“Here, dear, fill out one of these and get your number so we can go inside. They’re opening the doors-do hurry, I’m eager to see what’s on today.” Her voice was breathy with excitement; it was a side to the usually genteel antiques dealer that Jane had never seen before.
“Do I really need this?” Jane asked a few moments later as she struggled through the crowd in Connie’s wake, juggling her purse, catalog and a stiff white card with a large black number 133 on it. She was frowning at the latter. “I hadn’t planned on buying anything.”
Connie shot her an exasperated look “Not buy anything? Then why on earth did you come along?”
“Because I’ve never been to an auction before,” said Jane with a shrug. “I wanted to see what it was like. Oh my goodness…” The crowd that had been carrying her along like a bit of flotsam had suddenly surged through a pair of double doors and into a vast room, where it spread out and dissipated among the treasures displayed there like a flash flood on a desert floor. Jane was left behind in a quiet eddy near the doors, stunned and gawking.
Connie gave her another look, this one both knowing and amused. “Yes, as you can see, there is something for everyone. Best keep the card, dear, in case you find yourself caught up in the excitement of it all. If you did find something you wanted to bid on, then where would you be?”
But Jane was already wandering ahead through a marvelous maze of inlaid sideboards and clawfooted settees, porcelain jars and Tiffany lamps, hideous brasses and glowing Oriental rugs. It was the kind of thing she could do quite happily for hours, just looking, letting her imagination fly unfettered to times long past and places she would never see. Ancient China…the London of Dickens and Victoria…Paris in any age…a tall ship under full sail… And memories. Images from her own past, her grandmother’s house, her childhood…
Her cry of delighted recognition drew Connie to her side. “Find something, dear?”
“Look-an honest-to-goodness Roy Rogers cap pistol!” She held it out, draped across her palms like a ceremonial sword. “I don’t believe it-it has the holster, and everything. My brother had one just like this when we were kids. I wonder-oh, Connie, it does-it even still has a box of caps! That smell…” She ducked her head, sniffed and was instantly awash in a memory. Sitting on the back steps at Gramma’s on a hot summer day, hitting caps with a hammer…
She gazed down at the toy pistoi, suddenly aching with that same blend of joy and sadness that had assailed her earlier, in the foyer. “You know, I used to envy my brother. He had the real six-shooter, and all I could do was point my finger and yell, Pow-pow!’”
About then it occurred to her that her companion was looking at her with something akin to alarm. She laughed and hastened to explain, though she had an idea it wasn’t something someone as sophisticated as Connie could ever understand. “You know, the game, Cowboys and Indians? Well, actually, my parents were liberals-we weren’t allowed to shoot at Indians, even imaginary ones. I think the game was more like Good Guys and Bad Guys.”
“Let me guess,” said Connie, looking amused. “You were the good guy.”
“Well, no, my brother was, actually. He had the Roy Rogers pistol. But since I was the bad guy, at least I always got to die. That was fun.” But she sighed as she stared down at the small silver-colored pistol in its decorated leather holster. “I always wanted one of these things. I asked, every Christmas and every birthday, but no one ever paid any attention to me.”
“Strange request for a young gel,” Connie remarked, then cocked her head and added, “Though it does seem a bit unfair, your brother having one, and not you.”
“Oh, but you see, in those days girls were expected to be girls, and boys, well, you know.” Jane shrugged. “Hey-I wanted a catcher’s mitt, and nobody paid any attention to that request, either.”
And suddenly she found herself wondering whether things might have been different if just once someone had bothered to listen, or pay any heed at all to what she’d wanted.
But as quickly as it came to her, she shrugged away the thought. She was happy. She had a good, full life. A home of her own, no money worries, an okay job, two terrific kids, good friends. Her life had no room in it for regrets.
But… her hands lingered as she was replacing the toy gun on the display table. She asked Connie very casually, “How much do you think this would go for?”
