“I won’t. I haven’t,” I assured her, but she’d already hung up.
I paced, too keyed up to do anything else. I could barely stop myself from running back to the vault and ripping into the envelope to discover the secrets it contained.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
D
etective Brownley stepped into the office ten minutes later. The concrete ware house was cold, and sounds echoed.
“Do you know anything about the envelope?” she asked, her voice reverberating. How it got there? Or who might have touched it?”
“I called you as soon as I saw it, and I haven’t asked anyone anything about it. As for me, I have never seen it before, and I didn’t touch it.”
Detective Brownley stood off to the side as I unlocked the steel door and swung it wide.
“There,” I said, pointing.
She snapped on plastic gloves, took a pencil from her pocket, and used the eraser end to ease the envelope out. When it was an inch or so beyond the shelf’s edge, she toppled it into a plastic evidence bag. She probed with the eraser, fussing the unglued top flap open. She aimed the opening toward the light and looked inside. “There are some papers, but it’s too dim to see well. Let’s go to the office, where the light’s better.”
We stepped into the front office. Fred was back at his computer. Eric was pouring himself a cup of coffee. Sasha was reading.
I greeted them and told Eric about the bird prints.
Detective Brownley held the bag up and asked, “Have any of you seen this envelope?” Fred, Sasha, and Eric shook their heads. The detective nodded, then went to the round table by the windows.
She squeezed the plastic bag, forcing open the envelope, and tried to see inside, then turned it upside down and shook it. Nothing fell out. Whatever was in there was stuck. Using her pencil eraser, she gentled out the contents, one piece at a time. There was a typed note, a greeting card, and two Polaroid photos.
The typed note read:
A Meissen baluster vase of Chinese design.
–– crossed sword mark, left blade off center and thin at tip
–– “AR” in underglaze blue I inherited the vase from my mother, Lynne White. My mother said she bought it in 1949 at Faring Auctions in Cheyenne for $1,685, but there’s no receipt.
The greeting card was a beauty. The illustration on the outside showed a lush garden scene. Inside, the preprinted message read:
For a Special Young Woman
a Special Birthday Wish
Just below that, someone had added a handwritten message:
I turned my attention to the Polaroids. One photo showed a vase of traditional Chinese design—a bird and garden scene—in shades of ethereal blue. The other showed the marks that the writer described in the typed note. Both the ornate, interwoven “AR” and the rapier-thin crossed swords appeared hand-drawn and stylized. Above the swords were three letters: “JGH.”
Detective Brownley looked up. “Do you know where it is?”
“No.” I stared at the photo of the vase. “It’s a beauty, isn’t it?”
“Is it old?”
“Probably.”
“How old?”
“I don’t know. From the marks, assuming these marks are on this vase, it’s likely that we can date it.” I looked up. “Remember the pedestal in Gretchen’s apartment? I’ll bet this vase is what used to sit on it. Do you want us to see what we can find out about it?”
Detective Brownley looked at me, down at the photo, the card, and the receipt, then back at me. “These have to go to the lab.”
“How about if I record them? We can work from the video. If it ever comes to authenticating the documents themselves, we can figure that out then.”
“Great. Thank you, Josie.”
I got one of our video recorders and carefully shot the note, the card, and both photos, front and back, having her flip each one over with her pencil. All the reverse sides were empty, except the greeting card, and the only text there identified the artist and production company.
As soon as she packed up the documents and left, I turned to Sasha. “Did you follow that? Here,” I said, handing her the camera. “You take a look. Fred, you, too.”
Fred leaned over her shoulder, absorbing the details. He pushed his glasses up as he stood and returned to his seat.
Sasha’s brown eyes were steady and focused. “It’s a lovely piece,” she said, looking up.
“The marks are Meissen, right?” I asked.
“Right,” she said, “but you know how many replicas there are out there. Just by looking, I don’t know if this is original or not. Do you?”
“No. How about you, Fred?”
