A Killing in Antiques

by Moody, Mary

  But finally, Coylie and I jumped up into the truck. Then the next three or four hours were a blur, and I have trouble putting things in order. I was out of the truck in a flash with as many cartons as I could carry, which I quickly piled onto our space.

  Coylie stayed in the truck, moving things to the edge, where I could grab them, swing around, and place them in our space. Dealers around us scurried to set up. No one attempted to raise a tent; the fine weather had saved us from that struggle.

  I noticed some dealers defining the edges of their space with inventory as they unloaded it from their vehicles. I copied this method; it made movement easier, and would make arranging the inventory simpler later. Before we had a dozen items out, the first of the crowd approached.

  “Civil War, Civil War items, Civil War.” He’s always among the first to cover the ground. The sellers expect him, the experienced ones anyway, and he didn’t disappoint them. If they had anything they could even remotely call a Civil War item, they waved it at him or pointed to it.

  Often, he just nodded, with maybe an “I’ll be back.” He didn’t always have to stop and pay in advance; he was such a fixture and so dependable that it was no gamble for the dealer. He’d be back for his booty, for sure. It, whatever it was, would very likely be the first sale the dealer made in the newly opened field. I knew that we had nothing for him. I shook my head to let him know, and he was off in a flash.

  Now the rest of the crowd flowed our way, a tidal wave of hunters. We saw everyone during that early rush. It was almost fun. People we knew said quick hellos. Some rushed by, some stopped briefly to look or buy, then moved on. Within what seemed like seconds, Mr. Hogarth was in front of us. He scanned our space, bought a pair of hammered tin lanterns, and asked if he could leave them in the booth. We set them aside.

  That’s when we noticed that we had forgotten to bring the red “sold” tickets that everyone uses. We piled our sold stuff in a corner of our space and covered it with an old packing blanket from the back of the truck. We had trouble keeping people away from that blanket; they were sure that it hid exactly the treasure they needed.

  Coylie emptied the truck quickly and I did the selling. I didn’t bother to arrange things. There was no time. Soon both Coylie and I were both busy selling.

  Frankie’s paintings surprised me. They were the kind of pictures I thought of as wallpaper. Large over-the-sofa pieces, in a Southwestern but hackneyed style. And people were snapping them up like they were Old Masters. Without quibbling over price.

  In addition to selling an amazing percentage of our inventory, for amazing prices, we also took turns running out to the places where we had prepurchased stuff. Then rushing back, to sell yet more inventory.

  When that first rush ended, Coylie began setting up the tent while I organized the inventory. People now arrived one or two at a time for the second run-through. When the tent went up without a hitch, he appeared to be as astonished as I. With all of my assurances that everything would be fine, I had no idea that it would go this well.

  We had managed to gather enough good stuff to create quite a heap under the blanket. I had a half dozen pieces of furniture, too heavy to bring back, which I would collect later. When it really quieted down we began sorting through the pile under the blanket, and stashing our own purchases deep inside Coylie’s nearly empty truck.

  With that out of the way we were able to arrange the rest of our inventory attractively, and make it easier for people to see. I looked for my Normandy pedestal so that I could bring it to the Andersons later, but I didn’t see it. Perhaps Coylie stored it in the front of the truck. Not there. I asked him about it.

  “Oh, yeah,” he said. “I sold it.”

  I looked at him; he was serious. “I promised that to someone.”

  “I know, but the guy offered me eight hundred dollars, and you said you were only going to get six hundred for it.”

  “Coylie, aren’t you the guy who was outraged because a dealer could sell something out from under the person he promised it to?”

  “I didn’t see it that way. And didn’t you tell me that you sold the rocking chair that you’d promised to Al,” he said.

  “That’s different.” But was it?

  He just smiled his goofy smile, and waved at me over his shoulder as he set off on another foray into the field.

  While I was there alone, Wilson stopped by.

  “Looking for anything special?” I asked.

