by Emyl Jenkins
"You're right," I repeated, "she doesn't know, or understand, much anymore. But she gets one thing stuck in her mind, that's the way Alzheimer's people do. She couldn't get her silver casserole dish-the one you took to Sarah Rose Wilkins's apartment-out of her head. She kept talking about it, incessantly."
Wearily I began recounting Howard Creighton's story about how Martha Creighton had insisted on putting the Turkey Tetrazzini in the silver casserole dish to take to Sarah Rose Wilkins.
"Oh, I remember, all right." Jane Finn's lips turned down in unfathomable anger that the Creightons, of all people, had given her away. "That day they gave me the key to Mrs. Wilkins's apartment, I thought that was my luck-y day." She drew her words out as if she were drawing her last breath of life. "Then old Mrs. Wilkins had to come home and ruin it all."
"One thing more," Ed said. "Why didn't you go back to get the stuff out of the apartment again? You still had the key."
"Think I didn't try? I slipped up there after the police were gone. The damn key didn't work. I wasn't about to break in. I'm not that stupid."
Ed slapped the side of his head upon realizing his own momentary lapse of logic. "The bank changed the locks."
"You'd have thought they'd have found fingerprints," I halfsuggested, half-asked.
"Winter. Gloves," he said.
"It's that damn old silver pot's fault," Jane Finn snorted, ignoring him. "And Dwayne's. I should have been happy just taking little things to keep to enjoy. But he said we could make big bucks if I took some big stuff. I haven't even seen any big bucks yet. Damn old pot."
I cringed at hearing the urn, that masterpiece of craftsmanship and design, being so maligned. Roy Madison's calling it a coffeepot had been sufficiently irritating. Then Peter. Now Jane Finn was blaming her misfortunes on that damn old pot.
But what was really eating away at me now was that she hadn't shown one bit of remorse about stealing somebody else's property, and certainly not about anyone dying-except as it had messed up her own plans.
ED HANDED ME a legal pad. "We're going to need a list of these things. You know the information we need better than any of my guys," he said. Despite my exhaustion, I set to work writing descriptions of the pieces that Finn had stolen and still had in her possession. Meanwhile, police officers began to quiz Jane Finn as they filled out the necessary paperwork.
When I had a half second and Ed was finally free, I again asked him why Jane Finn had confessed so quickly and had chatted so freely, even though she obviously was seething with rage.
"Back there when she was telling about how she stole things ... it was as if she was bragging," I said, puzzled.
"Her first offense. She was in over her head, so she's gone to the other extreme-trying to come off like a pro. Truth is, I think she's scared to death," Ed told me.
"First offense? That makes it sound like there'll be more."
Pavich shrugged. "Never know," he said brusquely. "Even though she seems to have been doing this for some while and getting away with it, since it is her first time getting caught ... and she has nailed Sloggins pretty well, and we'll probably get more names in the ring out of her down the road . . ." He folded his arms in front of him, gave me a sad, knowing smile, and shrugged. "What happens to that old dame will depend on who the prosecuting attorney is. And who's sitting on the bench that day."
"Ed?" I said, taking advantage of having his full attention. I swallowed hard, eating my pride. "Crow" we call it in the South. The time had come for me to apologize.
I felt close to tears, something that didn't happen to me very often. Maybe it was my tiredness. I couldn't pinpoint the last time I cried, really cried, that is. In the last few days, though, between Mr. Creighton's plight, Sol's surmounting problems, my fright in that dark alleyway and then in Joey's shop, and now my own bumblings, I'd come close to tears ... how many times? What difference did it make what had brought them on? I didn't like tears and they weren't part of my everyday life. But more and more, they were starting to be.
"Listen, Ed. About what happened this afternoon. I don't know what happened to me."
He shot me a puzzled look.
"Back there when I, well, I ... I was almost taking up for Jane Finn. Saying she'd told me those things were her grandmother's ..."
Ed Pavich laughed. "Jane Finn's first offense. Sterling Glass's first hardball. No big deal."
"But," I choked, searching to say more.
