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Authors: Barbara Allan

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BOOK: Antiques Chop (A Trash 'n' Treasures Mystery)
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Joe.
In one piece, at least, but otherwise the news wasn’t good. Still in fatigues, he was seated with legs drawn to his chest.
And clutching an ax, its blade darkly stained.
“Oh no,” I whispered.
Had my friend finally well and truly lost it? Could he have committed such a mad, savage deed?
I clutched Mother’s arm. “You don’t think he’s . . . dangerous? I mean, would he do anything . . . to us?”
She focused the center of the light on his face; the eyes didn’t blink. “I don’t believe so, dear. He’s in shock.”
“Mother, we have simply
got
to call the police. We’ve delayed too long already. We’re not the most popular citizens they serve and protect, you know.”
“I suppose you’re right,” she said with reluctance, as if I’d insisted we leave a fun-filled gala. “Besides,” she added, “I’ve made all of my observations.”
“Such as?” I couldn’t help asking.
“Such as”—the beam circled Joe again—“if your friend had killed our producer, he would have
much
more blood on his clothes.”
 
Officer Mia Cordona was the first to arrive, squad car lights flashing—but sans siren, out of consideration for the slumbering neighbors, I supposed. Not that either Bruce Spring or Joe Lange were in any hurry. Mother and I met her at the curb.
Mia, whose curvy, raven-tressed, dark-eyed beauty remained undiminished by the masculine uniform, scowled at us. “A murder, and you two call it in. Why am I not surprised?”
Mother smiled understandingly and said, “Frown lines are so unbecoming, dear.”
“Never mind,” she snapped. “Fill me in.”
We had once been good friends, Mia and I, but events of the last several years had strained that friendship beyond its capacity.
I let Mother do the honors, which she performed with surprising (for her) succinctness, submerging her Sarah Bernhardt instincts within a clipped, Jack Webb just-the-facts manner.
Mia listened intently, then spoke into her shoulder communicator, calling for backup, and to get the PD’s two-person forensics team out of their warm beds, plus the paramedics—the latter in deference to Joe.
Mia asked where Jake was, and I pointed to our Buick where I had insisted he wait; while I couldn’t keep him out of this mess, I could keep him out of the cold, the plummeting temperature tightening its grip on the night, making our breaths plume.
Mia muttered, “I suppose I can fathom Vivian involving the boy . . . but
you,
Brandy?”
I wondered how much time I’d serve for smacking an officer, but only said, “If you’d been listening, you’d know neither Mother nor I involved Jake in anything more than helping clean up this house, many hours ago.”
“Let us not bicker, girls,” Mother chimed in. “Now is not the time for animosity. After all, there’s a dismembered producer in the house waiting for processing! Not to mention an ex-Marine with a bloody ax.”
What could Mia say to that? I certainly had nothing.
A second squad car arrived, parking at an angle in the street, blocking it off, not that the nonexistent traffic minded. Officer Munson, a lanky middle-aged man with a hound-dog face, climbed out and joined our little group, Mia bringing him up to speed.
By now, the flashing lights of the police cars had attracted the attention of neighbors, who peered out of windows, some coming out in their nightclothes, braver souls, or at least snoopier ones, moving down to the sidewalk to see better. Lights came on in all the houses across the way but one.
“I don’t want Joe to get hurt,” I told the officers. “Let me help—I understand his illness. I’m sure I can convince him to go with you.”
Munson and Mia exchanged troubled glances, then senior officer Munson said, “All right, Ms. Borne. But if he gets violent, we’re stepping in.”
“I understand,” I said. “But you don’t know that he’s your perpetrator, remember. As Mother pointed out earlier, he doesn’t have enough blood on him for that.”
Mia winced in quiet irritation and Munson just gave me a glazed nod. “You follow us in,” he said.
“Please . . . let me go in first.”
The two cops exchanged glances again, but Munson said, “Well . . . all right. But anything we tell you to do, you do at once, got it?”
“Got it.”
Mother touched my arm. “Good luck, dear. Will you be all right without me?”
“I’ll try to manage.”
“As you move into your thirties, dear, sarcasm will only read as bitterness.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
My eyes went to Jake in the Buick, who was leaning forward in the front passenger seat, watching us intently. I gave him a nod and a reassuring smile.
