Antiques Chop (A Trash 'n' Treasures Mystery) (14 page)

Roger, who had regularly worked out at a health club during our marriage and apparently still did, hadn’t broken one bead of sweat. And Jake was already way ahead of us, keeping pace with the dogs.

At Steamboat Rock, Roger gave me a knowing little grin. “Need a break?”

“No,” I said, stopping, putting my hands on my knees. “I think I’d like to die standing up.”

He took me by the arm and walked me to a weathered wooden bench just off the path.

“Are you working out at all?” he asked.

“Sure.”

“What exercise regimen are you on?”

“The one where I sort my closet every three months. How else do you think I got this muscle tone?”

He chuckled. I could always make him laugh. At least up to where my behavior hadn’t been all that funny.

“So,” I said, no longer winded, “how’s business going, anyway? Just making conversation here—no underlying alimony agenda.”

That got a smile, not a laugh, out of him. No man finds alimony
really
funny....

“Pretty good,” he said.

“Even with the down economy?”

“Even with the down economy,” he said, nodding. “Good enough, matter of fact, that I’m thinking about opening an office here in Serenity. There’s been a void locally ever since Bob’s business went under.”

Bob was the late husband of Peggy Sue, my sister (actually, my biological mother, for those keeping score).

I said, “Makes sense. Serenity has its share of wealthy types who like the personal touch.”

“That was my take on it. Anyway, if it works out, it could be a branch office where Jake could get his start, and be close to his mom.”

“Really?”

He shrugged. “I’m just hoping that someday he’ll take over the firm.”

Don’t count on it,
I thought.
Math was never Jake’s strong suit
.

But I said, “Well, that’s thoughtful. Really nice. Very sweet.”

Roger was scuffing at the gravel and dirt with a running-shoe toe as he too casually asked, “Are you, uh, seeing anyone?”

“Well . . . I’ve been dating Brian Lawson again.”

“Ah. I remember him. Is he the chief of police now that that Cassato character is gone?”

“Brian’s the acting chief, but I think he’ll get the permanent job one of these days.”

“Going well between you two?”

“It had been, but, well . . . things get a little strained, from time to time, with Mother’s ‘sleuthing.’ ” I shook my head. “Brian gets frustrated with my inability to restrain her. And how I sometimes get caught up in her machinations myself.”

He smirked. “I can relate.”

“And you, Roger? Are you still with, uh, what’s-her-name?”

“I think that’s run its course,” he said, trying to make it sound like no big deal. “I didn’t know you knew about Lori. Got it from Jake, I suppose.”

I nodded. “But not in great detail. She younger than me?”

“Older.”

“Ah. You were trying for somebody a little more mature this time around. That was sound thinking. I mean, you’d already had a young, raving beauty.”

He grinned. “You don’t let up, do you? Well, Lori is very pretty. And very nice, very sweet.”

“Then what was wrong with her? I got it! She was just after your money.”

“No, she’s actually very well fixed.”

“Oh. So then, she isn’t very smart, huh? Looks and loot but a dummy. So sad.”

“She’s a lawyer.”

The only thing I could think of was: “
Jake
didn’t like her?”

“No, they get along.”

I shrugged. “Then I don’t get it. What was missing?”

“I already told you.” He leaned toward me, brushed a strand of hair out of my face. “She wasn’t any fun.”

“Define fun.”

He thought a moment. “Well, she never would have served hot dogs to important clients of mine.”

“That was pigs-in-a-blanket,” I corrected. “An old Borne family recipe, and anyway, I’d forgotten you’d invited them. Besides, they loved them!”

“Lori’s a great lady. But you? You make me laugh.”

“I do, huh?”

His face was inches from mine.

I kissed him. He kissed me back. It was just a tender little thing that lasted maybe five seconds. But my heart was racing like I hadn’t stopped hiking.

“That’s another thing,” Roger said. “No spontaneity.”

“Lori, you mean.”

“Lori,” he said, and he kissed me.

This one lasted a little longer and things were heating up. That was when I said something that cooled us off.

“I guess I had too much spontaneity,” I said.

I was referring to my one-night stand with an old high school flame at my ten-year class reunion. For what it’s worth, many a night had been spent crying into my pillow about that big, damn, stupid mistake.

Roger said softly, “I forgave you for that a long time ago.”

“You never said.”

He leaned back against the bench. Sighed. “Well. Maybe not forgive, exactly . . . more like, I understand it. We were at different points in our life—you, young and wanting to have fun. Me, older and ready to settle down into boring middle age. I only wish . . . nothing.”

