Table of Contents
The Auction House
WHAT READERS ARE SAYING
Also by Vito Zuppardo
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
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ALSO BY
VITO ZUPPARDO
True Blue Detective Series
Criminal Instinct
True Blue Detective
Crescent City Detective
Vieux Carré Detective
Street Justice
Escape to New Orleans
Two Kinds of Justice
Irish Bayou
Voodoo Lucy Series
Tupelo Gypsy
Revenge
Club Twilight
Lady Luck Series
Alluring Lady Luck
Tales of Lady Luck
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Copyright © 2020 Vito Zuppardo
All rights reserved.
This book is for your personal enjoyment only. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. No part of the book might be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic format without permission.
Chapter 1
Auction houses are as common to see in New Orleans as antique shops are in the French Quarter. Rockford Auction House, a white corner building that took up an entire block, had been a fixture on Royal Street for three generations.
It was once an Opera House that fell on hard times and turned into a theater for traveling entertainment companies. Some theater groups came directly from New York and Chicago, where they played to sold-out crowds. It was a natural fit for the Rockford family to buy the building when it came available. One of the wealthiest families in New Orleans with a real estate portfolio of banks and office buildings, art galleries, and a custom-made furniture company, they intended to turn the building into an auction house.
The auction house thrived in the Garden District of New Orleans and the Rockford Family added to their fortune auctioning items from homes of once rich people who had fallen on hard times or had passed away. The elder of the family had a saying, “Sooner or later, the old bastards will die. Then I’ll come in and buy up their processions for twenty-five cents on the dollar.”
Jennifer Gray, a Rockford Auction House representative, handpicked her prey while strolling the streets of the Garden District. Jennifer could adapt to any situation. She stood tall, shoulders back, with her top two buttons of a silky blouse open, letting her girls stay at attention when wanting to catch a man’s eye.
Her first attempt of the day was an older gentleman working his front garden. “He’s doing it himself—must not have staff,” she said to herself as she wiggled herself up the walkway and got his attention.
“Good morning, sir?” she greeted in a sweet southern accent.
His eyes were already focused on her as he scanned from her heels to her hair. The man confirmed to Jennifer the old saying—he may be old, but he’s not dead. She fiddled with her opened buttons and gave a few bats of her fake eyelashes.
“Am I heading in the right direction? I’m trying to get to Saint Charles Avenue.”
Of course, he was happy to direct her and get a little closer. His knees were cracking as he stood but he was determined to show her he was younger than springtime as he stepped to the iron four-foot fence. All the properties on the street lined their fronts with spearhead iron—some painted black, others gilded in gold to match fixtures attached to the house.
Jennifer observed and confirmed her thoughts. He’s doing garden work without help, and the gold gilt is faded and needed touch-up years ago. It’s a good indication he’s fallen on hard times.
The man held on to the iron spears and stood with a smile. He was on higher ground, and it gave him a great view of her.
Jennifer repeated, “Saint Charles Avenue?”
“Yes,” he said. “Take a left at the corner two blocks up.”
She quickly engaged him in conversation, saying she should have transferred to another bus that would have put her on Saint Charles Avenue, but she decided to walk, and now here she was—lost. Jennifer’s story today was a job interview, which she will surely miss, and that’s when the man offered to drive her to the appointment.
But the older man’s excitement ended swiftly as a younger woman stepped from the house and told Jennifer she’d call her a taxi or she could walk the distance. There was no way her father was driving anywhere.
When a person walks in a furniture store, department store, or any business that employs a sales force, they’re trained to do their best, but even the best will only close twenty percent of the people they approach.
In training, her mentor said, “Get to know your mark slowly. Gain their confidence before asking the questions that would lead you to the person’s possibilities and becoming a viable mark.”
Jennifer moved on down the block, leaving the old guy with his fantasy of an attractive young woman stopping to talk to him. She knew he would have readily obliged her and drove any place she wanted. Just as she knew the grin on his face grew wider as he watched her walk to the corner until she disappeared.
Jennifer next spotted another opportunity and quickly buttoned her blouse to the top. Her purse strap moved to the edge of her arm as if it weighed her down, rounding her shoulders and back. The long blonde hair that took so long to fix that morning was quickly placed in a ten-cent rubber band and tied into a ponytail. Then she added a sweater to cover the silky blouse. Her second prey, an older woman, was sitting in a rocker on the porch of a mansion on First Street in the heart of the Garden District.
“Good morning,” Jennifer said, getting the woman’s attention who otherwise probably wouldn’t have lifted her head from the book she was engrossed in reading.
