Antiques Chop (A Trash 'n' Treasures Mystery)

by Barbara Allan

  Parking our glasses on a coffee table, Phil plopped down on the couch. I sat beside him, perched on the edge, angled his way but not crowding him.

  “First, let me ask you,” I said. “What do you think our pilot’s prospects are at this point in time?”

  He blinked, as if by “pilot” I was referring to a plane ride.

  “You mean Antiques Sleuths?” he asked. “Probably just a little deader than Bruce.”

  “That’s a shame. Is that a certainty?”

  He thought it over. “Well, the show was Bruce’s baby, his concept . . . but it may depend on how the publicity goes. Your local cops won’t keep the media off this thing forever, you know.”

  “Oh, I know. And the publicity might keep the show alive . . . don’t you think?”

  “I’m a tech guy, Mrs. Borne. I don’t really know for sure. . . .”

  “Make it ‘Vivian.’ So this is my proposition, my idea. Why don’t we go ahead and put together a project ourselves? In the remaining days that you’re here, I mean. And it does look like you may be stuck in Serenity for a while.”

  He eyed me warily. “What kind of project?”

  “It might be a pilot for a different series, or else footage that could be used to spice up the eventual pilot that we might yet make. You’d be the producer yourself, this time.”

  That had him interested. “Go on.”

  “Surely you’ve heard that I have quite a reputation for solving crimes—with my daughter as my little helper.”

  He nodded slowly.

  “And I intend on finding Bruce Spring’s killer. Toward that end, I’ve compiled a list of suspects and together we can interview them on high def.”

  His laughter had a hollow ring. “You have to be kidding—why would any suspect, or anybody else, for that matter, cooperate with something like that?”

  “Sir, despite a certain whimsical bent to my nature, I assure you I never kid about murder.”

  He shook his head. “Maybe so, but lady, you’re nuts if you think a potential suspect would agree to a taped interview.”

  “What if the suspects don’t know what the interview is really about?”

  “How would that work exactly?”

  My shrug was grandiose. “I’ll tell them we’re doing a little piece for Iowa Public Television. Something called”—I painted a picture in the air with a sweep of a hand—“Fireplaces of Serenity.”

  “Would anybody believe a program like that existed?”

  “Well, they did Doorways of Ft. Dodge last season, and Tulips of Pella the season before that.”

  “Okay. So that gets us into their homes. Under false pretenses, but in.”

  “Who’s to say we’re not doing a fireplace documentary? Then, after shooting a short little bit on the history of their stupid fireplace, you’ll step outside for a smoke or something . . . You do smoke?”

  He nodded.

  “Wonderful! So you step outside, leaving the camera running. Inconspicuously, of course.” I drew a breath. “Then, while you’re gone, I’ll just move the conversation to the murder—where they were at the time of, and so forth. Later, we can intersperse the interviews with reenactments of the murder, and at the end of the pilot, I’ll announce who the killer is!”

  His eyes were wide. “That would be cool, actually, though I’m not sure what it has to do with antiques.”

  “The murder was in an antiques shop, wasn’t it? Think outside the box, man!”

  Phil nodded, but also frowned. “Using what’s essentially hidden camera technique to tape a subject is on very shaky ethical grounds. . . .”

  Goodness gracious! Since when did anybody from Hollywood ever worry about being ethical?

  “We’re not hiding the camera,” I insisted. “It’ll be right there in plain sight!”

  “It’s still a trick. And the footage won’t be usable.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because everybody you interview has to sign a release—which, even if they sign, will not cover the secret footage. Unless . . .”

  I liked the sound of that. “Unless . . . ?”

  He was scratching his bearded chin in thought. “I can work up a release on my laptop that just says, ‘Serenity Documentary’ on it. That should cover us.”

  “You’re thinking like a Hollywood producer already!”

  He reached for his drink and finished it. Then he said, “Might work. But what if you don’t solve the murder?”

  Oh, ye of little faith! I shrugged. “Then our pilot will be about an unsolved mystery case. They didn’t find out who killed Laura Palmer in the first episode of Twin Peaks, did they? That Killing series went a whole silly season without solving the darn thing!”