“What? Tell me, Roger.”

“I only wish that you’d
told
me something was wrong.”

I said, “I didn’t know myself.” I shook my head, my hair bouncing everywhere. “Not till it was too late.” Then I took his hand and looked right into his eyes. “It’s not an excuse, Roger. What I did to you—and Jake—was reprehensible, and I get sick to my stomach when I think about it.”

His smile was small but it was there. “Then we won’t talk any more about it.”

We fell silent.

Then Roger said, “By the way . . . that was a selfless thing you did for your friend, and I’m very proud of you.”

Not long ago I’d been a surrogate mother for my BFF Tina (who’d had cervical cancer) and her husband, Kevin.

Roger squeezed my hand. Then we kissed again.

Could
we get back together? Would it work this time? Or did I just want him to take care of me?

Hadn’t I learned by now that the only person who could really take care of me was me?

“Hey, you guys!” Jake said, wearing a very self-satisfied smirk. “Chop, chop! I thought we were goin’ on a hike.” He was standing a few yards up the path, the dogs circling around him like he was an embattled wagon train and they were Indians.

Roger and I pulled apart, embarrassed.

Jake jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “I’ve been waitin’ forever for you guys up at Fat Man’s Squeeze.”

“Okay,” I said, “we’re coming.”

Roger’s cell phone buzz-vibrated in his pocket.

“Come on, Dad!” Jake whined. “No business, you
promised!
”

My ex, who was frowning, checked the caller. “Sorry, son, I’ve just got to take this.”

But the signal wasn’t strong enough.

“Look,” I said, “why don’t you go back down to the clearing. You might get a better signal down there. And, uh . . . while you’re down there—”

“Bring the Hummer around to the top?”

I shrugged. “Why should we all suffer? If we aren’t waiting by the time you get there, meet us at the Bowl.”

Not the Sadness Bowl—the Devil’s Punch Bowl.

Cell in hand, Roger went back down the path, and I started upward with Jake. But maybe three minutes later, I tired of the steep climb, and got to thinking about how well Roger and I had been connecting.

“Look, I’m gonna go keep your dad company,” I told Jake. “See you and the dogs at the Punch Bowl.”

“Okay,” he said with an evil grin, “but don’t you two do anything in public you can get arrested for.”

“Try not.”

I retreated, my feet lighter now, my journey going downhill but my spirits rising.

Through the trees, I could see Roger at the bottom, walking briskly.

And I stopped in my tracks.

Because he was approaching a familiar vehicle, and it wasn’t his Hummer.

Rather, a red Toyota.

I stood frozen there, watching, agape as Roger withdrew his wallet and handed a pile of green money to the cigar-puffing Froggy.

I retreated, quickly catching up with Jake.

A short time later, after Jake, our canine contingent, and I met up with Roger at the Bowl, I said nothing about what I had seen. I kept things light, if not affectionate.

Funny thing—only Sushi sensed something was wrong. On the ride back she didn’t yap when we drove by the park ranger’s cabin, and instead of facing forward on my lap, she curled toward me, her furry head resting on my chest.

At home, no sign yet of Mother. Jake disappeared upstairs, and I went into the kitchen.

At the sink, as I drew a glass of water, Roger came up behind me, and put his arms around my waist.

Without turning, I said, “So. You hired a private detective?”

He dropped his arms.

I turned.

Looking sheepish, he said, “A bodyguard. Somebody my company uses for background checks in Chicago.”

“So you’re checking my background now?”

“No. Don’t be silly.
You’re
a parent.”

“Why, yes, I am.”

“Then try to see it from my side. That was the call I got at the park—my guy thought he should split, since you—you know . . .”

“Your guy thought. After I confronted him. After he scared me and Mother and Jake. So you paid him off and sent him packing. Some pretty clumsy talent you got there back in the Windy City.”

His eyes were moist. “Please. Brandy, please . . .”

Coldly I said, “You didn’t trust Jake in my care.”

He gestured with one hand. “It wasn’t a matter of trust. . . .”

“What
was
it then?”

He shrugged; his eyes were tight, his forehead furrowed. “Just with these damn murders you and your mother have got involved in, it seemed like the responsible thing for a parent to do. You do understand, don’t you?”

I did, actually. All too well.

He added, a little defensively, “And as it turns out, I was
right
to take that precaution. There
was
another murder. My God, it’s crazy in this lousy little town! It’s the apocalypse around here!”

