The Big Steal (18 page)

Seated across from me, the banker flashed a smile. “Please,” he broke in. “Frederick, not Mr. Graham. Actually, Ms. Glass, I doubt if your services will be needed any further here. I think between the foundation board and the bank, we'll have everything
well
under control.”

His words hit with a thud. Not needed?
He
couldn't fire me. And his tone of voice. For a moment, he reminded me of Alfred Houseman—scornfully solicitous.

Frederick Graham stood and turned his back to me. Apparently to his mind, our conversation had ended.

“Mr. Graham,” I said, “I didn't just
appear
at Wynderly's doorstep. If I'm not mistaken, the
foundation
contacted Babson and Michael. You're on the board.
You're
the ones who submitted the claim. I'm here at the request of the insurance company. It would hardly be proper for me to walk off the job because you now say I am no longer needed.” I felt my face flush.

He turned and looked down at me. His was a self-satisfied grin if ever I'd seen one. “Now, Sterling,” he said, “I'm sure you'll be compensated for your time.”

“That's not the point,” I said, struggling not to tag on, “and don't you dare speak to me in that manner.”

“The point of my being here, Mr. Graham, is to put money in the foundation's coffers. What I'd like to know is
how
, without my report, Babson and Michael will be able to”—I glanced around the opulent room—“cut the check for the foundation, which, I do believe, will then go to the bank.” I cast him a puzzled look. “Now, it would seem to me that with your being on the foundation board
and
in the trust department at the bank—”

“Who I am and what positions I hold are hardly your concern.”

“But aren't you the treasurer of the foundation
and
the head trust officer at the bank, Mr. Graham?” I asked.

Frederick Graham's back stiffened. “Ms. Glass, I'm here on orders from the bank. My position with the foundation board has nothing to do with my taking things out of Wynderly.”

“I would think your position on the board, especially as treasurer, has
everything
to do with your
not
allowing things
to go out of Wynderly. Of course I could be mistaken, but if
you're
not going to protect the foundation's assets, who is?”

Frederick Graham thrust his hands into his pants' pockets and rocked back on his heels. Clearly he was as uncomfortable with this conversation as I was.

“Freddy. There you are.”

Tracy DuMont stood at the top of the steps, hands on hips. Behind her trailed Michelle Hendrix.

“What the hell's going on here? And what are all those minions doing dragging in boxes and rolls of tape?”

“Now Tracy, no reason to get excited.” Graham stepped forward, his voice all silky and affable.

Tracy turned, removed her sunglasses, and addressed me. “Is this
your
doing?”

I knew how a deer in headlights felt. My hand went to my heart.

“Well, I can see it isn't,” she said before I could say a word.

“Mr. Graham was already here when I got here,” Michelle said, eyes locked with Tracy's. “Them, too.” With her thumb she pointed like a hitchhiker over her shoulder toward the entrance hall where Frederick Graham's minions, as Tracy had called them, were scurrying about.

“So, it's back to you, Freddy. Which, by the way, is why I'm here. I stopped by the bank earlier. When I asked for you, Laurie said you weren't in. When it turned out Clarence and Jerry were gone too, I asked who was minding the store. When Laurie told me everyone had gone to Wynderly —”

Tracy DuMont stopped, waiting for an answer. When no
one said anything in response, she turned to Michelle. “Seems you're the only one willing to speak up.” Tracy reached into the Chanel pocketbook slung over her shoulder, then stopped. “My cell phone's not worth a damn out here. Get Houseman on the house phone. Tell him to get over here right now. Meanwhile, those men out there … what do they know about packing china and silver? Freddy, stop them right this minute before they do more damage than they've probably done already. Then you and I have some talking to do.”

She looked and sounded adamant. But when, I wondered, had Tracy Dumont not looked and sounded adamant?

I
HAD BEGUN
to gather my belongings when Michelle Hendrix reappeared.

“Matt Yardley's trying to get in touch with you,” she said, handing me a slip of paper. “He left this number and asked for you to return his call ASAP. Said something about only being in the office a short time then having to leave. I told him you'd call him right back.”

