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.”
“That’s not true and you know it,” he snapped.
“No, actually it is true. I researched it. And why did you insist on conducting our interviews now? After all we’d been through! Couldn’t that have waited?”
“You think I was being mean, don’t you? A real jerk.”
“A perfect deduction if I ever heard one.”
Those brown eyes softened. “You know why I took your statements now? To protect you.”
I stared. Then it dawned on me: Brian’s insistence on driving us home; all the lights on in the living room; his high-profile pacing in front of the picture window.
I said, “You don’t think Joe did it, either, do you?”
“No.”
“Because there wasn’t much blood on his clothes, like Mother said?”
He nodded.
I frowned. “And that means . . . ?”
“The killer is still out there.”
I touched his arm. “Brian . . . I’m sorry I got all over your case like that.”
His face softened. “Apology accepted. Normally having you all over my case isn’t that bad.” Then: “Brandy?”
“Yes?”
“Stay out of this one.”
“Understood.”
He cocked his head. “Not exactly a promise.”
“I will try.”
“This one’s different. This is a damn ax murder. Nasty, scary stuff. You’ve got precious cargo on that couch in there. Protect your son and yourself by letting me and my guys handle it.”
“You make a lot of sense.”
His grin had frustration in it. “You really know how to hedge, don’t you? See you tomorrow.”
I remained on the porch until Brian’s unmarked car disappeared, then turned to go into the house . . .
. . . but not before noticing a red Toyota drive by.
A Trash ‘n’ Treasures Tip
Shoppers can “smell” a dying business, making them less apt to buy, so owners must stay upbeat and friendly. Mother plasters our merchandise with cute little signs, like the one she put on a porcelain rabbit: HARE TODAY . . . GONE TOMORROW.
Chapter Five
Choppy Waters
After Brian left the house around four A.M., I was too tired to follow Mother and Jake
upstairs to bed, and wound up crashing on the hard Queen Anne couch. My head had barely hit the throw pillow before I was out and dreaming nonsensical gibberish.
When an incessant pounding wouldn’t stop, I tried working the noise into my dream, but finally gave up, forcing my eyes open. The clock on the mantel said seven.
Three hours of delirious sleep. What more could a girl ask of life? How about another three hours or maybe six? I turned my back to the knocking.
But the banging at the front door only continued.
Could Brian have returned for more questioning, and/or to return my car? If so, he was way out of line coming back so soon.
My spine was stiff, every bone in my body creaky, every muscle annoyed at me, and the only way I could stand was to roll off to the floor, then get to my knees and take it from there.
“All right, all right,” I hollered. “I’m coming! Sheesh.”
Hobbling like a geriatric patient in search of a lost walker, I eventually reached the door. Sushi and Rocky were already there, yapping and barking, respectively, having been roused from their slumber as well.
Pushing the dogs back with one leg, growling at them for a change, I cracked the door, and looked up into the angry face of my ex.
Jake must have called his father before going to bed and told him everything. Because I hadn’t yet.
“About damn time. . . .” Roger said tersely.
Realizing I was a mess, a zombie with hair askew and sleep-puffy features, I resignedly let my former husband in, then followed him into the living room, where he wheeled to face me. He was wearing a tan leather jacket, brown tailored slacks, and expensive shoes. His idea of casual. He looked great. And greatly annoyed.
“I should have known better than to let Jake stay here,” he snapped, his gray eyes cold, rugged face haggard from a four-hour early-morning drive—which had given him plenty of time to get worked up into a lather.
Too tired to defend myself, I said nothing.
He went on. “I’m gone—what?—less than twenty-four hours? And already you’re mixed up in another murder!” He gulped air. “Involving our son! Well? Say something for yourself!”
I started to cry. Softly at first, little choking sounds, then louder, like a braying donkey.
It wasn’t a stunt. I wasn’t using my female wiles to get out of a jam. After all, braying-donkey snort-sobbing isn’t exactly flattering. In addition to being exhausted, I had finally been hit by the tragedy of the night before—and, yes, guilt for putting Jake at risk, even if indirectly and unintentionally.
The dogs didn’t like what they’d been hearing and let Roger know that he was a very, very bad man for upsetting me like this—Sushi delivering a sharp warning bark, like little gunshots, while Rocky, hair on his back standing up, emitting a long, low, truly threatening growl.
My weeping also brought Jake and Mother rushing downstairs.
Jake, in his rumpled clothes from last night, his hair sticking up on one side like a ragged Indian feather, looked accusingly at his father and said, “What did you do to Mom?”
While Mother, in robe and moose slippers (had she worn them to bed?) answered, “Why, being a big bully, of course. You should be ashamed, you, you, you brute!”
Roger spread his hands. “Don’t turn this around on me! I’m just beside myself about what happened.”
Mother huffed like Jack Benny, “Well! If you’re beside yourself, both of you should feel ashamed. Just imagine how we must feel. We lived it! You just heard about it.”
He pointed an accusatory finger at her. “This fiasco has your name written all over it, Vivian.”
“Dad,” Jake told his father, “I’m the one who snuck out of the house last night and got myself into this mess. Be mad at me if you want . . . but don’t take it out on Mom. Or Grandma, either.”
Roger, exasperated, shouted, “I’m not taking it out on your mother! Or your grandmother, either.”
“That’s exactly what you’re doing,” Jake said defiantly.
Frowning, Roger said, “Don’t talk to me like that—I’m your father!”
Yeah. Go there. Like that ever worked on any kid.
