Free Antiques Chop (A Trash 'n' Treasures Mystery) by Barbara Allan

yeah.”
    “Whose?”
    “I . . . I can’t tell.” His voice cracked. “It’s all . . . all chopped up.”
     
    A Trash ‘n’ Treasures Tip
     
    Modest pricing of merchandise creates rapid turnover and repeat customers. High prices create stagnant stock and less foot traffic, which means less money in your pocket. On the other hand, some items, like a certain Smiley Face clock, don’t sell no matter what tactic you try.

Chapter Four
    Chop Till You Drop
    N ote from Brandy: The first half of this chapter is written by Jake, because my son can explain better than I what happened to him at the old Butterworth house during the wee morning hours.
     
    Hi. Jake here. But you already know that. I’m not a writer, but then Mom isn’t really a writer either, and this is, what? Her seventh book? Anyway, it would be cool if you cut me some slack.
    Speaking of cool, how cool is my mom, not making me eat that gross liver and onions crap? Is that okay to say, crap I mean? I don’t know what the rules are. But dinner is a decent place to start my story, because after I fixed myself a baloney and cheese sandwich, careful not to let Grandma see me doing it, I went outside to fix the old Schwinn. I pumped up the tires and got the chain back on its track and it seemed like it was working okay.
    By the time I got back in the house, Mom was already up in bed with the dogs. I said good night to Grandma, who was busy at the dining room table making one of her art projects out of cardboard and Popsicle sticks. I didn’t ask what the project was because she might tell me, and that could take awhile.
    Upstairs I could smell the dog farts all the way into my room. Can I say that? Farts? Really, I should have asked for some kind of guidelines. Anyway, dog farts. Mom and I must have fed them way too much liver under the table.
    You know, this writing is hard. I have spent a whole paragraph on dog farts and they really don’t have anything to do with anything. The farts, I mean. The dogs, either.
    Anyway, I got in bed with my clothes on and pretended to go to sleep. Then at half-past midnight I tiptoed out of my room and listened to make sure Mom and Grandma were conked out. They were. Both snoring like they were competing for first place. So I snuck down the stairs and out to the bike, climbed aboard, and pedaled away. The Schwinn rode great. Old School is the best sometimes.
    I was all set to meet Joe at one hundred hours. That’s how a military nut says one in the morning. We were meeting at our RV, and I don’t mean recreation vehicle. RV stands for Rendezvous Point in Joe-speak. Why it isn’t RP, I couldn’t tell you. Our RV was the old murder house.
    You’re probably wondering why I was sneaking out “at all hours” (as Mom would later call it) on this mission (as Joe put it).
    So I’ll tell you.
    Yesterday afternoon, while I was pulling up that gross old carpet in the murder-house library, I discovered a few loose floorboards. When I pried them up, I found . . . I should probably do some suspense thing here, right? Okay, wait for it, wait for it . . . an old ax under there, covered in dust!
    Well, I just about peed my jeans!
    ( Mom to Jake : Honey, I am trying to stay out of your way here, and really you’re doing just fine. But do remember that we have a number of older readers, some with an aversion to bad language, so you’ll need to watch what you say.)
    ( Jake to Mom : But I did watch my language. Would you rather I use the other “p” word?)
    ( Mom to Jake : Forget I said anything. You’re doing great.)
    Anyway, I knew right away that this ax must be the long-ago murder weapon, hidden away after that Scrooge-type character got chopped up way back when. I knew all the gory details from listening to Grandma, but I didn’t take the thing out right then in front of everybody.
    Why not?
    Well, earlier Joe mentioned if we did happen to find the ax, which wasn’t ever recovered, that he knew some nutty guy out east who