Antiques Wanted

by Barbara Allan

  “Assuming,” I said, “the controlled substances are also kept under lock and key.”

  Mother nodded at that, then smiled in a babka-wouldn’t-melt manner at Tony. “Anything else you’d care to share?”

  Tony looked at the sheriff. “Pete?”

  Rudder swallowed a bite of babka, touched a napkin to his lips, and said, “The Lindle woman did clear up a few things regarding Ferrell and Mercer. For instance, Wanda broke up with Blake . . . told him she wanted out of the drug dealing, that she was tired of doing his bidding. She was particularly upset about that wheelchair accident you had, Vivian, knowing she’d been manipulated into playing an unwitting role in it.”

  “What about George Burnett?” I asked. “Was he involved in pilfering pills?”

  “We have no evidence of that,” the sheriff responded. “But there’ll almost certainly be charges of malfeasance at a later date. The pharmaceutical company he’d been using was supplying Sunny Meadow Manor with counterfeit drugs, some quite dangerous to the patients.”

  Which could explain Frannie Phillips’s remark to Mother about the high number of deaths at Sunny Meadow.

  Tony said, “And Burnett admitted to knowing Ferrell had a record, but employed him on the recommendation of . . . you may have guessed this . . . Deputy Dugan.”

  I asked, “Is there evidence that Daryl killed Blake?”

  The sheriff looked sideways at the chief. “Tony? Your area, your call.”

  The chief mulled that for a moment. “We confiscated the deputy’s stun gun, which records a time stamp when used. And that’s all I’m going to say in that regard.”

  “Interesting,” Mother said, eyes glittering behind the large lenses. “Of course, the stolen items found in Blake’s apartment link him to the murder of Judd.”

  Tony nodded. “Our working theory is that Dugan hired Ferrell to steal the Wyatt Earp poster, and any money or other valuables Blake found, the thief could keep for himself. But Judd interrupted the robbery and lost his life for it.”

  The sheriff said, “Neither Ferrell nor Dugan started out with murder in mind. But then things started spiraling out of control.”

  “The drink receipt you girls found, for example,” Tony said, “implicates Ferrell for Wanda’s murder.”

  Rudder said, “We also have a witness who saw Blake at the nursing home late the night of the Mercer woman’s death.”

  “Oh?” Mother asked. “Who?”

  A tiny smiled tugged at a corner of the sheriff’s mouth. “One Arthur Fillmore. Seems he was returning to his apartment around midnight after a rendezvous with a certain lady on the second floor.”

  Rarely have I seen Mother blush. She did so now.

  “That should be failed rendezvous,” she sniffed.

  Rudder muttered under his breath, “Not the impression he gave me.”

  Mother’s pink cheeks turned scarlet. “I would hope the name of the individual the reprobate is so casually defaming will be left out of your official report, and will go unmentioned in the press.”

  Rudder, his amusement barely concealed, looked at Tony. “Chief?”

  Tony cleared his throat. “I believe we have enough on Blake Ferrell without going down that path.”

  The men were having some rare fun at Mother’s expense. They should have been ashamed of themselves (or not).

  I turned the conversation to the subject of Daryl’s wife. “What about Candy? Does she face two murder trials—one for Harriet and the other for her husband?”

  Neither man seemed to want to take my question. Then Tony said, “There won’t be any trial. Not a jury one.”

  “What?” Mother exclaimed.

  “Why?” I asked.

  The chief raised a calming palm. “What I’m about to share can go no farther than his room, for the time being—agreed?”

  We nodded, but Mother was frowning.

  “Mrs. Dugan,” Tony said, “has agreed to a plea bargain for the killing of her husband. She’ll enter a guilty plea for a reduced sentence.”

  Mother asked stiffly, “How reduced?”

  “Manslaughter. Five years. No parole.”

  “Certainly it should be at least second degree murder!”

  Tony was shaking his head. “Vivian, that’s a mandatory fifty-year sentence. She’d have gone to trial to avoid that, and a sharp criminal lawyer could argue involuntary manslaughter, which is only two years. Or even self-defense, or an outright accident.”

  I could envision the scenarios: Daryl had been threatening Candy with the gun, because she’d learned of his crimes, and they struggled; or Daryl had been showing Candy the Earp gun when it accidentally went off.

