Body in the Bookcase ff-9

by Katherine Hall Page

  “About fifteen years. It started as a hobby. I collected art pottery before the prices skyrocketed.

  Then I started doing flea markets with things I’d bought before I knew better or had had to buy in box lots and didn’t want. One thing led to another, and I was picking up stuff to sell as well as for my collection, reading all the books I could. I knew the man who owned this store and I began to work here a few days a week. Then he wanted to sell the business, and my husband said to go for it. It was a good thing I did. A month after my grand opening, my husband passed away suddenly. A sweetheart, but he thought he’d live forever. You know the type?”

  Faith did. No insurance.

  “Anyway, the kids were in high school, and this place saw them both through college and kept me from going crazy. Still does.” College, and a nice BMW parked outside that Faith assumed was Nan’s from the vanity plate: anteek. Tymely Treasures must do very well.

  Very well indeed.

  Faith had told Nan about their finds the day before at the Old Oaken Bucket when she’d called to be sure the shop was open. In the clear light of day, each item was a treasure, doubly treasured for having been restored to its rightful owners. Faith’s depression of the day before had abated—somewhat.

  “Wouldn’t the Oaken Bucket’s owners tell you whose case it is?” she asked Nan. “You did leave an offer on a gold bracelet, so you have a reason to call. I think it was still there—heavy gold links with a ruby in the clasp?”

  “Yes, that’s the one.” Nan was flushed and it wasn’t just the green tea she’d brewed for them.

  “This is exciting. I feel like Peter Wimsey, or Har-riet Vane, more likely. The Old Oaken Bucket opens at ten o’clock, too, and someone should be there. I’ve known the owners, Sharon and Jack Fielding, since I started in the business, and you’re right, I’m sure they’ll tell me.” They did.

  “It’s George Stackpole,” Nan told Faith after she hung up the phone. “He lives in Framingham and does shows, has booths in a couple of places.

  Cambridge, I think. Maybe Byfield. I saw him at an auction last week. He said he’s going to be at the show at the Copley that I told you about.”

  “What’s he like?” Faith asked eagerly. After the trip to New Hampshire, she’d shelved her initial annoyance and had been blessing her mother-in-law steadily for starting her on the napkin ring trail. Nan was a similar gift from heaven, or so it appeared.

  “He’s . . . well, unpredictable.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “He can get a little out of control at auctions—

  accuses the auctioneer of ignoring his bids, that kind of thing—when he doesn’t get what he wants. He’s forgotten more than I’ll ever know about this business. But he’s . . . volatile.” Nan was being uncharacteristically reticent and Faith wondered why. Her whole manner had changed after she’d found out who owned case number four. The enthusiasm she’d displayed before making the call had given way to decided reluctance. Just how well did Nan Howell know this George Stackpole? Faith wondered. Was this a case of dealers closing ranks, or some other protective impulse on her part? Instead of the question she’d intended to ask next—Was he known to be crooked?—Faith posed a less threatening one.

  “How old a man is he?”

  “Hard to say. Probably mid- to late sixties.” Certainly capable of wielding a crowbar and carrying a loaded drawer, Faith thought.

  “Does he ever sell out of his house? I know it’s an awful lot to ask, but maybe the two of us could go and see what he has?”

  Nan considered Faith’s suggestion. “Well,” she said slowly, “crooked dealers make the whole profession look bad. I guess I could tell him I’m low on stock and want to see what he has, then take you along as my assistant or something. I’m not sure when I’ll have the time, though. It’s been quite busy here.” The empty store yesterday and today made Faith wonder when, exactly, the busy time was—probably weekends—but she was glad she’d proposed the scheme. She had to see what else this Stackpole might have of theirs.

  “You’ve been an enormous help and I can’t thank you enough,” Faith said. “I have to get to work myself. This is a very busy time of year for me too. I don’t know why more people don’t get married say in January.”

