“You haven’t seen him since then,” Ty corrects. “I’ve been in touch.” He pauses to crack his knuckles, clearly delighting in wringing every drop of drama from this story.
“Okay, I’ll bite—why?”
“The last art history paper I wrote at Palmer Community College was on contemporary African American artists. I called Carter up to get some information since the school library was useless on the topic.”
I’m impressed. “You reached out to him for help with your paper?”
“I sent him an email. Figured the worst that could happen was he’d ignore it. But he wrote back right away. Sent me some links to articles and told me to call him. I ended up putting a quote from him in my paper. Got a 97 on that one.” Ty rotates his ankle, lost in a fond memory.
I’m still confused. “But contemporary art isn’t even his area of expertise.”
Ty arches his eyebrows. “Carter’s no different than the rest of us. He’s got a job with Christie’s that pays the bills, and a passion that he lives for. Turns out, his passion is contemporary Black and Hispanic art.”
There you have it. Yet another lesson in not judging a book by its cover.
“But how did the paper Mr. Lemoine helped you with get you to buying a seven thousand dollar painting?” Donna prods.
“It’s comin’.” Ty refuses to be rushed. “ So then we started following each other on Instagram, and he saw the pictures I took of these murals a friend of mine paints on the side of abandoned buildings in the Bronx. Carter said he and his husband Claude, who’s a photographer, want to see the murals, but you know, they were a little twitchy about the ‘hood.”
“Wait...you chaperoned two rich, gay white guys in the South Bronx?” I ask.
Ty slaps his knee. “That was the most fun I’ve had in a l-o-n-g time.”
“So how did you go from Bronx tour guide to art auction bidder?” Donna is hellbent on getting to the source of that money.
“I’m gettin’ there, girl. Chill.”
Ty gets a bottle of water from the office fridge and settles back to resume his tale. “...So I said, ‘Hold up—Claude is sellin’ these photos of Kendrall’s murals. What does my man Kendrall get outta this? He’s constantly dodgin’ the heat in order to paint.” Ty points a long finger from me to Donna. “This is something I picked up from working here. Rich people all know each other. All you need is to know one, and they can put you in touch with another and another till you find the one you need. Turns out Claude knows somebody who knows somebody who knows this woman who works for the mayor’s office on public art. Can you believe that’s even a thing?” Ty shakes his head that this could be a real cash-paying job. “Anyway, we hauled her up to the Bronx and explained how Kendrall is beautifying the neighborhood, not taggin’ buildings like some gangbanger. And she agreed. So now he’s got a commission to paint on city-owned buildings. And Claude had his photography show in a gallery downtown, and Marcus and Kendrall and I all went. And then there was an after-party.” Ty half-closes his eyes at the memory. “That was fine.”
“So now you’re part of the Manhattan art world? You’re going to start attending openings?” Donna sounds extremely dubious.
Ty waves her off. “Nah—that’s all foolishness. But Carter and I started talking about our plans. See, he wants to make enough money so he can quit working at Christie’s and move to Fire Island full-time. Open a gallery there. Help Claude with his photography. And I want to save up a stash to buy a storage unit business. That’s why the two of us put together a master plan.”
Now I feel a little nervous. I’ve always liked Carter Lemoine, but I don’t know him well. I hope he’s not taking Ty for a ride. “I’m a little unclear on how your master plan and Carter’s masterplan intersect.”
Ty cackles with delight. “Yeah, it is a little hard to see the path. But Imma show you the way.” He leans forward, propping his elbows on his knees. “Carter is very well known in the art world. If he went to auctions and bid on stuff, people would catch on that he must think that artist’s star is rising, know what I’m sayin’? And then that would make other people bid on the same piece and drive up the price. See, art is just like real estate. You wanna find your undervalued properties, buy low, hold for a while, and then sell high.”
“Ok-a-a-y,” Donna says. “But I’m still not getting where you fit in, buying a picture for seven thousand bucks.”
“I,” Ty taps his chest, “am Carter’s undercover buyer. He puts the cash in a special account, and I do the bidding. Other bidders in the room probably think I don’t know what I’m doin’—maybe I’m buyin’ shit for a rapper or somethin’. With this painting, only one person bid against me, and then he dropped out, and I got it.” Ty sits back, grinning. “We fooled those muthas.”
