Stealing With Style

by Emyl Jenkins

  Makeup first, then the pearls, Mother had drilled into me. It was so unusual for her to comment on such a minute detail, I had listened. And always after the hair spray. And never, ever put perfume on your neck. Hair spray and perfume-they both eat away the pearls' lustrous nectar.

  JAGS, MERCEDES, TOWN CARS, and BMWs were filling up the parking lot by the time I arrived. I slipped my eightyear-old Mercedes into a tight space, threw my coat around my shoulders, and made a beeline for the front door.

  "Sterling, dear!" said a man's voice.

  I turned to see the Creightons huffing to catch up with me. Petite people by birth, they had shriveled up little by little with each passing decade.

  "Who is that, Howard?" Martha Creighton asked, sounding frightened. When they were parallel with me, out of the blue she said, "I've lost my silver casserole dish. Sarah Rose Wilkins stole it."

  "No, no, dear. Now don't say that. Nobody has stolen anything. It isn't your silver that people are talking about. It's a silver urn everyone is talking about, one that belonged to Sarah Rose," her husband said. He turned his head and whispered to me, "We played duplicate bridge in the same club as Sarah Rose Wilkins before she died."

  News traveled fast. Then again I should have known that it would have been asking too much for word not to have gotten around Leemont.

  "What are you talking about, Howard?" Mrs. Creighton was saying. "A silver urn? I sent Sarah Rose a silver urn?" She peered at me with cataract-marred eyes. "I'm having trouble remembering things these days," she said.

  Then in a moment of perfect lucidity she turned back to me. "Mr. Creighton wants you to come and see our things, don't we? Why don't you just drop in for tea and we'll show them to you. There's one chair that belonged to Mr. Creighton's greatuncle. He was quite an opera lover and I'm sure that Caruso sat in it. He knew all the greats, didn't he, dear?"

  "Oh, yes," Mr. Creighton agreed, cheered by his wife's clear moment. "And I've got a whole book full of stamps you'd like to see, too. Collected them as a boy. We'd love to know how much they're worth now. And then there's your grandmother's Haviland china. Don't forget that, Martha. If she were alive she'd be, now let's see, I'm eighty-seven. That would make your grandmother ..."

  Here we go again, I thought to myself.

  "I'll try to do that," I said, working hard not to show my annoyance. "Give me a call in a few weeks. I'm off to New York on Thursday."

  "New York! Mr. Creighton and I spent many lovely times there. Didn't we, dear. Isn't that where your great-uncle knew -now who was that singer? The opera one?" Mrs. Creighton tugged at her husband's sleeve.

  I glanced at my watch and spoke quickly. "I seem to have forgotten the time, Mrs. Creighton. I didn't realize it was so close to seven thirty. Do give me a call when you can. Right now I'm afraid I might he needed inside."

  "Yes, you run on now," Howard Creighton said to me, his eyes sad. "Come along now, Martha. You know his name. Just try to remember. Just try."

  I sighed as I picked up my pace. I didn't mean to be rude, but mentioning the urn only reminded me of the afternoon's telephone conversation, and now Mrs. Creighton had conjured up memories of Mother's long battle with Alzheimer's. Couldn't I have just one night of fun? And people think doctors hate cocktail parties because they have to dole out free medical advice. Add appraisers to the list.

  INSIDE THE MUSEUM the liquor was flowing and the atmosphere was much cheerier.

  The occasion was a Starvation Party to raise money so the museum could purchase a recently discovered letter from Robert E. Lee written to one Armistead Hanley, the great-greatgrandfather of one of Leemont's town leaders. One of Armistead Hanley's sons had married a New York belle during the Gay Nineties, and the letter had passed along that Yankee line, rather than the Southern strand that had remained in Virginia.

  The letter, a brief but moving explanation of why young men were needed for the great Confederate cause, had been offered on eBay. It had sold for a pittance to a shrewd rare-book dealer. Probably for no more than seven or eight thousand dollars, I'd learned from a Civil War buff. Now the dealer was offering the letter to the Leemont Museum-to the tune of twenty-five thousand. Outrageous markup maybe, but no worse than that charged by jewelers and car dealers. The museum was dying to have the letter, but funds were scant. So they were holding a Starvation Party, that revered Virginia tradition suggested by Moe Taylor, the board president, last October.