“No, I’m not familiar enough with the marks. Listening to you, my first thought was to go back to Faring Auctions in Cheyenne. If they’re still running, they might have records. Sixteen hundred eighty-five dollars back then . . .” He paused to tap something into his computer, then finished his thought. “It’s more than fourteen thousand in today’s dollars. Lots of places would have a record of something in that price range—even after all these years.”
“Have either of you heard of Faring?” I asked. “I haven’t, but that doesn’t mean anything. As we know, there are scores of small auction houses around the country.”
They shook their heads; then Sasha said, “The auction house is definitely worth checking, but we should educate ourselves about the marks first.”
“Calling Faring is almost sure to be a shortcut,” Fred countered. “They’ll either know something useful or they won’t, which will help us set the appraisal pa ram e ters right off the bat.”
“Well, I’ll leave you two to figure it out,” I interjected, “but keep in mind that it’s your top priority. One thing, though, Fred, before you get going. Did you learn anything about the mark on the buckle?”
“Yup. Good news.”
He reported that the belt buckle’s primary mark, the large H enclosed in a double-edged circle, had been used by the Indianapolis-based Harrison Metal Works since 1894 and was still in use today.
“That’s great!” I said. “Fast work. I’ll try calling them.”
I took the buckle upstairs to my office. I easily located Harrison Metal Works’ phone number and followed the automated instructions to finally reach a human being. “Hi. My name is Josie Prescott, and I have a question about a belt buckle.”
Three transfers later, I reached April, an account executive in the custom promotions department. April understood what I wanted before I finished my explanation.
“Gotcha,” she chimed in. “You’re in luck, I think. We’ve just finished computerizing the seventies, and I’m betting the number ‘79’ refers to the year. You can’t imagine the nightmare this job has been—but we’re making progress! Okey dokey, let’s see what we’ve got here. Tell me the marks again?”
“ ‘SFC 79’ and the number three,” I repeated.
“Okay. ‘SFC’ is probably shorthand for the client, or maybe the artist. Is the design signed? In the mold, I mean? Can you see an artist’s signature on the design side?”
“No, not even with a loupe.”
“If it was there, you probably wouldn’t need a loupe. I mean, whoever heard of an artist signing his name so small you need a magnifying glass to see it!”
“Good point,” I agreed, enjoying April’s dry humor.
“Darn! ‘SFC’ isn’t there . . . hmmm . . . hold on . . . okay . . . uh, oh . . . Houston,” she said, lowering her voice a notch, “it looks like we’ve got another problem . . . okay . . . one sec . . . oh, brother! We have no search field for marks or abbreviations—can you believe it? Only for the company’s name. If you’d called and asked for a listing of the promotions ordered by XYZ Company, I could have told you in a snap, but we don’t have the capacity to search by the mark. Duh! I’ll alert the IT department. Meanwhile, let me think. How can we find the company you’re looking for?”
Her question was rhetorical, but
I ventured to suggest an idea. “How about searching through the companies whose names begin with S?”
“Yeah, maybe, except that we have over seven hundred customers whose names begin with S.”
“Okay, then—that calls for plan B!”
“We’re up to plan C, I think. Let’s try this—let me search two parameters, the year and the first letter, S, and see if we can narrow it down.”
“That’s a good idea.”
“Keep your fingers crossed! Here goes nothing!”
While I waited, I swiveled to look out the window. The sky was densely gray. It looked as if the rain would start any minute. Gretchen, I wondered, are you nearby? Can you see the clouds?
“It worked!” April said seconds later, sounding as excited as I felt. “Okay . . . there are four companies that ordered custom belt buckles in 1979 whose names start with S. But there’s only one with the initials ‘SFC.’ Got a pen?”
I wrote the name as she spoke it aloud: Sidlawn Fencing Company. “April, you totally rock. What about the number three? Does your database tell us how many buckles were produced?”
“Ten total. This one must be the third in the series.”
“Great. Do you know who got it?”
“Sorry. That’s something only Sidlawn would know.”
“Can you tell me anything else about the company?”