The distant wail of a paramedic truck signaled that time was short before the handful of gawkers would become dozens. I told Munson and Mia what I had in mind, admitted it was a little strange, but said it should work.
And we headed into the house.
As I stepped through the front door, Munson and Mia on my heels, I started to sing loudly.
“ ‘From the Halls of Montezuma,’ ” I sang, loud as a bullhorn, “ ‘to the shores of Tripoli! We fight our country’s battles, in the air, on land, and sea!’ ”
I kept repeating those lyrics because that’s all I knew of them, from the old Bugs Bunny cartoons. By my third time through, the officers had Joe spotlighted with their mag lights.
He hadn’t moved, remaining seated with his legs drawn up, still clutching the ax. But his vacant, staring-straight-ahead eyes were now focused on me.
“It’s Brandy,” I said, moving slowly toward him. “Put down your weapon. We have surrendered. We’ll be given all the rights of the Geneva Convention.”
Behind me, Munson muttered, “What the—?”
Joe’s grip on the ax tightened, and the officers drew their guns, which gave me a start. Fine for them to be armed, but if Joe charged, I was in the front line.
But then my traumatized friend relaxed his grip, and lowered the ax slowly to the floor.
He got to his feet.
“Corporal Joseph E. Lange,” he said, standing erect.
“United States Marines, serial number 747608012.”
“Okay, soldier,” Munson said, almost gently. “Turn around, hands behind your back.”
Joe complied, and the officer cuffed him.
I sighed in relief.
Mia whispered to me, “That was tense. Could’ve gotten ugly. Thanks, Brandy.”
High praise from anyone on the PD, and a rare kind word from my ex-friend.
With Munson in the lead (and holding on to Joe’s arm), we left the house, stepping out of darkness into what seemed like day. I had to squint from the glare of the emergency lights, a paramedic truck having added its beacon to the bunch.
There were other, lesser lights as well, from cameras and cell phones, pictures taken by the ever-growing crowd, soon to be launched on the Internet.
Someone grabbed my arm, startling me.
Police Chief Brian Lawson—my on-again-off-again-currently-on-again boyfriend—looked disheveled in his rumpled tan slacks and wrinkled blue shirt under a Windbreaker, as if having thrown on his work clothes from the now-previous day. His thick sandy hair, however, was neatly combed.
“Come with me,” he said brusquely, the puppy-dog brown eyes colder than I was used to seeing them.
“What?” My eyes traveled past him to the Buick, front seat empty. “Where’s Jake? And Mother?”
“They’re in my car. Yours is blocked in. You can get it tomorrow.”
“I only
have
one car!”
“We’ll get it back to you tomorrow. Come along.”
“Where are you taking us? To the station?”
“No. Home.”
“Really?” I smiled a little, relieved to avoid that ordeal. “Well. That’s fine. That’s great.”
We were at Brian’s unmarked car now, Mother and Jake sequestered in back.
I touched his arm. “Thank you, Brian, for being so considerate—letting us get some rest before taking our statements.”
His smile was blandly businesslike. “You’re only going home in deference to your . . . attire. But don’t count on getting any sleep just yet. This night isn’t over.”
And opening the door of his unmarked car, Brian deposited me in back with Jake and Mother.
We rode home in silence. Jake fell asleep against my shoulder, while Mother wore an expression of concentration as if trying to remember her lines in a play—probably deciding what she
was
and
was not
going to share with Brian.
Inside the dark house an awakened Sushi and Rocky sniffed us over—Rocky bestowing Brian a low growl—before both trotted back up to bed.
Lucky them.
Mother turned on a few lamps, then Brian flipped on the bright ceiling lights.
I asked him in what I hoped seemed like good humor, “What are you trying to do, turn my living room into an interrogation chamber?”
When he didn’t answer, I shrugged, then tended to Jake, who’d stretched out on the Queen Anne couch. I got my son a throw pillow and crocheted blanket and tucked him temporarily in. Then I sat next to him—with his legs up and over my lap—while Brian took an armchair across from us.
Mother had disappeared, saying she was going to make a pot of strong coffee, but there was a lot of banging coming from the kitchen for such a simple task.
