by Tamar Myers
“Which movie?” I asked cautiously. After all, the Pavilion has twenty-two theaters.
“Damn, I knew I’d forget the exact title, but it has the word ‘heart’ in it. You know, the one where the ads show a businessman carrying his dying father around with him to board meetings.”
You see what I mean? The man was too good to be true. If we saw a movie like that, he’d cry into my popcorn and rinse off the salt.
“Sorry dear, but I just remembered that I promised C. J. I’d stop by and help her streak her hair. But you can answer a question for me, if you would.”
“Anything, babe.”
“Is it hard to trace a license plate?”
“That all depends. Whatcha got?”
“It’s a Pennsylvania plate. It has the letters ‘DV’ on it.”
There was an expectant silence.
“It was spotted in the Atlanta area last week.”
“That’s it?”
“All I know is what I just said, and that it was seen at night in a yard full of pine trees.”
Greg had the decency to stop laughing after a few minutes. “We don’t have border police along the Mason-Dixon line, Abby. Yankees aren’t required to register with the authorities—well, maybe in Georgia they are. Tell you what, I’ll give them a call and see.”
“Very funny!”
“Abby, what’s this all about?” he asked, the sarcasm completely gone.
The fact that Mr. Perfect could tell that I was angry made me even angrier. “It’s about my mother,” I snapped. “I’m afraid she may have been taken advantage of by an ad she saw in the paper. She was sold a fake bill of goods to the tune of five thousand dollars. That’s grand larceny, isn’t it?”
“If intent to defraud can be proved,” Greg said quietly. “Tell me about it.”
I told him everything I knew, including the fact that Mama was off to Ohio, eager to become a nun. “You don’t think they’ll really take her?” I wailed.
Greg sighed. “My cousin Sammy started out as a Southern Baptist and ended up as the chief rabbi of Finland. So, anything is possible, Abby. Still, I have a hard time seeing Mozella Wiggins as a nun. Did you tell her that you think the tea set she gave us is a fake?”
“No, I didn’t want to hurt her. Besides, I don’t know which one is the copy—it, or the one I bought at auction. Maybe they both are,” I said, wiping away a tear which wasn’t supposed to be there. “Two fake tea sets and a mother who’s run off to find herself. How much more can I take?”
There was a long silence. I could almost hear the cogs in Greg’s brain turning, as if he needed a little oil. The man is bright, but not brilliant, if you know what I mean. Thinking fast on his feet has never been his forte.
“I’m afraid I can’t help you with authenticating the tea sets, Abby, but I might be able to help you with your mother.”
“Oh?”
“Her flight doesn’t leave for forty-five minutes. I might be able to catch her. If so, I’ll tell her that I need her help in apprehending this forger.”
“But then she’d have to know her present was a fake,” I wailed. “It will break her heart.”
“Would you rather break her heart or be out twenty thousand dollars?”
“You are so rude,” I said, and then hung up so he could get to the airport in time.
I didn’t just sit and twiddle my thumbs while Greg talked Mama out of donning a lifetime habit. I put both sets of silver into the trunk of my car for safekeeping, hopped into my brand-new, arrest-me-red Grand Am, and barreled on down to the town of Pineville, just south of Charlotte. Actually, the traffic was pretty heavy, so I crawled, instead of barreled. Not too long ago Pineville was a geographically distinct community, surrounded by cotton fields, but today it has blended so well with the burbs that it’s hard to tell where it begins and Charlotte leaves off. But they are handsome burbs, with eat-your-heart-out houses, so I didn’t mind the crawling so much.
Purnell Purvis’s Antique Auction Barn on U.S. 21 in Pineville is the mecca for antique dealers across the Carolinas. Purvis has a penchant for sniffing out estates before the heirs have a chance to schedule a public sale. Instead of chasing ambulances, Purvis chases hearses. We dealers have our chance when Purvis holds his weekly “dealers only” sales. Although the man is a valuable asset to the business, he isn’t the easiest person with whom to get along.
