Antique Blues

by Jane K. Cleland

  “So there’s no photograph of her.”

  “No.”

  “Can you describe her?”

  “Not really. She wore a bulky coat, so I have no sense of her body shape. She wore a hat, black felt with a big brim.”

  “What color was her hair?”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t notice.”

  “Eyes?”

  She opened her palms. “I wish I could be more helpful. I was busy, and she was in a hurry. She was in and out of here in about two minutes. I just don’t remember.”

  I thanked her again and started for the front, then paused. “Did I hear you right before—you bought an entire portfolio.”

  “Yes. A lovely set, probably from the 1930s. I’ve been selling them one at a time, mostly to decorators.”

  “Did you have the portfolio appraised?”

  “No, it didn’t seem worth it. You know it’s more profitable to break the book.”

  I hated that some dealers embraced a policy of cutting art prints from bound editions, but I understood it. A nondescript nineteenth-century book in decent condition that included ten illustrations of anything from flowers to medical devices might sell for fifty dollars. If the dealer sold each of the prints individually, he might garner a hundred dollars each, netting a thousand.

  “You’re right, I do understand. The economics are hard to ignore. May I see the prints you have left?”

  Anita swiveled toward an oak architectural cabinet, the kind used to store oversized drawings and blueprints. She opened the third drawer and flipped through some plastic-encased images, selecting half a dozen Hiroshige prints. She fanned them out on her desk facing me.

  “I have more, but this is a representative sample.”

  The prints were the same size as Mo’s, with the same distinct and spectacularly vibrant colors.

  The third one grabbed me, number 76, Bamboo yards, Kyöbashi Bridge. A man standing on a wooden boat punted down a nearly deserted river. He was passing under a bridge. A dozen people walked overhead, none of them aware of him any more than he was aware of them. The blues were spectacular, ranging from a deep navy blue in the shadowy water under the bridge to cobalt glistening in the moonlit sky. Hiroshige’s prints took my breath away. I looked up. Anita was watching me.

  I smiled. “Hiroshige knocks me out.”

  Anita smiled back. “I could look at them forever. It’s the storytelling.”

  “And the quiet.”

  “And the colors.”

  “And the detail.”

  “All that.”

  “What makes you think they’re from the 1930s?” I asked.

  “There were many reproductions featuring this level of craftsmanship created during that period.”

  She was right. But it was also possible she was wrong.

  “Did you ever consider that they might be authentic?”

  Anita looked down at the prints. “Do you think it’s possible? The colors are so vivid.”

  “I know. You almost never see it, but ‘almost’ is the operative word in that sentence. When I finish appraising Mo’s print—her heir asked my company to appraise it—I’ll let you know what I learn.”

  “Thank you. That’s very generous of you. Do you think I should hold the others back?”

  “I would.” I laid the print back down. “You know the importance of provenance, Anita. You also know I would never poach one of your sources. That said, I’m hoping you’ll tell me where you got the portfolio.”

  “You’re asking a lot.”

  “I know.”

  “Only because you’re you, Josie.” She swiveled toward her monitor, scrolled down to read something, then turned back to me. “Eli bought the collection from a dealer in Winslow, England, Richardson Antiques.”

  She gave me Richardson’s contact information, and I thanked her.

  As I walked out, I considered my next steps. Five paces from my car, a glimmer of an idea came to me with a thud, and I stopped short.

  A horn blared. I was blocking traffic.

  I mouthed “Sorry” and continued to my car. I leaned against the hood and stared into the middle distance, considering ways and means. The sun warmed my face, and I shut my eyes, enjoying the sensation.

  “Okay, then,” I said aloud.

  I sent two identical emails, one to Ellis and one to Wes:

  I have confirmed that Cal is using the name Pat Durand and P.O. Box #156.

  I emailed Sasha, too:

  It looks like Cal bought Mo’s print from Anita Wills. Eli bought a complete portfolio from Richardson Antiques in Winslow, England. Anita thinks the set is a repro from the 1930s. Please contact Richardson’s for more information.

  I added the antique shop’s contact information, reread the message, and hit SEND.

