Chapter Eight
Katherine waited outside the public library several minutes before its doors opened to the public; then she was inside searching for design books from which to gather inspiration for Pamela’s beach house. The books didn't offer her much inspiration, and it wasn't long before she found herself idly looking through the morning paper some oldster had left behind. Katherine skimmed over the headlines blaring news about some famous person or another. She turned to the classified section and started scanning the passages. Her eyes skimmed them all briefly at first, only returning to reread one when a familiar name registered; she ran her finger back up to it, her eyes following. Then, like a blind person, she ran her finger over the small type:
An auction will be held this afternoon for the possessions of recently deceased Professor William Drake. One o’clock at the university’s art studio. Fulton Street, San Francisco. All profits go towards scholarships for the university’s architecture students.
Thoughtfully laying the paper down on the wooden library table, Kate glanced at the clock. Noon. She mentally calculated her time. Checkout, lunch traffic. Yes, if she left right away, she should have just enough time to make it to the auction. Snatching up her blue handbag, she quickly looked down at the pile of architecture and design books she’d amassed.
Ignoring another dark look that the elderly gentleman sitting across from her gave her when she made a good amount of noise shifting the books, she selected a few which hadn't bored her quite to death to take with her. She headed down the stairs dreading the rendezvous with the cranky librarian who sat hunched in her chair, ruling over the checkout line like the patrons were her subjects and the books rare jewels to be handled with the slowest, gentlest care. Katherine tapped her foot impatiently. The disapproving eye of the middle-aged librarian landed on her with an unspoken command to stop. Kate fought off an urge to roll her eyes until she was at last free of the tyrant librarian and had reached the double entrance doors, one of which she threw open to reveal a not-so-quaint urban landscape. But she had no time to admire the casual scene played out before her today and rushed excitedly to her car.
Her hands fumbled with the car keys until she finally forced herself to let the key hang by its chain before again taking hold of it, slowly now, and inserting it first into the door, then into the ignition. Why wouldn’t her heart stop beating so fast? You’d think she never had a decent walk in her life. It was, she realized, the thought that she had been the one to discover the professor’s body, that somehow her involvement didn’t end there. She had to know what had happened, had to find out more about the case.
And then she had found Fulton Street, right on the catty-corner from the library. She drove slowly, searching for the number she hastily scribbled down, and asked herself why she hadn’t been to this much older, and she thought mischievously, more interesting, part of campus. It appeared that the city hadn’t been around to clean the streets for several years and the residential section across the street left something to be desired. Still, it was intriguing and when her eyes returned to the university side of the street, a sign proclaiming Art Department was staring at her like a cat’s glowing eyes in the dark. She slammed on the breaks, succeeding in bringing the car to a sudden stop when she forgot to put the clutch in and killed the car smack dab in front of the shabby campus art building. She’d worry about the state of the car’s clutch later, she decided, as she viewed the dingy entrance. Really? Couldn’t the university have done better for one of their own? Drake had been one of their most esteemed professors!
A car honked impatiently behind her; she cranked the key in the engine, stepped on the gas, scanned for somewhere to park. Of course there were no spaces available in front of the building, so she was forced to parallel park on the curb directly beneath the old, dilapidated brick shell of an apartment building.
She stepped out of the car, her heel headed straight for one of the many cracks in the asphalt; it found its mark and her ankle twisted enough for a sharp pain to register. By the time she got into the small basement room, she was thoroughly flustered and her ankle thoroughly sore from her determination to walk on it regardless of discomfort.
Inside, the action was just beginning and a small group of what she determined to be the local riffraff was gathered. She wrinkled her nose at the dank smell of a man in filthy blue overalls. He gave her an oily smile as she passed him. She ignored him and picked a spot where she could easily see the auctioneer but not the seedy characters behind her. A smile almost spread on her lips as she thought of what Wesley would say if he could see her in this place. He’d probably berate her and call it one of her “bird-brained ideas” which was “bound to get her into trouble someday.”
At least she could find comfort in that nobody had seemed to notice her entrance, something she wished she could accomplish more often. It seemed everyone’s attention was glued to the front of the room, to a man with frizzled white hair who looked like he’d just stuck a finger in the nearest electrical outlet, the auctioneer.
Then two younger men pushed forward a couch. She felt a brief surge of déjá vu as she realized it was the same plaid edition she’d sat on with Johnny right after she’d found the professor’s body. The man with the white hair looked at it momentarily, and Kate wondered how he saw it, before he named a price to start the bidding.
She stood with a strange knot in her stomach, her eyes threatening to swell as she recognized several of the pieces which passed, one before another; then she straightened. The carved drafting table from Drake’s apartment was being pushed toward the center of the “stage.” Her hand clenched. She wanted that desk, she decided suddenly. He would’ve wanted me to have it.
The small eyes of the auctioneer moved over it in the manner of a hawk until his quick staccato voice started. “Fifty dollars, can I get fifty dollars for this fine piece of furniture?”
Katherine quickly raised her hand. He acknowledged her with a slight nod of his wispy head. “I have fifty dollars; can I hear fifty-five?”
“I have fifty-five here!” Kate glanced behind her in time to notice a tanned, masculine hand disappearing from the left side of the room.
The shriveled eyes beneath their whips of gray came back to Katherine. “Will the lady raise to fifty-seven fifty?”
She nodded.
“I have fifty-seven fifty; can I get sixty?”
Now the auctioneer’s gaze looked past Kate as he acknowledged, “The gentleman in the back will pay sixty for this table! Sixty-two, can I hear sixty-two?”
