Antiques Slay Ride by Barbara Allan Read Free Book Online Page B

doorstops?”
    â€œOh yes.” And my next comment reflected information I had that I haven’t shared with you yet; if you want fair play, go to bingo at your local church. “Is it there?”
    Mother shook her head, and stood abruptly. “Shhh . . . he’s coming back.” Then, “Follow my lead.”
    Those three words coming from Mother never failed to chill me to the bone.
    Since Sushi was squirming in my arms, I looked for a place to sit down unoccupied by bears, then selected a straight-back Hitchcock next to the tree. I slipped out of my coat, letting it huddle around my shoulders, and settled the pooch on my lap.
    Lyle, having returned with a silver tray holding three tumblers of creamy liquid, smiled. “I thought we all might as well have something to drink with the cookies.”
    Setting the tray gently on the edge of a collectibles-arrayed table, he moved a gaggle of Christmas geese off a settee, and he and Mother sat there.
    Mother, fully recovered from her fake fainting spell, removed the plastic wrap from the cookies, and offered him one.
    Lyle selected a tree-shaped cookie, took a bite, and closed his eyes. “Say, these are wonderful.”
    Now it was Mother who beamed. “Thank you.”
    I guessed if I wanted something, I’d have to get it myself. Even if I had been the one to actually bake and frost the cookies.
    Mother patted Lyle’s knee. “Now, dear—about why we’re here. Why we’re really here, I mean.”
    Lyle, who had finished one cookie and was on to the next, was nodding. “Bernie Watkins,” he managed with his mouth full.
    Mother appeared surprised. “Quite right. You have heard then? About the terrible tragedy?”
    Nodding again, he swallowed. “I heard about it on the radio. And I’ve spoken to that Bo-Bo individual several times today.”
    â€œReally?”
    Lyle brushed crumbs from his lap. “Most recently, this afternoon. He called to say that my offer for his stepfather’s Christmas collectibles wasn’t high enough. That I had competition.”
    â€œDo tell!”
    â€œDon’t play possum, Vivian. He said your daughter came around and offered to top my prices.”
    â€œWell, your quotes were rather . . . what is that crude term? Lowball.”
    Lyle shrugged, then sipped his eggnog. “I didn’t care for his manner. So I told him I was no longer interested.”
    Mother frowned. “Why is that?”
    â€œEarlier this afternoon, I spoke to Sheriff Rudder, who knew that I’d done some business with Bernie . . . and I came to understand that my late friend had most likely been murdered.” He shivered.
    â€œAnd this was enough to put you off on the collectibles his stepson was offering?”
    â€œThat’s right. I told that dreadful Bo-Bo character that I didn’t want anything to do with ‘blood antiques.’ ”
    Mother nodded. “Always dangerous, dealing in ill-begotten gains.”
    â€œAnd you know what he said to that?” Lyle asked aghast. “ ‘Only the sleigh has any blood on it.’ ”
    Mother tsk-tsked, then said, “I most certainly understand, dear boy. But, be that as it may, I thought you might still have an interest in Bernie’s Coca-Cola Santa doorstop.”
    Lyle stiffened, his eyes narrowed. “Why would you think that?”
    â€œWell, firstly,” she answered matter-of-factly, “it’s an extremely rare collectible that Coca-Cola commissioned Haddon Sundblom—the creator of their Coke-swilling Santa—to design in 1931, only for distributors . . . and precious few examples survived the scrap metal drive during the Second World War.”
    Lyle shifted nervously beside her.
    â€œAnd secondly,” Mother continued, “while the doorstop is on the inventory list you compiled for Mr. Ekhardt last Wednesday it’s missing from the one you gave to Tanya and