Silent Auction

by Jane K. Cleland

  “What kind?” I asked.

  “Turkey.”

  “Is it good?”

  “No.” He paused, then said, “I miss your cooking.”

  “That’s a good thing, because I miss cooking for you.”

  He asked about my day, and I told him about the missing tooth, Greg’s slipshod appraisal pro cess, and the medical examiner’s report stating that Frankie had been clean and sober when he died. Then I asked for his news.

  Ty said that the new training program he was using for the first time was working better than expected, and that with any luck he’d finish up by noon on Friday.

  We agreed to talk before bed, and after we were done, I sat for a long time looking out into the meadow. Orange butterfly milkweed, bluebells of Scotland, and yellow Jerusalem artichokes shimmered in the muted twilight. It would be dark within minutes. I took a deep breath and stood up. I had promises to keep.

  Fred had sent the Whitestone inventory to my home e-mail. I read it over and found no errors or omissions, and I forwarded it to Maddie, cc-ing Chief Hunter. I right-clicked on the photo from the Sea View Gallery documentation showing the missing Myrick tooth, saved it to my desktop, and e-mailed it to Wes with a suggested caption: “This scrimmed tooth, attributed to the celebrated scrimshander Frederick Myrick, is missing from the Whitestones’ light house residence.” I also e-mailed him several photos of other objects in the collection and the names of the stolen art registries, telling him I’d let him know as soon as I had confirmation that the tooth was, in fact, missing.

  Maddie had e-mailed two photos of the Winslow Homer etching she was considering buying. One photo showed the print, frame and all; the second, the unmarked, standard-issue brown paper backing. The print was black-and-white, an etching referencing Homer’s oil painting The Herring Net.

  I’d studied the painting, which was in the Chicago Institute of Art’s permanent collection, during a course on American artists in college. It had been a favorite of my professor. I hadn’t known that Homer had created an etching based on it, but it didn’t surprise me. He often painted studies in watercolor before turning to oil, and he often painted the same or similar subjects over and over again, sometimes with modifications, sometimes without.

  I leaned back to view the photograph from a little distance. The man hauling in the net was bowed over, his weariness apparent in the set of his shoulders. The boy unloading the catch had his back to us. The sea was choppy. The mother ship was far away, too far for so late in the day. I wanted the man to finish up, to get back to his ship before night fell or fog rolled in. It was a masterful commentary on man’s epic struggle for survival.

  Something was off about the boat. I right-clicked and enlarged the photo. The front of the boat was rising on a swell. The chop lapped high on the right side. Darker lines edged the boat on the left, drawing my attention away from the primary elements—the man and the rough sea. Still, despite the odd lines, the rendering was detailed and precise. Before making any judgments, I needed to see the etching itself. Those too-dark lines might be a function of nothing more ominous than a poor-resolution photograph or scanner.

  I hit REPLY and suggested to Maddie that she ask the seller to bring the painting to my office for authentication and valuation. I hit SEND, then turned off the computer. It was time to make a pitcher of Lemon Drops.

  “So, you tease,” I said when Zoë and I were settled in her living room with our Lemon Drops, “how was your day?”

  “Better than I expected. I managed to go the whole day without crying.” She teared up. “Being around children was a godsend.”

  “What did they have you do?”

  “Origami. Not to sound immodest, but I’ve been crowned the origami queen in Jake’s second-grade class.”

  “I didn’t know you did origami, Your Majesty.”

  “I’m a monarch of many talents.”

  “You’re hired for the Harvest Festival.”

  “I thought you were doing face painting.”

  “We are. I’ve just added origami.”

  “I can’t. Jake and Emma are too distracting, and origami, my friend, requires laserlike focus.”

  “The festival organizers are providing child care. In addition to your salary, I’ll pay the fee.”

  “You seem oddly keen to include me. What gives?”

  “I’m questioning my face-painting ability. A debacle will blow my company’s reputation as an arbiter of art. You are what might be called a safety net. If things go badly, we’ll nix the face painting and go exclusively with origami.”