Connie peered at the pistol without enthusiasm. “Oh, I don’t know, dear, it’s so difficult to say with these nostalgia collectibles. It rather depends on who’s here, if you know what I mean. If there happens to be someone else in the crowd who’s terribly keen on a Roy Rogers cap pistol, the price could go quite high. Or, you might be lucky and get a bargain. Why don’t you note it down in your catalog, if you’re interested? Give it a whirl.”
“Maybe I will.” Jane was surprised to discover that her heart was suddenly beating faster. “I could give it to my brother.” Liar, liar, pants on fire, a voice inside her whispered. Jane knew that voice. It was the voice of a nine-year-old tomboy who’d once dearly coveted her brother’s Roy Rogers cap pistol. “For Christmas,” she added, breathless with suppressed desire. “Where do I-how do I find it in here?”
“This little sticker right here, do you see? It has the lot number.” Connie showed her how to find the listing in the catalog, loaned her a little jeweled pen and waited patiently while she circled the number, then took her by the arm, saying firmly, “Now then. Jane, do come have a look at these oil paintings. I know you are fond of the Impressionist style-these aren’t terribly good ones, I’m afraid. But one or two are actually quite… There now-what do you think?”
Connie had halted before a temporary wall of pegboard on which an assortment of paintings, prints and mirrors had been hung for display. More paintings occupied a Victorian settee nearby. Still others sat on the bare floor, propped against armoires and table legs. Jane scanned them quickty-some contemporary limited-edition signed prints that she knew from experience would be out of her price range, a few Victorians, either gloomy and dim or hopelessly sentimental, the usual florals-before p ausing at the one Connie was purposefully tapping with the frames of her glasses. She tilted her head and regarded the painting doubtfully. “I don’t know…the colors…it’s kind of murky, don’t you think?”
And then suddenly her gaze shifted. She felt herself begin to smile. “Oh,” she murmured. “Now this I like.”
It was an oil, not large, more or less in the style of Renoir, a pair of dancers against the backdrop of a crowded ballroom floor. To Jane, it was as if the artist had looked into her mind and painted her daydream. She could almost feel the graceful movements of the dancers, hear the lilting strains of the Viennese waltz, feel the softness of the spring evening, even catch the sweet scent of lilacs drifting through the open windows. The faces of the dancers had only been suggested, but somehow Jane knew that they were not just casual partners, but lovers.
Oh, yes, she thought. This was for her. Like the magnificently carved baby grand, the little painting touched chords in her imagination-only this, perhaps, she could actually afford.
“It would be perfect above my old piano,” she announced. “How much do you think it will go for?”
Connie considered, head tilted lips pursed. “Oh, I shouldn’t think it would be too much-as art, it hasn’t any particular value at all. it’s really a matter of whether it suits one’s taste and purpose, isn’t it? Jot it down. dear. You might get it for a song.”
Jane squinted at the tiny tag affixed to one corner of the frame, found the corresponding lot number in her catalog listings and made a bold check mark beside it. She was beginning to get the hang of this. She turned to Connie, flushed with accomplishment, as though the painting were already hers. “There-that’s done. Now I think I’d better quit before L…oh, what’s that you have there? Did you find something else? Let me see.”
Connie chuckled. “It is addictive, isn’t it?” She gave the painting she was holding a di
sparaging glance. “Oh, no, dear, not for you. Another one of those gloomy Victorians-quite dreadful, really.” Jane could see what appeared to be a sailing ship foundering in a garishly green-tinted, storm-tossed sea. Connie was right. It was dreadful.
“The frame isn’t at all bad, though.” The dealer turned the painting, assessing it through her half glasses. “I might just pick up one or two of these for the shop. if I can get them at a nice enough price. If you’re quite sure there’s nothing else you want to have a look at, you might just go and find us some seats. I suspect they’ll be getting under way very shortly.”
Jane was glad to take the suggestion, though her excitement was somewhat dampened by worry as she made her way through the crowd that was slowly beginning to drift toward rows of folding chairs that had been set up in the center of the huge room facing a low, temporary stage. Her mind was on her checkbook, doing some depressing mental math as she tried to decide how much of her modest balance she could afford to spend on either the Roy Rogers six-shooter or the painting of the dancers. Not very much, she feared.