  Phil was smiling at me. “Well, this may land me in jail even without committing a murder. But why not? It’s a shot at saving our show, and what else do I have to do, stuck here in fly-over country?”

  Like wherever he was, he wouldn’t be sitting in a bar with a drink about now.

  He asked, “When do you want to start?”

  “How about now?”

  “Right now?”

  “Why not? What else is there to do in fly-over country?”

  He grinned. “That was a dig, wasn’t it, Vivian?”

  “Maybe a little. Can you get that release form typed up and run off?”

  “Sure. The hotel has a business center. Give me half an hour.” He got to his feet, but with a little difficulty. +_+

  “Assuming you’re up to it, that is,” I said.

  “Oh, I’m up to it. But I may regret this when I sober up.” He threw a ten spot next to our empty glasses, paying for my drink. “By the way, am I on your suspect list?”

  Of course he was.

  “No, certainly not, dear,” I answered angelically. O:) “I would never keep company with a murderer.”

  Three more Shirley Temples and two trips to the ladies’ room later, I saw Phil—now professionally dressed in black polo shirt and dark jeans, sans cap—returning to meet me out in the lobby. He was loaded down with the camera, tripod, and black gear bag, the releases tucked away in the latter.

  Soon we were settled in his Ford rental car, me riding shotgun, the equipment in the back. Our first stop was to interview Andrew and Sarah Butterworth, just a short distance from the hotel on West Hill. We arrived at their mansion a little before noon.

  Parked at the curb, Phil said uneasily, “Maybe we should’ve called. What if they’re not home? Or refuse to see us?”

  I gave him a short laugh. “They’re always home, dear. And as far as refusing to see us, why we’ll be seen and inside before they have the chance.”

  “In other words, we’re just gonna barge in?”

  “They won’t know what hit them. I’m afraid I can’t help you with your gear, dear—I’m not union.”

  He gave me half a smile for that jest before loading himself down like a native bearer on safari.

  We climbed the wide cement steps to the low-slung sprawling home, me in the lead, Phil trudging behind. Then I cranked the round metal plate of a doorbell.

  Sarah answered. The tall, big-boned woman was wearing tan wool slacks, a brown cashmere turtleneck, and a surprised expression.

  “Why, Vivian! Of all people. . . .”

  “Wonderful to see you again, too, Sarah,” I said as I pushed by her.

  “What . . . who is your friend? What is that equipment? Is that a camera?”

  “As you’ve probably heard, Sarah, darling,” I said, talking a mile a minute now, “my antiques reality show has been put on hold due to the untimely death of its producer. But in the meantime, I’m switching over to another pet project of mine with our cameraman, Phil Dean—Phil, Sarah, Sarah, Phil—best shooter in the biz, our Phil. We’re not missing a beat, going right into production on a special for Iowa Public Television entitled Fireplaces of Serenity . . .” Once again I painted the air. “Don’t you just love it! Of course, I thought of you and your unique fireplace fi
rst. Hello, Andy, I was just saying—”

  White-haired Andrew, wearing a light blue pullover sweater, navy slacks, and an annoyed expression, had materialized as if from the ether (or a nearby room).

  “I heard,” he said coldly, “and I don’t love it. Vivian, we’re not interested.”

  Phil and I had made it through the entryway and to the grouping of mission furniture with Native American artifacts. Since Andy’s words had an air of finality, I summoned my theatrical talents, sank down in a chair, and whipped up a few tears. :’(

  (That approach worked for Brandy with Roger, didn’t it?)

  “You have no idea,” I sniffled, “how terribly disappointing it is to have my reality show face probable cancellation even before it’s been shot, much less aired. I am trying to fill my time with creative endeavors, to ward off despair. All I’m asking are a few moments with my old dear friends—is that so much to give to a loyal Musketeer?”

  Andrew still looked resolved, but Sarah’s expression had softened, and she put a hand on my shoulder.

