Silent Auction

by Jane K. Cleland

  Within seconds of my clicking SEND, Cara called up. Chief Hunter was on line two, and he said it was urgent. I thanked her and punched the button to take his call.

  “The technicians have okayed your packing everything up,” Chief Hunter said.

  “Great,” I said. “We’ll get right on it.”

  “Also, I’ve run into another wall. Can I stop by and talk to you for a minute?”

  “Sure,” I replied, flattered at being asked.

  “Thanks. I’ll be there in ten minutes or so.”

  Downstairs, I told Sasha and Fred that we were good to go to collect everything on the inventory from the light house. They left through the ware house to gather packing supplies and crates.

  Gretchen was making a fresh pot of coffee and trying not to smile, looking for all the world like a giggly schoolgirl with a secret.

  “Why are you looking like the cat that swallowed the canary?” I asked.

  She laughed and handed me a mock-up of our next direct mail flyer—the one that would be posted in early October. “Take a look,” she said.

  Keith, our freelance graphic artist, had designed the cover to look like our tag sale venue door. A smiling ghost gestured the reader in with a wispy wave. When I opened the door—that is, when I unfolded the brochure—it was as if I’d stepped into the tag sale room. I spotted cheerfully ghoulish skeletons hanging from the ceiling, jack-o’-lanterns in corners, and children in Halloween costumes. The tables were packed with festive merchandise. I was entirely charmed.

  “Wow,” I said looking up. “This is so clever. Who came up with the concept?”

  Gretchen’s eyes shone with delight. “Jack!” she said, naming her scientist boyfriend.

  I laughed. “Tell him I bow before him. Keith, too. This is fantastic!”

  Chief Hunter entered. “What’s fantastic?” he asked, nodding and smiling at each of us.

  I handed him the mock-up. “Take a look.”

  He scanned it and nodded. “Sharp,” he said.

  “Way to go, Gretchen!” I said, giving her a double thumbs-up. “We’re going upstairs. Would you bring us some coffee?”

  “You bet. I’ll bring some of the lemon cookies Cara made, too. They’re evil!”

  “Excellent!” I said. “I love evil cookies before lunch.”

  Upstairs, Chief Hunter sat on the yellow brocade love seat and stretched his long legs out in front of him. I took the Queen Anne wing chair. Gretchen followed with a gleaming silver tray that she placed on the butler’s table.

  “I was just about to call you,” I told him. “Maddie spoke to Guy—the Myrick tooth is the only missing item. She asked that I tell you. I’ve already listed it as stolen.”

  “No surprise there.” He paused, his brow wrinkling. “I know that each industry has its own idiosyncrasies, but usually there are some standard procedures, some policies that help me get a handle on what’s going on. Not now. Not in this case. What I’m concluding is that the antiques business is pretty … shall I say freewheeling?”

  “One of the last bastions of pure capitalism,” I agreed, nodding.

  “If you can’t predict what inventory you’ll acquire, or how much you’ll pay for it, how can you project revenue? Or know how much cash you’ll need to buy your products? How can you know how many people to hire? How can you run a business?”

  “You’ve hit the nail on the head. The key to success is managing inventory. It’s the toughest thing to do consistently and well. Any antiques dealer will tell you that it’s way harder to buy good-quality objects than it is to sell them, so having reliable sources for inventory is one of the keys to success. Lots and lots of sources.”

  “Like Sam, the picker?”

  “Sure. Of course, there are lots of other sources, too.”

  “And it’s all unregulated.”

  I shrugged. “When you’re dealing with antiques, almost by definition, every transaction is unique.”

  He nodded. “That doesn’t apply when you’re dealing in reproductions.”

  “Right—but we don’t sell reproductions, or we almost never sell them. The only ones we offer for sale either came to us as part of a bigger deal or they’re unusual enough and special enough to merit being included, and they always go to the tag sale. We never put repros up for auction.”

  “Sam is not forthcoming,” he said. “He won’t even tell us his last name, let alone where he got the Myrick tooth.” He looked at me. “You don’t look surprised.”

