A Killing in Antiques (18 page)

“Talk nice to the lady, Bertie,” he said.

“She’s here screaming her head off at five o’clock in the morning,” Bertie said. “Why should I talk nice?”

“So she’ll know what a nice guy you are,” he said. He looked familiar.

“You the guy who sells baseball cards?” I asked.

“Mostly I buy them,” he said. “But you’ve got me. I’m the baseball card guy. So what is it that you want?”

I told him, and he filled me in on what he remembered about that morning, encouraging Bertie to add his thoughts.

“The ruckus started a little after three thirty,” he said, and Bertie agreed.

Bertie was still put out about the noise. “Sleep is at a premium around here this week,” he growled.

He drew his eyebrows together and swung his thumb in Coylie’s direction. “The redhead and the guy from Scottsdale were throwing things around out here. The yelling and crashing around was enough to wake the dead.” Bertie was courting a blood pressure problem.

Both campers agreed that they left the campgrounds at about ten past four, which only got me about twenty minutes further along the clock than Coylie had left me. They remembered that Billy and Frankie were still talking when they left, but of course neither knew how long Billy and Frankie stayed there.

I got in the van and followed Coylie down to the marketplace. The campers didn’t know enough to help Billy. I needed more information. I parked the van. We would ride into the field in Coylie’s truck.

We were only allowed one vehicle in the field, and it was ready. We had organized his truck and worked out our display and selling tactics yesterday. Coylie knew how he wanted to handle the unpacking and setting up of the inventory. This morning all we had to do was double-check that everything was exactly as we planned, which we did four hundred times.

I found it hard to believe that I was so nervous. I’d been in this business for fifteen years, and before that I was a collector for as far back as I could remember. How could Coylie’s little booth cause such a panic in me? But he was jumpy and I was snappish.

When the clock approached six a.m., the earliest we were allowed into the field, we still hadn’t decided what time we should move in. We knew that earlier gave us a better chance to make preopening deals, but a long wait inside the field might become unbearable. They have monitors patrolling the aisles, checking that no one unpacks, or sets up, or does any buying or selling before the official word goes out.

We finally decided not to head for May’s until quarter to eight. That would get us through the traffic and into the field an hour early, which would give us time to quietly check out the nearby dealers. We swung into the truck’s high seats and waited. I leaned back and closed my eyes; maybe I could grab a little sleep.

I may have dozed for a moment, but I soon became aware of Coylie whistling through his teeth. After a while I recognized the song, “The Yellow Rose of Texas.” He whistled the same few bars, over and over, faster and faster. I was about to scream that it was giving me a nervous breakdown, but when I looked over, he was looking back at me, grinning.

“Boy, you can stand it much longer than my mother can,” he said.

“Shut up,” I said, and closed my eyes again. But there would be no sleeping. I was wide-awake now.

“Lucy,” he said.

“What?” I rasped through clenched teeth.

“Can we revise our plan?” he asked.

I looked at my watch. We’d been there for almost twenty minutes.

“What do you want to do?”

“I’d like to go over there now,” he said.

“What took you so long?” I said.

Coylie started the truck, and we were off. Lines of buyers were already forming at the front gate when we drove up. Some people stand in line for three or more hours.

My own habit here has been to arrive about a half hour before opening. The two lines that form along the chain-link fence wait for hours in relative order. I usually choose to join the group across Route 20 because it’s always unruly, which makes it easier to end up in front.

“Have you got our paperwork?” Coylie said as we reached the gatekeeper.

I handed it over, he showed our papers, got our passes, and we were waved in.

Some of the dealers who would be setting up were already in place. Some sat in their vehicles, some stood around, all careful to give the appearance of playing by the rules. No unloading, no setting up, no obvious selling. Coylie drove directly to his assigned spot.

When he parked, we got out, and several of the neighboring dealers drifted our way. Some were familiar-looking. Right on their heels was a field monitor.

“Everything okay here?” the monitor said. A subtle reminder that there was no deal making allowed.

