Antiques Chop (A Trash 'n' Treasures Mystery) (5 page)

There was an awkward silence, after which a glum Andrew said, even more awkwardly, “I suppose you’ll want a key.”

“Yes, thank you, thank you, my dear friends,” Mother said, no longer underplaying. “You won’t regret this!”

“I hope not,” Andrew said, and went back out on the veranda.

 

 

To ensure repeat customers, stock your antiques store with unique merchandise. I suppose Mother’s dress shield autographed by Frank Sinatra qualifies.

Chapter Three

Chopped Liver

S
hortly after arriving home from our afternoon visit with the Butterworths—and while Jake was taking both dogs out for a walk—I used the landline on the little table near the kitchen so that Mother, getting ready to prepare dinner, could overhear my call.

“Hello, Mrs. Lange,” I said. “It’s Brandy.”

There was a pause while the woman processed my name. Then: “Why, Brandy, how nice to hear from you!” She was a plump, pleasant widow of about sixty who reminded me of Aunt Bea in the old Andy Griffin reruns.

(
Vivian to Editor
:
Brandy has gone and done it again! Confused poor Andy with Merv!
)

(
Editor to Vivian
:
We’ll change it in the editing process.)

(
Vivian to Editor
:
I hope so. We can’t afford to alienate any more readers. But I do wish we had an actual Merv Griffin reference in the book—I did so love those wonderful sportcoat linings he liked to show off
!)

Mrs. Lange was saying, “Joe will be thrilled that you’ve called, Brandy. I’ll get him—he’s upstairs.”

Joe, an only child and self-styled oddball, had been a friend since high school when we were thrown together as lab partners in biology class, and I had to learn to either tolerate his nerdy eccentricities or throw him out a window.

“Before you do,” I said quickly, “do you mind if I ask . . . is he back on his meds?”

Joe had served in the Middle East and came back traumatized. He went to the same mental health clinic as Mother and me, but come summer, he had a bad habit of going off his meds. He would put on his old fatigues, pack up his survivalist gear, and go live in a cave at Wild Cat Den State Park until fall (ostensibly protecting the hikers and picnickers from terrorists). Occasionally he would sneak home at night to collect food left out by his mother.

Mrs. Lange, relief in her voice, said, “Oh, yes, I’m happy to say that Joe’s back on his medication again.”

“That’s nice.”

A relief is what it was.

I gave a thumbs-up to Mother, who was stirring batter in a mixing bowl, and she nodded, giving me the go-ahead.

“Mrs. Lange,” I said, “the reason I’m calling is that Mother and I have some work for him to do for us—a bit of remodeling.”

“Well, that’s wonderful! He does so need to get out of the house.”

Meaning
she
needed him to get out of the house.

Mrs. Lange continued. “There
is
one small issue, though. . . .”

I waited. How bad could it be? Actually, fairly bad—like the time he knocked me in the noggin out at Wild Cat Den, mistaking me for a terrorist.

“The pills haven’t
quite
taken full effect,” she said. “He’s still talking, well . . . military.”

“Not a problem,” I assured her. I had gotten quite good at deciphering his Marine-speak. Even fully medicated, Joe would sometimes ask a waitress the ETA (estimated time of arrival) of a cheeseburger.

I asked her to call him to the phone.

A full minute passed before Joe’s baritone voice barked, “Lange here.”

With little fanfare, I filled my friend in on the pending reality TV pilot show, and how we wanted to use the old Butterworth home, but that repairs would be necessary. Which was where he came in.

“You’ll be paid, of course,” I concluded. “Are you interested?”

“Affirmative.”

“Civilian clothes.”

“Negatory.”

“Come on, Joe. Consider it a spy mission.”

“They shoot spies. Khakis mandatory.”

This was Joe
on
his meds, huh?

“Okay . . . but leave the artillery at home.”

“Affirmative.” Then: “Coordinates?”

I gave him the address, and told him to be there in the morning at nine, when the show’s producer and cameraman would be doing a walk-through.

“Roger,” he said. “Oh-nine-hundred.”

The phone clicked dead.

I wandered into the kitchen, wondering if I’d done the right thing in contacting Joe. Despite Sushi’s pedigree, I had a bad habit of taking in strays—Rocky a case in point. I perched on a red 1950s step stool to watch Mother bake cookies, like I was still just a little kid.

Mother was Danish, but there was some Norwegian in there as well, and this recipe was her nod to them.