by Liz Bradbury
I laughed. “Oh geez, now I’m going to think that every time I talk to her. She might actually like that name. I think she likes to make people laugh. Yes, we could do that, but we could also just use her real name and keep the file cabinet locked.”
“Not as fun.”
“We could compromise by just referring to all of us in the office by drag queen names. I could call you Miss Lenderbee.”
“Brilliant. Nora Lenderbee. Apt too, I’m usually out of dosh, and it’s a good thing, because I’m a wee sook when it comes to giving it away. Who will you be?”
“I’ve always liked Hellena Handbasket.”
“Ha! But nae, not right for you.”
“Don’t tell my friend Farrel about this. She’ll give up her day job just to make up new ones.”
“Farrel? I haven’t met her?”
“No, but you will.”
“Good. You have rather good taste in friends,” said Nora, nodding.
I went into my office and made a hard copy file of the contract agreement that Lois Henshaw signed. Then I pulled out my laptop and began an e-file of Lois’s information. Lois had given me a copy of the other investigators’ reports. I read carefully through all three. They’d been watching Samson over the last six weeks and they all came to the same conclusion. Samson wasn’t doing anything Hester could win another “A” for. He wasn’t doing much at all. Maybe that was significant in itself.
So now I had two jobs to do. One for Lois Henshaw re: Samson, and one for myself re: the shooting in the graveyard. I sat back and had a blinding flash of Amanda Knightbridge talking about the Carbondales’ book. I pulled it out of my bag and leafed through it, randomly reading the captions under various historical photographs of Fenchester.
The book had a center insert of black and white photos. Shots of the Civil War Cemetery and other Fenchester landmarks took up the first few pages. Next came the portraits, including General Merganser Hunterdon in full uniform on a white horse. The horse looked bored. Amanda and Judith were right. Merganser had an unfortunate face. The uniform and his apparent youth in the Civil War era photo lessened the impact of his unappealing features. On the opposite page, however, a tintype of Hunterdon in coat and vest, with a gold watch chain and a stiff collar, was an image of an ugly man.
Like the earlier photo, he had mutton-chop sideburns, but in 1876 his face was stouter, with a large nose, squinty pig eyes, and a protruding lower lip. Yet it wasn’t the features that made him so revolting. A big nose and small eyes don’t necessarily make someone ugly. It was his expression. He looked egotistical, belligerent, condescending, and paranoid all at the same time. He was a cross between the bartender in The Shining, Scrooge, and any hypocritical far-right Republican. Yet Evangeline had become engaged to him.
Maybe General Merganser Hunterdon just didn’t photograph well. Maybe he had some kind of inner strength or kindness that didn’t show in the stark photographic images of the late 1800s. In those days, one had to sit still for a long time while an image formed on a treated photographic plate. Photographers even had clamps that held people’s heads in one place while ten or fifteen minutes ticked slowly by. That’s why everyone in old photos looks so stiff and staring, because they were.
I flipped the page and there was a beautiful portrait of Evangeline Lavender Fen. Her features were lovely, and there was no sense of stiffness at all. She seemed alive and vibrant. Her vitality was infectious even though she’d been dead for way more than a hundred years. She had high cheek bones, bright dancing eyes, and a haunting smile. Her graceful throat and perfect skin were fully exposed by the low-cut ball gown. She held a fan in one hand; her other hand waved the viewer toward her. She looked like her sculpture.
“No wonder Merganser mourned her for the rest of his life,” I said out loud.
The phone on my desk rang. I could see Nora though the open door winking at me as she put the call through. I picked up.
“Is this Gale Investigations? Do you check up on errant girlfriends?”
“Why Dr. Anthony, how very nice to hear your voice. But why didn’t you call my cell?”
“I wanted to hear the way Nora would answer the office phone. I can’t believe the intoxicating Miss Hasan is working less that fifteen feet from your desk,” said Kathryn’s enchanting tones.
“Is this going to bother you? I told Sara that it might be... uh...”