  “No, just browsing.” He looked around with raised eyebrows. “This can’t be yours,” he said, and swept his hand around, indicating what was left of Frankie’s Southwestern art. “These paintings look like carnival prizes.”

  I held back a smile of agreement and attempted to rise to Frankie’s defense. I can be a snob when I’m in the mood, but I didn’t want to cozy up to Wilson if he was going to be condescending about my friend’s friend.

  “The seller is a beginner.” Pretty weak defense, and also untrue, since only Coylie was a beginner. Frankie had been at this for some time.

  But Wilson had already moved on. He hovered over Coylie’s jewelry case.

  “Interesting,” he said.

  Well, okay, that changes everything.

  “I’m just beginning to appreciate it,” I admitted.

  “I’m not quite there myself,” he said. “I always feel that jewelry should add elegance, but Indian jewelry doesn’t strike me as elegant.”

  Oh, he meant that kind of “interesting.”

  “Elegance isn’t the same thing for everyone,” I said. “This particular jewelry is well designed, and wearing a work of art can create its own elegance.” Coylie had been telling me that many of the Indian jewelers were true artists, and I was coming to appreciate their work.

  “Still, some of it is too bulky to be attractive,” he said.

  “That’s probably because so much of it was made to be worn by men. It’s larger—some pieces are huge—but notice the graceful lines.”

  “This stuff would overwhelm someone like you,” Wilson said, measuring my stature with his eye.

  I wondered who someone like me could be. “Some women can carry off big jewelry,” I said. “I’m not one of them, but I can enjoy looking at it. And I have been admiring this little brooch with the birds on it.”

  “That piece is small enough,” he said. “But it’s the only piece in the case that’s not made by the Indians.”

  “Really?” I was surprised. The brooch looked rustic and sophisticated at the same time. It was worked in silver, and had tiny turquoise orbs and a large emeraldcut amethyst worked into the design. The amethyst was flawed, but the brooch was very pretty and the design suited me.

  In matters of taste, I’ll put my opinion up against Wilson, or anyone else. In matters of attribution, if I haven’t done my own research, I’m willing to defer to the specialist. Wilson, though not an authority on jewelry, had such broad experience within the museums that I deferred to his background.

  “I’ve been thinking about buying it. But you say it’s not Indian? Is it a fake?”

  “It’s not Indian,” he said. He shook his head, looking irritated. “It’s Mexican, the work of a peasant called Matilde. Notice the flaw in the large stone; she used anything that came along in her work. I wouldn’t call it a fake—it’s just inferior.”

  We looked at it. I still found the brooch striking. If it doesn’t go, maybe I’ll buy it. I’ll do a little research, but even if it’s not fine stuff, I think I’ll enjoy wearing it. So there.

  We didn’t have much to say after that, and Wilson was able to tear himself away without much effort. As he walked away, I spotted Coylie coming back with his arms full. Wilson carried nothing. I hadn’t seen him carry anything all week. What was he after?

  Coylie enjoyed showing me his finds. We were both satisfied with the day. There was now plenty of space in our tent. Customers were few and far between, so Coylie unfolded his lawn chairs. We threw ourselves into them and laughed abo
ut getting through the day.

  My part in the opening had long been over, but I had enjoyed myself so much that I stayed. We had stockpiled bags of junk food to encourage us throughout the opening, but we had been too busy to open any of them. Now I got into a bag of cheese popcorn, and Coylie a bag of M&M’s. Coylie wet his finger with his tongue, slid the pointed finger into the bag, and extracted a blue M&M on the end of his finger. He captured many blue M&M’s this way.

  While we were thusly engaged, Baker came by, flushed and out of breath. He looked upset.

  “RAM wants to close down the whole kit and caboodle here,” he said.

  “Who’s Ram?”

  “RAM is Residents Against Murder, as if the rest of the world approves of the dirty deed. They formalized after Monty’s murder, but I understand they’re the same folks who have been trying to get the antiques extravaganza out of here for years. Now they want to close it up permanently.”

