Antiques Fire Sale

by Barbara Allan

  Let’s see. Oh, maybe I should have said this earlier, but when you picture me, I take after my mom. I’m a little on the short side, but expect to make up for that soon (Dad says he had a growth spurt around my age), and I have blond hair, like Mom, but blue eyes, not brown like hers. Our noses are pretty much alike.

  At times, when I’m with Mom, I feel like she’s studying me like I was a germ under a microscope or something. I know she’s worried I might get what Grandma has, which is a mental thing called bipolar, meaning I would have to take medication . . . but so far I feel I’m all right in my upstairs. Anyway, what’s wrong with being a little out there? At least Grandma’s not boring.

  Well, that’s enough about me to get you by.

  Last night, after dinner, Grandma texted me, asking how I was doing, and I texted her back some school stuff, like I have a part in the school’s winter play. Then she came back, saying how proud she is of me and how theater must be in my blood. She signed off with “I love you more than the sun and the moon and the stars,” which is a code for me to call her later in secret.

  I had argued that the code ought to be something simple, like “later, gator,” but she said I won’t have trouble remembering the sun and the moon and the stars, and I guess she’s right, even if it does make me cringe every time I see it.

  Anyway, after my folks went to bed and their light went out, I called Grandma, and we had a whispered conversation while she told me what happened recently in Serenity.

  At first, it was really disturbing hearing how she’d almost died in a fire, and I about lost it when she said she almost died again, getting blown up in a trailer! But that’s Grandma. Then she gave me the really cool news that there had been two murders in Serenity. I know that sounds bad. But what made it cool is that she asked me to help her with some investigating.

  This has happened before, murders in Serenity and Grandma asking for my help. Usually that means computer stuff, but this time she wanted me to go out and do some “fieldwork.” I thought this time she really had lost her marbles, talking about farming or something, until she explained that what she meant was that I was supposed to check out some vase in an antiques store in downtown Chicago. She gave me the information, and told me what to say and ask, and also sent me a picture of this wack-looking vase. Also, if I felt in danger, she said I had to promise to bail.

  After that, I had some trouble getting to sleep.

  The next morning, when Dad and my stepmom were getting ready for work, I was in my bathroom, pretending to vomit, really loud. Hey, theater is in my blood, remember? And when I came out groaning and wiping my mouth with a hand towel, my dad and stepmom were right there, looking concerned. Obviously, I knew I wouldn’t have a temperature, so I said my stomach hurt and I felt dizzy. They accepted that, even my doctor stepmom, and agreed I should stay home. I told them I’d send a text now and then about how I was feeling.

  And that was that.

  I stayed in bed for half an hour after they’d gone, in case one of them came back because they forgot something, like a briefcase or work notes or whatever, then I got dressed, gathered a few things in my backpack, and grabbed my jacket.

  Getting into the Loop is no easy jaunt from Naperville, and involves walking and busses and trains, and all that could take hours. I had some cash saved up for the new Apple iPhone XR, and, knowing Grandma would pay me back, pocketed that and called a cab. My dad has an Uber account I can use for emergencies, but, yeah, then he’d find out. This needed to be a “stealth mission,” a phrase Grandma used from time to time.

  Fifty-some minutes later I got dropped off at the corner of Van Buren and Clark, just about the point where the Loop was starting to go a little sketchy. From there I walked another block south to Clark Street Antiques.

  The store seemed okay from the outside, certainly better than the others around it (pizza place, pawn shop), and there were some real nice-looking antiques displayed in the big window that had bars on it.

  I went on inside, where a buzzer buzzed to announce me, and stood looking around. I’d helped out at Grandma’s Trash ’n’ Treasures shop before, but the stuff in here was way more expensive, fancy old furniture and stuff, so I wasn’t sure if I could pull this off.

