“No again.” Charity sighed. “The police asked me if I had the book during today’s afternoon grilling session.”
“Then there’s only one thing left to do,” Clara pronounced. “We’ve got to hide that chest. We can’t let Rose take it until we find out where that inventory book is.”
“No one’s going to help us take it out of the show,” Charity argued, deflated. “Who would be willing to cross the high and mighty Howard Rose?”
“Someone equally high and mighty,” Clara answered enigmatically. “Come along, madam. It’s time to put our feminine wiles to the test.”
Chapter 8
“ The cane represented and fortified the carrier’s personality with a minimum of effort, compared to today’s status symbol, the car. The cane was, in poets’ words, the exclamation mark of the inner and outer being.”
Ulrich Klever, Walkingsticks
Clara promised to call Charity once the dower chest had been safely removed and hidden where Howard Rose would never find it.
“How do you plan on keeping that promise?” Molly asked. Once again, she trailed after her mother as Clara headed back toward the antique show with the intentness of hungry cheetah that has just caught a fresh whiff of impala. “And do I have to come along?” Molly whined. “I’m exhausted.”
“Just hang in there for a few more minutes, my little turnip green. The show is going to close soon and I need you to distract that redheaded vixen in Grayson Montgomery’s booth so that I can put on my damsel in distress act.”
“Anyone who knows you would see right through that performance!” Molly spluttered.
“Exactly.” Clara lowered her voice. “Grayson is of the rare breed of true, southern gentlemen. I am going to tell him the complete truth and ask for his help. It would go against his code of honor not to lend a hand.” The booth housing Montgomery Antiques & Rare Books was small and incredibly cozy. It had been set up to resemble the reading room of an old manor house. The walls had been papered with forest-green-and-burgundystriped paper, and an Oriental carpet covered the entire cement floor. The soft light provided by several Tiffany floor lamps highlighted a collection of framed seascapes and a large oil painting of Bryce Canyon in Utah. A piecrust stand held a grouping of bronze statuary that included three hunting dogs and one reclined nude and stood a few feet out from the row of oak barrister’s bookcases filled with rare leather-bound tomes that took up the back wall. An inlaid Pembroke table flanked by upholstered wing chairs filled the space to the left while a cherry game table and four Chippendale chairs occupied the area on the right. Grayson and the woman Molly hoped was his assistant sat at the game table, engaged in a game of backgammon.
Other than the two of them, the booth was empty of customers. Grayson and the redhead seemed completely absorbed in their game and did not even look up as Clara and Molly approached.
“Doubles again!” The redhead giggled coquettishly as she moved a red backgammon piece onto a black point in her home quarter. Molly, who had grown up playing backgammon, instantly coveted the hand-painted antique board and wooden dice, but she also took the opportunity to note that neither player wore rings on their left hand.
“You have the luck of a leprechaun,” Grayson replied to his opponent with admiration and then slapped his hand on his thigh after his turn with the dice revealed a two and a one; not a good roll if you are racing against your foe to bring your pieces home. “You’ve escaped me again, my dear,” he said, gesturing at the red piece that stood exposed and alone on a black point on Grayson’s side of the board.
“You had best run while you can.”
At that moment, Clara cleared her throat and Grayson looked up from the board, his face breaking into a charming smile. “The lovely Ms. Applebys!” He immediately stood while the redhead scowled and remained seated. “I do hope this is a social call,” he said, looking specifically at Clara. “Though you’d be the most welcome customer I’ve greeted all day if indeed, you have come to browse my humble wares.”
Clara was clearly affected by Grayson’s warmth. “I doubt that your eight-volume series on Confederate generals is anything but humble.” She took a step toward Grayson. “Actually, I’m here to beg a favor.” Grayson gave a slight and charming bow. “Anything that is within my power is yours to have.” He noted Clara’s hesitation to continue and astutely surmised that she wanted to speak with him in private. “Shall we take a stroll? My assistant can handle shutting up for the night should we tarry too long.”
