A Fatal Appraisal

by J. B. Stanley

  Molly was feeling overwhelmed by his attention. She was unused to flirting, especially with such a bold, intense, and confident man. She was used to Matt. Sweet, shy, adorable Matt. Thinking about Matt made her feel guilty about being so attracted to Garrett and she averted her eyes so that he couldn’t see the effect his looks and demeanor were having on her.

  "Thanks, but no." Molly smiled, feeling as though the room had suddenly shrunk in size. "I'm sure I'll see you there."

  Garrett performed a deep bow. "Until then," he said, then grabbed a scone from its china platter and took an enormous bite out of it His cheeks were completely stuffed with pastry as he gave her a closed-mouth grin. In the blink of an eye, he had transformed from a debonair gentleman into a mischievous scalawag. The man was quite a chameleon.

  Molly didn't know what to make of him.

  ~~~~~

  Hidden Treasures would be calling the Richmond Science Museum home for the next week. Formerly a railroad station, the building had tum-of-the century architecture on the outside, complete with dated cornerstones and wide arches for entryways. Enormous red and white banners announced the museum's current exhibit, "Science and Medicine of the Civil War."

  Inside, the cavernous halls were incredibly spacious, well lit, and modern—everything seemed to be made out of white plastic or chrome, a true contrast to the thousands of antiques that would soon be filing through its doors.

  Workmen wearing black Hidden Treasures T-shirts were busy placing signposts, which would soon be used to direct the large crowds. Doors wouldn't open to the public until Wednesday, but Molly was told by one of the producers that the crew would use Monday for setup and Tuesday to film some high-quality pieces from local antique dealers or established collectors as a security measure.

  "We can't have an hour-long show filled with junk," the producer had scoffed over the phone a few weeks ago. "And believe me, you'll see plenty of that. We have to make arrangements to film a few real antiques ahead of time, just in case Local Joe doesn't bring any."

  Molly took out the Hidden Treasures ID badge that had been mailed to her and showed it to a man creating a queue using brass stanchions and velvet rope. When she asked for Victoria, he pointed down a long hall leading off to the right. Passing by bright cloth banners depicting Civil War medical instruments and a variety of weapons, Molly entered a large space sectioned off into a collection of screened areas. It looked like a massive beehive. In one of the white-screened areas, a group of cameramen was testing the lighting. They studiously focused on the object before them—a woman in an office chair. As the woman gracefully swiveled the chair around to face the cameras, Molly recognized Victoria Sterling.

  On television, Victoria always looked immaculately groomed. Her ash blond hair was pulled back into a controlled French twist and her subtle makeup drew attention to her catlike green eyes. Her thin frame was always dressed in what Molly and her mother decided were the worst couture suits available but at prices which undoubtedly left great dents in Victoria's bank account. Molly could never tell if Victoria was tall or short as most of her television shots were close-ups.

  After getting the thumbs-up from the cameramen, Victoria began recording a sound byte for the opening scene welcoming the viewers to Richmond. Her rose-colored suit featured a white vintage blouse whose sleeves poked out several inches beyond the suit jacket. The high neck rose in a series of pearl buttons, opened to reveal an attractive cameo brooch made into a necklace. A black and white striped scarf dangled from the suit pocket and gold filigree drop earrings finished off the ensemble.

  Molly sat down off to the side and waited while Victoria repeated her lines a dozen times. Each repetition sounded exactly the same. The famous television host looked utterly bored.

  "That's a wrap, Ms. Sterling," one of the men said and moved his camera off to a different location.

  Victoria barely issued him a nod before turning to Molly.

  "And you are?" she asked coolly, her green eyes stagnant as an algae-covered pond.

  "Molly Appleby, with Collector's Weekly." Molly extended her hand.

  Victoria slipped a limp, cold hand into Molly's and then let it flop back down against her body like a dead fish. "Well, I guess I’ll start by introducing you to the rest of our head appraisers."

