Antiques Chop (A Trash 'n' Treasures Mystery) by Allan Barbara

Author:Allan, Barbara [Allan, Barbara]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Kensington
Published: 2013-04-30T04:00:00+00:00

Shop owners should periodically rearrange existing merchandise, which allows customers to discover something they may have missed on their previous visit. But no matter where we move it, Mother’s autographed photo of Sonny Tufts just never attracts a buyer.

Chapter Seven

Chop Chop

It was approaching lunchtime when I parted with park ranger Eddie in front of the jail, feeling more convinced than ever that Joe Lange had not killed Bruce Spring. Clearly Joe had come upon the producer dead, and then gone into combat-related post-traumatic shock, picking up the ax reflexively.

I got into my car, looking forward to an egg-salad sandwich (so simple, so good), when I spotted Mother several blocks away, walking briskly toward Main Street. She had a spring in her step and determination in her jaw, and God help the good people of Serenity. And the bad ones.

She must have finished with her interview at the police station, and was now about to unleash herself upon the unfortunates on her suspect list. I might have offered her a lift, or joined in on her interviews, but she was the self-styled sleuth, not me. I was just a woman who had a date with an egg sal’ san’.

I pointed the Buick’s nose homeward, and was cruising through a green light when a Lincoln Town Car ran the red and nearly sideswiped me. (I would use an emoticon here, but I have my standards.)

At large in the large Lincoln was our attorney of record, Wayne Ekhardt, his head barely visible above the steering wheel. It might have been a chimp driving. If that image wasn’t disturbing enough, the elderly lawyer continued on through the intersection, unfazed, apparently not realizing his near miss (no such thing as a near miss—they’re all near hits!).

I made a mental note to make sure in future to build some time/distance into Mother’s schedule and mine, whenever she had the ancient barrister in the mix.

By the time I was tooling along Mulberry, one of the main arteries from the downtown to home, my heart (speaking of arteries) had found its way back inside my chest and slowed to a normal beat.

I began thinking about that sandwich again, with its diced celery, hot-and-sour mustard, salt and pepper, and just enough mayonnaise (not Miracle Whip) to hold the chopped eggs together. And, on the side, locally produced Sterzing’s potato chips and tiny gherkin sweet pickles. Ah, life’s simple pleasures....

Salivating, I was a block from home when I spotted the red Toyota.

Just up ahead, it was parked at the curb on the right, across from our house and down a little. I slowed, pulled over, then eased up behind it, all the while fumbling for my phone in my purse.

I threw the car in park, jumped out, and snapped a picture of the car’s back plate. Then, faster than you could say “gotcha,” scurried to the driver’s side and grabbed a second photo, this time of the driver.

He was a squat, balding, puffy-looking guy puffing on a cigar, with smoke about the color of his five o’clock shadow trailing out the open window.

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