Lady Anne 03 - Curse of the Gypsy

by Donna Lea Simpson

  She walked along the porch to the steps, descended and strolled across the soft, thick grass in step with a tall, elegantly dressed woman who appeared out of her element at a farmhouse estate auction. But maybe the woman was after the same Royal Crown Derby china as Becca; Jaymie hoped not. Her sneakers soaked from the dew that was already beginning to dampen the grass, Jaymie squeaked on and joined the crowd in front of the auctioneer’s stage. Lesley finished his speech with a flourish of his cane, saying no one would be allowed to dally or delay, rudeness or bullying would not be tolerated, and his decision would be the final and binding one in any dispute. He played fair, and expected them to do so, too. It was a sizable crowd, some seated on chairs near the stage but most milling about behind and around the chairs.

  As the sun descended behind the pines that lined the farm laneway, a fresh breeze rustled through the green spring leaves and blush-pink blossoms of the stately plum just behind the auctioneer’s trailer stage. The enormous tree was long past the age of bearing good fruit but still bloomed and grew vigorously, shedding a last shower of pastel petals as a vigorous breeze swayed the branches.

  Lesley, as stalwart as the noble plum tree, began the bidding, using the assorted box lots to get the crowd focused and going. This was the time to get some stuff cheap, and Jaymie pushed through toward the front, picking a spot among those standing to the left of the stage. She glanced around and instantly caught sight of Joel, his arm around Heidi, standing on the other side of the seating area, but Jaymie took a deep breath and ignored him.

  She was going to bid on a box of assorted cookbooks, and another box lot of vintage cookware that had some nice condition Pyrex glass refrigerator dishes, melamine dishes and a few random cooking tools, as well as some odds and ends. She and Becca, by previous arrangement, ignored each other. It was too easy to get distracted by chatting while the auction was going on, so they stood several yards apart, Becca waiting patiently for the lots she was interested in, referring to her notes and the photos on her digital camera.

  Lesley had his youngest grandson, a boy of about eleven, hoist the box of cookbooks up. “Lookee here, now,” Lesley said. “A whole carton of cookbooks! Food’s the same no matter the century, so snap ’em up and get into the kitchen. And I’m not just talking to you ladies,” he finished, with a saucy wink.

  He started the bidding at an optimistic ten dollars, but Jaymie held back, waiting and watching. No one bid. “C’mon, folks! Whatta we got here … let’s see.” He reached in and flipped through some of the cookbooks, rattling off titles, but the crowd was getting restless, so he restarted the bidding at a buck. Jaymie stuck up her hand. Someone else halfheartedly bid two, but when Jaymie went to three dollars the other person dropped out. She wrote her purchase down in her notebook, lot number and final bid.

  Lesley, a longtime friend of one of Jaymie’s favorite neighbors, septuagenarian Trip Findley, winked at her. “Now there’s a catch, lads!” He pointed his auction gavel at her. “The girl’s pretty as a picture—blue eyes, brown hair up in a sweet ponytail, rounded in all the right places—and she can cook, too!” he crowed, as laughter rippled through the crowd.

  Jaymie wanted to sink into the ground at Lesley’s ill-timed witticism, and even more so when she saw Joel smile and bend over to listen to Heidi, as she cupped her hand around her mouth and whispered something in his ear. Jaymie took a deep breath and once more turned away, ignoring them.

  Several more lots of household items went for bargains, and finally the box of Pyrex dishes and cooking utensils came up. Jaymie crossed her fingers as the bidding started at five dollars. Soon, it was just her and another bidder still in it. She scanned the crowd as she bid, and when she saw her competitor was DeeDee Stubbs, another friend and neighbor from Queensville, she called out, “What d’you want in the box, Dee?” There must be one specific thing she was after, because DeeDee was no Pyrex collector.

  The plump woman, the same age as Rebecca, peered through the crowd, shading her eyes from the slanting sunlight. “Jaymie! It’s you I’m bidding against? I only want the Partridge Family lunchbox!”

  “Let me have the lot and I’ll gladly give you the lunchbox.”

  “Done!” DeeDee called out, “I’m out of it, Les. Jaymie can have it.”

  The old man had a look of mock severity on his face as he glared at Jaymie. “You’re cutting into profits, young lady! Not the done thing, and you know it.” Another ripple of laughter flowed through the crowd at his chiding.

