The Big Steal (35 page)

Despite Peter's attentiveness of last night, what guarantee did I have that it would continue once we were back in Leemont? Tracy DuMont's words rang in my head. “What's holding him back?” she had asked, only to follow it up by saying, “That minister fellow sounds like he doesn't quite get it.” Yes, if given the opportunity, I'd be crazy not to give Matt a chance.

“Turn here,” I said.

“Impressive acreage,” he said. “Not a soul around, and not many on the road, either. I'm beginning to see what you mean about being able to pull off a crime in bright daylight. Even if there were a passerby, who'd think anything of seeing a security truck pull in or out of the driveway?”

“And there are other roads to Wynderly, back roads more twisty and less traveled than the ones we've taken. There's a pond down that way,” I said, pointing. “And over there's a pagoda I haven't had a chance to see but I read about in one of Mazie's diaries … Oh, and I understand there's a summerhouse … as if they needed more room.”

“Looks as if someone else beat us here,” Matt said.

Parked right in the center of the driveway, so you had to pull onto the grass to get around it, was Tracy DuMont's Porsche—one of her fleet of cars.

“Oh my God,” was all I could utter. “Pull around it and over on the side …”

About that time I saw Frederick Graham's 700 series BMW parked beside Michelle's car.

Matt laughed. “Glad I rented a Lexus.”

I was in shock. “I don't know what they are doing here,” I said.

Tracy met us at the door. “I wasn't about to sit back while the board does its usual namby-pamby poor-pitiful-us routine. It was something about seeing the boys from the bank starting to cart things out of here. After our supper, I did more thinking. I called Freddy, and he and I met yesterday. And then we learned about Emmett Cheatham's confession. I had Freddy call Michelle to let us in the house and here we are. Now he and I need to iron out some details, but it's fortuitous that you're here, Mr. Yardley.” She smiled and looked coy.

“I've decided to buy Wynderly,” Tracy said. “What I'll do with it, I can't say. But this I
do
know. Wynderly would go to the skunks in nothing flat if somebody didn't do something fast. I do have this one idea for the grounds, though. Mazie.” Tracy DuMont held out both hands. “Mazie. Get it? I've been reading about how
mazes
have caught on all over the country. Iowa. Pennsylvania. There's even one on Plantation Road between Richmond and Williamsburg. I'm not talking about a formal boxwood maze like the one over there, the maze Hoyt had planted for her.”

Our eyes followed her gesture. “No, I mean maize mazes …
corn
mazes. Over there in the pasture. They're becoming all the fad. A family adventure. A puzzle … but with a theme. Clues are posted all around and everyone has to find his way out. We'll call it Mazie's Maze of Maize.”

We all carefully avoided eye contact with her and one another.

“And as for the house,” she continued, “I've already spoken to Michelle. She's going to come to work for me.”

Michelle glanced my way and swallowed hard.

“I'm sure I speak for Freddy Graham when I say I'm curious about how your company is going to settle the claim, Mr. Yardley,” Tracy said.

Matt was accustomed to dealing with the likes of Tracy. He spelled out the procedure. “And,” he concluded, “Ms. Glass has been exemplary in getting to the bottom of all this, down to figuring how the crime was committed. As soon as we have her report, the check will be cut. That will have to go to the foundation, of course. How you and Mr. Graham handle those particulars—”

“You'd better get that report ready in a hurry, Sterling,” Tracy said. “Then I want you to come back and get to work here. You're for hire, I'm assuming. Michelle has admitted she doesn't know what she's doing. I can get someone else to teach her the ropes of running the place. And who better to teach her about the things … furniture, china, silver, paintings … than
you
. Deal?”

She didn't wait for my answer. “And then when you finish that, we can start on my house. I haven't had an appraisal made on my things for years. You're going to be busy for quite a while. And
you
, Mr. Yardley, I'll want to talk to you about insurance for Wynderly since you already hold the policy. We'll see how that goes. I have
other
houses, you know.”