Brian withdrew a pad and pen from the pocket of his Windbreaker jacket, and began to question Jake. Tired as I was, I stayed alert to look after my son’s best interests, in particular that he didn’t incriminate himself.
Midway through Jake’s “interview,” Brian stood and began pacing back and forth in front of the picture window, his reflection showing in the darkened glass. If any neighbors were watching, they were getting quite a show.
Brian then moved on to me. But since I didn’t have much to tell—certainly with no intention of revealing that we had delayed calling the police while Mother conducted her own preliminary investigation—my interview was concluded in under ten minutes.
That left Mother to be grilled. She was still in the kitchen, the clanking of dishes and cups having brought the dogs down again, hoping for a wee-hour snack.
“Mrs. Borne,” Brian called out. “Please come in here.”
Only the
ding
of the microwave answered.
“
Now,
Vivian.”
In another moment, Mother appeared with a large tray containing cups of steaming coffee, and an assortment of bakery goods—scones, tarts, and Danish strudel.
Placing the tray on the marble coffee table, she said, “I do hope this will suffice, Chief Lawson. I didn’t have any doughnuts on hand.”
“Contrary to the cliché, Vivian,” Brian said, words clipped, “not all officers eat doughnuts, and I happen to be one of them.”
“Oh, well, then you’re really missing out,” Mother said, shaking her head. “Have you ever tried Casey’s General Store doughnuts? Fresh every morning! Get there early enough and you can have one hot out of the oven. How would you like your coffee? Milk? Sugar?”
Brian’s cheeks were blossoming a dark pink. “Mrs. Borne. Will you please stop fussing and
sit down!
”
“No need to be rude. I was just trying to be a good hostess. It isn’t every day that we have the Serenity Chief of Police in our home.”
Just every other day, it seemed.
“Even,” she added, sweet as any doughnut on the planet, “if he
is
only the
acting
chief. Or is the term ‘interim’?”
“Mother, please,” I said, wearily. “We’re all tired. Let’s get this over with.”
Jake, stretched out on the couch, his legs on my lap, raised his head off the cushion. “Grandma, face the music. I wanna get to bed before I graduate.”
Mother smiled at her grandson. “All right, dear. Your wish is your grandmother’s command. No need to prolong this in any way. We should get right to it. Deal with it head-on. Straightaway.” She plucked up a coffee cup and scone, then took the armchair vacated by the pacing Brian. “Shoot!” she said.
Somehow Brian managed to blink away that assault of words and say, “I’d like to pick up at the point where you entered the Butterworth house and examined the crime scene.”
Mother, taking a sip of coffee, choked, then managed, “Well, what blabbermouth told
you?
”
“Not
this
blabbermouth,” I said.
“Me neither,” Jake added.
Mother’s eyes narrowed to normal size behind her buggy glasses. “Then
who
done it?”
“Why,
you
done it, Vivian,” Brian said with a nasty smile. “Just now.”
Mother, setting her coffee cup on an end table, stood, the scone falling from her lap to the floor where it was instantly gobbled up by a vigilant Rocky.
“If you are going to resort to trickery,” Mother said, drawing herself up, “I refuse to answer any further questions—not without Wayne Ekhardt present.”
That was the octogenarian lawyer I mentioned earlier.
“Fine,” Brian said tersely, snapping his little notebook shut. “I’ll expect you both at the station tomorrow—today, that is, before noon.”
“That’s inhumane,” Mother said. “You know I need my beauty rest, followed by my morning beauty regimen!”
He waggled a scolding finger at her. “Noon,” he said. “With or without lipstick.”
And he turned on his heel, heading for the front door.
“Brian?” I called. “A word, please? Outside?”
“Sure.”
The purple-pink rays of dawn were just beginning to chase the night away as we stood on the porch facing each other.
“Did you have to be so hard on Mother?” I asked.
“Hard on
her?
If that meddling old biddy compromised that crime scene in any way—”
“That ‘meddling old biddy,’ ” I reminded him, “has solved more major crimes in the past year than your police department did in the previous decade.”
BOOK: Antiques Chop (A Trash 'n' Treasures Mystery)
6.43Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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