Silent Auction

by Jane K. Cleland

  “Nothing,” I replied. “Except that the police are working on lots of different angles.”

  “I met with Chief Hunter again this morning, and another detective, a woman, a Detective Brownley. They asked about Frankie’s friends, but I had no information. It seems—” She broke off as the wind chimes sounded.

  A man with watery gray eyes who was carrying a brown-paper-wrapped package entered and stood just inside. He was somewhere around seventy. His hair was mostly white, peppered with a few black strands, and cut short.

  “Hi,” I said, smiling. “I’m Josie Prescott.”

  “Where do you want this?” he asked.

  “This is Maddie Whitestone. You’ve spoken to her on the phone.” I reached for the package. “That must be heavy. I’ll take it.”

  “I’m okay. Where do you want it?” he asked again.

  “There,” I said, pointing to the round table near the front windows.

  He slid a gnarled finger under the brown paper flap, then pulled it aside.

  The etching was encased behind glass and traditionally framed in ornate gilt. I viewed the image as a whole, then examined it a second time using a grid pattern, seeking out anomalies and imperfections. It appeared to be in pristine condition, with no visible tears, repairs, or foxing. The artistry and workmanship were top-notch. You could almost feel the motion of the water, the wind in the sails, the bone-chilling cold, and the man’s and boy’s fatigue. My eye was drawn to the mother ship, its sails billowing. The ink distribution seemed off, some lines surrounding the sails too thick, others too dark. Perhaps Homer had used an échoppe to achieve a more prominent line on purpose, intending to highlight the struggle awaiting the fishermen facing that long row back. I didn’t think I was looking at signs of plate wear, but just to be certain, we’d need to research how many impressions typically were printed from each of Homer’s metal plates. Usually several hundred copies could be made before the plate began to show signs of wear, which under certain printing conditions might result in uneven ink distribution.

  “So,” he asked, “what do you think?”

  “So far all I can tell you is that it appears to be in excellent condition.”

  He turned to Maddie. “Like I said.”

  “Josie?” she said.

  “We need to do a full appraisal—authentication first, then valuation. It will take several days at least, maybe several weeks.”

  “What?” the seller objected. “No way.”

  I nodded to convey empathy. This wasn’t the first time I’d heard a seller’s dismay. “I understand that it can be frustrating,” I said. “Not only is the appraisal pro cess not fast, it’s not predictable.”

  He stared at me, maybe trying to intimidate me, maybe just angry at the situation, then turned to face Maddie. “I told you on the phone, I called with a good price for a quick sale.”

  “We’ll be as speedy as we can,” I said. “Let me explain how it works. We need to research and test several elements, from Homer’s etching and printing work habits to the paper and ink. Some of the tests take time, and if they come back with ambiguous results, we need to add another layer of testing.”

  “I don’t know nothing about any of that. I named my price, and you’ll either pay it or not.”

  “I’m so sorry, but I need the appraisal,” Maddie said.

  “Any buyer would,” I added.

  He shook his head, digging in his heels.

  Maddie met my eyes. “Josie? Would you buy it?”

  I smiled to take the sting out of my words. “No. I never rush into anything. And while a quarter of a million dollars might be a great price if this is a Winslow Homer, it’s still a lot of money. I wouldn’t buy it until it’s authenticated.”

  “I agree,” Maddie said, sounding disappointed. “I’m sorry it didn’t work out.”

  He looked from her to me, then back again. “What if it’s worth more?” he asked, sounding suspicious, as if he thought we were setting him up somehow.

  “Then Mrs. Whitestone gets a good deal.”

  “How about me?”

  “You get a quarter of a million dollars.” I shrugged. “You set the price.”

  He turned to leave. “Do what you gotta do.”

  “Okay, then. What can you tell me about it?” I asked.

  “Nothing,” he said over his shoulder, one hand on the doorknob. “Just what I told her. I bought it off a woman looking to sell. She said she found it in the attic and didn’t know nothing.”

