A Killer Collection (8 page)

"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."