  There was forced laughter on both sides and Faith left. On the ride back to Aleford, it occurred to her that another matter she hadn’t brought up with Nan was whether any of the foot traffic seeking to sell her items had seemed like footpads—a guy with a silver chest, for example, or a pillowcase of jewelry.

  Stephanie was waiting impatiently outside the catering kitchens. “I thought you got to work early.”

  Remembering Courtney’s not-too-veiled repri-mand, Faith bit her tongue and put on a pleasant,

  “welcoming” smile. Niki could be bad cop—not that she could be otherwise with Miss Bullock.

  “I’m sorry. Have you been here long? Usually, I am at work much earlier, but it’s been a strange few days.”

  Stephanie’s interest was piqued, and for once she asked about someone else. “What’s been going on?”

  As Faith made coffee and took out the ingredients for a small test batch of the cold avocado bisque (see recipe on page 336) she planned to serve at the rehearsal dinner, she found herself telling Stephanie all about the hunt for the missing Fairchild loot.

  “You need to talk to Daddy. I’m sure he knows this George person. Daddy knows anybody who has anything to do with the business. Mummy, too.”

  It was a good idea, made even easier by a call a few minutes later from Patsy Avery.

  “Do you want to play hooky and go look at a dining room table with me? It’s at an antiques dealer’s out in Concord.”

  “That’s funny. There’s one I want to talk to out there—Julian Bullock.”

  Patsy laughed. “We are definitely on the same wavelength. The table is at Julian’s. We’ve bought quite a few things from him, and Will wants a really big table for entertaining. Julian says he has just the thing. Could you go tomorrow morning?”

  What with the business, keeping things going at home, and the full-time job of tracking down her possessions, Faith had to think a moment before deciding she could go.

  “I’d love to—and I have lots to tell you. We’ve found some of our things.”

  “Say what!”

  Faith gave Patsy a hasty description, aware that a few feet away Stephanie was bruising the avocados as she mindlessly picked them up and put them down, restlessly waiting for Faith to get off the phone.

  “You can get all that money back,” Patsy was advising her friend. “A thief can’t transfer title, so the dealer has to give you back what you paid him. All you have to do is prove the goods were stolen.”

  This was good news. They had the photographs, so when she was sure they’d retrieved everything they could, they’d send Mr. Stackpole a bill. It gave her a warm, righteous feeling.

  “I thought you’d never get off the phone,” Stephanie said petulantly when Faith hung up.

  “So, you’re going to Daddy’s tomorrow morning?”

  “Yes. Coincidentally, a friend wants to look at a piece of furniture he has for sale.”

  “All his furniture is for sale. Forget about getting attached to anything. I came home from boarding school one vacation and had to sleep on a cot because he’d sold my entire bedroom.” For a moment, Faith felt sorry for Stephanie. It couldn’t have been a happy home; furniture moving in and out was the least of the instability.

  “Now”—Stephanie held up one of the alligator pears—“you’re sure the soup isn’t going to be too green?”

  After Stephanie left, Faith quickly made the soup.

  She hadn’t used this recipe in some time and planned to serve it to Bullock mother and daughter, along with some of the other goodies from both the rehearsal dinner and wedding reception menus when they came on Friday afternoon. As she finished combining the ingredients, Faith reflected on her uncharacteristic beh
avior. It was a great recipe and there was no need to make it now, but she was anxious. Anxiety was seeping into all the corners of her life, yet at the moment there didn’t seem any way to control it.

  It was a good idea to give the Bullocks something to eat, though. They’d already sampled most of the food, but as they ate, or picked, in Courtney’s case, Faith firmly intended to keep the conversation on the swatch Mrs. Bullock was bringing and what kind of flowers she wanted—

  anything but changes in the menu.

  Faith poured the soup into a bowl, covered it, and put it in the refrigerator. The bisque was a lovely shade of green, like the owl and the pussy-cat’s boat. Looking at it made her feel better. She started taking out the fruit and cheese for some of the platters ordered for a function in Weston.

  As she lined flat wicker baskets with grape leaves, the door opened and Niki arrived. “I‘m having so much fun, and I brought you a sample.