“So how do you make money from this?” I ask.
“Once Carter resells, I get a cut of the profits. We got a contract worked out.”
“You signed a contract with him?” I feel a knot of anxiety in my gut. I don’t want Ty to get swindled by something he doesn’t fully understand, or worse yet, get pulled into something of dubious legality.
Ty holds up his hand to stop my protest in its tracks. “Don’t worry. I got Mr. Swenson to look it over before I signed. He made a few changes.”
Now, I’m laughing. Mr. Swenson is my lawyer, a man whose fussy, pedantic exterior conceals a sharp legal mind. “You really are on top of everything, aren’t you?”
Ty smiles like a man who’s just nailed the correct answer on Final Jeopardy. “This art-buying is going to be my side-gig for a while. I’ll be using a few vacation days to go to auctions when Carter needs me. But don’t worry—they’re always during the week. I figure I can pay off my student loan and save up the cash I need to invest in a storage unit business.”
“Go for it!” I say, hugely relieved that Ty isn’t quitting Another Man’s Treasure.
“Why do the storage unit thing at all, if you can do this?” Donna asks. “It sounds like fun and hardly any work.”
“I can’t be undercover forever,” Ty says. “Eventually, I’ll get known. I’m all about the long-term. The storage unit business is recession-proof. If there’s one thing I know, it’s that people are willing to spend cold, hard cash to hang onto junk they don’t even need. A business based on logic has limitations. But a business based on emotion—” Ty points his index finger at his heart. “The sky’s the limit.”
Chapter 5
MINDFUL OF CORDY DEAN’S sleep habits, Ty, Donna and I set out for her house at eleven on Tuesday morning. I’ve briefed my staff on what we’re looking for: certain limited edition record albums, posters and ticket stubs from famous concerts, well-known songwriters’ hand-written lyrics, musical instruments that belonged to rock stars, stage-worn clothing. “We may not find any of that,” I say. “And if we find something promising, we’ll have to check the provenance. We can’t just take her word for it. She tends to...er...exaggerate a bit.”
“How you gonna prove some old rag belonged to a rocker?” Ty asks.
“I think it would have to be a distinctive shirt, and there would have to be a photo of him wearing it on stage. Saying any old, dirty, white t-shirt once belonged to Jerry Garcia isn’t going to cut it.”
“Who’s Jerry Garcia—some Mexican salsa dude?”
Donna laughs. “The lead singer of the Grateful Dead. Even I know that.”
Ty scowls. He hates it when Donna claims to know something he doesn’t.
“What about autographs?” Donna asks. “If she interviewed so many famous stars, she’s bound to have those.”
“Yes, but those have to be rare to be really valuable. For instance, autographs of any of the Beatles are really valuable, but the group was already broken up by the time Cordy started writing. But she does seem to have done an interview with Ringo in the seventies.”
When we pull up in front of Cordy’s multi-colored house, Ty’s mouth opens soundlessly. Then
he shoots me the stink-eye as he exits the AMT van. “Oh, Audge—you got us into some foolishness here.”
Even though I fear he’s right, I try to put on an optimistic face. “Let’s give it our best shot. If we can’t find anything worthwhile today, I’ll make my excuses to my friends and we can back out.”
I pound on the front door as Peter did on Sunday, and the neighborhood stray cats scatter. When the door opens, Noreen greets us instead of Cordy. “Hi, Audrey. Peter had to be at his office today, so I slipped away from work to make sure everything was okay over here.” She ushers us in, shaking hands with Ty and Donna. “Cordy’s upstairs getting dressed. No one else is here, and she promised me she wouldn’t have any company while you’re working.”
I smile at my friend. “Thanks, Noreen. That will help.”
“Thank you.” She gives me a quick hug. “Peter and I really appreciate this favor.”
