Antiques Swap by Barbara Allan

facts are fresh. Better to get it over with.”
    Tony touched my shoulder, breaking protocol. “Look, I’ll tell Lawson you’ll be at the station in an hour. Go home first. Get yourself together. Maybe have something to eat.”
    I nodded. “Sounds like a plan. Will you be at the interview?”
    He shook his head. “I’ll be tied up here for a while.” He squeezed my shoulder before letting go. “You’ll be fine. It’s not like you’re new to this kind of thing.”
    An unspoken unfortunately hung in the air.
    I nodded numbly.
    As Tony returned to the crime scene, Mother and I, Sushi in my arms, returned to the Caddy. After doing some fancy maneuvering around the various vehicles, I managed to get the big black boat out into the street.
    On the few minutes of our drive home, Mother—Sushi on her lap now—gave me her crime-scene analysis. I did not protest—I’d been involved in enough of these incidents with Mother to know that (a) there was no stopping her, and (b) my own curiosity would get the better of me.
    â€œShe’d been hit on the head, dear,” she said, as if reporting rain out a window. “Must have been quite a blow to produce all that blood. But I didn’t see the weapon, so the killer must have taken it with him—or her.”
    â€œIt’s a big house. You only had a look at the man cave.”
    â€œYes, but with the crime scene so near that open garage, it’s more than likely he or she came in and went out that way. Now, I haven’t searched the yard, but . . .”
    â€œMaybe that’s a job for the police.”
    I could feel Mother’s indignant eyes upon me. At least she didn’t say, “Perish the thought!”
    What she did say was: “Very well, but the more you know before your interview at HQ, the better prepared you’ll be to avoid any clever trap.”
    â€œBrian wouldn’t do that to me.”
    â€œWouldn’t he?”
    We had arrived home, an old-fashioned two-story white house with a wraparound front porch and stand-alone garage.
    Mother was saying, “Perhaps it would be wise to call Wayne and have him by your side.”
    Mr. Ekhardt, our longtime lawyer, had himself been around a very long time. Nearly ninety, the semiretired criminal lawyer—who famously got a woman off for self-defense after shooting her philandering husband in the back five times—still hung on to a few clients like us. He’d been Mother’s attorney long before I set foot on the planet.
    I worked the key in the front door. “Mr. Ekhardt’s probably already in bed.”
    I held the door open for Mother, while a lagging-behind Sushi was sniffing the lawn, checking for signs of canine trespassers. Satisfied her domain had not been befouled—or was that disappointed?—she trotted up the porch steps and inside.
    I loved the smell of our house, which always seemed to fade a few seconds after entering; it wasn’t pleasant or unpleasant . . . just the scent of home.
    Mother, setting her purse on the Victorian table by the foyer, said, “Dear, why don’t you have a little lie-down. I’ll feed Sushi and give her her insulin injection. You can have a little something to eat after.”
    I said I couldn’t possibly eat or sleep, though a hot bubble bath might help. Then I trudged upstairs.
    Sometimes when I was little, particularly after I’d been bad, Mother would lock herself in the bathroom for a long soak, and I would hear her cry out, “Calgon, take me away!” Just like in the old TV commercials. When I’d come back to live here after my divorce, I went looking for the bubble bath—turns out they still make it. So I tried the stuff. Relaxing, all right, but it never took me far enough away.
    Half an hour later, feeling better if not exactly refreshed, I returned downstairs wearing a fresh pair of DKNY jeans and a floral silk