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

cameraman, Phil Dean, and he’s cooperating. He called the network president, who agrees that keeping this matter low-key at the outset is the right approach.”
    It wasn’t a “matter,” it was a murder.
    I said, “But it will get out. . . .”
    “Sure it will. Only, with a little luck, not before we’ve got our killer. We’re holding Joe, but you and I both know he’s almost surely not the perp. Still, it may give the real killer a false sense of security.”
    I nodded. “All right. I’ll do everything I can to keep a lid on this.”
    He pointed at me, right at my face. “You do everything you can to keep a lid on your mother .” Then he touched my nose with his fingertip, almost playfully. “She’s the most likely to leak this.”
    I could only smile at the truth of that. “I’ll see what I can do.”
    For a moment I thought he might give me a little kiss, but he didn’t. Just nodded, and went back to Officer Munson’s squad car. Maybe he didn’t kiss me because Munson was around.
    Maybe that was it.
    Back inside, I looked at the couch and then at the stairs, wondering where I was going to go back to sleep, because that was the plan. And like all best-laid plans . . .
    Mother, also still in her robe, strode in and, top sergeant style, ordered me into the music/library room where she stored an old grade school chalkboard.
    “No time to waste, dear,” she said, wheeling the board out from behind the ancient upright piano. “The cat will be back soon, and we mice must play— detective, that is.”
    I took a seat on the piano bench.
    With a piece of white chalk, Mother began to write, and I caught a little nap. Her “ Brandy! ” woke me, and I almost tumbled off the piano bench. My eyes showed me Mother stepping back to survey her work.
    MURDER OF BRUCE SPRING
Suspect
Motive
Opportunity
Joe Lange
the ax
yes
Phil Dean
ill will over work problems
?
Mary Beth
bore grudge over documentary
?
Andrew B.
Perhaps found out Bruce produced documentary
?
Sarah B.
same as above
?
Driver in red Toyota
?
?
    Frowning, I asked, “How did you know about the red Toyota guy?”
    Mother, replacing the chalk on the ledge of the board, said, “Jake told me while you were talking to Brian on the porch.”
    I said, “Jake could have imagined being followed, you know.”
    “Yes.” Mother nodded. “It might just be the overactive imagination of an impressionable lad at work here”—she raised a finger—“but . . . Jake spotted the car a second time.”
    “When?”
    “When he and I were waiting in the police car at the murder house. A red Toyota was parked at the curb, about a half block away.”
    And I had spotted it a third time.
    But for now I’d keep that to myself. Mother was ablaze, and splashing more gasoline her way wasn’t such a good idea.
    “Still,” I said, “it could be a coincidence. We’re a small town and seeing the same car now and then is no big deal.”
    “Isn’t it?”
    “We don’t even know how many red Toyotas there are in Serenity. Uh . . . did Jake see the driver last night?”
    “Not clearly. But he did think it was a male—or a big-boned woman. Ask yourself, dear, why would someone be sitting in a car at that time of night?”
    Why indeed? I stood. “What if somebody’s out to kidnap Jake? Roger’s got money, you know.”
    We’d had a kidnapping scrape with my son last year.
    Mother narrowed her eyes and shook a finger. “Then the plan has been foiled, dear, because Roger is here now, looking after Jake. What better bodyguard than a boy’s own father?”
    Maybe it was me who had the overactive imagination. In any case, I’d better inform Roger about our red Toyota stalker, if Jake hadn’t already.
    “I don’t think,” I said, gesturing to the board, “the red Toyota belongs on the suspect list.”
    Mother arched an eyebrow. “I disagree, dear. That car was at the scene of the crime.”
    “Well, a red Toyota was. We can’t be sure.”
    “A red Toyota with someone