Antiques Chop (A Trash 'n' Treasures Mystery)

by Barbara Allan

  But among the old mansions were a few “newer” models dating to the early twentieth century. One such home had Mother pointing to it, going “Ooo ooo,” like Gunther Toody on the old Car 54 television show. (Before my time, but Mother has the DVDs.) (Yes, I watched them with her. They’re darn funny.)

  “That’s Andy’s domicile,” she said excitedly. Her vocabulary always got tonier in this part of town. “That Prairie House on the left. . . .”

  Andrew Butterworth’s residence wasn’t as flashy as its towering neighbors, but the low-slung, sprawling structure with hipped roof, broad eaves, and long bands of windows providing indirect light, had a quiet elegance more in harmony with the woodland bluff.

  I knew a bit about American architecture from my college days, including that the Prairie style grew out of the Midwest at the turn of the last century as a rejection of the fussy, overdone, tasseled, velvet-and-floral Victorian decor so popular at the time.

  The Prairie style was all about natural form and function, a simplicity that touched the souls of those who felt like stripping away artificiality in both their homes and lives.

  For my taste, the approach was too austere, and I preferred what Frank Lloyd Wright had built on (figuratively and literally), which was to use Prairie as his foundation, but add Art Deco touches.

  I found an open space across from the house. The steep angle of the street was one of those rare instances where a parking brake proved its worth. Traffic was nonexistent and both Mother and I took the house in as we slowly crossed. Whatever I might think about the Prairie style, this was an impressive, well-maintained “domicile.”

  We climbed three wide cement steps, walked a short distance, then up three more steps buttressed on either side by four-foot tan brick walls topped with squat-square cement planters showcasing an array of autumn flowers.

  There was no porch to speak of, though cement paths, confined by more brick walls, led off in either direction, giving one a feeling of being at the beginning of a maze.

  We stepped up to the front door, which, instead of a modern doorbell, had a round metal plate with a handle, which Mother cranked. On the other side of the door, a bell went ding, ding, ding. Who needed electricity?

  Mother had to crank the handle once more, but finally the door swung open, revealing a man who just had to be Andrew Butterworth.

  He was under six feet with the physique of a man much younger than his late seventies. He had a full head of silver-gray hair combed in a side part, a tanned and chiseled face, with dark eyes, long eyelashes, straight nose, and sensual mouth. Mother—recently on a Tyrone Power movie kick (DVDs again)—said Andrew resembled the actor, or would have had Power lived longer than his mid-forties. And she was spot-on.

  But what was most surprising about Butterworth’s handsome face was his expression: he actually seemed pleased to see us.

  Trust me, having accompanied Vivian Borne as she dropped in on many an unsuspecting host, this was hardly our standard reception.

  Wearing a multicolored pullover sweater (European, I’d bet), sleeves casually pulled up, and tan slacks, Andrew Butterworth stepped forward on bare feet to extend a hand to Mother.

  “Vivian!” he said, his smile showing off deep dimples and straight white teeth. “What a lovely surprise.” His hand went to me. “And you must be Brandy.”

  “I must be,” I managed, finding his grasp firm and friendly.

  “Andy, dear,” Mother cooed. “It’s not my habit to just drop in unannounced on people. . . .”

  It wasn’t?!?

  (Editor to Brandy: Please use either one question mark or one exclamation point, not both and not in multiples. That is incorrect and unnecessary.)

  (Brandy to Editor: Incorrect maybe.)

  Mother was saying to our host, “But I hope you don’t mind us stopping by, Andy, out of the blue like this.”

  “No, no, of course not,” he said, seemingly sincere. “As a matter of fact, Sarah and I were just discussing having you over for tea.”

  Mother jumped—just a little. “Oh! Is Sarah here, too?”

  He gestured vaguely behind him. “Yes, out on the veranda. She’s visiting for a few weeks before going back to Chicago.”

  “What luck!” Mother gushed. She turned to me as if she’d just been handed a gigantic lottery check. “Brandy, you’re going to get to meet Sarah!”

  “Great,” I said, making my upper lip reveal my teeth in what I hoped resembled a smile.