According to April’s records, the Sidlawn Fencing Company was headquartered in Springfield, Illinois, and Harrison Metal Works’ contact at the time the order was placed was the Sidlawn Fencing Company CEO’s secretary, Laverne Matthews.
I thanked her profusely and took her direct phone number in case I had additional questions.
Springfield, I thought. Located more than a thousand miles from Rocky Point, far enough away to relocate a witness in danger.
Sidlawn Fencing Company wasn’t listed in any phone directory I consulted. Googling the company’s name got only two hits, both for old information from a defunct Springfield newspaper. According to the archived snippets, Sidlawn Fencing Company won a government contract for chain-link fencing in 1984, and the company’s founder and CEO died suddenly of a heart attack in the late 1980s. Apparently the company was out of business. Now what? I asked myself.
A soft pattering on the roof told me that it had started to rain, and I glanced outside. The sky had darkened to iron gray.
I turned back to my computer and considered avenues to research, finally settling on contacting the Springfield Chamber of Commerce. Three minutes later I learned that the Sidlawn Fencing Company had changed hands in 1989 when the founder’s widow sold it to Belcher Wire, a German conglomerate.
One phone call later, I learned that Belcher Wire still maintained a small manufacturing facility in Springfield. Then I hit a dead end. Neither the receptionist nor the current CEO’s assistant, Serena Carson, had ever heard of Laverne Matthews, belt buckle promotions, or Harrison Metal Works.
I bit my lip, thinking for a moment. “Any chance that I could talk to someone who worked for the company in 1979?” I asked Serena.
“Gee, I don’t know anyone who’s worked for the company that long.”
I knew that a question from the CEO’s assistant to someone in human resources was far more likely to be answered than one from an outsider with no official standing, if I could convince Serena to make the call. When in doubt, I’d learned over the years, tell the truth. There’s nothing as persuasive as the truth, simply told.
“I hate to bother you with this, but it’s so important. May I explain a little bit about why I’m asking?”
“Okay,” Serena replied, sounding wary.
“I work for a company that appraises and sells antiques and collectibles, and sometimes we help the police. That’s what I’m doing now—helping the police try to track a collectible, the belt buckle. I’m wondering—do you think you could call human resources and ask if anyone has worked for the company since the late seventies?”
“What kind of police investigation?” she asked, breathless with curiosity.
“We’re trying to identify someone. He was wearing the belt buckle.” I took a deep breath. “What do you think, Serena?”
I could almost hear the wheels in her head turning. “I guess I could do that,” she said. “I don’t see how it could hurt anything.”
I expressed my enthusiastic gratitude and prepared to do one of my least favorite things: wait.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
T
he time display on my computer said it was almost time to leave for my appointment with Lina. I called down to Sasha and learned that her quick-and-dirty search for information about Faring Auctions in Cheyenne, Wyoming, had borne no fruit.
“As near as I can tell, it’s gone. That’s just from phone books and antiques association directories. I’ll try business associations and the chamber of commerce next.”
“All right. Meanwhile, I’ll get started on researching the mark.”
A Google search revealed what we’d suspected: The “AR” mark had originated with the Meissen factory, as had the crossed swords, but both marks had been fraudulently used by competitors for hundreds of years. The AR stood for Augustus Rex and indicated that the vase—if it was real—had been made for royalty. This partic u lar style of crossed swords was first adopted in 1723. The initials above the swords, “JGH,” probably referred to the painter, Johann Gregor Höroldt.
Höroldt had been named chief painter for the factory in 1720 and was known for his use of bold, bright colors and gilt. Gretchen’s vase, if it had in fact been painted by him, was an anomaly. Why, I wondered, would he have painted a scene in delicate blues when his expertise and reputation revolved around his use of innovative colors?
I pursed my lips, intrigued. I needed to discover if another artisan who worked for Meissen during the time those marks were used shared Höroldt’s initials, or if any records indicated that Höroldt had used blue paint on Asian-themed designs.