She found two unclaimed chairs about two-thirds of the way back, just a few seats in from the aisle, deposited her catalog and purse on one to save it for Connie and settled into the other. A group of men were gathered on the stage in a purposeful-looking cluster. One, a short, dapper man in a suit and tie, plump and glossy as a ripe plum, from the toes of his polished black shoes to his shiny black slicked-down hair, separated himself from the rest and took up his post behind a wooden podium. As he lifted the microphone from its stand, a woman seated at a card table next to the podium handed him a sheet of paper. He glanced down at it, then beamed upon the crowd like a kindergarten teacher on the first day of school.
“Ladies and gentlemen, good morning, and welcome to another fantastic Rathskeller’s auction…”
Jane sat with her hands clasped in her lap like a well-behaved child on the first day of school while the auctioneer read the policies and conditions of Rathskeller’s Auction House. He was finishing up when Connie slipped into the seat beside her.
“Just in time,” Jane whispered. “I think they’re about to start. Are these seats okay?”
Connie gave a quick look around, then said, “This will do fine, dear.” She sounded a little out-of-breath. And looking quite pleased with herself, Jane thought. Her eyes had that feisty gleam that always made Jane think of a little white hen who’s just spotted a particularly juicy grasshopper.
Up on the stage, the auctioneer hitched the mike cord around with a flourish and said, “All right, now, ladies and gentlemen, let’s get the bidding under way with a few of these items you see here…” One of several young men wearing white shirts and red baseball caps with Rathskeller’s printed on them held up a small metal object so everyone in the crowd could see it. “Okay, lot number one in your catalog is a World War II infantry compass. And, here we go, ladies and ge‘men, whatumahbid for this fascinating WWII compass…okay, who’llgimmetwenny, umbid-twennytwenny…”
The words tumbled out of the auctioneer’s mouth like marbles out of a bag, while here and there among the crowd a white card flashed, then over there another. There was a certain rhythm to it. Each time a card appeared, one of the white-shirted men would instantly point it out to the auctioneer, arms waving and pointing like semaphores, until there were no more cards to be seen-save one.
And then…“Sold!” Down came the gavel onto the podium, and the crowd subsided with anticipatory rustlings and murmurings while the lady at the table noted the buyer’s number and the selling price. And then, while the white-shirted men carried the item to a holding area to await its new owner, the rhythm began all over again. Jane thought it was terribly exciting.
“I just don’t see how you do it so calmly,” she said as the gavel fell and Connie made a triumphant notation in her catalog. “Maybe you could bid for me?”
“Nonsense, dear.” Connie looked very much like a cat with a mouthful of feathers. “Nothing to it. Tell you what-why don’t you have a go at it a time or two. Bid on something you don’t particularly care for, just for the practice. You do have to keep your wits about you, of course. Jump in early, and get out when the bidding gets serious. That way you’ll get the hang of it and you won’t be so nervous when it really matters. Like this, dear-watch.”
It looked so easy when Connie did it.
The first time Jane poked her number 133 tentatively into the view of the eagle-eyed men in the white shirts, she thought she might actually faint. When one of them pointed at her, it might as well have been with a loaded pistol; she subsided hastily. shaking like a leaf.
But it got easier each time she tried it. Soon she began to feel like an old hand, especially when she noticed that the men in the white shirts were beginning to look in her direction, now, in anticipation. By the time the Roy Rogers cap pistol came up for bid, she was ready. She felt calm. While the auctioneer was describing “this prize piece of Americana,” Jane closed her eyes and repeated her absolutely top bid over and over in a whisper, like a mantra, or a prayer. Then she lifted her card.
Her confidence lasted exactly as long as it took the bidding to soar beyond her “absolutely top” bid. How high could a toy cap pistol go? What, after all, was another ten dollars? Twenty? Her heart was pounding like thunder, she could hardly hear the auctioneer. Lips pressed tightly together in determination, she kept her card in the air, even though it was now shaking like a reed in a windstorm.
