by Emyl Jenkins
"Don't you think I should wait and give this information to your police officer?" Nigel asked.
"You can, but if you have the number handy . . ." I swallowed hard, thought fast, and turned on every bit of charm I could muster.
"Nigel, I know where there's a great Queen Anne side chair. Beautifully figured burr walnut. Period piece and untouched. No repairs. Never been out of the family."
"Really? No repairs? Never? Are you-"
I cut him off. "Never. And they're thinking about selling."
"Really? Yes. Well. Oh, I see it now, here's the file. The package came in by U.S. mail, heavily insured, of course. The num- her? Here. It's one of those toll-free numbers. 888. And, hello! What's this? There's another number here. Ah, that's the fax. It's 804. That's your area code, isn't it? Hmmm. Strange. Yes. Well. You know I don't make all my calls or send my own faxes, Sterling," Nigel said, simultaneously covering up and dismissing his oversight. "Burr walnut, you say. What date? Good condition?"
"Great condition. Totally original. Date? Probably 1715. 1720. Did I mention that it has ball and claw feet?"
I heard a gleeful gasp on the other end of the line.
"I missed that number, Nigel. Could you repeat it? 804..."
By the time I hung up, I was tingling with excitement. Instantly I dialed in to call-waiting to find out whether it was Peter or Ed who had called. Should I reveal now what I had just learned or play coy, I wondered?
That was no longer an issue when I heard the weak voice that had left the message.
"Ms. Glass? Is this Sterling? Ah, I'm sorry I missed you," Sol Hobstein said. "So much has happened. I need to talk to you. You'll call me when you get this."
There was a long pause in which Sol neither spoke nor hung up. Then once again, as if to be positive I would get the message again he said, "This is Sol, Sterling. Call me when you get this. Much has happened." Then he hung up.
God only knew what that meant.
I started to lapse into my Columbo mode, adding more issues to my already-full plate. I reached over to pick up the phone, then stopped. I was in a state of panic over Sol and Joey, but what could I do? I was in Leemont; they were in Brooklyn.
"Yes. Well. It will just have to wait," I said resolutely, sounding disturbingly like Nigel. "And you, too, Roy Madison."
Fact was, everything would have to he put on hold while I tried to process the information from Nigel. The Meissen pieces would be coming up for sale shortly. It would be terrible if they were sold. And once the urn was cataloged, it would have a lot number assigned in that sale. Pulling items out of an auction always looked bad for the auction house.
I was pacing about when I caught a glance of myself in the long beveled-glass mirror I had hung between two windows. The wild hair. The circles under the eyes. The frantic, worried look and accompanying wrinkles. Only a few short days ago I'd gotten all dolled up for the museum party and looked pretty good, if I did say so myself. My biggest concern that day had been some insider scam the Leemont bank and local politicians were working to put money in their pockets. Now here I was sucked into the middle of a scandal that everyone seemed to think I held the key to unlocking. And some five hundred miles away, where I wouldn't even have had anyone to call on to help or protect me, I'd put myself in who-knows-what kind of danger over a bunch of figurines that the owner hadn't thought enough of to pay any mind to for decades.
What had happened to the good old days when I went into nice peoples' houses to count their Chantilly silver flatware and Wedgwood china? I had to have a screw loose.
Well, I couldn't do anything about that right now, either.
I glanced back in the mirror. I really did look a fright. Major repair work lay ahead before the fellows got here.
BY THE TIME Ed and Peter arrived at 11 A.M. sharp, I was remarkably well composed considering the circumstances. The curling iron and a little makeup had helped immensely. After my encounter with painted and powdered Jane Finn, I'd started to pay more attention than usual to that daily routine. Less really can be more. I'd seen.
More important, I had the pages in the Layton's catalog and the Hanesworth appraisal clearly marked with Post-its.
On a legal pad I had outlined the sequence of events beginning with finding the urn and ending with this morning's telephone calls. Next I had made a list of the players as best I could, from Sarah Rose Wilkins to the young kid in the roofing crew who had ratted on Dwayne Sloggins. I might have been able to spy a made-up highboy or a married secretary-bookcase across the room, but this kind of detective work was a new game and I wasn't about to make a fool of myself if I could help it.