My face obviously had said more than I would have wished. “When—”

“Just now. Say, this Matt fellow, he's the big shot at the insurance company, isn't he? Not that Houseman confided in me before you got here”—Michelle rolled her eyes in that sarcastic is-the-pope-Catholic sort of way—“but his name sounds kind of familiar.”

“Matt Yardley? Ah … yes. That's him. Babson and Michael,” I said.

“He sounded sorta sexy … in a highbrow way,” she said.

How, with everything that had just transpired, could she be thinking about some man on the phone she didn't even know? But then there was a lot about Michelle that, from the beginning, I hadn't understood.

“Oh?” I said.

She gave me a wry smile. “Yeah,” she said.

Dear Antiques Expert: After a friend took me to an estate sale I became interested in antiques. But she also told me that a lot of things being sold as antiques really aren't that old. Do I really need to worry about being sold a fake? How can I avoid it?

Unfortunately, crooks know when there's money to be made. For over a century, English and Continental pieces have been made with the express purpose of being sold as 18th-century antiques. Those are fakes. But don't confuse fakes with reproductions. Fakes are
intended
to deceive; re-productions are honest re-creations of the old style, though old reproductions are sometimes mistaken as original antiques. To avoid being taken, read and study. Countless books and classes show how to distinguish the real from the fake or reproduction. Be assured, wonderful antiques are still available; you just have to know how to identify them.

I
PERCHED ON
the side of the desk and punched in the numbers, apparently just in time.

“Sterling. Caught me halfway out the door.”

I pictured Matt the way I'd seen him in his tastefully appointed Madison Avenue office, looking and acting like the New York executive he is—tall and dark-haired and charming to the point of distraction. Michelle was right, he did sound sexy.

“I've only got a second,” he said apologetically. Then in a more leisurely way he asked, “But, how
are
you? I half expected you to call yesterday. I'm anxious to hear how things are going at Wynderly. Any clues as to what happened? But more to the point right now, I'm on my way down to D.C. A problem came up late yesterday that I need to take care of firsthand. You're not that far away once I'm in Washington, right? What would you say if I pop down and check things out? I'd get there tomorrow … probably late in the day.”

“You have no idea how glad I'd be to see you,” I said. “This place is a snake pit. You wouldn't believe what just happened. Frederick Graham … he's the treasurer of the foundation, and he's also … You
really
aren't going to believe this. He's the trust officer at the bank. Anyway, he just fired me.”

“What? Fired you? He … he can't do that. What did you
do
, Sterling?” He sounded nonplussed, totally unlike his usual self, or maybe he was just amused.

“Nothing.”

“He can't
fire
you. You're working for us. What's going on? Are you about finished up?”

“I wish. I'm embarrassed to tell you how little I've been able to do,” I said, then added, “I told you, this place is a snake pit.”

“Look. Just ignore what … whatever his name is ….”

“Frederick Graham.”

“… what Frederick Graham said. Tell whoever you need to that I'm in meetings in Washington today and half of tomorrow but I'm on my way down. Sounds as if this trip of mine is fortuitous. I'll be in touch with you tonight, OK? I'll call you on my cell phone.”

“Just don't try
my
cell. It's next to useless out here. Call … Hold on. Let me give you the number at Belle Ayre. I should be there after supper.”

While I was digging out the number, Matt said it would be late. He'd be in a business dinner and wouldn't call till maybe eleven. “Meanwhile, just do what you can today, but be sure to tell them I'm coming. I'm sorry this has turned into such a disaster. I had no idea.”

“Me either,” I muttered.

“Hang in there and I'll ring you up tonight.”

I
DIDN'T KNOW
when my headache had gone away. But who had time for a headache? Heartache? Now that was a different matter.

