Free 8 Antiques Con by Barbara Allan Page A

already. Conversations with Joe went that way a lot.
    “You must’ve called for a reason, Joe,” I prodded.
    “Saw the buzz on the Net that Bufford’s a casualty.”
    Yikes! Violet’s press release was out already?
    Joe was saying, “And that PR bilge about a suspicious death? Bum scoop. My gut? Bufford was deep-sixed.”
    “You think so?”
    “Affirmative.”
    “Who by?”
    “Best guess? Gino Moretti—Bufford’s former partner. Bad blood there after he forced Tommy out of Manhattan Con.”
    “You may be right, Joe. I saw them arguing the night before.”
    “Then he’s your man.” Pause. “I assume you and Big Mama are on the case.”
    “I hope not. But probably, yeah.”
    “Brandy? You do any recon on Moretti, take care.”
    “Oh?”
    “Guy’s mobbed up, big-time.”
    I thanked Joe and ended the call.
    What a warm feeling a girl got, calling home from the big city. . . .
    Then I heard Mother yelping out, “Yoo-hoo, Brandy! Are you here, dear?”
    “In the bedroom, Todd.” That’s a reference to an old Bob and Ray radio show running gag. If you got it, you’re smiling right now. If not, probably just irritated. Sorry.
    She rushed into the bedroom, out of breath, face flushed, eyelashes aflutter. “I gave Detective Cassato an extra room keycard—and he’d like to use it right away. So we must vacate, toot aysap.”
    “I want my nap!”
    “Well, you don’t get it.”
    She crossed to the dresser and yanked open a drawer. “Now where did I put that thing?”
    I got off the bed. “All right, okay, spill it, lady . . . what are you up to? You didn’t offer up our suite out of the goodness of your heart.”
    Mother turned to gaze at me, a child who’d asked a really dumb question. “Well, of course not, dear. Do I look like a fool?”
    “Is that a trick question?”
    She returned to rummaging around in the drawer.
    “Ah . . . here it is!” Mother held up a key-chain.
    Only it was not just any key-chain, rather a recording device she’d recently ordered from a spy-gear website. Attached to the ring was a round leather fob—the recording part—about an inch in diameter. The gizmo was voice activated, would record up to three and a half hours, and had a sound file that could be transferred to a computer by using it as a flash drive (for you computer-savvy folks). To the ring, Mother had added a couple of our old house keys, by way of deceptive trimmings.
    Oh, and just so you know? That gizmo wasn’t cheap—about three hundred smackers. Which might help to explain why Mother couldn’t afford a new handcuffed briefcase.
    And, no, I didn’t bother asking her if she intended to record Detective Sal Cassato’s interviews. Some things between mother and daughter are just understood.
    Mother headed into the other room as I followed.
    “Let’s see,” she said, eyeing the furnishings. “Where to put it? Where to put it?”
    “Out in the open of course.”
    Mother crossed to an end table by the couch and set the key ring down.
    “Bring me my purse, dear.”
    I did.
    She dug through it, pulled out a few other items—some change, a pen (not the murder weapon, though), matchbook, and tube of lipstick—which she arranged around the recording device.
    I nodded in approval. “Just looks like a bunch of harmless stuff.”
    Mother, satisfied, even pleased with herself, said, “Now! Let’s gather the little doggie and go, dear.”
    I went to the closet to get Sushi’s harness bag, then began strapping it to my chest. Soosh, hearing the velcro strips pulling apart, began to go bananas, dancing at my feet, barking, thrilled to be leaving with us.
    I picked up the wiggling mutt, then placed her in the bag, facing forward.
    And the Three Musketeers left. One for all and all for . . . Mother.
    “You know,” Mother said, as we walked down the gold-and-blue-patterned hall carpet toward the elevators, “Tommy’s murder changes everything.”
    “It does?”
    Mother nodded. “Hasn’t it occurred