“I assume this includes delivery,” Tom said.
“Certainly—and we might be able to work something out in regards to the one you’re replacing.”
Amy gave Faith a sudden panic-stricken look.
It had nothing to do with money. Faith knew it well. She took her from Tom and transferred Ben’s sticky little boy hand to his father’s large one.
“Could we use the bathroom? There’s one off the kitchen, isn’t there?”
“By all means.” Julian nodded in that direction, keeping his eyes on Tom’s face.
The small half bath had been carved out of a pantry, and they reached it not a moment too soon. Daytime dryness was a recent accomplish-ment, and Faith did not intend to have any recidi-vism. What they were saving in Huggies could pay for Amy’s first year of college.
There was a phone in the pantry, and on the way out, Faith thought she’d better call work to make sure Niki was all set. They were doing a luncheon for the Uppity Women, a small group of terrific women all originally from Aleford who got together several times a year, mostly because, according to one, “We do like one another, never have time to see one another without a definite date, and need to laugh far from the ears of the rest of the world.” Niki was doing the job solo.
When the Uppities called, Niki answered. She’d become their mascot, if not a member. The job required only one person. They’d flipped for it at first, but Faith had taken to sacrificing her turn to Niki—another carrot so she wouldn’t think about leaving.
Faith dialed the number and looked at the phone. It really was a rotary phone, an old black table model with the dial in the middle. Someone had printed the phone number on it years ago and it had faded—but not completely.
It hadn’t taken Faith long to memorize the digits she’d found in George Stackpole’s trash, nor Bell Atlantic’s message after each of her attempts:
“If you’d like to make a call, please hang up and try again. If you need help, hang up and then dial your operator.” She wasn’t hearing the message now, but the number she’d learned by heart was staring her in the face.
Three crumpled pieces of paper—two leading to Nan Howell and now one straight to Julian Bullock.
“I don’t understand why you want to go see another sideboard when the one at Bullock’s is perfect. It’s unlikely you’d find anything of that caliber at this auction. Early Ethan Allen, maybe.”
“You mean just because it’s in the VFW hall and not at Skinner’s? You of all people, Tom! You know the kind of treasures that can get mixed in with trash.” Faith wished she’d chosen another word than trash. Since they’d left Julian’s, Tom in fine fettle over the sideboard, she’d been obsessing about the phone number and Julian’s denial of any knowledge of George Stackpole. She’d mentioned the man’s name as they were leaving.
“I was lucky again yesterday at the antiques show at the Copley. I found a gold pendant watch Tom had given me. It was at this George Stackpole’s booth—the same dealer who has had everything else.”
“Congratulations. Would that it could all be returned.”
“You did say you didn’t know him, know anything about him? I’m anxious, of course, to find out as much as possible, especially where he sells his things.”
Julian sighed heavily. “I’m really terribly sorry, but I can’t be of much help, I’m afraid. Have only had a passing acquaintance with the man.”
“Thank you anyway.” It was all she could do to keep from grasping the man’s shoulders, daring him to look her in the eye and say that.
Now Tom interrupted her thoughts. “I’m sorry I didn’t listen to your message yesterday, but it would have been too late anyway. The only time all three of us could meet was tonight.”
“But you can meet here? I won’t have to get a sitter.”
“Yes, we can. That’s no problem.”
“I won’t be late. You’re probably right and Hummels will be the most interesting items put up for bid.”
It didn’t take long to get to Walton and Faith had plenty of time to preview the items up for bid. There were Hummels and just about everything else. It was an estate sale with additions, so boxes of kitchenware sat on the floor next to an Eastlake bedroom set. Tom had been wrong about the furniture. It wasn’t in Julian’s league and there was nothing close to the sideboard, but it was still good quality.
