An Uncollected Death

by Meg Wolfe

estate liquidation service, and I seem to recall your sale was handled by Stanton’s, right?”

  “Yes, Martin Stanton handled it. He was great. He’s done a lot of high-end sales in the region and draws a lot of antique and art dealers as well as collectors. He keeps very accurate records, which helps appraisers with knowing the provenance of a work of art or fine crafts like rugs and pottery, and when it was over with, the place was spotless. I can’t recommend Stanton’s enough.”

  “That is high praise. He is worth the thirty percent commission, then?”

  “Oh yes. If I had tried to sell everything on my own it would have taken forever, and I would have left myself vulnerable to fraud, maybe even theft. And I might not have been able to sell all of it, because I don’t have his range of contacts, the potential market.”

  “Did you consider anyone else before you hired Stanton?”

  “No, actually. Paul knew him well, and I admit that was enough for me. I know there are other companies out there, and other ways of doing it. Olivia was toying with the idea of using Warren Brothers if she would ever have a sale.”

  “They are on the list of liquidators that Lola gave me. They only charge ten percent, but they don’t do clean up afterward.”

  “They might be just fine for some sales, I wouldn’t know. But if you have high-end things, you want to draw the right potential buyers, and Stanton can do that. I’m not so sure a pawn shop would.”

  “I must admit I don’t like Bosley Warren very much.” She went on to explain about his visit.

  “Oh, dear, that sounds like the stereotype of such businesses, like used car dealers, although I admit I’ve known a couple from years ago that were rather low-key and well-mannered.”

  “Something bothers me about his whole set-up. I mean, he’s got the pawn shop, the payday loans, he’s evidently an expert on model trains and old books, if what I read in the news is accurate, and he’s got estate liquidation and even auction services. Somewhere along the line there’s going to be a conflict of interest, wouldn’t you think?”

  “That’s what I said to Olivia!” exclaimed Helene. “She has so much small stuff it would be hard to keep track if they held back something for themselves, to sell in the shop. But she was impressed by the publicity they got for that book.”

  “Helene, do you think Stanton’s would be suitable for me, even though I don’t have as much as you did, although there are some nice things here, and given that I need to keep as much cash as possible?”

  “Well, I’m biased, obviously, in favor of Stanton. But let’s do the math.” Charlotte could hear Helene scribbling on a piece of notepaper. “Let’s use Ellis’ piano as an example. Say Stanton, who draws big spenders, sells it for five thousand dollars. He keeps thirty percent, which is fifteen hundred, netting you thirty-five hundred. Now let’s say Warren sells the piano for only four thousand. But he only takes ten percent, which is four hundred, which nets you thirty-six hundred. Warren comes out on top, by a hundred dollars. But, and this is where things like reputation come in, Stanton’s client list brings people who are more likely to find your house appealing and affordable, and to recognize and buy other things like your art collection, and that beautiful leather sectional. It’s impossible to predict the actual outcome, but you can get a sense of the odds.”

  Charlotte laughed. “Helene, I don’t know what I’d do without you. I’m sold. I’ll call them first thing Monday.”

  “Well, thank you, dear heart. But there’s a bonus if you want to go with Stanton.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’ve got Martin’s home phone number, and I am confident I can get this going very quickly, if you’d like.”

  Et tu, Helene? Somehow, Charlotte thought, she’d never before noticed the extent to which people seemed to like to take care of their own.

   

  A scant two hours later, Martin the liquidator was at the door, a compact man in his fifties with smile crinkles around his eyes and the muscles of someone who moved furniture on a regular basis. He wore tan chinos and a royal blue polo shirt with an embroidered Stanton Estate Service logo. He was using a tablet computer and stylus, but was clearly struggling. “Sorry about this. Hold on.” He went back to his truck and returned with a clipboard and pen. “My company is trying to go paperless, but obviously I need more practice before actually using that thing on the job. This way I know I won’t make any mistakes.” His voice was deep and pleasant, and Charlotte imagined he was a good singer.

  “Thanks so much for coming over so quickly!” she said, when he came into the house.