  Jaymie shrugged. “Sorry, Les! But nobody else wants it; I’m just speeding up your auction.” Another wave of laughter followed as she got the box for twenty dollars, and the auction moved on, fast-forwarding through several more lots.

  The jewelry, art, antique furniture and anything more valuable from the estate dissolution was going to a big auction house in Detroit, but somehow the entire collection of Royal Crown Derby had been spared, and Becca successfully bid on it, spending a rather large sum to get it. Jaymie knew that her older sister would triple or quadruple her money on the Crown Derby set by breaking it up. It seemed to Jaymie that the family china of two generations ago should stay together, but Rebecca pointed out that nobody wanted it that way. Her buyers were replacing individual pieces that had been broken over the years, or were acquiring place settings or missing serving pieces to add to their own sets. It didn’t do to get sentimental about business.

  The crystal lot came up, and then some silver plate, so Jaymie tuned out, melting back among some taller folks and watching. It was an oddly assorted crowd. She recognized some people: the local farmers there to bid on the farm equipment and antique tools; DeeDee, who attended to beef up her inventory of fifties, sixties and seventies kitsch and TV tie-in merchandise for her online selling; and a few more. Joel and Heidi bid on a vintage fur jacket and a steamer trunk, then drifted away.

  But the strangers were fascinating, as always. There were young couples buying up the necessities of life: pots and pans, small appliances, and lots of cheap dishes. And there were those who were clearly there for just one item; the non-functioning grandfather clock, old paintings—smoke-stained and grimy, but potentially worth money if you had a good eye and a willingness to gamble—a set of six farm chairs. If she’d had room, Jaymie would have bought the sturdy farm chairs herself, but their Queensville house was fully furnished—overstuffed, actually. Despite Becca’s admonition, though, she was going to buy that gorgeous old Hoosier kitchen cabinet, so she’d stick around until its lot number came up.

  But who, Jaymie idly wondered, were the two people talking about the mysterious and valuable button? She scanned the crowd. Was it someone she knew? Hard to tell just from a whisper. There were lots of folks she recognized; with DeeDee was her son, Arnie, and her brother Lyle’s latest girlfriend, Edith. Jewel Dandridge, owner of Jewel’s Junk, a funky little shop in Queensville, was scouting the auction, too. She had just bid on a lot of five boxes kindly described by Lesley as “unique, undervalued treasures”; in other words, broken junk. In her hands they would become weird and wonderful works of art. Bill Waterman, a local handyman, had bid and won a lot of obscure tools, to add to the collection he kept in his barn, on display. He was in the process, he’d told her the summer before, of writing a history of the handyman, and the vintage tools were to be photographed to illustrate his book. As a collector herself, Jaymie knew most of the other people in the village who were fellow collectors.

  But there were many more at the auction she didn’t recognize. One fellow was notable because he did nothing but wander aimlessly through the crowd. The second time he squeezed past the same people a couple of them gave him that irritated look one does when impatient with someone, but not ready to confront them. He, however, appeared oblivious and kept wandering.

  A middle-aged couple, wealthy-looking and faintly bored, stood watching the action. Jaymie had spotted them outside the Queensville Inn just that morning while she was shopping across the road at the Queensville Empor
ium in advance of Becca’s arrival. The dark-haired woman, elegantly dressed in a black suit with a black-and-white silk flower pin on the lapel and diamond earrings, was the one Jaymie had walked beside back toward the auction site when she’d left the porch. The couple whispered to each other but didn’t engage with anyone else in the crowd, keeping themselves separate in some miracle of aloofness. There was an actual personless circle around them, as if they had a commoner-shunning force field. The husband, a distinguished-looking silver-haired gentleman, bought a small painting, but if they bid on anything else, she didn’t catch it.

  There was another fellow in the crowd she recognized by sight; he was staying next door to her, at Anna and Clive Jones’s bed-and-breakfast. He was handsome in an overly clean-cut way, perfectly groomed, almost beautiful, with dark collar-length hair and a chiseled jaw. He turned as she eyed him, caught her look and smiled. Jaymie, mortified that he had caught her staring, turned her gaze to the front, feeling the blush rise in her cheeks.