  “Why?”

  “Well.” He paused and looked at me over his glasses. His voice took on a higher pitch, he sputtered, and he picked at the empty tote bags slung over his shoulders as he said, “Think about how irritating we must be to the townies. The traffic, the parking, the crowds.”

  “I know that. It’s the usual pain in the neck here, but what’s RAM up to, Baker? If they’re trying to make the case that this is a crime spree . . .” I sounded whiny myself.

  Baker reached into Coylie’s bag and took a handful of M&M’s. “Lucy,” he said, munching, “today their claim is that it’s dangerous here. Especially now that Billy’s been released from jail.”

  “Do you think they can close the place down?” I asked.

  “In the long run Brimfield, I’m sure, will continue,” he said. He looked convinced.

  “But in the short run?”

  “That’s harder to say. It’s possible that they could close down the rest of this week’s festivities, or just as bad, they could create enough bad press to keep buyers away. I can’t predict what will happen. RAM has called for a meeting with the promoters and the town officials.”

  Coylie continued selecting blue M&M’s. Baker’s hand was halfway to the bag again when he noticed Coylie’s method. He stopped reaching, and held his hand, frozen, toward the bag. Coylie saw him and held the bag out. Baker politely resumed his movement, reached into the bag, and removed one red M&M.

  “That’s not the worst of it,” he said. “While I was checking out Monty’s old trouble with the law, I came up with another problem. A serious one.”

  “What now?”

  “Monty’s situation was pretty much as Matt told you, but what he didn’t mention was that it became Monty’s habit to hire helpers who were convicted felons.”

  Not good, not good at all. “Does that mean . . . ?”

  “Billy was one of them,” he said.

  “What did he do? Do the police know about this? Will it make him look guilty?” I couldn’t even form all of the questions I wanted to ask.

  “Slow down, Lucy. Of course the police know about it. It can’t be used as evidence of Monty’s murder, but they believe it’s an indication that Billy is violent.”

  “So what happened?” I asked.

  “About ten years ago he was involved in a bar brawl that left one of the participants barely alive. He spent a year in prison, then on parole. I spoke to his parole officer, who was Monty’s old parole officer, and also the connection between Monty and the helpers he hired. He told me that Billy never drank again after that, and that he was never sure that Billy was responsible for the original violence, but he was caught, found guilty, and served time.”

  “That surely looks bad for Billy,” I said.

  “It is bad,” Baker agreed. He shook his head, looking ready to crash, and turning the red M&M around and around in his fingers. He examined his fingertips; they were rosy.

  I had no idea how to lift Baker out of his mood. Keeping him busy might take his mind off of today’s troubles.

  “Baker, after you go through this field, can you do me a favor?”

  He responded as I knew he would. “Of course I can,” he said without hesitation. His manners are courtly and old-fashioned.

  Sellers bring their goods in allotted vehicles. When the selling starts, no further vehicles are permitted until three o’clock. I asked if he would bring my van in for me at three. I wanted to start packing and storing my stuff as soon as possible so that I could get an early start on my trip home to the Cape tonight.

  “As a matter of fact,” he said, “if you want me to get the van here before three, I’ll be happy to try.”

  I hesitated. If he tried to bring the van in now, and they stopped him until the posted time, he’d have to sit and fret for an hour. I started explaining, but he interrupted me.

  “They consider me the press around here, so they let me dispense with some of the rules,” he said.

  We decided to try it. I gave him the keys to the van, and he trotted toward the front gate. Maybe keeping him busy was the right thing, but things had surely taken a turn for the worse.

  When I asked Coylie for Frankie’s cell phone number, he said, “That’s my cell phone. I hated to give it up, but it was the right thing to do. I showed him how to use it, but I know he’ll botch it up.”

  I stood up. “I’ll try to get him right now.”

  “If you reach him, tell him we had good sales today.”

  I left the tent, stood in the line for the phone, then had to leave a message.