“Yes, yes, Sara called me. This is quite a textbook example of karma isn’t it?” Kathryn laughed deep in her throat. “What do you suppose I did in my sinister past to deserve this cosmic punishment?”
“Maybe it was something significantly deviant? Something particularly kinky?”
“Hmmmm, well, at least your imagination is focused on me and my sexual past, rather than the nearby present.”
“Let’s talk about the future, like tonight when we get home?”
“Let’s talk about something sooner than that. I made an appointment with Piper Staplehurst for about a half hour from now. Are you free? Can you gather up the sculpture and meet me at the museum? Then maybe we could share a late lunch?”
“There is nothing I’d rather do. Well, nothing I’d rather do with you that doesn’t involve being horizontal. I have a notion that perhaps we could work horizontal into this day before it’s over?”
Kathryn exhaled deeply. Then she said, “I’m intrigued by this notion. Shall we talk about it later?”
*******
Piper Staplehurst’s office in the Fenchester Art Museum was in the sub-basement.
“I think my ears just popped,” I whispered to Kathryn as we climbed down the last of the broad marble steps into a dark echoing hallway. Bronze sconces glowed just enough to see the numbers on the doors. Piper Staplehurst’s card had said room 10 SB. It was at the farthest end of the hall.
“Maybe the SB means ‘Sea-level: Below,’” I suggested.
“What’s the point of having a corner office if both windows face dirt,” murmured Kathryn as she knocked.
We heard a voice say, “Come in.”
On the phone, Kathryn had told me she’d checked a number of academic data bases and googled some newspaper articles for Piper Staplehurst’s credentials.
“Really nothing in any of the higher education searches but the newspapers say she’s worked in a variety of museums on development and restoration projects in the last three years, mostly in small cities like Fenchester. There’s no mention of where she got her Ph.D. In fact, there’s no mention of her having a Ph.D. Hmmm.”
“You’re an academic snob,” I said with amusement.
“I try not to be too obvious about it,” she said wryly.
Kathryn and I had agreed to meet at the Art Museum at 1 p.m. So now, I was carrying the carefully repacked bag of what we sorely hoped was Victoria Snow sculptures into the museum office.
“Dr. Staplehurst, thank you so much for seeing us on such short notice. We’ll try not to take up too much of your time,” said Kathryn, extending her hand.
“There’s no need to be formal. Please call me Piper.”
Piper was wearing a black suit, with a white silk blouse and black high heels. Her dramatic jet black hair with the white lock was brushed back and held in a clip. Her make-up seemed heavy for that time of the morning. In fact to me she seemed overdressed. Maybe she had a major meeting or presentation or something. In the corner I noticed a rack with a burgundy winter coat and scarf, some coveralls, some work shoes, and some fashionable snow boots,
“Here’s the report about the crime in the cemetery, for the grant,” I said, handing her a manilla envelope. “Is there anything else you need?”
“Excellent. I’ll just add this to the grant application materials. I think this is everything I need. I can send off the application today. I already have a preliminary OK in writing to proceed. So we measured some of the openings; the first gates will be installed next week.”
“My, that’s the fastest grant turn around I’ve ever... How did y
ou manage it?” asked Kathryn in awe.
“Oh, well there was some money left over from a similar project another town that I was able to apply to this. It will take a while to get the rest of the funds, but I had to use this money up before it disappeared.”
“I see,” Kathryn nodded, who had worked within the intricacies of grant writing for many years.
There was an efficiency about Piper Staplehurst’s manner that was probably one of the keys to her success. Her desk was neat and the books on the shelves were even. On one table, plans to restoration projects were laid out. There was a carefully rendered schematic of the Civil War cemetery showing every stone, crypt, and elevation. The large work surface also held a collection of faded blueprints of the city’s infrastructure. Several groups of carefully aligned artifacts drew my attention most of all.
“I’m sorry the office is such a mess. I may have gotten here the morning after the Winter Solstice, but I’m so busy I’d swear the days are getting shorter. I’ll just clear these away,” said Piper. Over her shoulder I saw Kathryn make a brief scoffing expression in response to the word mess. Except for some dust tracked on the floor it was one of the neatest offices I’d ever seen.