  “Sourcing is considered confidential information in most businesses—especially in the antiques business. His recalcitrance doesn’t necessarily indicate that he’s done something wrong.” I opened my palms. “Maybe he bought it from someone who made him promise to keep his name out of it. For example, it could be a prominent citizen who doesn’t want the world to know he’s selling assets to raise cash. Or the seller has other objects he or she is considering letting go and Sam doesn’t want the competition to get wind of it.”

  Chief Hunter nodded. “How can I shake him loose?”

  I considered his question for several moments, gazing at the red and gold Oriental carpet as I nibbled a cookie. Gretchen was right—the cookies were evil, sweet and tart and rich. I raised my eyes to meet his. “As a general rule, pickers don’t know much about what they sell. They’re pretty low on the antiques seller food chain.”

  He crossed his ankles. “That makes sense. So you’re saying it’s likely that he doesn’t know anything about the missing tooth except where he got it, right?”

  “Right. Probably the tooth was in the bottom of a box he bought at a tag sale somewhere in the middle of nowhere. He just read the signature.”

  “Or he bought it knowing it was a repro,” Chief Hunter said.

  “That’s possible. What does Greg say?” I asked.

  “That Sam sold it as a real Myrick. Period.”

  I shook my head. “Unlikely,” I said.

  “Why?” he asked.

  “If Greg had believed it was real, he would have arranged for a proper appraisal. He’s been dealing in antiques—albeit on the fringes—for twenty years. He has to have known that consulting an artist or an artisan instead of an antiques appraiser is like asking an architect to value a house instead of a real estate appraiser or agent. It’s apples and oranges.”

  “Ms. Morse says that Mr. Donovan told her he wanted the appraisal done in ‘a New York minute.’ That’s a quote.”

  “I can almost hear him saying it.”

  “Mr. Donovan said that Ms. Morse was an appropriate choice. He was delighted with her work. Still is. He thinks you—and other appraisers like you—conduct unneeded tests.”

  “Why would we do that? Or do I even need to ask? To justify our fees, right?”

  “He said he’d never accuse you or anyone of jacking up your prices, but his implication was clear.”

  I pressed my lips together to keep myself from speaking the words that came to me. Cursing Greg wouldn’t help me or hurt him. “What was his hurry?” I asked instead. “The Whitestones were leaving, and he wanted to get the sale in before they ‘flew the coop.’ I’m quoting again.”

  “What a miserable excuse for a man he is,” I said.

  “Does it change your mind? Do you still think Mr. Donovan knew it was a fake, and that’s why he had Ms. Morse appraise it?”

  I thought for a moment, then shrugged. “I could go either way. It’s possible that Greg is telling you the truth and that he was simply out to make a quick buck.”

  “How about Sam? Do you think he suspected or knew the tooth was a phony?”

  “I don’t know. Some pickers deal in a wide range of antiques, collectibles, and repros and are straight shooters who will tell you what’s what, if they know. Others play it a little closer to the vest. I don’t know where Sam fits on that spectrum. Maybe he doesn’t know a thing about scrimshaw.”

  “If it’s a fake, who created it?”

  “I haven’t seen it, so fo
r all I know the design is painted on or it’s machine-made. Even if it’s real, if it’s hand-etched, any competent scrimshander can etch a traced design. There are hundreds of them worldwide.” I shrugged. “It could have been scrimmed in Indonesia or Paris or Rio and shipped here.”

  “You say any scrimshander could have produced it … like Ms. Morse.”

  “Yes, although she’d never do it. She’s a purist.”

  “What can I do to find out if it’s a fake and, if so, who faked it?”

  “Follow the money,” I said.

  He nodded. “We’re on it. Nothing so far, but that might only mean that it was a cash transaction using money on hand. You keep large amounts of cash here, right? In case of walk-in sellers?”

  “Yes.”

  “So presumably Sam was paid in cash, too.”

  “For sure. As far as I know, pickers only deal in cash.”