  “No, of course not, Vivian,” she said soothingly. “And we do understand your disappointment—don’t we, Andy? It’s just that we’re not comfortable being on camera.”

  I dabbed my eyes with a hankie from a pocket. “But I’ll be doing most of the talking.”

  “No surprise,” Andrew said.

  This atypical unkindness I ignored, pressing on: “And the interview won’t take but a short while.” I spread both hands, the hankie waving. “You know the high quality of Iowa Public Television, yet how seldom Serenity has been featured! Think of how proud our local residents will be to finally be showcased. And the rest of the state will learn something about our proud community! Oh, I know it’s a far cry from a national show, but I’ve got to start somewhere . . . do something . . . to save face, and my sanity.”

  If that didn’t move them, I should stop treading the boards.

  Sarah and Andrew exchanged looks. Hers seemed to say, “What do you think?” His seemed to say, “It’s the only way we’ll get rid of her.”

  “All right,” the man of the manor said with a resigned nod. “You have one hour.”

  “You won’t regret it,” I lied, jumping up, swinging into director mode. “Phil, set the tripod over there, with a nice wide angle of the fireplace. I’ll be seated to the left, angled slightly. Our guests to the right, facing me. We can go in later for some closer shots. Let’s get them miked up. Oh, and where are the releases for them to sign?”

  Soon we were all in place and, most important, with papers signed. Phil positioned himself behind the tripod, looking into the camera’s viewfinder.

  “Let me know when you’re ready, Vivian,” he said.

  “Why, Phil, I was born ready!”

  Everyone but me sighed. Strange.

  “On one,” the cameraman said. “Three, two, one.”

  I gave the camera my best smile. “Hello, my fellow Iowans! This is Vivian Borne, bringing you a special presentation—Fireplaces of Serenity! With me are local businessman Andrew Butterworth and his sister, Sarah, visiting from Chicago. We are filming in the lovely Butterworth Prairie Arts home, in front of a most unusual fireplace.”

  I turn to my guests. “I say ‘most unusual’ because of the center placement, which makes the fireplace the focal point of the room.” I gestured with a hand. “I understand that only local materials were used to build it—the large stones culled from a nearby quarry, accented by smaller ones from the Mississippi River. And the timber for the mantel was indigenous, as well. What else can you tell our viewers, Andrew?”

  Andrew said blandly, “I rather think you said it all.”

  “Oh, did I? My bad!”

  Sarah was giggling. I considered her officially won over!

  She said, “Vivian, you did say you’d do most of the talking, but, really dear, try to save something for us.”

  “I do apologize.” I looked at Phil, who wore an oddly shell-shocked expression. “Let’s go again.”

  “Three, two, one,” he signaled.

  This time, after my introduction, I threw the ball to Sarah first.

  Blah, blah, blah.

  Then tossed it to Andrew.

  Blah, blah, blah.

  After five minutes of this twaddle, I thanked my old friends for allowing me into their home and to take up a few minutes of their precious time.

  Then I again addressed the camera. “But the Butterworths are not the only bearers of a fantastic fireplace here in Serenity. Stay with us after the break for another thrilling heartland hearth!”

  I smiled broadly and held it.

  Then said, “Cut!”

  Sarah was frowning. “Vivian, why the commercial break? You said this was for public television.”

  “Ah, it is,” I said, thinking fast, “but it’s one of their special pledge programs, with breaks to raise funds. That fireplace of yours is going to really light up the phones!”

  Andrew, shifting in his chair, said, “Are we done?” “I’m afraid not,” I said. “Phil is going to do a number of close-ups of the fireplace, and then some close-up reaction shots on all of us.”

  Sarah nodded. Andrew just sat there.

  Phil addressed me: “Mrs. Borne, do you mind if I take a break?” He smiled at our hosts. “Okay if I step outside for a smoke, before doing the rest? Filthy habit, I know. . . .”

  “Not at all,” I responded on cue. “I wouldn’t mind having a word or two with my friends in private.”

  After Phil disappeared, leaving the red eye of his camera on, I looked from Sarah to Andrew and back again.

