Stealing With Style

by Emyl Jenkins

  "It was the same way when I was a minister, Sterling," Peter said, his face taut. "The finest people, the most upright citizens, my parishioners, would come to see me. They'd sit across the desk from me, look straight at the crucifix hanging on the wall behind my shoulder, and proceed to tell me one bald-faced lie after the other. Then expect me to help them out. For God's sake, Sterling, a minister is supposed to help people face the truth, to repent, and to go on. Instead, these people-my friends-were trying to suck me into believing their lies, to get me to play along with their masquerade, to hide their sins for them."

  Peter folded and unfolded his fingers as he spoke. His face had lost its boyishness. It was contorted, filled with disbelief, tainted with deep despair.

  My heart was breaking for Peter. If only I could have taken my own disparaging words back.

  Then, as Mother had done so many times, she made sense out of it all. I heard Nathaniel Hawthorne's damning words, words that said what I was feeling but dared not express: when man does not vainly shrink from the eye of his Creator, loathsomely treasuring up the secret of his sin, then deem me a monster for ... I look around me, and, lo! on every visage a Black Veil.

  So that was why Peter had left the church. The hypocrisy.

  It was that vision of duplicity that had led Reverend Hooper in Hawthorne's story to don a black veil and wear it throughout his life, while everyone else's black veils were invisiblelike the emperor's new clothes.

  When he looks around, lo! on every visage Peter sees the black veil of hypocrisy, Mother said.

  But that was almost two hundred years ago, I thought.

  What does that matter? Mother answered. People never change. The question is this: Is it a curse or a gift to have such vision, to see your fellow man in such light? Either way, such an insight is a burden. Peter is a man not at peace with his fellow men. But he is your champion, Sterling.

  "Jane Finn is like so many people I've known, Sterling," Peter was saying, his resolve even more impassioned than before. "She lied. She was guilty. Case closed."

  He stood and came over and sat down beside me. He took my hand in both of his.

  "I'm not going to chastise you for giving Jane Finn the benefit of the doubt, even though, deep down, you knew differently. Your forgiving heart, the way you look for the best in people, is part of what makes you you. You're sympathetic and kind. That's admirable." He brightened and his face softened.

  "Here. Look at it this way," he said. "What do you do when someone tells you a piece is ... let's say an eighteenth-century chest of drawers? You examine it, of course. When you do so, you find all the evidence of why it can't be from the eighteenth century. There are new nails, machine-cut dovetails, plywood drawer bottoms-you know the routine."

  Like a schoolmaster, double-checking to be sure that his lesson has been understood, Peter asked me seriously, but sweetly, "Now, what do you tell your client?"

  "The truth. I explain why it can't be an eighteenth-century piece," I said contritely.

  "But your client insists that it really is from the eighteenth century. You're expected to go along with him, to authenticate it and put an eighteenth-century price on the piece so he can sell it for a great amount of money."

  "Well, yes, but that would be wrong. And eventually when another expert looked at the piece, I'd be made out to be a liar-or stupid. Plus my client would be deceiving other people," I said.

  "Exactly. That's why you would tell the truth to begin with. Why you would refuse to go along with his scheme." Peter smiled. "See? All I was telling Jane Finn was the truth. I was laying the cards, the evidence, out on the table. The only difference between you and me this afternoon is that I've seen too much. I've run out of patience. You're right. I was angry and I wasn't going to let her drag her deceit on any longer. Look," Peter said, "if I hadn't jumped in, you would have called her bluff, eventually. But Sterling, I didn't want to play her game. I wasn't going to let her get the upper hand-especially not at your expense. Pure and simple, she was playing on your sympathies. She's an expert at that. She's as practiced at her art as a poker player is at keeping a straight face."

  "Peter," I said, measuring my own words, "remember the first time we really met? The day we ran into each other at the antiques shop and we stopped and had lunch together?"

  He nodded.

  "You said something then that I've never forgotten. You said that like lost souls, lost things need looking after, too."

  Peter's whole face shone. "That's what we're doing, Sterling, looking after lost things. Jane Finn's soul is already lost."