“Well done!” said Connie when at last the auctioneer had intoned, “Sold…number 133!” She added gently, “You can put your card down now, dear.” Her voice seemed to come from the bottom of a well.
“I did it! I can’t believe it-I just bought a Roy Rogers cap pistol!” Jane’s whisper was a high, ecstatic squeak. “I think I’m gonna faint.” Actually, what she thought she might do was fly, right up out of her chair and on through the roof and into the clouds. “Whew, I think I need to get something to drink. How about you? Can I get you a cup of coffee or something?”
“Later, perhaps…” Connie was frowning, turning the pages of her catalog, following down the list with her little jeweled pen. Jane had gathered up her purse and was halfway to her feet, when the other woman suddenly clutched her arm and pulled her back. “Quick, Jane-have a look. Isn’t that your painting coming up there?”
Jane shook her head. “It’s a long way off yet. I should have plenty of time-”
“No, no, I’m certain that’s the one you were so fond of. There, you see? It’s the next one up, I think.”
Jane fumbled through her catalog. Yes, there it was, the lot number she’d circled, still at least twenty items off. But there was no doubt about it, the painting of the ballroom dancers-her painting-was at that very moment up on the stage, sitting on an easel at the auctioneer’s elbow. “What number is it?” she hissed at Connie. “What does it say?”
“Number 187, I believe. It just says, ‘Oil Painting, Framed.’ A bit of a mix-up, apparently. Oh, well, never mind, these things happen. There you are-it’s started. Good luck.”
And just that quickly, the bidding was under way. Jane sat perched on the edge of her chair, lips pressed and heart pounding, and presented her card to the gleeful spotter like a swordsman leaping into battle. At first, to her dismay, the bidding was brisk, but when two or three bargain hunters dropped out early, she felt a surge of triumph. Yes! It’s mine.
But no-oh no! Now she could see that every time the spotter pointed to her, with his other hand he immediately jabbed the air above her head. Someone was bidding against her! And seemed every bit as determined as she was.
Outraged, she turned around to see if she could identify the villain who was trying to take her painting away from her. Yes-there he was. He was easy enough to spot, standing behind the last row of chairs. A man, and one who was not the slightest bit gray or wimpy, and certainly not old. In fact, he looked almost indecently young and handsome and fit, in spite of the banker’s gray suit
, white shirt and conservative tie he was wearing. He was very dark, swarthy, almost, with an arrogant nose and eyes that should have been beautiful. Jane thought he looked like some sort of Arab prince, or…no-a terrorist, that was it. The kind of person who hijacked airplanes and bombed school buses.
“Connie,” she whispered in dismay. “What am I going to do? I already spent too much on the cap pistol. I can’t afford to go much higher on this piece.”
But Connie’s seat was empty. Jane hadn’t even noticed that her friend had left. Where in the world could she have gone? And at the worst possible time! What should she do? She couldn’t keep bidding like this, she couldn’t!
What if she won? Her stomach clenched at the thought of what this was going to do to her bank balance. She knew she had to be responsible and give up the painting. She had to stop now.
And then suddenly it was over. Whack! went the gavel, the auctioneer bellowed, “That’s gone…number 133!”
Stunned by the unexpected victory, almost unable to believe it, Jane turned to look at the man she’d bested. Incredibly, he seemed to have vanished.
She was frowning perplexedly at the place where he’d been standing only a moment ago, where now a small knot of people were engaged in a peculiar flurry of activity, when Connie settled into her chair. She gave her gray curls a pat and her tweed skirt a tug, then turned to Jane, eyes bright and birdlike with expectancy. “So sorry, dear-nature’s call, you know. Do tell me, how did it go? Did you get your little painting?”
“I got it,” said Jane absently. She still felt dazed.
“Oh, bravo, dear!” Connie was beaming at her like a proud mama at a ballet recital. “Well done.”
Jane shook her head, frowning still. “Yeah, well, I don’t know how I got it. This man was bidding against me, and he was really determined, too. Then all of a sudden, he just…quit. Connie, what’s going on back there, do you know? Seems to be some kind of fuss.”
Never Trust A Lady Page 2