Read Online Antiques Chop (A Trash 'n' Treasures Mystery) by Barbara Allan - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Barbara Allan
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learned long ago not to criticize my son’s heroes—real or fictional.
“And besides,” my son went on defiantly, “who invited you ?”
Mary Beth, momentarily befuddled by the boy’s pluck, recovered, and huffed at everyone in general, “Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you!”
She wheeled and left, slamming the front door.
“Who was that ol’ windbag?” Jake asked.
“Just a poor, sad, delusional woman,” Bruce answered quietly.
I looked at the producer. “ Did she contact you about doing a documentary on the Butterworth murder?”
He didn’t answer for a moment, then sighed. “Well, she did bring the crime to my attention, back when I was hosting Heartland Homicides for A & E. But she wanted an executive producer’s credit, a hefty fee, and royalties. Which was ridiculous.” He gestured dismissively. “I counteroffered an associate producer credit and a flat fee, but she turned it down.”
“So you made the documentary without her,” I said, a statement not a question.
Bruce spread both hands. “Hey! I didn’t have to pay that woman anything—no one has a claim on a true crime.”
Mother was nodding. “That’s right, dear. One cannot copyright history.”
I gave her a suspicious look. “How did Mary Beth even know about this? About the show, and the Butterworth ‘murder’ house being the set, and . . . you just couldn’t keep it to yourself, could you?”
Mother’s eyes flitted like a butterfly, landing nowhere. “Well, I may have mentioned it to, uh . . . one or two of the girls.”
Bruce said, “You were supposed to keep all of this to yourself, Mrs. Borne. We like to handle the rollout of productions ourselves, and—”
“Pish posh and tish tosh,” Mother said. “Let us no longer speak of unimportant things.”
Bruce frowned. “What’s that—Lewis Carroll?”
“No,” I said wearily. “Just Mother.”
She clapped her hands once. “Let’s forget all about that unpleasant woman and get down to work. How do we proceed, Mr. Producer? With the renovations, that is. What is your vision?”
More to the point, I asked, “And what do we use for money?”
Bruce withdrew his wallet from a front pocket. “This cashier’s check should be enough to cover everything,” he said. “Repairs, new fixtures, and what-have-you.”
“Yippee!” Mother said.
She really did.
Bruce added, “Of course, I’ll need receipts for everything.” He handed Mother the check, who looked at it, then gave a low whistle.
I took a gander, too. So much for Mary Beth’s claim that Bruce was a welsher.
( Mother to Brandy : Dear, do you have any understanding of the term “welsher”? Side Note to Editor : Sorry, still out of pencils! Why don’t you send me some? I believe they would qualify for “media mail.”)
( Brandy to Mother : No, I don’t know the history of the term “welsher.” Anyway, what did happen to all the pencils? I think you deliberately threw them away.)
( Mother to Brandy : The term is quite derogatory to the Welsh . . . and we have some readers across the pond in Wales, like that lovely correspondent, Gwenllian Cadwalader. Gwenllian, I do apologize for my daughter’s ignorance.)
( Editor to Vivian and Brandy : I am sending you a box of pencils—FedEx—and I expect you to use them!)
I said to Bruce, “There’s something I don’t understand—why would your production company put money into a house it doesn’t own?”
“That money is in the budget already,” he said. “You see, usually we build a set, then tear it down after. In this case, everything stays, which is to your benefit. You’ll be able to continue using the house for your antiques business.”
“Cool!” Jake said, then, looking around, asked, “Where’s Phil?”
Mother said, “I saw him slip out. I’m afraid our DP went AWOL.”
“Well, that’s a SNAFU,” Jake said, “ ’cause we gotta have him —he’s worked on all the big reality shows.”
Bruce raised reassuring
“And besides,” my son went on defiantly, “who invited you ?”
Mary Beth, momentarily befuddled by the boy’s pluck, recovered, and huffed at everyone in general, “Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you!”
She wheeled and left, slamming the front door.
“Who was that ol’ windbag?” Jake asked.
“Just a poor, sad, delusional woman,” Bruce answered quietly.
I looked at the producer. “ Did she contact you about doing a documentary on the Butterworth murder?”
He didn’t answer for a moment, then sighed. “Well, she did bring the crime to my attention, back when I was hosting Heartland Homicides for A & E. But she wanted an executive producer’s credit, a hefty fee, and royalties. Which was ridiculous.” He gestured dismissively. “I counteroffered an associate producer credit and a flat fee, but she turned it down.”
“So you made the documentary without her,” I said, a statement not a question.
Bruce spread both hands. “Hey! I didn’t have to pay that woman anything—no one has a claim on a true crime.”
Mother was nodding. “That’s right, dear. One cannot copyright history.”
I gave her a suspicious look. “How did Mary Beth even know about this? About the show, and the Butterworth ‘murder’ house being the set, and . . . you just couldn’t keep it to yourself, could you?”
Mother’s eyes flitted like a butterfly, landing nowhere. “Well, I may have mentioned it to, uh . . . one or two of the girls.”
Bruce said, “You were supposed to keep all of this to yourself, Mrs. Borne. We like to handle the rollout of productions ourselves, and—”
“Pish posh and tish tosh,” Mother said. “Let us no longer speak of unimportant things.”
Bruce frowned. “What’s that—Lewis Carroll?”
“No,” I said wearily. “Just Mother.”
She clapped her hands once. “Let’s forget all about that unpleasant woman and get down to work. How do we proceed, Mr. Producer? With the renovations, that is. What is your vision?”
More to the point, I asked, “And what do we use for money?”
Bruce withdrew his wallet from a front pocket. “This cashier’s check should be enough to cover everything,” he said. “Repairs, new fixtures, and what-have-you.”
“Yippee!” Mother said.
She really did.
Bruce added, “Of course, I’ll need receipts for everything.” He handed Mother the check, who looked at it, then gave a low whistle.
I took a gander, too. So much for Mary Beth’s claim that Bruce was a welsher.
( Mother to Brandy : Dear, do you have any understanding of the term “welsher”? Side Note to Editor : Sorry, still out of pencils! Why don’t you send me some? I believe they would qualify for “media mail.”)
( Brandy to Mother : No, I don’t know the history of the term “welsher.” Anyway, what did happen to all the pencils? I think you deliberately threw them away.)
( Mother to Brandy : The term is quite derogatory to the Welsh . . . and we have some readers across the pond in Wales, like that lovely correspondent, Gwenllian Cadwalader. Gwenllian, I do apologize for my daughter’s ignorance.)
( Editor to Vivian and Brandy : I am sending you a box of pencils—FedEx—and I expect you to use them!)
I said to Bruce, “There’s something I don’t understand—why would your production company put money into a house it doesn’t own?”
“That money is in the budget already,” he said. “You see, usually we build a set, then tear it down after. In this case, everything stays, which is to your benefit. You’ll be able to continue using the house for your antiques business.”
“Cool!” Jake said, then, looking around, asked, “Where’s Phil?”
Mother said, “I saw him slip out. I’m afraid our DP went AWOL.”
“Well, that’s a SNAFU,” Jake said, “ ’cause we gotta have him —he’s worked on all the big reality shows.”
Bruce raised reassuring
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