Donna wanders into the living room, a space I hadn’t explored on Sunday. I can tell the house’s funky aroma—a mix of incense, marijuana and cat pee—is making her itchy. She’d like nothing better than to hose this place down with her trademark blend of white vinegar and water and Mrs. Meyer’s all-purpose cleaning solution. The living room has an assortment of mismatched and sagging chairs and small sofas. A table contains a backgammon game in progress, along with two glasses with dried puddles of red wine sticking to the bottoms. Donna picks her way through this and heads to the far wall. “Wow—look at this kimono.” She studies a beautifully embroidered silk robe pinned to the wall like a tapestry.
“Isn’t it lovely? My dear friend Yoko brought it back for me from Japan.” Cordy sweeps into the room, her reddish-gray hair pulled into a long, loose braid and her substantial bosom straining against a t-shirt that proclaims: Life Without Music Would B♭.
Donna spins around. “You got this from Yoko Ono?”
“Yes, she’s such a generous soul. Always thinking of others.” Cordy holds her clasped hands against her heart. “She got a bad rap when people accused her of breaking up the Beatles.” Cordy glances heavenward. “The boys were having creative differences long before she arrived.”
Cordy brushes past Donna and me and heads directly for Ty. “Well, hel-lo!” She tucks her chin and gazes up at him. Can the expression “doe-eyed” be applied to a seventy-year-old? “Looks like today is my lucky day!”
Ty does not smile, but extends his hand to shake. “Ty Griggs, ma’am. I’m Audrey’s sale manager.”
“You can manage my sale any day!” Cordy says with a throaty chuckle.
Donna and I trade a glance behind Cordy’s back, as Ty works hard not to roll his eyes.
“So, Aunt Cordy,” Noreen claps her hands briskly. “Audrey and Ty and Donna are here to help you find some items that might be worth selling. Where would be a good place to start looking?”
Cordy gazes up at the ceiling as if she hasn’t a clue. “W-e-e-l-l, I suppose we could try the small bedroom. I’ve got a lot of boxes in there that I brought from my old apartment and never unpacked.”
So Cordy leads a march upstairs. Along the way, we pass a bedroom with a large unmade bed and a clutter of clothes draped over chairs. In the corner, I notice a desk with a laptop. Another room contains a futon folded up into sofa position, with a ratty quilt balled into the corner and a pillow with a dingy pillowcase. Noreen glances into it as we pass and frowns. I suppose that’s where the stray humans hang out.
At the end of the hall, Cordy stops before a closed door with a peace sign decal affixed to the wood. She turns the knob, but the door only opens about a foot. “It’s a little crowded in there.” Cordy sizes up the four of us and settles on me. “You’re pretty skinny. Maybe you can squeeze in and move some things around so we can open the door all the way.”
I’ve been called upon for worse tasks. Sucking in my breath, I flatten myself like a mouse looking to escape through a crack, and slip into the room. Dim sunlight seeps through the dark curtains, allowing me to see towers of boxes. I manage to push two large ones closer to the wall, and succeed in opening the door for the others. They can’t all fit inside, but they form a circle and peer in.
“Are the boxes labeled, Aunt Cordy?” Noreen asks.
Cordy looks at her like she’s never heard of such an unreasonable expectation. “I hardly had a moment to think when I moved. I just shoved everything in boxes and dragged it out here. Whenever I think of something I need, I come in this room to look for it. But I haven’t needed anything in a while.”
In my mind, I’m chanting a mantra: It’s only one day out of your life, Audrey. It’s only one day.
“Okay,” Donna beams at Cordy. “We’ll just work our way through sorting this stuff, and if we find anything that looks promising, we’ll call you.”
“Isn’t that great!” Noreen says as if she’s talking to a toddler facing a doctor’s visit. “Audrey and her team will take care of this, and you’ll have the day free to work on your book.”
Cordy massages her temples. “My, God! It’s so early. This is not my creative time.” She stands on her tip-toes to get a better view into the room. “Look—there’s the flag I brought back from the Stones world tour.”
In the corner, I spot a bedraggled, formerly white flag with the familiar red, stuck-out tongue logo of the Rolling Stones. It doesn’t seem like an item that will pay the tax bill, but hopefully it’s the canary in the coal mine of what we might find in this room.
“Surely you don’t all need to work on this room?” Cordy asks, running her gnarled fingers along Ty’s sinewy biceps. “I could use some big, strong arms downstairs to help me with my potter’s wheel.”
