“Foxing,” I said, nodding. “Good catch.” I turned to Fred. “Fred?”
“It’s definitely a flaw,” he told Ava, “but if you consider the spot in context, in other words, the age of the magazine and the fact that a lot of hands have held it over the years, you know what, it’s no big deal. The foxed area is relatively small, and since it doesn’t affect readability or mar the artwork, I’d call it minor.”
“What do you think, Sasha?” I asked.
“I agree. There are no tears, rips, or chips, and no uneven yellowing. In setting the price, I wouldn’t deduct anything for condition.”
Ava nodded, her mind fully engaged. As always, she was a sponge, soaking up information. She lowered her gaze to the cover again, thinking. I could almost see the wheels turning.
“If Dr. Walker says that the magazine covers have no historical value,” Ava said, thinking aloud, “the fact the cover was cut off, destroying the magazine, must not affect the value, is that right?”
“Clearly, removing the covers ruins the value of the magazine,” Fred said, “but it doesn’t tell us anything about the value of the cover itself. All we can infer is that at some point someone either wanted the artwork or knew, or thought they knew, that the cover would sell for more on its own than it would if it were attached to the magazine.”
“I’m thinking that we should use the same checklist that we use for appraising everything—rarity, scarcity, condition, past price trends, current popularity, and association.”
“Wow!” I said. “You already memorized our checklist? I’m impressed.”
Ava smiled. “It’s just so fascinating.”
“That’s what I like to hear! So, Ava, what do you think? How much are the covers worth?”
She sighed and made a face. “I don’t know.”
“No problem—that’s how you learn. Fred?”
“Properly trimmed, nicely matted, and encased in plastic sleeves—about twenty bucks each. Same as all the other art prints we have in stock.”
“Got it!” Ava said, smiling and nodding.
“Which to someone who loves vintage fashion will be a bargain and a half,” I said, smiling.
I left them talking about how many covers to display at any one time, an age-old merchandizing conundrum with no clear answer. It was a treat to see Fred and Sasha helping Ava learn the trade. I gave a final wave good-bye and entered the warehouse. Hank followed me, then trotted purposefully around a shelving unit, toward his corner. He has an errand, I thought.
Upstairs, I started reading a proposal from our database management company and was halfway through when Hank came up to me and rubbed against my leg.
“Are you a good boy, Hank?” I asked, reaching down to give him a little pat without taking my eyes from the proposal.
He made an odd mewling sound, part growl and part meow, and I looked at him.
“What is it, baby?”
He dropped a thumbnail-sized pearl rosette at my feet.
I picked it up. I’d never seen it before, nor anything like it. What appeared to be perfectly matched round pearls were arranged in lines of three, forming petals that ranged around a larger center stone. The setting was silver metal. At first I thought it was a brooch, but it wasn’t. From the set-in metal loop attached to the back, I could tell it was a button. There was engraving on the back as well, too small to read with the naked eye. It was distinctive, and if the stones really were pearls and the silver really was white gold or platinum, it might be valuable. In fact, if the pearls were natural and perfectly matched, and the silver was platinum, it might be close to extremely valuable.
“Where did you get this, Hank?”
He yawned.
As a company, we were neat and organized. Stray buttons weren’t left around for a cat to find—it just didn’t happen. Yet it had. I stared at Hank. Probably a customer had dropped it, we’d somehow missed it, and Hank, the little devil, had picked it up.
I walked downstairs to the main office, button in hand. “Does anyone recognize this?” I asked, displaying it in the palm of my hand. “Hank just dropped it at my feet.”
No one did.
“It’s unusual, isn’t it?” Gretchen asked. “Do you think it fell off a garment from the vintage clothing collection?”
“Maybe. Or a customer dropped it. Are you certain you don’t recognize it?”
“Yes. I’m sure I’d remember if I’d seen it.” She brought up the database where we tracked our inventory, and I stood in back of her, looking over her shoulder. She entered “pearl button” in the keyword search box. Nothing came up.
“Try just the word ‘button,’” I requested.
“Button” got fifteen hits, including three garments with fabric-covered buttons, two buttons made of wood, seven featuring rhinestones, one each studded with faux rubies and emeralds, and one button made of horsehair.
