A Killer Collection

by J. B. Stanley

  Kitty was stroking the fur of one of them. The happy creature was named Arthur Ray Cole after one of the area potters. He was a lean, glossy, black cat who rolled on his back with pleasure as Kitty scratched under his chin. Tall and stick thin, Kitty had a cloud of dark, curly brown hair and wide blue as pale as the moonlit snow. When she heard Molly's car, she stood up and waved.

  "Hey, Chicken!" she greeted her friend in her high, light voice. "Ready to see some stuff?"

  "Absolutely. I have my camera too, in case Bunny lets me take some pictures for a future article."

  "Lex and your mom are beside themselves. I think we need two bibs for the drooling."

  Molly laughed. 'Tell me about the message Bunny left."

  "It was pretty short and to the point. She said that she heard that Lex had handled the deaccession sale for the Mint Museum"—and here Kitty broke out into a very exaggerated drawl and mimicked Bunny's voice—"and I may not know much about pottery, but I do know people. Several of my good friends are board members for the museum, so you come highly recommended."

  "Wow. So then Lex called her back and she wanted him over lickety-split?" Molly asked.

  "She's going to redecorate," announced Lex, hopping down the porch stairs in front of Clara. Lex was a bit shorter than Kitty with close-cropped brown hair and a neat, light brown beard. His chestnut eyes were bright with anticipation. "Right darling?" He grabbed one of Kitty's hands and planted a kiss on her freckled skin.