  “I just wanted to say how sorry I am about what happened”—I grimaced—“down the street.”

  Andrew sat stone-faced.

  Sarah, once again, was the more gracious of the siblings. “You were hardly responsible, Vivian.”

  “Not directly,” I said, shaking my head, “but you both put your trust in me, allowing me to use the house, and all I’ve succeeded in doing was open old wounds.” I let out a deep, regretful breath, then added, “And with this second murder, you just know tongues will start wagging again.”

  Arching an eyebrow, Andrew said, “I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do about that. Except ignore it.”

  I said, “I suppose one way to silence those tongues will be to have an alibi. You do both have an alibi for Tuesday night?”

  Sarah looked stunned, like I’d slapped her in the face with a mackerel.

  Andrew asked angrily, “Why in the world would we need alibis? Neither one of us ever even met the man.”

  I sat forward and my voice was gentle, and again I looked from one to the other. “Were you aware that Bruce Spring was the producer of our show, the same man who put together that odious documentary about your father’s murder? I wasn’t aware, I assure you, until after the fact.”

  Andrew stiffened. “Yes. We were informed of that.”

  “How, might I ask?”

  Sarah, who had gone rather pale, said, “We received a phone call from that Beckman woman. She’s odious herself.”

  “We considered,” Andrew said, “calling you and withdrawing our consent for the use of that house. We frankly would have discussed that with you, probably today, if the . . . the murder hadn’t occurred.”

  Murders didn’t actually “occur,” did they? Someone had to make them happen.

  “The fact that you knew about Bruce Spring’s involvement,” I said, “before his murder? That puts both of you in a rather delicate position.”

  Sarah fumed, “Are you implying that we have a motive?”

  I raised my palms in gentle surrender. “Not me, of course, but others might—like the police. Have you heard from them yet?”

  Andrew stood abruptly. “I think we’re at the end of this farce.”

  Sarah stood as well. “Yes, Vivian. Please go.”

  I sighed. “So then you have no alibi . . . that is bothersome.”

  “We do have one,” S
arah said indignantly. “We were here, all evening. We had a late dinner, then watched an old movie on Turner Classic, which didn’t get over until midnight. At which time we went to sleep.”

  “Then you are . . . each other’s alibi? Oh, dear. I’m afraid that won’t put the naysayers to rest.”

  “Ready for those pick-up shots?” Phil asked, returning.

  And I told him we wouldn’t be needing any.

  Back in the rental car, I asked Phil, “How much of that did you hear?”

  “All of it. I only pretended to go outside.”

  “Then you know how weak their alibi is?”

  He grunted. “Each other? And watching an old movie on cable doesn’t help. They could easily have seen it before, and all they have to do is check the listing.”

  “So no alibi at all, then,” I said.

  “I know you would like to have cleared them,” Phil said, “being your friends and all. But look at the bright side—we got some killer footage.”

  “Yes we did!”

  And I gave him a ^ 5.

  But the high of the five lasted only momentarily, because Phil was right—these were indeed my friends, and I’d had to play a sneaky trick on them. Even for moi. :(

  I would like to continue on with my story, dear reader, but I approach the limits of my word count. So the exciting information revealed by our other interviews of suspects—including the revelation of vital clues—will have to be imparted to you in some other fashion, probably a banal, unexciting one.

  (Brandy to Mother: All right. You can have another chapter, but on two conditions.)

  (Mother to Brandy: The first being?)

  (Brandy to Mother: There will be a chapter of mine between your two.)

  (Mother to Brandy: Excellent idea, dear! Variety is the spice of life, to coin a phrase. Let the reader’s suspense build in anticipation of returning to my narrative stream.)

  (Brandy to Mother: I was thinking more along the lines of giving the reader a break.)

  (Mother to Brandy: Very droll, dear. And the other condition?)

  (Brandy to Mother: Enough already with the silly emoticons.)

  (Mother to Brandy: You do drive a hard bargain, dear, but I accept. :p Last one, I promise.)