Silent Auction

by Jane K. Cleland

I followed her eyes and matched Fred’s grin. He hadn’t said a word to me about this spectacular discovery, so it must have been a last-minute find.

  “Looks that way. President Jefferson and Madame de Tessé were pen pals.”

  Ginny seemed transfixed. “Pen pals.”

  “Yes. In this letter, President Jefferson acknowledges the receipt of seeds that Madame de Tessé sent him. The seeds came from a tree in her garden outside Paris.” Fred looked down at the plastic sheath containing the letter. “‘When the tree grows, I will cherish it, as it will remind me daily of the friendship with which you have honored me.’” Fred looked up, smiling broadly, pushing up his glasses again. “I mean, really … isn’t that great?”

  “You’re kidding, right?” Ginny asked.

  “I’m not,” Fred replied, still grinning.

  “How did the letter get inside the frame?”

  “That’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question,” Fred said, shrugging. “No idea, and it’s extremely unlikely we’ll ever know.”

  Ginny looked at me. “I just can’t believe it!”

  I smiled. “I know, but if Fred says it’s true … it’s true!” I turned to him. “Do you think Madame de Tessé is the artist?”

  “That would be really something, wouldn’t it? But I have no reason to think so,” Fred replied.

  “President Jefferson,” Ginny murmured, seemingly in shock.

  “If you decide to pursue it,” Fred said, “the first step would be authenticating the letter, and that should be pretty straight-ahead. President Jefferson was a prolific correspondent, and his letters have been widely studied, so there’s no shortage of information available.” He picked up the plastic sleeve and stared at the elegant writing. “However, assuming the letter is authentic, valuing it in the context of these watercolors … well, that would be, at best, a difficult and expensive endeavor. If, on the other hand, we consider the letter only on its own merit, again, assuming that it’s genuine, we’re talking a minimum value at auction in the hundreds of thousands of dollars.”

  Ginny’s mouth opened, then closed. “I just can’t believe it,” she whispered.

  Fred smiled and nodded. “It’s a wonderful letter filled with sentiment and grace. Any collector would be thrilled to own it. What do you think? Might you want to sell it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Would you like me to place the letter back inside the frame?”

  “Heck, no!” she exclaimed, chuckling. “I can’t wait to show it to everyone I know!”

  “Keep it safe,” Fred said.

  “Under lock and key,” she agreed.

  She thanked Fred, then watched as he slipped the plastic-encased letter into a padded envelope. When she left, she was clutching the envelope to her chest as if it were gold.

  “Well done,” I said to Fred.

  “Thanks.”

  “You must have fainted when you found that letter.”

  He grinned. “It was a moment.”

  “What do you think?” I asked. “Is it the real deal?”

  “Between you, me, and the gatepost? Yes.”

  I nodded. “A visual journal … I like that phrase a lot.”

  “Yeah,” he agreed. He leaned back and picked up an inventory. “It’s back to the Whitestone appraisal for me.”

  “I’m having lunch with Maddie. Any tidbits I can pass on?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Some good news. I was just analyzing pricing data on one of the bells, and it’s even better than I thought.”

  Fred led the way to a box sitting on a worktable at the back of the ware house. We’d recently automated our tracking pro cess; glancing at the card Fred had slid into a slot attached to the front of the box, I was glad to see that the system seemed to be working. According to the printed label, Whitestone Box 10 had been removed from the safe by Fred at 9:27 A.M.

  “Mr. Whitestone purchased this bell from an antiques shop in York, Maine,” Fred said. “It’s fifteen inches tall and in near perfect condition, with age-appropriate signs of wear but no scrapes, cracks, or dings. If you look here, in this grape cluster, you’ll see the date.”

  The bell was heavy and ornate with rows of grapevines circling the circumference. “Is it bronze?” I asked.

  “Yup—with a natural patina.”

  Using a loupe, the date was easy to spot: 1787. “It looks Europe an,” I said. Typically, American bells from that period were simpler in design. “Swedish,” he said. “There’s a name engraved on the inside, Hjoch Company. They made bells for the Royal Swedish Navy. Without tracking down sales or manufacturing records, if there are any extant, there’s no way to tell which ship this bell was made for.”