“Surely you can make an exception this one time,” I pled. “This time there really are mitigating circumstances.”
Purvis hitched his pants up, but since his belt was too small to fit over his considerable girth, it was a wasted effort. This seemed to annoy him further.
“You said the same thing when you bought that Chippendale chair last month. Like I told you then, little lady, if the vendor doesn’t want to reveal his identity, my hands are tied.”
“What if there’s been a crime?” It was all I could do to refrain from calling him “big gentleman.”
Purvis gave up the struggle to keep his pants aloft and motioned for me to sit. His office is a mere cubicle, undoubtedly smaller than Mama’s prospective room at the convent, but it is sumptuously furnished. The chair offered was an early Empire gilt-wood chair, which Purvis claims is a genuine Marcion.
“I don’t deal in stolen goods,” he growled.
“I’m not accusing you of fencing, dear.” I swallowed. “Is it possible one of your vendors deals in replicas?”
If a bear could glare, it could pass for Purvis. “Are you suggesting that I’m in cahoots with a forger?”
I shook my head vigorously. “Oh, no, not at all. I’m suggesting that someone might have knowingly sold you a forgery, and then you unwittingly sold it to me.”
It was a hot May day but the cubicle was air-conditioned. Surely an innocent man wouldn’t have beads of sweat appearing on his forehead with the regularity of microwave popcorn.
“Tell me who this person is,” I coaxed, “and I promise to keep your name out of this if I can.”
Purvis has a penchant for Pernod as well, and he interrupted his glare just long enough to extract a gold flask from the drawer of his Wooten desk.
“What the hell are you talking about, Mrs. Timberlake?”
“That’s Ms.,” I said, “but call me Abby, for crying out loud. We’ve known each other for years.”
He waved aside my gracious offer with the back of a hairy hand. “I said, what the hell are you talking about?”
“The silver, damn it! That silver tea set I bought yesterday. You know, the one you said was a genuine William Cripps creation? Circa 1760? Well, the not so funny thing is, another set has shown up. One that’s identical. I can’t tell which one is the original, and which is the copy. That makes me wonder how many others there are. For all I know there are dozens, and the one you sold me was made last week in a basement in New Jersey.”
He rolled his eyes. It is a gesture I hate just as much when it comes from unrelated adults, as when it comes from my own two kids.
“Or,” I drawled, “maybe it was made right here. Do you have a basement, Mr. Purvis?”
I was hoping that he would flinch. I surely didn’t expect his meaty fist to come down on the Wooten that hard.
“You have one hell of a nerve, little missy. That damn silver was authenticated by Mr. Expert himself. Rob Goldman.”
I squiggled my left ear with the tip of my little finger. It has been known to give out on me, so to speak, in times of extreme stress.
“What did you say?”
“I had your friend Rob Goldman check out the set as soon as I got it in. He declared it a masterpiece. Those were his exact words—‘a masterpiece.’”
“Uh—”
“So you can stick your accusations in your ear, girlie.” He tried to stand up, but his belt buckle caught on a drawer pull of the desk, and he fell back into his chair with a plop.
I managed to suppress a satisfied smile. “I wasn’t accusing you of anything, dear. Like I said before, I
think someone pulled the wool over your eyes. Over Rob’s too. I want to know who it is. Who sold you the silver tea set?”
Purvis sighed so hard I was enveloped by Pernod fumes. “I bought it through an ad in the Charlotte Observer.”
“You didn’t! I never saw that ad.”
It may come as no surprise to you, but grizzlies can smirk. “It was a one-day ad. Saturday’s paper two weeks ago. I was the first one to respond. I drove straight on over there and snapped that thing up like a cooter catching flies. Like they say, the early dog gets the worm.”
I hadn’t the time nor energy to correct him. “Purnell, you have to tell me who this person is. It’s your civic duty. You owe it to me, as a colleague.”
Purvis took a swig directly from the gold flask, once again proving my claim that money and class are not to be equated. In all fairness, however, he did wipe his mouth rather daintily on the sleeve of his pink silk shirt.
