Antiques Slay Ride Read Free Page B

religiosity and Santa Claus commercialism.
    A middle section had heavy cardboard standees dating to the thirties and forties with famous movie stars of the day, many in Santa outfits, peddling everything from pop to cigarettes. You could get your Camels and Lucky Strikes in some pretty festive cartons, back in the day.
    From somewhere toward the rear, Mother called out, “ Dear! You simply must see this! It’s exactly what we need to dress the store up and attract more business!”
    Following her slightly echoing voice, I was led to the sight of her standing by an old Victorian-style sleigh, which on closer examination appeared to be of a considerable vintage. Beautifully restored and of mahogany wood, it had a black lacquered chaise, iron rudders, and seated four on two separate red velvet–buttoned covered benches. It was adorable.
    I turned eagerly to Mother. “Do you think Bernie would let us borrow it?”
    â€œWhy not buy it? He’s getting rid of everything.”
    â€œThis piece could be a hundred years old or more. I don’t think we can afford it, and it wouldn’t be for resale . . . strictly decorative, right?”
    She smiled slyly. “I’m sure I can convince the old boy to either loan it or give it to us for a song. Make that a carol.”
    Where men of a certain age were concerned, Mother had many convincing ways: cajoling, bribing, and some you don’t want to know about. Like blackmail. Did I type that out loud?
    Setting Soosh down on the back bench and commanding her to “stay” (I batted about .500 on that one), I circled the sleigh, visualizing it in the front of our store, the center of a fabulous display, or even out in the yard, strung with lights.
    Sushi was barking.
    Mother frowned. “Now, what’s wrong with her ? Doesn’t she have the Christmas spirit?”
    â€œShe only gets the Christmas spirit when I put those bones in her stocking. Something’s got her wired up.”
    The little fur ball had her front legs down on the seat, little butt twitching in the air, like the Jeep in a Popeye cartoon.
    â€œWhat is it, girl?” I asked.
    The barking became earsplitting, echoing off the cement.
    I looked where she seemed to be trying to draw my attention; the shape of a blanket on the floor of the sleigh, between the benches, was vaguely human.
    â€œSoosh, that’s nothing. That’s just a blanket.”
    Mother said dismissively, “She’s just sniffing the owner’s scent.”
    But Sushi pawed at the blanket, and one corner slipped back . . .
    . . . revealing a gray wool cap and wisps of silver hair matted with blood.
    The little dog had sniffed the owner’s scent, all right.

Chapter Two
    You Sleigh Me
    S heriff Rudder arrived about ten minutes after Mother placed the 911 call on her cell—Bernie’s property being outside the city limits, making this the sheriff’s jurisdiction.
    Rudder was a tall, burly man who reminded me somewhat of John Wayne, if I closed my eyes till they blurred a little. He had a fairly gruff demeanor, unless that was just how he behaved around Mother and me. (Yes, we’d had a few past run-ins with the sheriff—or mostly Mother had.)
    The light blue car had S HERIFF, C OUNTY OF S ERENITY inscribed in black on its driver’s-side and passenger doors. A young deputy was driving, and Rudder got out on the rider’s side.
    â€œThat’s the building right over there,” Mother told him, pointing.
    Rudder said nothing, blowing right by us.
    Mother started to follow him, but at the sound of her boots crunching snow, he turned and gave her a stern “stop” motion with one hand, like a surly crossing guard to a precocious grade-school kid. She returned to my side, swinging her arms, mildly disgruntled.
    â€œWho’s solved more murders around here?” she asked the air. “Him or me?”
    The air didn’t reply, but I did.