  I said, “Never mind her shooting that louse Daryl—she murdered Harriet! What about—”

  Rudder raised the calming hand again. “As for now,” he said, “there’s not enough evidence for a charge to stick.”

  “But she admitted it to me—how she jimmied that oxygen tank.”

  Tony said, “Brandy, Candy telling you how she tampered with the oxygen tank isn’t enough. It’s your word against hers—you know that—but rest assured, we won’t stop trying to connect her to that death. That’s not part of the plea bargain.”

  Rudder was nodding. “The security cameras at Sunny Meadow, as we know, are nonfunctional. But through traffic and security cams around town, Candy may have been caught driving toward Sunny Meadow that morning. Even an eye witness or two, who might recall having seen her, may yet come forward. But keep that under your hat.”

  Tony’s cell rang, and he stood and left the room.

  After a moment the chief came back. “I have to go. Thank you, Vivian, for the coffee and cake.”

  “Babka,” Mother corrected.

  “You’re welcome,” Tony said, and went out again.

  I left the table and followed him to the front door, where we stood facing each other.

  He seemed a little distant.

  “Anything wrong?” I asked. Meaning with us, not the call—unlike Mother, I didn’t feel the need to keep up with police business.

  A strand of my hair had fallen across one eye, and he gently stroked it back. “No. How about dinner tonight at my cabin? I’ve got some nice filets.”

  “What time?”

  “Seven.”

  He twitched a smile and slipped out.

  If something was wrong, I guessed I’d find out later; in the meantime, I pushed any thoughts of discord from my mind.

  I returned to the dining room, where Rudder was on his feet, in the process of leaving, as well.

  Mother, still seated, looked up at him. “Tell me, Sheriff, had you suspected your deputy in any of these no-good-nik shenanigans? Was that the reason you’d been so forthcoming with me where earlier information was concerned?”

  Rudder didn’t answer for a moment. Then, deadpan, he added, “Let me just say, regarding the election . . . you had my vote from the start.”

  For once, Mother was at a loss for words. Me too. They had been adversaries for so long.

  He shrugged. “But of course now, the point is moot.”

  “Pardon?” she asked.

  “You won’t be needing my vote to win.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  He glanced from Mother to me, then back to her again. “You don’t know? I would think you’d be gloating.”

  “Know what?” she demanded. “And gloating is certainly not my style!”

  The sheriff and I traded raised-eyebrow expressions.

  Then he said, “With Daryl off the slate, Vivian—and it being too late for anyone else to file papers for the position— you are the presumptive sheriff.” He shrugged, adding, “That is, if you receive at least one vote.”

  Mother gave a loud whoop!

  “Does Tony know that?” I asked Rudder.

  “Yes. I just explained that to him this morning. He’s not on top of the county procedures.”

  Which might explain the troubling vibes I had gotte
n from him.

  Now the possibility of a stress-free, romantic dinner at the cabin tonight had been called into doubt. Seemed that Mother could crash a party without even attending.

  * * *

  Tony and I made it through the meal without a mention of Mother being a bunion-free shoe-in for sheriff, although it permeated the air like the chill evening air breezing in the open window.

  Now we were seated on the couch in front of the crackling fireplace, my head on his shoulder, his arm around me, as we watched the flames dance, smoke and sparks drifting lazily up the chimney.

  Sushi—whom I wouldn’t have dared leave at home, with Tony’s name in the air, as it would risk her retribution—was curled up at the hearth with Tony’s dog, Rocky, the love of her life, the mixed-breed mutt with a black circle around one eye right out of The Little Rascals.

  I lifted my head and said, “Let’s get married now.”

  Tony took a long moment to respond. “I don’t think that would be such a good idea, Brandy.”

  Was he punishing me for Mother’s indiscretions?

  I pulled back a little. “Are you saying that you want to take a breather? Or . . . break up?”

  “Why . . . do you?”

  Willing my tears back, I said, “No to either.”

  He smiled. “Me too.”

  I breathed an inner sigh of relief.

  Tony went on, “But I’m okay with waiting a while . . . to see how things go with Vivian and this new . . . role of hers.”