Clara took Grayson’s proffered arm and Molly couldn’t help but notice what a handsome couple the pair made as they wandered off down the aisle between booths. Turning back to the redhead, who was staring after the twosome with a deep frown, Molly introduced herself.
“Yes, I’m aware of your writings,” Grayson’s assistant, whose name was Belinda Valentine, said dismissively.
Molly was curious about Belinda’s role in Grayson’s life. Was it purely professional or was there a romantic relationship between the young woman and her wealthy, sophisticated, attractive boss? “So, how long have you been working for Mr. Montgomery?” she asked Belinda, who was resetting the backgammon board.
“Six months,” Belinda answered.
“Do you live in Charleston?”
“Yes, but I travel with Mr. Montgomery to all of his important events.”
Molly removed a book at random from one of the nearby cases and examined it while surreptitiously eyeing Belinda’s thick, auburn locks, which fell in soft waves onto a white silk blouse. She noted the other woman’s trim waist, small breasts, and incredibly long legs encased in a tight, knee-length suede skirt. Despite her height, Belinda seemed to have been blessed with small, narrow feet, which were elongated by a pair of pumps with a leopard skin pattern. Molly couldn’t help but stare at the heels, which were at least three inches high and seemed to be wrapped in shiny patent leather.
“This seems like a fun job,” Molly said, hoping to thaw Belinda out enough to coax information from the younger woman, but her attention was suddenly drawn to the price tag of the book she held. “Whoa! Two grand for two books.” She looked around the booth and did a quick calculation of how much Grayson’s inventory was worth and then turned back to Belinda. “How have sales been?” Belinda tossed an auburn lock over an elegant shoulder.
“We have clients who come to this show solely to purchase wares from us.” Molly wasn’t sure she cared for the assistant’s proprietary tone. “I’m sure you’re aware of Mr.
Montgomery’s reputation for carrying the finest antiquarian books in the south, so this shouldn’t be news to you. No pun intended.”
“So I guess that means sales have been good.” Molly allowed a slight hint of irritation to enter her voice. Why couldn’t Belinda just answer her question?
“That book in your hand is one of a two-volume set written by Spenser St. John in the second half of the nineteenth century. It has illustrated folding maps, lithographed plates, and hand-colored botanicals. And look at the pictorial gilt on the spine.”
“These look like palm trees to me,” Molly observed. As she pivoted the green cloth cover, the light caused the gilt images of exotic-looking foliage to glimmer. She read the title aloud. “Life in the Forests of the Far East. Sounds like a botanical travel journal.”
Belinda grudgingly agreed. “That would be correct.
Spenser studied the Malay language and traveled to Siam, Brunei, and Borneo. He was the private secretary to Sir James Brooke, the British commissioner and governor of Labuan.” Another hair toss. “I doubt we’ll be packing up this set tomorrow night. These are quite reasonably priced for a first edition in such excellent condition.” Molly carefully returned the book to its niche in one of the oak barrister cases and tried to think of something intelligent to say. She hadn’t the foggiest idea where half of the places Belinda just mentioned were, let alone which British explorers had visited them. “I’m impressed,” she told Belinda sincerely. “That informati
on wasn’t even included on the descriptive card inside the book. Do you know that much about every volume here?” Belinda smirked ungraciously. “It’s called good salesmanship. Mr. Montgomery didn’t hire me just for my good looks.”
Molly gaped and then flushed. She was guilty of assuming that’s exactly why Belinda had been hired.
“It’s what everyone always thinks.” Belinda glared at Molly, disgusted. “But they’re wrong. I have two advanced degrees in literature and history as well as extensive training in the preservation of rare books and maps.”
“I was serious when I said I was impressed,” Molly said, hoping to soothe Belinda’s wounded ego. “I just don’t run into many people my age who are interested in antiques, and you’re probably even younger than I am.” Grayson’s assistant nodded. “I’m the only person working this show with all their original teeth. This room is teeming with octogenarians.” She gave Molly a hesitant smile. “I’m sorry to have barked at you or shot you dirty looks. It’s just that every other person I deal with comes to the conclusion that I’m some bimbo that Mr. Montgomery keeps around for kicks. I’m so tired of having to prove myself to the blue-blooded, chauvinist clientele we serve.” She ran a graceful finger over the tan leather spine of a book called The History and Geography of the Mississippi Valley. “Do you run into the same problems or does being a reporter give you more respect than that of a shop girl?”