Nothing beats being ready for any situation, Mother always said. Actually, she would begin by quoting Dante-I am prepared for Fortune as she wills-and then launch into a long lecture about how, if you were really prepared, you were in control of your own destiny, invariably ending with Remember, luck comes to the prepared mind. In a last-minute gesture, I made a note about the pickup truck I'd seen twice yesterday, then scratched through it. Mentioning such a far-fetched coincidence would make me look dumb.
If anything, I was overprepared when Peter, Ed, and I settled around the antique drop-leaf table.
I went over with Ed all my new discoveries-finding the Meissen pieces that matched the Hanesworths' china in the Layton's catalog. And when we compared information, it turned out that the person who had sent those pieces to Nigel had the same 888 number printed on Dwayne Sloggins's business card and an 804 area code fax number.
Ed was ready to move in on Jane Finn. We went over the objects we'd seen in her home, items out of place for a woman of her apparent means-the diamond ring and bracelet, the large silver vase, the nice nineteenth-century brass candlestick, the Rose Medallion tea caddy, the leather-bound Dickens volume, and, of course, the soup tureen.
"If we get to her house now, she may be asleep after working all night. Surprise always works in our favor," Ed said.
Despite my outward show of bravado and preparedness, fear suddenly struck my heart.
"We? Now?"
"Now," Ed said brusquely, standing up.
I hung back. "You don't really need me along," I said hopefully. "Surely it wouldn't be, well, legal, for me to be there."
"Smart gal you got there," Ed said to Peter. Then to me he said, "Actually, I checked with the chief. We don't have an expert on things like silver and china and stuff in the department. It's not like this was a computer or technology crime that we could handle ourselves these days. The chief checked with the museum, and they said you know all that stuff as well as they do, and values probably better, so it's all perfectly legal. So, let's get a move on."
I cast a helpless look Peter's way. "Do I have to?"
Ed threw a look at Peter who had been most quiet through most of our discussion. Caught crosswise between the two of us, Peter looked uncomfortable. What else could he do but shrug.
"This is your case. I'm just a retired priest," he said to Ed.
"Now let me get this straight," Ed snapped. "You're just an appraiser," he said accusingly to me. "And you're just a retired priest," he said, looking Peter straight in the eye.
Every muscle in Ed's face rippled when he spoke. "And I'm just Tinkerbell who happened to fly in your open window. Damn it. Excuse me, Rev," he nodded in Peter's direction, "but you two have helped bust up a whole ring of thieves who are preying on innocent old folks like your parents. And now you're backing down? Hey, this isn't any Jonah and the whale adventure story. We-" Ed stopped and looked directly at first me, then Peter.
"You, you, and me. We're going to Nineveh now. This ship's leaving and we're all going to be on it, or the whale's going to be waiting in the wings. And I don't have to tell you what happened to Jonah."
"Since you put it that way," Peter said, visibly caught off guard at Ed's apt biblical reference.
I stood helplessly by. Only rarely had my parents made me go to Sunday school-and I didn't take Bib Lit in co
llege. I took my cue from Peter. "Since you put it that way," I said.
When the phone rang, I jumped. "Saved by the bell," I said brightly.
"Make it quick," Ed said as he pulled into his overcoat.
I put my finger up to my lips to silence him when I heard Matt's voice.
"I got the answer on the first call to Charlottesville," Matt said. "Their fax explaining it has just come in. Let me read along here. It seems the Hanesworths had a new roof put on in May of last year. Put in a claim because of, ah, right here it says, ah, something about water damage."
Ed motioned to me to speed it along.
I glared at him and pointed to Matt Yardley's name on the insurance papers.
"Water? On the roof? I wouldn't have thought that roof water damage would be covered," I said into the phone after a moment's silence, while Matt obviously was continuing to read the claim to himself.
"For you and me, maybe not. But with the kind of policy some very rich people have, they can put in a claim if they have a dripping faucet. Whether or not it gets paid-that's a different matter."
"Water? Water damage?" Ed boomed out loudly.
"Am I interrupting anything?" Matt asked.