“Okay, then,” I said. “It doesn’t belong to us. Probably a customer dropped it. Cara, would you enter it in lost and found?”
While Cara got the listing ready, I borrowed Sasha’s loupe and examined the button. The milky iridescent sheen of the stones glistened against the silver metal. I turned it over. The engraving on the back read: “Industria et Munus,” and “EZK,” and “Pt999.”
“We might be able to trace it,” I said. “What do you say, Ava? Want to take a crack at tracking down the owner?”
“Sure,” she said, smiling. “Thanks.”
“Take a look.” I waited until she had the loupe in place. “Do you see where it says ‘Pt999’? That means it’s made of platinum, and that the platinum is almost a hundred percent pure. Until World War II, it was very common to use platinum in jewelry settings, so the button might be an antique.”
She removed the loupe and examined the stones, stroking them. “These pearls are spectacular, aren’t they? They’re so satiny.”
“Depending on what we learn from the engravings, we might want to verify the materials. An expert can tell if a stone is a pearl, and if so, whether it’s natural or cultured.”
“Cultured?” Ava asked.
“Man-made,” I explained. “A person inserts a bead or something similar into an oyster, or one of the other mollusks that produce pearls, and the mollusk deposits layers of what’s called nacre, or mother-of-pearl. That’s the opalescent inner layer of some mollusk shells that gives a pearl its lustrous patina. A natural pearl occurs without man’s intervention.”
“Do you want me to show her the sun and tooth tests?” Sasha asked me.
Fred chortled.
Sasha turned to Ava. “Fred is laughing because those tests are very low-tech, but in spite of Fred’s derision, both of them are fairly reliable ways to tell if a pearl is a fake.”
“Oh, pa-leaze,” Fred said, pushing up his glasses. “Neither test means squat.”
“I didn’t say they were infallible.”
“That’s putting it mildly.”
“You’re overstating it,” Sasha argued. She turned to Ava. “Both tests are free, easy, and quick. If the results are encouraging, then you consult an expert.” She picked up the button. “Do you see how the pearls are all the same size, or darn close? Ditto the color—they’re all ivory and luminescent. They appear to be perfectly matched. Think about what that means—to find pearls in nature that are exactly the same size, shape, and color is an astonishing feat. ‘Perfectly matched’ doesn’t mean identical, by the way. Nature rarely produces identical anythings. There are always minute differences. One way to gauge the likelihood that the pearls are, in fact, perfectly matched is by viewing them in the sun. If they appear identical under sunlight, probably they’re fake. Come outside and I’ll show you what I’m talking about.”
I tagged along, eager to see Ava’s astonishment if the pearls tested as genuine, or her understanding if they didn’t.
We stood two paces from the front door in full sun. Sasha placed the button in the palm of her hand. “Inside, you saw that the pearls a
ppeared to be identical.” We stared at the button. “Do you see how there are, in fact, color variations?” She indicated one of the pearls, using her pinky nail as a pointer. “There’s a distinct lavender hue to this one that wasn’t visible inside.” She pointed to the center stone. “This one is opalescent, with overtones of cream and peach and pink that are only visible when I move it a little to catch the light.”
Ava nodded, her eyes big with wonder. “That’s astonishing! Inside they looked indistinguishable. Here it’s clear how different they are from one another. It’s hard to believe it’s the same button.”
“Meaning it’s likely the pearls are genuine,” Sasha said. “Which brings us to the tooth test.”
We went back inside.
Sasha tucked her hair behind her ear. “The tooth test is even simpler than the sun test. Since natural and cultured pearls are comprised of layers of nacre, they have a texture like sand, which you can feel when you rub the pearl against your teeth.” She handed the button to Ava. “Want to try?”
“Sure,” Ava said. She laughed a little, embarrassed. “Would it be all right if I washed it off first? I can’t forget that this button spent time in Hank’s mouth.”
Sasha smiled. “Only with a soft cloth and water. Anything stronger may destroy the nacre, so more in-depth cleaning requires professional care.”
“I’ll just do a quickie against my sweater, okay?” Ava rubbed the button on her sleeve, then against her front teeth. “Oh, I can feel it plain as anything. There are little … I don’t know what to call them … ruts.”
