Body in the Bookcase ff-9

by Katherine Hall Page

  People want to look at a whole lot of things without driving around. I call it the Wal-Martization of America.” Nan was off on a tangent again.

  Faith wasn’t paying much attention.

  Her heart was soaring. Peterborough wasn’t far.

  Maybe an hour and a half. She looked at her watch. But if she was going to make it today, she’d have to go now. Unless the place was open late.

  Another thought suddenly occurred to her. She hadn’t seen any of their things displayed, yet that didn’t necessarily mean Nan hadn’t purchased more items. Some could have been sold already!

  “What else did you buy from that case?”

  “Just the napkin rings. I needed them for the show house and they were reasonable. There was a nice gold bracelet, but the price was too high. I left an offer.”

  Marian placed a mug of tea in Faith’s hand.

  “Why don’t you and Tom take a drive up there?

  I’ll watch the children. There’s no point in going back to the show house if Mrs. Howell”—Marian had obviously spotted the heavy gold wedding band on the woman’s ring finger, as had Faith—

  “bought only the napkin rings.” This was said a bit wistfully, and Faith promised herself that she would make it her number one priority in the future to take her mother-in-law to every bedecked house possible.

  Nan had been eyeing both women. “It’s not a bad idea. They stay open later now that daylight saving time is in effect, and with Memorial Day weekend coming up, you’d better check things out as soon as you can. That’s the official start of the tourist season, and plenty of folks take the opportunity to go antiquing.”

  Faith was seized with a sudden rush of panic.

  They had to get to the Old Oaken Bucket and they had to get there as soon as possible!

  “Thank you!” She put the mug down, tea forgotten.

  Marian gave Nan a warm smile. “You have such a delightful shop. I’ll certainly be back when I have more time—and about the napkin rings.

  Why don’t you tell your friend Mrs. Barnett to have them at the door? The children like to go to Carlisle for ice cream, and we’ll pick the silver up on our way.”

  No flies on her.

  As she walked the two women out, Nan told Faith to come back the next day. “I can give you a list of trade publications where you can send photos or descriptions of your stolen things. Also suggest other places you might look.”

  “We wasted almost all day Saturday going to pawnshops. We should have been checking out antiques stores!” Faith had visions of her possessions changing hands almost before her eyes.

  “It’s still very early—your things could be anywhere, including pawnshops. You can’t know where—or who’s involved—except that you were obviously broken into by pros.”

  The first time Faith had heard this, she had felt a modicum of pride. They’d been robbed, but by high-class thieves. Now she wished it had been by thugs who didn’t know Meissen from Melomac. Maybe they wouldn’t have known where to look or taken the sideboard drawer. These guys would have grabbed the computers, maybe a little jewelry, and run.

  “Yup, pros,” Nan said.

  This was getting to be another one of those phrases that Faith wasn’t sure she could hear repeated again without seriously damaging something.

  The Old Oaken Bucket was certainly not your average cozy antiques shop. There was nothing oaken about it, for a start. It was a long, low cor-rugated metal warehouse with a large sign at the entrance advising patrons to lock their coats and bags in their cars; otherwise, they would have to be checked. Another sign warned patrons that the premises were protected by Acme Alarms. AND smith & wesson had been added underneath, crudely printed with a black marker. There was no welcome mat. There was, however, a bucket—a large tin pail filled with sand and another sign—park your butts here. Faith went back to the car and locked her purse in the trunk.

  “Ready?” she said to Tom.

  “Absolutely.” She’d had no trouble convincing him to make the mad dash to New Hampshire before the place closed. He’d been stunned, and overjoyed that they’d recovered anything, and the thought of more had put him in a high good humor.

  “I told Ms. Dawson she could take the rest of the day off,” Tom told Faith on the way up. “She really is working too hard, but she insisted on staying. You know, I’ve never seen work pile up on her desk. The woman is the best secretary I’ve ever had. I mean, assistant.” The church had recently changed the name of the position to administrative assistant.

  Rhoda Dawson had been pushed to the back of Faith’s mind since last Thursday and now the questions that had nagged at her then emerged with full force. Was the woman a workaholic?