  “You’re okay with that?”

  “Okay with that. After all, you waited for me while I was in WITSEC, not knowing if we had a future together.”

  True. So he did sort of owe me one.

  I asked, “Want to make a bet with me on what happens with Mother?”

  “What are the stakes?”

  “Winner gets to choose where we go on our honeymoon.”

  “Deal,” he said.

  “I bet she gets impeached or recalled or however it’s done around here.”

  Tony stroked his chin. “I bet she resigns. She’ll miss the freedom of going where she wants to when she wants to. She has no idea of the workload she’s taking on.”

  I asked, “Shall we seal the deal with a kiss?”

  “By all means.”

  We did. At least.

  * * *

  The following Saturday, Mother and I held the white elephant sale at the food bank, which was a tremendous success, and all the proceeds were donated to the facility’s charity, since Mother now didn’t need the funds for her campaign.

  Afterward, while Mother was settling up accounts with the food bank manager in the office, I finished packing up the few items that hadn’t sold.

  A knock came and there was Della, poised in the open doorway. She was in a pale blue pantsuit with a scarf and some beads—she’d have looked nice, in a professional way, if her expression hadn’t been so grave.

  “Sorry I couldn’t make the sale,” she said, as she approached. “I had to work at the gallery. But I was hoping you’d still be here.”

  “Oh?”

  “I . . . went to the police station and told Chief Cassato that I’d made that call to Candy, pretending to be her husband’s. . . girlfriend. Or lover. Whatever.”

  I was glad she’d come clean.

  “I knew the Dugans a little,” she went on, still in the doorway. “Candy, Daryl, and I were on the Stoneybrook owners’ association board. So I guess my claim was credible to her, though there was really nothing to it.”

  Just enough to get Dugan killed.

  Della continued, “The chief said there wouldn’t be a jury trial because of a plea bargain.”

  “That’s right.”

  She looked relieved. “I guess that means I won’t have to testify about what I did.”

  Testimony that surely would have worked in Candy’s favor, proving the shooting was heat-of-the-moment and dispelling premeditation.

  “I want to thank you for what you’ve done for me,” Della said. “Solving Dad’s murder, and giving me closure.”

  “You’re welcome,” I said. “What will you do with the Wyatt Earp gun, after you get it back?”

  Her smile was melancholy. “Send it to the museum along with the knife and pipe. I can’t ever look at them again, or make money off them—I have that much of a conscience, anyway.”

  “Candy’s was a crime of passion,” I said, “and your reaction to hearing the deputy killed your father? That was an act of passion, too. A rash act. I understand that.”

  “I wasn’t trying to sow murder, Brandy. Just distrust between them so that maybe Candy would expose what he did to the authorities. It just got . . .”

  “Out of hand,” I said. “All because a collector wanted a valuable gun. And he got it, didn’t he?”

  She nodded glumly and left.

  Mother came out of the manager’s office, her gait nearly normal.

  “Dear, I feel like celebrating,” she said cheerfully. “Would you take me to the Dairy Queen for a butterscotch Dilly Bar?”

  I hefted the box of leftover white elephant items. “No problem.”

  She grinned. “Awesome.”

  Heading out to the car, I said, “So. All you need is one vote, huh?”

  “One vote, dear, yes.”

  “Well, you know you can count on mine.”

  She patted my shoulder. “That’s sweet, dear. But I’m not worried about whether or not I get your vote.”

  “No?”

  “No. Who do you think I’m going to vote for?”

  To be continued . . .

  A Trash ’n’ Treasures Tip

  Look items over carefully before buying as white elephant sales usually have a “no return or exchange” policy. Mother carries a magnifying glass and checks every inch of her treasures—like any good detective.

  Mrs. Goldstein’s Chocolate Babka

  Dough:

  ½ cup warm water

  2¼ tsp. dry yeast

  1 tsp. sugar

  5 cups flour

  ¼ cup packed brown sugar

  ¼ cup sugar

  1¼ cup butter or margarine, softened

  2 eggs

  1 egg white

  3 tbsp. vanilla extract

  1 tsp. grated lemon zest

  In a large mixing bowl, put the warm water, yeast, and the 1 tsp. of sugar, and whisk together. Let sit for 10 minutes until frothy. Add the remaining ingredients and mix thoroughly. Cover the bowl with plastic wrap, and set dough aside to rise, about 2 hours.