  “I liked it when you called me ‘Your Majesty.’”

  “We’ll make an official sign. Is that a yes?”

  “You bet,” she said, tearing up again. “Thanks, Josie.”

  I raised my glass. “Here’s to silver light in the dark of night.”

  “To silver light,” Zoë said, clinking my glass. After a long minute, she added, “I heard on the radio a valuable antique is missing from the Whitestones’ collection. Do you know anything about that?”

  “Not much, no.”

  “So the next thing I should expect to hear is a rumor that Frankie’s a thief, right, that it was an inside job?”

  “Oh, God, Zoë, I hope not.”

  She nodded and sipped her Lemon Drop. “Do you think he did it?” she whispered, looking down into her drink, seemingly fascinated by the pale yellow swirling froth.

  “No,” I said, meaning it. “I really don’t. The medical examiner found no evidence of drugs or alcohol.”

  Her eyes flew to my face, and she stared at me for a moment, her eyes moist. “I hadn’t heard. Really? That’s wonderful news!”

  I nodded. “I don’t think the report has been officially released yet. I got the update from Wes, that reporter.”

  “Thank God. I don’t think I could have borne it if I’d been wrong to trust him, if he’d gone back to doing drugs or something. I just don’t think I could have borne it. How could I trust myself, my judgments about people, ever again?”

  I reached out a hand and patted hers. “You weren’t wrong,” I said. “Even if you were, well, you’re not omniscient.”

  “I hate this,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “I just hate it.”

  It was only later, after we finished the warmed-over chicken and emptied the pitcher of Lemon Drops, after I’d exchanged good-night wishes with Ty and blown him kisses over the phone, after I’d showered and was snuggled into bed with Rex Stout’s And Be a Villain, that I realized how absurd it was that Greg had consulted Ashley, not me or someone like me, for an appraisal of a Myrick tooth. Not only was I an antiques appraiser by training and trade, but I’d just sold a comparable object months earlier. The only possible explanation was that he had something to hide.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The next morning, Thursday, my head filled with questions I couldn’t answer, I headed straight to the tag sale room to find Eric. First, though, I had to get by the gauntlet of sharklike journalists.

  Bertie, the New York Monthly reporter, sat in her car blocking my driveway. As soon as I stepped onto my porch, she was on the street, toenail-close to the property line, barking questions. I ignored her. I got behind the wheel and started my engine. I began backing out. She held her ground. I put the car in park and stepped out to face her, my cell phone in hand.

  “If you don’t move your car,” I said, “I’ll call the police.”

  She smiled. “Just tell me how you’re doing,” she said, sounding as if she and I were old friends and she was concerned about my well-being. Her tone implied that not answering her would be rather boorish.

  I scrolled through my call log, found Chief Hunter’s number, and held the unit up above my head. “In five seconds, if you’re not in your car and backing up, I make the call.”

  “I’m on public property, Josie.”

  “Five, four, three …” I finished the count silently and hit the call-back button.

&nbs
p; She scooted into her car and drove away. I disconnected the call a nanosecond before it rang.

  Score one for the home team, I thought.

  Eric was wheeling a cart filled with inventory toward the front of the tag sale room. I spotted silver thimbles, souvenir shot glasses, amethyst and green glass doorknobs, brass bookends, miniature birds, wooden tools, Hummel figurines, jelly molds, and metal cocktail shakers. No item would sell for more than a hundred dollars, and many of them were priced below ten dollars. At those price points, some objects were real bargains, and a couple of things would be tell-all-your-friends finds for collectors. That was by design. We always seeded the stock with a couple of bargain-priced rare finds; it kept serious collectors coming back, and it built our reputation as an antiques and collectibles source worth visiting over and over again.

  “Hey, Eric. You’re starting early!” I said.

  “Yeah. We have a lot of smalls this week.”