  Then, as Andrew stepped aside, Mother strode in like a general sizing up conquered territory.

  I followed her into the entryway of a vast open room with a low dark-wood beamed ceiling, then bumped into her when she stopped abruptly.

  “Oh, Andy, darling!” she gasped, clasping her hands before her as if the Virgin Mary had just materialized on breakfast toast. “This Arts and Crafts decor! It’s simply perfection!”

  I winced. There it was: the British accent. Her way of seeming “posh.”

  “Yes,” Andrew was saying, “and, you know, it’s all authentic Stickley.”

  He meant the furniture.

  “Right-oh,” Mother gushed, managing not to add, “Wot wot,” or “Pip pip.” Then another gasp escaped her heaving bosom. “And is that Fulper pottery?”

  Our host nodded, apparently somewhat bemused by the Serenity native’s sudden accent.

  “Brilliant!” Mother enthused.

  (Truth be told, Mother had not mastered British idiom as well as she thought. For a long time she was convinced that “Mind the gap” meant not shopping at that particular clothing chain.)

  Regarding the Fulper pottery that had sent Mother into spasms of ecstasy, I had to admit the collection of vases displayed on a nearby Stickley sideboard was lovely, the patina adding a warm glow to the brown sheen of the furniture.

  I was beginning to rethink my prejudice against the staid Arts and Crafts vision, at least the way Mr. Butterworth incorporated it, remaining true to the architecture of the house but cleverly inserting other periods and styles for diversity and interest. It was as if he used the warm, brown wood as his canvas on which to add different textures and splashes of color.

  From the unenclosed entryway, Mother and I were led down a red-gold-and-green oriental runner to one of several seating areas, each designated not by walls, but by muted-colored rugs and arrangements of furniture—chairs, couches, standing lamps, and end tables.

  The section we were currently walking by showcased a few Native American artifacts, such as a collection of arrowheads in a small glass case on an end table, and a colorful Indian blanket thrown casually across the couch.

  Continuing along the runner, other cozy areas we passed held some surprises, like the large silk-screen picture above the central fireplace—blue, diamond-studded high heels on a black background—which I recognized as Andy Warhol. (The original, I bet.)

  Andrew had a little trouble steering Mother toward the double doors at the end of the vast room, which led to the outside, Mother’s head doing a 380 degree turn, not wanting to have missed a single stick of Stickley, or objet d’art.

  But finally we stepped out onto a wide veranda, which was partially covered by wooden slats, the patio confined by a low wall that did not obstruct a spectacular view of the Mississippi River, its surface sparkling like diamonds in the midafternoon sun.

  Seated in a white wicker chair, at a matching round table, was a woman I took to be Andrew’s sister, Sarah. As we approached, she pushed back the chair and stood.

  She was a large woman—big-boned, not heavy—and at least six feet tall; while she wasn’t pretty, she also wasn’t unattractive . . . what Mother would sometimes call “a handsome woman.” Sarah—a year older than her brother—also looked young for her age.

  Wearing tailored black slacks, a beige silk blouse under a canary-colored cardigan, and expensive-looking black patent flats, she glided toward us, graceful for her size, offering the same warm smile as her shorter brother.

  �
�My dear Vivian,” she said, formal but friendly, “how delightful to see you once again.”

  Before there could be any response, the woman wrapped her arms around Mother, who flinched from the bear hug. She had a bad back, after all—particularly when it came time to load up antiques.

  Sarah, releasing Mother, turned twinkling eyes toward me. “And you must be Brandy, about whom I’ve heard so much.”

  When people say such things, usually in a much less proper a manner, I’ve learned it’s best not to inquire as to what they’ve heard.

  “Very nice to meet you,” I said.

  From the sidelines, Andrew made an exaggerated motion with one hand. “Come! Sit down at the table . . . have some tea. I’ll get extra cups. . . .”

  While he disappeared, we girls settled into waiting wicker chairs, making small talk about the beautiful fall weather.

  Returning with the cups, Andrew took the remaining seat while Sarah poured tea from a silver pot on a tray. She added the requested lump of sugar for Mother, and cream for me.