  Maybe she had no other life except for her job? Or maybe she was nipping in and out of the church office to size up various prospects in the neighborhood for her partners in crime. Faith wasn’t about to voice this suspicion and get lectured again. Let Tom enjoy the sight of a clean desk.

  He’d never see his own that way.

  The inside of the Old Oaken Bucket was as sterile as the outside. A Formica counter barred the way from the entrance to the rows and rows of floor-to-ceiling glass booths. The booths were all locked up tight and employees walked up and down the aisles with keys. Faith watched someone open a case for a customer as Tom filled out a form requiring more information than a 1040. Apparently, the customer was interested in several pieces of jewelry. They were handed to her one at a time, the watchful eye of the Bucket staff member never leaving the item for an instant. There were also video cameras mounted on the ceiling, keeping track of things. Nan’s analogy to Wal-Mart was false, Faith decided. Wal-Mart was a whole lot more trusting.

  She’d instructed Tom to give a false name and address and now peered over to see if he’d complied. If the Bucket people were involved with the Fairchilds’ robbery, they might recognize the address and send them packing, Faith had explained to Tom. He’d agreed, but she should have signed them in herself. Falsehoods did not come trippingly to Tom’s tongue—or hand. At the last moment, his conscience might force his fingers to write his real name and they would miss their chance. Next to the counter blocking entry to the booths, there was another intimidating sign: we reserve the right to refuse entrance to anybody for any reason. The woman behind the counter examined Tom’s form carefully and lifted the hinged section, allowing them to pass into the main part of the store one at a time. “Go right ahead, Mr. Montgomery.” That was the name Faith had given him, not too common, not too uncommon, and not Tom’s initials. Faith breathed a sigh of relief. They were in.

  Unlike Nan Howell, this woman wasn’t wearing anything over five years old. She was dressed in tight black toreador pants and a sheer white blouse. Heavily made up and her bottle-blond hair elaborately coiffed, she looked more like a cocktail waitress than the proprietor of an antiques emporium. “If you want to look at something, I have people with keys on the floor,” she added perfunctorily.

  Tom nodded and let his wife precede him. She made a beeline for the cases to the right. The surroundings might be institutional, but the silver, porcelain, glass, and other objects the dealers offered turned the drab interior into Ali Baba’s cave.

  “The first on the right,” Faith whispered to Tom. “This must be it.”

  The shelves had been covered with deep crimson velvet and each was devoted to a different category. The top one displayed four alabaster busts. Inspired by the beauty of the gods and goddesses purloined from the Parthenon, Victorians had wanted to bring Artemis and Aphrodite even closer to home—in the drawing room or parlor. These were fine examples.

  The next shelf was covered with Chinese export porcelain and netsukes. Again, all were in perfect condition, not even a hairline crack in any of the Rose Medallion.

  The next shelf . . . On the next shelf was grandmother Sibley’s silver creamer and sugar bowl, the fish-serving pieces from the Conklins, a cold-meat fork from Faith and Tom’s wedding silver, an Ar
t Nouveau picture frame they’d bought at the Marché aux Puces de Clignancourt in Paris, and Great-Grandmother Fairchild’s gold thim-ble—or so it appeared. Her initials were engraved inside. Marian had given it to Amy on her first birthday, because their initials were the same.

  Faith had decided to assume this was why and not respond to any hint Marian might be subtly trying to convey. Embroidering handkerchiefs and turning out samplers were not skills she could pass on to her daughter and she didn’t intend to take up needlework at this stage in her life, no matter how simple Pix said it was to count cross-stitches. The only needle Faith plied was a basting one, and she found French tarts infinitely preferable to French knots.

  She was staring, transfixed, into the case.

  “Tom!” It was hard not to scream. “Look!”

  “I know, I know.” He was squeezing her hand so hard, her ring was cutting into her finger, but she didn’t let go.

  “It’s our silver—and that malachite pin, on the bottom shelf. It’s mine. Hope gave it to me.

  Quick, find somebody with a key.”

