The loss of goods he’d suffered in the wreck was substantial, but he’d be able to make things balance out if he played his cards right. He would spend a little more time evaluating what he had, then put together a laundry list of items that might warrant a call to an auction house. There was the possibility of parlaying this into enough income to carry him for a couple of years — but it would require some shrewd business moves on his part.
Blanche had first choice, of course, after Jeff set aside what he wanted for personal reasons, and she could always be counted on to offer him the best prices. She wouldn’t try to take him to the cleaners, and besides, even the huge warehouse that was now All Things Old couldn’t accommodate everything he’d acquired in one fell swoop. The place was already packed, with a steady stream of pickers carting things in so that consumers might enjoy an astounding choice.
Jeff drank his coffee as he sorted through photos. He chose a couple depicting some real treasures to show to Blanche in her office and put the rest in a manila envelope for her to take home and peruse that night.
Another day like this one, then three marathon days of packing and moving and unpacking the small stuff, and the weekend would be upon him. That was when he, Sam, Maura, and Maura’s fiancé, Darius (who was, fortunately, a plumber), were going to meet at the two houses and salvage all the architectural elements. Those items alone — the brass doorknobs with their elaborate backplates and matching door hinges, the Victorian spandrels and scrolled corner brackets, the vintage light fixtures, the pedestal sinks and clawfoot tubs more than made up for what the contents of the two buildings had cost him.
There was no denying that he had a month’s worth of work to accomplish in six days. He’d be damned surprised if the whole plan came off without a hitch.
He’d worked out a barter with the Carvers on this one when he’d taken them to see the properties a week and a half earlier. Maura and Darius were in the planning stages of building a home and wanted the porcelain from two of the five bathrooms. Sam laid claim to a toolbox that he had spotted in the basement of Building Two. The box had been made in the late 1800s out of three woods — ebony, purplewood, and rosewood, with a matching set of planes in eight sizes, all trimmed in etched brass. It had undeniably been built by an artisan, and included in the box was the craftsmen’s poem by St. Francis of Assissi. It epitomized Sam Carver’s approach to his livelihood:
He who works with his hands is a laborer.
He who works with his hands and his head is a craftsman.
He who works with his hands and his head and his heart is an artist.
A pricey trade, that one, but worth the care and knowledge that Sam would bring to the weekend project. Besides, you did things for friends that couldn’t be calculated with dollar signs, knowing that the same would be done for you if need be.
Sam had been near tears as he admired the case and its treasures. Then, in keeping with his personality, had turned to Jeff and said with mock seriousness, “I’m going to take a shaving on this deal, but since it’s you . . .”
Jeff grinned at the memory, and at Sam’s wood-shaving pun.
The rumble of a truck’s engine jogged his thoughts, brought him back to the present. That’ll be the moving crew, he thought, surprised that they’d made the round-trip with yet another load so quickly. Blanche had enlisted two more men for him, and he’d asked her to let the first crew know that they could join in as soon as they’d made arrangements for a truck. It would cut into his profits, but he was having twinges of panic over meeting his contract deadline with the old woman’s nephew.
As the team unloaded furniture and unwrapped the protective packing quilts, Jeff checked the items against his inventory sheets. His goal was to get together a preliminary list and deliver it to Blanche, along with the Polaroids he’d been snapping, before calling it a day.
He glanced at his watch and realized he’d barely looked up since his lunch of leftovers from the fishing trip — Vienna sausages, crackers, and Sheila’s cowboy cookies four hours earlier.
But just as he thought he was ready to leave, he found himself drawn to the corner where the cartons from Bill’s basement were stacked. He knew that to wade through, weed out, categorize, and evaluate would be a hell of a task, one that would require his full mental capacities. Curiosity got the best of him, though. Using his pocketknife, he slit the tape in assembly-line fashion and began sorting through Bill’s collection.
