Free Antiques Slay Ride by Barbara Allan Page A

looking at me for support, but I shook my head. “I’ve already tried. She saw a spy movie last week and got the idea.”
    Mother’s grin went well with her magnified eyes. “The character with the briefcase got killed! They had to cut his hand off to get it.”
    Why Mother found this reassuring is anybody’s guess.
    â€œVery well,” Tommy sighed. “But it would be a disaster if anything should happen to it—it’s the showpiece of the auction, you know.”
    And the reason we were all-expense-paid guests.
    â€œTommy,” I asked, “is there any way we can avoid the check-in line?”
    â€œCertainly,” he said, grinning big again. “I have all convention guest keycards right here.”
    From his convention bag, he produced several small hotel folders holding keycards, then—fanning them out like a deck of playing cards—handed one to Mother.
    He dug in the bag again. “And here are your badges—which will get you into all the events.”
    Those I took.
    â€œI’ll get you a schedule later,” he said. “You’re on a mystery-writing panel.”
    A striking-looking woman rushed up. Tall—at least six foot—she was slender but muscular, with raven black hair worn in a shoulder-length pageboy, her lipstick a startling cherry red against her pale complexion. Her tailored black suit coat and skirt seemed more appropriate to an upscale office than a casual comics convention.
    â€œSorry to interrupt . . . ,” she said, addressing Tommy.
    He gestured to us. “Violet, this is Vivian and Brandy Borne. They write the Antiques mysteries.” Then he added in a whisper to her, “The Superman drawing,” and then to us, “Violet is my assistant.”
    â€œHello,” the woman replied quickly, with barely a glance our way. Neither Superman nor the Antiques books impressed her much, at least not in the throes of the big job she was caught up in. “Tommy, we’ve got a problem with the Buff Awards.”
    â€œNot too serious I hope,” he said, frowning.
    â€œWe’re missing one.”
    â€œAnd so it begins,” he sighed, and looked at Mother and me. “Will you excuse me while I put out this fire?”
    Mother replied, “But of course.”
    And before I could say, “Nice to meet you both,” they were gone.
    Mother and I stood for a moment, then I took hold of the brass cart with our luggage, not waiting for a bellhop (I had a limited number of fivers), and pushed it to the elevators, Mother following, holding Sushi in her arms like an unlikely baby.
    Our room was on the fourteenth floor, and I had to admit I was surprised by how small it was—my bedroom at home was larger.
    â€œWe were promised a suite,” I said.
    Mother was kicking off her shoes. “Dear, don’t be ungrateful. Free is free. Now, where did I put the key to these darn handcuffs?”
    â€œI’m not being ungrateful,” I said ungratefully. “But there’s only one bed.”
    Which didn’t bother Soosh, already snuggled between two plump pillows.
    â€œYes, that is a problem,” Mother admitted. “You do snore so. You must have the handcuff key.”
    â€œ I snore? You could blow out these windows, on an off night. And I don’t have the key.”
    Mother stood with hands on hips and a single eyebrow arched, like Mr. Spock regarding Dr. McCoy. “Dear, I know you’re tired, but let’s not be a Grumpy Gus. If I happen to snore a wee little bit, you can always sleep in the tub. We can request extra pillows for that purpose, if need be. You’re sure you don’t have the key?”
    â€œYes,” I snapped. “Look in your purse.”
    â€œBesides,” she went on, digging in her bag with her free hand, “this is a lovely room—perhaps a trifle cramped, I’ll grant you—but this is New York, the City that Never