The Big Steal (33 page)

“And she'll be able to call and change our reservations for dinner from two to three. I made them at Palladio—a reputedly wonderful restaurant at the Barboursville Vineyards. It's only about twenty minutes from here at the most. I hope you don't mind, Sterling. When I told my colleagues in Washington I was headed this way, they told me about it. Let's say we three meet here at,” Matt Yardley checked his watch, “six ten sharp. I know it will be an early dinner, but after the day I've had, and it sounds as if yours has been worse than mine, Sterling. Is that all right with you, Peter?”

“Great. I've been meaning to get there myself.”

“Good. Then we're set.”

That's what you think, I said to myself.

Dear Antiques Expert: On a recent trip to England we bought several antique copper pieces: a kettle, a couple of mugs and tankards, and a coffee urn. The dealer said these were popular in the 18th and 19th centuries. They are very colorful and attractive. Why don't we see early American copper antiques?

Copper has been used for making household objects since the fourth century BC. Because it is durable, but can also be hammered to a very thin thickness, copper is ideal for vessels used to carry or hold liquids, which are heavy. Copper was widely used in all civilizations to make mugs and pails and pots. But until the Western copper mines were discovered in the 1850s, copper was in short supply in America. Early American wares were primarily made of pewter, though those who could afford silver purchased items made from that precious metal.

P
ETER KEPT US
entertained on the drive to Palladio with stories about the Barboursville ruins. A Christmas Day fire in 1884 had destroyed the Thomas Jefferson-designed home on the vineyard grounds. Now covered in vines, the evocative
ruins remain a vestige of Virginia's past glory. But once we were seated at the candlelit table near the brick fireplace and our dinners ordered, the conversation turned to Wynderly.

“So tomorrow I'm actually going to get a chance to see the place,” Matt said. “And some of the people I've been hearing about?”

“Michelle Hendrix will meet us there at nine thirty. She's the curator, remember. She'll probably show up around ten.”

“And we think the mystery of who-done-it is cleared up,” Matt continued. “That's a relief.”

I explained how Emmett Cheatham had been identified as the burglar, but added my theory of
how
it had been done. “It was a makeshift security system to begin with. Michelle said the foundation had voted against incurring the expense of wiring the attic doors. Actually,” I said, “I can understand their reasoning. They never
dreamed
anyone would scale the walls, either up or down, to gain access to the house, plus this is a very safe part of the country. Burglaries are next to unheard of around here.”

“So the way you see it, this Cheatham just grabbed things up, slipped upstairs, lowered them down with a rigged-up pulley to some other guy waiting on a ledge or balcony?”

“I'll admit that one thing bothered me when I started figuring it out,” I said. “Not only are the casement windows too small to crawl through, they can only be opened from the inside, which, of course, was one reason for thinking the robbery was an inside job. Plus, I'm sure the windows had been painted shut over the years.” I paused, retracing the conversation I'd had with Michelle.

“So, how could the objects be slipped out of the attic, I
wondered. Then I realized that in the upper floors and attic there's the occasional French window that opens to a ridge or ledge.” I couldn't help a playful smile. “Think Rapunzel. Better yet … Juliet.”

When no one laughed I said, “Just kidding. The building code probably required them in case of fire. Those would still be operable.”

I could tell Matt was dubious of my explanation.

“When you see the place, you'll understand,” I said, dismissing his frown. “Think of a small-scale Windsor Castle combined with a miniature Mont Saint-Michel. There are turrets and protrusions everywhere. It would be easier than you think for someone to hide on a ledge or balcony, have things hoisted down to him and who knows … maybe even leave the things there to be gotten later.”

“Is that what you think? That they came back to get them later, at night?”

“Night's a possibility, but not necessary for the theft. The place is deserted. The whole operation could have been done in broad daylight.”

“And Cheatham would have had time to do this … to pick things out of various rooms in the house and get them up to the attic … and no one know about it? Where was the Hendrix woman all this time?”

