The Big Steal (21 page)

“You asked why I didn't tell anyone about the book after I found it,” she said. “I didn't want to destroy the myth. I couldn't be the one to dash other people's dreams and hopes.
And, I guess I didn't want to hurt Mazie's memory. Too late for that now, right? I mean, with the bank wanting to pack things up and take them away. Oh, what are we going to do?”

“If only I knew,” I said.

I checked several more pieces on the Babson and Michael list against the Kirklander appraisal. The boat-shaped, covered tureen made by Hester Bateman in London in 1786 that had been valued at $1,500 on the Kirklander appraisal had lept in value over the decades to $10,000 on the 1980s appraisal. That seemed an exorbitant increase, but I had just read where a collection of contemporary Chinese art purchased for $25,000 in 1995 had sold for four million in 2007. These days Hester Bateman silver is so hot that I upped the $10,000 to $25,000 on the Babson and Michael claim. Wynderly would pick up a nice piece of change on that piece. I circled and initialed the listing. But I put an X by the next item—an Egyptian stone sculpture.

Even before reading the full description of the piece in Kirklander's appraisal, I had known I would find a receipt for a forgery or two laid into the pages. Egyptian antiquities have been faked for centuries. What unsuspecting layman mesmerized by the mysterious history of an exotic Egyptian figure would ever think to ask for a chemical analysis of a figure's stone to determine if it had come from an ancient, or a modern, Egyptian quarry?

Sure enough, a receipt for multiple copies of the figure was right where I had expected to find it. Once he had sold them, Hoyt had made several thousand dollars on the deal.

Remembering Sydney Greenstreet and Peter Lorre in
The Maltese Falcon
and stories of the ever-changing two-bit players
on eBay, I considered telling Michelle that antiques con men were nothing new, that Hoyt Wyndfield belonged on that list. It had been easy for him. He had possessed all the trappings of a successful charlatan (the word seemed to suit him better than
swindler
or
snake oil salesman
)—aristocratic charm, courtly manners, a golden tongue, and a self-confidence that can hoodwink the gullible every time.

Add in Hoyt's restless, adventuresome spirit. According to the tale Worth Merritt had taken great delight recounting, the Wyndfields had had a wild streak in their blood for generations. Little matter that Hoyt hadn't needed the money. I was willing to bet that Hoyt's schemes had been done for no reason other than the rush he got from making a deal. I'd read enough to know that the thrill of the kill is real, and a kill doesn't have to be a murder.

It could have been that. Or it might have been just plain greed. It's one of life's ironies that those who have it all will risk it all, be it at the poker table, the boardroom, the battlefield, or the bedroom.

By the end of the day, Michelle and I figured that perhaps as many as half of the stolen and broken items had been counterfeits, and we had the proof. What we still didn't know was who had committed the physical theft at Wynderly, and why. Would the thieves have even bothered with some of the pieces if they had known they were taking
fakes
? I hardly thought so. It's a cardinal rule that you better know what you've stolen before you try to fence it.

Dear Antiques Expert: What does it mean when an antiques dealer refers to “smalls”? I have a friend who says she's going to take a space at an antiques mall and will specialize in smalls. I hate to appear ignorant
.

“Smalls” is a term that antiques dealers use for items that don't take up much space—little things. Porcelains, ivory carvings, sewing and smoking accessories, jewelry, medals, beadwork, dressing table items—just about anything that can be easily transported, especially put in a shopping bag or pocketbook, is termed a “small.” Since doodads, knickknacks, and bric-a-brac were especially popular during the Victorian era, some dealers even specialize in what they term “Victorian smalls.”

M
ICHELLE AND
I had worked past the usual four o'clock quitting time before realizing how late it was. Though neither one of us mentioned it, we both had assumed the other people in the house had left some time earlier, or I certainly had. Foolish me. I should have known it was folly to assume anything around this place.

“Oh Michelle. Sterling? Anyone back here?” Tracy DuMont's clicking heels and throaty voice were unmistakable.

I motioned toward the door. While Michelle went out into the hall, I slid Kirklander's appraisal in the bottom of my briefcase. By the time Tracy had stepped over the threshold, sunglasses perched atop her head, I was casually gathering up the other papers.