“Is that ... ?” Jennifer asked, starting the con, a word she hated. She preferred to think of it as building a relationship for a future marketing opportunity. She stepped closer up the three steps to the porch and got a look at the book. It wasn’t so much the pictured cover as the title and author she focused on. With enthusiasm, she told the woman, “I’m reading the same book! How far have you gotten?”
“Just started chapter four,” the woman said. “Hoping to find out who Jennifer is sleeping with.”
Jennifer? she thought. The protagonist has my name? Tell you one thing, lady, this Jennifer hasn’t slept with anyone in a good while, and even then, it wasn’t memorable. She would have said it out loud but probably would have shocked the old lady out of her granny panties.
Jennifer went with the photography con, telling the woman she was walking the area taking pictures of the nineteenth-century architectural designs.
She pointed to a beam overhead. “To think someone hand-chiseled that wood into dovetailed corners—so perfectly, too.”
That opened the way for Jennifer to gather further information. The first question Jennifer asked was when was the house purchased? The quick answer was 1945, and the woman’s husband had passed twelve years ago.
Keep talking, lady, Jennifer thought. That many years in the house, it’s paid and no husband.
“I’m sorry, I forgot to introduce myself. My name is Jennifer,” she said, reaching to shake the woman’s hand.
“Harriet, everyone calls me Hattie,” the lady replied.
A pleasant surprise came when Hattie asked, “Would you like some tea?”
Jennifer played it slow, checking the empty cup on a side table next to Hattie’s chair. “Sure, if you’re having another.”
“Thelma, bring two cups of tea, please,” Hattie shouted into the open door of the house. “Is Earl Gray okay?” She leaned toward Jennifer.
“Earl Gray is perfect. My last name is Gray.”
“Really?” Hattie mused with a smile. “Well, Jennifer Gray, I’m happy you stopped.”
Jennifer hated to play the woman, but the opportunity presented was too good to pass up. “Is Thelma your daughter?”
Another piece of the puzzle filled in when Hattie said she had no children. With a little manipulative wording, Jennifer managed to find out that Thelma came in three times a week to help Hattie.
Thelma stood at the open front door. “Mrs. Plauche, you want your tea on the porch or in the atrium?”
Hattie mulled it over and gave a pleasant smile. “Let’s take it to the atrium. It’s getting warm out.”
Jennifer grinned, passing Thelma, and wanted to give her a hug for mentioning Hattie’s last name, something she needed and now didn’t have to beat around the bush to pull from the woman. Stepping inside, she studied the mahogany front doors with leaded stained glass, an easy auction piece. Replace them with cheaper doors and they’d still get top dollar for the mansion.
Hattie lead the way as they walked through the living room and passed a dining room table, ten chairs, a china cabinet, and a matching buffet. The room was gigantic and displayed the Chippendale collection of furniture nicely. Jennifer was well coached on furniture, art, and even china and silver. The house was built in an era when entertaining was formal, with elaborate dinners served on silver carts by men and women with white gloves. Her head swiveled, catching the painting on the wall, probably original art from a famous artist.
“This way, honey,” Hattie said, stepping into a glass atrium with two overhead fans drawing a smooth breeze into the room from the lower open windows.
She scooted in behind Hattie but not before getting a glimpse of the drapes surrounding the entrance to the atrium. The drapes, overly long, puddled the floor and were purposefully installed to show the homeowner’s wealth. The place oozed money spent on décor most could never afford.
“So, Jennifer, what type of work do you do? I know you take pictures, but what pays the bills?”
Prepared for a direct question when using the made-up photography lie, Jennifer ran the list of possible answers on the tip of her tongue for a quick reply. Picking one perfect for this situation, she said, “I develop and frame my pictures and sell them to galleries in the French Quarter.”
Hattie’s eyes shifted. Jennifer, good at what she did, quickly picked up on the tell indicating her story wasn’t believable.
“Pictures of ornately carved scrollwork under wooden eaves? Do people buy photos of craftwork?”
“Yes, Mrs. Plauche.” The quick reply was the only answer she could use to keep the lie progressing and believable.
“Your tea, Mrs. Plauche,” Thelma said, holding a silver tray with two delicate china cups and saucers and a matching teapot. She placed them on a coffee table between the two women. Then with the tea poured, setting off a sweet aroma, she backed out of the room as if she’d just waited on royalty.
Jennifer smiled—she enjoyed being a special guest in the house. It was new to her. On the other hand, Hattie had been catered to for years and expected the treatment.