  Molly hustled alongside Victoria. She noticed that her host was quite tall, almost six feet in fact, and strode forward with a quick, decisive walk toward the middle of the massive room. With her toneless voice and limp hands, she explained the layout to Molly. "This is where the filming will take place. We'll select pieces from the Great Hall—that huge room you first walk in after entering the building—and bring the pieces, along with their owners, in here. The Great Hall is where the public will line up to meet with the regular appraisers. Only head appraisers and their crews will be back here."

  As they approached another curtained section, Molly saw a short, balding man with thin strips of greasy black hair combed over to form the pattern of a garden rake, snap a latex glove onto his right hand. Frowning, he pulled a respirator mask over his mouth and nose and bent over to examine the back of a southern blanket chest.

  "This is Frank." Victoria gestured languidly, as if the effort of raising her arm was too much trouble. Everything about her spoke of boredom and lethargy. "He's head appraiser for furniture."

  "Hello." Molly offered a quick greeting, her eyes glued to the lovely, dark brown patina of the blanket chest. "Walnut?" she asked the masked man.

  "Yes." Frank drew down his mask, a pleased look appearing on his pallid face. He raised the lid of the chest and pointed to the unfinished interior wood. "With southern yellow pine secondary."

  "Of course." Molly smiled. "Is it Virginia-made?"

  Frank looked at the piece thoughtfully. "This is an unusually deep blanket chest with an interior compartment for storage," he began in a nasal voice, sounding exactly as he did on television. "The compartment has a hinged lid with the original hardware. The blanket chest rests on the original bracket feet. It is generally hard to find original feet in good condition and without restoration." He paused. "I'd date this piece circa 1830 and give it a provenance of western North Carolina." Frank turned to Molly as if waiting for applause.

  "Why the mask?" she asked instead of gushing her approval.

  "Oh! I have terrible, terrible allergies. I'm allergic to so many things ... dust pet hair, pollen, peanut butter, milk—"

  "Please, Frank. You are not allergic to milk," Victoria interrupted crossly, finally demonstrating that she was capable of human emotion. "You just want to be allergic to everything and you aren't happy without some new drama, so now it's milk."

  Frank stood over the blanket chest and put his hands on his hips defensively. "I am simply a sensitive person, unlike some people who could turn hot springs into ice."

  Molly quickly interrupted the pair before their argument could escalate. She introduced herself properly to Frank and asked him to remove the mask so she could photograph him with the lovely chest. Victoria made a snort of disgust and walked away towards the cafeteria. Her purposeful walk was incongruous with the rest of her mannerisms and she couldn’t seem to get away from Frank fast enough.

  So much for my guide, Molly thought.

  "This is certainly a prime piece to photograph." Frank gestured at the blanket chest, unfazed by Victoria’s swift departure. "But I am going to start off my segment with a fabulous slant-front pigeonhole desk. Would you like to see it?" he asked.

  Molly nodded enthusiastically and Frank peeled off his latex gloves and dropped them on the ground in repulsion. Kicking them repeatedly with his feet as if they weren't dust-covered gloves but a pair of scorpions, he managed to maneuver them away from the chest. He stuck his mask in the front pocket of his brown pants.

  'There are far too many English reproductions here in Richmond," he said dismissively, leading Molly out of his cubbyhole. "I hope the local viewers learn something from this show."

&n
bsp; Frank led Molly behind another curtained partition to an area cluttered with stands, bucket benches, cleaning materials, and unused spotlights. Here, a slant- front desk was positioned on a raised platform covered in gray carpet. Two men were rubbing the desk with soft cloths, pausing every now and then to reapply dabs of wax to their cloths. Molly immediately noticed how hot it was beneath the row of floodlights that the men had erected in order to perform their tasks.

  "Randy and Chris." Frank introduced Molly to the men. "They're my cleanup crew. I simply can't get near a piece until they've cleared off the dust and waxed it up. I can't tell you how many brands of wax we went through until we found one I wouldn't have a reaction to."

  As Frank droned on about his allergies, Randy, a short, wiry man wearing a Nascar T-shirt with cutoff sleeves and black tattered jeans rolled his eyes at his partner.