  “What else can I do to trace it?” he asked.

  “Scrimshanders have an association, a newsgroup, and an online forum. When it comes to communications and business, the world has definitely become a smaller place. Track past postings and see if anyone solicited a scrimshander to produce repros.”

  He made a note. “Good idea. What else?”

  “See if anyone tried to sell the missing tooth locally. There are scores of small antiques stores and pawnshops who might remember someone selling a scrimmed tooth.”

  “We’ve sent out notices to antiques dealers, pawnshops, and auction houses in New Hampshire, Massachusetts, and Maine asking for information, but no nibbles yet. What would you do if someone walked in with it?”

  “Ask about its history and check if it was stolen.”

  “Would you make a cash offer on the spot?”

  “It depends on what I learned,” I said. “It’s rare, but I’ve done it.”

  “Would many dealers?”

  “Sure.”

  “Who?”

  “Most of them. They count on walk-in sellers for inventory.”

  “So do you,” he remarked.

  “True, but I don’t maintain an open shop, so I have an easier time saying no.” I smiled. “I also hold out the promise of a higher payday if they let me do my homework.”

  He nodded. “I bet you’re a killer negotiator.”

  I smiled and looked down. “Thanks.”

  “Say someone came in and told you they found the tooth in a box in their cellar—they just moved into the house, so they don’t know anything about its history. What would you do?”

  “Assuming I’ve done my due diligence in determining that it’s not listed as stolen, I’d buy it.”

  “For how much?”

  “A fraction of what I thought I could get for it. It’s business, right?”

  “And after you’ve closed the deal, then you’d appraise it?” he asked.

  “You betcha.”

  He nodded again. “This is a heck of an industry.”

  “It’s not for the faint of heart,” I granted.

  “What else can I do?”

  “Let me talk to Sam,” I suggested.

  “For what purpose?” he asked.

  “We can see what he offers me for sale. Maybe he has another Myrick tooth hidden away.”

  “What would you say?”

  “That I heard that he’s the one who sold that tooth to Sea View and that I guarantee him I’ll always beat Greg’s price.”

  He leaned forward, grinning like a World War II pi lot I once saw in a photo. The pi lot had been about to step into his plane to fly a sortie, his eyes ablaze with excitement.

  “I like it,” he said. “I like it a lot. Let me run it by the ADA. We don’t want to risk your getting mixed up in any entrapment charges.”

  My pulse spiked. I stared at him, wondering if I was blanching before his eyes. I took a deep breath. “We sure don’t. That hadn’t even occurred to me. It can’t be entrapment if all I’m doing is offering to buy things. I make that same offer to people, pickers included, all the time.”

  “I agree—it’s a sting, not a trap. But just for the heck of it, let’s cover our bases.”

  “Then I ought to consult my lawyer.”

  “Sure. Do you want me to wait downstairs?”

  “No,” I said, crossing the room to my desk. “He may have questions for you.”

  He watched as I dialed Max Bixby’s number.

  Max was a rock, knowledgeable about the law and solidly in my corner. Knowing he was on my side had made countless anxiety-filled moments easier to bear.

  “Max,” I said, when I had him on the line. “It’s Josie.”

  “Long time no speak, little lady,” he said, sliding into his oddly comforting Western cowboy cadence. “What’s a-doing?”

  “You heard about Frankie? Frankie Winterelli?”

  “Terrible,” he said, all trace of playfulness gone. “Just terrible.”

  I described my connection. “The police want me to help trick someone, a picker. I’m a logical choice since I’m in the business, which means he probably won’t smell a rat.”

  “What’s the police objective?”

  I put the phone on speaker. “I just put you on speaker, Max, so Chief Hunter can join our conversation. Do you two know one another yet? Tuesday was the chief’s first day. Chief, this is the best lawyer in town, Max Bixby.”

  Chief Hunter left the yellow Queen Anne chair and sat in a guest chair near the desk to be close to the phone.

  “Chief,” Max said by way of greeting. “Welcome to Rocky Point. Although at this point, you may be ready to turn tail and hustle on out of here.”

