Stealing With Style

by Emyl Jenkins

  "Babson and Michaels and our clients care much more about getting an accurate and proper appraisal made than saving money on transportation and expenses," he continued. "We even insure fine antiques in the outer reaches of Alaska. In fact, one of our most interesting clients has a museum-quality collection of antique furniture out there."

  "Now that I do find hard to believe," I said.

  "He has deep pockets and a deep, well ... actually, come to think of it, he has more than a passion," Matt said, stretching his long legs out. "It's more like an obsession for eighteenthcentury English furniture, primitive American paintings, and big-game hunting. The furniture and paintings I can understand." He rolled his eyes and laughed. "The big-game hunting? Go figure. Which, in a roundabout way, brings up the second way I see us working together."

  I liked the sound of "us."

  "Fire. Natural disasters. Those are our concerns for him. I'd hardly expect anyone to rob my friend up in Alaska," Matt said. "It would be too difficult to remove the items and then, how-and where-would you get rid of them? But we do have major thefts that occur in other places, unfortunately."

  He smiled broadly and fixed his eyes on me the same way he had just last Friday. "We're not always so lucky to have a Sterling Glass as we did in this instance with the Hanesworths. I still can't get over the coincidence of your being in New York when I called you." Matt raised his eyebrows ever so slightly suggestively.

  "Often we need an expert to represent our interest," he continued. "Our adjusters are bright and knowledgeable, but you can imagine that anyone who loves antiques-really loves them to the point of wanting to spend all day around them-isn't going to take a desk job for an insurance company. They get jobs in galleries or museums or, like you, become an appraiser."

  "So you need ... " I said, working hard to focus on the opportunity being placed before me.

  "Someone who can give expert advice to the adjusters when they have questions. If we have one shortcoming, it's knowing the things themselves. We need someone who can actually be present as a Babson and Michaels representative to investigate, to talk to the owners, work with the police ... do whatever is necessary on-site. Be a consulting appraiser-adjuster, I guess you'd call it. Interested?" He raised his eyebrows again.

  "When do I start?"

  AND SO I RETURNED to the InterContinental with a whole new career ahead, Matt on my mind, and Sol's problem eating away at my very soul.

  On our way down to the street to hail a cab for me, I had told Matt that I had an older gentleman client in Brooklyn who genuinely needed my help, which was why I wanted to stay one more day in Manhattan. But I didn't go into specifics, other than to jokingly assure him that Babson and Michaels was not involved. When I told him that I would pay for my extra night's lodging, once again he dismissed the idea as absurd. "Who knows," he had said, "we may need to chat sometime tomorrow before you leave. Say I call you midmorning. Surely you won't be flying out until later tomorrow. And thank you again for a lovely evening last night."

  I called Sol while quickly changing out of my fine clothes into a much warmer, more casual outfit. We agreed to meet at Joey's store. No sooner had I replaced the receiver than I was tempted to call Peter to tell him I was on my way out to Brooklyn. But why worry him? I would talk to him later tonight. Right now I felt a greater urgency to get out to Brooklyn.

  I slipped a pair of cotton socks on over my tights, then put on the very sensible rubber-soled flats I'd been sure to remember to pack. I distinctly remembered how cold the dark streets and Sol's building had been on my earlier visits there. Just thinking about it made me chilly.

  My real coldness was coming from my nerves. Who knew what lay ahead? Not I.

  Chapter 29

  Dear Antiques Expert: In an antiques shop a couple was talking about a coffee table that I thought was pretty nice. The legs were thick and turned in a series of ball-like circles and the top was inlaid. But the people were discussing how the legs and tops were different styles and then they said that coffee tables aren't that old, anyway. What were they talking about?

  Serious antiquers know their periods and what distinguishes each style. For example, during the Jacobean period, 15581702, furniture was heavy and chunky, like that table's legs. During the Sheraton period, 1785-1815, furniture was delicate and often inlaid, like the table's top. They also know when furniture forms came into existence. For example, sideboards didn't exist during the Queen Anne period, and there is no such thing as an 18th-century coffee table-coffee tables are a 20th century innovation. (The moral: a little study can keep you from buying a fake or reproduction or just a mislabeled piece.) The coffee table you saw probably dated from the 1920s or 1930s.

