8 Antiques Con (20 page)

I wasn’t sure if she meant Helena or Violet.

“Well,” I said, “at least Eric will finally be getting the notoriety he craved.”

There was a moment of silence before the detective cleared his throat. “Now, one final matter. We need to discuss the fraudulent way you got in to see Brad Webster—”

“Oh, my!” Mother interrupted, checking her wristwatch. “Look at the time! We have an appointment across town with our book editor—and you
know
how New Yorkers simply
hate
people being late.”

We’d have plenty of opportunity to be on time, because our meeting wasn’t till tomorrow.

Mother, smiling sweetly, was saying, “Perhaps we can discuss this at a later date, Detective Cassato.”

“Ma’am,” he said dryly, “there will
be
no later date, else you and me are going to have a problem.”

She waved a flirtatious hand. “Oh, I just know there’s no problem that the two of us can’t solve, if we just put our heads together.” She smiled at me. “Doesn’t Detective Cassato have a colorful way of putting things, dear? So very NYPD!”

Not seeming quite so rested now, the detective escorted us from the interview room and down the corridor toward the precinct’s waiting room. With Mother in the lead, he caught me by the arm, gently, and whispered, “Tony would like to see you tonight.”

And I whispered back, “Where?”

“He’ll come to your room. Around seven.”

“Fine. Tell him fine.”

As soon as Mother and I had returned to our suite, she began redoing her makeup, fussing with her hair, and laying out a new outfit on the bed.

I didn’t need to ask her where she was going. After she’d spritzed on perfume, I had a pretty good idea. And I bet you do, too.

You know how thoughtful Mother is when it comes to visiting old friends at nursing homes....

With a final glance in the long mirror, Mother chirped, “Don’t wait up, dear!”

“I won’t. I know these Scrabble games can go on and on. . . .”

It wasn’t until later, while playing with a much neglected Sushi, that it occurred to me to check on the Cadillac keys.

They were gone. She had taken them. She might yet find her way into an NYC slammer. The only question was whether it would be for driving without a license or conspiring with a known criminal.

At a minute past seven, a knock came at the door, and I did something very dangerous in the big city: I didn’t bother to look through the peephole before flinging the door open. And then flung myself into Tony’s waiting arms.

We backed into the room, and he kicked the door shut, still entwined.

“You’ve
heard
?” I asked, my words muffled against his barrel chest. “That the contract is off?”

He was trembling, too, something rare in this wonderful beast of a man. I drew back to look into his moisture-pearled eyes.

“It seems to be real, Brandy. It’s apparently true, unless . . . unless some horrible trick is being played on me. On us.”

“Who told you? Can you trust the source?”

He shrugged and smiled. “You tell me. The Don himself called my brother, gave him a phone number, and said that I should call him.”

“And it was
him
? You’re sure?”

“No mistaking
that
voice.”

“Did he . . . did he tell you
why
the hit was removed?”

Tony’s dry little laugh said yes, and he shook his head. “That crazy, ditzy woman . . . that terrible, wonderful mother of yours . . . Brandy, she gave me my life back.”

I sighed, but I was smiling. “She’ll be incorrigible now.”

“
Now?
What has she been, up to this point?”

We had been just inside the doorway during this exchange, and Sushi was jumping at Tony’s legs. He picked her up, holding her in one big hand, and we all went over to settle on the couch.

I asked, “So what’s next?”

“Well, you’re next. Obviously.” Tony had one arm around me, his free hand petting Sushi. “But beyond that, I honestly haven’t had time to think about it.”

“Would you come back to Serenity?”

“Try to stop me.”

“Back on the force?”

He nodded. “Yes. I think they’ll have me. Maybe not as chief, but they’ll find something, and if not, there are other jobs.”

“Tony?”

“Hmmmm . . . ?” He was kissing my neck.

“I don’t know if I can promise you right now that we’ll always be together . . . much as I hope we will be.”

He pulled back to study me. “Honey, I understand. When I had to go into WITSEC, we were just getting to know each other.”

“Then let’s get to know each other some more,” I said, and kissed him.

At noon on Thursday, Mother and I had a delightful meal at a French restaurant with our editor, who had heard about the murders, and knew we were involved in the inquiry but not to what extent. Most of what Mother and I did, for good and ill, had been kept out of the media, much to Mother’s annoyance.

“Well, I think that’s fine,” our editor said. “That means you can save the full story for the book.”

Which we have.

After lunch, Mother and I returned to our suite to pack and gather our things, and generally prepare for our long drive back to Serenity in our new old Caddy. Sushi, no doubt homesick for her own patch of grass, began running in circles with excitement as soon as we dragged out the suitcases.

Soon we were bidding New York good-bye, with me behind the wheel of the Caddy, Mother riding shotgun, and Sushi snuggled in back on our coats, our luggage and parcels stowed in the car’s spacious trunk. The vehicle drove like a boat, but a smooth-sailing one. I had to admit that I loved the feel of the massive ride.

As we tooled along the city streets, making our way toward the Lincoln Tunnel, we garnered looks of envy and admiration from pedestrians and drivers alike.