  “Lot number one-sixty-eight,” Lesley intoned, looking down at his pad as his grandson held up the cardboard box, “is a mixed batch of sewing paraphernalia: rickrack, needles, bobbins, thread, a large jar of buttons, assorted other sewing oddments. Who numbered this junk lot to come up so late?” He gave his grandson a mock-severe look, then turned his gaze back to the crowd. “Who’ll give me five dollars?”

  Buttons! Jaymie slewed her glance around. No one looked interested, but that didn’t indicate anything at an auction, where a poker face was an asset. “One,” she said, shooting her hand up, wondering if this was the lot that held the potentially valuable button. Someone else in the crowd bid two, she bid three, then several others joined the bidding. She tried to see her competition, but she was placed badly and could only see hands. She was curious enough, though, that she went to fifteen dollars, at which point she won the box and glanced around for disappointed faces. Nobody appeared disappointed or upset; most looked bored. If it was what Lesley said it was, she had overpaid. She added it to her notebook.

  The sun was sinking, the shadows lengthening, and it was getting colder. A stiff, earth-scented breeze swept across the newly sown fields and tossed the stately pines that lined the long driveway. As the bidding continued, Jaymie rubbed her bare arms, glad that the crowd kept the breeze from making her even colder than she was. Becca bought a box of antique linens, and another of inexpensive china teacups and mismatched saucers, useful for the Tea with the Queen fund-raiser they would be helping with Sunday and Monday.

  It was a long-standing tradition in Queensville. After church on Sunday, old Mrs. Bellwood, gowned in a black bombazine dress and jet jewelry, her gray hair done up in a bun and adorned with a lace-edged mantilla and a jeweled coronet, would majestically rustle over to Stowe House to preside over the birthday tea as Queen Victoria. She would repeat her performance on the Canadian holiday Monday, for the benefit of their visitors from Ontario, who would come across on the ferry or by water taxi for the day. If the weather was nasty, she would ride in a carriage provided by Mackenzie Auctions, and the tea would be held in the parlor of Stowe House, the oldest house in town, now owned by wealthy micro-systems inventor Daniel Collins. If the weather held, though, tea would be served on the lawn. Becca was in Queensville for that very reason: she supplied all the china.

  Jaymie’s wandering attention was reclaimed by the auction as the Hoosier finally came up, carried to a spot on the grass below the stage by two burly fellows.

  Rebecca approached Jaymie. “C’mon, sis, I’m bushed. Let’s cash out now before the crowd so we can get home,” she said, pulling her checkbook out of her bag.

  Jaymie didn’t answer, listening intently as Lesley Mackenzie described the Hoosier as a “housewife’s dream,” the most modern convenience of the housewife’s world in 1920. “The woman who first bought this—probably a Bourne wife—likely paid for it on the installment plan, a dollar a month. Its arrival from the original Hoosier Manufacturing Company in Indiana would have been a major event in this young married woman’s life and would have made her the queen of the county, with the very latest in kitchen conveniences at her fingertips. Her friends would have gathered ’round it oohing and ahhing!” He looked around at the crowd, squinted, and said, “This item has some damage, but many original parts, so I’ll start at a hundred.”

  No one bid.

  “Jaymie, come on,” Becca said, checkbook and pen in hand.

  Jaymie ignored her, waiting, gritting her teeth as Becca started to tap her pen on the checkbook.

  “All righty, then, fifty,” Lesley said, “but not a penny less! Suitable as a desk, or for its original use; just needs a little TLC, folks.” He glanced around, and said, “I’ve got fifty, do I see sixty?”

  Jaymie shot up her hand.

  “I’ve got sixty,” Lesley said, then, sensing the warming crowd interest, went into his auctioneer’s singsong spiel.

  “Jaymie, you are not bidding!” Rebecca hissed, glancing around. “Are you nuts? Let it go. We don’t have room.”

  “Maybe ‘we’ don’t, but I do,” Jaymie growled, throwing up her hand to indicate ninety, as someone else in the crowd shouted something. “You go on and cash out. I want that Hoosier.”

  Becca shook her head and shrugged. “Okay, but I guarantee you won’t find any room for it in the kitchen! You’ll see what I mean, and then you’ll have to get rid of it for a quarter of what you paid. Waste of money.”