"Forget it. You'll learn," Ed said, ignoring my feeble excuse. "You'll get used to it."
"Get used to what? This isn't exactly my line of work. I'm an appraiser. Remember?"
"Yes ma'am, in fact, I do. That's why you shouldn't be feeling guilty. But-" He paused. "You'd make a good investiga tor," he said, giving me a quick wink for the second time in as many days. "The way you gathered the information, tracked down every clue, stuck with it, kept digging. You're a natural. You just crumbled at the kill. Not that unusual the first time out. Won't happen next time."
"First time? Next time? Listen here, Ed Pavich. You may not know about Jane Finn, whether or not she'll do it again, but of this you can be sure ... Not me. I'm through. Fin ... finished ... finis ... done ... just as soon as you take me home."
Ed looked askance, then smiled. "Until you get the subpoena."
"Subpoena? What subpoena?"
"Don't get feisty. One feisty dame a day." He tossed his head in Jane Finn's direction. "That's my limit. Calm down. You'll just be the expert witness. Jane Finn's willing confession helps, but we'll still need your expertise when the case comes up at trial. Piece of cake."
I didn't like his answer one hit.
Chapter 25
Dear Antiques Expert: When I admired a friend's silver flatware, she told me it was the Audubon pattern. I've heard of James Audubon who drew the birds and plants in the South during the 19th century. Is there a connection between him and this silver pattern?
Indeed there is. In 1871 Tiffany, which was already a trendsetting shop in Manhattan, introduced a silver pattern based on popular 19th-century Japanese paintings of birds sitting on tree branches. Because James Audubon was so well known for his drawings of birds and foliage, this lyrical and romantic pattern was named "Audubon" in his honor. It became an instant success and remains Tiffany's best-selling pattern. Collectors willingly pay $350 or $400 on up for a single serving piece, and if it is still in its original box, the price is more likely to be $700 or $800-or more.
I RODE IN THE backseat from Jane Finn's to my house. Ed and Peter both had told me to sit up front, but by sitting in the back I could huddle in the corner and sulk. When we reached River Road, there was Barefoot Bagman trudging along.
"Ever had any run-ins with Bagman?" Peter asked Ed, as he spied Leemont's infamous figure.
"Never a one." Ed dismissed Peter's question, then added, "Thinking about it, there have been a couple of complaints. But when we tried to pin the callers down about what he actually was doing wrong or what law he was breaking, they couldn't say. Either they didn't like the way he looked, or they were genuinely concerned about him."
"Barefoot's quite a character," Peter said. "He comes in the store every so often, and I've chatted with him on occasion. I told you about one time," he said in my direction.
"Well, just last week he came in again. We have a new rule about checking all bags and packages at the cash register. As you can imagine, at first the girls were afraid of Bagman and didn't want him to leave his bag there with them. In fact, they didn't want him in the store at all. One said that she'd heard that he might have a bomb in his hag." Peter laughed. "I suggested it might be a dismembered body or somebody's ashes. They didn't think that was funny."
Ed let out a hearty howl.
I edged my way away from the window toward the center of the backseat.
"Did they look? What does he carry around?" I asked.
Peter turned in his seat. "Really want to know?"
To my surprise, even Ed seemed interested.
"Yeah."
Visions of priceless jewels, rare silver, tiny objets d'art- anything valuable that VOL] could pack up and put *n a hagthese were the sorts of things I imagined.
"Books."
"Books?"
"Yes. Books that he picks up from people's trash. Old magazines that the library puts out for anyone who wants them to pick up. Books and a blanket. And, oh yes, I think he had a can of Vienna sausages or sardines in his bag. He's just lugging around what he values as the important things of life. Warmth for the body and sustenance for the mind," Peter said.
"Well, I never," Ed said.
"He invited me over to his ... I think he called it `quarters: As good a euphemism for a basement as any, I guess. Said it wasn't much, but he thought I might like to see his library. I may take him up on it sometime, when it isn't too hot or too cold or too wet or too dry." Peter laughed. "Actually, I need to do that one day. Bagman's really not a had guy. Probably very interesting. Yes, I must do that. And Sterling, I'll take you with me."