He emptied carton after carton, amazed at how organized the collection was. Each box held a specific brand of lures — Heddon, Shakespeare, Pfleuger, Creek Chub. When he unwrapped the contents of the fifth box, he jumped. The flies that had startled him were so lifelike he thought at first that the container was infested. He hadn’t seen very many of the Keeling flies in his years as a picker, but they were easy to identify. Nobody, by Jeff’s estimation, could touch Fred Keeling’s expertise.
There was a common thread — literally — among those lures of Bill’s that sported either bucktails or feathers. Expertly tied into the center of each of the tufts used by fly-tyers to camouflage the hooks was a single silky strand of red embroiderer’s floss. It didn’t take Jeff long to determine that it was Bill’s discreet way of identifying the pieces in his extensive and valuable collection, and he wondered whether Bill had been doing this all along. He would have to check the computer files when he got home and determine whether the eBay items had the trademark red thread.
He also wondered whether the lures that didn’t have deer hair or feathers had some sort of discerning mark. He examined a few and, although he thought an extra, identifying mark had been added, he really couldn’t be sure without a magnifying glass.
His picker’s kit, which was in the car, had a small magnifying glass, as well as the other tools used to check authenticity, search for maker’s marks, and narrow the field where age and value were key: black light, jeweler’s loop, angled mirrors, even pencils whose erasers could be rubbed against metal to help determine whether or not a piece was sterling silver. If the eraser removed tarnish, you likely had a promising treasure.
He hadn’t brought the kit in from the car, since he wasn’t planning to do any detailed investigating this early in the game. He made a mental note to examine the wooden lures later.
He moved on, opening cartons and making a surreptitious examination of the lures, becoming more and more astounded at the value before him.
With seven cartons aside, he pulled back the flaps of number eight only to discover what appeared to be the personal keepsakes of a teenaged girl. He began unpacking diaries, yearbooks, albums bulging with newspaper clippings, and bundles of letters tied with pastel ribbons — pink, lavender, yellow.
He withdrew a plain black frame from the box, tilted it toward the light.
The photo it contained depicted a young woman who looked amazingly like Nancy Kerrigan — slender and fit, with black hair. The girl was wearing black — a tank top and satin running shorts — as if to create the most dramatic backdrop for the large gold medallion that hung from a red, white, and blue grosgrain ribbon around her neck. She held a trophy that was easily half her size.
Jeff tried to remember whether Bill had ever mentioned having a daughter, but he didn’t recall such a reference ever being made.
More digging in the box unearthed a couple of trophies (much smaller than the one in the photo) and a number of presentation boxes — each containing a beribboned medal.
He thumbed through one of the albums, skimmed a couple of newspaper articles, pieced together the puzzle. He reached for a phone, then remembered where he was. It was time to call it a day anyway, he decided, so he locked up the warehouse, and walked to the nearest pay phone.
After fumbling with his wallet and finding the business card he’d put there, he stabbed the numbers, then waited anxiously.
“McIvers.”
“Sheriff, it’s Jeff Talbot.”
“Hey, fishin’ bud. You’ve jumped ship by now, I re
ckon.”
“Afraid so, but you’ll be glad to hear that I might have a hell of a lead on your killer. Turns out, one of these boxes we got from Bill’s basement wasn’t his. I just got a blast from the past of a teenage girl.
“She looked quite a bit different eight or ten years ago,” he continued. “Muscular, in a figure-skater sort of way. I’ve got photos, BP-BS —”
“Wait a minute. What the hell’s BP-BS?”
“Sorry. ‘Before platinum, before silicone.’ She had black hair and . . . well, let’s just say her figure didn’t prevent those medals from resting flat against her chest.
“Here’s the kicker, though. All these trophies and medals belong to a girl by the name of Tanya Price, aka, your grieving widow, Tanya Rhodes. That was her name before she married Bill Rhodes, easy enough to verify. Wait till you see the photos, Sheriff. She competed in a very interesting sport throughout high school and college.”
“Interesting? How so?”
“The Widow Rhodes was a javelin thrower.”