  Chris, a smooth-faced man in his mid-twenties with a sculpted body and powerful-looking hands, returned Randy's judgmental look with a shrug. Chris had shiny blond hair and aquamarine eyes that seemed so unnaturally bright that Molly wondered if he wore colored contacts. She was having a difficult time tearing her gaze away from the rippling muscles on Chris's forearms as they carefully stroked the surface of the desk.

  "Gorgeous, isn't it?" Frank asked expectantly, watching the men work. Molly thought he was talking about Chris and she was about to agree when she realized he was talking about the desk. Before she could answer, Frank suddenly threw his hands in the air and snapped, "Rub that evenly, Randy! It will look like garbage on camera if you don't rub along the grain! How many times do I have to tell you that?"

  Randy shot Frank a menacing look. "Oh, just quit for now," Frank said disgustedly and shooed the two workers away. "Go chew some tobacco or whatever it is you do when you're not waxing furniture so ineptly."

  A flush crept up Chris's neck as he dropped his cloth and grabbed Randy's skinny arm, leading him away from Frank. Randy shot Frank a look of pure venom before Chris was able to successfully maneuver his angry coworker out of the exhibit area. Molly stared after their sweat-stained backs in sympathy. There were some real divas in the antique world and it looked as though Hidden Treasures had its fair share.

  Relieved to have a distraction, Molly took a good look at the desk. The base was comprised of four graduated drawers with brass pulls. The center of each drawer had inlaid escutcheons made of delicate bone or ivory. Molly pulled down the "slant front," which created an instant writing surface when resting on the two slide supports, and drew in a breath. Opening the desk had revealed a dozen shaped pigeonholes—the small caches carpenters created in order for their patrons to store letters, ledgers, quills, or other correspondence-related items. Some of these pigeonholes were simply empty spaces meant for stacking documents and some were filled with small drawers given the same inlaid escutcheons as the outer drawers.

  "And can you believe it? I have the original set of keys for the four drawers,” Frank whispered reverently. “Now, shall we talk about this unbelievable wood?"

  "It really glows." Molly was impressed. "Is it cherry?"

  "No. Black walnut with yellow pine secondary. See? If we pull out a drawer you can see to the back." Frank removed two of the top drawers. "The whole case is actually made of pine. Most southern slant-front desks were made of walnut or mahogany, but this piece has the most gorgeous lines. All original hardware, original escutcheons, and nary a major repair in sight It's a killer piece. Probably Williamsburg made, circa 1780."

  "No major repairs?" She arched her brows at Frank. "I don't even see any minor ones. Can you show me?"

  "Certainly." Frank preened. "There's nothing noticeable, fortunately. Here's the first one." He pointed at die back leg of the case. "Looks like someone broke off the bottom and replaced it with a newer piece of wood. It's a good repair, though, and at least one hundred years old, so it won't affect the value of this piece, which is significant."

  Molly nodded, having no idea what Frank meant by significant "And the second repair?"

  "That's even older, I'd say," Frank answered, sliding out one of the supports that held up the writing surface when the desk was opened. "There's a square patch here, too. Not very big and it's got almost the same patina as the desk. I can't imagine what happened to damage a piece of wood that sits inside the body of the desk, but I guess we'll never know."

  "Any secret compartments?" Molly asked, intrigued. Her experience at auctions had taught her that desks with pigeonholes often had drawers with removable backs or sliding walls that revealed secret hiding places.

  A few years ago, Molly's mother, Clara, was examining the lower drawer on a secretary desk she had purchased at auction to sell in her antique shop. Clara's elbow had accidentally jarred into a rectangular strip of wood set above a pigeonhole. The thin piece of veneer broke loose and fell to the ground. Clara reached into the empty cavity to gleefully discover a signed note by the maker of the desk, a well-documented carpenter from Georgia. In that second, the piece of furniture she had just paid $2,500 for rose in value to over $15,000.

  "I haven't gone over it completely yet," Frank said. "It was just delivered here this morning and now I'll have to wait until those two clowns are finished prepping it. I simply can't take the dust. However, I have a feeling that this piece is going to be the star of the show. Shall we take some photographs of the blanket chest in the meanwhile?"