The prospect of Matt's appearing on the scene had sent me in a tailspin. I slumped into Michelle's desk chair. Today was Wednesday, wasn't it? No. It was Thursday. It seemed I'd spent weeks at Wynderly. And damn … Fox was expecting me to take a look at his stuff. Right now the task at hand was to get something done to show for the time I'd spent here other than hearing about my own parents and Hoyt's great-grandparents from Worth Merritt, listening to tales of Wynderly's bygone days and Michelle's lineage from Miss Mary Sophie, learning about the hydrosphere from Fox, watching Tracy DuMont's
antics, nosing through secret rooms and diaries, and last, but not least—getting fired.

I made my resolve. I wasn't P. D. James delving into deep-seated psychological motivations, or Colin Dexter playing around with Inspector Morse's idiosyncratic approach to a crime. I was Sterling Glass, an antiques appraiser who had been hired to give fair settlement values.

In the hall I bumped into Michelle Hendrix.

“I think Tracy snuffed out Frederick Graham's fuse, at least for the time being,” Michelle said. “Houseman's on his way. We'll see what happens next. So? What did Mr. Insuranceman have to say?”

“Mr. Yardley will be here tomorrow afternoon, and we'd better have the information he needs or we're both going to be up the proverbial creek.”

Her eyes widened.

“Yes. Between the board meeting and Houseman's showing up here yesterday, plus the time I've spent ferreting around in the attic, I've hardly seen a thing. Look, I'm not blaming you,” I said, thinking I'd better soften my words, “you've been tied up too. But, if any money's going to be forthcoming to try to save this place, then it's imperative that I get good, solid information about the things on the list Babson and Michael gave me. That's what I'm here for. To do that, you and I have to go over the stolen things with a fine-tooth comb. Without interruptions,” I added.

Michelle hadn't blinked an eye since I began to speak. Finally I broke the awkward silence that ensued and said in as offhanded a way as I could, “The way I see it, anything you
can add, help me with, show me, point me towards … anything will be helpful. There's also the matter of clearing you of any responsibility in the theft.”

The muscles in her face tensed. Michelle set her mouth in a straight line. “Come with me,” she said.

I didn't make any attempt at small talk. I just followed along until Michelle stopped and motioned me inside a room. When I saw the hodgepodge of things gathered from around the world I instantly remembered having passed by it on my first day at Wynderly. The Game Room, she had called it, and come to think of it, Worth Merritt had mentioned it during our dinnertime conversation.

Following me in, Michelle closed the door behind her. I glanced about the room. Unlike the overfurnished Continental-style drawing room and bedrooms, or the formal dining room and hallways, this room, with its well-worn oak trestle table and high-backed Windsor chairs, was rather homey in that comfortable English-cottage style. At the stone fireplace were large andirons and a simple black firescreen. The mantel was bare except for tall brass pricket candlesticks that had once sat on the altar of some Irish chapel, as was obvious from the ringed cross and IHS motif engraved on their bases. I liked this room. Had Mazie and Hoyt sat here on gray winter days like this day, warmed by the fire, chatting while reading or planning their trips or playing Scrabble, or chess perhaps? Had it been the heart of the house, I wondered. That was the idyllic image it evoked. For a moment I forgot I was in Wynderly and stepped toward the hearth for a closer look at the verse etched into the stone: “Here time is slow and gracious. A companion, not a master.”

Michelle had walked over to a row of built-in bookcases. She stopped in front of a section of shelves where photographs taken of Hoyt and Mazie on their trips to Africa and Asia, Europe and Russia were mixed in with the books. She reached up and began running her hand along the vertical support. Midway down she stopped. “How do I know I can trust you?” she asked.

I knew why, but how to answer her?

“Let me put it this way,” I said, “who else around here
can
you trust?”

“Give me a hand, will you? I'm going to push here.” Then, pointing to the end board of the section she said, “And you go over there and push when I tell you to.”

I did as she said.

“Push now. Harder. Push harder.”

I felt the paneled section give slightly, just as the attic wall had.

“Hold it there.”

Michelle joined me. Standing on tiptoes, she reached above me and grabbed the upright board. “On the count of three.” Together we pushed. The photographs quivered as the bookcase shifted back.