The sheriff missed a beat, then said, “Bill was killed with a fishing spear.”
“Exactly.”
“Looks like I’ve got an alibi to try and crack.”
“Let me know what you turn up.” He rang off, walked the two blocks along the harbor toward Blanche’s shop, leaving behind the headaches of the warehouse and the nagging worries over Bill’s murder.
“Jeffrey! I was beginning to think you’d forgotten all about me.” Blanche was sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by several open reference books on antiques.
The sight warmed him. There weren’t many women in their seventies who would attempt such a feat. Blanche always started at one of the two large French writing desks that occupied her office but, if an item proved elusive, she frequently got serious by moving the whole research process to ground level.
He offered a hand, and she took it, then dropped into her office chair like the little red-headed rag doll she was. He tossed two photos on the desk in front of her.
She studied first one, then the other. She shook her head. “Jeffrey, you must be more worn out than I am. You took two pictures of the same piece of furniture.”
He sat opposite her and grinned broadly. “They’re twins, Blanche. Two of them, as identical as Leigh and Leslie Keno.”
“I don’t believe it.” She studied the photos of the little corner cabinets, her eyes darting back and forth between the two. “Thank God these weren’t in the accident.
“I’m not sure whether they’re French or English,” she went on. “The marquetry makes me think French. See how the design of each inlaid vase is tall, slender, elegant? But the rest says late nineteenth-century English.” Blanche looked up. “Do you know how rare these are?”
“I had a hunch.”
“That old woman was insane, wasn’t she? Did you see the article about her in the paper? Sick, wouldn’t go to the doctor, appearing as if she needed money. And here she was, holding on to a fortune.”
“That’s easier for me to believe than her half-wit nephew, selling this stuff to me for a fraction of what it’s really worth. But my conscience is clear. I tried to get him to call a reputable auction house. He didn’t want to mess with it.”
“All the better for us, I say.” She picked up the manila envelope. “I’ll curl up with this tonight,” she said, squeezing the fat package to her breast as if it were a juicy romance novel. “I’ll choose what I want and have an offer for you by tomorrow afternoon.”
Jeff nodded, wished he had half the energy as Blanche Appleby. He attributed her success to her quick, sharp mind and her instinct for what the public wanted. She could be the poster girl for “No Fear.”
“I’m sorry, Jeffrey. I should’ve offered you some tea. Or some coffee?”
“Thanks, but I’d better get moving. Greer took the day off after making us a gallon of coffee for the morning, and Sheila asked me to drop by Pike Place and pick up some salmon for dinner.”
Blanche sat back, obviously happy. “I had the best time visiting with Sheila while you were gone. She’s quite the hostess, and that bread pudding with blackberry sauce? Out of this world!”
“Don’t I know it.” Jeff patted his stomach. “I’m going to have to start working out more, I guess. I don’t dare push away from the table, or she’ll think I don’t appreciate her.”
“It’ll be worth a few more trips to the gym, I can say that.”
“You’ll get no argument from me.” Jeff rose. “I’ll drop by tomorrow when I’m finished at the warehouse.”
Blanche tapped the manila envelope. “I’ll rob a bank in the meantime.”
Pike Place Market had changed some since Jeff had first visited it as a child but, overall, the atmosphere was the same. He was standing near the south end, mesmerized by the bright neon signs that hung from the rafters, when a fish vendor sailed a salmon through the air not ten inches in front of his nose. The stunt was as much to capture the attention of passing consumers as it was to entertain the tourists. Jeff arched a brow. He wondered if they’d mistaken him for a tourist, which was likely, since he had appeared so awestruck by the carnival-like surroundings.
A couple of kids scrambled off the bronze back of the resident charity piggy bank — a life-sized rendition named Rachel — and hurried over to watch the “flying” fish. Feeling generous, Jeff fed a ten spot through the bank’s slot and was warmed by the sense of community the gesture gave him.