  After a dainty sip, Mother said, “You’ve heard about Pickles?”

  “Yes,” Sarah said, frowning sadly.

  “And Wheaty,” Andrew added.

  Mother sighed. “Seems as though all of our childhood chums are passing on to their final reward.”

  Couldn’t anyone just say “died,” anymore? And with this talk of “chums,” I was starting to wonder if maybe Mother had been thirty-two, not twelve at the time of that ax murder.

  Mother stretched her arms across the table in a V, grasping the hands of her friends. “But we’re still here, aren’t we? The Three Musketeers?”

  “Yes, indeed,” said Sarah.

  “And Sam Wright,” Mother added as if having forgotten a fourth Musketeer.

  But neither brother nor sister said anything, and a momentary glumness seemed to settle in.

  Wright, who also lived on West Hill, was the deacon of a church we occasionally visited. A nice enough man who I didn’t feel deserved such a chilly reaction from our hosts at the mere mention of his name.

  Mother went into damage control, fingers fluttering. “Remember the pigeons?”

  Sarah put a hand to her chest. “Oh, my yes!” she giggled. “Weren’t we just terrible!”

  Andrew chuckled. “I bet the senior class thought twice before picking on freshmen after that.”

  I was expected to ask, so I did. “What happened?”

  In a nutshell (and guess what nut imparted this info): after underclassmen had suffered a year of bullying courtesy of the high school seniors, Sarah, a freshman, and Andy, ninth grader from junior high (as it was called back then), filled the high school auditorium the night before graduation ceremonies . . . with pigeons. Mother, a precocious seventh grader, was involved because she knew where to get the birds.

  Sarah, laughing, said, “The audience fared the worse by far—at least the seniors were wearing mortarboards!”

  The prank, I figured, happened just a few months before Archibald’s murder, after which brother and sister’s world would be turned upside down—Andrew leaving for a military school after the trial, Sarah going east to live with relatives. Neither would ever marry, as if the shadow cast by their father’s murder had somehow stunted their futures.

  As the trio continued their sentimental journey, an amazing thing happened: faces softened, lines lessened, expressions and gestures seemed more juvenile than geriatric. The three seniors seemed to physically regress in age, years falling away as they shared good times—and, perhaps, other, as yet unspoken secrets.

  After the reminiscing ran its course, Sarah finally said, “Tell us what you’ve been up to, Vivian.”

  Since Mother’s answer might take a while, I poured myself another cuppa, as we British sleuths are wont to say.

  “Well, my dears,” Mother said, no trace of UK affectation now, “I know neither of you has spent much time in good old Serenity lately, but surely you’ve heard about my theatrical endeavors.”

  “Oh, yes,” Andrew said. “On a business trip home, I caught your bravura-starring performance in Everybody Loves Opal a few years back.”

  She nodded by way of a bow. “And perhaps you’ve heard of the female prison theater group I had organized a few months ago, while temporarily—if erroneously—a guest in the county hoosegow?”

  “Actually, yes,” Sarah said, nodding herself now. “Andrew sent me a clipping from the Serenity Sentinel, which said the inmates performed for the town, and that the play was such a success you were thinking of taking it on the road to other cities.”

  That is, jails and prisons.

  “That’s right,” Mother said, and took a long sip from her teacup.

  “Did you?” Sarah asked.

  “Did I what, dear?”

  “Take the play to other cities?”

  The briefest glance between brother and sister told me they also knew about that, as well, and were gently teasing.

  Mother, who didn’t catch that, shifted in her chair. “Well, we were a big hit in Des Moines. And a smash at Eldora.”

  “But a bust in Ft. Dodge,” I said. “Or bust out, anyway—two of the players escaped, and that was finis for the Serenity Jailbird Players.”

  Mother frowned, not so much at me as the memory. “They at least could have waited until the end of the last act!”

  Brother and sister laughed warmly.