  "Why do you keep trying?" I said then. "Working there at the Salvation Army? Why not open an antiques shop or ... volunteer at the museum?"

  He looked at me, appalled. Then his eyes grew soft again and he smiled the sweetest smile I've ever seen.

  "I just keep on hoping," he said.

  Peter let go of my hand and picked up the largest anchovy he could find left on the last piece of pizza. "I bet you an anchovy pizza with no green peppers that when Jane Finn gets up on that witness stand, she's going to claim that she was given some of those pieces. And know what? She probably was. Like that twenty-fifth goblet the lady gave her. I'm sure she told poor old Mrs. Gotrocks her tale of woe. That's how she got some of her things."

  I nodded in agreement.

  "Thank you," I said truthfully. "I feel much better."

  "I guess you do, after two, or is it three, Amstels and all that pizza, especially as tired as we both are."

  For one brief, fleeting moment, I was tempted to throw my arms around his neck.

  I looked into his eyes, hoping I'd see myself there.

  When I didn't, I said, "Forget the beer and pizza. I feel better after just admitting that I know more about things than I do about people. And," I added reluctantly, "after coming to realize that I still have a lot more growing up to do. Even at my age."

  Thank you, Lord, Mother said.

  Chapter 26

  Dear Antiques Expert: I find Chinese Chippendale furniture with its geometric lattice-work design extremely attractive. Did Chippendale ever travel to the Orient in the 18th century to pick up this design idea?

  No, Thomas Chippendale never traveled from England to China, but he was familiar with the geometric lines used in Eastern art and architecture. Eastern designs were introduced to Europe after Marco Polo's famous journey, and once trade routes were established. Chippendale adapted those designs for some of his furniture drawings in his book, The Gentleman and Cabinet-Maker's Director: Being a New Book of Designs of Household Furniture in the Gothic, Chinese and Modern Taste. Though other furniture makers combined the Chinese and European designs, the style has come to be known as "Chinese Chippendale."

  I CALLED MATT YARDLEY shortly after nine on Tuesday morning. When I told him how Sloggins had a whole band of thieves, including Jane Finn, and that we had recovered many stolen items-and probably not just pieces taken from the Hanesworths-Matt sounded much more excited than I would have thought possible, given our meeting in New York when he had seemed so reserved.

  "What I still can't understand is how it was possible for the Paul Storr tea urn to have been overlooked as missing on the appraisal," I said.

  "Oh, I meant to tell you about that," Matt said. "I talked to one of the Hanesworths' sons, David, who said he remembered that his parents were proud of that particular piece. The kids, just to goad their parents, used to call it a coffeepot. The kids had no idea it was English or as old as it was. You know how kids purposely ignore whatever they're told by their parents.

  "None of the kids remember seeing the piece recently. I think they'd forgotten about it. That the Hanesworths' sitter had found it on a closet shelf makes perfect sense. David said they glossed right over the written description of the Paul Storr tea urn on the appraisal, didn't even connect it with what they called the coffeepot. The family just assumed that it was another piece of silver that they'd turn up somewhere in the house. They never
even bothered to look at the picture, if you can believe that."

  "I can believe anything," I said. I would've thought a piece valued at sixty-five thousand dollars would send people scurrying to find it, but that was the difference between myself and the fabulously wealthy.

  "Yes, especially when you take into account how many, many things, valuable things, the Hanesworths had in that mansion. It's not exactly San Simeon, but it is impressive enough. And filled to the brim. No telling what else may turn up missing," Matt said, then added, "or be found that they didn't even know about." I could hear his smile in his voice.

  "So, now that they know about their coffeepot, they can all fight over who's going to get it," I said, relaxing a bit. Just having a friendly chat with someone felt wonderful after yesterday.

  "This whole fiasco reminds me of another appraisal," I continued. "One family I worked for sent their two daughters to London to take the Sotheby's course in antiques and fine arts just so the girls would know what they were inheriting and be able to call things by the proper names, pronounced correctly, of course. Why, the tally must have been close to a hundred thousand dollars when you included their room and board."