  He smiled at her effusiveness. “Not a problem. Helene Dalmier is a good friend. Her husband played a big role in my getting my company started.” He took a long, sweeping look over the kitchen and the deck, then entered the living room, making notes along the way.

  He immediately zeroed in on the baby grand. “This would be a good draw.”

  “I’ve asked my daughter and her father about selling it.”

  “Great. I hope they okay it. I see you have a Hannah Verhagen!” He pointed at the big painting above the fireplace, and they all admired the abstracted floral still life, done in the artist’s signature layers of translucent colors. It was called “Blossoming,” and Hannah had painted it for Charlotte in honor of beginning a new life after her divorce.

  “Oh, you know her work, too?”

  “Yeah,” Martin nodded, not taking his eyes off the painting. “She’s pretty popular around here, and quite a few locals have her work from back when she lived in the area.”

  “We went to Corton together, and she gave that to me as a housewarming present when I moved here. I wasn’t planning on selling it, though, as I love it and she is a good friend.”

  “Well, if you change your mind, I know it would make another draw. Her work has shot up in value over the last few years.”

  “It’s highly unlikely. I’m getting rid of the vast majority of my things, but plan to keep the best of the best if I can, and that painting is one of them. I’ve got a few other pieces of art that can be sold, though some of the artists are probably better known in Chicago.”

  “Not a problem, and in fact what I can see of your collection in here will appeal to our client list. We draw buyers from Chicago and the suburbs, as well as Milwaukee, Indianapolis, and even Detroit.”

  They continued through the house, and Charlotte again felt embarrassed at the mess of clothes in her closet, but Martin was nonplussed, saying “that’s an easy repair,” and she even lost her self-consciousness about the clutter in the other rooms and the basement. After Martin saw everything and made a call to the main office, they settled in the kitchen.

  The basics, as he explained it, were not that different than what Bosley Warren described: tables set up in every room, items not for sale were marked or moved into a locked room, and a representative in every room.

  “Do you make up boxes of a lot of small stuff to sell as a lot?”

  Martin shook his head. “Not as a general rule. With common household items we are often offered a price for several things, where the customer creates their own lot and we use our discretion whether or not to accept the offer. You have a lot of things, but not a lot of junk, so there’s no need to go that route, and it wouldn’t appeal to our client base, either.”

  Charlotte’s self-esteem got a much-needed boost from his words. She did, after all, have quite a collection of art and fine crafts and had acquired good furniture through her designer connections; it was a relief to talk to someone who recognized them for what they were.

  Martin continued his explanation of company policy. “Anything that doesn’t sell, we can donate to charity, and you can choose from our list of charities where you’d like it to go, if you have a preference. We take 30% of the total sales. All we need is proof of ownership of the house and homeowner’s insurance, and your signature on our contract. We have a large crew, so we are able to handle several sales in different locations at th
e same time, and we have a crew available to set up and conduct your sale two weeks from today. We ask that you not be present during the sale, but you are more than welcome to be here during setup and immediately after, in case you change your mind about anything that is up for sale or if it doesn’t sell, whether you want it back or it should continue to charity. Our service includes hauling away whatever doesn’t sell, plus general cleanup, such as vacuuming and bagging up trash.”

  “I have so many boxes of things in the basement that I haven’t looked through in years and really ought to go through them before anyone else does!”

  He laughed, and once again she was struck by his pleasant voice. “It’s generally a good idea, yes, but we’ve seen it all, Charlotte. We are often hired by the children of elderly people who are going into nursing homes or hospice, and the children live hundreds of miles away and can’t get out here to do the sorting. We uncover thousands of personal items like photo albums and mementos and letters. We’ll usually set them aside. We’re efficient, but I’d like to think we aren’t ruthless.”

  “That’s reassuring. On one hand, I know the faster all this happens, the better, but on the other hand, I don’t want to get rid of anything I’ll later regret.” She paused for a moment, to take a deep mental breath. Here it goes, she thought.

  “Let’s do it.”