Noreen grasps Cordy by the elbow and turns her around. “I think Audrey needs Ty up here to move those boxes around. I’m sure they’ll all come down and visit with you later.”
“Just as soon as we find some items to sell.” Ty reassures her as he waves bye-bye.
Once we hear her footsteps descending the stairs, Ty mutters, “chicken hawk” under his breath.
Donna elbows him. “Looks like you’ve got an admirer.”
“I like when old ladies show they like me by giving me tea and cookies, not by groping me,” Ty grumbles.
“Now you know how women feel when old men leer at us,” Donna replies.
“Let’s divide the room in thirds and work our way through the boxes,” I tell my team. “Put anything you think might have potential right outside the door and we’ll analyze it later.”
We all dig in.
“Good grief!” Donna says as she opens her first box. “This is full of canned goods that expired in 2006.”
“Shove it down the hall, and Ty can get rid of it for Cordy later. That will give us more room to work.” I look inside my first box. A bundle of papers shares the space with a heap of dried-up cosmetics. Cordy wasn’t exaggerating when she said she packed up her old apartment in a hurry. The papers are a manuscript for an article with an editor’s comments in the margins. “Have you verified this?” someone had queried in red ink.
“How about this?’ Donna asks, holding aloft a rectangle of thick paper. “It’s a poster for a concert, and it looks like someone signed it.”
Jethro Tull LIVE at Madison Square Garden. There’s a handwritten scrawl in the corner. Quickly, I Google Jethro Tull, and squint again at the signature. “I think that says Ian Anderson. He was the lead singer of the group.”
Ty peers over my shoulder. “Yeah, that’s definitely an I. And the first word only has three letters.”
“Is it valuable?” Donna asks.
“It’s certainly worth researching,” I say. “Make a box for all the good stuff and we’ll do the research all at one time.”
We continue digging. There are some boxes of books, a box of lingerie that testifies to a much smaller Cordelia Dean, and a box of unopened bank statements and assorted junk mail postmarked from the early 2000s. I shudder. No wonder Cordy’s finances are a wreck.
An hour pas
ses, and we haven’t found much of anything besides the poster and a tambourine, which Donna displays with a shake. “Maybe this belonged to someone famous. But how would we know?”
Ty scowls. “Looks the same as the ones the music teacher used to pass around in third grade.”
“Put it aside and we’ll ask Cordy later.”
I open another box of books and am about to push it out of the way when a cover catches my eye: How to Save Your Own Life by Erica Jong. Wasn’t that a racy book back in the day? I take it out and leaf through it as a break from the tedium of this project. When I do, the book falls open to a page that has been bookmarked with a sheet of paper—a handwritten note.
Thank you for listening last night. You really helped me understand what I’m trying to say in this song. What do you think of this for the first verse?
Only held you for a moment
Couldn’t stop the clock.
Touching your waves eased the torment
Now it’s time to rock.
John
I read the lyrics through twice, and somewhere deep in my subconscious, they begin to be matched with a melody. I start to hum under my breath.
“What are you singing?” Donna asks.
I show her the lyrics. “Is this song familiar to you?”
Donna reads and listen to my self-conscious humming. Then she breaks into full-throated song. She often sings in the office and has quite a nice voice. Ty looks up from his box. “Hey, I know that song.”
“My mom loved this song—'Now It’s Time to Rock.’ It was a big hit for Five Free Men.” Donna says. “She always told me she danced to it at her prom. And then it was remade by some pop singer when I was in high school twenty years later.”
“That must be the version I know,” I agree.
Quickly, I Google the song and read aloud from the article I find. “ ‘Now It’s Time to Rock’ was written by John Freeman, frontman for Five Free Men in 1977. Freeman died in a motorcycle crash months before the song hit the Billboard charts remaining at Number one for twelve weeks. The band broke up when they were unable to find another singer to replace Freeman’s soulful style and haunting lyricism. ‘Now It’s Time to Rock’ remains an enduring classic which has been covered by many other artists.”
Rock Bottom Treasure (Palmyrton Estate Sale Mystery Series) Page 4
