Going Through the Notions (A Deadly Notions Mystery) (12 page)

I
could feel the buzz in the air before we even entered the auction building. With no sale last week, the crowd was full of a pent-up urge to buy.

Joe went off to find Betty while I took one last walk around. The “warm-up” lots had been moved into the loading area. Small valuable antiques, china, and jewelry were housed in locked rolling cabinets that could be wheeled up to the stage when their numbers came up.

There were plenty of familiar faces in the crowd, and it was easy to pick out the dealers. Auction halls are typically not well lit, and the pros were the ones armed with flashlights, tape measures, and magnifying glasses. They wore an intense expression as they cruised up and down the rows, making bets with each other about how high a price various items would bring. One man bear-crawled underneath a dresser in front of me, and I had to step over his boots, which stuck out into the aisle. Sometimes parts were “married together,” such as a highboy with a chest on top, and you had to make sure they were an original set.

Old men outweighed the women about two to one, many in plaid shirts and jeans, and several with long tobacco-stained beards. The old men, I mean. Well, for the most part.

“Better than the junk they usually have,” said one as he picked up a brass Westinghouse fan.

“Yup. Saw a fan like that sell at auction in Hatfield last week for three hundred dollars.” His friend smoothed down the edges of his mustache. “All depends on condition.”

They nodded sagely at each other.
Condition
was the magic word.

Some people just came for the entertainment every Saturday. They didn’t even register for a bidder number. I passed a husband saying to his wife, “There’s lots of stuff here this time, honey. You should be able to find yourself something
else
we don’t need!”

To the far right was an area with metal basement-type shelving holding the box lots. Typically the cardboard boxes contained miscellaneous items such as books, Christmas decorations, tools, kitchen utensils, and whatever else was too small or inexpensive to auction off individually. A bidder bought the whole thing for a few dollars.

Tablecloths and napkins, Victorian lithographed picture blocks, glass doorknobs, and vintage buttons were added to my list.
Ah, vintage buttons.
To me, they were like jewelry now. I’d become fascinated with how many different kinds there were. My mouth watered as I spotted butterscotch Bakelite, enameled metal, and some unusual ivory “spaghetti” extruded knot varieties.

Real jewelry was good, too, because it didn’t take up much space, and was sometimes a purchase that loosened up a buyer for something else in the store. Besides, I needed to dress up Alice.

Usually I focused on a certain type of item. At flea markets, it required tunnel vision to let the sewing notions jump out at me. Tonight, however, a set of French Majolica green oyster dishes caught my eye. I figured I had the poetic license to put certain pieces in my store that weren’t strictly sewing-related. Everything sold in the end.

My heart jumped as I recognized the tall figure of Fiona Adams striding through the crowd. What the heck was she doing here? Was she planning to make trouble? I braced myself as she came nearer, but she stalked right past, with no sign of recognition on her face.

I stared after her. I don’t know why it irritated me so much that the obnoxious Ms. Adams had passed over me like another piece of furniture up for bid. I didn’t want to talk to her anyway.

I’ve often been told I have a nice face. People say I remind them of their sister’s best friend, or their neighbor. More often than not, though, they never remember meeting me in the first place. Nice equaled forgettable, it seemed.

I thought of Martha, or Sarah, or even Eleanor. No one could forget them.

Especially not Martha. I wondered what she’d be wearing tonight. Probably be a bit over the top as usual, but somehow she pulled it off.

Back in the day, I’d been the best-dressed teacher on the Lower East Side, fulfilling my shopping addiction on a limited budget by zeroing in on all the designer fashion sales. But the suits and dresses were long gone, and today I was invisible in a comfortable top and jeans.

Crap.

Joe caught up to me. He said he was planning on bidding on a cigar cutter from the 1880s, a piece of Trench art from World War II, a set of wooden golf clubs, and a vintage U.S. Army suitcase. I raised an eyebrow at the expensive-sounding list. He grinned at me like a guilty little boy. I had to keep an eye on Joe at auction. It was so easy to get seduced by the challenge of outbidding someone else, and he invariably got caught up in the excitement and forgot about his budget.

Cyril Mackey made his way down the aisle toward us.

“Hi, there,” Joe said.

“Hey up, me old cock.”

“How are you, Cyril?” I asked.

“Champion. But tha makes a better door than a winder.”

“Excuse me?”

“I think he wants you to get out of the way.” Joe slid an arm around my shoulder and pulled me closer as Cyril nudged past to inspect a set of vintage beer steins.

I rolled my eyes at Joe and we kept walking.

“That old man looks like he belongs in a garbage dump,” a woman near us cackled to her friend, and they both snickered as they pointed at Cyril. “I wonder what color that nasty jacket was originally.”

I glanced back to where Cyril, wearing his usual tweed jacket of some indeterminate shade of green, or perhaps it was brown, had his hands clasped behind his back as he inspected the mugs. He must have heard them, but he made no sign of it.

Like an island unto himself.

From the way he was standing, I wondered whether he had been in the military at one time.

It struck me that none of us really knew anything about him. What had brought him to Millbury in the first place? Did he have any family? I felt a pang that we’d never bothered to find out.

The ceiling fans turning high above us weren’t doing much to cool down the place, and flushed with heat from being in the middle of so many bodies, I suddenly craved some cool air.