  There was a long glass counter to the right, full of small items like jewelry and whatnot, and a man was behind it. Once, when Grandma was trying to educate me about good movies, she showed me one in black and white called Laura. Anyway, in the film there was a snooty character who carried a cane and wore a hat and was in love with this Laura, and this man turned out to be the bad guy, who hid the murder weapon that was a shotgun in the grandfather clock. Oh, I hope I didn’t just ruin that movie for anybody! I should have said “Spoiler Alert” first. But, anyway, that’s who this man behind the glass counter reminded me of.

  He looked down his nose and asked, real snooty, “Something I can help you with, young man?” He kind of talked through his nose, too.

  I said, “I was hoping to find something for my grandmother. She loves just about anything antique.”

  He regarded me like I was some dirt that blew in, which only made me want to succeed more.

  “I fear my inventory may be well above what you could afford,” he intoned. (Using “said” gets monotonous. I hear real writers mix it up, so I’ll try to do that.)

  I moved toward the counter and flashed my cash. “Oh, I’ve got money.”

  The man thawed just a little. “Well . . . there may be a few things in the back.”

  That’s when I spotted the vase behind him on a shelf in a locked case.

  “What about that?” I asked, pointing, making my eyes big and bright like Sushi’s when I held a treat over her head. “My grandma just loves vases.”

  He raised his chin and snorted. “Congratulations, young man. You’ve managed to select one of the most expensive items in my shop.”

  I let my jaw drop. “What? That ugly thing?”

  “Young man, that ugly thing is priced at one hundred thousand dollars. And a bargain at that.”

  What a big liar. Grandma had said seventy gee’s, tops.

  I shook my head. “You gotta be joking.”

  “Have you by chance ever heard of Louis Comfort Tiffany?”

  “Ah . . .” I looked upward, like my eyes were trying to see inside my brain for the answer. “Didn’t he make beautiful glass and jewelry and stuff?”

  “Well, that’s right.” The man seemed a little surprised. Maybe even pleased.

  “Then why would a guy as good at it as this Tiffany make that thing? I just pointed it out ’cause it’s a vase, and Grandma’s into old vases, and that sure is one.”

  “Because it’s art, young man. And that vase is beautiful. . . to those who can appreciate art.”

  “Valuable, huh? Rare?”

  “Yes and yes.”

  “How did you land it, anyway?”

  I may have just jinxed things, because he didn’t answer and his eyes narrowed. “What’s your name, young man?”

  “Kyle Townsend.” That was the fake name on the I.D. I carry, with a fake age of eighteen.

  (Note to Editor from Jake: Do you think maybe we could skip that last sentence so I don’t get into trouble? The I.D.’s only to get me into R-rated movies because my stepmom doesn’t go for me seeing stuff like Halloween and It.)

  (Note to Jake from Editor: Why not leave it in? You’re going to be in trouble enough for the rest of this chapter.)

  “And you are?” I asked the clerk.

  He handed me a card, which I took and read out loud: “Mr. Percival Feddick, Esquire, Fine Antiques.”

  That sounded like he was a fine antique. Plus a pompous moron.

  “Pleased to meet you,” I said, and stuck out a hand, which he reluctantly shook. It felt cold and clammy, like a lunch meat package in the fridge.

  I pressed again. “So how did you get that Tiffany vase? If it’s so rare and all.” When again I got no answer, I said, “Some high-pr
iced auction place, I suppose.”

  “Noooo,” he droned. “In such a case, I might well end up paying too much for it, and couldn’t make a profit.”

  “Oh yeah, sure. Too much competition drives the price up.” I guessed again. “Then someone who owned the thing musta needed money and brought it in to sell.”

  He was losing patience with me. “Mr. Townsend, don’t you have a home? Somewhere to be? Isn’t this a school day?”

  Looking dejected, I whined, “How’s a kid supposed to learn anything if adults won’t explain things to them? Never mind school—teach me about this, now. You’re an expert.”

  That approach usually works, and it did this time.

  “Very well,” Percival Feddick Esquire sighed. “Yes. Someone brought it in.”

  I perked up. “And then you bought it, for a lot less than it was worth, right?”

  He nodded. “Most sellers understand that this is a business and that we cannot stay in business unless there is a margin of profit. And such sellers accept a reduction in their expectations. Yes. Of course. Now . . .”