The parking lot was filled with vans, so the dealers must be out in full force. Nan Howell had told Faith she could expect this. The same stuff was appearing over and over again, so an estate sale with the possibility of items that were actually new to the market, and not simply touted as such, would bring out a large crowd. Late in the afternoon, Faith had called Nan to make sure they were on for the next day and to see if she knew about Morrison’s auction, reporting what she’d overheard George and the other dealer saying at the Copley. “Dealers who don’t have shops get rid of stuff they’ve picked up in odd lots themselves at auction. That’s often what the ‘with additions’ part means,” Nan had told Faith.
However, the real purpose of the call was to find out if George or Nan was canceling Sunday’s visit. Faith wasn’t sure she wanted to keep the appointment—images of lion’s dens and spider’s webs loomed large—but she was curious whether one of the dealers would call it off. Apparently not. It was still on, but Nan was going to another auction tonight, one featuring jewelry.
The VFW hall was filled with rows of folding chairs, but at this point they were occupied only by place-saving items—jackets, bidding numbers, containers of coffee. Everyone was roving about the stuffy room, checking out the merchandise.
Faith was excited. She loved auctions and there was an air of anticipation tonight that was common to all—whether the lots contained Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis’s personal belongings or the detritus of an old Swampscott family settling an estate, as now. Every bidder, dealer or not, was there for a coup—the Rembrandt etching hidden behind a print of The Maiden’s Prayer, a silver bowl, school of Revere, which turned out to be by the master himself, the locked trunk—no key found, buyer beware, the sly smile of the auctioneer daring you to be suckered in—or maybe not.
There was no sign of George Stackpole, or his friend Gloria. Faith hadn’t gone back to the Copley sale. There hadn’t been time. She would have made some if the woman had mentioned a cameo ring instead of earrings. Time. She wasn’t spending a great deal of it with her family lately. But she’d left a great snack for Tom’s meeting: smoked turkey, chutney, and a thick wedge of Wensleydale cheese on her own sourdough bread. There was pie, too. Pie was good meeting-type food and she’d taken a Dutch apple one out of the freezer.
She might be joining them for the snack. The only thing she’d found that she wanted to bid on was a small hanging cupboard that would be perfect to display the child’s tea set that had belonged to her grandmother, now intended for Amy. It was carefully packed away, too fragile for play. It would look lovely in Amy’s room—or maybe Faith’s.
The lots of silver and a small amount of jewelry were on two tables next to where the auction organizers were assigning numbers. After getting her own number, Faith had headed for them when she’d arrived, finding nothing. Since then, she noticed, they’d added some flat boxes of odd lots of silver and she went back for a look. Most of it was in pretty bad shape, tarnished and dented.
But still in the same jeweler’s cloth was the dessert set Tom’s aunt and uncle had given them—a cake server, berry spoon, large serving fork, six dessert spoons and forks with a gold wash on the bowls and tines. It was in a plastic bag with some salt spoons, one of which was theirs, and some Rogers silver plate—odd pieces.
Lot number twenty-five. It would come up fairly soon. Faith was thrilled. She couldn’t imagine she’d have much competition for it. She loved the dessert set, but it was new and wouldn’t interest any of these dealers. She knew from years of attending auctions that you could almost always outbid a dealer, since they had to be able to mark the item u
p at least 50 percent. Her only competition would be from someone like herself and she didn’t think there could be anyone else in the hall with quite her vested interest, but then, you never knew. She went to find a seat. Having neglected to save one, she was forced to the rear of the hall.
Bidding was spirited and the auctioneer was moving things fast. Much to Faith’s astonishment, an ocher-colored small painted shelf went for over a thousand dollars. There was a great deal about this business she didn’t know. When she’d pulled into the parking lot, there had been several groups, mostly men, smoking and confer-ring. Dealers setting prices, she figured—or maybe just passing the time of day with one another until the auction started. Now, nobody was leaving the room, not even for a smoke. She had the rear row almost to herself, though. Everyone else was in front of her, or standing along the sides.
“Lot twenty-four—sold to number—hold it high; don’t be ashamed—number one sixty-seven. Next item, lot twenty-five, assorted silver pieces. What do I hear for this lovely grouping?