  Feigning nonchalance wasn’t easy, but the Fairchild/Montgomerys gave performances wor-thy of at least an Oscar nomination. They’d have received a People’s Choice Award, hands down.

  “This is nice, dear, but the stone is small. Do you think it’s a real amethyst?” Faith was holding a lavaliere on a long, thin gold chain that her parents had given her as a teenager.

  “Let’s get it—and these other things.” They’d piled the silver on the front counter and now added the two pieces of jewelry.

  “Can you hold these for us while we look around some more?” Faith asked the woman, who was listing their items.

  “Sure,” she said. “Take your time. We stay open until dark.” She lit a cigarette. Clearly none of the rules applied to her.

  At first, it was fun. Elated by their success, the Fairchilds scanned each case thoroughly. Then it got tedious and the items began to look alike.

  Hadn’t they just seen those shaving mugs? Those shelves of souvenir spoons?

  “Why don’t we split up?” Tom suggested.

  Faith shook her head. “You wouldn’t recognize everything, particularly the jewelry. Some of the things I never wear, or wore, I should say,” she amended sadly. “Things from when I was a kid.

  Things that aren’t in style anymore.” Finally, they reached the end. They hadn’t found anything else.

  “Obviously, we don’t tell her the things are stolen. She’d call whoever the dealer is, and we can forget about ever seeing anything else again.”

  “So, we just buy it back?”

  “We buy it back, but dicker, Tom, dicker.” He gave her a withering look. You didn’t have to tell a Yankee to bargain.

  “Are you dealers?” the woman asked.

  “No. But I’m sure you can do better for us.

  What’s your cash price?” Tom asked. The Fairchilds had stopped at an ATM. Faith didn’t want to have to give identification with a check.

  The woman looked at them with a practiced eye, appraising their clothes, wedding and engagement rings, then entered the information into her mental calculator. Sharon Fielding, who owned the Old Oaken Bucket with her husband, Jack, could spot a reproduction iron bank at twenty paces. She also knew she had a relatively well-heeled couple who weren’t going to hold out for 10 percent and risk losing the items. “Five percent for cash—since you’re not dealers. That’s all I’m authorized to give.” Case number four’s dealer—where all the merchandise had come from—gave Sharon free rein, but besides rent, she extracted a commission from the dealers. Buying low and selling high was as important to her as it was to them.

  Tom knew he was being taken, but he didn’t want to risk a delay. They needed to walk out of the place with everything now—for their peace of mind and in case anyone got the wind up. Or there was also the chance that someone else might purchase some of the items.

  Faith moved into action. “There were such lovely things in that case,” she said. “Does the dealer have a shop? We’d like to see more.”

  “No, he doesn’t.” Okay, it was a man.

  “We wanted to talk to him about several of the other pieces we are interested in, especially the tea service.” It was the most expensive item in the case—vintage Jensen silver from Denmark. “Is he local? Could we get in touch with him?”

  “No, he’s in Massachusetts, but we have dealer day the second Friday of each month and he often comes.”

  “Oh dear, that won’t be for a while. Why don’t you give us his name and we’ll get in touch with him directly?” Okay, a man in Massachusetts.

  “We never give out names.”

  Period.

  They’d succeeded in narrowing things down, but male Massachusetts antiques dealers com-prised a rather large group.

  On the way home, Faith realized she was exhausted—and hungry. The little tea sandwiches she’d consumed at lunch were a distant memory.

  She rummaged around in the glove compartment and found a bar of extradark Lindt chocolate she kept there for emergencies. She broke off a piece for Tom.

  “Do you know what the worst thing about all this is?”

  “No, what is the worst thing, and what is all this?”

  “Looking for our stuff. The worst thing is that I’m even more dissatisfied now that I’ve found some.”

  “Huh?” said Tom. “Is that all the chocolate there is?”

  “No, here’s some more. It sounds crazy, but finding these things makes me remember what’s still missing, and I can’t appreciate what I’ve got, because I want it all back.”

  “It does sound a little crazy, but also a little logical. Like being starving and only getting enough food to take the edge off your hunger. Or being thirsty—”

  “I get it, I get it. Could be a sermon topic, honey.” Tom put his hand over Faith’s. “You never know.”

