaven nor on earth could stop. He had done what Zeus had advised so strongly against—he had released the Kraken.

Sushi.

Having heard the words “go,” and “Wild Cat Den”—where I so frequently took her on hikes—she was out from beneath the table, dancing frantically and yipping wildly, as if possessed by a benign strain of rabies.

Roger had a wide-eyed, just-sat-on-a-tack look. “What’s with Sushi?”

I explained, a monologue accompanied by an interpretive dance courtesy of the shih tzu.

“Now we’ll
have
to go,” Jake said, laughing devilishly, causing trouble on purpose by repeating the “g” word. “But what about Rocky?”

The bigger canine remained stretched out in a puddle of sunshine, oblivious to Sushi’s dance of the seven wails.

Roger smirked. “Maybe the big guy only reacts to words like
attack
or
kill
.”

At which Rocky
did
lift his head.

“We’ll take him, too,” I said. “He could use the exercise.”

And it wouldn’t be bad to have a police dog along, in case (despite my warning) Froggy again came a-courting.

Soon, dressed for hiking, we piled into the Hummer, Rocky in back with Jake, Sushi on my lap in the front passenger’s seat. The size of the vehicle made me feel like we were launching an assault.

Our first beachhead was the drive-through window of KFC, to secure boxed lunches. I reminded everyone that the late colonel was now offering a healthier choice by way of grilled chicken, after which we all selected either Original or Extra Crispy (who says picnic food should be healthy?).

Then, with the food smells turning both Sushi and Rocky manic, we were heading northward out of town along the River Road on a sunny but crisp afternoon, too late in the season for the fall colors to be anything but muted, but lovely nonetheless.

After fifteen minutes we turned left at the well-worn park sign and once again I was gazing at the old grist mill on my right, which somehow hadn’t changed a bit since this morning.

As we cruised by Eddie’s cabin on the left, Sushi gave a sharp yap. Although blind, she knew very well where we were, and as Eddie always gave her a treat when we stopped by, the little mutt always expected one.

Eddie’s truck was parked in the drive, but I lied to Sushi as follows: “She’s not home, honey.”

Sushi swiveled her furry head my way, fixing her milky white eyes on me with the intensity of Medusa, her jaw jutting as if her inner lie detector had sensed the subtle shifts in my breathing and heart rate. I felt a little guilty, but was not about to ask Roger to go back so I could knock on the ranger’s door to request a doggie treat.

Then we were driving through the park’s entrance, its long, steel gate swung wide, indicating the playground was open. In another minute we came to a fork in the road with one prong leading onward, the other upward, the park being laid out on two levels.

Seasoned hikers would go onward and to the left, to park their vehicles before starting their hike at the bottom, choosing one of several paths of varying levels of difficulty, all leading to the top. Those who preferred an easier go of it would drive upward and to the right, and let gravity assist them as they hiked downward.

But either way, there came a time when hikers realized that their transportation was at the other end of the journey. At that point it was nice to have several people in your party so that a victim, that is,
volunteer
could retrieve your vehicle.

I suggested to Roger that we go to the lower level, and he complied, following the road to an open area of park benches and tables and grilling pits. Despite the nice day, this late in the season there were only a few others in the picnic area—several teenagers, skipping class from either high school or community college, hard at work throwing a frisbee, and a family with two kids both under five sitting on a spread-out blanket having a home-packed lunch, while a couple sprawled as far as possible away from the rest on their own blanket, looking at each other with good-natured lust, probably wishing those others weren’t around.

We parked next to an empty table in a nice sunny spot, and got out, letting the dogs run free. When they were capering at enough of a distance for us to risk divvying up the food, we did so and dug in, the conversation light and fun, Jake teasing me by telling “dumb blonde” jokes, Roger trying to top him, and me doing my best to pretend to be offended.

Here’s one of Jake’s: “On a hot summer day, a blonde who looked a lot like Mom was painting her garage wearing a fur coat over a denim jacket. Because the instructions said, ‘For best results, put on two coats.’ ”

Here’s one of Roger’s: “If a blonde and a brunette fell off a high building, who would hit the pavement first? The brunette. The blonde would have to stop and ask for directions.”

I’m sure to anybody else out enjoying this late-in-the-season sunny day, we looked like the perfect, happy family. And, for the moment, I guess we were.

Sushi and Rocky got wise and came back for a taste or two of chicken, then wandered off on the lush green grass to sniff and leave reminders to other dogs of just who had been out here today. I wasn’t nervous about losing track of them—both were good about responding to my voice, and Rocky was staying protectively close to Soosh.

But Jake started getting nervous, with both dogs out of sight. Depositing the remains of his box lunch into the big KFC sack, he said, “Come on, you guys! Let’s get a move on.”

I took a final bite of coleslaw, then we gathered our trash, stuffed it into that big sack, and made a donation to a garbage can a few yards away.

At the base of the hill were three separate hiking paths, which visitors to Wild Cat Den soon got to know as belonging to the following categories: “Difficult,” a steep, rocky climb upward; “Not as difficult,” a combination of steep and gradual; and “Pathetic,” a meandering trail a little less treacherous than a wheelchair ramp.

We had barely started out when I allayed Jake’s worries by calling for the two dogs, who came running, tongues lolling, their happy faces filled with outdoor ecstasy. Wouldn’t it be sweet if humans could experience such simple joy?

Sushi was already heading up the “not as difficult” path, which was the one she and I normally took. That held the park’s beloved scenic attractions: Steamboat Rock (a boulder shaped like the prow of a ship); Fat Man’s Squeeze (a narrow fissure in the bluff wall that was a shortcut upward for the slender hiker); and the Devil’s Punch Bowl (a craterlike hole that oozed a pink toxic-looking goo).

Before long, I was huffing and puffing—either I was ready for the pathetic path, or I’d had too much Colonel Sanders (at least I hadn’t ordered a “Famous Bowl,” that heap of gravy, mashed potatoes, corn, breaded chicken, and cheese described so memorably by Patton Oswalt as “a failure pile in a sadness bowl”).