“Exactly,” Sasha said. She took the button and gently rubbed the center pearl against her front teeth. “Definitely. It feels gritty.”
“On the other hand,” Fred said, “many synthetic nacres are laced with a coarse compound, which when applied onto perfectly smooth beads replicates the feel of a real pearl. You could get that same gritty sensation from a glass bead that’s never been within a mile of a mollusk.”
“Of course,” Sasha responded, “but in this case, we have no reason to think someone went to that much effort to create fake pearls to put in a platinum setting—it’s not logical.” She raised a hand to stop him from interjecting. “Yes, it happens.” She met Ava’s eyes. “For instance, someone who needs cash might replace the original pearls with good fakes.”
“What’s the bottom line, Ava?” Fred asked, leaning back. “Are they real?”
She smiled. “The button appears to be genuine,” she said, stressing the words “appears to be.” “We’d need an expert to validate the assumption.”
“Well done, all of you,” I said. “Now let’s see if we can find the button’s owner. I know you’re leaving for the day soon, Ava. You can get going on it tomorrow. Cara will show you how our lost and found system works.”
“Thanks, Josie,” Ava said, smiling. “I’ll do my best.”
I was pleased that she was pleased. I had a good feeling about Ava. As my company grew, attracting a talented and dedicated staff that loved their work and that worked well together would be a key to success. I crossed my fingers that Ava would prove to be a keeper.
Halfway up the spiral stairs, a thought came to me like a clap of thunder on a sunny day, out of nowhere and loud enough to make you jump. I froze midstep. Hank had been in the tag sale room just after I’d discovered Riley’s body. It was possible that a button—this button—had fallen off or been ripped off Riley’s blouse or skirt. The pearl rosette button could be hers. Or, I thought, grasping the handrail to steady myself, the killer’s.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I called down to Cara and asked her to be sure to wrap the button properly when she locked it up with the other lost and found items, then left an urgent message for Chief Hunter.
“Ellis,” I said, “I know this is going to sound nuts—but was Riley missing a button? Give me a call and I’ll explain.”
I hadn’t been back reading the proposal for more than a minute or two when Cara called up. Quinn Steiner, Riley’s financial adviser, had stopped by and wondered if I had a minute to speak to him.
“Sure,” I said and asked her to escort him up.
I’d never met Steiner before, but Riley had talked about him enough for me to have gotten a picture in my head. I expected him to dress conservatively and be old enough to be her father, and that’s exactly how he looked. If he’d been an actor, he could have landed the part based on appearances alone. He was about sixty, with a determined chin, thin lips, gray hair, and brown eyes. He wore a navy blue suit with a pale blue shirt and a red and blue club tie. He looked like what he was—a trusted financial adviser.
As he stepped over the threshold, he thanked Cara. I came out from around my desk and extended my hand for a shake. His grip was firm and practiced.
“I’m sorry to bust in on you like this, but Bobby Jordan’s in a heck of a hurry,” he stated. “Do you have a moment to talk?”
“Of course,” I said. “I’m glad to meet you. Riley said wonderful things about you.” I led the way to the love seat. “Please, have a seat.”
He perched on the edge of the yellow brocade love seat. I sat across from him on a matching Queen Anne wing chair. I waited for him to talk. His lips were pursed. He didn’t look happy.
“Bobby plans on moving to New York almost immediately, and he wants to retain your services to appraise the furnishings and other items in his home. He plans on selling everything as soon as can be arranged. He’s asked me to oversee the process.”
I blinked at him. “You’re kidding.”
“I’m not.”
“Riley just died.”
“Yes,” he said, shaking his head, “and she hasn’t even been buried.”
“Why is he doing this?”
“I don’t know.” He sat back and met my eyes. “I strongly suggested that he should wait for a while before making a decision this significant and encompassing, especially one that would be viewed by the world as, well, unbecoming at best, but he refused. I tried to convince him to wait at least until after the funeral, but he’s insisting on pushing forward. He says that he can’t stand being in their home without Riley and that he doesn’t care about public perception.” Quinn rested his forearms on his thighs as he leaned forward and met my eyes. “He says the only thing that’s keeping him alive is his work, and his work is in New York City.”