  Mother quickly switched gears. “Perhaps you heard about my most recent march on city hall. Did you know that those city government nincompoops wanted to tear down our beautiful old stately courthouse and—”

  “Yes,” they interrupted simultaneously, “we heard.” (In case you didn’t: the nincompoops sought a modern building with air-conditioning.)

  Mother looked a little miffed. She leaned forward, put her elbows on the table, tenting her hands. “Well here’s something you don’t know—because it just happened a few short hours ago . . .”

  A nice segue to the purpose of our visit. Had she been heading here all the while? She really was, in her way, a fine actress.

  “. . . Vivian and Brandy Borne are going to have their very own reality television show.”

  This brought a gasp from Sarah, and raised eyebrows from Andrew.

  “Look out, Guy Fieri!” Mother shouted. “Make way, Kardashian clan!”

  Andrew seemed confused by this news, but Sarah gushed, “How marvelous! But how did this happen? Is it because of your notoriety in solving murder mysteries as of late?”

  So they knew about that, too.

  “Partially,” I said, beating Mother to the punch, hoping to apply the best spin. “But it’s mostly because of our interest in antiques.”

  “Yes,” Mother jumped in, “we quite often ‘solve the mystery’ ”—she made air quotes—“of an antique’s pedigree. What is the darn thing? Is it trash, is it treasure? Where did it come from? When was it made? How much is it worth? The show will be called Antiques Sleuths . . . isn’t that clever?”

  Both Andrew and Sarah nodded, smiling, perhaps politely, but smiling nonetheless.

  Mother’s frown struck me as a little too studied, or anyway the forefinger she edged alongside her face did. “There’s only one problem,” she continued, “which is finding just the right location for the show, and for our new antiques business.”

  “You see,” I explained, “if the pilot doesn’t sell, we’ll still want to stay in that location.”

  “And carry on,” Mother said, back to her faux Brit accent.

  I said, “We need somewhere quaint, with a lot of color and character—an interesting local location for the show and our shop.”

  Sarah was nodding pleasantly, but Andrew had narrowed his eyes—something dark passed over his face.

  “You want to use the old family house,” he said flatly.

  Mother shook her head, as if saying no, but her words contradicted the gesture: “Well, of course that had crossed our minds, Andy, dear . . . being located
near Pearl City Plaza, and all of the other antiques stores! That would be ideal.”

  Andrew’s sky-blue eyes turned ice blue. “Not possible.”

  Sarah touched his arm. “Now, Andrew . . . don’t be hasty. The house is vacant at the moment.” She added enigmatically, “After all, we are in Vivian’s debt.”

  Andrew pushed back his chair, stood. “No. That structure is nothing but a reminder of everything I’ve spent a lifetime trying to forget. Nothing good has ever come of it or from it. Vivian, Brandy, I’m afraid you’re too late. I’ve already made my mind up to have it torn down.”

  Sarah gazed up at her brother with eyes as soft as his were hard. “Andy, dear,” she said gently. “It’s half my house, too.”

  Her brother said nothing, glancing away.

  Then Sarah said to Mother and me, “Would you mind waiting inside?”

  Abandoning our tea, we left the siblings to determine the fate of our store’s location. And our show’s.

  In front of the fireplace, Mother studied the Warhol painting.

  “What’s so special about high heels?” she asked. “I could’ve painted that in my sleep.”

  “Mother?”

  “Yes, dear?” She was still studying the painting the way a dog watches TV.

  “What do Andrew and Sarah have against Samuel Wright?”

  Mother tore herself away from the Warhol. She lowered her voice and for once underacted: “He was the main witness for the prosecution at the trial—although a hostile one, being a close pal of Andy’s. Of all of ours.”

  I whispered, “What information did Wright have that was useful to the prosecution?”

  “That he had seen Andy chopping wood around the time of the murder, when Andy was supposed to be fishing . . . and shortly before the ax went missing.” Her eyes wandered back to the painting. “Of course, then my testimony blew that nonsense out of the water. Or muddied it, at least.” Who was telling the truth? After so many years, did even Mother know? An impressionable girl, perhaps with a crush on an older boy, might make herself believe anything.

  The patio doors opened, signaling our hosts had concluded their confab.