  20

  When I came back we resumed munching. I told Coylie that I’d decided to buy the Mexican brooch.

  “Great, that’s a beautiful piece.”

  “I heard that it’s made by Matilde, and that it’s not Indian jewelry.”

  “You heard wrong. Matilde didn’t make that brooch,” he said. “And while I’m at it, let me tell you that, contrary to popular opinion, Indians live in Mexico, too.”

  I looked at him. “I heard it from an expert.”

  “The expert was wrong. Did he pick it up?”

  “No, he didn’t seem to need to.”

  Coylie raised an eyebrow, got up, lifted the glass on his display case, and picked up the brooch. He turned it over and pointed to the inscription stamped on the back. I turned it slightly toward the sun, and didn’t even need my eyeglasses: “MATL Mexico 925 Salas.”

  I knew that 925 meant sterling. “Looks like the MATL could stand for ‘Matilde,’ ” I said.

  “That’s what it stands for,” Coylie said. “Her name was Matilde Poulat, and this was made in her studio. Salas stands for Ricardo Salas, her nephew. Her name went on everything, but his name only went on his own work. They both made wonderful jewelry and ornamental objects. Artists are still copying their work today.”

  “Should I have the amethyst replaced?” I asked.

  “Hell, no. Don’t let the flawed amethyst bother you. That’s what she used. When you see a perfect amethyst that large, in old Indian or Mexican work, it’s apt to be made of glass. This is good vintage. Google it and see how many jewelers are still copying their work,” he said.

  Someday I may Google something. In the meantime the brooch was mine, m-i-n-e, mine. The longer I looked at it, the more I found to admire in it.

  We were just wrapping up the sale, when something at the back gate caught my eye. It was Baker coming through in the van. I guess they do make exceptions for the press.

  We transferred my purchases from Coylie’s truck to the van. I also had furniture held around the field, but we were almost an hour early, and if we drove around picking it up, our flagrant flouting of the rules would create trouble. A stroll through one of the other fields would be good. Neither of us had expectations of buying anything.

  We stopped while I looked over a mahogany lowboy. Nice. Refinished, but well done. Made in the Queen Anne style, a style that keeps returning; it was about ninety years old. A reproduction, but a nice representation of the style, and old enough to be in
teresting.

  “That’s a very special piece,” the dealer said, and he patted it. Everyone is into marketing.

  He used the “dealer-discount” pricing system. In an upper corner a circled number indicated that the piece would be discounted by so much to a dealer. I don’t care for this system, as it often means that the dealer is rigid about his discounts. I like a more flexible discount system. As long as the flexibility is downward.

  Still, it was a nice piece, and heavy; it wouldn’t be much fun for the dealer to pack up and drag back home again.

  “Is that the best you can do?” I asked.

  The dealer hesitated, a good sign; he was figuring his chances that I’d take it at a further discount.

  “That piece will double in value before the summer is over,” he said, grinning.

  “It’s a repro,” I said, glancing around at the rest of his stuff. Nice; not the big-time treasures that I craved, but good solid pieces nonetheless.

  Baker moved his glasses to the tip of his nose, looked over them at the lowboy, and said, “Nothing is going to double in value over this summer, and especially not repros.”

  “This one will.” The dealer’s smile said aces. “It was refinished by Silent Billy, the murderer, and you know what a juicy story does for an antique.”

  Baker and I looked at each other, dangling jaws and slumped faces mirroring our dismay. Then we turned away. I knew that he was as floored as I, though neither of us uttered a word. We took a step or two back toward the path.

  “Hey,” the dealer called after us, and he named an attractive price. Ordinarily I would have taken it, but I was so dumbfounded by the thought of what he had just said that I couldn’t consider it.

  Baker hesitated, and returned to the lowboy. What on earth? He stopped, dug around in one of his bags, and placed something on the lowboy. When he turned back to me I saw the watermarked red M&M.

  Baker spoke quietly. “It’s true—a good story can improve the value of an antique.” His mouth was set in a grim line.