“Joe, I’m going to go and check on Martha and Patsy.”

He nodded. “I’ll save us some seats.”

I squeezed my way toward the hallway. The usual snack counter fare was hot dogs, hamburgers, popcorn, donuts, and pretzels, but tonight Martha had added her own barbecued pulled pork sandwiches and homemade strawberry ice cream.

She was wearing an orange, pink, and teal baby doll top, white Capri pants, and gold sandals. Even though her hair was piled high, her face was still rosy from the heat, and her neck and breasts glistened with moisture as she made the pork sandwiches as fast as she could for the growing line of customers.

I figured discretion was the better part of valor. I’d talk to her later.

Claire was in her element running the popcorn and soda machines, and there were so many fans going inside the tiny snack bar that she was also kept busy placing heavy objects on the piles of paper napkins so they didn’t blow away.

I gratefully accepted an ice cold cup of Diet Coke, put fifty cents in the tip jar, and glanced at my watch. Fifteen minutes to go. I’d better check on Patsy.

I found her in the office, pacing up and down its twelve-foot length.

“How’s it going?”

“Oh, damn it, Daisy. I don’t know why I ever let you talk me into this.” Patsy automatically handed me a quarter, but I gently set it on the desk and grabbed her hands to stop the nervous motion.

“Hey, come on, you’re going to be great.” I’d never seen her so rattled.

She gestured toward the window that looked out over the main gallery. “Look at all those freaking people! And all this stuff has to be sold
tonight
?”

“Yes. But it’s okay. That’s what the chant is for—to keep things moving quickly.”

It was critical that the auction was not waiting on the auctioneer. And there
was
an awful lot of stuff to move out the door. She’d need to be really fast.

I didn’t tell her that, though.

At school, I used to help out with theater productions and I always told the kids they’d be great, no matter what. I knew that once they were onstage, they’d settle down and, heck, even enjoy it.

“Just take it easy at first. No one expects you to be as experienced as Angus. And most of the people out there you know anyway.”

“Yeah?” She peered through the window again. “I’ve been practicing on the diner regulars all week.”

“I’ve got some last-minute tips for you.” Instinctively I knew that for her to focus on absorbing new information would suck up some of the anxiety. “If Betty tells you ‘one money’ on something
,
it means the bidding is for so much apiece, but it’s a set that stays together. For instance, for a set of six chairs, it’s easier for the bidders to think about a bid of one hundred dollars per chair, knowing it will be multiplied by six at the end.”

Patsy nodded. “Got it.”

Betty poked her head in the door. “It’s showtime, folks.”

Patsy sucked in a breath and threw back her shoulders.

“Go get ’em, tiger,” I said. “And don’t forget to watch for my bidder number.”

I found Joe near the front, sat on the seat he’d saved for me, and felt the familiar tingle of anticipation. Like the curtain rising on opening night. I took a quick look around me and wondered which of these seemingly innocuous people would be my nemesis in a bidding war for the dollhouse. Would I emerge victorious?

I caught a glimpse of Fiona Adams in the back, gingerly swiping at one of the chairs with a lace handkerchief before she sat down. The first time I’d met her, she wore nothing but black. This time she was in a winter white designer suit that was striking against her dark hair, but who the heck wore an outfit like that to a country auction?

Betty sat at a desk next to the podium with a laptop open in front of her. She’d be keeping track of the bidder numbers and sale prices.

First up were the box lots to warm up the crowd. A collection of Pabst Blue Ribbon paraphernalia was number one.

“Would you give five dollars to start this box?” Patsy’s voice sounded strong and clear, so maybe it was only me who heard the slight waver in its tone.

One of the old men with long beards waggled his bidder card.

“And ten, do I hear ten?”

Patsy pointed to a man at the back of the room, who nodded imperceptibly.

“Fifteen now?”

No movement. “How about twelve, do I have twelve dollars?”

The second man nodded again.

“Twelve, twelve, now fifteen, do I have fifteen?”

The first old man shook his head.

“Fifteen anywhere? Sold! For twelve dollars to bidder number 202!” She crashed the hammer down on the podium.

I caught her eye and gave her a thumbs-up sign.

The rest of the boxes went along the same tack—a box of car collector magazines, Barbie dolls, books, tools, and kitchen items. I scored with a winning bid of eight dollars for a box of costume jewelry, and five dollars for a box of old postcards and some wooden darning eggs.

Next up were what were called “smalls.” Not surprisingly, small things like a Spode cake server, a jewelry box, some Royal Copenhagen plates, and Fiesta Ware.

One of the regular auction helpers carried a tray across the floor in front of the stage for everyone to take another look. Waiting in the wings was Sarah with the next item to keep the merchandise moving. As soon as the previous piece was sold to the highest bidder, another one came up onstage.

The excitement was building. You could feel it in the room, like the rising pressure in the air when a storm was coming.

Patsy was warming up, too.

“Start me at five and
go
!” she yelled, pointing to a punched tin lantern. “Five, I have five, now seven anywhere?”

An old man in front of me raised his handkerchief a millimeter.

I hoped Patsy would spot him, but she already had. Being a waitress, Patsy was used to scanning the crowd to pick up signals—whether someone was ready for another cup of coffee or looking for their check. Sometimes she was a one-man show down at the diner, especially in the early morning if another waitress was late or hungover.