  I turned it over. “How much did Guy pay?”

  “Two hundred and ten dollars.”

  “My gut tells me that was quite a find.”

  Fred’s lips twisted up into an “Oh, yeah, just wait!” grin. “I haven’t quite finished, but I’d be comfortable right now estimating it at six thousand at auction.”

  I whistled. “You’re going to make Guy a very happy man.”

  “Always a good thing. But there’s another object where he didn’t do as well. A Nantucket basket purse with a scrimmed topper.”

  “It’s a fake?”

  “It’s new. There’s nothing antique about it.”

  He lifted the basket purse out of the storage box and placed it on the table. The elliptical-shaped, rattan-weave purse was, at first glance, flawless. The bent oak handle appeared unused and moved smoothly. The rim had been affixed with brass escutcheon pins before weaving, a sign of quality craftsmanship. A conical ivory-colored pin fit snugly into a rattan closure loop. The crudely rendered scrimshaw design on the decorative topper showed a three-masted whaler and two whales. I opened the lid and saw that the purse had been signed on the underside: JANICE WALKER.

  “Who’s Janice Walker?” I asked.

  “She’s a basket weaver based on Cape Cod who sells her purses to high-end boutiques from Portland to Cape May. Mr. Whitestone paid one hundred and fifty dollars for it at a flea market.”

  I made a break-it-to-me-gently face. “And when new, it retails for …?”

  “A hundred ten.”

  “Oops.”

  “Yeah,” he said.

  “How new is it?” I asked.

  “She’s still offering them for sale on her Web site. In her bio, she says she graduated from RISD in 2008,” he said, using the common shorthand for one of the nation’s premier design schools, the Rhode Island School of Design, “so I’m guessing she can’t have been making them for all that long. I’m going to call and see if I can confirm the date, just in case she’s the fifth Janice Walker in a long line of basket weavers or something.” He shrugged. “I suppose there’s a chance the purse was crafted by her great-great-grandmother and looks pristine because it’s never been used.” He shrugged. “I’ll see if I can reach her before you leave for lunch.”

  “Great. This is very helpful, Fred. Knowing Guy, he won’t like to hear it, but he’ll be glad to know.”

  Fred pushed his glasses up. “Cool,” he said.

  Eric was waiting for me on the landing outside my private office, a folded-up newspaper in his hand. As I climbed the steps, I noted that he looked worried.

  “Can we shut the door?” he asked.

  “Sure,” I said, leading the way toward the wing chairs. “Have a seat.”

  He perched on the edge of his seat, his feet planted, then unfolded the newspaper, the Seacoast Star, tapping his finger on the photograph of the missing scrimmed tooth. “I don’t know what to do … I’ve seen this tooth.”

  “Where?”

  “Curt had it in his car one night.”

  Curt? I repeated silently. “When was that?” I asked, my voice reassuringly calm.

  “I’m not sure exactly. A couple of Fridays ago. Two, maybe three.”

  “How did it come about that you saw it?”

  “Grace and
I were having pizza at John’s—you know John’s Pizzeria, right, on Route 1? Anyway, Curt comes in, all excited, and joins us for a beer. When Grace went to the ladies’ room, he leaned over and whispered that he had something amazing in his car—a scrimmed tooth Greg bought from a picker. I asked him what he was doing with it, and he said he was going to take some photos so he could use the design in some scrimmed objects of his own. He said he was setting up a business, renting a scrimming machine and all.”

  “That’s really interesting, Eric,” I said, my brain reeling. “Did he go to John’s to find you, or was it a coincidence?”

  “I guess he came on purpose. Grace and I have pizza there most Friday nights. He was pretty excited about the tooth and wanted to tell someone.” He looked miserable. “What should I do?”

  “You have to call the police.”

  He shook his head. “I can’t. I just can’t.”

  “How come?”

  “Curt will kill me. No one I know will ever trust me again.”

  “You can ask them to keep your name out of it.”