While Kathryn helped Piper stack the papers and old plans of the city on a shelf, I noticed the room’s extraordinary 19th century architectural details. Nothing like it could have been built today. There was a beautiful Greek key pattern on the wall, a foot below the ceiling. Built-in marble benches skirted the room. There were four oval faux windows with glowing green glass in them that looked like they came from a hall in the Emerald City. I went to one of them, touching the frame of carved slate.
“It’s a light-shaft all the way from the roof. White polished marble reflects the light through the iridescent glass. It’s really an amazing effect isn’t it?” said Piper smiling. She turned to Kathryn. “I have the picture catalog of Victoria Snow’s work here, if you’d like to look at what the Museum has in its collection. There are a few pieces she did in Rome when she was not much more than an apprentice to Harriet Hosmer and there are photos of all the large pieces, including the Evangeline statues.”
Kathryn looked at the book as Piper recited some V.W. Snow facts we already knew. I couldn’t help but notice that Piper skipped over the part about Victoria knowing many of the Lesbian artists of her day.
When Kathryn got to a photo of some found-object heads, she pulled one of the little casts she’d bought at the market out of her canvas bag and unwrapped it. Kathryn had ten of the cast faces in all. The shell decorations seemed even more wild and exciting to me today. I made a mental note to try my hand at this kind of form as soon as I had a couple of free hours.
Kathryn took the nude Evangeline sculpture out of the bag and placed it on the table with the other pieces.
The sight of the collection mesmerized Piper Staplehurst. A snake sliding over the table in front of her wouldn’t have diverted her attention.
After several more long moments of silence, Kathryn cleared her throat a little impatiently. “Any thoughts, Dr. Staplehurst?”
“Piper, please,” she murmured, still rapt by the works.
“I’m sorry. What do you think of these, Piper?” said Kathryn.
“I... Oh well, yes, yes, even without the clear snowflake insignia, the style is hers. The media... Where did you get them?”
“At a sale.”
“Really? Really? Where? When?”
I tried to read Piper Staplehurst’s expression. It certainly was animated, but I couldn’t tell whether she was thrilled at the possible new find or frustrated by the looming amounts of research she’d have to do to catalog these new pieces.
Kathryn explained she’d bought them from a dealer at an antique and flea market.
Now it was Piper Staplehurst who was impatient. “This statue really is a significant piece, but if there is any possibility that these works were obtained from illegal sources...” She stared at Kathryn, waiting for a response.
For the briefest of moments, it seemed as though Piper Staplehurst was intimating that Kathryn had received these little objects as stolen goods. But then the moment passed. It was an absurd suggestion. After all we’d just brought them directly to the museum for verification. This was not something a thief would do with stolen property.
After a beat Kathryn said disarmingly, “You take this all very personally, Piper?”
“Well, yes, yes I do.” Then she laughed. “Yes, well, I suppose I do. I’m sorry. It’s just that... Well, I had believed all of Snow’s work was fully cataloged, and to find all these works, these unknown works...” She waved her hands over the little collection. “I just can’t imagine where they came from. Where do you suppose the flea market dealer got them?”
“I heard him tell one of the other buyers that he cleaned out houses,” said Kathryn.
This was entirely possible. Salvage people typically buy the entire contents of a house. Sometimes distant relatives inheriting far-away estates hire salvage teams for speedy clean-up to accelerate property sale. It’s an interesting business, because while old house contents are mostly nameless flotsam and jetsam, some items can be cleaned up and sold, and sometimes there is priceless treasure. Of course, I found it cleaning out a house is also a fairly plausible cover-up for more nefarious ways of procurement. It’s often a euphemism for burglary.
Piper Staplehurst shook her head. “Which antique market was it?”
Kathryn told her exactly where in Adamstown she’s gotten it, but added, “I don’t think he sets up there regularly, yet who knows. He may be back. Is there anywhere we can look these up?” asked Kathryn. “I’d love to find out more about them.”
