Stealing With Style

by Emyl Jenkins

  Though the mirror's design is Oriental, the term "japanning" refers to the technique used to paint and decorate the frame. To achieve the shiny finish, several coats of varnish or lacquer are applied to the wood. Bits of gesso-like material are then affixed to the lacquer to give some of the details their "raised" look. Finally, the scenes are hand-painted. Japanning originated in the Orient, but became popular in Western countries during the 16th and 17th centuries. Because paint flakes and chips, antique jappaned pieces in good condition, especially American ones, are rare and costly.

  TALK IN THE antiques world before Layton's January auction sale had been that one piece might bring over a million. When the hammer fell for the last time, a Philadelphia tea table and Newport secretary-bookcase had hit that golden mark. A pair of ball and claw-footed Queen Anne console tables had just missed it. And I was there to witness it all.

  It was almost 6 P.M. when the auction was over, but that left a little time to scoot over to Park Avenue and East Sixtyseventh Street for a walk through the Seventh Regiment Armory Winter Antiques Show. My original plan had been to treat myself to a nice, albeit lonely, meal at Oscar's, the legendary meeting place tucked away in the Waldorf's Madison Avenue entrance. I'd eat around 8 P.m., while everyone else was at the theater, try to get a good night's sleep, then hit the antiques show on Sunday.

  But ever since my meeting with Matt Yardley at Babson and Michaels, I'd had a persistent, gnawing urge to get back to Leemont to get to the bottom of Sarah Rose Wilkins's supposed urn and pin. I hated to leave Sol hanging in midair. But I could do my research at home more efficiently by combing the Internet and making some well-placed phone calls for information about Art Deco figures than I could by aimlessly wandering around New York's antiques spots. God knows I didn't want to chance bumping into Anna and that creepy Ralph Whoever-he-was again.

  I'd checked on the status of the early Sunday morning flight with US Air. Everything looked fine.

  AFTER A YEAR'S stint at the New York Hilton following the September 11 tragedy, the Winter Antiques Show, the Armory Show to old-timers, had returned to its customary home and usual glamour. More proof that the antiques world survived and thrived, even in the worst of times. Once again things were back to normal. Magnificent arrangements of exotic lilies, orchids, proteas, delphiniums, and bells of Ireland flown in from around the world adorned the booths set up in the vast, cement-floored Armory space. The brilliant array of flowers equaled the beauty of the antiques on display. It really was a glorious sight.

  The star of the show, though not the most expensive item, was a completely original circa 1730 to 1750 black lacquered Boston highboy recently discovered in Omaha, Nebraska. Early japanned highboys with exotic Asian designs have long been scarcer than hens' teeth. Sometime in the later 1860s the highboy had traveled west with the son of an old Boston family who was looking to add more wealth to the family's coffers. It had passed down from one family member to the other until a couple of years ago, when the last direct family descendant died and a nephew who inherited the piece called in a local dealer.

  The lacquer on the highboy was in such excellent condition that the dealer first thought it was an old copy, only about 125 years old. But when she learned it had arrived in Omaha in 1867 or 1868, she began doing her homework and realized that it was the real thing. When word of the highboy leaked out, a shrewd New York dealer convinced the equally shrewd Omaha dealer to let him show the highboy at this premier show for a cut. No price was given on the laminated sheet citing the highboy's provenance and history through the centuries. Rather, at the bottom of the page was written, "Only serious collectors should inquire further about this piece." Rumor was that the asking price was a little over one million dollars.

  The highboy set the tone for the show in quality, age, rarity, and price; rumor was that a great Windsor chair had actually sold at the preview party for six figures, and a Southern quilt, not too unlike the one Peter had rescued a few years back, had sold for somewhere around thirty-five thousand dollars.

  And everyone had said the market would be dead.