  "There's no room for any Beverly Hillbilly slipups allowed among the unforgiving socially elite," Matt said.

  "You're right there," I said. "You never know when some minor European royalty's son is going to take you homehome to Cannes or Bermuda-to meet Mumsey."

  "Speaking of trips," Matt said, "when you come up to retrieve the urn, I'd like for you to meet everyone here. I imagine we will be sending a great deal of business your way, and not just out of the Richmond office. Perhaps we can have supper. That's what you Southerners call dinner, isn't it?"

  Was there a hint of condescension in mentioning a timehonored Southernism? Or was Matt just being casually friendly? I dismissed it as Yankee-talk. Still, I hesitated before answering. It wasn't because of his comment, though. Rather, it was because my mind had split off into three different directions at once.

  Matt had mentioned sending more business my way-that meant more money. Then the comment about the business from places other than the Richmond office. I let my imagination run wild. I'd happily fly out to Jackson Hole, Wyoming, or up to Greenwich, Connecticut, or even over to Malibu to do some appraisals. And while there, maybe drop by to see Alicia's Art Deco collection?

  And then the comment about having dinner together.

  If only there were some way I could cash in on a trip to bring the urn back to Virginia. But Nigel could easily ship it as well as the Meissen pieces.

  "I wish a trip was necessary," I said with a tinge of sincere regret, "but I'm sure Roy Madison will be most cooperative and sign whatever papers he needs to in order for Nigel Rhodes to turn the urn over to you. Now the Meissen pieces-"

  "I'm a jump ahead of you. Obviously you haven't spoken to Nigel today."

  "No." Nor did I want to. Especially with my growing suspicion about Dana Henchloe's involvement.

  "The situation probably could be done as you say, by signing papers. However, because these are stolen items, positive identification must be made. I've never seen any of the things. The soup tureen has to get up here somehow. So does the pearl and diamond pin. It would just be simpler if you could handle it all. We are more than delighted to pay your way, expenses, and hourly fee. That is how you charge, isn't it?"

  I tried to sound professional and not jump up and down like a child.

  "Of course. My hourly rate is $150."

  "Reasonable enough. Plus all expenses."

  It was too good to be true. Without a second thought, I pushed my luck.

  "And when do you anticipate my doing this?" I said.

  "That's up to you and your schedule, of course, but I would hope it can be as soon as you can arrange it. Would later this week be too soon? Do you have a favorite hotel, or would the InterContinental be okay? Oh, and tell me, how will you want your reservations made? Our travel department will do that for you, of course. Do you go by Ms. Glass or prefer Mrs. Glass?"

  "Ms

  I didn't have a clue if Matt Yardley was married, divorced, widowed, committed, otherwise entangled, or just shopping.

  AFTER THAT, I WAS feeling pretty self-important and so I called Sol to find out what his message of yesterday had meant. Had it only been yesterday? "So much has happened," he'd said. To you and me, I thought.

  I knew no more about the value of his molds now than I had the last time I saw him, but at least I was getting a better handle on the value of his figures, thanks to Richie's catalogs and the Internet. If I took photographs of the statues and did more research, eventually I would be able to guide him toward getting full value for his figurines.

  "He came back, Sterling, back to Joey's," Sol said, his voice shaking when I got him on the phone. "It was a little after seven," he said, "just like before. He rang and rang the bell until Joey let them in. Didn't want to, but he was afraid not to. I had told Joey-"

  The familiar sound of Sol's wheezing cough interrupted his sentence. He put his hand over the receiver to muffle the sound.

  "Sorry," he choked. "I had told Joey not to open the store at all, to just stay away. He didn't have any figures there. The man didn't like that."

  "Do you know who the man is, Sol? Was he the one ..." I realized my heart was beating harder and faster. "The one who . . ." I cleared my own throat for no reason other than to stall for time, to figure out what to say next. The one who got away? The one who beat up Joey? The one who scared me to death lurking in the alleyway when I was in the cab?