One of the dealers looked at the monitor, opened his eyes wide, spread his palms, and whined. “I was just going to ask how old Frankie is doing,” he said.

“He’s got troubles; he had to go home,” Coylie said.

Frankie again. There was a guy I didn’t want to think about, but now he required some attention. Coylie explained Frankie’s situation to the dealers, and a discussion ensued about Frankie’s bad luck, with the dealers showing extreme concern while the monitor hung around. But when he finally moved off toward the back gate, the Frankie report was over.

A Humpty Dumpty–looking dealer said, “Frankie was bringing a painting here for me. A Georgia O’Keeffe–style landscape—large, an over-the-sofa piece, lotta pinks and purples in it, Frankie told me.” He looked at Coylie. Coylie blinked. “Oh, yeah, I know the one you mean,” he said. “It’s in the truck, but Frankie went back home with a lot of the stuff he’d hauled out here.”

Humpty nodded. “Well, when we open here, I’d appreciate it if you’d hold off displaying that one. I’m pretty sure I want it.”

Coylie thought about that and another dealer spoke. “Maybe he wants it, and maybe he don’t. But you hold it too long, you’ll be cartin’ it back home again.”

Humpty looked irritated. “Don’t listen to Bozo,” he said, clamping his hand onto Bozo’s shoulder. “I dragged something here for Frankie, too. We’d have made our deal long before this field opened, except the poor slob got called back.”

Coylie, swiftly understanding, said, “Did you bring the Hoosier cabinet?”

“No, that’s probably the guy down the field. See the guy wearing the red cap?” He gestured with his chin. Coylie nodded. “Him. I brought a pair of painted bookcases. Blue, with kind of Dutchy designs.”

“Frankie mentioned those bookcases,” Coylie said. “He wondered if they might be Swedish rather than Pennsylvania Dutch.”

“Naa,” Humpty said. “The Swedish stuff is rosemailing. These are more like the painted barn signs in Pee Aye.”

The little group went on, with Humpty holding forth, and the others kibitzing, advising, meddling. Coylie looked like he was paying attention. He was being indoctrinated, and he knew it. Knew he’d learn the drill despite the fact that some of his “mentors” were offering imperfect advice.

But Frankie, what about Frankie? What about his visit with Billy? He had Coylie’s cell phone, so calling him should be easy enough.

I looked around, didn’t find much promise within sight. It was mildly disappointing. People talked to one another in nervous little groups of two or three. Others paced back and forth within invisible boundaries. I felt constrained. Couldn’t quite get myself up for pacing, but I needed to move.

I wandered off toward the front of the field. No one stopped me. I’d say the Porta-Potties were my excuse if anyone asked why I was wandering around, as long as I didn’t have to actually use them. I nodded and waved to a few dealers along my path, and they returned my gestures, but no one motioned me over to offer a special deal, or to ask what I might have to offer.

Frankie, Frankie, Frankie. He left Brimfield in a rickety truck on Tuesday morning, probably no later than four thirty a.m. If he drove for fourteen hours, maybe more, before he stopped, that would bring him into, say, Tennessee. Some rest, a few more hours on the road, and by then he’s got to sleep. That’s twenty-four hours, and if he pushed on as far the next day, he’s still on the road right now, probably somewhere in Texas.

By the time I got close to the front gate I had convinced myself that nothing was going to happen here, no one was going to pop up and offer me a treasure. Furthermore, I was going to have to get in touch with Frankie. I noticed my tiredness again. I had been so wound up for this experience. Now the idea that today was going to be a washout began to trickle into my thoughts.

I turned to head back to Coylie’s spot and saw a fellow heading toward me. Not a field monitor; a dealer, I guessed, with curly hair. He looked familiar. What now?

“Are you the one who bought the wicker platform rocker yesterday?” he asked.

“I bought one,” I said. What was his interest in it?

“I thought I recognized you from the description I was given. You’re the one with the huge cart that folds up, aren’t you?” he said.

I laughed. “Supercart.” A lot of people recognize me from Supercart. “Yeah, I’m the one. So, what’s up?” I asked.