  Every year Lita Solis-Cohen wrote in MAD (the Maine Antique Digest, that Bible for all serious antiques lovers), that people attended the Winter Show not just for the antiques and a chance to see the array of quirky, obnoxious, and lovable dealers but also to hear the insider gossip. I didn't pay much attention to the trade gossip; after all, Leemont was a long way from New York and the Main Line antiques world that stretched from Delaware up to Maine and Vermont. But I listened to it just for the fun of it all. And that night, things were anything but just "things." The determined buyers, using high-roller phrases such as "investment quality," "blue chip," and "future return," made me wonder if I was on the corner of Park and East Sixty-seventh or downtown on Wall Street.

  Eavesdropping on the serious shoppers' conversations, I might have thought that despite the exorbitant prices, people were walking away with the steal of the new century. Even among the idle lookers-the beautiful people, the ones there to be seen rather than to buy but so wealthy that I thought of them as above such everyday sentiments and emotions-I overheard gushing comments about "my grandmother's pearl and diamond starburst pin" or "my great-great-great-aunt Margaret's exquisite coin silver water pitcher" or "my greatgreat-grandfather's gold pocket watch." And to hear them tell it, Well! there wasn't one piece being shown in that most glo rious of all antiques shows that was half as good as the now lost family treasures owned by their dear, departed ancestors.

  Now you tell me that stuff is just stuff.

  Unfortunately for me, other than a couple of stunning Art Nouveau silver pieces by Martele, there were very few twentiethcentury pieces at the show. And no Deco figurines.

  I had no regrets when I left the hotel the next morning to catch a flight back to Leemont.

  IT FELT GOOD to get home.

  I waited until after the church hour to call Peter. He said he'd he straight over. Had I noted a slight concern in his voice? Was he as anxious to see me as I was to see him?

  "Sight for sore eyes," Peter said when I opened the door.

  "I'm probably going to make your ears sore, I have so much to tell you," I warned him. "Hot tea?"

  Peter settled down in the high-back wing chair to the side of the fireplace, which he'd claimed as his own the very first time he'd come over. While we drank tea I told him about my encounters with Sol and Richie, and then Anna and Maribelle in the antiques mall, and later, Anna and Ralph. And then Matt Yardley and the Babson and Michaels claim.

  "What a mess," I said, stopping my blathering to catch my breath, but finding enough air to add, "all of it!"

  "And you loved every minute of it." Peter smiled.

  "I did not. And you could be a little more sympathetic," I shot back. Lowering my eyes in mock guilt I admitted, "Well, yes, I did. But that's not to say that I'm not worried about these things," I added empathically.

  "Let me give you something else to worry about, then."

  "What now?"

  "I called Lieutenant Pavich after we talked. He didn't seem very interested in the pin."

  "Why not?" I said.

  "Because he was out of the office a lot. Distracted at the time. But there may be a tie-in between why he was distracted and the mysterious pin."

  "Oh?"

  Peter put his teacup down and leaned forward. He wrinkled his brow and ran his hand over his mouth, the way people do when wrestling with what to say next.

  "Well?" I said impatiently.

  "For some time now the Leemont police have had complaints about a roofing company that comes to town, goes into the better neighborhoods, and calls on old folks who live there," Peter began. "One guy goes first, hands out his card, and says he sees a problem with the roof. Of course it's an older house and there probably is some reason for the people to think their roof might need repair.

  "So the man checks out the problem and he returns with a couple of damaged pieces of roofing. He shows these to
the people and says he'd like to check the attic to see if there's any sign of leaking or water damage. They let him do that, of course, and he comes back with a piece of rotting wood."

  "Obviously he keeps the bad wood and roofing with him," I said.

  "Obviously. So once he's convinced them that the job needs to be done, he quotes them a price. Now this fellow doesn't want any time to lapse so they can change their minds. He says that he just happens to have a crew that's finishing up a job around the corner at the So-and-so's house. In several instances, the police learned, the person tries to call Mr. So-and-so."

  "Let me guess," I chirped in. "Mr. So-and-so just happens not to be at home."

  "Right. Because, the con man says, `Mr. So-and-so has already paid us and left us to finish the job up. He ran out to do some errands."'

  "Which makes the new victim all the more trusting."

  "You got it. These guys haven't even been near the So-andso's house-except to ring the doorbell to be sure no one's at home. The crew appears at the new victim's house in about five minutes. That poor soul writes the con man a check. The crew crawls all around the house hammering and making noise and not doing much of anything."