  With dozens of little objects all in one place, it was hard for customers to see the trees for the forest. It took careful arranging to ensure each piece showed to advantage—and careful arranging required more time.

  “Do you have enough help coming in?” I asked.

  “I think so. Everyone should be here at ten. I’ve asked Cara to supervise them while I do the Duncan pickup.”

  The Duncans, a couple retiring to North Carolina, didn’t have any antiques, but they did have very high-quality furnishings and decorative objects dating from the seventies and eighties, perfect fodder for the tag sale.

  “Great,” I said, thrilled at yet another example of Eric showing initiative and care. Cara had started at Prescott’s working part-time at the tag sale, and she knew enough about merchandizing to get the display pro cess started.

  I paused, uncertain how to segue into my question. I took a deep breath. “May I ask you something?”

  Something in my tone caused him to stop and look up. A crease appeared between his brows. “Okay,” he said.

  “You know how you told me that Frankie hadn’t met any girls? I heard a rumor that he got into some kind of brawl over a girl named Lu-Ann Foland. Is it true?”

  He looked guilty but unrepentant, as if I’d caught him at the beach after he’d called in sick—he’d broken the rules, but the benny was completely worth what ever punishment or recriminations were coming his way.

  “I can’t say.”

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  He shook his head.

  “How come?” I asked.

  “I promised.”

  “You promised Frankie you wouldn’t talk about his fight with LuAnn’s ex-husband?” I asked. “Why?”

  He looked down. He didn’t speak for several seconds, and tempted though I was to try to persuade him to open up, I didn’t. From my years’ experience negotiating, I knew the power of silence. When it’s the other guy’s turn to talk, let him.

  “I gave my word.”

  By waiting, I received confirmation that, if nothing else, there was a tale to tell.

  “To Frankie?” I asked.

  Eric nodded.

  “You’re a good friend, Eric—but it’s a murder investigation. It may be related … and now that he’s died … you don’t need to keep the promise anymore.”

  “It was a long time ago,” he said. “It can’t possibly be related to his murder.”

  “Sometimes emotions fester for a long time, so there’s no way to know whether it is or not.”

  He continued ruminating, seemingly studying the oak flooring.

  “Really, Eric, you need to tell,” I nudged. “If you don’t want to talk about it with me, tell the police.”

  He sighed heavily and picked at a hangnail. “It can’t be relevant,” he said finally. “There was no fight.”

  I stared at him, confused. “I heard the police were called.”

  “Yeah, the bowling alley manager called them as soon as Frankie and Timmy went outside. But nothing happened. That’s what Frankie made me swear never to tell. Timmy shoved him a couple of times, and Frankie didn’t shove back. The cops came, and Frankie just ran off. He told me later that he was scared of violating his parole, but he didn’t want it to get around that he’d shied away from a fight, so he made me promise never to tell. Timmy talked smack for a few days, but when he realized that Lu-Ann and Frankie really weren’t dating, he shrugged it off. Frankie and Lu-Ann only went out once. It was—and is—a lot of noise about nothing.”

  A tempest in a teapot, I thought. I nodded, but before I could comment, someone rapped a “shave and a haircut, two bits” knock on the outside door. Eric and I both turned at the sound. Curt Grimes waved.

  “Curt’s going to help me with the pickup,” Eric said, his eyes gravitating to the wall clock. “We should get going.”

  “Thanks, Eric, for telling me about it. You did the right thing.”

  “I guess,” he said, walking to the door.

  Curt stepped inside.

  “Hi, Curt,” I said. “Thanks for helping us out today.”

  “Glad to.” He stood by the door, bouncing a little, as if he were standing on tightly coiled Slinkys.

  “I’ll get the keys to the truck,” Eric told him. “You can meet me out front.”

  “You go ahead,” I offered. “I’ll lock up.”

  “Thanks,” Eric said. He wheeled the cart to the ware house door.

  “I’ll walk around front with you,” I said to Curt.