  "Enough yapping!" Clara quickly clapped her hands and ordered everyone into Lex's van. “Time to go. Hurry, hurry, hurry!"

  ~~~~~

  The Staunton residence was just south of Asheboro, an easy commute to George-Bradley's law office in the business district. Driving through the town, it was obvious that the year's drought and bad economy had left their mark on the local businesses. Many of the storefronts were vacant. For Lease or For Rent signs hung in every third window. Most of the stores in operation had large red sale signs in their windows, but his attempts to attract customers did not seem to be working.

  The streets were nearly empty. A few people meandered on the sidewalks or looked in windows, but it was very quiet for a Saturday morning in June. The block where George-Bradley's law office was located was tucked away down a side street, but Molly caught the gilt lettering of his sign as the van passed by.

  "What do you think will happen to his practice?" she asked out loud.

  "He's got a partner," her mother replied, "so I'm sure it will continue under a different name."

  Molly mused over the gilt sign. It would soon be replaced and George-Bradley's lengthy name would be missing from the new gilt plaque. It would also be erased from the office’s letterhead, business cards, legal documents, and slowly, from memory. It was a sobering thought.

  Heading south, Lex drove just outside the city limits and turned right onto a curved lane lined with ancient magnolia trees. They were in bloom; their wide, creamy flowers sat like cupped hands in the waxy leaves. The thick branches met and intertwined across the heights of the narrow lane, creating a sun-speckled path to the Staunton Estate.

  At the foot of the driveway, two stately wrought iron gates had been opened wide for their arrival, controlled electronically from the house. A beautiful cobblestone driveway, slick with water after a morning wash, led them up a crested hill dotted with dogwoods, pear trees, and crepe myrtles. Each side of the driveway was lined with a bed of lilies, coneflowers, and black-eyed Susans. There wasn't so much as a leaf out of place in the yard. When the house came into view, Molly gasped.

  A large Georgian brick, the house greeted them with a wide front veranda bordered by boxwood bushes. Thick white columns flanked the door and a flagstone path wove off to the side, leading to a walled kitchen garden. From the center of the house, two long wings stretched off symmetrically to each side, giving the impression of a pair of strong arms resting on the ground. The beige trim was clean, the black shutters shone as if newly painted, the windows sparkled without streaks in the morning sun, and the front step welcomed them with a woven doormat with the letter S monogrammed upon it.

  Lex moved forward and rang the bell. A series of ding- dongs purred through the house. Molly half expected a butler to answer the door, stiff-necked and dressed in full house uniform, but Bunny opened it, releasing a cloud of perfume into the morning air.

  Bunny looked much like the other wealthy southern women who came to Lex's auctions. She was short and round with plump arms and sausage-shaped fingers. She wore a long, black pantsuit with a chartreuse linen shirt-jacket on top. A thick collar of gold fit snugly around her neck, and she wore several gold bracelets, a Rolex, and rings with large stones on each hand. Her right hand bore a large emerald and her left, a yellow diamond. Her hair was dyed a white blonde that had lost any true sense of color and was curled until it formed a puffed bob. Molly instinctively knew that it was also disciplined into its form with enough hair spray to choke a bull.

  Bunny’s face was a mask of makeup including green eye shadow and mauve lipstick. It had been deftly applied and made to look subtle, but in combination with the jewels, the hair, and the strong, musky perfume, Bunny gave the impression that she was just on her way to a high couture fashion show. She hardly looked like a widow mourning the loss of her husband. And the expression on her face was all business. Without smiling, she stepped back from the doorframe, allowing them inside. She arched a thin, drawn eyebrow over seeing four people enter when she had only telephoned one.

  Lex made the introductions, explaining that his three "assistants" would help him write descriptions of all the objects Bunny was interested in selling. That would enable him to give Bunny a more accurate quote for the auction contract.

  Bunny waved his explanation off with an impatient flick of her hand. "I don't need a quote. You're the man for this job, and I'm not concerned about what you get for this stuff, I just want it out of the house."

  Her voice was low and humorless. Molly wondered how she was coping with her husband's death. He was a man with whom she seemed to have shared a passionless marriage. Was it a loveless one as well? George-Bradley had cheated on her, filled the house with things she disliked, and avoided her presence. Though Bunny did not look the part of the grieving widow, Molly had a feeling that she was an expert at concealing her feelings. Were there traces of tension and pain beneath the flat voice and the immovable face?

  "Ma’am?" Molly asked sweetly, already planning ahead for an article on the Stauntons. "Do you mind if I photograph the items you want to sell?"

  "Not at all. You’ll need pictures for the auction anyway, won't you? As far as I'm concerned, you can box it all and get it out of here today."