  "That's what our brave Confederate ancestors did to raise money for the Great Cause," she had proclaimed at the joint meeting of the entertainment and fund-raising committees. "Why, they barely had enough to eat, but they kept their high spirits. That's what we should do. Make sacrifices but still have fun. The food's the greatest expense for any party. I say we all will need to lose a few pounds after Christmas."

  Moe drew herself up to her imposing five-foot nine-and-ahalf-inch height, pulled in her ample stomach, and sucked in her puffy cheeks to accent her once prominent cheekbones. She pursed her red lips, demurely dabbed at her eyes, and took a deep, swelling breath. She lowered her booming voice in volume and pitch. "Remember, this is for another Great Causethe memory of our very own brave departed. Everyone will love it."

  A dramatic woman anyway, Moe Taylor had pulled out all the stops that day.

  John Ross Weatherspoon, looking rather like a Confederate officer reincarnated in the twenty-first century, leaned back in his chair, rubbed his beard, and added his practical two cents' worth. "What about the liquor?"

  "Now, John Ross!" Cora Mae Brown, the wife of Pastor Brown, chastised him. Then she added, "He's right, though, Moe. No one will come if we don't have ... spirits."

  And so, after some discussion, it was unanimously voted that the Christmas party would he canceled and a January Starvation Party would he held in its place-with ample spirits and a few bowls of peanuts thrown in for good measure. True to Moe's promise, the novel idea had brought out the town's illustrious luminaries in their diamonds and their Dia- moniques. Outside, spotlights shone on the bronze statue of Jefferson Davis, president of the fallen Confederacy. Awash in the bright lights that heightened his lean, tragically heroic demeanor, Davis cut a magnificent figure.

  Inside, candles, carefully guarded by museum docents, cast a soft glow of flickering light and shadow, reminiscent of bygone days.

  "Surely they didn't mean a real Starvation Party," a male voice said behind me, breaking my trance.

  "Shhhh. Please don't make a scene. We can go out to the club afterward. Or call in a pizza if you want," a woman's voice pleaded.

  "Damn right we will. Whose cockamamie idea was this, anyway? The hysterical society's?" He laughed as if he were the first to think up the overused cliche.

  I moved into the parlor. Whoever they were, I didn't want to get caught by them. Had I known I would run right into Roy Madison, I might have taken my chances and stayed put.

  "Sterling!"

  Putting his arm around my shoulder, Roy gave me that long-lost fraternity brother hug, like he hadn't seen me since the last party. Amazing how a scotch on the rocks can warm a body up.

  "You aren't going to talk business, are you, Roy?"

  Cassie Madison, looking cheery in a Christmas-red dinner suit, leaned into her husband. She reached up and straightened Roy's black tie, which didn't need straightening at all. I threw a sympathetic smile her way. Roy dropped his arm from my shoulder.

  "Just for a minute, Cassie. Look, Sterling, after we talked I went in to see El Presidente. We decided the only thing to do is go ahead and sell the coffee-tea urn." He grinned in satisfaction.

  "See? I'm learning." He took a short swig of his long drink. "We've got it locked up in the safe, but we don't want to mess with it. What would the bank do with it?"

  "Are you serious about this?" I looked Roy straight in the eye, trying to forget everything about Hope House.

  "Dead serious. What do we need to do to get rid of it? Nobody around here's gonna drop that kind of money for a pie
ce of silver. Can you take care of it? For a fee, of course." He smiled his most persuasive cocktail-party smile.

  "It'll have to go to New York to one of the major auction houses."

  "And you with it, I presume."

  I shrugged.

  The antiques market was still going strong, even in New York. Most everyone had expected the bottom to fall out of the antiques market after September 11, 2001, when everyone's lives had fallen apart. Who would have thought they could still think about antiques? But I knew the power that things held over people and even in hard times they would buy antiques -saying it was for sentimental reasons. In truth, though, there was more to it than that. In times good and had, antiques were the collector's comfort food.