I nodded. “I can understand using work as a coping mechanism. I’d feel the same in his situation. Well, then … sure. I mean, if that’s what he wants, of course I’m glad to help.”
Quinn opened his briefcase and extracted a thick folder. “Thank you. Riley gave me the appraisal documents you had her sign last year when you appraised that jardiniere and pedestal.” He was reading from the top sheet of paper. “Riley asked you to handle the transaction for her friend Rita Owen. From what I gather, Ms. Owen decided not to sell. Is that correct?”
“Actually, I don’t think Ms. Owen ever intended to sell,” I said, recalling Riley’s kindness to one of her long-deceased mother’s friends. “Riley asked me to appraise the object as her Christmas present.”
According to Riley, Rita Owen had been white-hot curious about the cloisonné jardiniere and pedestal. Black, with a multicolored floral pattern, the object had been in her family for generations. Rita, a charming woman with short gray hair, had been tickled pink to learn the object, primarily because of the unusual pedestal, was worth upwards of ten thousand dollars, and I’d been struck once again by Riley’s thoughtfulness.
“Understood. The consignment terms detailed in the document—are they standard?”
“Yes.”
“Very good. They’re fine with us. As soon as you prepare a new set of papers, Bobby will sign them.”
“This is all happening so quickly. Do you want me to take a crack at trying to convince Bobby to take a breath first before he makes such major changes?”
Quinn paused, thinking, then leaned back and shook his head. “No—at this point, it
would be inappropriate. He’s not a child, after all, and, of course, he has a point when he says that he needs to get back to work—and that his work is now in New York City. He opened an office there about six months ago.”
“Really?” I asked, taken aback. “Riley hadn’t said a word to me about it.”
“No. She was very resistant to the idea of moving. When I talked to him about delaying his move, he made the point that his second New York City restaurant is set to open in June, and that he travels internationally frequently—no easy feat from New Hampshire.” Quinn looked at me straight on. “Riley didn’t want to move, yet from Bobby’s perspective … well, let’s just say that running his complex and far-flung business operations from a one-man office in the Blue Dolphin has become increasingly challenging.”
I nodded, not envying the dilemma they’d faced. Bobby could have expanded his headquarters in New Hampshire, but he didn’t want to. He was more than enjoying his newfound, big-city celebrity. Now, with Riley gone, he had no one to think about but himself, and despite his grief, or maybe because of it, he wanted to get on with his life.
I closed my eyes for a moment as a nightmarish memory came to me. When I’d worked at Frisco’s, the venerable New York City antiques auction house, a plum of a job I’d landed right out of college, I’d lived my dream. Then I’d caught on to a scheme my boss, a man who’d been my mentor, a man I’d admired to the skies, had initiated. He, along with the heads of two other famous antiques auction houses, had conspired to fix commission rates. Because I’d been raised that black and white really did exist—and gray, too, of course, but not when it came to ethics—I’d felt I had no choice. I turned him in. I was the whistle-blower. I’d expected to be praised for my integrity. Instead I’d been shunned as if I were contaminated.
Everything about those long lonely months had been awful. I’d lost most of my work friends as they distanced themselves from me in a desperate scramble to save their own jobs. The media had hunted me like hyenas. Worse, just after the trial was over, my dad had been murdered, and only a few weeks after that, my boyfriend, Rick the Cretin, had dumped me, saying I wasn’t snapping out of it quickly enough, that I’d turned into a real downer. A day later, without warning, Frisco’s acting president, a nerdy nothing of a man named Jamey, had called me into his corner office. I stood on the thick maroon carpet beside dark, heavy furniture, expecting a thank-you on behalf of the board of directors. Instead, he fired me, saying that because I wasn’t a team player, he had to let me go. My company credit cards and ID were taken from me then and there by a security guard who’d been stationed outside Jamey’s door. Jamey must have pushed a button built into his desk or stepped on one, because he didn’t use the phone or raise his voice, yet seconds later, this tall white-haired man loomed over me with his hand out. Another man escorted me back to my cubicle and watched as I packed up my desk. The two of them, one in front of me and other behind me, walked me down to Human Resources, where a young woman handed me a yellow envelope labeled EXIT PACKET.
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