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

seen Andy chopping wood around the time of the murder, when Andy was supposed to be fishing . . . and shortly before the ax went missing.” Her eyes wandered back to the painting. “Of course, then my testimony blew that nonsense out of the water. Or muddied it, at least.” Who was telling the truth? After so many years, did even Mother know? An impressionable girl, perhaps with a crush on an older boy, might make herself believe anything.
    The patio doors opened, signaling our hosts had concluded their confab.
    “We’ve decided that you may lease the house,” Sarah announced, smiling.
    Andrew’s steely expression seemed to state otherwise, but no words emerged from him to contradict his sister.
    Sarah raised a finger. “But understand, Vivian, Brandy . . . any renovations or expenses to the property will be your responsibility.”
    “But of course!” Mother responded. “As a matter of fact, the show’s producer has a budget for improvement.”
    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.
     
    A Trash ‘n’ Treasures Tip
     
    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