  I'd seen how objects from the past provided people with a much needed sense of security. Every time a picture was stolen from a museum or objects were looted during wartime, it was a reminder to the modern world that old things could be just as fragile as people. Buying something that had managed to survive hundreds, sometimes thousands, of years of war and turmoil was a way that we humans could entertain immortality, grasp at a little bit of hope, possess something that we believed would outlive us. Owning antiques-touching them, feeling them, gazing upon them-was a subtle, unspoken way of assuring ourselves that everything would be all right.

  That was why serious antiquers flocked to New York the last week in January, myself included. It was the Super Bowl week of the antiques world. Three major events were held in Manhattan that week-two major auction sales and the famed Winter Antiques Show, where the most elite American and a handful of British and Continental dealers showed off their finest wares. The auctions and the show were a great place for collectors-if their pockets were deep enough. And I intended to be there right beside them.

  Cassie impatiently shifted her weight from one dainty foot to the other.

  "Look, banks ship millions of dollars' worth of bonds and securities all by their dear little selves-every day," Roy said.

  "It was worth a try."

  "Hey." He threw his hands up in protest. "I didn't say no. We owe you one for all that research. You've never overcharged us. Yet. Make a deal with you. We'll pay your airfare and your hourly fee while you're setting up the deal. No per diem and no pay for your travel time. Just go ahead and do it."

  That was Roy's subtle way of cutting whatever bill I would present to the bank for the work I'd already done. Even though I felt I had the bank's business sewn up, there was always the chance another appraiser would offer them lower rates. Offering me this trip ensured that I'd keep my rates down.

  "Really, Roy. Can't you all discuss this during office hours?" Cassie said, growing more agitated.

  "Deal," I said.

  What sweeter way to get my already purchased ticket to New York paid for? I didn't steal from the rich or the poor, but when I had the chance to pick up a few extra bucks by working a couple of jobs at once, I jumped at it, especially when big business was paying. I told Roy I'd go to New York on Thursday. We would both come out ahead. First thing Monday morning, he'd prepare papers giving me permission to dispose of the urn in the most expedient and profitable way.

  "Now you two kids run on off and enjoy the, uh . . ." I couldn't say food. "Peanuts. Virginia peanuts, of course."

  I watched the Madisons walk arm in arm toward the drink table.

  There was no real reason for me to take the urn to New York; all the auction house dealings could be handled over the phone. I'd done it umpteen times before. Was this Roy's way of keeping me quiet about the bank's involvement with the old factory building, or had some "higher-up" suggested it, I wondered.

  Cassie was talking to her husband a mile a minute. Despite my uncomfortable feelings about Roy and his professional honesty, I hated to see him henpecked. It was like he was getting it from both sides, at work and at home. On the other hand, maybe if I'd pecked at Hank a little more, I wouldn't have been another single woman at the party. High-maintenance wives had a way of holding on to their husbands.

  I looked around. I certainly didn't want to follow the Madisons to the bar. The room was filling up. It looked like the museum would raise the needed cash, or close to it.

  "Excuse me. Aren't you Sterling Glass? The antiques lady?"

  I turned to face a tall, heavyset, but pleasant-enough-looking man. But unlike the majority of the men there who wore the traditional dark suit with silk tie, this fellow was sporting a string tie held in place by a Confederate flag slip. These museum events with a connection to what some Southerners called the Recent Unpleasantness, brought in all sorts of folks intent on living in the glorified antebellum days. But as long as they paid their pledges in Federal Reserve greenbacks, they were welcomed.

  I groaned to myself. I nodded.

  His close-set eyes gave me the once-over. Another had sign.

  "This museum's got some pretty nice stuff," he said, tipping his head in the direction of the silver and china display. "I bet you know whar there's all sorts of valuable things. They tell me you know all about antiques." He smiled a confident, toothy smile. Obviously he was settling in for a long conversation. I started looking for an escape route. A whiff of aftershave lotion wafted my way.