  He looked forlorn. “It will come out.”

  “Maybe. I know they’ll do their best.”

  He sighed. “Can I make the call from here?”

  I placed the call, and when I had Chief Hunter on the line, I handed the receiver to Eric. In a hesitant voice, Eric told him where he’d seen the tooth, then asked him to please do everything he could to keep his tip anonymous.

  As soon as he hung up, I said, “You did the right thing.”

  Eric left, looking unimpressed with doing the right thing.

  Within seconds, Cara buzzed up to tell me that Sam was on line two. I glanced at the gold mantel clock I kept on top of a display case on the far side of the room. It was just shy of eleven. Sam was calling four and a half hours early.

  “My schedule changed. Can you meet now?” he asked.

  “Sure,” I said. “I’ll meet you out back at the loading dock.”

  “Nah. I’ll meet you in the Super McCory parking lot, by the side entrance, in about ten minutes.”

  “I thought you were coming here.”

  “Let’s meet there instead.”

  “How come?”

  I could hear his raspy breathing. “I don’t know you.”

  Four words that changed everything. “Fair enough. I’ll be there in ten—maybe fifteen—minutes. I’ll get there as quickly as I can.”

  I called Chief Hunter, and when I told him what Sam said, he asked, “Has this ever happened to you before—where a picker changes things up like this?”

  “Yes. More than once. I’m telling you, pickers get twitchy.”

  “Are you okay with proceeding?”

  “Yes.”

  “Detective Brownley and I will be there in unmarked cars ASAP. Give us a five-minute head start. And call me as soon as you and Sam are done.”

  I agreed, then texted Wes to give him a heads-up. I doubted that he’d make it to the new location in time to see anything, but a deal was a deal, and I’d promised to keep him posted. I wrote, “Change in plans w/ Sam. McCory’s side door. Now. Stay out of sight,” then tossed my phone into my tote bag, told Cara I was going out for a while, and left.

  As I drove past the small clutch of reporters that had resumed their vigil, I noticed that Bertie wasn’t among them.

  I hadn’t a clue as to whether something had got Sam’s dander up or whether this kind of subterfuge was his standard operating procedure. Regardless, I didn’t like it. I’d much prefer to be on my home turf, knowing the police were only an arm’s length away, out of sight but able to hear every word. The way Sam had set it up, we’d be meeting in a mall parking lot. Chief Hunter and Detective Brownley might be able to see us, but they wouldn’t be able to hear, and they’d be too far away to help, if there was trouble. I had to assume I was on my own.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  I parked as close to McCory’s side door as I could, easing in between a silver VW and a black Mazda. I got out and stretched, doing a 360 to see if I could spot him or his brown van.

  The place was busy. Steady streams of shoppers entered and left the store. Two boys, about ten, stood off to the side on a grassy strip separating McCory’s from the rest of the mall, tossing a ball back and forth. A young woman, cradling an infant in one arm, hoisted bags of groceries into her trunk.

  Within a minute, Sam’s brown panel van pulled to a stop, blocking me in. He lowered his window.

  “Follow me,” he said, sounding irritated.

  “I know you. Winslow Homer.”

  “You gonna follow me or what?”

  “Okay,” I said.

  He led the way to the far side of the complex, parking in front of a store called Betty’s Fabrics. I took the space next to him and got out. His eyes were still watery. He wore a red and black plaid flannel jacket zipped to the neck, jeans, and work boots.

  “I got some good stuff,” he said, throwing open one of the rear doors.

  “Yeah?” I asked. “Like what?”

  “Like liquor bottle ID tags and lanterns. You said you like pewter and maritime stuff, right?”

  He dragged a tattered cardboard box toward me. It contained half a dozen pewter tags, the kind you hang on decanters, and five nineteenth-century hanging lanterns. Some of the tags had chains, some didn’t, and all were scratched-up and worn. The lanterns had brass or ceramic bases. All five were dirty.

  “Anything special here?” I asked.

  “You’re the expert,” he said sourly. “You tell me.”