“I don’t owe you anything, girlie, and you can’t prove a crime has been committed. You said yourself you can’t tell the original from the copy.” He took a second swig, but neglected to wipe his mouth. When he spoke, the air was atomized with Pernod. “Now, I’m telling you this for the last time. I don’t guarantee my merchandise but the tea set you bought here at auction is the real McCoy. You got that, missy? Is that clear enough for you?”
I stood up. “Got it, buster. It’s as clear as Carolina clay.”
I managed to slam the door behind me, but believe me, it’s hard to stomp off in a righteous snit when you’re only four feet nine and weigh less than a hundred pounds. Still, I gave it the old college try, even though it nearly gave me shin splints and caused my bunions to ache for a week.
I’m sure Rob Goldman was glad to see me—it’s just that he expected me to be hard at work in my own shop. Therefore he was understandably concerned to discover me lurking about in his shop, the Finer Things.
“Abby, what are you doing here? That ex of yours hasn’t been hassling you again, has he?”
“Buford?” It was a silly thing for me to say, since I only have one ex, but the concern on Rob’s face had thrown me off course.
“Just say the word, Abby, and I’ll punch his lights out for you.”
“Thanks, but no thanks,” I said, and patted his arm affectionately. “I have no doubt that you could ring Buford’s chimes with one hand tied behind your back, but you’d spend the rest of your life paying for it. Playing Satan is only a part-time job for him. In real life he’s a lawyer, remember? Besides, this isn’t about Buford.”
Rob glanced at Bob, who was watching us from behind the register, before taking a prudent step backwards.
“Then what’s this about?”
I couldn’t help but smile. Bob’s jealousy is understandable, only in that Rob is drop-dead gorgeous. Tall, fifty, with a full head of hair that is graying only at the temples, the man is a younger version of James Garner. But I’ve known Rob long enough to know that his arms, as well as his charms, are Teflon-coated when it comes to women.
“It’s about you, Rob,” I said, forcing a serious tone. “Why didn’t you tell me that Purvis sought your professional opinion before he offered my tea set as a genuine William Cripps?”
Rob blinked. “Oh, that. Well, it didn’t even seem worth mentioning. Purvis often asks me to validate his purchases. You know that.”
He wasn’t getting off the hook that easy. “Yes, but at my party, you made it sound like it was your first good look at the tea service. Why the act? And why didn’t you bid on it yourself?”
“Why all the questions?”
“Because the service is a fake, that’s why. It’s no more a William Cripps original than I am. Or if it is, it’s certainly not one of a kind. Mama gave me an identical tea service this morning for an early wedding present.”
“You’re joking!” Rob’s voice registered surprise, but he blinked again. In my experience blinking often occurs in conjunction with lying. It isn’t a foolproof test, however, since contact lenses and dust motes can produce the same results.
“I’m dead serious, dear. One way or another, I have an expensive copy on my hands.”
“May I see the service you got from your mother?”
It was still in the trunk of my car, but I led him out to see it. Let Bob think what he wanted. After all, Rob and I were friends long before Bob showed up from Toledo.
I unwrapped the two creamers first and set them side by side on the floor of my trunk. “See any difference?” I demanded.
“Holy shit!” Rob said.
“You don’t, do you? Now look at this,” I said, and unwrapped the teapots.
There was more profanity, and although I was not offended, I was mightily annoyed. Rob seemed excited by what I showed him. He certainly was not embarrassed.
“So, Mister Expert, can you tell me which one is the original, and which isn’t?”
Rob examined both pots carefully. If only he had been that careful the first time. A new Middle East Peace treaty was signed, broken, and signed again before he was through.
“Sorry, but it doesn’t look good, Abby.”
“They are both fakes, aren’t they?” I screamed.
“Faux,” he said calmly. “We call them faux, these days. These are damn good copies.”
I gasped for breath. “How can you be so sure, when you pronounced one of them authentic just a few days ago? I bet you can’t even tell them apart, can you?”