  I closed and latched the windows. Outside, I tugged on the door-knob, testing that the lock was secure. It was another beautiful day, sunny with fluffy clouds floating in an azure sky, in the seventies.

  “I was wondering,” Curt said, breaking into my thoughts, “can I stop by and show you some collectibles? I got some nice repros, perfect for your tag sale. I’m expanding my sell-to list.” He winked at me, his eyes bright with excitement. “Want to be on it?”

  For a moment, I was speechless, shocked. Everything about his sales pitch was obnoxious. His wink was especially offensive.

  “We almost never sell reproductions,” I said, allowing a bit of umbrage into my voice. “Sorry.”

  “Sure you do. You’ve got some scrimshaw barrettes and some cheesy bamboo furniture—you know, fake Colonial stuff, who’s to know, right?” He winked again. “I do my homework.”

  He just called me a liar, I realized, aghast. If a reproduction made it into the tag sale, it was always labeled as such. Bristling with outrage, I wanted to defend myself, but I didn’t. Educating Curt Grimes was definitely not worth the energy. I let it go.

  “Thanks, but no thanks,” I said, adding, “I’ve got to get back to work. I’m sure Eric will be here in a minute.”

  I hurried ahead and went in through the front door, feeling as if I’d just been drenched by a shower of slime.

  Upstairs, in my private office, I turned on my computer.

  Maddie had e-mailed. The inventory was complete and accurate as far as she knew, but since it was Guy’s collection, she wanted him to review the list before signing off on it.

  I scanned my desk, determined to make a dent in the paperwork that had piled up over the last couple of days, but I couldn’t concentrate. I couldn’t get my mind off Zoë. Seeing her cope was like watching a reflection of myself from years past. I rested my forehead on my hands as remembered loss took control of my mind. My emotional wounds had healed, but the memories of love lost lingered like tule fog.

  In the first days after my father’s death, I’d plodded through life in a haze of despair. Once Rick left me, the pain became harrowing and unrelenting. Then a month or so later, while I was languishing on a park bench overlooking Strawberry Fields in Central Park, a man and a young girl—a father and daughter, I’d assumed—sat next to me. It had been a day like today. The sun shone with summer warmth, and the temperature hovered near seventy-five. The man was in his early thirties. His tie was loosened, and he’d draped his jacket over the back of the bench. The girl looked to be
about eight. She wore a plaid pleated skirt, a white blouse with a Peter Pan collar, and a navy blue blazer, a school uniform, I’d been certain. From their conversation, I could tell that he’d just picked her up from school.

  “We should stop at the store. There’s no food in the house,” the man said. “What do you think of spaghetti and meatballs for dinner?”

  I’d glanced at her in time to see a devilish gleam transform her eyes. “Let’s have ice cream.” She giggled.

  “Ice cream!” he said, sounding over-the-top shocked and dismayed, yet I could see from his twinkling eyes that he was playing along. “Well, then, what should we have for dessert?”

  “Spaghetti and meatballs!”

  He’d laughed and said, “Done!”

  I burst out laughing, suddenly a participant in their homey conversation.

  The man could have perceived it as encroaching, but he hadn’t. He’d smiled and nodded at me as they left. In those few seconds, I’d realized that my purgatory of despair and isolation would end, and that someday I would once again experience joy.

  I picked up a small framed photo of Ty. I’d taken the shot five years earlier. He was in his backyard, planting a lilac bush to celebrate our one-month anniversary of being together.

  “We’ll be able to watch it grow,” he’d said.

  “I gotta tell you, Ty … this is like the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard of. You went and bought a lilac bush to commemorate our one-month anniversary. Gosh, jeepers.”

  “Gosh, jeepers?”

  “A perfectly good expression, according to my mother.” I’d smiled, reached up, and touched his cheek, drawing my finger along his strong jawline. “Why a lilac bush?”

  “I like lilacs.”

  Never overlook the obvious, I’d reminded myself. “Good reason. So do I. Thank you.”

  “I love you, Josie.”

  “I love you, too, Ty.”