Molly laughed, feeling a camaraderie blossoming with the sharp-witted redhead. “I doubt you’re just a shop girl. I bet you do book restorations, sales, advertising, acquisitions, make travel arrangements, and still wake up each morning looking like a cover model. And yes, I’ve had some negative encounters, but no one’s buying anything from me, so I don’t have to be polite if I don’t want to.
Most of the people I interview want to tell me their story, whether I’m writing about a collection or an upcoming estate sale, so I guess I’m lucky that way.”
“You bet you are! When I’m not dealing with crotchety men I have to waste time pretending to be friendly to a whole troop of divorcées who would do anything to snare Grayson to be their second or third husband.” Belinda sat back down at the backgammon table. “And they all come bearing gifts of food; scones, cookies, cakes, breads, muffins, you name it. If Grayson ever gets bored with antiques he can open a bakery.” Molly wondered if Grayson would view Clara as another tiresome divorcée. Somehow she doubted it. “And none of those Sara Lees have gotten to him?”
“Nope.” Belinda picked up a pair of dice. “Grayson doesn’t really like sweets. Hey, do you play?” The two women began a new game and exchanged anecdotes about the more lecherous men they had dealt with during their professional careers. By the time Clara and Grayson returned, Molly felt as though she had made a new friend.
“Thank you again,” Clara said by way of goodbye to Grayson.
He stroked his silver beard as his eyes twinkled. “Until this evening then.” He smiled and then put a paternal hand on Belinda’s shoulder. “Come, my dear. Let’s close up shop for the day, shall we?”
“Sounds good to me,” Belinda responded. “I can’t wait to take off these heels.”
Grayson shook his head indulgently at his assistant. “I don’t see why you women insist on making yourselves so uncomfortable. We men would treasure you just as much in sensible shoes.”
“What a delightful man,” Clara whispered happily as she and Molly walked off.
Back in their room, Molly flopped on the bed and closed her eyes. “Mission accomplished, I assume.”
“Yes.” Clara sat down on the bed and leaned her back against the headboard. She looked fatigued, but oddly radiant.
“What is he going to do with the dower chest?” Clara shrugged. “Dunno. Grayson said it would be better for me not to know the details so that if anyone asked, I honestly would know nothing about the location of the chest.”
“Wow. He is a delightful man.” Molly opened her eyes and peered at her mother. “And he’s doing this just because you asked?”
“Well . . .” Clara colored slightly. “The price for his assistance seemed pretty fair.”
“Which was?”
“We have to join him for drinks and dinner.” Clara paused, knowing that her daughter would object to the second half of the condition. “And he wanted us to wear our finest.”
Molly sat up. “That won’t be too fine. We didn’t plan on having any fancy dinners while we were here.” Clara sighed. “I know. I told him that. And frankly, I am too pooped to go shopping. He’ll just have to take us as we come—in long skirts and sweater sets.” Molly felt weariness washing over her. “You go, Ma. I am way too tired after all that’s happened today. For all we know, Tom’s murderer is still out there and we’ve had no luck finding the killer or that damned inventory book. I think I’d rather order room service and go to bed early.
We’ll have to do a lot more digging tomorrow if we’re going to solve either one of these puzzles before the show ends at five.”
Clara was about to protest when there was a knock on the door. She got up, opened the door, said “Thank you,” and then closed it again. She returned to her bed and placed two large cardboard boxes on the coverlet.
“What are those?” Molly wondered without moving.
“I have no idea,” Clara answered and opened the first box. Beneath layers and layers of gold tissue lay some sort of fabric. Clara pulled it out of the box and the deep crimson–colored cloth was revealed as a sheath-styled cocktail dress that was sure to look extremely becoming on Clara. The second box contained a black dress in a light, shimmery fabric with a low neck and an A-line shape; a perfect cut for Molly. Both dresses were the correct size: Clara’s was a ten; Molly’s, a fourteen.