  "And the business card?"

  "When you call the number, an 888 number of course, you get a recording, or, on occasion, a live person who tells you that the fellow isn't in, he's out on a job, but he'll return the call. Now, if you and I were faced with this situation, we'd get to the bottom of it, but remember, it's a con game on the elderly. Sometimes they don't even remember having had the job done. Or they've lost the card. Or they are too embarrassed to tell their kids or friends what has happened when they realize they've been set up."

  I nodded, remembering the sad, diminishing mental state of my mother. I clearly understood how it all could happen.

  "What does this have to do with Sarah Rose Wilkins? She lived in an apartment house."

  "That's coming ... or at least part of it. So," Peter continued, "it seems that jenny Emerson, you know her, she's Craig Emerson's youngest daughter, she's an attorney up in D.C. She was coming to Leemont to check on her dad. She arrives, only to find this crew of young guys swarming all over Craig's house. Now Craig was in the construction business for years. If he needed roofing done, he would have called his own company, except-"

  "Except everyone's known that Craig Emerson has had Alzheimer's for years now."

  "That's right." Peter shook his head emphatically. "But the kids have been keeping him at home until he can't function anymore ... or probably until one of them feels ready to come back and move into their father's mansion. Anyway, Jenny Emerson's a smart gal. She played dumb, greeted her dad and his housekeeper, thanked the roofing guys for being there, told them she had to get some groceries, and came back with the police. The police had had enough complaints that they could question the guys pretty hard about lots of names and addresses. Finally, one of the younger helpers fessed up, which is how they found out how who the ring leader was."

  "But the pin? The urn? How does this connect? Were they stealing things from these houses?"

  "That's what's not quite so clear. Just listen to what happened. You'll see why Pavich needs your help."

  "My help?"

  I'd moved to the edge of the settee. When I scooted closer I kicked the butler's tray with the tea, almost knocking it over.

  "Whoa, there!" Peter said, laughing as I caught myself and the table with one hand. "You're really getting into this."

  "What can I say?" I resettled myself and began tapping my foot. "So what happened?"

  Peter leaned further forward himself and clasped his hands in a preacherly way.

  "The con man is Dwayne Sloggins from over in the Dixon Springs area, around forty-five minutes from here."

  "I know where Dixon Springs is. What's he doing working for people in Leemont?"

  "Patience, Sterling. That's coming next. Sloggins's modus operandi was to hang around Leemont's better neighborhood drugstores or grocery stores and wait till some well-dressed old person was checking out. Then he would pick up a candy bar or gum from the racks by the checkout counter and get in line. If the old person and the cashier had a friendly conversation, when it was his turn, Sloggins would ask the cashier the person's name. He'd always do it in a familiar, friendly way, like, `That old man sure does look familiar. I used to deliver papers around here. He wouldn't he Reverend Andrews, would he? Looks so much like him.'

  "Now Pavich says that Dwayne Sloggins is a decent-looking guy, smooth and polite. Sort of a country good-ole boy. Naturally the chatty cashier wouldn't hesitate to say, `No ... that's Dr. McFarland,' or whomever. Sloggins would say he'd forgotten the fellow's name, or he didn't recognize the good doctor after all these years, or whatever.

  "That's when the cashier would tell Sloggins all about the old man or lady. Apparently, sometimes Sloggins would write down where the person lived, saying he thought he'd drop by and pay a friendly visit while he was in town, you know, for old time's sake. Other times, he'd just look the name and address up in the phone directory after he left the store."

  "So they've been able to track it all down. That was quick."

  "Well, not exactly all of it."

  Chapter 17

  Dear Antiques Expert: Our home was recently broken into, and we lost silver and jewelry and even some antique prints, plus brand-new electronic equipment. Ours was only one of a rash of break-ins in our neighborhood. The burglars were caught, but when the cases came to trial, they got off with really light sentences. Nobody can believe it. How can that be?