Good place to open a branch office in the investment game.

I said, “Was it Jake who first told you about Bruce Spring’s murder?”

He shook his head. “My guy.”

Of course. Which explained how and why Roger arrived in Serenity so fast.

“How mad at me are you?” he asked, rather pitifully. “I was only thinking of you and Jake.”

“I’m not mad.”

Disappointed, saddened. It was no fun to be deceived. I’d taught him that. Now he’d taught me.

Roger risked a shaky smile. “I’m glad this came to light. I hated keeping it from you.”

I managed to return his smile, but could think of nothing to say.

He touched my shoulder gently. “I’m going back to the hotel for a shower.” He cocked his head. “Will you let me take you and Jake out to dinner later? You can even bring your mother along.”

“Sure.”

That pleased him.

After Roger left, I went into the music/library room, pulled out the blackboard, and erased the red Toyota from the list of suspects.

Just like I erased from my mind any notion that Roger and I could ever get back together.

 

Make the entrance to your store inviting, with eye-catching antiques in the window and interesting merchandise displayed in the front. “Interesting” is a subjective term, of course. My idea of interesting is a mannikin decked out in vintage 1940s clothing. Mother’s is a stuffed grizzly bear with bared fangs and claws.

Chapter Eight

Stop and Chop

Y
es, my dears, it is Vivian back again, poised to sate your curiosity over the loose ends left dangling in Chapter Six. But first . . . previously on
The Mysterious
Adventures of Vivian Borne—

(Brandy to Mother: There will be no “previously.” This is a novel, not a television show. If readers wish to refresh their memories, they can thumb back a few pages and do so. Anyway, it hasn’t been long enough for a reader to have forgotten your last chapter, try as they may.)

(Mother to Brandy: First of all, the intention was to plant the idea in the mind of any producer who might be reading this novel while jetting to Cannes or heading for location in Bermuda that these novels of ours would make an excellent film or television series. Second, you used “previously” yourself, previously . . . refer to Chapter One! Third, to spare the reader the trouble of flipping back pages, I should probably include just the itty-bittiest recap.)

(Brandy to Mother: Fine. Up to you. Of course, you’ll be eating into your word count doing so.)

(Mother to Brandy: Good point. Readers, circumstances require that you fend for yourselves.)

(Editor to Vivian and Brandy: Where are those CENSORED pencils I sent you?)

(Vivian and Brandy to the reader: We have taken the liberty of editing an offensive word out from our editor’s previous note. Doesn’t she want us ever to be sold in Walmart?)

Upon completion of our secret footage session with Andrew and Sarah Butterworth, cameraman Phil Dean and I drove the short distance down West Hill to the murder house, where we hoped to get some outside shots before the wrecking ball came, per Andrew’s threat. I still held out hope that
Antiques Sleuths
could be salvaged, but in any case there was a heck of a true-crime documentary my new partner Phil and I could put together.

I did so hope that Phil didn’t turn out to be the murderer, because that could require some very complicated post-production negotiations. How helpful would a partner likely be, once you had landed him in the slammer?

Somehow the old Butterworth family home looked even more dilapidated under the unrelenting scrutiny of the afternoon sun. Not just the front door, but the entire yard was rather festively blocked off with yellow-and-black crime scene tape stuck to plastic sticks shoved in the ground. In places, the tape had snapped—had media locusts moved in, despite Chief Lawson’s best efforts?—the ends flapping in the breeze. Through one of these breaches, Phil stepped onto the lawn, camera hoisted on his shoulder.

I positioned myself across the street, watching, ready to give a warning whistle with thumb and forefinger should a police car appear.

Phil had finished with front and side views, and was heading around the back, when I noticed an elderly gent out on the porch of a nearby Gothic Revival house, watering some hardy plants.

I walked over—it was not directly across from the old Butterworth place, rather one house up, up the hill. At the bottom of a flight of cement steps, I gazed up at the open, pillared porch.

I called out, “Well, Sam Wright! How
are
you?”

The deacon of the Amazing Grace Church was a few years older than
moi
—he’d been in the same high school class as Andrew Butterworth—and had once cut a dashing figure; but time had taken its toll, bestowing him a little pot belly, rounded shoulders, jowls, bags, and thinning hair, which he tried unsuccessfully to hide in a comb-over.

Nonetheless, the old boy wasn’t hard on the eyes, at least not the eyes of a woman of a certain age. I had even considered dating him after his divorce from Ruth—a scandalous event, considering Sam’s close identification with the church. But the ex-wife departed town before I could find out exactly
why
she had left him. Rumor had it she hated living in the old gothic house, and Sam had no interest in selling the ancestral home.