   

   

   

  Six

  Sunday, September 15th

   

  Charlotte had allowed herself too much time, arriving at the strip mall twenty minutes before the pawn shop opened. It was a ratty place on the far north side of Elm Grove, along a trucker’s route with access roads to the steel mills, and the trucks rumbled and whined as they accelerated and decelerated through the intersection. The pawn shop took up three store fronts out of the six, as if the business grew and swallowed up the spaces to each side. There were no lines of people waiting to get their old books appraised. A large sign in the window said NO BOOK APPRAISALS TODAY.

  The fast-food coffee she was sipping left a lot to be desired, but it was hot, caffeinated, and free, thanks to the coupon in the paper that morning. It was her last issue of the paper, too, now that the subscription was canceled. Reading the paper over breakfast was something she’d done nearly every day since graduating from college, especially enjoying her favorite comic strips and working the crossword puzzle. Would reading the news online ever feel as familiar?

  Her purse was on the floor behind her legs, and crammed with a plastic bag of mostly gold jewelry, with some silver and diamonds mixed in. Her set of sterling flatware was in a large shoebox on the passenger seat, the individual pieces rolled up in the pockets of silver cloth. She was parked near a pay phone, off to the side of the cracked and potholed asphalt lot. Places like this made her nervous.

  The very idea of handing over her jewelry and silver, even temporarily, felt all wrong, but she needed enough cash to get through the next two weeks. The Jeep was acting weird more and more often, not always starting, having trouble accelerating quickly, vibrating a lot, and she just knew she was in for an expensive repair job at any moment. This was the sort of place she imagined bad stuff happened. There was a motel across the street, and several semi-trucks parked in the large lot next to it. A woman with dark eyes and bright magenta hair came out of one of the rooms, smoking a cigarette and hoisting an oversized designer knockoff tote bag over her shoulder. She waited at the busy four-lane highway and saw her chance to get across, strutting furiously with tiny steps in her spike-heeled shoes and pink spandex skirt. Once across, she continued straight to the shop and unlocked the front door.

  By now the coffee had gone cold and lost whatever charm it had, as did the pawn shop. Charlotte was just about to give up, then decided that maybe it would be easier to talk to the woman instead of Bosley. She had to let him know that she was going with Stanton. And he was also the only pawn shop in town, the only place she knew about within safe driving distance in the Jeep. It wouldn’t hurt to ask. She hoped. She wouldn’t get much money, she knew this, but she needed every dime she could get. It was only for a little while. She started to pull up to a parking space in front of the shop when a large black sedan blew into the lot, raising dust and coming to a halt in the space she was planning to take. Two men got out and strode into the shop; the older one walked in like he owned the place. Maybe he did.

  Charlotte thought about it for a few more minutes. When she started to pull up to the shop, she couldn’t do it. When she tried to leave, she couldn’t do that, either. But this was the only shop of its kind. Snap out of it! People have to do this kind of thing sometimes. There was a quarter in the cup holder in the console, and she picked it up and flipped it, heads go in, tails go home. Heads.

  The shop was not quite what she expected, given the moped and racing bikes in the front window, the neon signs saying “OPEN” AND “PAYDAY LOANS.” There were, for instance, things that looked like antiques, and even some old books. Pawn shops bought valuable things cheaply in order to sell them for a little more, but still cheap, and those items usually meant jewelry, up-to-date electronics, silver, sports equipment, power tools, and the like. There was still evidence of the former Hobby Shop. Maybe it wasn’t such a coincidence that Bosley Warren found a valuable first edition.

  The redhead was on the phone and looked up briefly as Charlotte came in, but kept on with the call that included an account of who was dating who on the night somebody went to jail and where the kids were going to end up. Even as Charlotte reached the counter and placed her purse and box of silverware on it, the redhead kept talking on the phone, while moving to a door leading to the back, and yelling, “Mr. Banks! Customer!” Then she kept on talking on the phone.

  Charlotte waited, taking in everything in her line of sight, particularly the model train that was running on a track around the perimeter of the shop, up near the ceiling. There was a large locked glass case with various model train engines and cars, some with original boxes, plus scaled models of trees, buildings, people, and animals. She remembered reading in the newspaper that Bosley Warren was known for his expertise in model trains.