The note card inside Clara’s box read: Looking forward to our evening. Yours, Grayson Montgomery.
“I thought things like this only happened in movies.” Clara held up her dress and pivoted in front of the closet mirror. “I guess you’re going to dinner after all, madam.
We can’t offend Mr. Montgomery after such a generous gift. You can tell that these dresses weren’t cheap. In fact, they probably came from that ritzy boutique in the lobby.” Molly stroked the silky fabric of her dress and sighed.
She sank back against the cloudlike pillows and closed her eyes again. “Wake me up in an hour. That’ll give us time to get ready and still stop by that boutique on the way to meet Grayson.”
Clara’s eyebrows rose. “The boutique? What for?” Without opening her eyes, Molly gestured at her mother’s beloved leather moccasins, which rested in the space between the two beds. “Because we’re going to need new shoes.”
Peachtree Lane Auction Gallery, Atlanta, 1966
A dealer named Boyd ran his hand over the inlaid panels of a mahogany Sheraton secretary and then dropped to his knees in order to take a closer look at the feet of the imposing piece.
Carter Chapman, auctioneer and owner of Peachtree Lane, smiled at the familiar sight as one of his best customers switched on the narrow beam of a penlight and inspected the bottom of the bureau. Carter was pleased to see Boyd sit up and reach for his catalog in order to scribble a notation within. Boyd wouldn’t be crawling on the floor or writing comments unless he planned to bid on the piece and the North Carolina dealer bid high because his clients were always very wealthy.
“It’s a killer piece, wouldn’t you say?” he asked Boyd, offering his hand in greeting.
Boyd shook Carter’s hand distractedly; his eyes darting back to the fine antique as if he feared it might suddenly disappear. “I like it well enough.” He seemed to force himself to relax and finally offered a slight smile. “I’ve got clients in Baltimore who would like it well enough, too. For the right price, of course.”
“Of course.” Carter bowed slightly, knowing full well that Boyd would most likely outbid all of Peachtree’s other customers in order to secure ownership of the Sheraton bookcase. The idea of a 20 percent commission on a piec
e sure to capture a winning bid in the five digits made the hardworking auctioneer want to dance a celebratory jig.
“The inlay on that beauty might make my clients happy, but I’m gonna be in the doghouse with my wife if I don’t go home with something special for my son’s birthday.” Boyd looked at Carter in appeal. “He turns eighteen come Monday and I still, for all the world, can’t think what to get him.”
Carter mused over his customer’s predicament, eager to think of another lot in that day’s sale he could convince Boyd to bid on. “Now don’t I recall you tellin’ me that your boy was developin’ an interest in primitive art?” Boyd nodded. “I sure did. He seems to have a real eye for crude carvings and paintings and such. Doesn’t matter where it’s from either—America, Africa, he likes it all.”
“Lemme show you somethin’.” Carter led Boyd over to one of the gallery’s glass display cases. He produced a ring filled with small brass keys and unlocked one side of the case. Easing open one of the doors, he reached inside the lit recess and removed Lot 119, a wooden cane with a carved cobra head handle.
“Lots of folk artists were partial to symbols, especially snakes. I do believe your son showed a special interest in Garden of Eden themes last time I saw him. I recall he was right fond of pieces with serpents. Now, this is a Continental stick, probably German, but it’s as primitive as all can be.”
Boyd took the cane from the auctioneer and examined the menacing visage of the cobra. He then scrutinized the deft carving work that had created the snake’s scaled hood.
He ran his experienced fingers along the base of the serpent’s neck. “Looks like there’s some kind of wooden collar here. Is this a system cane?” Carter paused for a moment. “Oh! You mean a gadget cane. Sorry, but you know I’m only a simple country auctioneer and don’t know all those highfalutin terms. But no, I think that collar is pure decoration. You can see that nothin’s disturbed the patina on this beauty since it was made. There’d be cracked glue or somethin’ obvious to the eye if that collar had ever been taken off.”
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