  “It’s a heck of a way to start a new job, that’s for sure.”

  “So about this situation … can you tell me the police objective in asking Josie for help?”

  “My investigation suggests that this seller may be dealing in repros marketed as genuine items. Or he could be on the up-and-up. It’s all circumstantial at this point. If Josie asks him to sell her what ever he’s got—by observing his sales presentation, as it were, we would hope to learn more about his methods and inventory.”

  “Do you suspect him of murder?”

  “It’s early days,” he said, giving the kind of answer I’d come to expect from him.

  “Thanks for clarifying.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Is this request going to be made via the phone or in person?” Max asked.

  “She’ll call to set up a meet. Then in person.”

  Max continued to probe for how exposed I’d be, then asked, “Josie, is this something you want to take on?”

  Max spoke, but it was Zoë’s sobs I heard. “Yes,” I said. “If I can help, I want to.”

  Max asked Chief Hunter to fax him the ADA’s opinion, which he promised to turn around immediately. After the call ended, Chief Hunter stood up, ready to go.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “Don’t thank me yet. I haven’t done anything.” I came around the desk, prepared to walk him out.

  “Good point,” he said, his voice echoing as we walked down the stairs into the vast ware house. “Has the media given you any trouble?”

  “Not really. All I have to do is threaten to call you and they flee.”

  “Good. How’s Ms. Winterelli?”

  “She’s sad. She’s really sad.”

  “I’ll call her to see if she has any questions.”

  “She will. She’ll ask you who killed Frankie.”

  “Yeah, probably.”

  “What will you tell her?” I asked.

  He looked at me. “I’ll say that we’re making progress.”

  At his words, goose bumps chased up my arms. “That implies you’re close.”

  “Does it?” he asked wearily, then gave a little shrug as if shaking off an unpleasant thought. “Well, thanks again for offering to help with Sam. I’ll get back to you—and your lawyer—as soon as I can.”

  He was out the door and gone.

  CHA
PTER TWENTY-TWO

  I brought up the photographs Maddie had e-mailed me of The Herring Net.

  In the original painting—and in this etching—the faces of the man and the boy in the dory could hardly be discerned, yet from their stoic bearing, you could see that they were exhausted and inured. The mother ship, faintly visible in the distance, her sails starkly outlined against the overcast sky, promised sanctuary even as the roiling sea threatened danger. Dusk was gathering, and the last phase of their day’s work—rowing back to their ship—had yet to begin. It was an everyman story, an eloquent portrayal of the hard life endured by men who fished for a living in the nineteenth century. Guy, I thought, would love it.

  I did some quick research, consulting a proprietary site for price information. Auction results for Homers were all across the board, from more than four million dollars for a watercolor of fishergirls coiling tackle three years ago to as little as $194,000 for a small oil of skaters last year. I closed the site. It was early days to be thinking about price. The first issue was authentication. I glanced at the clock—it was eleven thirty. In an hour and a half, I’d get my first look at an etching purported to have been crafted by one of America’s most loved artists.

  While I was online, I also researched requests for Myrick repros on the public scrimshanding forums I’d mentioned to Chief Hunter. I found no hint of nefarious dealings. Which didn’t prove anything except that the scheme’s or ga niz er, if there was a scheme, wasn’t a fool.

  Maddie arrived first, looking as elegant as always in a gold silk blouse and brown high-waisted, wide-legged slacks.

  She greeted us each by name, then asked me, “Have you heard anything from the police?”

  As soon as Maddie spoke, I could feel Gretchen’s attention shift—she hoped she was about to hear some inside dirt. Gretchen was a celebrity gossip aficionado, but home-grown tidbits were good, too, the more sensational or spicy, the better. I’d overheard her chatting about UFOs and movie stars’ divorces often enough to know that her addiction was a harmless, fun hobby. She never repeated secrets or hurtful tales about people she knew; she was too much of an innate caretaker for that. Personally, I found her interest in scandal bewildering.