Antiques Maul: A Trash 'n' Treasures Mystery - 2 - Barbara Allan by Barbara Allan

Author:Barbara Allan
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Kensington
Published: 2007-03-21T22:00:00+00:00

I wasn’t in lockup long.

To pass the time, I was mentally working on my cinnamon-mocha-frappé-with-whippedcream-and-candy-sprinkles defense, when the chief himself came around to spring me.

Tony Cassato looked none too happy.

Without a word, he opened the cell and motioned brusquely with two fingers to follow him, which I did, down one cold corridor, and then another, arriving at his office.

I took the chair in front of his desk, and he sat behind it heavily, eyes boring into me like disgusted lasers.

“What in the hell is the matter with you?” he mused rhetorically. “You’re how old? Thirty? And yet you act like an immature teenager.”

Another dissatisfied customer.

Tony continued: “Mrs. Grimes—Connie—has agreed with my decision not to bring charges. I explained that the shock of finding Mrs. Norton yesterday most likely led to you overreacting in this situation.”

I muttered, “Thank you,” looking down at my hands in my lap. My nails could sure use a little TLC. That was what I got, giving up manicures to save a few bucks for mall crawling.

“But you’re not going to get off so easy with me,” he said. “I’m going to see to it that you take an anger management class.”

Which really pissed me off, but I held it in and said only, “Okay.”

Tony studied me for a moment. Then: “You still seeing a psychiatrist?”

“Psychologist.”

“Who?”

“Cynthia Hays.”

He jotted the name down. Which meant that if I didn’t come clean with her at my next appointment, Tony was going to tattle on me.

“I’m seeing her next week,” I said.

“Good. How about your mother?”

“Yeah, how about my mother?”

“I mean,” he said tensely, “is she still seeing a psychologist?”

“She sees a psychiatrist. She needs the heavy meds.”

“I’m not surprised.” He shifted in his chair. “Listen, Brandy—it didn’t make it into the reports, but I’ve been told your mother was…acting out yesterday, at the crime scene.”

I frowned. “Was it a crime scene?”

He just stared at me, the kind of blank expression that precedes an executioner pulling the switch on Old Sparky. “Why do you ask?”

“Uh…I just didn’t know if a dog was exactly a, uh…criminal. And don’t you need a criminal to have a crime scene?”

“No criminal,” he said slowly, “seems required to have your mother make a scene. I am told she was talking murder and making inappropriate comments and asking inappropriate questions.”

I gave him a pretend grin. “Yeah, that’s my mother! Would make a pretty decent sitcom, if this were 1958.”

He pointed a finger at me—Uncle Tony Wanted Me. “I won’t have her sticking her nose into police business. I won’t have you helping her, either.”

“I’m not! I don’t even know that she’s…doing anything.” I leaned forward and asked, “Can you have a little empathy? Mrs. Norton was a friend, and Mother found the body. Of course that got her going! It was a shock, wasn’t it?”

He just stared at me. “You were helpful with that other case, but I don’t want you making a habit of—”

“Then it was a crime scene! Are you saying this is a murder? Did Mrs.

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