“Trust me,” I said. “This is rural Virginia—”

Matt looked around the room filled with well-heeled customers. “
This
is rural Virginia? Neither the setting, the menu, nor the people exactly fit my idea of ‘rural.'”

Peter spoke up. “Well it is. Rural doesn't have to mean downtrodden or redneck. It's a shame it was dark on our drive
and you couldn't see some of the houses along the way. Other than being older and more steeped in history, this region's little different from the countryside in Westchester County or Grosse Point or any other wealthy area.”

Peter's usually mellow voice had a distinctively sharp edge to it. I couldn't decide if he was putting Matt down or taking up for rural Virginia.

Matt smiled. “Just teasing,” he said. “You know the reputation the South has with us, ah, Yankees. Anyway, there's tomorrow. I'm sure Sterling will properly educate me during the daylight hours.”

“Indeed I will,” I said, doing my best to keep focused and sound composed. “And I have to agree with Peter. Think about Middleburg or the Inn at Little Washington. We're much more sophisticated than outsiders might imagine. Until they've come here, that is. But going back to Wynderly … What you have to understand is that after the house closed to tourists, it was rare for anyone other than Michelle to be there. At first I found her—”

I paused. I didn't want to reflect poorly on Michelle, or myself. I sighed and said, “Perplexing. Hard to read.” Then with earnestness I said, “But now I've gotten to know her better, there's one thing I have
no
doubt about, Michelle's loyalty and love for Wynderly. And as far as the burglary goes,” I said, “she knows she's under suspicion, and though now we know Emmett's the guilty one, she's still terribly worried. You see, Emmett is her cousin, which could cast aspersions on her. But it's clear that she had nothing to do with hiring the security company. That had been done years earlier. She didn't have any reason to distrust him. I don't think she even paid him any mind. Believe me, she's mortified by the whole situation.”

Peter agreed. “Sterling's absolutely right. Why
should
she have distrusted him? But tell me, who do you think Cheatham's cohort was? Or, might there have been more than one accomplice?”

I gave Peter an appreciative smile before answering. I liked having an ally, especially a chivalrous one. “I don't know for sure, but there's this young wiry fellow. Billy … I don't remember his last name. I saw him with Emmett at the 7-Eleven one night—”

“Boy, you have been busy, haven't you,” Matt said. “Perhaps I should begin to call you Madame Sleuth.”

“As long as you don't call me Miss Marple,” I said, laughing as visions of Hitchock's seductive heroines danced in my head—Grace Kelly, Ingrid Bergman, Eva Marie Saint … Any one of those would be fine.

“But the broken things? How do you explain those?” Matt asked.

“There I'm stumped,” I admitted. “At first I thought it was a ploy to throw them off the scent. But thinking more about it, well, Emmett's bad temper seems pretty well known. If something made him mad …”

Then suddenly remembering Emmett's exchange with the 7-Eleven clerk about dreams of striking it rich, and Michelle's comment about some relative of his living in a big house, I rethought the situation.

“Or, maybe, and this is just my imagination running wild, I can ask Michelle more about this tomorrow … but there's the chance Emmett might have had some deep-seated grudge against Hoyt. Both families have been from around here for generations. Maybe something happened long ago … maybe not even to Emmett directly, but to someone in his family. This
could have been his way of getting even.” I leaned forward and dropped my voice. “You see, there's a whole lot to this story that I haven't told either of you.”

Over the next three-quarters of an hour I told Matt and Peter about the attic and the diaries and the Kirklander appraisal, even the priest hole. I described how little clues had led to my conclusions about the dogs and the fakes and Hoyt's scheming. Even as I was speaking, more parts of the puzzle began coming together in my head. Like that peculiar notation on the very first receipt I had come upon that had started it all … the mention about the spoons that had descended in families in Saaz and been sold privately. I now realized that their “authentication” had been falsified and that they really were copies or fakes. It was probably one of Hoyt's early practice runs.