  Really, on days like this, I can almost get myself to believe that food is better than sex.” She was taking a course in desserts at the Cambridge School of Culinary Arts, and Faith had become used to the sugar high Niki regularly reached after class.

  She also looked forward to the treats Niki brought. Today, Niki announced they had each made a gâteau St.-Honoré, and she popped one of the extra cream puffs filled with chocolate pastry cream into Faith’s mouth. It was sinful.

  “What are you doing?” Niki asked. “Those are for the Weston job, right? Do you want me to get started on the dessert tray?”

  “Great. There really isn’t much to do. They’re taking care of the drinks and heating up the other hors d’oeuvres.”

  “So,” Niki began, arranging bite-sized palmiers, lavender shortbread, chocolate mousse cups, and other goodies on a tray decorated with crystallized fruit and flowers, “what’s the latest?

  Have you turned up any more valuables?” Niki had been one of the people Faith had called the night before with the news of the recovery of some of their loot.

  “I went out to Nan Howell’s this morning and she got me the name of the dealer who rents the booth at the Old Oaken Bucket. She also gave me a list of places to write to with descriptions of what’s been stolen, as well as a list of antiques marts to check out.”

  “Pretty full plate,” Niki observed.

  Faith was feeling philosophical. “Getting robbed is like the gift that keeps on giving. You get trapped in the whole process, kind of like the twelve days of Christmas. You start out with one pear and a bird; then, before you know it, you’re up to your eyeballs in milkmaids, leaping lords, insurance adjusters—not to mention cowpats and bird droppings. Of course, you would have all those nice gold rings,” she mused.

  Niki laughed. “Glad to see you’re not losing your perspective, boss.”

  “Stephanie was waiting for me when I got here.

  You just missed her.”

  Niki snapped her fingers. “Aw, shucks! Don’t you seriously wonder what this girl is going to do with her time once this wedding is over? I mean, doesn’t she have friends, people to go to lunch with, pick up trifles on Newbury Street, and other mindless delights of the leisured class?”

  “I think all her friends have jobs or are still in college. Stephanie dropped out to concentrate on being engaged, remember.”

  “Yeah, I remember. Mater was complaining that Pater had saved a year’s tuition and shouldn’t be forcing her, of all people, to pay for any of the nuptials. This was after he put his foot down about the monogrammed Pratesi sheets for the Little Princess’s dowry.”

  “Right—but Courtney got them herself, Stephanie told me. ‘Daddy’s so cheap. He told me to get Martha Stewart’s at Kmart!’ ” Faith had Stephanie’s voice down pat.

  “I never thought I would live to see the day—

  Martha Stewart and Kmart—talk about strange bedfellows.” Niki put the finishing touches on the tray, arranging clusters of tiny champagne grapes in each corner.

  “Speaking of which, did you hear about Martha’s own daughter’s wedding? Julian Bullock would have been over the moon if Stephanie had gone the route Alexis Stewart did. Apparently, she’d had enough sugared almonds and tulle to last a lifetime and so got married in a gray flannel suit. There were virtually no guests, although Martha was there. They had lunch afterward at Jean Georges, that incredible restaurant near Columbus Circle in New York. Martha didn’t get to make so much as a petit four. I’d better be careful what I expose Amy to or she might do the same thing, and I’d like her to have as great a wedding as we did—and Tom has already practiced a few teary words to work into the ceremony. Stop it!” Niki was making gagging motions, as she did whenever she felt the subject of matrimony was hitting too close to home.

  “Speaking of Amy,” Faith said, “I have to pick the kids up in twenty minutes. Afterward, I want to check out two or three of these antiques co-op places Nan mentioned. Can you manage? The Weston people insisted on picking the platters up themselves to save the delivery charge, and they’ll be here before three o’clock.”

  “I’m going to work on perfecting my chocolate ganache, so don’t worry. I had planned to stay anyway. But, Faith, are those antiquey places kid-friendly? I adore Ben and Amy, but do you seriously want to set them free amid all that bric-a-brac?”