  "I wouldn't go that far. There's lots I don't know," I said, looking over his left shoulder in hopes of finding some way out, all the while wondering why guys like this always had such full heads of hair. And they always combed it straight back in a sleazy way.

  "You need to come see my collection. Appraise it. I've got lots of valuable things. If the damn Yankees hadn't come along I'd a had more. I live out in the Dixon Springs area now, but my family came from the Petersburg area. You know what happened there."

  Every Virginian worth his salt knew about the strangling nine-month-long Siege of Petersburg that devastated the town, starved the civilians, slaughtered the forces, South and North, and struck a major blow that eventually led to the downfall of the Confederacy. But I wasn't thinking about that tragic event. I was thinking that if Southerners like this guy who were still bemoaning their families' lost treasures (if they ever had them) would just hang it up, they'd fare a lot better. His things? At that moment I was much more concerned about the very mysterious silver urn than I was about any trinkets this fellow's family might have had.

  "Excuse me," I said. "I haven't gotten a drink yet."

  GLASS IN HAND, I was starting toward the gallery rooms in the back of the museum when Peter caught up with me.

  "Been looking all over for you."

  "I wish you'd found me earlier," I said.

  Peter led me over to the side of the room. "You had no more than left the store when look what showed up." He pulled an antique diamond brooch from the inside breast pocket of his tuxedo. "Shhh. Don't make a big show," he warned me, quickly closing his fingers as someone passed by.

  I swallowed my shock. "Where did that come from?" I whispered.

  "You aren't going to believe it. If I were a swearing man, I'd swear this is the most unbelievable find yet. LaTisha was pricing the kitchen items that the bank sent over from Sarah Rose Wilkins's place. Mixed in with the old things there were some brand-new towels and pot holders. Not one of those pot holders you double up. One that you put your whole hand in. Like-" Peter held out his free hand, fingers closed and thumb wiggling, to demonstrate.

  I nodded. "Yes."

  "Anyway, LaTisha said her mamma needed a new pot holder, so she was trying one on for size when she felt something sharp. When she looked to see what it was, this is what she found."

  Peter unclasped his fingers. A floral spray of three large blossoms, each blossom set with a single pearl encircled by old mine-cut diamonds and accented by small, diamond-set leaves, glistened in Peter's palm. Silvered prongs held the stones in place. The mounting itself was gold.

  "Peter!" I said.

  "Here, give me your wine before you spill it. And stop frowning so." He nudged me with his elbow at the same time he swept his hair away o
ff his brow. "People will think I'm the bearer of some horrible news."

  "For all I know, you are. It doesn't make sense. I went through Sarah Rose Wilkins's things. I never saw this."

  "Of course you didn't. Who'd look inside a pot holder for a diamond brooch?"

  I put my hands on my cheeks, stuck my little fingers in my mouth and bit them, hoping that would help me think more clearly.

  "If anyone were to look at you right now, they'd think you'd seen a ghost," Peter said, laughing.

  I put my hands down and managed a fake smile. "That better? But I think I have ... seen a ghost, or a ghost's lost pin. Look, it just doesn't make any sense for two such valuable objects to show up like that. The police said there wasn't any foul play. But what if ..."

  The wheels in my head were frantically spinning. But my thoughts were stuck in a quagmire.

  "What if what? Don't be silly." Peter dismissed my suspicions with such finality that I felt like an idiot. Good old unflappable Peter, I was thinking. Then he held the pin out to me.

  "Want to wear it?" he asked. "It would go well with your pearls. Liven up your dress a little."

  "You're not kidding it would. That baby would make a dirty apron look like a Chanel creation. You think I'd wear it and have to tell everybody where it came from? Me? A divorced woman? Not in this town."

  Peter threw his head back in laughter. "Hadn't thought about it like that."

  "So? What are you going to do?" I asked as he slipped the brooch back into his pocket.

  "Reward LaTisha. Give her the pot holder and a raise. And maybe let her pick out a piece of costume jewelry from the case," he said as an afterthought.

  "With that, I mean." I stared straight at his pocket, stopping short of calling him stupid. Or worse.