  “How do you know something isn’t stolen? And that that’s why the seller lets it go cheap?”

  His lips pursed for a second. “Because I always check the police database of stolen merchandise before I buy anything—especially something as valuable as that vase.”

  “What else do you do to make sure it isn’t hot?”

  The world “hot” made his eyebrows go up. “I always ask the seller for provenance.”

  “What about Rhode Island?” I couldn’t resist.

  “Not Providence, Mr. Townsend, provenance.”

  “What’s that?” I asked eagerly, as if any morsel of information was just fascinating. I knew darn well what that word meant. Grandma had a way of making the provenance of something sound more interesting than it really was.

  Feddick Esquire was saying, “It’s a written history of the item, or, at the very least, information as to where the seller obtained the piece. A document to that effect is what I have in the instance of this vase.”

  “Wow. Can I see?”

  He shrugged, ducked down behind the glass counter, and came back with a thick black binder. He opened the binder and turned it around to face me.

  I thumbed through the plastic sleeves protecting various letters from sellers. Some were pretty formal, typed with signatures and even stamps of banks, while others were just handwritten notes.

  Mr. Feddick swiveled the binder back, and closed it, having come to the end of his patience with me.

  But I had seen what I needed to—the handwritten letter that went with the vase, and the name of Alek Wozniak, plus his address.

  I thanked Feddick, wandered to the back of the store, looked for something small, spotted a pair of silver salt-and pepper shakers for forty dollars, and took my purchase to the front.

  Just to mess with him, I asked for the provenance paper on the shakers, and it turned out there wasn’t one. But I took the things anyway, paying him. As a paying customer, I wouldn’t leave him with any suspicions. He wrapped the items and put them in a sack, and I left.

  Outside, I checked my phone and saw I’d missed two texts. One was from Dad, the other from Grandma, each asking how I was doing. To both I texted I was “doing all right,” which they’d interpret each in their own way.

  I called for a cab to take me to the address on the provenance doc, which turned out to be on the west side of Chicago near Pulaski Park. I went there once on a school trip to see the fieldhouse that was built by Jens Jensen, whose name I’d remembered because Grandma’s used to be Jensen before she got married way back when.

  I got dropped off at a strip mall, at a store called Best in the Biz, which I didn’t understand because that name wasn’t part of the address I’d seen. But this was the address. Am I clear? Best in the Biz was a place where you could photocopy stuff and mail packages.

  I went inside the place, which was kind of small, and when I saw the rows of mailboxes just to the right, I figured out that the number fifty-seven after the street address was not an apartment, like I’d thought, but where this Alek Wozniak picked up his mail. You could see through little glass slots into each box, and number fifty-seven had some mail in it, so maybe he hadn’t picked today’s up yet.

  To the left were some computer stations, and a little work area with a couple of chairs, and that’s where I thought I’d hang out waiting to see if the guy showed. But first I needed to make sure I didn’t cause any alarm by hanging around for who knows how long.

  There were two people behind the counter, a man and woman, and I picked the woman because she was younger and might be easier to deal with. She wasn’t busy, so I approached her and asked politely if it would be okay if I used the little work area to do some homework while I waited for my mom, who was held up at a doctor’s appointment because the doctor was behind schedule. The whole time I was smiling shyly and kind of batting my eyelashes. That last one sounds sickening, but Mom has these long, pretty eyelashes and can get away with murder with guys when she does that. She says I have her eyes, so maybe it would work, too, on the opposite sex.

  Seemed to, because the young woman smiled back and said, “No problem.”

  I went over to the worktable and got settled in on a chair, facing the rows of mailboxes, making sure that I had a good view of number fifty-seven. Then I got into my backpack and took out a schoolbook and some paper, because I really did have algebra to do.

  Half an hour crawled by, and a few people had come in and gotten their mail, but not from the box I’d been watching.

