Antiques Chop (A Trash 'n' Treasures Mystery) by Barbara Allan Read Free Book Online

courthouse and—”
    “Yes,” they interrupted simultaneously, “we heard.” (In case you didn’t: the nincompoops sought a modern building with air-conditioning.)
    Mother looked a little miffed. She leaned forward, put her elbows on the table, tenting her hands. “Well here’s something you don’t know—because it just happened a few short hours ago . . .”
    A nice segue to the purpose of our visit. Had she been heading here all the while? She really was, in her way, a fine actress.
    “. . . Vivian and Brandy Borne are going to have their very own reality television show.”
    This brought a gasp from Sarah, and raised eyebrows from Andrew.
    “Look out, Guy Fieri!” Mother shouted. “Make way, Kardashian clan!”
    Andrew seemed confused by this news, but Sarah gushed, “How marvelous! But how did this happen? Is it because of your notoriety in solving murder mysteries as of late?”
    So they knew about that, too.
    “Partially,” I said, beating Mother to the punch, hoping to apply the best spin. “But it’s mostly because of our interest in antiques.”
    “Yes,” Mother jumped in, “we quite often ‘solve the mystery’ ”—she made air quotes—“of an antique’s pedigree. What is the darn thing? Is it trash, is it treasure? Where did it come from? When was it made? How much is it worth? The show will be called Antiques Sleuths . . . isn’t that clever?”
    Both Andrew and Sarah nodded, smiling, perhaps politely, but smiling nonetheless.
    Mother’s frown struck me as a little too studied, or anyway the forefinger she edged alongside her face did. “There’s only one problem,” she continued, “which is finding just the right location for the show, and for our new antiques business.”
    “You see,” I explained, “if the pilot doesn’t sell, we’ll still want to stay in that location.”
    “And carry on, ” Mother said, back to her faux Brit accent.
    I said, “We need somewhere quaint, with a lot of color and character—an interesting local location for the show and our shop.”
    Sarah was nodding pleasantly, but Andrew had narrowed his eyes—something dark passed over his face.
    “You want to use the old family house,” he said flatly.
    Mother shook her head, as if saying no, but her words contradicted the gesture: “Well, of course that had crossed our minds, Andy, dear . . . being located near Pearl City Plaza, and all of the other antiques stores! That would be ideal.”
    Andrew’s sky-blue eyes turned ice blue. “Not possible.”
    Sarah touched his arm. “Now, Andrew . . . don’t be hasty. The house is vacant at the moment.” She added enigmatically, “After all, we are in Vivian’s debt.”
    Andrew pushed back his chair, stood. “No. That structure is nothing but a reminder of everything I’ve spent a lifetime trying to forget. Nothing good has ever come of it or from it. Vivian, Brandy, I’m afraid you’re too late. I’ve already made my mind up to have it torn down.”
    Sarah gazed up at her brother with eyes as soft as his were hard. “Andy, dear,” she said gently. “It’s half my house, too.”
    Her brother said nothing, glancing away.
    Then Sarah said to Mother and me, “Would you mind waiting inside?”
    Abandoning our tea, we left the siblings to determine the fate of our store’s location. And our show’s.
    In front of the fireplace, Mother studied the Warhol painting.
    “What’s so special about high heels?” she asked. “I could’ve painted that in my sleep.”
    “Mother?”
    “Yes, dear?” She was still studying the painting the way a dog watches TV.
    “What do Andrew and Sarah have against Samuel Wright?”
    Mother tore herself away from the Warhol. She lowered her voice and for once underacted: “He was the main witness for the prosecution at the trial—although a hostile one, being a close pal of Andy’s. Of all of ours.”
    I whispered, “What information did Wright have that was useful to the prosecution?”
    “That he had