  “How’d you set the price?”

  “I’ve heard of Homer.”

  In other words, I thought, he guessed.

  “Gretchen, would you prepare a receipt for … what’s your name?”

  “What do you need my name for?” he asked, his hackles up.

  “For the receipt.”

  “You don’t need my name for that. Just write out what I’m leaving here.”

  I turned to Gretchen, who was watching our exchange with wide eyes. “And attach photos,” I told her. “They’re in the system—Maddie e-mailed them to me.” To him, I asked, “Did you take the photos you sent to Mrs. Whitestone?”

  “A guy I know did. I don’t know about that stuff. Why?”

  “The pictures were good.”

  He kept his eyes on me, his distrust palpable. Gretchen handed him the neatly or ganized receipt.

  “You’ve got my phone number, right? You need anything else?” he asked.

  “No,” I replied. “Thank you.”

  He left without another word. I watched as he walked across the asphalt toward a brown van on the far side of the lot.

  “Did his reaction surprise you?” Maddie asked.

  “Not really,” I said, turning back. “Sellers come in all shapes and sizes.”

  She nodded. “Thank you, Josie. I am so curious. I look forward to hearing what you discover.”

  I turned toward the etching, drawn to its evocative imagery, and nodded. “Me, too.”

  About an hour later, Sasha and Fred drove into the lot. I ran out to the loading dock to meet the van. Eric was already there, unloading the Whitestones’ carefully packaged possessions.

  “Mr. Whitestone has a terrific eye,” Sasha said.

  “I know. It’s a great collection. Some of the objects are so unusual,” I said. “Any problems?”

  “No. It was routine.”

  “As soon as you’re done, come up front. You too, Fred. I want to show you something Maddie Whitestone is considering buying Guy for his birthday.”

  “There’s not much,” Eric said. “I can handle it. You guys go ahead.”

  We thanked him, then trekked through the auction venue, slid open the moving partition, and continued through the ware house, our footsteps reverberating loudly in the concrete shell.

  “Voilà,” I said, gesturing toward the Homer I’d relocated to a workstation.

  Fred pushed up his glasses as he approached. Sasha stood next to him, then leaned in close, tucking her fine brown hair behind her ear.

  After several moments, she asked, “What do you think?”

  “I think we need to be careful. The seller wants a quick cash sale, and he has no ownership information beyond saying he’d bought it from a woman cleaning out her attic.”

  She nodded. It wasn’t an unusual story. “There’s some question about how many etchings Homer produced,” she said. She was in her element and speaking with confidence. “I’ve heard that there might be as many as ten—maybe even more. As far as I know, though, this isn’t one of them.”

  “I wondered about that,” I said. “And didn’t Homer usually change things up when he adapted a painting into an etching?”

  “Yes. In Saved, for instance, Homer clean-wiped the plate to create an ethereal, atmospheric look to the waves and to emphasize the suspended figures. It’s a very different look and feel than the original painting.”

  “He changed the composition, too, didn’t he?” I asked.

  “Righ
t. In addition to the original painting, he etched two separate versions. The first etching featured a wide view of the ocean with a cliff in the far distance. When he etched the second one, he reversed the figures and adjusted the viewpoint. The modification changed the entire perspective from expansive to intimate. Also, he retooled the ocean, adding mighty waves designed with a curved pattern suggestive of Japanese art. It’s spectacular—you can really feel the thrashing water. It’s quite a shock seeing how different it is from the original.”

  “I know that second etching,” Fred said. “I’ve always thought it was bad form that he didn’t retitle it. Sure, it shares a theme with the earlier pieces, but it’s a mistake to think of it as anything other than new. Homer changed the emphasis, the style, and the environment he portrayed.” He shrugged. “It’s not a redo.”

  “That’s too extreme a view,” Sasha replied, her tone assured. “I agree that it’s not merely a repetition, but neither is it totally fresh.”