"Ed Pavich, the Leemont detective I mentioned to you, he and I are going over things, and Peter Donaldson. Peter's my friend who discovered the Georgian pin," I explained to Matt.
"Water damage. Rotting timbers. That was Sloggins's ploy," Ed said, drowning me out halfway through my sentence.
"Do you want to speak to Ed?" I asked Matt.
"I'd be happy to, of course, at the right time. Right now, though, all I see that's relevant is, yes, there was a roofing job carried out at the Hanesworths' house." In contrast to Ed's rough manner, Matt Yardley sounded restrained. He paused again. "If you might give me just a minute here ..
I put my hand over the speaker, threw Ed, who was rocking back and forth, just dying to grab the phone out of my hand, a noncommittal shrug, and whispered, "He just says that yes, they did have some roof work done."
"There was money paid," Matt was saying, "paid to, well, looks like it's a reimbursement to the Hanesworths. Wait. There's an invoice here. The letterhead says ... a Dwayne Sloggins. Just a name. Not a company. No corporation or title listed."
"Sloggins?" I repeated.
Ed lurched forward. I held up my hand to temporarily halt him.
"Matt, here's Ed Pavich. You two had better talk after all." I handed the phone like a hot potato over to Pavich's waiting hand.
Miraculously, Ed managed to slow down, at least until he and Matt had finished talking. That's when he launched into action quicker than Barnum and Bailey's human cannonball flew through the air.
We were on our way to Jane Finn's house.
Chapter 23
Dear Antiques Expert: My grandmother willed a set of 12 Gorham sterling silver goblets to me because they are monogrammed with her initials and those are my initials, too. I appreciate the thought, but they just aren't suited to my lifestyle and I would rather have the money to buy something I can enjoy and could say came from her. I've been told that because they are monogrammed they won't sell for as much as if they were plain. Is that true?
Many centuries ago, when silver was considered the same as money, silver pieces were engraved with the family's coat of arms, or armorial, to provide proof of ownership. Later, in America, where there was no royalty, the owner's initials, or monogram, were used. Furthermore, engraving was considered an art in itself. But fashions change, and today, unless the silver dates from the 18th or 19th century, people tend to want unmonogrammed pieces. While you can probably sell the goblets privately for $350-500, a dealer would more likely pay $200-250 for the set.
DRIVING OUT TO Jane Finn's house, my only consolation was having two men with me-a minister to offer comfort and support; the other, a police officer to carry out the letter of the law. That would have seemed to cover most of life's bases.
We had no more than stepped inside Mrs. Finn's house before the evidence backed up Pavich's claim that, like gypsies, scam artists kept on the move. Jane Finn was taken by surprise all right, but she was hardly asleep. She had scissors in one hand, a marking pen behind one ear, and a roll of bubble wrap half-blocked the doorway.
"Going somewhere?" Ed asked, sparing no words. "Did Sloggins tell you to do this? Or was this your own idea?"
"Loggins? I don't know any Loggins," she said innocently. "Is that somebody from around here? Don't know what you're talking about. I got a good job offer out of town and I'm taking it."
Either Finn had rehearsed what to say, just in case, or else she was a mighty quick thinker on her feet.
"Cut the act," Pavich said. "It's obvious you're trying to get rid of the evidence."
Jane Finn had made no attempt to pack anything in her house except the most precious and expensive items, and those she obviously was carefully packing and labeling for shipping, not for casual loading in the back of a car or a U-Haul.
"So, why are you just taking the good stuff? What about those lamps over there?" Ed nodded in the direction of the pebbled-glass lamps.
"You tell me why you're going to need a silver vase, not a lamp, to read by," Pavich said as he reached into the unsealed box on the floor by the table where the vase sat. He extracted the vase from the box, strewing white Styrofoam popcorn all about as he did so.
He stepped around the box and headed straight to the dining room. The Meissen tureen and silver ladle were still in the center of the table. Next to it was a roll of bubble wrap, tape, a package of address labels, and more scissors.