  I’d finished the algebra and was really getting bored with this part of investigating. I thought about playing Fortnite on my phone, but figured it might be too distracting, so I checked the menu to see if one of my friends was playing, and Brad was, so I opted to spectate him play, which means watch him do that. (Not him personally, but the moves he was doing in the game. I know, crazy.)

  Suddenly a man came in, went directly to mailbox fifty-seven, stuck a key in, pulled out some letters, shut the box, pulled out the key, and left. It happened so fast that I didn’t get much of a look at a guy who was probably Alek Wozniak. About all I got was he was husky and wearing a red jacket with the Cubs logo on the back. That part was lucky for me. It would make him easy to follow, unless a whole lot of Cubs fans were out there walking around.

  Quickly, I packed my stuff up, smiled at the young woman who’d given me permission to hang around, got a smile and wave back, and rushed out on the sidewalk to see which way the Cubs jacket guy had gone. I saw him right away, up the street. Not another obvious Cubs fan in sight. He was walking fast, and I had to jog to keep up.

  After a couple of blocks, the Cubs jacket guy entered a restaurant. I slowed down so I wouldn’t be right on his heels, and then kind of sauntered inside of what turned out to be a Polish bakery and diner.

  The first thing to greet me was a long glass case filled with pastries, like cakes and pies and cookies, and other stuff I didn’t know the names of, but they sure looked good. I guess you can get pretty hungry working surveillance.

  I headed toward the back where the restaurant section was, the glass case changing to deli-type food. I hadn’t had anything to eat but a Pop-Tart this morning, not even toasted, and it was now about three o’clock, and I was really starving!

  The eating area was about a dozen tables with red-and-white checkered plastic cloths, also some booths along one wall. There were a few other people besides me. Two guys were having coffee and arguing over football, and a little kid and his mother were eating cake. That cake looked pretty good.

  But no red Cubs jacket.

  Had Wozniak been tipped off by Feddick about some kid asking questions? Had he then tagged me in the mailbox place, ducked in here, and slipped out the back?

  A voice behind me asked, “Are you just going to stand there gawking? Or do you want something to eat?”

  I turned and faced a blond w
aitress with dark roots, too much make-up, too much jewelry, a low-cut white blouse, and a tight black skirt. She was older than my mom, but not as old as grandma.

  “Ah . . . I am going to have something to eat,” I said, and took the nearest table.

  “Good choice.” She handed me a menu the size of suitcase, but I was still able to quickly make up my mind before she could leave.

  “Give me a Coke, a cup of chicken dumpling soup, and a rare burger with cheese and onion and mustard.”

  She raised a thinly drawn eyebrow. “Polish burgers come one way. And rare’s not it.”

  “. . . Okay. However it comes is fine.”

  Then she was gone, leaving behind a sickly sweet scent of perfume.

  I was sitting there wondering if I should have done something different when I tailed that guy. Had I screwed up somehow? Then the swinging door to the kitchen opened and a burly guy in white shirt and black pants came through tying a white bib apron around his middle, like he just got to work. He didn’t look at me, instead focused on bussing a table, putting dirty dishes in a plastic tub, which gave me a chance to study the guy.

  He wasn’t a young man, but not old either. His hair was dark, almost black, slicked back. He had a high forehead, a long straight nose, not much of a mouth. His cheeks were rough, like the surface of the moon. Maybe he had a bad case of zits when he was my age.

  The waitress was back with a tray of my food.

  “Gee, what kept you?” I teased, hoping she might be of some use.

  “What’s your name, hon?” she asked.

  I smiled. “Kyle. What’s yours?”

  “Hannah. Haven’t seen you in here before.”

  “No. I’m from Naperville. Originally, I’m from a little town in Iowa, called Serenity.”

  She frowned in thought. “Serenity . . . where have I heard that before? Oh, yeah!”

  The top half of her swiveled to the guy who was now wiping down the table he’d just bussed. “Hey, Alek! Don’t you know someone from Serenity, Iowa?”

  He stopped wiping and just stared at her.

  I jumped in. Smiling. Friendly. “Be glad to say ‘hi’ for you,” I said to him.