What I didn't tell Matt and Peter was Miss Mary Sophie's tale of Mazie's heartbreak. They were clearly more interested in learning the facts behind the burglary than in hearing one lonely woman's wrenching life story.

“But you haven't told Matt what happened to you last night, Sterling,” Peter said.

Peter reached out and covered my hand with his and held it there. Then, looking Matt straight in the eye, Peter said, “That's the real reason why I rushed up here. I was worried about her. This lady's not only smart, she's quite courageous, and she has a conscience. She wants to do the right thing in every instance, even when her own safety is at risk.”

I thought I was going to faint away.

“Oh, it was nothing,” I said, only to immediately regret my words. This was my chance to shine. I thought again. Showering
me with compliments wasn't Peter's usual way. Then again, not much about his behavior today had seemed like him. Was he staking out his territory? Perhaps so. Though that, too, seemed unlike him.

“No, I insist,” Peter said and squeezed my hand encouragingly. “Tell him what happened last night.”

“It was nothing,” I repeated.

“You say that now.” Peter laughed. “It was quite traumatic at the time. And, by the way, aren't you glad you didn't go to the police?”

“And I haven't even thanked you for your good advice,” I said with heartfelt sincerity. “Now I
am
glad I didn't rush off to the police.”

Matt's laugh interrupted what was turning into a private conversation. “Is somebody going to tell me what happened or not?”

Peter smiled his sweet smile … so different from Matt's sophisticated way. “Sterling?”

“Oh, OK,” I said, and recounted how Emmett had run me off the road about this time last night. Then, as if to reassure myself, I carefully and slowly related exactly what the police officers knew about Fox's accident. “So that's what happened. You can understand why I was so upset when I first found out about Frank Fox's accident. Gosh, to think that just last night—”

Peter, who had sat comfortably back while I was talking, leaned forward, put his hand on my arm and broke into my sentence. “Matt. This afternoon, back at Belle Ayre, didn't you mention Fox?” he asked, adding, “Excuse me, I didn't mean to interrupt.”

Matt Yardley looked from one of us to the other. Our eyes were fastened on him.

“Yes,” he said slowly, “I did mention him. And after hearing all this tonight, especially your incident, Sterling …” He picked up his wineglass and swirled the last bit around before drinking it. He tried to sound casual, but there was an unfamiliar nervousness in his voice. “What I'm going to tell you calls for more wine.”

Our waiter returned with three glasses of the vineyard's cabernet franc. “I don't think I fully explained why I was in Washington earlier today,” Matt said.

“You said you had some appointments, I believe,” I volunteered.

“Yes. As you can well imagine, Babson and Michael has numerous commercial and individual clients in the area. One has huge real estate holdings up and down the East Coast including several warehouses. A couple of weeks ago one of their warehouses in Florida had a suspicious fire. It probably didn't make the papers up here, but it was pretty big down in Miami.”

“Miami?” Peter said. “I bet I know what's coming next.”

“Well, I don't,” I said.

Peter gave Matt a knowing look. “She may be smart, and shrewd, and a pretty good sleuth, but she's rather naive—in a good way.”

I cast Peter the sternest look I could. It only egged him on.

“See,” he said.

“It was arson, Sterling,” Matt said. “It involved drugs and contraband and the usual stuff that you find temporarily stored in a port city until the cartel's network is in place to
move it out. The thing that makes
this
situation so …” He spread his hands open and shook his head in disbelief. “So … hard to believe, is that among the containers that were saved, there were two from South America addressed to Dr. Frank Fox living in Albemarle County, Virginia. That, along with the Wynderly theft, is what brought me here … plus you, of course,” he said, quickly adding, “I was eager to bring this case to a quick settlement even though the money isn't
that
big in the scheme of things. Most museums, even small, regional museums like Wynderly, have some pretty powerful people on their boards.” He chuckled. “Let's put it this way, we like to keep everyone happy. But now you tell me Dr. Fox is on the Wynderly board?” His look bordered on astonishment.

“Oh yes, very much so.”