(Note: A wise woman will always take lunch with the ex of a man in whom she is interested. Best to find out from the most reliable source if he’s a philanderer—or even worse, a cheapskate.)

Despite his advanced years, Sam had the energy of a much younger man. But then he would have to, as deacon of the popular, even powerful Amazing Grace Church. (Which was, I suppose, another good reason for nixing any potential Borne/Wright union—a church man’s wife plays but a supporting role, while Vivian Borne is at her best in the lead.)

Amazing Grace boasted a large congregation, even bigger than the Methodists, which was saying something in this neck of the woods. The church had been established in Serenity back in the early 1940s by Gabriel Wright, Sam’s fire-and-brimstone preacher father. After the elder man’s death in the1980s, Sam followed in his footsteps.

Under Sam’s steerage, Amazing Grace had only grown in both size and esteem, even possessing political clout, what with so many of the church’s members in local government from school board to the mayor’s office. Sam had never been a preacher like his pop; he had majored in business in college, and ran the church accordingly, carefully selecting a succession of popular pulpit pounders to keep Amazing Grace lively. But Sam’s growing child began questioning its parental Baptist authority and, by the mid-nineties, had severed all ties to its national alliance.

From time to time, Brandy and I would attend Sam’s church, especially relishing the wonderful musical services, which were held in a state-of-the-art theater. And we liked the church’s practice of giving most of its tithing to help local charities. But the Hell-and-damnation sermons were too much for the Borne women, one on bipolar medication and the other on antidepressants, so we settled elsewhere, at the New Hope Church (or as Brandy calls it, The Church of Mild Admonishments and Common Sense).

Sam, glancing up from his plants, smiled, and called back, “Vivian Borne! Well, don’t you look fresh as a daisy.”

“Mind if I join you?”

“Please do.”

I climbed the cement steps to the porch of the Gothic Revival house, which was fittingly churchlike in appearance if somewhat medieval. A beautiful, gloomy thing to behold, the three-story stone structure had pointed arch windows, cross-gables, and a steeply pitched roof.

I had only been inside a few times, as a young girl, when the rather scary Gabriel Wright allowed Andy and Sarah and me to play with Sam, but we’d been restricted to the damp and cold basement. Since my mother was content to let us kids swing from the rafters, our house soon became the Musketeers’ hangout.

Sam, looking fairly jaunty in a light navy jacket and casual brown slacks, sat in a well-worn rocker, and I took the porch swing, testing it first for strength, as ours had come crashing down last month, leaving me with a black-and-blue polka-dotted posterior.

“I heard you were going in across the street,” he said, “with an antiques shop. But after that unpleasantness the other night . . .”

I nodded, swinging just a little. “Unpleasantness” was an understatement, of course, but then Sam would only know what he’d read in the papers, so the ax murder aspect of that “unpleasantness” would be unknown to him.

He was saying, “The whole neighborhood is on edge. But the police have someone in custody, I understand.”

“They do indeed. It’s been kept out of the papers so far, but I can tell you who it is.”

“Not unless you’re comfortable doing so, Vivian. It’s not really any of my business, and it’s hardly Christian to traffic in gossip.”

Was that a dig? Didn’t seem to be.

“Well, Sam, do keep it to yourself, but . . . it’s Brandy’s friend, Joe Lange.”

“Oh, dear. That poor troubled veteran. He and his mother go to Amazing Grace, you know. She’s so very sweet, and he’s so very . . .”

“Odd? Yes.” I paused for effect. “But I don’t believe he did it.”

Sam leaned forward in the rocker, and it creaked. Or he creaked. Couldn’t be sure. “Really? And how did you come to that conclusion?”

“Well, I can’t really say without violating Chief Lawson’s request for confidentiality about the crime itself. But let’s just say that Joe didn’t have
nearly
enough blood on him.”

That gave him a start. He sat back, and began rocking slowly. “Well. If Vivian Borne thinks the murderer is still out there, then most likely he is.”

“Or
she,
” I reminded him.

I sat forward and almost slid off the swing. I caught myself with a hand on the nearby chain. Good thing, too—my polka dots had almost faded, and it would be a shame to serve up another nether design.

I said, “How would you like to help me catch the killer?”

He blinked, then seemed almost amused. “I’m afraid I’ll have to decline, Vivian. Assisting you in your amateur sleuthing is hardly appropriate for a man in my position.”