He shook his head slowly. “They both have soldered spigots and yellowed ivory handles. A knockoff imitator wouldn’t have gone to all that trouble. He”—Rob looked pointedly at me—“or she, would most probably have cast the entire pot, so you’d end up with a sterling handle, and no seams.
“A first-class forger, however, wouldn’t bother with casting. Copies are too easy to spot. Scratches and imperfections in the original show up in the reproduction. Anyway, these weren’t cast, they were handmade.”
“How do you know?” I am proud to say I kept the sarcasm in my voice to a minimum.
Rob smiled. “Feel the sides between your thumb and forefinger. What do you feel?”
“Nothing but damn silver. Or is that fake too?”
“It’s sterling all right, but that’s not my point. You can tell that this silver was hammered by hand. The bowls of the creamer and teapots are not uniformly thick. This is a damned good copy, Abby. “Or…” His voice trailed off, while my heart pounded.
“What?” I screeched.
Rob shrugged.
I grabbed his arm, and he nearly dropped a teapot. “Or they’re both authentic?”
“Don’t get your hopes up, Abby. That’s highly unlikely. Unless someone with a great deal of money got old Bill Cripps to make an exact replica of one of his works—well, there’s too much artistry here to produce it twice.”
“The scratches,” I said hoarsely, “let’s examine them for scratches.”
It was a sunny morning and we had no trouble finding the many little abrasions that even the best cared for objects will accrue over the length of two hundred years. But although corresponding areas on both sets showed wear, none of the marks were identical.
I was exultant. “Aha! Look there! That’s a small dent. And see that long, thin scratch? This sugar bowl doesn’t have a dent there. Or a scratch.”
“Hold your horses, Abby. There could be another explanation.”
“Like what?”
He shrugged.
“You’re just jealous.”
“That’s ridiculous. What of? I could have bought one of these sets if I had wanted. Purvis gave me first option.”
“It’s not these damned tea sets. It’s the fact that I’m marrying Greg and we’re going to live happily ever after.”
Okay, so I’d heard through the grapevine that the Rob-Bobs were having relationship troubles. Mandy Ferguson, who works as a cashier at Hannaford’s, said she overheard them arguing in front of the bottled vinegars when she went to take
her break. “I think a storm is brewing in paradise,” she said to me as she rang up my stack of Lean Cuisine dinners.
At any rate, I didn’t intend to be mean—well, maybe just a little. I’m not sure I believe in karma, but if I did, I assure you that my intentions were no tradeoff for the misfortune that befell me next.
5
Greg pulled up just as I slammed shut the trunk of my car. I wasn’t mad at Rob, mind you, but at myself for being such a jerk.
“Where’s Mama?” I demanded.
“Uh—well, the truth is, I never made it to the airport.”
“What?”
“I got an important call from headquarters, Abby.”
“And my mama—your future mother-in-law—isn’t important?”
“I had to take care of department business.”
“Gregory Washburn, I am your business! And now, thanks to you, my mama is getting fitted for her wimple. Well, you’re just going to have to hop on the next plane to Dayton and talk her out of it. Who knows, maybe some of the other nuns will defect when they get a look at you.”
The Wedgwood-blue eyes failed to dance with amusement. “This department business involved you, Abby.”
“I paid those speeding tickets,” I wailed. “All five of them.”
My betrothed bent his long, lean body and retrieved a crumpled sheet of paper from the front seat of his car. His big hands took their time smoothing it flat against the windshield. Finally he handed it to me.
“This just came in from Elkin, up in Surrey County. You recognize it?”
I stared at the paper. It was a facsimile of my engagement announcement in the Charlotte Observer, complete with a picture of me. I had originally planned to have one of Greg and I together, our hands crossed, one over the other, like a four-layer lasagna, but since my intended is a detective, I was told that would be unwise.
“Oh, gross! Look at those bags under my eyes. A family of twelve could pack for a three-week vacation in those.”
“Abby!”