  DUSK WAS SETTLING in by the time I got to Joey's. As I had done the whole ride out to Brooklyn, I was seriously questioning why on earth I was here.

  You should have listened to Peter and let Sol and Joey figure out what to do, a tiny voice inside my head told me. Before me flashed my home and the things I loved back in Leemont. I had told my children only that I was going hack to New York on business. Cool, they'd said. I translated that to mean, Aren't you lucky?

  In my heart, I couldn't find any reason to bother them with the particulars. In my mind, though, I must have been worried about what might happen. Before I'd left Leemont I had even asked Ed Pavich about getting some sort of police protection for the showdown at Joey's. I hadn't spelled out the exact situation, but I spoke of the case, well, should we say, hypothetically. "What if an old man was being stalked for his very valuable antiques and his life and fortune hung in the balance. Could the NYPD do anything about it?" I had asked.

  In his gruff way Ed sounded sympathetic, especially when I said some sketchy things about there already having been one break-in. "Now the helpless old man is afraid the thieves will come back," I said. But Ed said what I'd expected him to say-that I couldn't expect much, if any, help from the NYPD.

  "Murder. Drugs. Terrorism. That would get their attention. Antiques? Don't expect the NYPD to put any tax dollars to work over some old antiques. A new threat, you say? But if the man wasn't hurt before, and there weren't any witnesses ... Don't get your hopes up," Ed had said. "Look at it this way, Sterling. You aren't Dorothy and New York sure as hell ain't Kansas."

  I should have listened to him, but there was nothing I could do about it now. I had made my decision. Resolutely, I pushed the buzzer.

  Joey opened the door. The place didn't look any better in twilight than it had in pitch darkness. Used household items of every description cluttered the floor. There was no attempt to arrange things in any order. But what order would there be? Bad on one side, worse on the other? A puke brown Naugahyde sofa, its stuffing beginning to ooze out around the seams, was next to a once nice, probably custom-made, but now scarred and marred solid cherry end table. Teetering on the table were three tall stacks of assorted ashtrays-plastic, glass, bone-china ones all jumbled together. Some were plain white, at least two were decorated with tiny pink flowers, and you couldn't miss a very large avocado green one. Precariously perched on the top of one of the stacks was a shiny metal ashtray with the famous Mack truck bulldog emblem, his front feet poised in midair.

  Mixed in with the group was a wonderful early nineteenthcentury Mason's ironstone saucer. Its colors and design-deep Chinese red leaves on a cobalt blue branch-immediately gave it away. I wondered if the handleless cup that went with it might be somewhere else in the store. Maybe over there on the badly beat-up bookcase used to hold pots, pans, dime-store vases, chipped dishes, and paperback novels. If only I had the time to sort through it all, and some way to get the good stuff back to Leemont. If only.

  "They said they'd be here early," Joey mumbled.

  "What'd you say?"

  Considering how scared I was, if I could still be thinking about things, that was at least reassuring.

  "The men. They said they'd be here early."

  "Men." I swallowed hard. "What's early?" I asked. />
  "The burly, short one. He said he usually goes to the gym on Thursdays, but since I wouldn't he here on Friday, they'd come straight here."

  Reality was setting in. Over the phone the situation had seemed scary but still enticing and exciting-sort of like one of those Grace Kelly romps with adventure. But as zero hour rapidly approached, the tingle was slipping away. Terror was taking its place. If the short one was burly, what was the big WASP like?

  "Maybe they'll get off work early if it's so important to them," I said, looking out through the grime collected on the front window.

  Joey glanced at his watch as he wiped the sweat from his face. Other than a light bruise, his lip was back to normal, thank goodness.

  "Sol's here, isn't he?"

  "Over there." Joey led me toward the very same La-Z-Boy where I'd first seen him.