I waved that off and giggled girlishly. “I don’t mean anything so overt, Sam! I just thought you might let me know what you remember about”—and I gave this the appropriate dramatic inflection—“the night of the
murder
.”

Sam frowned in thought. “Afraid I don’t know anything that would be very useful.”

“Well, do try. Please?”

“Okay. Let’s see. Probably like everybody else on this block, I was in bed and got woken up by a siren. I thought it might be an ambulance—a neighbor up the street has heart trouble, and six months ago or so was rushed off to the hospital. There were sirens then.”

“Of course.”

“Anyway, figuring that’s what it was, and wanting to offer my help if it was needed, I got out of bed, put on my robe, went downstairs, turned on some lights, and went out on the porch.” He paused. “But the ambulance hadn’t pulled up in front of my neighbor’s house, up the street . . . instead, the flashing lights were across the way in front of the old Butterworth place. And it wasn’t an ambulance at all, but a police car.”

He stopped rocking, leaned forward. “Like I said, I knew you were renovating the house—rumor was you and your daughter were opening up a shop. There was talk of a reality TV show, too, which sounded unlikely to me. But the paper said the murder victim was a TV producer. Is that the connection?”

“Yes,” I said. “We’re still hoping to do the show, actually, but first things first. There’s a murder to solve.”

He shrugged. “More police cars came, and I saw you and your daughter, in your nightgowns or something—is that right?”

I nodded.

“Anyway, I wondered if all the police cars had something to do with the renovation you two were doing.”

I said, “Seemed like everybody and their mother were out on the sidewalk before long.”

“Oh, yes. I was right there with them—not proud of myself, nothing I hate more than a rubber-necker at an accident scene. Somebody said there had been a murder, they didn’t know who, but I knew you were all right, because I could see you and Brandy, and her son, too, right?”

“Yes,” I said. “Jake. He stumbled onto the body, shortly after the murder.”

“Dear Lord.”

“Oh, Jake’s fine. He’s level-headed, like his grandmother. Did you know the man who was killed?”

He shook his head. “As I said, the paper indicated he was a television producer.”

“You’ve never heard of Bruce Spring?”

“The paper said his first name was . . . something else, I forget what. But, no, that’s nobody I ever heard of.”

“Bruce Spring was the man behind that controversial TV documentary of a few years back. About the Archibald Butterworth slaying?”

Sam frowned. “Is that right? Killed in the very house where the original murder took place. There’s irony for you.”

Interesting that a church man wouldn’t attribute that to the Lord moving in mysterious ways.

“Did you ever see that program, Sam?”

“No. Oh, I heard about it from well-meaning parishioners, but I wasn’t interested. Having all of that filth dredged up after so many years . . . well, it’s just hurtful for all concerned. What it must have put Andrew and Sarah through. Terrible. Un-Christian.”

I was pretty sure Bruce Spring had been Jewish, so that was kind of a moot point, but I let it go.

I swung a little in the swing. “Well, I
have
seen it. Not lately, but when it first aired. I even watched the rerun.”

Sam’s frown deepened. Was there irritation in those furrows?

“Did those well-meaning parishioners mention, Sam, that the documentary implies strongly that pious churchgoer Archibald Butterworth was an outrageous womanizer? And that among his conquests was the wife of a certain man of God?”

Sam might have exploded in anger at that; but instead he only laughed once, dryly. “Vivian, don’t be coy. Doesn’t become you. You mean my
mother
.”

“No name was mentioned in the documentary, but . . .”

“But it was ‘strongly implied.’ ” He shook his head. “So what if it were true? Though after all these decades, with the principals long gone, I don’t know how you’d prove it.”

“Old crimes,” I said, “can get new solutions.”

“Maybe so. But that murder across the street is a famous unsolved crime—it gets hauled out of mothballs every now and then, and who cares at this late date? I had no idea who this character—what did you say his name was? Spring?—I had no idea who he was, much less that he was in town, and even now I hold no grudge. If that’s what you’re fishing for.”

“Why, Sam, dear, I wasn’t fishing at all.”

Of course, I had been, and he’d taken the bait, though he’d pulled
me
flapping into the water.

He raised a lecturing finger. “Breaking the seventh commandment—thou shalt not commit adultery—pales in comparison to the sixth.”

“I’m no preacher man like my father,” he said, “but I
am
church through and through. Ask anyone—Sam Wright doesn’t just talk the talk. He walks the walk.”