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

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.
    NORSK SMAA BROD
    (old Norwegian Cookies)

    BATTER:
    ½ cup butter
1 cup sugar
2 eggs
4 tbsp. sweet cream
3½ cups sifted flour
1 tsp. soda
1 tsp. cinnamon
¼ tsp. ginger
1 tsp. vanilla
1 cup raisins, chopped
     
    GLAZE:
    1 egg white, beaten
4 tbsp. sugar
5 tbsp. shredded almonds
1 tbsp. cream
1 tsp. cinnamon

    Cream butter and sugar. Add eggs and cream, beating well. Add flour sifted with soda and spices. Then add vanilla and lastly, chopped raisins. Chill thoroughly. When ready to bake, roll small pieces of dough into pencil-slim lengths to form circles. Spread glaze over top of cookies. Bake 12 minutes at 350 degrees. Makes five to six dozen.
     
    Mother always made some of the cookies with chocolate chips, because little Brandy didn’t like raisins, no matter how finely chopped (ditto for big Brandy), but she did so reluctantly, saying this substitution was a slap in the face to good Norwegians everywhere. (Sorry, Norwegians, but I’m a chocolate gal. Anyway, the weather in Norway is so cold, the occasional slap might be beneficial.)
    While Mother readied what she called her “trademark pot roast” for dinner (not worth a recipe), I set the antique Duncan Phyfe table in the dining room with our green-jade (is that redundant?) Fire King dishes. I loved the large plates, which had raised surfaces to keep the foods separated, just like the plastic ones in our old picnic basket.
    ( Vivian to Editor : There is nothing wrong with my pot roast! Brandy is out of line disparaging this dish, which won first prize at the 2009 Iowa State Fair .)
    ( Brandy to Editor : It won, all right . . . after person or persons unknown doused all the other entries with Tabasco sauce .)
    ( Vivian to Brandy : I resent your insinuation, and would remind you that we have slander laws in this country.)
    ( Brandy to Vivian : In a print work, it’s libel, not slander, and anyway the truth is the best defense.)
    ( Editor to Vivian and Brandy : Ladies, we’ve been down this road before—no more authorial discord. Write any comments you might have about each other in pencil in the margins of the copyedited manuscript—not in the body of the work. Unfortunately, in the last book, such squabbling made you both look foolish.)
    ( Brandy to Editor : Point well taken.)
    ( Vivian to Editor : A No. 2 pencil?)
    I prepared my contribution to