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

was on the floor now, shining at something that I couldn’t make out at first. It seemed to be a leg, but that couldn’t be right, because it wasn’t attached to anything. Like a mannikin leg.
    Then I saw the blood and realized it was a real leg that belonged to a real man, only it wasn’t attached to anybody anymore.
    I scrambled to my feet, almost slipping again, but got up and got the hell out of there, and I won’t soften that, Mom, Grandma, because I already did soften it.
    The next thing I know I’m outside, losing the baloney and cheese sandwich I’d eaten after dinner, which I guess was better than barfing liver and onions.
    Was that Joe’s leg in there? I didn’t know, and I wasn’t about to go back in and find out, not by myself, anyway.
    Then I called Mom on my cell.
    That’s about it.
     
    Brandy here. Nice job, Jake! (The writing, I mean—not sneaking out of the house!)
    After receiving Jake’s distress call, I threw on a robe, slipped my phone into a pocket, and rushed into the hallway, where I ran into Mother, also in robe and pajamas.
    “What is it, dear?” she asked anxiously, her eyes wide without benefit of her magnifying glasses. “Your phone doesn’t usually whistle in the middle of the night.”
    “It was Jake.”
    “Isn’t he in his room?”
    “No. But he’s all right. He is in trouble, though. I hate to say it, but your kind of trouble. Our kind of trouble. . . .”
    Quickly I filled her in on my brief conversation with Jake, as we hurried down the stairs, where I grabbed the car keys off the marble-top Queen Anne table by the front door. In another moment we were flying out, in robes and pajamas and slippers, heading for the Buick.
    The streets were deserted, thankfully, because I drove like a maniac—even Mother couldn’t have topped my performance behind the wheel. We arrived at the murder house in less than five minutes, bumping up over the front curb, practically parking in the yard.
    I could see Jake on the cement stoop in the glow of a streetlight, and he came swiftly down toward me as I ran up the walk, my heart pounding. Nice to have a child be so glad to see you. Just not under these circumstances....
    “You’re all right?” I asked, out of breath.
    Jake threw his arms around me, hugged me tight, and at this odd moment I realized for the first time that my son was now almost as tall as I.
    “I’m okay,” he said, his voice muffled against my chest. “But . . . whoever is in there isn’t.”
    “Did you call the police?”
    He pulled back. “I was waiting for you.”
    Mother, having joined us, gave her grandson a smile that seemed only a trifle demented. “Good decision, dear. This will give me an opportunity for a quick look-see—Brandy?”
    I shook my head. Unlike Mother, I had no stomach for murder tableaux, and I warned her, “Don’t you dare compromise the crime scene.”
    Mother, already heading toward the house with the glove-compartment flashlight, shot back, “Not any more than our local-yokel boys-in-blue will, when they get here!”
    “I’ll give you five minutes,” I said, “and then I’m calling 911.”
    Jake and I sat on the top step of the stoop. At first we sat silently, just glad to be together, and well. I hadn’t yet gone from relief that my son was safe to parental indignation (like Roger had the other day); and Jake didn’t want to push me there.
    Finally I asked him to tell me his story, and he did. When I heard he was to have met Joe here, I said, “My God, my God—that’s not him in there, is it? It’s not . . .”
    “I don’t think it’s Joe.”
    “What makes you say that?”
    “The leg? The pants on it—they weren’t khakis.”
    “Ah. Right.” Then I said, “I’m going to have to call your father.”
    “Oh, yeah,” he sighed. “Don’t I know it.”
    “And he’ll want to take you back to Chicago. Right away.”
    Jake twisted toward me. “But he can’t—not ‘right away,’ anyway.”
    “Why’s