“There’s no record of Snow using shells, and this nude statue, really, take my word for it, you won’t find anything written about it. Snow must have done these when she was working in Fenchester, because obviously this is Evangeline Fen. Though it’s unlikely she posed for this. A Victorian lady of the day wouldn’t have posed without clothes, and besides there is no record of them ever meeting. All the larger statues were done after Evangeline Fen was dead.”
“You’re sure they’re original Snows?” I asked.
“Yes, she did these; no questions about it. I don’t even have to microscopically inspect them. I can tell by the unique color of the clay and the cast marks. Any expert would stake their reputation on it. Really, her work is very easy to identify. Forgers aren’t exactly flooding the market with copies. They aren’t that valuable.”
“Do you know where her personal papers are? Are they archived somewhere?” asked Kathryn.
“Papers?” Piper Staplehurst’s gaze drifted to the left as she considered. “I’m not an anthropologist so I haven’t researched Snow’s personal life, especially since all her work had already been identified and cataloged. Well...” She looked back at Kathryn’s collection again. “That’s what I’d thought, anyway. We’ll have to catalog these.”
“We’ll bring them back as soon as the museum photographer is ready to shoot them,” I said. I gave her my card and Kathryn did the same.
Kathryn paused to shake Piper Staplehurst’s hand and thank her warmly for her time. It was a trifle too warm for my green eyes, but I reined in my little monster. Kathryn caught my eye over Piper’s shoulder and covertly winked at me. I winked back.
While Kathryn wrapped everything back up, I examined the group of exquisite museum pieces of art and craftsmanship on a table against the wall. It included an Egyptian ushebti, some Asian porcelains, a bronze figure of a horse, and a late Renaissance miniature portrait.
“May I touch these?”
“Yes, go ahead. Your friend asked me about the things the museum is letting go. Tell me her name again,” said Piper.
“Farrel Case. She mentioned she was going to bid for some of them.”
“I have some other things too,” Piper drew some items out of a shoulder bag on her desk. “I just took these into Philadelphia to see if Retman’s
Auction House would handle them, but they won’t bring enough. Your friend Farrel might like them. She said she sold old silver. Really, it doesn’t matter to me who buys the objects as long as the museum gets its price. I’ve taken things all over this part of Pennsylvania to find buyers—antique stores, consignment shops, the flea and antique markets, all sorts of auction houses.”
Piper spread a pile of silver flatware on the table. I separated the pieces and picked up each one for a closer look. There was a large ornate fish server, a wide Victorian serving fork with a stag horn handle, an 800 silver punch ladle in an art deco style, an early American sucket fork, and a Georgian marrow scoop.
I picked up the hammer-formed two-tined sucket fork that had a hand-rounded spoon bowl on the other end, because it looked like the oldest piece and was in excellent condition other than some flakes of something brown on the tines. But when I turned it over there was the Williamsburg Reproduction stamp in the silver handle below the bowl. It was “new,” and not really of any significant value.
Before I could say anything, Piper said apologetically, “Oh, I’m sorry, that doesn’t belong to the museum. It’s something I bought when silver was cheap, just to carry in my handbag when I have to eat a meal on the fly. These other things are all authentic though. And do feel free to look at the ancient items on the other table.”
I inspected the long narrow marrow scoop. I could see by the early English marks that it was made in London by a silversmith named Hannah Northcote in the 1700s. Farrel and Jessie have an extensive collection of women silversmiths’ work from that period. This was an important piece that surely Farrel would want for herself. I didn’t want to tip Farrel’s hand, but I knew she’d buy anything by a Georgian woman maker for a collector’s price.
On the other table I gently lifted the little ushebti. Egyptian ushebtis are funerary figurines that were considered magical objects; they look like little statues of people. They were supposed to help do the work of their owners after they are deceased. This one was made of white clay. It was about ten inches long and glazed blue. It was in excellent condition for something that was two millennia old. It had hieroglyphics on it that were probably the words to the prayer that would bring the figure to life. The ancient Egyptians believed that dirt and clay had life-giving properties.