  I pointed to the etching. “Do you think this one could be a real find? A previously unknown etching?” I asked.

  The three of us stood for a moment staring at it; then Sasha nodded. When she looked at me, I saw the thrill of the hunt in her eyes, and I understood that she thought there was a decent chance that we might be on the verge of living an appraiser’s dream—authenticating a previously unknown work by a master.

  “Yes,” she said, “it’s possible. Homer started as a lithographer. He cared about the printing process—he was diligent, and by some reports a perfectionist. He was also reclusive. If he wasn’t happy with an etching, he might well have destroyed the plate after just a few impressions were made.”

  “Or it could be a well-executed forgery,” Fred said.

  “What should we check first?” I asked.

  Sasha shrugged and pursed her lips, thinking. “To save time, we should check the materials. If the paper and ink are right, then we can pursue the more time-consuming aspects of authenticating it.”

  “An even quicker approach would be to call a few experts and ask if they know if Homer adapted The Herring Net into an etching,” Fred said.

  “I don’t want to start the rumor mill,” I said. “I think we should keep our research quiet at this point.” I looked at Sasha. “After the paper and ink, then what?”

  “I know that a New York company printed all of the impressions,” she replied. She stared at the back wall, and I could almost see her opening the relevant file cabinet in her brain. “Ritchie. G. W. H. Ritchie. When Homer died, five plates were in Ritchie’s possession. We should find out where the others were located.”

  “Didn’t Ritchie make additional impressions after Homer’s death?” Fred asked.

  Sasha nodded. “If I’m remembering right, and I think I am, the printing company was sold to someone else … someone named White … and he began making new impressions from the five plates. Eventually, the plates were sold to the Met. That happened sometime in the 1940s.”

  “At this point, it’s moot,” I said, not wanting us to get distracted by the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s purchase. “The first issue isn’t how many impressions were made—it’s whether this etching was made at all. If we can validate that, then we can consider the integrity of this particular example.” I pointed to the lines that had struck me as overly bold. “Do you see these? Don’t they seem too thick … or too something … too present?”

  “Maybe,” Sasha said.

  “Did Homer use an échoppe?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” Sasha said. “Do you, Fred?”

  “No, sorry.”

  “Sasha, do you want to take the lead on this one?”

  “Sure,” she said, smiling.

  Fred and I entered the front office, leaving her studying the etching.

  “The Whitestone collection is time-sensitive, so don’t be shy about asking us for help, okay?” I told Fred as he walked to his desk.

  The front door opened. “Max!” I said.

  “Howdy, friends,” he said, grinning, including us all in his greeting, looking and sounding as if he had all the time in the world and couldn’t think of anything he’d rather be doing than visiting. “Got a sec, Josie? There’s something we need to talk about.”

  “Sure,” I said, curious about what he and the ADA had figured out. I led the way upstairs.

  “Chief Hunter will be here any minute,” Max said once we were settled in. “The ADA and I got it nailed down. You’re immune from any and all fallout that may result from this initiative. A formal letter of appreciation for your assistance has been issued. You’re going to call this seller—Sam, right?—and hopefully entice him to sell you things. You’re to tell him that you’re open to purchasing good-quality reproductions in addition to antiques.”

  “For the tag sale?” I asked.

  He rubbed his nose, thinking before replying. “Leave it open,” he said. “The phrasing is important. Chief Hunter will be bringing some word-for-word phrases for you to use. The gist is that the police are hoping that if you mention that you have customers hungry for good stuff and therefore you’re always on the lookout for quality objects—that will be enough for him to offer to sell you repros without you bringing anything specific up.”

  “You’re saying that I should tell Sam I want to snooker customers!” I objected, appalled.

  Max leaned back. “No. I’m saying you should imply it.”

  “Max, stop it!” I exclaimed, laughing.

  “Crime-fighting is not for the weak or wary.”