  Wet Filling:

  1 cup cocoa powder

  ¾ cup canola or vegetable oil

  ½ cup boiling water

  2¼ cups confectionary sugar

  Put all ingredients into a bowl, mix until smooth, and set aside.

  Dry Filling:

  ¾ cup sugar

  ¾ cup brown sugar

  ½ cup cocoa powder

  ¾ cup confectionary sugar

  ¼ cup flour

  ¼ tsp. kosher salt

  ½ bittersweet or semisweet chocolate bar (size 3.5 oz.),

  finely chopped

  ½ milk chocolate bar (size 3.5 oz.), finely chopped

  In another bowl, mix ingredients together until evenly distributed.

  Crumb Topping:

  ¼ cup butter or margarine, cut into small pieces

  ¼ cup sugar

  ¼ cup flour

  In another bowl, mix all together to make coarse crumbs.

  To Assemble:

  Divide the dough into 4 equal-sized balls. Roll 1 ball out into a 12-by-10-inch rectangle. Spread ¼ of the wet filling over the dough, then sprinkle ¼ of the dry filling over the wet filling. Roll the dough into a tube, starting with the longer side of the rectangle. Set aside. Repeat for the other 3 balls. Take 2 rolls and make a slit the length of the tube to expose filling, then twist the 2 rolls around each other to make a braid, tucking ends underneath. Place into buttered 12-inch loaf pan, and sprinkle wit
h half of the crumb topping. Cut and braid the other two rolls, put into a separate buttered 12-inch loaf pan, and sprinkle on top the remaining crumb mixture. Bake at 375 degrees for 45 minutes. Cool before slicing. Makes: 2 babka cakes; each serves 8–10 people.

  (Disclaimer: Neither Mother nor I would ever attempt to make such a time-consuming recipe—Goldie baked the babka for us, as a favor, and for a donation to the Anti-Defamation League. All comments or questions concerning this recipe should be directed to Mrs. Goldie Goldstein at Sunny Meadow Manor—now under new management.)

  About the Authors

  Photo by Bamford Studio

  BARBARA ALLAN is a joint pseudonym of husband-and-wife mystery writers Barbara and Max Allan Collins.

  BARBARA COLLINS is a highly respected short story writer in the mystery field, with appearances in over a dozen top anthologies, including Murder Most Delicious, Women on the Edge, Deadly Housewives, and the best-selling Cat Crimes series. She was the co-editor of (and a contributor to) the best-selling anthology Lethal Ladies, and her stories were selected for inclusion in the first three volumes of The Year’s 25 Finest Crime and Mystery Stories.

  Two acclaimed hardcover collections of her work have been published: Too Many Tomcats and (with her husband) Murder—His and Hers. The Collins’s first novel together, the Baby Boomer thriller Regeneration, was a paperback best-seller; their second collaborative novel, Bombshell—in which Marilyn Monroe saves the world from World War III—was published in hardcover to excellent reviews. Both are back in print under the “Barbara Allan” byline.

  Barbara has been the production manager and/or line producer on various independent film projects emanating from the production company she and her husband jointly run.

  MAX ALLAN COLLINS in 2017 was named a Mystery Writers of America Grand Master. He has earned an unprecedented twenty-three Private Eye of America “Shamus” nominations, winning two Best Novel awards for his Nathan Heller historical thrillers, True Detective (1983), and Stolen Away (1991), and Best Short Story for his Mike Hammer story, “So Long Chief” (2014), completing an unfinished work by Mickey Spillane. His other credits include film criticism, short fiction, songwriting, trading-card sets, and movie/TV tie-in novels, including the New York Times best-sellers Saving Private Ryan and the Scribe Award–winning American Gangster. His graphic novel Road to Perdition, considered a classic of the form, is the basis of the Academy Award–winning film. Max’s other comics credits include the “Dick Tracy” syndicated strip; his own “Ms. Tree”; “Batman”; and “CSI: Crime Scene Investigation,” based on the hit TV series, for which he has also written six video games and ten best-selling novels.