  I tossed my phone in my bag and drove back to work.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  I was standing in the front office sipping coffee, getting ready for my stint staffing the Prescott’s Instant Appraisal booth, when Cara told me a woman named Gertie Joan Mays was on the line. I nearly pounced on the guest-table phone.

  “Gertie Joan! I’m so glad to hear from you.”

  “I hope it’s okay that I’m calling on a Saturday. I hate to disturb you on the weekend.”

  “I’m thrilled you called. Tell me you have good news.”

  “I have good news.”

  I sat down, dragged over a pad of paper, and extracted a pen from the Prescott’s mug in the center of the table.

  “I’m ready when you are.”

  “Ricky Joe McElroy purchased that guitar on June second, 1973. He paid twenty-eight thousand three hundred and ten dollars. That’s a lot of money.”

  “It sure is. Did you find the receipt or an entry in a general ledger, or what?”

  “Both. I found the receipt, then matched it up to the general ledger.”

  “Gertie Joan, you’re a treasure and a half.”

  “That’s nice of you to say. Gil Paul, that’s my brother, bought the guitar on March fifteenth, 1971. So he had it just sitting on the shelf for more than two years. I trailed that one from the receipt to the general ledger, too.”

  “How much did he pay?”

  “Ten thousand five hundred. That makes him look kind of sleazy, doesn’t it? Charging Ricky Joe nearly three times what he paid.”

  “Paying a third is standard in the antiques business,” I said. The direct and indirect costs of acquiring, appraising, cleaning, marketing, and merchandizing objects add up quickly. “Who did he buy it from?”

  “A woman named Marianne Dowler. There’s a note on the receipt in Gil Paul’s handwriting that reads ‘granddaughter of Estelle Mae Bridges, friend of Rbt. Johnson.’ There’s an address listed, but no phone number.”

  Gertie Joan called out the address. In 1971, Marianne Dowler lived in Clarksdale, Mississippi.

  “Fabulous. Did you find any other documentation? Notes, maybe, about provenance … you know, the trail of ownership?”

  “Nothing like that. Only purchase and sales records.”

  “Thank you again for looking. I’m so appreciative. I hate to ask you to do more, but I’m going to need the original documents, or at least good clear copies of everything.”

  “I can’t let the originals go, but I’m glad to send you copies. As it happens, I’m one step ahead of you! I took photos with my smartphone and emailed them to you. Is that good enough?”

  “Let me check that they came through. May I ask you to hold on for a minute?”

  “Sure.”

  Gretchen wasn’t at her desk, so I commandeered her computer, logged into my email account, and downloaded the photos.

  “Gertie Joan?”

  “I’m here.”

  “The two sales receipts are perfect. The general ledger shots are a little wiggly, though. Can you get someone to press down on the pages so the writing near the binding is visible?”

  “Let me do that now. I’ll call you when I send them.
”

  Gertie Joan was a woman of action. Ten minutes after we hung up, two completely legible photos arrived. While I was waiting, I composed an email for her to send me, confirming that she had the original documents in her possession, and that these photographs represented an accurate and complete record of Abbot’s involvement with the 1930 Martin OM-45 Deluxe guitar, serial number 45317. I sent it to her, then called to thank her for retaking the photos and ask her to cut and paste my content into an email to me. She opened it then and there, read it aloud, and said it was fine. I had the email less than a minute later.

  “Gertie Joan, what’s your favorite flower?”

  “You’re going to send me flowers?”

  “A lot of them. A huge bouquet.”

  She laughed, a tinkling happy sound. “Instead of a big bouquet, I’d like an orchid. I’ve always wanted one, and now I have the time to take care of it. I understand they’re tricky to grow.”

  “I can make this happen, Gertie Joan. Do you have a certain species in mind? Or a color?”

  “Nope. You pick. Make it flashy.” She laughed louder. “Just like me.”

  I was still chuckling as I returned to the tag sale venue. Gretchen was working at one of the cash registers.