  Sol stood up and reached into the paper hag he was clutching, pulled out a wad of towels, and peeled them aside. He took out a small female figure and held it up. I took her from Sol and began giving Joey careful instructions-instructions I'd agonized over for hours now.

  "When they come in, pretend that I'm here shopping and have just seen the figure. Say you had it out on your desk waiting for them, Joey, and that I happened to see it."

  She was clad in theatrical garb, her arms spread wide in a ballerina's pose. Only when I looked closely did I see that instead of having finely chiseled cheekbones and a sophisticated look-the way the Deco dancers were modeled-this figure's face was round, her look sweet. Her long, wavy hair fell to her shoulders. Yet it all fit well together-at first glance. Perfect.

  "Clever, Sol. Very clever," I said, acknowledging his subtle combination of the two styles.

  He beamed. "I had lots of those Deco torsos around, probably more than I can use. The face, though ... it's so Nouveau. Don't know how it got mixed in with the Deco parts. But it did." He took the figure back and turned her once more in his hands.

  "So I said to myself, a spare part. I'll try it. It fit perfectly. Art Nouveau Deco! A new style." His smile broadened, then faded. "But I still don't understand why you wanted me to make a bad one," he said.

  "Shhhh," Joey signaled us. He saw the men first.

  The tin bell rigged over Joey's front door jingled. In the dim light, I made out two figures, one short and thick, the other one tall and thin.

  "Buzz them in, Joey," Sol said.

  The heavyset one led the way.

  Joey moved nervously away from us, toward them. I took the figure from Sol and acted as if I were studying it closely.

  I heard a gruff, male voice. "So, you got a figure." It came from the shorter guy.

  "I did get one in, but that's all," Joey said.

  "Good. Let's see it."

  "It's over at my desk. There's a lady looking at it now. She came in just a few minutes ago. She saw it on my desk. I didn't show it to her. She just saw it. I'd put it there and she saw it."

  "TMI," I muttered to myself, hoping my telepathetic mes sage telling Joey to shut up would register. "Too much information, Joey."

  "Get it from her," the man ordered.

  Sol started to say something. I nudged him.

  "She just started looking at it. Just before you came in," Joey said.

  "Get it from her," the tall person said.

  My hands began to tremble and I had to steady the figurine as I put her back down on the desk. Summoning up every ounce of courage, I signaled for Sol to move away with me, as if we were shopping together. In a remarkably calm voice, I said, "I'll think about it. Let's see what else we can find."

  I tugged Sol over to the bookcase that I'd noticed earlier. Lots of things to rummage through there. With my back to the men, I could eavesdrop on their conversation.

  "So? How much did you tell her?" The shorter man sounded serious.

  I heard the scraping of the figure's metal base on Joey's desktop as one of them picked it up.

  "Careful." This time it wasn't the cocky-sounding man speaking, and it wasn't Joey, but the tall one. "Give it to me."

  The short guy answered his own question. "You're not raising the price on me," he commanded. "I paid $350 last time. That's it-$350. And the next one-"

  "But there aren't any more," Joey pleaded. "The man I got this from said it was his last one."

  "Probably selling them one at a time," the man huffed.

  I shot a glance in their direction. The tall one was holding the figure. That was all I could tell about him. I had a better shot at the shorter, stocky man. Was this the same figure I'd seen lurking in the alleyway at night? Would I ever know? I focused my eyes and tried to memorize what I could see of his face from across the dim room. His eyes were close set beneath heavy eyebrows. But it was the width of his shoulders that frightened me most. He could crush Joey with a hug. He took a step toward Joey, leaning with his massive upper body into that area we call our personal space.

  "Look, I've got nothing against you. Just tell me where you're getting them," he said.

  "I don't know. He doesn't tell me."

  "You're gonna tell me what I want to know."

  The man's taller companion sidled up to him.

  "Come closer. Come closer," I mumbled under my breath. All I could really make out about the thickset man's companion was his towering profile.

  "Where does he live?" the tall one said.