Jake folded his arms and looked away.
Exasperated, my ex put hands on hips and shook his head. His expression bore a brand of confusion known only to the male sex, particularly fathers. “Since when did I become the bad guy?”
Mother shrugged. “That’s just the way it is around here, Roger dearest—you should be used to it by now. You are on our turf. Could I interest you in a cup of coffee?”
His eyes and nostrils flared. “No! Jake, get your things together. I’m taking you home. Right this instant.”
“I can’t go home, Dad,” Jake said with a shrug. He jerked a thumb back at himself. “I’m a material witness. Right, Grandma?”
“That’s correct, darling,” Mother said. “You can’t leave until the police allow.”
Roger’s forehead was tight and his eyes bulging. “Well how long will that be?”
Recovered from my crying jag, I sniffled. “A couple of days, maybe.”
“You’re most welcome to stay in the guest room,” Mother offered cheerfully. “Our house rules are very liberal.”
“Yeah, I noticed,” Roger said, grimacing. “No, thanks very much, Vivian. But I’ll find a hotel.”
“Suit yourself,” Mother said with a shrug. “Now, who wants breakfast?”
“I do!” Jake said. “Will you make me Yummy Eggs?”
Roger closed his eyes. He might have been wishing he could disappear. Or maybe that Mother would.
“Adam and Eve on a raft in a storm!” Mother replied, like a short-order cook. “Comin’ right up. . . .”
(Yummy Eggs recipe: see Antiques Maul.)
While grandmother and grandson disappeared into the kitchen—the dogs, too, choosing the possibility of food over protecting me—Roger trudged over to the QA armchair by the picture window and sat down, dejected.
“It’s not fair,” he muttered. “Everyone gangs up on me. Even Sushi. And who the hell is that other mutt?”
“Rocky. Tony’s dog. We’re sort of dog-sitting.”
“Ah, your old boyfriend’s dog. No wonder it wanted to take a bite out of me.”
I crossed to stand in front of him. “Rocky’s a police dog. Best keep that in mind.”
“He doesn’t look like one.”
Meaning a K-9.
“Don’t let that fool you,” I said. “Make a wrong move and you’ll see. He’ll take a bite out of crime.”
Rocky could fetch a gun and climb ladders. I’d seen him do it (Antiques Knock-Off).
Roger grunted. “I best behave, then.... Brandy?”
“Yes?”
“You don’t think I’m a bully, do you?”
“Of course not.” Well, maybe a little. What man isn’t, under the right (or wrong) circumstances? “You’re just a good dad who cares about his son.”
“I love him to pieces,” Roger said, a tremble in his voice as he hung his head. “I don’t know what I’d do if something ever really—”
I touched his shoulder. “I understand. But please remember . . . I love him, too.”
For the record? Roger was a decent man. Okay, maybe a little controlling. But then, hadn’t I been looking for a father figure, someone to take control? He was the knight in shining armor who whisked me away from boring Serenity and maddening Mother, to live in his castle in a high-end Chicago suburb. I was just a small-town Cinderella trying to fit in, busying myself with motherhood, charity works, and playing the exemplary executive’s wife. But I was too immature, and the ten-year difference in age between us became an ever-widening chasm. And in the end I screwed things up.
I said, “Have breakfast with us.”
He swallowed and smiled a little. “Okay.”
Despite the morning’s inauspicious beginning, we had a surprisingly pleasant breakfast around the Duncan Phyfe dining room table. I had Yummy Eggs, too, whil
e Roger and Mother opted for French toast coated in corn flakes and smothered in rich maple syrup. No recipe for that, I’m afraid—strictly a “by guess and by gosh” process, as Mother put it.
After the meal, Roger headed out, taking Jake with him; my ex had rushed here in a hurry, without packing any clothes or toiletries, so he needed to buy a few things.
Roger’s Hummer was barely out of sight when the current man in my life, Chief Brian Lawson, pulled up in my battered Buick, followed by a squad car driven by Officer Munson. Brian hopped out and moved quickly up the walk. He was in a navy shirt with a white tie and brown slacks, his badge pinned to his belt, a revolver on his hip.
I met him at the front door, still in my robe from last night. “Good morning.”
“Morning. I was just going to leave your car keys in the mailbox here. Didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You didn’t. I’ve been up a while. Would you like to come in? I think there’s some breakfast left.”
He shook his head. His smile was friendly but reserved. “I have to get back. But I do need to say something.”
That sounded a little ominous.
“Okay.”
He let out a weight-of-the-world sigh. “I’m trying to keep this murder under wraps for the time being. Sort of a press blackout.”
“Oh. Why is that?”
“Bruce Spring is a national media figure. A reality show host and big-time producer, getting hacked to pieces in a house where the same thing happened sixty years ago?”
“It’ll attract attention.” I let out my own weight-of-the-world sigh. “Just like that media mess last summer.” (Antiques Knock-Off.) “Are we gonna have to go through junk like that again?”
He nodded glumly, a hand on the handle of his holstered weapon. “Probably. But I’m trying to keep that fuss from kicking in till we’ve had a few days to investigate. Last thing we need right now is a media circus.”
“But as soon as it gets out that Bruce Spring’s been murdered—”
He raised a hand. “His real name was Bruce Robert Springstein. I’m listing him as a murder victim named Robert Springstein. And the dismemberment aspect of the crime I’m keeping hush-hush for now.”
“What about Spring’s people at his network?”
Antiques Chop (A Trash 'n' Treasures Mystery) Page 8