“Would you be interested in selling the rocker?”

“I don’t think so. I bought it for a friend.”

“A wicker collector?”

“Not really,” I said. “But she asked me to pick up a couple of rockers, and that’s one of them.”

He hesitated, looking quite serious, and thought for a moment. “Okay, how about this. I know the price you paid for it yesterday, because I intended to buy it myself, but I got hung up elsewhere and I couldn’t get here until this morning.”

I nodded and made sympathetic noises. I knew where we were going.

“How about if I offer to double what you paid for it?” he said.

Good offer, very good offer. It must be special in spite of the condition it was in. Still, I hesitated. I had already told Al it was hers. How could I take it back from her? He must have realized I had a problem.

“Okay,” he said. “How about if I throw in another rocker, wicker but not a platform rocker, in addition to doubling the price?”

Does he know what this rocker is? It’s nice, but it needs work. “Have you seen this rocker?” I said.

“Yes,” he said. “The dealer sent me an e-mail.”

E-mail? I’ll never be able to learn how to use a computer. “Does an e-mail show you what condition it’s in?”

“The dealer made no secret of its condition,” he said.

“Okay, I’ll take your offer,” I said. “But I have a problem: I don’t have it with me. It’s in storage about twenty minutes away, and I can’t get there until late this afternoon.” Not to mention that I really didn’t own it anymore.

“I don’t need it this minute,” he said. “I need it before this week is over. I was so sure that it was mine that I sold it to a decorator, who, it seems, has already sold it to a client of his.”

Wow. None of us owned the damned thing when we were selling it. No wonder he looked relieved when I agreed to sell it to him. I don’t want to antagonize the decorators I work with, either. They’re an excellent source of sales.

We quickly worked out how we would trade the cash for the rocker. Our whole exchange took less than a minute. I headed back to Coylie. The field had filled in behind me; people and vehicles added color and motion and buzz to the field.

On my way back I spotted Mildred and Muriel standing by their oversized van. They waved, and I joined them. One of the field monitors must have noticed the wave, and headed over, too. No matter. I didn’t need any cut glass, and I had nothing to sell the two Ms, so let him come.

We said hello, nodded to the monitor, and Mildred and I talked about the week so far. When we’d bored the monitor enough for him to move off, we had a laugh over it, and I was about to leave when Muriel spoke.

“Thank you for the invitation to the picnic,” she said.

I was startled to hear her voice, and even more startled to hear that I’d invited her to the picnic. But I was quick enough to respond that I’d been looking forward to visiting with her. What began as a glib lie was rewarded by her smile, and the realization that I was in fact looking forward to knowing her better.

“I’m leaving my sister here alone tomorrow, so that I can share a tent with some old friends,” she said.

“Sounds like fun. Is this a new interest for you?”

“No, I’ve been a collector for a long time, but now I’d like to deaccession some of my holdings,” she said, laughing.

“Trying to simplify your retirement?” I asked.

“Yes. My retirement is finally beginning to come together after a year of hits and misses. When I left the museum I couldn’t imagine what I’d do with my time. I was sure I’d stay connected with the people there, but for the most part they’ve lost interest in me.” She didn’t appear to be upset by that.

“What museum were you with?” I asked.

“The Meadows in upstate New York.”

“That’s a beautiful place. I slip over there when I need to have my priorities realigned. What did you do there?”

“I was assistant curator for a dozen years before I retired, but I came up through the secretarial ranks rather than from school with an MFA.”

There was more substance to her than I’d realized. “That’s quite an accomplishment. The Meadows has become a world-class museum during your tenure.”

“Yes, but like so many other museums, it’s really hurting for funds,” she said.

“I can sympathize,” I said. “These are tough economic times for museums. Fund-raising is becoming a major function in their survival. So, tell me, what will be offered in your tent tomorrow?”

“Well, one friend features glass, another has pottery, another has Shaker pieces, and I have flow blue. Actually, there are six more of us, each with a different interest.”

“How about the guy selling Shaker? I’m interested in a Shaker candlestand.”