“Mrs. Plauche, you live in this big house all alone?” Jennifer asked, getting personal.
“Please, call me Hattie. Other than the people that work for me, like Thelma and the gardener, everyone calls me Hattie.”
Jennifer started to speak, then stopped when Hattie made a motion with her hand.
“I know you’re young enough to be my granddaughter, but calling me Hattie is okay.”
Jennifer leaned forward and gave her a pat on the hand. “Whatever you like, Hattie.” It was time to get more personal. “Hattie, the taxes on this place must be huge,” she said, then took a sip of tea, giving it a slight blow to cool it first. When no response came, Jennifer thought it might have been too early for such an aggressive statement. “I’m sorry for asking such a personal question. I sometimes speak before thinking.”
Hattie let out a pleasant smile. “That’s okay, honey. Yes, taxes are high—more than some people make in a year—I suspect. The tax for this place is over thirty a year.”
“Thirty? As in thirty-thousand?” Jennifer asked, shooting the woman a grin.
“Yeah, honey. It takes a lot of money to live in this house. I’m not counting maintenance, or Thelma, and the gardener who does repairs.
Jennifer tried to keep her feelings out of the process of finding new clients for the auction house. Hattie could have been anyone’s mother or grandmother—if she had children. A rich older woman with no one to leave her fortune. It wasn’t like Jennifer was setting up a robbery to steal the entire house of valuables.
“Mrs. Hattie, when is the last time you used that dining room?”
She took a sip of tea, her eyes upward, a sign she was thinking and maybe confused about just how long it had been.
“Round number. Five years, maybe ten?” Jennifer asked. All she wanted was a starting point to go on for the first attempt to sway Hattie.
“Let’s see. My husband is dead for twelve years, so it’s about fifteen years since I had a dinner party.”
Jennifer opened her purse, took out a little calculator, punched in numbers, looked at Hattie, and smiled. “What if I could give you enough to pay the tax on the house by selling the dining room?” she asked and sat back and watched Hattie’s face. This was part of the sales pitch. Watch the customer as they mull things over and be ready to hit with a follow-up should they say anything negative. She didn’t get the opportunity.
Hattie’s eyes were big, round, and blue as the ocean, as she said, “Really?”
If Jennifer’s calculations were correct, the Chippendale table, chairs, china, and buffet were created sometime in the early 1900s and would easily fetch forty-thousand. The hook here was the furniture would never hit the auction house where they would earn a commission. Jennifer and her boss h
ad a list of clients ready to pay top dollar if they kept it off the auction block. It could have sold quickly for forty or fifty-thousand, earning the company the difference of what Hattie would receive. Jennifer would make a big commission and gain a friend who she’d milk until the house was empty. Then she’d work on Hattie and take the house, too—way under market value.
Chapter 2
Roland Rockford viewed the sunrise over the tops of buildings in downtown New Orleans, a sight he’d seen many times from the balcony of his condo at One River Place. It was a luxury lifestyle he’d enjoyed on the riverfront of the French Quarter with his live-in girlfriend for two years.
He was both the owner of an art gallery featuring work from the best known artists in the world and a family-owned auction house, which adjoined the gallery and brought some of the wealthiest people to fetch a painting or an antique chair that cost more than most paid for a home.
There was a lot of pressure and he was concerned he’d screw up the family businesses. But it was a crazy illusion in his mind as he had no one to prove himself to—he was the eldest to the Rockford family fortune and controlled all of its income streams. He couldn’t blow the family money if he tried—there was just too much invested and diversified. If he had children—and he didn’t—the money would last for several generations of grandchildren and great-grandchildren even if they didn’t earn a penny in retail over the next sixty years. Plus, there were buildings the Rockford Enterprise owned with anchor leases in every one of them, including some of Louisiana’s wealthiest banks. Roland often told friends he couldn’t piss away the family fortune. As long as he paid his sister Anna a hefty quarterly dividend check from investments, she was happy.
Today Roland viewed the sunrise a little differently. He stood in his Blue Jeans and T-shirt with slip-on shoes, the same outfit that the police arrested him in twelve hours earlier, viewing his condo through the iron bar windows on the third floor of Central Lockup.
Before his arrest, he’d been sitting on his sofa, catching up on college football highlights of the day. Usually, Kate sat next to him and flipped through her cell phone. The only teams she was ever interested in were LSU Football or the New Orleans Saints. On the other hand, Roland would watch the replays as often as ESPN showed them, and during commercials, he’d switch over to the local sports shows.
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