We had been on the road several hours, having just passed through Parsippany on Interstate 80 (after stopping for fuel—holy mileage, Batman, what a gas guzzler!), when Mother’s cell phone chirped its “New York, New York.”

“Vivian here. Oh, hello, Phil
darling
!” Then, to me, “It’s Phillip Dean, dear.”

I had gathered as much, from her fake Hollywood voice.

Phil Dean was a Los Angeles reality show cameraman-turned-producer who had, for the past few months, been pitching a new series for us:
Antiques Sleuths
, a mother–daughter duo who not only solved mysteries in real life, but told viewers the stories behind the curious items that found their way into the Trash ‘n’ Treasures shop.

Mother was asking him, “Any news?” Then, “Oh, my goodness! Oh, that’s
wonderful
! Yes . . . yes . . . I’ll call you as soon as we arrive home, daah-ling! Ciao!” She ended the call.

“Bad news?” I asked.

“Dear, we’ve been green-lighted! Or is that lit? Anyway, the shooting of our pilot is a go go go!”

“When?”

“Early this summer.”

“That’s great.”

Mother didn’t seem to notice my lack of enthusiasm as she launched into a monologue of kooky ideas for the series that she was already convinced would follow.

Was it so terrible of me to just want to go home to a little peace and quiet and a lot of Tony?

I glanced over at Mother, jabbering on with elation.

A warmth flowed through me. I really did love this crazy old broad. I owed her
so
much....

So I drove and listened with rapt attention and unflagging interest, matching her clown’s smile with my own.

And why not? I could afford to be magnanimous. Because I felt confident that any pilot starring Vivian and Brandy Borne would
never
get picked up by a cable network.

Would it?

A Trash ‘n’ Treasures Tip

At a recent auction, a 1938
Action Comics
featuring the first appearance of Superman sold for one million dollars. So, Grandma, Grandpa . . . back when you were parents? If you cleaned out your kid’s room and tossed out that funny book, you have no one to blame but yourself that a life of luxury has eluded you and your loved ones.

BARBARA ALLAN

is a joint pseudonym of husband-and-wife mystery writers Barbara and Max Allan Collins.

BARBARA COLLINS
is a highly respected short story writer in the mystery field, with appearances in over a dozen top anthologies, including
Murder Most Delicious, Women on the Edge, Deadly Housewives,
and the bestselling
Cat Crimes
series. She was the co-editor of (and a contributor to) the best-selling anthology
Lethal Ladies
, and her stories were selected for inclusion in the first three volumes of
The Year’s 25 Finest Crime and Mystery Stories
.

Two acclaimed hardcover collections of her work have been published:
Too Many Tomcats
and (with her husband)
Murder—His and Hers
. The Collins’ first novel together, the Baby Boomer thriller
Regeneration
, was a paperback bestseller; their second collaborative novel,
Bombshell
—in which Marilyn Monroe saves the world from World War III—was published in hardcover to excellent reviews.

Barbara has been the production manager and/or line producer on various independent film projects emanating from the production company she and her husband jointly run.

MAX ALLAN COLLINS
has been hailed as “the Renaissance man of mystery fiction.” He has earned an unprecedented nineteen Private Eye Writers of America “Shamus” nominations for his Nathan Heller historical thrillers, winning for
True Detective
(1983) and
Stolen Away
(1991).

His other credits include film criticism, short fiction, songwriting, trading-card sets, and movie/TV tie-in novels, including the
New York Times
bestsellers
Saving Private Ryan
and the Scribe Award–winning
American Gangster
. His graphic novel
Road to Perdition,
considered a classic of the form, is the basis of the Academy Award–winning film. Max’s other comics credits include the “Dick Tracy” syndicated strip; his own “Ms. Tree”; “Batman”; and “CSI: Crime Scene Investigation,” based on the hit TV series, for which he has also written six video games and ten best-selling novels.

An acclaimed, award-winning filmmaker in the Midwest, he wrote and directed the Lifetime movie
Mommy
(1996) and three other features. His produced screenplays include the 1995 HBO World Premiere
The Expert,
and
The Last Lullaby
(2008). His 1998 documentary
Mike Hammer’s Mickey Spillane
appears on the Criterion Collection release of acclaimed film noir
Kiss Me Deadly
.

Max’s most recent novels include
Ask Not
(the conclusion to his Nate Heller “JFK Trilogy”) and
Complex 90
(completing an unfinished Mike Hammer novel from the late Mickey Spillane’s files).

“BARBARA ALLAN” live(s) in Muscatine, Iowa, their Serenity-esque hometown. Son Nathan works as a translator of Japanese to English, with credits ranging from video games to novels.

Credit: Bamford Studio

Barbara Allan
is the joint pseudonym of acclaimed short story writer Barbara Collins (
Too Many Tomcats
) and
New York Times
bestselling mystery novelist Max Allan Collins (
Road to Perdition
). Their previous collaborations have included one son, a short story collection, and nine novels, including the 2008 winner of the
Romantic Times
Toby Bromberg Award for Most Humorous Mystery,
Antiques Flee Market
. They live in Iowa in a house filled with trash and treasures. Learn more about them at
www.maxallancollins.com
and
www.barbaraallan.com
.