  I waited until there was a momentary lull. “I need you to investigate orchid options for a novice who lives in Florence, Mississippi. Get her one she can’t kill. Better yet, get her lessons on how to keep an orchid alive. She wants a flashy one.”

  Gretchen’s eyes glinted with excitement. This kind of project was right up her alley.

  “I’m on it.”

  * * *

  It was eleven thirty-five, which meant I had enough time to begin the hunt for Marianne Dowler. No Dowlers lived in Clarksdale, but hundreds of Dowlers lived in the South. At eleven fifty-five I threw in the towel. I emailed Fred Gertie Joan’s photos and asked him to find Marianne Dowler but not to contact her until we’d spoken. I turned off Gretchen’s computer and went to start my turn in the Prescott’s Instant Appraisal booth.

  I spoke to Fred, taking an early lunch, en route. “I just sent you an email. We’re making progress. How’s Davy doing?”

  “Good. He’s at his hotel doing some research.”

  “Did he give you any hints about what he thinks?”

  Fred smiled. “What do you say when a client asks you that question?”

  I grinned. “I tell them an appraisal is a process.”

  “That’s what he told me when I asked, almost word for word. I know he wants to confirm some of the materials, specifically whether all 1930 Martin OM-45 Deluxe guitars’ backs and sides were made with Brazilian rosewood and topped with torrefied Adirondack spruce. He’s also checking out the gluing techniques.”

  “I hate waiting.”

  “Me, too.”

  I ran across the warehouse and reached Prescott’s Instant Appraisal right at noon.

  * * *

  A man named Finn sat across from me in the Prescott’s Instant Appraisal booth. He was in his seventies, short and thin, with scraggly gray hair and leathery brown skin, the kind you get from years of outside work. He told me he was a retired roofer, and his wife was pestering him to divvy up some of their collectibles among their grandkids.

  “Once you get on Harriet’s radar, the only thing you want is to get off.”

  “That’s why you’ve brought this Coca-Cola Barefoot Boy tray in for appraisal.”

  “Exactly. I’m hoping it comes in at something around fifty dollars. My granddaughter Allie likes it a lot, but her sister Naomi got the miniature watercolor Harriet and I picked up on the Isle of Wight in the 1980s. It’s a cute little thing, about two by two, a picture of a church. I saw one just like it for sale in the church gift shop the last time we were there for thirty-four dollars. That was three or four years ago now, so I figure with inflation and all I’d be on solid ground valuing it around fifty dollars.”

  “Are you from the Isle of Wight?”

  “Can’t you tell by looking at my Irish mug? My mum used to say I had a map of County Clare written on my face. It’s Harriet’s people that hail from the Isle of Wight.”

  “So where did you get this tray?”

  “Darned if I know. Harriet thinks we bought it at a yard sale when we were first married, around 1975, but I just plumb don’t remember.”

  “Let me take a look.”

  Branded paraphernalia was a popular collectible. This one featured a Tom Sawyer–looking boy lounging against a tree in a bucolic setting. The boy wore chinos and a long-sleeved blue shirt with the pant cuffs and shirt sleeves rolled up. He also wore suspenders, a broad-brimmed straw hat, and an ear-to-ear grin. He was surrounded by grassy fields. He had a white-bread sandwich in one hand and a bottle of Coke in the other. A cute mutt sat facing him, his eyes fixed on the sandwich. The illustration was rimmed by a double border, two inches of red and a quarter inch of gold. The words DRINK COCA-COLA appeared in white script at both the top and bottom of the image. I inserted a loupe in my right eye and examined the tail of the C in “Coca” at the top. A tiny all-cap message divided onto two lines read TRADE MARK REGISTERED.

  My heart pattered a bit faster than normal. Each letter was distinct. This was no quick-and-dirty knockoff.

  I turned the tray over. The back was black. I removed the loupe and handed back the tray.

  “Thanks for bringing this in, Finn. To properly authenticate and value this object, we’d need to take some time with it, but based on my instant appraisal—this tray is evidently the ‘real thing.’ Are you sitting down?”

  “With my feet planted.”

