Antiques St. Nicked

Book 0: Trash ‘n’ Treasures Mystery

by Barbara Allan

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Cozy Mystery; Private Investigators

Synopsis

A Trash ‘n’ Treasures Mystery E-Book Exclusive! “One of the funniest cozy series going.” — Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine Hey Santa, get a clue . . . Baby, it’s cold outside at small-town Serenity’s annual Holiday Stroll festivities. But that doesn’t stop Brandy Borne and her theatrical mother, Vivian, from making merry. That is, until the two find something frosty in Santa’s workshop—the jolly man in red, dead as a doornail. And the goodies inside his donation bag have vanished like cookies and milk on Christmas Eve. It’s up to Brandy and Mother—with spirited shi tzu, Sushi, in tow—to take the reins and start checking off their naughty list. But the sleuthing duo might have to reckon with some ghosts of Christmas past before finally unwrapping the murderer… Don’t miss Brandy Borne’s tips on antiques!

Release date: September 29, 2015

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 40

Sample

Today was the first Saturday in December, which meant only one thing to the citizens of quaint little Serenity, Iowa, on the banks of the Mighty Mississippi—the annual Holiday Stroll had once again arrived.

This evening the downtown merchants, following their usual nine-to-five hours, would reopen from seven to nine, luring shoppers in from the cold with free cups of hot chocolate, steaming cider, and homemade cookies, all in the name of good cheer (and early holiday sales).

Every storefront window had some yuletide display, from religious (manger scene) to whimsical (teddy bears), not to mention collectible (Department 56 miniature villages). Even ol’ sourpuss Mrs. Hunter, who with her husband ran the hardware store, applied festive red and green bows to the tools arranged in their window.

Outdoor events went on as well. Each street corner had something going, whether a choir singing familiar carols or a small brass band playing holiday favorites, and of course, the customary Salvation Army red kettle with volunteer bell-ringer.

Ever since I was little, Mother would take me to the Holiday Stroll—Mother being Vivian Borne, seventies (actual age her well-guarded secret), bipolar, widowed, Danish stock, local thespian, antiques store co-owner, and self-styled amateur sleuth; and me being Brandy Borne, thirty-three, Prozac prone (since returning to live with Mother after my divorce), co-owner of our antiques store, and frequent reluctant accomplice in Mother’s detecting escapades.

(Clearly if you object to parenthetical asides, you have chosen the wrong Christmas story.)

Our Trash ‘n’ Treasures antiques shop, located at the foot of the downtown, was not among the businesses opening their doors tonight. We’d participated in last year’s Stroll to less than merry results—namely, one smashed Mary Gregory green glass pitcher, one stolen pipe commemorating Charles Lindbergh’s 1927 solo transatlantic flight, and a solitary sale (a twenty-dollar Keane print of a crying big-eyed waif).

Accompanying Mother and me tonight—but no less bundled up against the cold—was Sushi, my diabetic shih tzu. Soosh was wearing a leopard-print dog blanket with matching booties that she kept trying to kick off. I had on a black military-style jacket, black leather gloves, and a red wool scarf longer than Harry Potter’s. Mother had donned an old raccoon coat that looked like something Andy Hardy wore in one of his college boolah-boolah movies. Thank goodness she only dragged it out of mothballs for the bitterest of winter days (or when she went off her meds, which was an indicator of same) (if it wasn’t cold out, that is).

(Mother to Brandy: Dear, I know you took a creative writing class at the community college some years ago, but regarding those last two sentences, please try to be more concise. Our readers expect a higher literary standard after nine books and two novellas.)

(Brandy to Mother: Not if they’ve read them they don’t.)

Anyway, the Stroll was already in full swing as Mother and I—Sushi in my arms so she wouldn’t get trod on—made our way along the crowded downtown sidewalks, our breaths pluming, our boots adding more tracks in the lightly falling snow.

First stop, per usual, was to see Santa and Rudolph, who were always at the outdoor plaza of the First National Bank. If the Holiday Stroll was a Serenity tradition, this particular Santa (and his very special helper) was a Holiday Stroll tradition.

Simon Wright had been playing Jolly Old St. Nick every Holiday Stroll since I was in elementary school, and even though I was no longer a wonderment-filled child, there remained something comforting about seeing Simon year after year in his velvet red suit with white fur cuffs, black belt, and convincing (if fake) white beard, seated in a thronelike red chair in front of a wooden storage shed transformed into a pretend toy workshop.

The workshop—a sign above the door proclaimed it as such—was a colorful gingerbread house with silhouettes of elves painted on the windows. But what set Simon’s setup apart from, say, a regular mall Santa was his actual, no fooling, really real reindeer penned nearby and tied to a post.

And for a donation to Simon’s pet cause—the construction of a new shelter for domestic violence victims—t. . .