  “No, but I don’t have any choice. Leaving children home alone only works in the movies. Besides, Amy will fall asleep in the knapsack and Ben can be very good if sufficiently bribed. He wants some kind of Hot Wheels car, and if I keep reminding him about it, he’ll be able to hold it together. I don’t plan to stay long. Two of the places are in Cambridge and one in Boston.” The act, seldom admitted, of a desperate mother worked like a charm. All Faith had to do was make vroom, vroom noises and Ben curbed the natural instinct he had to touch everything. At one place, he actually asked if he could sit on the bench by the entrance and just watch. “I’m only touching with my eyes, Mommy,” he told her vir-tuously—and priggishly. And she was quick. This time it was easy. At each place, she said, “I’ve been buying from George Stackpole”—which she had. Then she added, “I’m sorry, but I don’t remember the number of his booth.” Each place gave it—and she added a pair of sugar tongs, a wine coaster, and her Pearson silver necklace and bracelet to the growing list of items back from the dead. She was flushed with success as they stopped at the Toys “ R ” Us in Fresh Pond to make good her promise to Ben. Bribery worked only if you carried through immediately. Deferred gratification was as alien a concept to children as supply-side economics.

  At home, as soon as the kids were occupied, she looked in the Framingham telephone book and found George’s address. A plan was forming and she needed to think about it. Above all, she didn’t want to discuss it with Tom.

  Seven

  Everything about Julian Bullock shrieked bespoke, from the cut of his summer-weight suit to his Turnbull and Asser shirt, the cuffs linked by discreet Cartier gold knots. He was a tall man with a well-scrubbed pink-and-white complexion. His thinning blond hair appeared to have been cut that very morning. He used Penhaligon’s Blenheim Bouquet aftershave—but not too much.

  He greeted the two women as they stepped out of Patsy Avery’s car. “So good of you to come by.” They might have been arriving for elevenses, rather than coming to what was, after all, a place of business. “Wonderful run of good weather. So good for the garden.” As with his person, there was a British inflection in his voice. It was a voice Faith had heard often since coming to New England—long pauses between words, followed by a sudden rush of sentences. And all the clichés, the Vaughn Meader imitations—those r’s and h’s where none existed. In short, it was the assured voice of the upper class.

  Julian Bullock, however, was a fraud—or rather, he was his own creation. He’d been born in Massachusetts, but in South Boston, not in Milton or Prides Crossing. His ancestors had crossed the pond, but not on the Mayflower. He’d invented himself. Firmly turning his exquisitely tailored back on Southie, he’d purs
ued and won a scholar-ship to Deerfield, then another to Harvard. In one of her tantrums at Daddy’s “meanness,” Stephanie had gleefully revealed his roots. “He was so silly to divorce Mummy. I mean, it’s not likely he’ll marry a Cabot again, is it?” Blood will tell, Faith thought at the time.

  “Yes, this weather makes me homesick. You Yankees get all excited at a few rhododendron,” Patsy was saying. “You should see Audubon Park back home this time of year. Makes your flora look puny. I know you know Faith Fairchild, and, by the way, congratulations on your daughter’s wedding,” Patsy added.

  “Delightful to see you, Faith.” He extended his hand and ushered them into the house. “I suppose congratulations are in order, but, no offense to the caterer, you had best save them for after the happy day. So far, all it’s meant has been an enormous amount of aggravation.” His broad smile took some of the sting from his words. Faith sympathized with him, silently adding, And money.

  She could imagine only too well what the year had been like.

  “I’m off duty,” she said. “Here only to give my opinion if asked and possibly look for a sideboard. My house was burglarized and they took one of the drawers from ours to carry things in.” Julian shook his head. “I’m so sorry. Did you lose much?”

  “All our silver, jewelry—everything of value.

  They left us the plate.” Before he could tell her she’d been hit by pros, she quickly added, “We have recovered some items. They’ve been turning up in these large antiques marts.”