Open that up, Jimmy. What’s in the cloth? Can we start the bidding at a hundred dollars? A hundred and go!” This was greeted with loud laughter.
“How about fifty, then? Do I have fifty? For this—let’s see, looks like a dessert set. Mint condition. Fifty, fifty, fifty—do I have twenty-five? All over the house!”
Faith had raised her card with a dozen others; she raised it again when he went to thirty-five. At forty-five, there was only one other bidder, another woman, near the front. “And to you, do I have fifty?” Apparently not. “All done at forty-five? Fair room and fair warning. Going once.
Twice.” He banged the gavel. “Forty-five it is to number one twelve in the back.”
Faith was so pleased she decided to wait and bid on the hanging cabinet. After all, it wasn’t painted. She might have a chance. For a moment when lot twenty-five had come up, she’d forgotten she was bidding on what rightfully belonged to her and just felt thrilled to be getting a bargain.
During the bidding, two men had come in, sitting on either side of her. She’d been too busy to pay much attention to them, but now, as the heavy musk cologne one was wearing saturated the air, she took a closer look. She was used to antiques dealers who didn’t seem like antiques dealers, but these two had definitely been cast against type. They were both wearing tight black cotton T-shirts designed to show off how much time they’d been spending at the gym, and an inordinate number of tattoos. Both appeared to be in their mid-twenties. One of them sported multiple Mr. T–type gold chains; the other opted for a single Italian gold horn. The one with the chains was the one with the musk and it seemed to be coming from his long, oily dark hair.
“You’re finished, lady.”
“I beg your pardon?” What was the man talking about? Maybe she’d heard wrong.
“I said you’re finished. Here and every other place you’ve been sticking your nose into. Now let’s get going.”
She was in a crowded hall; nothing could happen. She fought down her mounting fear and tried to reply coolly. “You must be crazy. I don’t know what you’re talking about. Leave me alone!”
He uncrossed his arms, which had been folded in front of his chest. “We just want to talk to you.
Outside. Come on.” He leaned against her—hard.
His buddy did the same thing.
“Nobody wants any trouble, lady. Let’s go.” He patted his jeans pocket. They were tight and she could see the bulge clearly. It had nothing to do with any personal attractions she might possess; besides, it was in the wrong place. It was another gun.
They were everywhere.
She jumped to her feet and waved her card.
The auctioneer looked her way and nodded.
“Seven hundred and fifty. Do I have eight?”
“No!” she shouted.
“Are you bidding or not?” He was smiling, but he wasn’t amused.
“I’m not bidding. I need help. These men are—” Before Faith could finish her sentence, they were out the door. An auction house employee was coming her way. She felt oddly like Cary Grant in North by Northwest. “Bothering me,” she managed to add, then sat down limply.
“I have seven hundred and fifty. Are you all done at seven hundred and fifty dollars for this magnificent Hummel?”
“What’s the problem?” the employee seemed genuinely concerned as he leaned over her.
“Those men who were sitting next to me, do you know who they are? They were annoying me.” The man shook his head. “Never saw them before. Is everything okay now?”
Hardly, but Faith didn’t want to go into it. She had to get to a phone.
“Yes, they’re gone, but I need to make a call.”
“There’s a pay phone in the hallway. I’m very sorry. This kind of thing doesn’t happen at our auctions, and if I see them again, I’ll be questioning them. A woman shouldn’t have to encounter that kind of behavior, and we won’t ignore the incident.”
He thought they had been hitting on her—and in a way, they had. She thanked him and went into the corridor.
The men weren’t there, but that didn’t mean they weren’t waiting for her outside, waiting to follow her home, force her off the road. She did need help and she needed it now.
“Going, going,” the auctioneer’s voice floated out to the hall as she made her call. “Gone!” Charley MacIsaac came in for pie and coffee.