"Me? Why?"
"Believe it or not, in our conversation he mentioned having a first edition of Thomas Sheraton's Cabinet-Maker and Upholsterers' Drawing Book. Let's see, when was that published? In 1791, I believe."
"Good Lord, Peter. Why haven't you told me this?"
"It was just last week. The way things have been happening around here, it slipped my mind."
"Maybe you can hire Bagman as an assistant, Sterling," Ed Pavich suggested.
I didn't mention my dreams about Bagman. "Maybe I should," I said. "No telling what he sees and doesn't pick up. Wonder how much he wants for that book?" I said, thinking out loud. "And wonder where on earth he picked it up. Peter, it can't be a first edition."
"Maybe not. Maybe so. Stranger things have happened," he said knowingly. "Or am I preaching to the choir?" Peter leaned back and playfully patted my knee.
No one argued with him on that point. Not after the past few days' events.
By the time Ed dropped Peter and me at my house where Peter had left his car, I was a little cheerier. Still, though, I had mixed feelings about asking Peter in. Any other time, I would have jumped at the chance. I had dreamed of such times. Snow on the ground, a crisp, starry night, a crackling fire in the fireplace, Peter with me. Instead, this night I looked at him, remembered what had happened just a few hours earlier, and wondered if I knew him at all.
"Aren't you going to invite me in? Or would you rather go directly to get a bite to eat?" he asked.
When I fumbled for my key and didn't immediately answer, Peter said, "You're being awfully quiet. Too tired? Anything wrong?"
I still didn't reply.
He tried again. "I know it's been a rough day, but it's nothing you've done. Jane Finn-"
"Oh, but it is something I did. It's what I said about Jane Finn's grandmother, and what I didn't say about the information I had when I should have spoken up," I blurted out.
And something you said, Peter, I desperately wanted to say, but didn't.
"You did falter there for a minute," Peter conceded, "hut it all ended well enough." He laughed, then said, "Ended well, except for Jane Finn and Dwayne Sloggins, that is."
He so casually dismissed my painful plight that again his tone and attitude grated on me. Added insult to injury. Who was this man? I didn't know him at all.
"Didn't you feel any pity for her?"
Through the darkness of the night, lightened by the brightness of the white snow, I could see the perplexed look on Peter's face. "Sterling, Jane Finn's guilty."
"I know that now," I said, "but back there at her house when Ed was tearing into her. And then you jumped in. I ..."
I didn't know what to say next.
"Sterling, Sterling. Just how many things have you got going on in that sweet, pretty head of yours?"
Peter reached out, put his arm around my shoulder, and in a brotherly way half-patted, half-hugged it. "Here. Tell you what. Let's go inside, regroup, and call in a pizza. My treat. Look, it's too beautiful a night to waste." He gestured toward the sky.
Mother could no longer resist putting in her two cents' worth. You know, it wouldn't hurt you to listen to what somebody else has to say, just once in a while.
I smiled in spite of myself.
"That's a great idea. We can have a fire."
WHILE I CALLED in our order and checked my phone for messages, Peter brought in the logs. Settled in our usual places, he in the high-back wing chair, me in my corner of the settee, we carefully avoided what we both wanted to talk about until the pizza arrived and we were warmed by the fire and a couple of beers.
"You're the only person I know who uses a silver pie server to serve pizza." Peter said, helping himself to another slice. "Audubon pattern?" he asked, leisurely picking the green peppers off his piece and putting them on my plate, adding, "Your grandmother's or somebody else's?"
"Grandmother?" I grimaced. "I don't care if I never hear that word again. Not even anything about my own grandmothers."
Recovering, I laughed. "Yes, it's Tiffany's Audubon, and no, it wasn't my grandmother's. It was my great-grandmother's ... on my Yankee father's side. And how you can eat anchovies and not like green peppers, Peter Donaldson, I'll never understand!"
I heard an edge creeping into my voice, but I couldn't stop it.
"So let's clear the air, Sterling. I can tell you're mad at me," Peter said abruptly.