  My mouth opened, then closed. I couldn’t think what to say.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Cara buzzed up. Chief Hunter and Detective Brownley were downstairs. I told her to bring them up, then said to Max, “What’s Detective Brownley doing here?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  We both stood as they entered. I thanked Cara, then watched as Max pulled a third chair up to the desk. Chief Hunter sat in the middle, sitting directly across from me. Detective Brownley nodded hello, then extracted a notebook from her briefcase.

  “We didn’t get the warrant,” Chief Hunter told Max. “So we can’t record the conversation. Also, we need to be very careful about the language. The ADA doesn’t want her mentioning anything or anyone by name, unless, of course, Sam mentions them first.” He turned to me. “So you can’t say you heard he sold a Myrick tooth to Sea View Gallery and you’ll always beat the price like we talked about before. What you don’t want to do is be specific or explicit. Obviously, don’t say, ‘Do you have any fakes you can sell me?’ Or ‘Do you have any repros good enough to fool a layman?’ Keep your request vague. Intimate, don’t state.”

  I nodded. “I understand.”

  “Try to get a meeting today—but don’t imply any undue urgency.”

  At first, helping with Sam had seemed easy. Now, as I listened to the restrictions and admonitions, I began to feel daunted at the prospect of messing up something so important. “I’ll do my best,” I said.

  Chief Hunter eased a sheet of paper from his inside jacket pocket and slid it across the desk toward me.

  “Take a minute and read this.”

  Two bulleted lists were printed on official Rocky Point Police letterhead, one under the heading “Do” and the other under the heading “Don’t.”

  The “Do” list read:

  Say you heard he often had “good-quality” objects.

  Ask him to come to you first to sell the good stuff—since you serve serious collectors, you’re certain that you can pay more than other dealers.

  Tell him you’re interested in all sorts of items at all sorts of price points since you need to keep both the tag sale and your monthly auctions stocked.

  Say you occasionally sell reproductions—especially excellent-quality ones.

  The “Don’t” list was shorter:

  Avoid saying you’ve heard he deals in reproductions.

  Avoid revealing who told you about him.


  I met Chief Hunter’s eyes, then glanced at Detective Brownley. Her pen was poised over her notebook. She was ready to go, an observer, not a participant. She smiled encouragingly. I wished I felt as confident as they looked.

  “What should I say if he asks how I got his number?” I asked Chief Hunter.

  “How would you normally answer if a picker asked you that?”

  “I’ve never called a picker before, not out of the blue, I mean, where I don’t know him. I don’t know what I can possibly say to explain my call.”

  “Let’s make up a logical backstory, then. Who might have slipped you his number as a good lead for quality product?”

  “Another picker doing me a favor.”

  “How would it work?” Chief Hunter asked.

  “If I said to my picker how great his stuff is and that I wished I had a dozen of him …” I shook my head. “Even if he knew Sam, which he probably doesn’t, he wouldn’t give me his name. He’d buy Sam’s antiques, add a little something to the price for his trouble, and resell everything to me. No way would he give me Sam’s name.”

  “Okay. So who would?”

  I thought for a moment. “Rose Mayhew would. She owns a small shop in Rocky Point. I buy a lot of things from her—I’m probably her biggest customer.”

  “Why wouldn’t she do what you just described?” Max asked. “Buy and resell?”

  “Cash. She’s always strapped for cash. She works on very low margins.”

  Concentration lines appeared on Chief Hunter’s forehead. “Why does any seller go to Ms. Mayhew? Why wouldn’t they all come directly to you?”

  “They don’t know that Rose is selling to me. If they learned about it, they’d come to me in a heartbeat, and she’d be out of luck. One of her real strengths is maintaining a network of suppliers. But if a picker approached her with an object that was too rich for her blood, she’d turn him over to me as a favor to us both.”

  “Why wouldn’t she ask you to front the cash?” Chief Hunter asked. “Like that gallery in Maine, Darling, their name was, right?”