  The older man who had gone into the shop before her came out from the room behind the counter. He was wearing a sports jacket over a polo shirt and dress pants, and appeared average in every way, save for the almost total lack of expression on his face or in his eyes. Charlotte couldn’t decide if he was beyond bored or if the neutrality was part of being a professional pawnbroker. Even his voice, as he placed his hands flat on the glass case that served as a counter, asking how he could help her, left Charlotte feeling uncertain, with nothing, not even trite pleasantries, giving her any firm ground to stand on.

  “Um, I have some jewelry, and silver?” In her nervousness, it came out like a question. Her palms were sweating.

  “Yes. Pawn or sell?”

  “Um, pawn, I think.” She set the box on the counter, then drew the gallon-size plastic food storage bag out of her purse and handed it over.

  “Doc,” said the man. Charlotte looked at him, confused.

  The driver then emerged from the back room. He looked larger in person than he did in the parking lot, perhaps because dark brown turtleneck sweater was slightly tight, revealing muscles in his arms and the start of a paunch above his belt. His face was red and pocked with burn scars on one side. This was evidently “Doc.” The older man, presumably “Mr. Banks,” nodded for Doc to deal with the bag of jewelry, while he unrolled and examined the silver.

  Doc calmly emptied the bag of gold chains, earrings, bracelets, and watches on the counter, and his big hands were surprisingly deft as he untangled the lot. He turned on a bright desk lamp and used a jeweler’s loupe to examine each piece, making notes as he went, all without comment.

  The redhead, in the meantime, didn’t stop talking, and was gushing about not knowing where Wesley’s been, and how worried everybody was and how “Bos” was really getting out of line. Without any
warning, the older man turned to her and hissed, “You will stop!”

  She stopped mid-sentence and they stared at one another for a few seconds that felt like half an hour to Charlotte. The woman looked seriously worried and hung up the phone without another word, and went into the back room. Doc resumed his study of Charlotte’s jewelry, taking particular care with a diamond tennis bracelet. When he finished, he wrote down some numbers on a note pad, handed it to the older man, then answered his cell phone, which had been on vibrate. His voice was so quiet, Charlotte couldn’t hear what he was saying.

  Banks added the value of the silver and the jewelry and showed it to her, without saying a word. His expression had changed to slightly lifted eyebrows, as if he was bored—and she could take it or leave it. The terms were better than she hoped, but still not much. She nodded her acceptance, also without saying a word. He gave her a check and a receipt on which was printed she had one month to return for the items, after which he would have the right to sell them.

  No thank you, have a nice day, or if there was anything else he could help with. Just a noncommittal look that said they were done. And that was it. She felt compelled to get him to say something, just to humanize the situation for herself.

  “You’ve a lot of books and model trains. That’s unusual for a pawn shop, isn’t it?”

  “It’s a sideline.” He turned and went into the back room.

  So much for that.

  The redhead came back out, looking more worried than ever. Charlotte was about to give her a message for Bosley, when the shop phone rang and the woman answered it, saying “Warren Brothers Pawn and Payday, Ilona speaking,” then gasped in relief.

  “There you are! Banks is not in good mood, you need to talk to him now!” She stretched her hand into the doorway of the back room, and Charlotte saw Doc’s hand taking the phone.

  Ilona finally gave Charlotte her attention. “You need something?”

  Charlotte tamped down her irritation at the woman’s why-are-you-still-here expression.

  “Yes, I have a message for Bosley. I’m Charlotte Anthony. I’ve decided to go with another service for my estate liquidation, so he doesn’t need to hold the date for me.”

  “Ilona!” shouted one of the men, unseen, from the back room.

  Ilona started to leave the counter, turning to nod at Charlotte. “Yeah, no problem, I’ll tell him.”

  And that was that, leaving Charlotte with a great sense unease about the whole thing.

  The next stop was back in downtown Elm Grove, to check out the apartment. The stretch of storefront windows on either side of the entrance to The Good Stuff displayed a variety of home decor items with an