I stifled a sigh at his sudden change of mood. I dropped my eyes and stared into the fire. Only the crackling of a log broke our silence as it shifted toward the back of the grate.
"Well?"
"I'm not mad at you. `Confused' would be the better word," I said hesitantly.
"I must be guilty of doing something to have confused you then, but honestly, I don't know what it is. I really would like to know what I did."
"It was back at Jane Finn's," I said. "First, I made a fool out of myself when I said that she'd told me that her grandmother had owned those things. Of course they weren't her grandmother's. I should have confronted Jane Finn right then with the pictures of the Meissen platter and sauceboat in the Layton catalog. That was my fault. I know it. I caved in. But-"
"I understand. You felt sorry for her. You-"
For a split second, it seemed to me that Peter was trying to hide the hint of a smile. That only irked me more.
"Wait, damn it. Let me finish," I said.
I was having a terrible enough time getting my own confession out. Telling him how I felt about how he-dear, virtuous, generous, always patient and kind Peter-had acted was going to be even harder.
I took a deep breath.
"So what I did was wrong. I admit it. But you immediately lashed out at her, even more brutally than Ed," I said. "And you looked so mad, almost vicious, like you hated or despised her." I stopped.
The quietness of the moment was unbearable. As I always seem to do, I spoke first, if for no other reason than to break the insufferable silence. "I guess I expected you to be chivalrous, to defend Jane Finn. Isn't that what ministers are supposed to do?"
Peter made no attempt to hide the smile that by now was spreading across his face. "May I speak now?" he asked.
"No. Let me get my side out first," I said. "It's funny that you mentioned the pie server and my grandmother-or greatgrandmother in this case. But you see, I have seen situations where people have been left with things, possessions, and no cash, and they have fought hard to hold on to the things they had as a symbol, a memory ... a vestige of the past ... not just some material possession, some piece of stuff."
I picked up the pie server and turned it over. Only if you knew what it said, could you read the elaborate, intertwined letters CET. Clara Elizabeth Turner, my great-grandmother's monogram. The Clara Elizabeth whose name I bear but am not known by.
"I know there were times when my parents must have been tempted to sell some of the family treasures they inherited when my father lost his job and things got rough. But they didn'
t, thank goodness. Eventually things got better."
I shook my head, trying to cast off unhappy memories of trying times-only to remember another, more recent, and even more difficult time.
"And I think about the tremendous amount of money that Mother's illness cost. She died before every single penny was depleted, but I've seen many times when a family has become so desperate to maintain a parent in a long-term illness that the kids have literally slipped things their parent had loved out of the house at night to sell them to pay for the nursing care or medicine or whatever."
Peter opened his mouth to speak.
I held up my hand in protest.
"Please, let me finish. I know you're right, Peter. Jane Finn is guilty. Was guilty. May be guilty again, or so Ed has hinted. But for just that fleeting moment," I blurted out, "I had second thoughts. I wanted her to be innocent."
I pressed my lips hard against each other. There was nothing else I could say.
"Now, may I speak?" he asked.
I dropped my eyes to avoid his sweet, understanding look. "I guess so."
"I didn't mean to upset you, Sterling," he said contritely. "And I'm sorry if I looked, what did you say, vicious? I'm sure I did."
I looked up. To my surprise, beneath his tousled hair his face was stern. Not angry, but sadly grim.
"I have to contend with that sort of Jane Finn deceit and deception every day at the Salvation Army. I hear one made-up story after the other. There's always some cockamamie `poor, pitiful me' reason for why somebody stuck that radio in his overcoat, or just happened to have on three sweaters-with the price tags still on them-after going through the checkout lane. Day in, day out, from dawn to dark, it's tale after tale after tale of how Jessie lost his rent money, again."
Peter stood up abruptly, as if doing so would cast aside those images, and began pacing, the same way he had done when he had told me about Sloggins, just a day or so earlier. He returned to his chair and settled back, then nervously leaned forward, clasped his hands together, and put his elbows on his knees. He rested his chin on his fingertips.