“I cannot thank you enough for coming along when you did,” I said. “If Mr. Graham had had his way, I'd be back in Leemont by now.”

“Oh that Freddy. He makes me so damn mad I could choke him. Nobody around here who knows Freddy pays him any heed. Only reason he was picking on you is because you're new blood.”

New blood? Where had I heard that before? Ah … Worth had said something like that when explaining why Peggy Powers was being so nice to me. “The new kid on the block.” How nice to know that everyone was finding me so gullible and amusing.

“One thing's for sure,” Tracy was saying, “I wouldn't put him in charge of anything I care about—not with that superior attitude of his. Pompous. That should be his middle name and the initials after his name. Freddy P. Graham, P.A.—Pompous Ass. Sometimes we have to show these men around here who's the boss. Like Alfred Houseman. He's another one. Michelle, remind me to give you some lessons on how to handle him.”

Tracy flipped her hand in the air, reminding me of the old description of a knife cutting through butter. “Piece of cake,” she said.

I didn't know if it was Tracy's frenzied good humor, the late
hour at the end of a trying day, or the fact that Michelle and I had our secret, but the air in that back room had turned as sweet as a Southern summer breeze. We were like three girlfriends having fun.

“What if I call home and have Yves fix us a little supper,” Tracy asked.

Michelle froze.

Tracy laughed out loud. “I don't bite. Is that a yes or a no?”

“Oh, I wish I could, Ms. DuMont. I just can't.”

Tracy didn't push her. “Sterling?”

What had Worth Merritt said at dinner? “If, for any reason, you get a chance to spend any time with her, take it. It won't be time misspent.”

“That's awfully nice of you. Are you sure it isn't too much trouble?”

“Trouble? For whom? Certainly not for me. Yves? That's what I pay him for.”

I thought I caught a tinge of regret cross Michelle's face.

“So, you'll lock up, Michelle.”

W
E HAD AGREED
that I would be at Terena, Tracy's estate—no other word would describe it—a little past six. We neither one wanted a late night, and I really needed to run by Belle Ayre. Uppermost in my mind was being sure Kirklander's book was safe and secure. I had the harebrained thought that if I hid it away I wouldn't be tempted to tell Tracy about it. Back at Belle Ayre, I put the book between the mattress and box spring of the bed. If that weren't foolish enough, I
sat
on the bed, as if to seal its hiding place.

I was putting on fresh lipstick when a wave of loneliness swept over me. I wished I'd never even heard of Wynderly. It had such an invasive sadness about it. But who had time for such thoughts now. Certainly not anyone who had been invited to Tracy DuMont's for dinner. Still, that thought didn't sweep away the clouds in my head. I'd call Peter. He'd cheer me up.

Deep down, I suppose I had hoped this trip away from Leemont might make Peter miss me. During my recent jaunt to New York where I had met Matt and as I began working for Babson and Michael, Peter had been as attentive as a pup—calling to check on me and then coming around once I got back to Leemont. But once things had leveled out, so had Peter's attentiveness. It was back to politeness and courtesy.

I played over in my head special moments Peter and I had had together. Not that they provided anything concrete for me to pin my hopes on: Peter's hand brushing mine, whether intentionally or accidentally, a tone of concern in his voice when he told me to be careful and to keep in touch with him while I was away, the time he had hugged me and held me closer and longer than I thought he would.

That's a pretty sad state of affairs, if I do say so
, Mother declared, interrupting my moment of painful pleasure as I dwelled on those memories.
Finding pleasure in a touch rather than a kiss, a tone of voice rather than a declaration of passion, a mere hug
?
Live a little, Sterling. For God's sake, live
!

I picked up the phone and prayed Peter would be at home.

Our conversation was so pained that you would have thought we'd both just gotten Christmas cards from one another after a decade of silence. We chatted about everything
from the new bypass around Leemont to pros and cons of the candidate who had just announced he was running for mayor. Finally I could stand it no longer. I blurted out, “I wish you were here to help me with this appraisal.”