  Picking up on the cue, the burly guy leaned closer. "Now you tell me where to find him and nothing will happen to you. You won't get hurt."

  I held my breath. What to do next? Phone. Phone. Get your phone, Sterling.

  As I reached into my pocketbook, my elbow collided with the handle of a pan piled up on the shelf. It fell to the floor.

  The two men swung around. Joey shook from head to toe. I looked up.

  The tall one wasn't a man at all. It seemed to be Anna, or someone like Anna, who was towering over Joey in her straight black coat, fedora, and high-heeled black boots. So that was what Sol had meant by big, when he'd described the short guy's partner. Tall. I couldn't tell if Anna recognized me or not. Surely she wouldn't expect to see me there. Or for me to be in New York, for that matter. I had that going for me.

  "Sorry," I said. "Nothing broke."

  Joey laughed uneasily.

  "She's not interested in it," the big-shouldered man said, nodding in my direction, dismissing me as if I were just another piece of furniture. When he reached for the figure I saw his eyes. They were steely and black, the color of a loaded pistol. With all the commotion, now was my chance. I jabbed at the keypad: 911.

  "What do you think?" he asked Anna, turning his attention back to the figure and ignoring us.

  "That's him. The old man. I've seen him coming in here." Anna was peering straight at Sol.

  I could see her clearly now. There was no doubt it was Anna. Why hadn't I caught that at the beginning?

  Because you're always too busy either talking or else thinking, Mother managed to slip in.

  Anna's hair was pulled up under her mannish hat, as it had been at the mall. Only today she wore no earrings.

  Sol drew back in alarm. The thickset man moved forward. He grabbed Sol by his overcoat lapel. "You."

  He jerked Sol around like a pup on a leash, knocking over a nightstand as he did so. Sol was pinned hack against the bookcase. My hand went to my throat.

  In that brief moment I wasn't in Brooklyn. I was back at Jane Finn's house, as helpless then as Joey and Sol were now. Only I hadn't been in any danger back there, and I'd had Peter and Ed to come to my defense. This time I had no one to depend on except myself. There was only one thing to do: go for the woman. This time, Anna.

  I stepped forward, holding up my phone as I did so.

  "Excuse me. Don't I know you, Anna?"

  Joey looked from me to Anna to the man clutching dear Sol by the coat like a lion gripping a lamb. When he turned my way again, Joey's eyes were glazed with terror.

  I don't think Anna immediately recognized me, b
ut I had clearly given her pause.

  "Yes. Yes, of course I do. Anna," I said strongly and clearly, despite the pounding of my heart.

  I drew the moment out, giving Anna a moment to respond and myself a moment to summon up more courage. Anna glanced at the man holding Sol. I couldn't read her reaction. But I saw Sol pressing his chest out in silent confrontation to his assailant. If he could be that defiant in the face of such danger, so could I.

  "Layton's," I persisted. "You work for Richie Daniel. Don't you remember me?"

  Anna gave me a blank look. For a moment I didn't know if she was going to say No, she'd never seen me before, or bolt for the door. Cavalierly, I clicked my phone shut and put it into my bag, which I placed on the table. I stepped forward.

  "Sterling Glass. Richie's good friend from Virginia. I don't believe I've met your friend. Does he work at Layton's, too?"

  A glint of recognition flickered in Anna's eyes but not on her brow.

  I had everyone's rapt attention. I chattered on. "Isn't she charming?" I said, motioning toward the figurine. "It's so interesting the way these pieces were so popular years ago and then went out of style. Now here they are. Back again. All hot and just the thing everyone has to have, at least according to Richie." I put special emphasis on his name. "What goes around, comes around."

  "Yeah. Well, I'm buying this one," the short man announced, backing away from Sol and toward me.

  "Anna, you know what?" I said, ignoring him. "I don't know your last name. I just realized that."

  "Zurner," she said, too startled to do otherwise.

  "Well. There you are. Anna Zurner. Tell me, Joey, how much are you asking for the little girl?"

  "Four hundred," he whispered.