  “Your tray has the right markings in the right places, properly executed. It’s in wonderful condition. If it’s real, I would expect it to sell for at least a thousand dollars. Maybe twelve hundred.”

  Finn’s eyes popped open, forming perfect little saucers. “That’s more than fifty.”

  “Looks like you’ll have some rejiggering to do.”

  Finn shook my hand enthusiastically and left, carrying the tray as if it were made of pure gold. As he pushed through the outside door, I noticed Frank Shannon standing just inside, his eyes on my face, his expression somber, and I stood up. He jerked his head to the left, silently asking if I could step outside with him. I nodded. The clock over the door told me it was twenty to one.

  I turned to the next person in line, a young woman, and smiled. “Someone will be right with you.”

  I did a 360. Fred was standing near the back, greeting people as they ambled by, offering to answer questions. I raised my arm, caught his eye, and waved him over.

  “Cover for me, all right?”

  “Sure.”

  Fred took my place, and I went outside. I found Frank leaning against the trunk of a willow tree, partially hidden by the drooping branches.

  “Sorry to bust in on you,” he said as I approached. “Trish and Lydia are over talking to Pastor Ted about Mo’s funeral. Trish is having a container-load of flowers dropped off Tuesday morning. It’s all bull, if you ask me. Mo doesn’t need a special send-off to get to heaven. She’s already there, standing next to God.”

  “Oh, Frank.” I touched his arm.

  “Trish tells me to be quiet, that the send-off is for us, not her. I guess that’s right.” He turned back to face me. “I stopped by to see that you’re all right. I read the Seacoast Star article about the break-in.”

  “Thanks for asking. It was scary, but no harm done.”

  “Except to a window and a display case.”

  “Except for that.”

  “Were any of your roosters hurt when the glass shattered?”

  “None I care about.”

  “Do you think the guy broke in to get Mo’s print? Trish told us it was on an easel, in plain sight.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Quite a coincidence about the power going out. I hear a branch snapped off a tree. You’d think the power company would do a better job trimming them.”
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  “Where’d you hear that?”

  “I don’t know. The Seacoast Star, I reckon.”

  “I’m not sure it was a coincidence. Maybe someone wanted Prescott’s to be in the dark.”

  Worry lines appeared on Frank’s forehead. “That’s quite a thought.”

  “Josie!”

  I looked up. Abby Young, the older woman who’d been part of Mo’s book club, was smiling and waving at me.

  “Abby! Nice to see you.”

  “Any Y’s for me?”

  Ever since the day she found an old wooden figurehead with the letter Y carved onto the woman’s apron, Abby’s been a fan of the tag sale.

  “I’m not telling! Finding Y’s on your own is part of the fun!”

  Her smile faded as she recognized Frank. She patted his arm and walked inside.

  “I buy pizza for my staff on Saturdays,” I told Frank. “Want to come in for a slice?”

  “I’d better not. Thanks, though. Trish wants to play some tennis, to get the kinks out, she calls it. Athletes, even retired ones, can’t stay still for long.”

  “Not golf?”

  “Not since the day she retired. She won’t touch a club. She can’t stand playing with amateurs. I wonder if it’ll be the same for me with guitars.”

  “I doubt it. So she plays tennis. Is she any good?”

  “Better than me, which isn’t saying a whole lot. Speaking of guitars … any news about mine?”

  “Not yet. We’re making progress confirming provenance, but it’s a process. One step at a time.”

  “Progress is good.” He aimed his index finger at the woods on the other side of the parking lot. “I walked along Ellerton to get here … but what about that path? Does it lead to the church?”

  “Yes. It’s about a quarter mile, a nice walk.”

  He turned to face me. “You ready for your eulogy on Tuesday?”

  “Yes.”

  “Trish will be glad to hear it.”

  He squeezed my shoulder and set off. I stood under the willow tree watching him trek across the parking lot and disappear behind a screen of bushes and trees.

  A moment later, a soft voice called, “Josie?”

  I turned. Steve’s girlfriend stood nearby. I remembered her name was Kimberly. She wore a Kelly-green crewneck sweater that set off her titian hair, and brown jeans.