Katherine raised her hand again, then turned with a bad look on her face to see who was bidding her up. Wesley! Her look turned to one of dumb surprise as her brain registered his familiar lanky body leaning nonchalantly against the brick wall. What in the world?! He smiled confidently and nodded at her. Whatever could he want with an old drafting table? Then it dawned on her and she felt a little anger surge in her. Of course he was just bidding against her for fun! He was just doing it to bug her. He could buy a hundred, brand-new if he wanted. What a moron!
“And sixty-two! We have sixty-two! This is a very popular item indeed! Who will give sixty-three?”
Kate angrily raised her hand again but another beat her. Sixty-three dollars! Now who was it? Wesley was just leaning into that corner looking like a Cheshire cat who’d just had his fill of milk, so it wasn’t him. Her neck craned, eyes strained, she stood on her tiptoes peering for the person to whom the other raised hand belonged until she located a dark, handsome profile which startled her. Johnny! She looked again back at Wesley, arms crossed as he leaned against that blasted wall. He seemed amused at her confusion, and it didn’t cool her mood any that he looked extremely handsome, as he appeared to be holding up the building in this crowd of mishaps.
“Looks like it’s sold to the gentlemen in the front for sixty-three dollars.”
Katherine quickly shot up her hand, fervently hoping as she did so it hadn’t gone in the angle of sal
ute. “One hundred dollars!” That lit the old man’s fire, she thought, when his face split with a grin. A murmur went through the crowd and several people looked at her in surprise, probably wondering who the crazy brunette was to spend a hundred dollars on a used drafting table.
“One hundred dollars!” The auctioneer spoke the figure as though he didn’t believe it himself. “Would either of the gentlemen care to add to that figure?”
Tense silence. Kate shifted uncomfortably. Would Wesley increase the bid further out of her range? She knew the hundred-dollar range would certainly be out of Johnny’s budget—it was out of hers too. She was counting on being paid soon for her work for Pamela. Only Wesley was left in her path. The thought of competing against his money if he really wanted the desk didn’t give her any confidence.
“. . . and sold! Sold to the woman in red! And now what do we have next? This fine blue and white porcelain vase. Ladies and gentlemen, can I get twenty dollars for this . . . ”
Katherine slowly let out her breath she’d been holding since she placed that outrageous bid. Slowly she turned to view Wesley’s response. He was gone. The corner was empty. Then Johnny, with a grim look on his face, came over to her. She had just enough time to hope he wouldn’t be too upset with her—he hated to lose anything—before he pulled her by the elbow outside the room and into the hallway.
“What are you doing here?” His voice was sharp, but there was something she couldn’t read in his eyes. They looked as though they held a caged animal.
She stiffened, angry at his abrupt attitude. “Yes, give me the third degree! I’m guilty! I saw the ad in the paper. What of it? I wanted my mentor’s drafting desk?” Then, as a thought struck her, she asked, “What are you doing here? And what in the world would you want with a drafting table anyways? You didn’t even know what they were until I explained them to you.”
A sheepish looked crept across his face and he released her arm. “You’re right . . . I don’t know anything about drafting desks, or tables, or whatever you call them.” She was rubbing her arm where he’d grabbed her, silently waiting to hear the rest of the explanation.
“I came here to see if I could get it for you. After you seemed so fond of it. I always have a hard time finding you gifts…” His voice trailed off, his eyes begging her understanding. Then he reached down and took her hands and held them tightly in his.
At that she softened. “And I bid it out of your range. Oh I’m sorry, Johnny. I honestly didn’t know it was you over there bidding it up. You and Wesley both threatened to bid it out of my range and—”
He abruptly dropped her hand. “Wesley? Wesley was here bidding for the desk?”
“Yes. I thought you knew. He was in the back, but he’s gone now.”
She tried to guess what he was thinking, but his eyes were searching the hallway, as though he would find Wesley lurking there, spying on them. “You sure it was Wesley?” he said, with a tinge of irritation.
“Of course I’m sure. I’m not blind! He was leaning against the back wall right behind me. I didn’t see him when I first came in, so I don’t know when he arrived.”
He nodded, muttered something under his breath, then switched the subject. “Did you drive or take the bus?”
“I drove. Didn’t want to waste the time on the bus. Do you need a ride?”
“No, I’m fine. Jerry dropped me off . . . He’ll be back here soon.” He glanced down at his watch. “I told him to be here by three; it’s a quarter ‘til right now.”
“It’s three already? I need to get back to work.”
“You need any help with the table?”
“No. Thank you, I’ll arrange to have it delivered this afternoon. No way it’ll fit in my car.”
“Okay. I’ll see you tonight for dinner?”
Her eyes lit up and anyone near could hear the smile in her voice. “Yes. What time?”
“How about seven? I’ll take you out. Let’s celebrate!”
She laughed. “Celebrate what? It’s the middle of the week.”
“I don’t know. Do we need a reason to celebrate?” His voice was thick as he pulled her closer so she was in his arms.
She didn’t know where this lighthearted attitude of his had come from, but she liked it. “No,” she answered almost breathlessly. “Of course we don’t need a reason—dear,” she added as she looked up into his eyes.
He was bringing her even closer to kiss her and had a strange look in his eyes when the moment was shattered by the incessant honking of a car outside. Johnny stiffened and stopped. “Must be Jerry. He’s always a few minutes early.” He released her and turned as though to leave. “I’ll see you tonight. Wear your swankiest dress.”
“Wait, Johnny!” she called after him. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
He turned around with a grin and pulled her close again for a quick kiss. “Is that better?”
“Much.” She laughed and she pushed him away. “Now don’t make Jerry wait.” She watched him leave, wondering about the void look she’d seen in his eyes before she turned on her heel and went back into the auction room to arrange a delivery time.
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