According to a reference book on our library shelves, no one but Johann Gregor Höroldt had used those initials, but the book might be wrong. Maybe a fellow named Josef Gustav Heinlein had only worked for Meissen for a week or two. If so, the researcher could easily have missed him. I knew that details fell between the cracks all the time.
I read that Höroldt had started his career as a wallpaper painter and tapestry designer and learned to paint porcelain at the Du Paquier porcelain manufactory in Vienna. In 1720, Meissen announced expansion plans and decided to hire an additional porcelain painter. Höroldt got the job. He flourished on many levels—innovator, designer, and businessman.
After countless experiments, Höroldt developed sixteen new enamel colors, including a violet luster made from gold that created a continent-wide stir and won him instant acclaim. These sixteen colors still comprise the spectrum most commonly used in porcelain decoration.
I glanced out into the rain. Incredible, I thought and read on.
Höroldt was also one heck of a good manager. He created the lexicon to describe his painting style and work products, trained dozens of painters, and established a workshop system—an early assembly line—so other painters could copy his designs.
Höroldt also designed chinoiserie scenes. “Chinoiserie,” I knew, referred to fanciful, idealized Chinese motifs.
Bingo, I told myself.
Höroldt painted Asian-style vases. Okay then, I thought. If the vase was original and not a repro, it might well have been painted by one of the finest artisans of the day. If only I had the vase in front of me.
I stretched and spun toward the window, seeking answers in the sky, but I saw nothing but a rain-streaked reflection of myself.
Downstairs, I went into the tag sale venue. It looked good: well stocked with both unusual and expected objects. In addition to the displays of gardening tools, silver, samplers, and glassware that I’d already admired, and our usual assortment of art prints, porcelain, sewing items, and miscellaneous household objects, th
ere was a collection of ornate picture frames that I was sure would sell quickly. Most were in gilt, priced from fifteen to seventy-five dollars, depending on the frame’s size and condition, but some were pewter, and a wrought-iron one featured clusters of wisteria. At fifty dollars, I was willing to bet that it would be gone within an hour.
“Great job,” I told Eric.
He smiled a little. “Thanks,” he said.
I decided to head out to the Blue Dolphin and get myself situated for my meeting with Lina. On the way, I stepped into the front office to say good night to my staff. Seeing photographs of the Cissy doll on Fred’s desk, I asked if he had any news.
He shrugged, leaned back, and pushed up his glasses. “Seven hundred. Maybe eight.”
“Including the wardrobe?” I asked, surprised at what seemed like a low price for a popular vintage doll with a nearly complete wardrobe—in its original case.
“Yeah. I expected higher, too. Turns out, there’s a lot of Cissys knocking about.”
“Some collector’s going to be thrilled.”
I told everyone good-bye and ran through pelting rain to my car. April showers bring May flowers, I thought. The temperature had dropped, and I knew there was a good chance that the rain would turn to snow overnight.
Once I was settled in my car, a wave of sadness hit me, and I leaned my head on the steering wheel and waited for it to pass.
It didn’t.
The rain was steady, drumming a staccato beat on the roof. Finally, I took a deep breath and prepared to carry on. As I latched my seat belt, I realized that I felt like talking to Ty. Hearing the deep timbre of his voice would, I knew, bolster my mood.
He was in the middle of a training exercise and couldn’t talk for more than a few seconds, but it was long enough for him to deliver good news—he expected to be home by seven thirty, relatively early on a day he commuted to Vermont.
_____
The Blue Dolphin took up the entire ground floor of an oddly shaped eighteenth-century fieldstone building. The structure had served as a public house since it was built. Roughly triangular in shape, the restaurant was positioned at the Bow Street end of a row of four-story brick buildings that ran along Market Street. The back sides of the buildings faced the river. The ground-floor units housed a real estate agent, an expensive clothing store, a jeweler, a specialty crafts store, a high-ceilinged elegant coffee shop that featured small jazz trios in the evenings, a children’s book and toy store, and a day spa. There were recently gentrified apartments above each one. The Blue Dolphin’s entrance, shielded by the shell-shaped overhang, was directly across from the Bow Street Emporium.
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