Her lack of subtlety was lost on no one. The old Tracy was back in full force. In just a few words she had sealed Wynderly's
fate, tied up my life for at least the next month, and assured me of continued contact with Matt. I smiled and swallowed hard myself.

“It will be a pleasure doing business with you, Ms. DuMont. I think my presence here shows how anxious Babson and Michael is to bring about a fair settlement for Wynderly. I hate to rush, but now if you would excuse us,” Matt said, taking my elbow, “I'm going to have to get back to D.C. to turn my car in and make my flight to New York.”

He turned to me. “I fly out to Seattle on Sunday night.” Then refocusing on Tracy he said, “A few clients there need personal attention. In the little time I have here I need to see the broken items left behind and …”

Matt Yardley broke into one of those smiles of his that made my heart flutter. His eyes swept the room. “And what better opportunity than to make a quick, preliminary run through Wynderly. Of course I'll be back to discuss this further with you, Ms. DuMont, but I agree, this meeting has been fortuitous—for all of us.” He gave my arm a squeeze.

There was barely enough time to show Matt the workroom and main rooms of the house and still do a quick walk-through in the attic so he could see the Wyndfields' vast accumulation. Before I knew it, we were headed back to Belle Ayre so he could pack and I could get my car.

He was rounding one of the roller-coaster curves. “I've been thinking,” he said. “I may make a trip of it when I come back to Wynderly. Take a couple extra days and drive down. You see, I've got a little sports car that would love these twisties.” Matt took his eyes off the road long enough to give me a wink.

“Even if I fly, maybe you could meet me in Richmond or Charlottesville. We could rent a fun car.”

“Spring's a beautiful time,” I said, glancing up at the still-bare tree limbs bending over the road, hoping to hide the flush I felt spreading across my face.

At Belle Ayre, Matt left me talking to Ginny Kauffman to get the latest on Frank Fox while he retrieved his bags from his room.

Walking with Matt to his car I told him what I'd learned: that Fox had come out of the coma, but the doctors weren't allowing anyone to question him yet. Meanwhile the police were trying to piece together some sketchy information about another car that had been seen in the vicinity.

Matt heaved a heavy sigh. “Obviously our legal department is already working on the warehouse fire in Florida. Now with this connection—well, no reason for me to talk to the police here yet, though I'm afraid eventually they'll be calling on you once more is known about Fox and Shafer.” He looked apologetic, though it wasn't his fault. “I'm sure that by Monday morning my secretary will have tracked me down in Seattle before the alarm's gone off. Oh, well.” He checked the time. “But now I really
do
have to hit the road.”

“Once I'm back in Leemont, I'll get the report right out to you.” And it'll be a darn good report, I thought.

“I'm not sure when I'll be turning around to head back up here, but I imagine Tracy will see to it that it's pretty soon.” I extended my hand for a friendly good-bye shake. “But you have a safe trip out west,” I said.

Matt reached out, passed my hand by and took me by the
shoulders and looked me in the eyes. “And you, Sterling …
you
watch these roads late at night. Can't have anything happen to you. But we'll be in touch before then.” With that he bent over and kissed me.

“Till then,” he said and hopped into his car and drove off.

When he was out of sight I did what I had kept myself from doing yesterday. I touched the spot.

Dear Antiques Expert: Among things I've uncovered in an old family trunk is a box of Victorian silver, all of it sterling. There are buttonhooks, a shoe buckle, clothes brushes, a little coin purse, and two or three card cases in different sizes and styles. Do these things have any value
?

Though many charming Victorian sterling silver items like the ones you mention—buttonhooks, buckles, brushes, and such—are prized as mementoes of a past era, they're usually plentiful and aren't very valuable. But card cases are a different matter. They're attractive, practical, and great conversation pieces. Originally made for ladies' calling cards (a must in Victorian times), today they are perfect for carrying business cards. Cost-wise, cases decorated with a simple geometric or floral motif usually sell in the low hundreds. But more elaborate ones with scenes or historic places fall in the mid-to-high-hundred-dollar range.

