Antiques Slay Ride by Barbara Allan

Bo-Bo . . . today.”
    That’s what I withheld from you. Sorry.
    Lyle shrugged. “I typed that list up from the other one, and must have accidentally left the doorstop off. A simple oversight.”
    From across the room, I put in, “You updated the list, didn’t you? To reflect the missing Santa that you’d already taken. Which Bo-Bo and Tanya didn’t even know existed.”
    Lyle stood slowly, looking down at Mother, his nostrils quivering with indignation. “I don’t think I care for what you and your daughter are implying.”
    Mother shrugged. “We’re not implying it, Mr. Humphrey. We are stating it. You stole that Santa, and we believe you killed to get it.”
    â€œRidiculous! I’m no killer.”
    Not unkindly, Mother said, “It was likely something of an accident. You sneaked into Bernie’s collectibles warehouse, selected that one key item, got caught in the act, and—why, I bet you just reflexively struck out a blow at Bernie with the iron Santa. That doorstop, it wouldn’t be the murder weapon by any chance?”
    I said, “The police have their own collection of valuable items it can go into.”
    Lyle smirked, though he was clearly unnerved. “You two have vivid imaginations, but perhaps that’s just the, uh, medication talking.” He pointed toward the door. “I’m afraid you ladies made a trip here for nothing.”
    Mother said, “Let’s give Sheriff Rudder a call and see if he agrees, shall we?”
    Grinning yet flustered, Lyle gestured toward his doorstop collection. “Do you see the Sundblom Santa?”
    Mother sighed. “You’d hardly display it till the smoke had cleared, as they say . . . but I’m sure it’s here somewhere.”
    Lyle’s mouth smiled but his eyes didn’t. “Perhaps you’d like to have a look around?”
    â€œOh,” Mother said, clapping, “I would simply love to see the upstairs!”
    She wouldn’t want any half-filled buckets on her bucket list, after all.
    Lyle leaned forward and his upper lip curled in a sneer. “Well, you can’t . Get out !”
    We’d been thrown out of fancier places. Not much fancier, though.
    â€œLyle,” Mother said gently, still not rising, “I know you must have given Bernie a generous offer for the Sundblom piece. You lowballed those dreadful stepchildren, but Bernie knew his onions, and you would have respected his opinion.”
    His chin crinkled. “I admit that I did try to buy that Santa. I offered twice as much as any had ever gone for. But he had his own plans.”
    I said, “Yeah, a museum, where everybody could enjoy it. You may love Christmas stuff , Mr. Humphrey, but you don’t get Christmas at all.”
    â€œI don’t care what you think of me,” Lyle said. “But I’m no killer.”
    I set Sushi down on the floor, and was putting on my coat, when Lyle shouted, “What is that creature doing ? Stop that thing!”
    At first I thought he meant Mother, that she had tried to make a break for the upstairs maybe; but Lyle was pointing at the “creature” stirring under his tree: Sushi, who was sniffing at a present under there.
    And before I could reach the little mutt, those tiny sharp claws had torn away the Christmas wrapping to reveal the cutest Santa doorstop you ever saw.

Chapter Six
    And to All a Good Night
    V ivian speaking once again.
    If this were one of our very entertaining and humorous novels (visit www.BarbaraAllan.com for a complete list), I would enthrall you, dear reader, with Lyle’s heartbreaking confession. Why, the man broke down as splendidly as a killer in a courtroom scene on a Perry Mason episode!
    Of course, including that would be redundant, as I had deduced what occurred—indeed, Lyle, unable to buy the rare doorstop from Bernie, went to the elderly man’s place at night, broke into