Antiques Slay Ride Read Free Page A

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    That was the extent of our conversation on the drive out to Bernie’s place, preoccupied as we both were, knowing our mission depended on beating Lyle Humphrey to the punch.
    Lyle was a wealthy collector who had a penchant for Christmas collectibles. Awhile back at an auction, he and Mother had tangled over a plaster bank, about six inches high, of a slumbering Santa in a comfy chair.
    Mother had bid $100, top dollar for the piece and a rare preemptive bid from her; but Humphrey had shut her down by going $200.
    â€œDouble book!” she had shouted at him in the parking lot. “Double book!”
    Lyle had a round baby face, rounded shoulders, and rounder tummy; though it was summer, he had worn a three-piece suit. “You’re looking lovely today, Lillian.”
    â€œThat’s Vivian !”
    â€œIs it?”
    â€œYou’re a horrible little man!”
    He’d winced momentarily, as if his feelings were hurt, then smiled smugly. “Perhaps I am, but nothing was stopping you from bidding again. If a person really wants something, a person goes after it.”
    But Lyle had known we—and few of those he went up against in auctions—could never stand up to his kind of money.
    Soon I was swinging the Buick into the semicircle drive of Bernie’s place. I pulled the car up in front and we got out, Mother handing Sushi over to me. Without cover of darkness and glitz of Christmas lights, Serenity’s favorite seasonal sight looked a trifle shabby. The white ranch-style home was in need of some TLC by way of fresh paint and roof shingles, and the yard didn’t seem ready for winter, not having gotten over autumn yet, judging by the clumpy scatterings of leaves.
    As we approached the open cement porch, I pointed to where several newspapers had piled up. “Maybe Bernie’s on vacation. Doesn’t look like he’s been home for a while.”
    Mother nodded in agreement.
    I was turning to go, but Mother pressed on, climbing the few steps to the front door, then brazenly tried to open it, but it was locked, thank goodness.
    â€œMother! What would you have done if that was open? Marched right in?”
    She shrugged. “Not ‘march’ exactly. Moot point now, dear.”
    â€œMaybe he has an answering machine you can leave a message on. In the meantime, let’s head back and regroup. There have to be other sources for Christmas collectibles.”
    Mother, having returned to my side, replied, “I’m not ready to leave just yet, dear.”
    And before I could ask her why not, she headed over to a nearby outbuilding, a large metal and poured cement prefabricated affair with a normal door next to a double garage-style door.
    â€œWhat are you doing, Mother?”
    Another silly question, not rating an answer.
    â€œLet’s not break-and-enter , Mother!”
    With a half-turn of the head, as if responding to me was barely worth it (not a bad estimation, actually), she said, “It’s not breaking and entering, dear, when the door is unlocked!”
    The door was unlocked.
    Only the gray winter sky heard my groan, because Mother had already disappeared inside.
    I stood there like a female snowman for a few seconds, white stuff collecting in my hair like dandruff, shrugged, then followed her bad example. She was probably right. If you didn’t break anything, how could it be breaking and entering?
    I entered.
    It wasn’t exactly warm in the cement-floored building—my breath still smoking—but this was an improvement over standing outside, where the snow was coming down increasingly harder.
    I dusted the stuff off of Sushi, then gazed around in amazement, my mouth dropping like a trapdoor. The high-ceilinged building was packed with antiques and collectibles, with rows of jammed shelving and little pathways leading from one delight to another, and all of it was Christmas oriented, evenly divided between Nativity-scene