“Actually, Sterling, there's a great estate sale going on not too far from there this weekend. What are your plans?”

I fought back my initial enthusiasm. With Matt coming down … Then again, for all I knew, Matt would breeze in, look over the situation, and breeze back out.

“You're awfully quiet, Sterling.”

“It all goes back to these lunatics. The one from the bank fired me today. So, you'd think I'd be packing up to come home, but …” I hesitated. No reason to tell Peter that Matt was coming down at this stage of the game. “Well, I got a reprieve, but at the moment, I really don't know if I'll be here through the weekend or not.”

“Fired you?”

“It's too long a story to go into, really. Right now I'm on my way to Tracy DuMont's.”

“
The
Tracy DuMont?”

“I certainly hope there's only one of them.” I laughed. “Takes no prisoners, that's for sure. How about I call you later tonight? Would that be OK? I've got to scram in a minute, but tell me about the estate sale.”

“Haven't you seen notices about it? It's been in all the papers around here. From what I can tell, apparently it's not too far from Wynderly. Milton, that's the name of the estate. Ever heard of it?”

“The house? No. And about the sale, I haven't so much as
seen
a paper or a TV, and I've only heard the radio a time
or two when driving between Belle Ayre and Wynderly, and then it's mostly country music stations. The world could have ended, and I wouldn't know about it.”

“The sale sounds good,” Peter said. “My bet is that the big pieces will go well—the ones with a Virginia history, that is. But there are some Victorian smalls that I doubt if anyone will be too interested in. Anyway, if you're able to get away, we can go together.”

My heart leapt.

“Give me a call when you get back from Madame DuMont's.” He laughed. “Take a look around Terena for me, will you.”

I was surprised. “You know the name of her house.”

“Doesn't everyone? So, let me know your plans, Sterling, and have fun. Give me a call if you can.”

The call had ended abruptly and, to my mind, as awkwardly as it had begun.

O
N MY WAY
out to Terena, only a streak of daylight remained on the horizon before total darkness settled in. The gloaming, as Mother used to call those twilight hours. I always hated it when she used that word, it was so old-fashioned and foreboding, but it sure fit the moment and my mood. My heart was as threadbare as the tires on my car. The whiff of burning wood didn't help cheer me up either. I blinked hard to black out the romantic scene of a fireplace.

I came to the country store set back in the V in the road and drove right by the turnoff Tracy had told me to be sure not to miss. Turning the car around I remembered what she had said. “Terena is set far off the secondary roads. And without cell
phone service, when you're lost, you're lost … so pay attention.” I
had
paid attention then. The problem was now.

In the far distance a row of lights flickered against the horizon. If I get too lost I'll just head over that way, I concluded, not giving any thought to how I would get there in this wilderness of curvy, rough roads that splintered off like so many arms on an octopus. Between my state of mind, the dark of the night, and the shadowy countryside, I was beginning to feel as if I was in a time warp. Was I skirting on the edge of the world, about to tumble off at any minute?

Finally, I saw the sign: TERENA, circa 1789.

I drove along the gravel road flanked by towering cedars of Lebanon, slowly rising and falling with the lay of the land. Even in the night I could sense the setting's majestic beauty. Eventually the rolling pathway leveled off, giving way to a deep, swelling incline. There, rising before me, in its full beauty was Terena.

Compared with Wynderly, Terena was almost austere. A late Georgian brick house, it had a square, two-story center section. Set back on each side were perfectly matching wings, added at a later date I surmised. A portico supported by round columns provided a protective covering over the front entranceway. Other than that, the only really sophisticated touch to the house were the tall chimneys that rose above the slate roof. They gave it a certain timeless elegance. The house was grand in an understated way, which hardly fit Tracy DuMont's reputation or her personality.

The Tracy who answered the door didn't look a bit like the Tracy DuMont who had burst into the board meeting with such flair. Wearing a simple moss green cashmere sweater set
and navy blue slacks, her only jewelry was a floral spray pin set with emeralds and sapphires. I immediately recognized it as a mid-twentieth-century Tiffany piece. She greeted me in a down home sort of way. “Oh good, you made it. Hope you didn't have too much trouble getting here.”