  I picked the objects up one at a time and examined them. The pewter tags were run-of-the-mill, worth a few dollars, no more. The lanterns were well used, in fair to good condition. The most ornate of the lot was speckled with soot. Another, simple and streamlined, was smeared with grease and grime.

  “Nothing special, but all interesting,” I said. “How much are you looking for?”

  “A dollar each for the tags.”

  I nodded. “How about five for the lot?”

  “Okay,” he said begrudgingly. “And the lanterns?”

  “Ten each.”

  He must think I just fell off an onion truck, I thought, but I didn’t allow my reaction to show. “Too bad,” I said. “That’s about what I’d expect to sell them for at the tag sale—after we cleaned them.”

  “So make me an offer.”

  “Ten for the lot.”

  “Forget it.”

  “Okay. Anything else?”

  He snorted. “Got some new stuff. Scrimshaw on what they call fossil ivory. Legal.” He pulled a green opaque plastic tub forward. Inside were scores of small white cardboard jewelry boxes. “They’re cufflinks.”

  I examined a pair. The design showed ships scrimmed on oval-shaped ivory set in sterling silver settings with beaded bezels.

  “How do I know it’s fossil ivory?” I asked. It was easy to say the ivory was fossil—and thus legal. Proving it was harder.

  “Don’t know.”

  “Who’s the artist?”

  “Don’t know that neither. I just buy ’em from a guy who sells ’em. You interested or not?”

  “How much?” I asked.

  His rheumy eyes remained fixed on mine for a long moment. I wondered if he was trying to assess my level of interest. Some pickers price the customer, not the goods.

  “Make me a fair offer and they’re yours,” he said, doing what I would do under the circumstances—try to get the other guy to set the price first.

  I picked up two additional pairs and compared them. The image on all three showed a Gloucester schooner at full sail on a choppy sea. The design was a bit side-heavy, with too-bold and too-dark lines outlining the left edge of the sails. Still, the minute elements, the cross-hatching to suggest fast-moving water and the way the sails fluttered in the wind, demonstrated great artistry. The three pairs weren’t similar; they were identical. The designs had to have been traced or machine pressed.

  “Are they m
ass-produced?”

  “I don’t know. You buying or not?” he asked, letting his impatience show.

  I was interested, but not if they were ivory, unless I knew for certain that the material had been legally acquired, and given Sam’s snippiness, I wasn’t optimistic.

  “I need proof the ivory’s legal.”

  “What kind of proof?”

  “Provenance. Certificates of authenticity. Bills of sale. Something in writing from a known and credible source. Something I can verify.”

  Sam scratched his neck. “I’ll let you know.”

  “Assuming that works out, I’ll need to test the material.”

  “If you got the paperwork that says it’s real, that’s the ball game. I don’t know if I can get it, but regardless, no testing. I only sell stuff as is.”

  If the ivory was genuine, and legal, and if the scrimmed design was at least partially handcrafted, the cufflinks would sell like hot cakes during the holidays. We’d be able to move at least three or four dozen pairs by the end of the year, and since they featured a traditional design, they’d sell well forever. I could see a price point of $150 a pair, which meant I could offer Sam as much as fifty.

  “Assuming you can get the documentation, name a price that will make it worth my while to take a flyer on a new product,” I said, hoping to win his agreement to let me test with the promise of a big payoff.

  “A thousand a dozen,” he said.

  “Ouch,” I said, smiling to show I wasn’t taking his out-of-the-realm-of-possibility offer as an insult. “I’m thinking five hundred.”

  He shook his head and lifted his chin. “Nope.”

  “Six hundred,” I said. “And I’ll take four dozen.”

  He stared at me through narrowed eyes. “Done. Give me forty for the lanterns and you can have them, too.”

  I shook my head. “I can give you fifteen.”

  “Twenty-five.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I can only go to fifteen.”

  e glowered at me. “Take ’em,” he grumbled.

  “Can I buy a few pairs of cufflinks now?” I asked as I transferred the ragged box to my trunk. “While you check on the documentation, I can begin testing them.”

  “I only sell them by the dozen.”