  Lex was unprepared for this. Typically, he went into a residence, looked over the items, and then discussed with the owner the probable value, when it would be sold, and what he would charge for his commission. If accepted, he and the other party would sign a contract and Lex would pack up all of the items to move them to a storage space. If Bunny was offering him items without reviewing the contract right away, they must only be the low-end or damaged pieces from George-Bradley’s collection.

  "Let's see how much we're talking about." Lex couldn't hide his disappointment. If Bunny was only selling a few pieces of chipped pottery, they had all gotten excited for nothing.

  "All of it, naturally. I am going to completely redecorate this wing of the house"—Bunny gestured grandly—"so all four rooms in my ..." She paused. "That were George- Bradley's can be cleared out."

  "Including furniture?" Lex's good humor was instantly restored.

  "Everything," Bunny said firmly. "Down to the last paper clip in his desk. I don't want a single item left there, is that understood?"

  The four friends were silent. Bunny could not have made it more evident how she felt about her husband. She had hated him. She was getting rid of all signs of his presence, and she was wasting no time about it.

  "I understand, and I can take
care of everything for you," Lex assured her, which was the perfect reply.

  "I'll leave you to it then." She nodded her head in dismissal and crossed the hall to the other wing, which had been her domain in the divided house.

  Clara wisely closed the door leading into the hall, so that the four of them could react to their discoveries without being overheard.

  "Wow!" Clara grabbed onto Lex's arm and gave him a shake. "Did you hear what she said?”

  "I did!" Lex replied gleefully. "I heard the word everything."

  The cause for their excitement was obvious, because this room contained valuable antiques. The most eye-catching of them being a large grandfather clock with a paint-decorated face.

  "Walnut," Lex informed them.

  "Looks Virginia-made," Clara said as she peered into the face. "Early. It's right too."

  She and Lex exchanged happy looks. Whenever one of them said, "It's right," what they meant was, "This is a real antique that has not been damaged or refinished and it will bring a lot of money at auction." But Molly knew it was more than that. Lex and Clara respected a good antique piece. They were harder and harder to find these days, so it was a joy to see something so pristine and graceful, an object of history created by means of a true craftsman's passion and hard work.

  Clara had once told Molly that a person could really fall in love with a chest of drawers, a quilt, or a piece of pottery.

  Molly understood. It was the power of owning something made by hand. These pieces possessed a kind of magic. It was the mark left inside the grain of wood, the strings of thread, or the smooth skin of clay. It held there, fast, through the decades, yet only certain people felt its presence.

  Kitty, impatient to get an overview of the rooms, had gone ahead. Now she ran back into the front room, her eyes round with wonder.

  "You guys are going to pass out!" She pointed down the hall.

  But Lex and Clara would not be tempted beyond the living room. They had an 1840s sugar chest to look over, a collection of Chinese import porcelain to view, the weave on an Oriental carpet to examine, and several old oil paintings in gilt frames to inspect. Molly took the bait, however, and followed Kitty's bouncing steps down the corridor.

  The first room must have been George-Bradley's office. His large, leather-topped desk was the only piece of furniture in the room other than the rows of bookshelves. The shelves covered every open wall and partially obscured both windows. Each one held three to seven pieces of pottery. The shelves were perfectly dusted and labeled with a little card that identified the pottery, the maker, and the year purchased. George-Bradley's desk was stacked with a neat pile of reference books on pottery as well as general price guides and books on collecting antiques. Except for last week's Sunday paper, there were no loose papers on the desk surface. George-Bradley clearly liked organization.

  Molly looked over the pottery quickly as Kitty was calling her again from the next room. According to the labels, the same potter made most of the pieces, a man named Ben Owen. Molly had heard of him only because her mother

  had a few of his vases on her dining room mantle. She also knew that his work was strongly influenced by Asian shapes and glazes, and that he made several exquisite vases each year that sold for around $2,000 apiece.

  George-Bradley had six of these, standing in a dignified row on two bottom shelves. The glaze was called "Chinese blue," even though it was mostly red in tone with some hints of blue that peeked through in a brilliant shade reminiscent of the Mediterranean Sea.

  Clara and Lex appeared in the office.

  "My heavens," her mother breathed. "I have never seen this much Ben Owen in one room."

  "Look at these Han vases!" Lex exclaimed. "They're perfect. Think of what an awesome catalogue cover they’d make!"

  Clara and Lex were in their element They showed one another piece after piece, admiring the shape, the shimmers of glaze, and the complete lack of chips or firing cracks.

  "He certainly had excellent taste," her mother complimented George-Bradley. "There isn’t a piece in here that doesn't catch your eye and demand further inspection and admiration."

  Molly left Clara and Lex to salivate and continued on to where Kitty waited in the sitting room across the hall. It had a small leather couch and matching wingback chairs turned toward the fireplace. Oriental throw rugs warmed the room in red and blue tones, while English hunting prints raced along the wood-paneled walls. On top of a small hunt board, crystal decanters with sterling silver labels indicated that while gin and vodka were available, the favorite drink was clearly bourbon.