  You and I may find those light sentences reprehensible, but I remember hearing New York City's former "art cop," Bob Volpe, explain that you have to expose law-enforcement officers to the arts so they will have an understanding of the seriousness of personal property theft involving art and antiques. Unfortunately, even today not enough police officers know enough about art and antiques and their historical and monetary value to make a strong case against the thieves.

  PETER GOT UP and began pacing around the room.

  I couldn't resist. "Peter, have you seen Bagman lately?"

  "What?"

  "Have you seen Barefoot Bagman lately?"

  "No. Why? What on earth made you think about him? Especially now."

  "I don't know. Doesn't matter. I didn't mean to interrupt. I'm sorry. What were you about to tell me about the roof scammers?"

  "Well, the young guy who fessed up said that apparently Sloggins got some leads from a woman, but the fellow wasn't sure who. Sloggins wouldn't admit to anything, of course, but the kid said Sloggins made lots of cell phone calls just before giving them an address or directions to a job. The police ran down his calls and came up with the name of Jane Finn. Interestingly, she sits for old and sick people."

  "Makes sense. Does she live out in Dixon Springs, too?" I asked.

  "No. Here in Leemont. I'm told she's well thought of. Even Ed Pavich knew who she was. She had sat for the mother of one of Pavich's neighbors a few years back. Pavich had seen Finn around the neighborhood. Talked to her. Nice lady. Or so Pavich thought at the time."

  "What does she say? Has she admitted to anything?"

  "Not yet."

  "Well, what do the victims say? Had she sat for any of them?"

  "Just one or two it seems. Pavich's men are checking out the dates of when she sat for those families and when the roofing jobs were done. He hasn't gotten the reports yet. The police have to dot every i these days, you know; they still don't begin to know exactly how many people the guys have scammed, or even how widespread the scam is. The way I see it, if Sloggins came into Leemont, he could go over into Norfolk, even down to Raleigh."

  "One thing I do know, Peter," I said, "is that these sitters tend to be friends with one another and even switch off jobs for holidays, weekends. When I had to have sitters for Mother they were always giving one another's names as references. Who knows? Many more people than this Jane Finn might he in
volved. It could he a whole network."

  "Or she could have simply gathered information from other sitters and then passed it on to Sloggins," Peter said.

  "That's true, too. I know you get tired of hearing my mother's quotes," I said. "But `opportunity makes a thief.' Sir Frances Bacon."

  "Exactly." Peter nodded. "And there are lots of possibilities here for lots of people to have lots of opportunities to steal, I'd say."

  He paused, smiling.

  "Anyway, it's Pavich's job to sort all that out. Presently, though, Jane Finn seems to be the gal to watch. My gut feeling is that she's the link. She's how I've come to know about all this."

  I had been so intrigued with the story that I'd skipped right over asking how Peter had learned all this. "Oh? How's that?"

  "The morning I called Pavich, when he called me hack we only had a short conversation. As I said, he was rushed. Later, after Jane Finn's name came up in our conversation, I found out that he'd been in such a rush because he was dashing out to try to catch her at home," he said. "She's been working the third shift, so he was reasonably sure he'd find her there in the late afternoon, when night workers tend to sleep. She was at home but up and dressed.

  "Of course she didn't have any idea why Ed Pavich was calling on her. He'd arrived unannounced. But since they were nodding acquaintances from earlier times, she invited him in.

  "The first thing that caught Pavich's eye was a large silver vase on a table in the living room. It puzzled him, but he passed it off. Then, when he sat down on the sofa, he could see into the dining room. There was a beautiful porcelain soup tureen and a silver ladle that, according to Ed, looked very expensive."

  I opened my mouth to ask a question, but Peter beat me to it.

  "You're wondering how he would notice." Peter said. "Being a man and a police officer. Well, he told me how. Ed's wife isn't interested in anything except horses and race cars, but his baby sister married money, just like he did, and according to Ed, it didn't take his sister any time to develop fine taste so she could spend her husband's money. These days, when Ed and his family visit his sister in Baltimore, she carefully `educates'that's Ed's word-him all about her newest acquisitions. Tells him how old they are, where they came from, and especially how much they cost. He thinks that she's secretly trying to get Ed's wife interested in antiques-but it hasn't worked."