Antiques Slay Ride by Barbara Allan Read Free Book Online

fabulous mansions overlooking the Mississippi. Some very rich folks still live there, though it’s more of a mix now, and not all of the homes have been well maintained. Lyle’s home fell somewhere in the upper reaches of that spectrum.
    I didn’t know Lyle all that well, despite our occasional encounters at area auctions; but, of course, Mother knew him better, and filled me in on the way over.
    â€œI would say Lyle is a man of perhaps fifty-five or -six or -seven or -eight,” she said.
    â€œA man in his fifties, then.”
    â€œIsn’t that what I said, dear? He was always something of a momma’s boy, and I don’t think he ventures out of the family manse very often for anything other than his antiquing quests.”
    â€œSo he doesn’t work or anything?”
    â€œOh, no, dear. He had a substantial inheritance. I’ve been meaning to arrange a viewing of what I understand are considerably impressive displays of his various collecting passions. But, lately, after our auction run-ins . . .”
    â€œYou called him a ‘horrible little man,’ remember?”
    â€œYes, but I meant that only in a positive sense. Everyone can benefit from a soupçon of constructive criticism.”
    â€œReally? Then why did we drop the Serenity Sentinel ?”
    â€œPish posh,” Mother said.
    Is that a thing? Pish posh? Somebody please write in and tell me.
    I pulled the Buick into the drive of the imposing Renaissance Revival mansion, parking beneath a covered portico. Mother and I got out, me lugging Sushi under my coat (she’d thrown a mini-fit when we started to leave again) (single mothers spoil their children), Mother carrying the plate of cookies.
    We stood for a moment in the frosty air, admiring the cube-shaped structure silhouetted against a night sky, admiring too its smooth stone walls, wide eaves, and ornately trimmed windows buttressed by columns, which gave the old place a palatial feel. We were visiting Serenity antiquing royalty.
    Mother’s eyes shone as brightly as the stars (granted, the stars never carried that maniacal gleam).
    â€œWhy, I’m as giddy as a schoolgirl,” she said. “To think that I may finally, actually see the inside of the Humphrey home!”
    â€œOne to check off on the ol’ bucket list.”
    We climbed the wide cement steps, Mother singing “Master of the House,” Sushi whining her objection. I hated that song, too (we were a divided family on the subject of Les Miz ).
    Mother approached the imposing door, studied it like Scrooge seeing Marley’s face on the knocker, then, extending her arm straight, rang the bell.
    We waited. My mind played the tune Jeopardy does when the contestants are writing out their answers.
    She rang again.
    And again we waited. Dum, dum, dum, dum, dum, dum dum . . . or was that dumb ?
    â€œNot home,” I said.
    â€œNonsense. I saw a curtain ruffle out of the corner of my eye.”
    Even with glaucoma, the corners of her eyes were twenty-twenty.
    The next ding-dong brought results, Lyle apparently having reached the conclusion—as had so many Serenity residents before him—that Vivian Borne was not going away.
    â€œVivian,” he acknowledged with a bland little smile, then politely nodded to me. He clearly didn’t know my name, despite our various auction encounters.
    The childlike chubby man wore a navy silk smoking jacket over a white shirt with no tie, dark slacks, and slippers, looking like a boy playing dress-up in his father’s clothes. Assuming there were still fathers around who wore silk smoking jackets.
    â€œMerry Christmas, Lyle,” Mother said cheerfully, extending the plate of cookies. “My daughter, Brandy, and I were just thinking about our various friends, as one tends to do at this time of year, and remembered that on our last meeting—at that Wilton auction—we may have come off a trifle . . .