  A set of shelves was built into the back wall only. The other walls were given space for a cherry game table and two very old southern stands. Both of the stands held stacks of small, leather-bound books and a collection of carriage clocks, which ticked merrily away as Molly examined the pottery.

  "Isn't this your favorite potter?" Kitty asked, holding the figure of a lion out toward Molly.

  "Billy Ray Hussey. Yes, it is. I only have one piece, though. Mom gave me one of his cat doorstops for my birthday." She took the lion from Kitty and examined him with wonder. His solid body was glazed a burnt yellow, like the underside of a sunflower petal. His large brown mane was made from dozens and dozens of individual curls of clay, and his red roaring mouth sported a row of white teeth.

  "Look at that mane." Kitty admired the curls while patting her own. "Kind of looks like mine."

  "I read that they call that fur 'Cole slaw' in the pottery world. All those little pieces of clay."

  "Are you saying that my hair looks like slaw?" Kitty asked, pretending to be insulted.

  Molly smiled, and then pointed to the figure of a poodle with tons of curled clay fired in a white glaze. Kitty showed her a shelf of silly, smiling face jugs, and the women touched the chips of broken dishes that formed the rows of teeth.

  "Shall we proceed?" she asked Kitty.

  Except for the bathroom, the final room in George- Bradley's wing was a large sunroom with windows overlooking three different views. Walking over to the sparkling glass, Molly was granted a view of an immaculately landscaped pool complete with outdoor bar and tables with umbrellas. Beyond the pool she could make out a tennis court nestled in a grove of mature oaks.

  "Bunny must've come with a lot of money," Kitty observed, in a loud, singsong voice.

  "Kitty!" Molly scolded. "Hush!"

  The windows directly in front of them overlooked the slope of green lawn leading down to the drive. A gardener was busy weeding one of the beds. His broad back faced the windows, and though Molly couldn't see his face, his muscular arms and baseball cap gave the impression of both strength and youth.

  The furniture in this room was simple. There was a long, pine church pew running beneath the windows along the longest wall, an antique music stand, and some kind of wooden box on a side table. Molly moved toward the box and gingerly lifted the lid.

  "Kitty, look."

  The women stared down at an old windup music box. Beneath a glass window, five brass bells waited to be rung out by five silver birds whose beaks would delicately peck at them, creating an accompaniment to the song played by the rolling cylinder dotted with raised notes.

  "Do we dare?" Molly asked, gazing in wonder at the tiny birds.

  "We do," Kitty answered and carefully pulled up the crank that would wind the box.

  "Just crank it one or two times, so we can hear a few notes. We don't know how loud it's going to be."

  As they watched the cylinder begin to move, the women held their breath. The music began. It was like nothing Molly had ever heard. Sweet notes like trickling water tripped along with the resonating chimes of the birds striking the bells. The sound was light and high, yet reverberated within the depths of the wooden box, creating an echo. It was the music of fantasy, of rain falling on the pond's skin, of a butterfly bursting from its chrysalis in silence of the night. It was the hypnotizing language of fairies, of dragonflies.

  L
ex and Clara couldn't deny the pull of the music, and the four stood like statues as it moved through them. Molly looked above the box and saw that several old instruments hung from the walls. There was a trumpet, a clarinet, and a flute. On the opposite wall hung a banjo, a tambourine, and a violin.

  When the music stopped Kitty whispered in awe, "For such an unpleasant person, he sure had some wonderful things."

  "Professor Plum, with the wrench, in the Music Room," Lex joked to lift the serious mood, his gaze falling upon the old instruments. No one got his joke. "Clue?" he said. "Remember the board game? Oh, forget it."

  Undeterred, Clara explained that the shelves covering the back wall were divided into two sections. One half contained the pottery of Jack Graham and face jugs and churns by C. C. Burle. The second set contained fragile roosters by a Georgia family of potters called the Meaders and ovoid jugs from Edgefield, South Carolina.

  Encased in glass, one large jug stood aside from the others.

  "What's this?" Molly asked her mother.

  "That, my dear, is a piece of pottery created by a black man known as Dave the Slave. It's only worth about twenty thousand dollars!”

  "Wow," she said picking up an Edgefield crock. "What are these orange stickers on the bottom of each one?"

  "Looks like inventory stickers. He must have a master list stored somewhere around here," Clara said.

  Molly moved over to the shelves containing Jack Graham's pottery. She immediately loved his work. His vases were small and elegant, fired in crimson reds and deep blues. There were also large vases with wider mouths and fluted rims. Some were swirled in browns and coppery yellows, but others were glazed a cobalt blue and covered with white or yellow drippings. He made large bowls with glazed snakes inside, spiraled and dotted with red curly tongues. Molly reached up and drew down a blue vase with wide shoulders that rose up to a thin, graceful neck.

  "Mom," she breathed, "his work is amazing."