  Molly followed Frank back to the niche where they had first been introduced. She took out her digital camera and snapped a few pictures. Although the blanket chest photographed beautifully, its warm, molasses-brown patina glowing beneath the multitude of overhead lights, Molly had a difficult time finding a "good side" to Frank. She could see that he had earned his spot as a Hidden Treasures appraiser through his expertise, not his looks.

  The opposite might have been said for the next appraiser Frank introduced her to. Tony the Toy Man was an adorable, energetic man in his late twenties with a mop of brown hair, freckled cheeks, and wide, hopeful eyes. He was just shy of six feet tall and was wound like a spring. He practically leapt around the table to shake Molly's hand and as he did, a cluster of dimples sprang into his rosy cheeks. He looked like a grown-up Gerber Baby.

  Molly spoke to Tony briefly before he excused himself to unpack the box of toys he planned to open his spot on the show with. Suddenly, she remembered that she had Officer Johnston's card in her pocket.

  'Tony?" she asked. "Any chance you'd be interested in seeing someone's Hot Wheels collection?"

  "Depends." Tony grinned after examining the card. "Is this a 'get out of jail free' card?"

  Molly laughed guiltily and then told the amused toy appraiser how she’d almost gotten a speeding ticket. Tony amiably agreed to call the trooper during a coffee break.

  Frank led Molly around another barrier of white exhibit walls to an empty space with a lectern where a man and woman were bent in deep concentration over an open book.

  "Jessica? Borris? This is Molly Appleby from Collector's Weekly." Frank introduced them, and then turned his head away to sneeze. "Ohhhhh," he moaned, digging a wad of tissues out of his pants pocket "That book must be filled with dust." He turned to Molly, his eyes watering, "I'll just leave you here. I can't handle more than a few seconds in the book area." And with a loud honk into the tissue, Frank scurried away.

  Borris had a square jaw and a Roman nose and bore a strong resemblance to a bust of Julius Caesar. He ran a hand through a thick mane of snow-white hair and shook his head quizzically. "Barely qualifies as a man, that one. Don't know how he found himself in this business with all those allergies."

  Jessica, a short, chic-looking woman with cropped, spiky gray hair, a hooked nose, and deep brown eyes, fingered the amber beads of her vintage necklace. She swatted Borris playfully on the arm. "Borris, what will Molly think of us? Don't mind him." Grinning at Molly, she pointed at her partner, and then at the book on the lectern. "He's just disappointed that these botanicals aren't hand-painted."
>
  Molly leaned over to examine a bookplate detailing the medicinal uses of lavender. "It's still lovely," she offered, but Borris made a very Caesar-like dismissal with the flick of his wide hand and turned his dignified shoulders away to dig for another book from a pile at his feet.

  Jessica turned to Molly. "You have an unusual name for this day and age. Kind of old-fashioned. Is there a story behind it?"

  "Not a good one," Molly laughed. "My parents were on their way home from a camping trip in the Smoky Mountains. The car broke down in this little two-horse town. I was conceived in a roadside hotel named The Molly Arms. This was a big surprise to my mom, who liked neither camping nor kids. My parents didn't stay together long after that night, but I guess the name stuck with her, even though my dad didn't."

  "Sounds like a story I can relate to," Jessica said bitterly. "Your mom was probably better off raising you alone."

  Molly shifted, uncomfortable with the subject of her parents' infinitesimal marriage. "So are you the jewelry appraiser?" she asked, hoping to turn the conversation back to matters at hand.

  "Sure am," Jessica said proudly. "I come from a long line of Jewish jewelry experts. I'll be opening the show with a marvelous set of vintage cat's eye pieces. A ring, necklace, and earrings. A local dealer has had them on display for months with no luck getting them sold, and she's hoping that getting the set on TV will help them sell."

  "That's nice of you." Molly approved of antique people helping one another out. In fact, she liked both Jessica and Borris immediately. "Are the rest of the appraisers around here?"

  "No," Borris answered. "They've already knocked off for dinner. We're all supposed to meet at the Mexican place down the street. Want to join us?"