"And I guess you're going to be serving lobster bisque from your soup tureen to the friends you're planning to make on your new job. Well, let me tell you, Mrs. Finn," Ed said, "it's a good thing they aren't serving bread and water in tin cans in jail anymore, because that's exactly where you're headed, not to some society luncheon with the hoity-toity. Maybe you'll get some Campbell's tomato soup served up in a fancy white Styrofoam bowl. If you're a good girl, they'll even give you a plastic spoon to eat it with."
"You don't have nothing on me," Jane Finn replied, her voice beginning to quiver slightly. "I've worked hard. I saved my money to buy nice things. Just because I have some nice things, you don't have any reason to come snooping around. Rich people aren't the only ones who have things. Now you get out."
This definitely was not my idea of a fun time. I glanced over at Peter. I was expecting him to speak up, to take mercy on this pitiful, defenseless older woman-an orphan and a widow, no less-being beaten by Ed Pavich's bulldog manner. But Peter's usually gentle eyes were cold. His lips were reduced to a thin, white angry line, his jaw set. This was a Peter I'd never seen before.
Before I knew it, I heard my own voice saying, "But Mrs. Finn, you told me these were your grandmother's things ..."
Ed and Peter both swung around. Peter broke in before I could say anything more.
"Mrs. Finn, you told Ms. Glass that these were your grand mother's things, but Ms. Glass has found out differently. Take that big silver coffeepot."
I couldn't believe my ears. Peter, in a voice I'd never heard him use, was heartlessly attacking Jane Finn as brutally and relentlessly as Ed had. What had happened to his Christian charity? If I felt sorry for Jane Finn, why didn't he? And he was calling that precious tea urn I'd spent hours fretting over a coffeepot. What was he doing? He knew better than that.
"Now, if that coffeepot had really belonged to your grandmother, then why did you take it to Mrs. Wilkins's apartment and hide it in a paper bag in a closet? Mrs. Finn, you didn't even know Mrs. Wilkins."
A flicker of surprised worry flashed across Jane Finn's face. After being up all night on her job and trying to figure out what to do next, she must have momentarily forgotten about the urn. If I'd been in her shoes, I would have known the tea urn was the most valuable piece of all. It would have been front and center in my mind all along. But I was thinking like an appraiser.
Peter wa
sn't done.
"And that pearl and diamond pin you left at Mrs. Wilkins's hidden away inside the oven mitt. Now you tell me why you'd be hiding your grandmother's fine jewelry inside some other woman's oven mitt."
Again, Jane Finn seemed jolted, but she instantly recovered. She stared at Peter in defiance. For half a moment, though, as her painted lips curled, her eyes silently seemed to ask how he knew about the pin. "You don't scare me. Dwayne's got lawyers. He's a rich man."
"That's Dwayne Sloggins, isn't it, Mrs. Finn?" Ed Pavich said. "The Mr. Loggins that you never heard of. Now you listen to me. All his money isn't going to help you now. For starters he's transported stolen property across state lines. He's used the United States Postal Service to ship the goods-a federal offense. And, most important," Ed said, "he's been scamming the poor, helpless elderly. That's about like an eighteen-wheeler crossing a yellow line to pass a stopped school bus that's unloading a bunch of kindergarteners. We jack up the jail for criminals like that. And you think he's gonna be taking care of you? Looks to me like you're his partner in this deal. If I were you, I'd start telling all I know. That would help you more than all of Dwayne Sloggins's money and lawyers put together," he said.
The room fell dead quiet. Looking at Peter, who she must've thought was a detective, Jane Finn spoke, her tone growing more defiant.
"You're not going to pin any damn murder rap on me," she said. "I didn't touch that old woman."
Peter and I threw each other startled glances.
"If you don't want that charge added to the list, then you'd better come clean," Ed said calmly. "Tell us just what did happen."
"Phfff," she hissed, shrugging. She turned her back on the men. "All I did was go back to get the silver pot and the pin."
"Why'd you put 'em there, anyway?" Ed said. "Why not bring 'em here?"
"Okay. Look." Jane Finn stepped back and slumped onto the sofa. She heaved a long, heavy sigh. "I didn't know what I was doing. I just saw these things and liked them. Why should those old folks have them? They didn't even use them ... old people too blind to even see."