  "It was the same man who was there before," Sol said. "The man became angry when Joey didn't have any figures. He had a friend with him this time. The other time, Joey had tried to stand up to him. But this time it was two of them." Sol's voice faded.

  "Did anything happen?" That same sick feeling I'd had that night came creeping hack, first in my stomach and then in my head.

  "No fight. Just words. Threats. This time," Sol said, "Joey said the man's friend lurked around in the doorway. Never came in. Like he was blocking it." Though he was speaking so quietly I could barely hear him, Sol began rushing through his words. "The man said he bet Joey had some figures in the back. That made Joey real scared. Joey-"

  "Sol, I don't mean to interrupt, but two questions here," I said in an attempt to clear my mind and keep focused and to calm Sol down. "First, what happened to `Scheherazade'? The last time I saw her, Joey had her. Where is she now? Did he take her back to his shop?"

  "Oh, no. After that first night, and then after you said all those wonderful things about my figures, we haven't taken any more of them there. `Scheherazade' wasn't there. No figures were. That's why the man got so mad. He said he figured Joey had more figures hidden away."

  "Okay. Did Joey tell you what the man looked like? The one who had been there before?"

  I blew out a long breath in an attempt to regain my composure. When I tried to swallow, I realized my throat was closing up. What to do? I grabbed up a pen and paper and dashed off two stick figures in an attempt to get a grasp on exactly who was who, and repeated my question. "First tell me about the one who was inside Joey's store, Sol. Describe him for me."

  "He was the burly one. The other one was WASPy-looking, Joey says."

  Despite the tension of the moment, I couldn't help smiling. This Jewish man thought enough of me to speak his mind forthrightly and forget all that PC crap.

  "Okay, I need those details about what the men looked like. But one at a time. Please?"

  "I told you. The man who had been there before, the one inside, he was thick and burly. Dark."

  Hastily, I made heavy square lines around one of the stick figures and wrote "customer."

  "Dark? Do you mean black?"

  "No. No. Dark. Like me. His friend, the one who stayed in the door," Sol continued impatiently, "he was the WASP. You know that place. It's dark inside and it was night. Joey didn't get a real good look at him, but he
said he wasn't dark or black. Fair, like you. But big, real big."

  I gave the other figure longer legs, and thickened him up so he looked decidedly bigger and wrote "WASP" under it.

  "Now, this dark one, the one you say was burly-the one who had been there before-was he just heavyset and dark? Or did he look mean?"

  I kept seeing Richie Daniel in my mind. He could never be described as tall and big, nor as dark and burly or thick ... to say nothing of the sort of guy who would be intentionally threatening, despite his intimidating smile. That smug, cocky smile was as much part of his act as his Texas strut. Then again, I hadn't forgotten the bruise and Ace bandage Richie had been sporting. That hunk of a ring Joey wore could do damage, even accidentally, and Joey had said he'd taken a swipe at the guy-whoever he was. Under the stick figure where I had written "customer," I added "Richie?"

  "Burly. Burly," Sol repeated even more impatiently. "He wasn't real tall from what Joey told me. More stout. Mostly he was gruff and mean." Sol paused, then said affectionately, "Remember, Joey's a little fellow."

  I thought again. Maybe Richie would appear gruff if he didn't get his way, but the physical description didn't fit Richie at all. Then again, it might have, to little Joey. I thought again. No. Just because Richie had wanted to cut me in on a shady deal didn't mean he was guilty of assault and threats. I scratched through his name on the paper.

  "They said they were coming back," Sol said.

  "But if Joey said he didn't have any more figures ..."

  "Threats, Sterling. Threats. The man scared Joey."

  "What did Joey do when they said they'd be back?"

  "Joey said he'd try to get another figure. What else could he do? I've told him I'd give him one more to sell to him but then to say there are no others."

  Good Lord! The whole situation was beginning to sound more and more like one of those bloodcurdling black-andwhite movies. Right now, though, creepy guys like Peter Lorre and Sydney Greenstreet and Claude Rains were getting to be too real to be much fun. I did my best to sound normal.