T
HAT'S HOW
P
ETER
found me when he turned into the driveway. Standing on the grounds of Belle Ayre, my fingers touching my lips, my mind in a daze.

I pulled myself together. “Matt's gone,” I said. “You just missed him. So, how's the auction going?”

“Good morning,” Peter said and smiled.

“Is it
still
morning?” I asked, glad to have a chance to laugh. I don't know which was more surprising, Matt's kiss or Peter's driving up when he did.

“You've already gone to Wynderly and come back? I didn't realize Matt was leaving so early,” Peter said. “Sorry I missed him. As for the auction, it's way out of my reach. I only managed to get a couple of Victorian smalls and a pair of neat botanical prints. With the New York contingent bidding against one another, they've got the really good stuff sewn up.”

“Well, you're not going to believe all that happened at Wynderly,” I said, finally having recovered sufficiently to remember back further than Matt's good-bye. “I can hardly wait to tell you.”

Instead, Peter asked about my plans. I told him I wanted to run by Wynderly one last time before starting back to Leemont.

“How about this,” he said. “We'll both get packed. While you're at Wynderly, I'm going to get on the road. Are you hungry?” he asked as an afterthought. “Me neither,” he replied, seconding my quick shake of the head. “So I'll get back to Leemont before you do, probably by three thirty or four. Think you'll be back by five?”

I nodded. This time, yes.

“Good,” he said. “Let's say you'll call me when you get there. I'll pick you up and we'll have a nice dinner at Loni's. I know how much you love their veal picatta. You've had quite a week, poor dear. I know you're weary. You can relax and tell me everything over dinner. How does that sound?”

I sighed all the way down to my toes. “Wonderful,” I said.

Peter's sky blue eyes were smiling when he said “Grand. Just wish we only had one car. I'm going to miss you on that long, lonesome ride home. Guess I'll be able to make it till seven though. Will that give you enough time?”

“Unh-huh,” I said weakly.

“Oh, and by the way, about the auction.” He reached into his coat pocket. “When this came up, I couldn't resist. It made me think of you. It's a little gift to make up for all the troubles you've had to endure the last few days.”

Peter handed me the prettiest sterling silver card case I'd seen in years. The embossed scene depicted a loving couple seated beneath a flowering cherry tree. There in the branches, love birds were cuddled close in a nest, and in the background was a quaint Victorian cottage.

I had to keep myself from throwing my arms around his neck.

“Peter! When I say I'm speechless you know I'm
truly
speechless. Thank you doesn't begin to say …”

“Turn it over,” he said. He dropped his eyes.

On the opposite side, engraved in fancy script was the monogram
SGS
.

“What do you think the chances are that you'd ever find another calling card case with your initials on it,” Peter asked, smiling shyly. “So you like it as much as I did. Good. There's one condition, though,” he said. “I expect you to use it, not tuck it away in some drawer. It's perfect for an antiques appraiser's business cards.”

How like a man, I thought, a little deflated. I turned it back over to the scene.

“And
you're
perfect for thinking of me. Thank you,” was all I could say.

Peter's eyes met mine.

“And I liked the scene, too,” he said.

I
WAS HOPING
everyone would still be at Wynderly. I needed to know how to be in touch with Tracy next week. Then I could hit the road, leaving my professional worries behind when I crossed the Orange County line for home.

When Wynderly's fate had been hanging by a thread, my head had been swimming with questions. Now many of my concerns would be resolved once Tracy, the foundation, and the bank had finalized their deal. The photos and receipts were of historical importance, of course. But what to do about Mazie's personal effects, her diaries and letters, especially those in my car? I would have to grapple long and hard with the moral dilemma presented by Miss Mary Sophie's plea that I be discreet and respectful of Mazie's memory. For that I would need to seek Peter's guidance. And the dogs and the stones therein …

Funny, but every time I thought about the dogs and their secret, lines of an old hymn Mother had loved played in my head. It seemed particularly appropriate to the moment:

While life's dark maze I tread,
And griefs around me spread,
Be Thou my guide
.