  They were almost home. It had been a strange trip. On the way up, Faith had barely given a passing glance to the beautiful landscape—birches bent low against the looming dark conifers; maples and other hardwoods leafed out in brilliant greens that would give way to a more gaudy palette during fall foliage season. The small back road that crossed the state line would be bumper-to-bumper then. It was almost deserted now. On the way back, Faith was just as oblivious to her surroundings, at times forgetting exactly where they were. Peterborough? Pepperell? Lowell? Mars?

  “Do we drive straight to the police station or call?” Tom asked.

  “Call. We want to preserve your mother’s illusion that her grandchildren are perfect, and the longer we stay away, the more precarious that becomes. There’s also the danger that our children may start comparing me to her. ‘Granny never makes me take a bath. Granny never yells at me.

  Granny lets me eat Happy Meals.’ I can hear Ben now.”

  “Nonsense, you’re a perfect mother—and a perfect wife.”

  Faith didn’t bother to correct him.

  “Let me see if I understand this.” Faith was talking on the phone with Charley MacIsaac. “If you find out the name of the dealer from the Old Oaken Bucket people, you can’t search his house, even though he was selling stolen goods, because you wouldn’t be able to get a warrant without probable cause?”

  Charley cleared his throat. They’d been down this road several times already in various vehicles.

  “I can get the name and question him. Have him bring his receipts if he claims to have purchased the things, but you said you don’t want to do that.”

  “He’ll get rid of everything if he thinks we’re on to him. The only way is to raid his house or storage locker. Whatever he uses.”

  “You have heard of the U.S. Constitution, right?

  And I don’t mean the ship in Boston Harbor.”

  “No need to get sarcastic. I know what you’re saying.” Since the beginning of the conversation, Faith had been wishing she was not such an ardent supporter of constitutional rights. It w
as all well and good in the abstract, but they were definitely getting in the way now. Maybe this is when they are needed most, an annoying little voice nagged at her. The voice sounded remarkably like her Aunt Chat’s.

  Another voice told her she was going to have to handle this investigation herself. She was sorry she’d called the police. Their goals were not con-verging at the moment. Yes, she wanted the perpetrators caught and brought to justice, but she also wanted to recover as much as possible in the process.

  “Give me the booth number, Faith, and I’ll drive up there tomorrow. Then I’ll have a talk with the dealer. You say he lives in Massachusetts?”

  “I think that’s what the woman said,” Faith replied tentatively. She had her own plans. “I don’t have the case number.” She didn’t, not by the phone.

  Charley was getting annoyed. “Look, do you want me to investigate your burglary or not?

  There’s another call coming and I’m alone here, as usual. You come by tomorrow and we’ll straighten this out.”

  That was fine with Faith.

  Nan Howell had been as good as her word. When Faith arrived at the shop the next day, Nan handed her a list of publications: The Maine Antique Digest, The Newtown Bee, Unravel the Gavel, and another list of the major antiques marts in New England. It was daunting. How would Faith ever be able to do her job, let alone tend her hearth?

  “There’s a big show this weekend, paid preview all day Friday. It’s at the Copley Plaza in Boston. And then there are the auctions. You need to check the paper each week.”

  “Do you go to all these things? How would you have time?”

  “I make my rounds, especially the auctions and the better shows. For the rest, I rotate. I hadn’t been to the Old Oaken Bucket, for instance, since last summer, but they close for a couple of months in the winter. I have to do this in order to get stock. And a good part of my business is locating things people have asked me to look for. I get called in to buy pieces when estates are settled every now and then, but people tend to auction everything off—the treasures with the trash. People come in with things to sell, too, convinced Great-Aunt Tillie’s lamp is a Tiffany. Sometimes they sell, even after I tell them it’s a repro. Of course, if the PBS Antiques Road Show is to be believed, we might all find one of the missing copies of the Declaration of Independence in the basement in a stack of old newspapers, or a fifteenth-century Venetian gold helmet in the attic, lodged in the beams to catch a pesky drip.” Faith was curious. “Have you had the store for a long time?”