He was glad he’d left the woodie parked at the warehouse. He would make better time on foot, what with the corporate crowd clogging the arteries leading out of downtown. He strode along, welcoming the crisp air and the chance to stretch his legs in earnest.
He didn’t get down here too often anymore, so he took advantage of this opportunity by soaking up the atmosphere, working his way through the knots of busy shoppers, cutting across the wide lanes to select items from various merchants — a baguette from the baker, a bundle of fall cuttings from the florist, some magazines from the newsstand. He should do this more often, he thought. Not so much as to cross the boundaries of Greer’s duties — he didn’t want their employee to misinterpret that he wasn’t doing a good job — but enough to stay in touch with all the good things his town had to offer.
He purchased the salmon last, watched the young man wrap and tie the silver and coral fish in white butcher paper, then headed back to his car a few blocks away.
It was dusk by the time he arrived in Queen Anne. He enjoyed this time, liked to drive north, up Queen Anne Avenue, and watch as the shops’ lights glowed and warmed the gray sidewalks like those in the paintings by Thomas Kinkade.
He turned, nosed the woodie along residential streets cramped with vehicles. So many of the historical homes of his neighborhood had been converted into apartment complexes, and parking was always at a premium. Fortunately for him, his ancestors hadn’t relinquished an inch of ground. Still standing on his property was the original carriage house, which provided the shelter he needed to protect the woodie’s finish.
He took the corner where his house stood and suddenly felt cold. The only light he saw was a blue glow from the third-floor window of Sheila’s office. The house as a whole looked gloomy without the golden light that usually emanated from within. The red brick, the warm gold and ivory shades of trim paint, all lay flat. He pulled into the driveway, straining as he did so to see if there was a light on in the kitchen. Nothing. The place was as dark and gray as the warehouse from which he’d just come.
Sheila should be downstairs by now. She always allowed plenty of time to cook, and an equal amount of time to dress the table in crisp linens, polished silver, glittering crystal, and a centerpiece of her own creation. She believed in dining, not merely eating.
She should be busy preparing all those dishes she had planned to go with the salmon. It wasn’t like her to become so wrapped up in the Internet that she lost all track of time.
He feared that she had taken
ill but, if that were so, wouldn’t she have called Greer on his cell phone? Or, if she had been hesitant to bother their butler on his day off, she could have phoned Blanche at All Things Old, who, in turn, would have immediately dispatched Trudy to the warehouse to fetch Jeff.
What if she had fallen? He had warned her time and time again to slow down as she shot up and down the flights of stairs that connected the house’s four stories.
His mind struggled with itself, one side telling him to hit the panic button, the other telling him that there had to be a reasonable explanation.
He didn’t bother with the garage but rather stopped the car at the back steps. He grabbed the shopping bags and darted up the steps to the door, where he juggled packages and fumbled with the house key. In an effort to maintain balance, he bumped against the door.
It pushed open.
He checked, discovered that the lock was activated but whoever had closed the door hadn’t pushed tightly enough for it to click into the chamber. He flipped the light switch with his elbow, deposited the packages on the long, empty refectory table that served as Sheila’s culinary workstation. By now, the table should have been equipped like an assembly line: dessert with the proper china for serving it at one end, bread basket lined with a linen cloth, an array of washed vegetables awaiting the magic of the chef in residence.
“Sheila?” He walked from the kitchen, hitting switches as he went, glancing into rooms: library, dining room, his study, the parlor.
“Sheila?” He called again as he bounded up the stairs to the second floor. There, he checked the master bedroom, both dressing rooms, both bathrooms.
“Sheila!” More urgent this time. “Where in the hell are you?”
Taking the next flight of stairs two at a time, he arrived breathless on the landing.
He paused, told himself to calm down. She was in her office, he assured himself, locked in a heated discussion in some chat room or trapped in the innermost weavings of the Web. “C’mon, hon, answer me,” he called as he made his way down the long corridor. “I’m too damned old to be playing hide and seek.”
The Weedless Widow Page 14