He’d been able to come as soon as she called for an escort. She’d paid for her silver and watched until she saw the cruiser in the parking lot before venturing out of the hall. None of the other cars took off when Chief MacIsaac pulled in, but they would be too savvy for that. The last thing these men would want was a chase. Still, hiding in whatever car or van they’d come in, they’d seen the police car and knew she wasn’t alone in all this.
Not anymore.
George Stackpole had a lot to lose and he was playing for keeps. It had to be George who was behind this, but how had he known she would be there? That’s what was bothering her now as she explained to Charley what she’d been doing the last few days. Tom was still in his study with the wardens.
“Okay. I’ll pull this Stackpole character in. See what he says. You’ve turned up enough of your stuff at his outlets to make it legitimate, and tomorrow you can come look at pictures and see if you recognize the men from tonight. No more antiquing, Faith. Right?”
Faith was well and truly shaken by tonight’s threats. She had no desire to approach George Stackpole on her own at all. She’d let Charley handle it.
“See you tomorrow, then.”
Faith saw him out the back door, locking it after he left, still an unaccustomed habit. The alarm system had not been installed yet, but they were near the top of the list, they’d been assured. She cut herself a wedge of pie and sat down to think.
She hadn’t told Charley about going to Framingham, but she’d told him almost everything else.
Who knew she was going to be in Walton tonight?
Nan Howell. She’d talked to her about it. Who else? Faith hadn’t mentioned it when they were out in Concord today, yet she was pretty sure she had said something about it to Courtney and Stephanie yesterday. Stephanie babbled on all the time about anything and everything, and it was possible she’d have mentioned it to Julian. Who else? Well, Tom, of course—and Rhoda Dawson.
Faith had left the information on the parish answering machine, a machine checked with some frequency by the superconscientious Ms. Dawson. Rhoda Dawson. Who was she anyway?
“Maybe another time. No problem.” Faith hung up the phone early the next morning. It was Nan Howell and she was in a hurry. George had called and canceled their visit. Nan didn’t give a reason. Faith didn’t need one. She was becoming more and more sure Nan and George were linked together. It might simply be that Nan suspected the things she bought from the dealer were hot and continued to buy from him—or it might be more. Nan must have mentioned Faith’s name to Stackpole, or told him why
Faith wanted to check his stock. Either way, the dealer wouldn’t want this particular lady anywhere near his house.
George probably figured that Faith had been sufficiently warned last night. He wasn’t about to have anything more to do with her—especially give her a chance to connect any more of the stolen items to him.
It was one of those Sundays when church seemed to go on forever and her mind kept wandering during the sermon. At times, the service was the only place where she had any peace and quiet for herself, and her thoughts took wing. This was one of those occasions. But she wasn’t thinking of last night specifically. She was thinking about Sarah Winslow. Two muscular young men.
George would never have had to be involved.
They’d done his dirty work for him—and frightening Sarah to death had been part of it.
Faith had given Tom a much-abbreviated version of the auction and told him Charley was bringing Stackpole in for questioning, which effectively quelled her husband’s fears. He agreed to take the kids for the afternoon while she looked at mug shots. By now, Faith had convinced Tom that the break-ins were linked, especially theirs and Sarah’s, both with missing sideboard drawers. These were also the only two houses where the police had been able to get prints—the Fairchilds’ on the back door frame and a good set on one of Sarah’s canisters. It had a tight lid and apparently the thief had had to take off his gloves to open it. There had been an attempt to wipe it off, but the police had one clear thumbprint. If Faith found the men from last night in the rogue’s gallery at the police station, their prints would be on file someplace—prints that could provide crucial evidence, tying them to the Aleford crimes. Tom had agreed with Faith on the importance of trying to identify the men. And if she did, he wanted to memorize their faces for his own reasons.
Faith vowed to create some quality family time soon. Much as Ben might love hanging out at the police station, she thought they should all head for Crane Beach or the Ipswich Audubon Sanctuary with a picnic. Next Saturday was the grand event—the Bullock wedding. Sunday would be Fairchild Day. Maybe they’d go down to Norwell.
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