  “I’ll make room,” Jaymie softly said, as her sister threaded back through the crowd and DeeDee approached. Jaymie put her hand up for $120.

  “You go, girl,” DeeDee said, looking over her shoulder at Jaymie’s older sister’s retreat. “Rebecca always was too bossy for her own good, even when we were kids together. It’s about time you stood up for yourself. You live in Queensville and look after that house, not her.”

  Jaymie appreciated the support, but didn’t answer. Someone else in the crowd—or sometwo else in the crowd—was/were bidding, but she couldn’t see who it was. The cost climbed until she was up to $250, and she was thinking she was going to have to bow out. She mentally tallied her savings and what she had already spent, plus the buyer’s premium; she could go higher, she decided. DeeDee, at her elbow, was cheering her on.

  Lesley kept on, and Jaymie heard a commotion in the back of the standing crowd as the bidding reached $270, and Jaymie bid $280. Someone screamed, and most of the crowd turned toward the source of the trouble, surging back to see what was going on. Lesley kept right on, though, as if he hadn’t heard, and no one else upped the bidding as a noisy fracas broke out.

  Winding up, Lesley, with a big wink at her and pointing his gavel, launched into his final patter; “Going … going! Fair warning, folks … and sold! To the little lady in front, Miss Jaymie Leighton!” He brought the gavel down on his podium for her price. DeeDee grabbed her and they both jumped for joy as the yelling in the crowd reached a height.

  A screech of fury erupted, then a muffled voice rang out from the crowd: “Hey, I was going to three hundred!”

  Jaymie held her breath as she and DeeDee clung to each other, watching Lesley.

  “Too late, fella,” Lesley said, squinting into the growing gloom.

  “I’ll go three twenty,” another voice chimed in.

  “You old fart, open up again,” the first muffled voice shouted. “I go three forty!”

  Someone in the middle of the crowd hollered, “Don’t you talk that way to Les, you jerk.”

  “That’s Joel!” Jaymie said, recognizing her ex-boyfriend’s voice as Lesley’s defender.

  “I’ll say whatever I wanta say, asshole!”

  A scuffle broke out, just a little pushing and shoving from what Jaymie could tell, as the crowd egged the combatants on, but there was a shriek and it swiftly ended. Jaymie’s cheeks burned a little; she was proud of Joel for standing up to the rude guy. He always did have a quixotic streak in him.

  “Done deal!” Lesley crowed.
“Your bid, Jaymie,” he said, again pointing his gavel at her. “Go and claim your prize.” He surveyed the crowd, arcing his gavel over them in a semicircle. “Any more outbursts like that and I will finish this auction here and now. We’ll now move on to the farm equipment!”

  Jaymie felt a spurt of elation. Now to claim her prize and pay. “I wonder who that was who put up a fuss?”

  “I don’t know,” DeeDee said. “That tall couple was in the way, and I couldn’t see. That’s Lynn and Nathan Foster,” she said, pointing at them. “They’re staying at Lyle’s inn,” she said, naming her brother-in-law, who owned the Queensville Inn.

  Dee, as always, was ready with gossip, even stuff that wasn’t particularly interesting. “I’d better go cash out and face the wrath of Rebecca. Come with me,” Jaymie said, putting her bare arm through the crook in DeeDee’s sweater-clad elbow, “and get your Partridge Family lunchbox.”

  “You mean defend you against your big sister,” DeeDee said, with a warm chuckle.

  “That, too,” Jaymie said, smiling. Old friends were the best kind, it’s been said; they know all the old jokes and where the bodies are buried.

  About the Author

  Donna Lea Simpson is a nationally bestselling romance and mystery novelist with over twenty titles published in the last eleven years. An early love for the novels of Jane Austen and Agatha Christie was a portent of things to come; Donna believes that a dash of mystery adds piquancy to a romantic tale, and a hint of romance adds humanity to a mystery story. Besides writing romance and mystery novels and reading the same, Donna has a long list of passions: cats and tea, cooking and vintage cookware, cross-stitching and watercolor painting among them. Karaoke offers her the chance to warble Dionne Warwick tunes, and nature is a constant source of comfort and inspiration. A long walk is her favorite exercise, and a fruity merlot is her drink of choice when the tea is all gone. Donna lives in Canada.