Antiques St. Nicked by Barbara Allan

find a note from Mother by the coffee machine saying she had “errands to run.”
    Translation: She’d taken the trolley downtown to do some snooping.
    A postscript said I’d find breakfast warming in the oven, which turned out to be one of my favorite Danish delights Mother makes around Christmastime.

    Hof Pandekager
(Court Pancakes)
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    Filling:
    3 egg yolks
¼ cup sugar
1 orange; juiced, peel grated
¼ cup butter
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    Batter:
    Â¾ cup flour
½ tsp salt
1 tsp baking powder
2 tbsp powdered sugar
2 eggs
1 tsp cognac
whole milk
water (mixed with milk)
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    Make the filling first by beating the yolks and sugar together in the upper part of a double boiler until well mixed; add the grated orange peel and juice, mixing well; add butter in dabs or small pieces. Cook until thickened. Let cool.
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    To make the batter, sift flour, salt, baking powder, and powdered sugar together. In separate bowl, beat the eggs slightly and stir into flour mixture. Gradually add the cognac and milk/water, beating well. Let stand fifteen minutes. Bake cakes on well-buttered griddle, browning on both sides. Remove cakes from griddle and add a tablespoon of cooled filling to the center of each; roll the cake around the filling to make a sausage shape. Arrange on an oven-proof serving dish; sprinkle with extra powdered sugar; set dish under low broiler heat to lightly brown the tops. Makes sixteen small cakes, or eight large cakes.
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    I helped myself to two cakes, giving some morsels to Sushi by way of mixing them in with her dry dog food so that she’d eat all the food, and I could give her an insulin shot. Which she did and I did.
    After my shower, I got into my favorite DKNY jeans and a Splendid plaid shirt. Today Sushi and I’d be going to the shop—even though it was closed—because I still had several boxes of Christmas merchandise to put out, and time was running short, only so many more shopping days and all that.
    Downstairs I threw on my military-style coat, grabbed my purse (a black Hobo cross body), scooped up Sushi, and we headed out to the car.
    Our shop was unique in that it took up an entire house—a two-story white clapboard built around the turn of last century and locally infamous as the site of two ax murders (see Antiques Chop ), which is why we got the place so cheap.
    Our antiques and collectibles were displayed in the proper room—that is, living-room furniture in the living room; kitchenware in the kitchen; books in the library; bedroom sets upstairs; linens in the closets. In the basement we’d recently added “Mantiques” (old tools, fishing gear, beer signs, pinup calendars, and so forth) to lure male customers or at least give the fellas something to do while the gals shopped upstairs. Everyone knew just where to go in the house to look for whatever they were after.
    Anyway, at the shop, I dragged down several boxes from the attic (nothing up there but storage and cobwebs) containing a variety of holiday merchandise—vintage Christmas cards, glass ornaments, assorted plaster and plastic Santas, and so forth—that I planned on salting around the various rooms.
    As Sushi looked on, I was sorting through the boxes in the ample entryway, in front of the checkout counter, when someone knocked on the locked front door.
    I saw Tony through the top glass of the door and went to unlock it.
    Serenity’s top cop stomped the snow from his Florsheims and stepped in, his dark wool topcoat open over the usual blue shirt, navy tie, and gray slacks.
    â€œWhat’s so important that you had to see me now?” he asked, the slight irritation in his voice something only a girlfriend could detect.
    On the drive to the shop I’d debated long and hard whether to show Tony the two pictures Mother and I had taken of Simon. My loyalty to Mother in keeping her investigation self-contained was becoming increasingly compromised by my desire to help