“Bring that big plastic trash barrel over here. Now, pick up the thing nearest to hand. What is it?”
Emily lifted a box with six cans of tuna fish in it, all with rust on the lids.
“Toss it,” Georgie said. “My turn, here’s a big glass ashtray with a corner broken off. Toss. Your turn.”
Emily picked up an old cigar box full of campaign buttons. “Ooooh, lemme see those,” cooed Georgie. “Here’s one for JFK and LBJ, and it’s nice and clean. Here’s one for LBJ and Hubird—did you know that’s the nickname Lyndon Johnson gave Hubert Humphrey? LBJ’s wife was called Lady Bird, and so he took to putting ‘bird’ onto folks’ names.”
Emily giggled. “How do you know all this stuff?”
“It’s part of doing what I do, finding things worth selling. Besides, it’s fun to learn about so many wonderful things. These might be worth something. So we’ll put this box of them on top of this other big box.”
With Georgie’s encouragement and information-loaded chatter, and Emily’s now-cheerful cooperation, both of them filled and carried out the trash can four times. In less than an hour they had cleared a quarter of the room. There was a small heap of things remaining, and they moved them into the living room.
“What’s next?” said Emily, brushing a cobweb off the sleeve of her old blue sweatshirt. She was feeling fresh and cheerful—Georgie was terrific!
“Let’s see if we can clear the table. Then we’ll have a better place to put the stuff we’re not throwing away.”
“Good idea.”
Soon Emily was sorting a dozen old glass bottles by shape—whether they had held wine or milk—and then by whether they were whole or chipped. They had cleared enough of the floor around a big silver milk can to discover that it was not ornamental but functional—it was holding up one corner of the table.
She had come to the center of the collection, where a circle of dark wine bottles surrounded something she did not recognize. “Say, Georgie, what’s this?”
“What’s what?” asked Georgie, who was sorting so swiftly through a heap of old issues of Look, Life, and Saturday Evening Post magazines that they were fluttering out of her hands like startled birds.
Emily was looking at a large mother-of-pearl goose egg attached to an alabaster base. A stem a few inches long rose out of the top of the egg, surmounted by a small tarnished silver pelican. “This,” she said, and put a forefinger on the pelican—and the stem went down and the egg split open. “Whoops!” said Emily, releasing the stem. The egg closed.
“Hey,” said Georgie, dropping the magazines she was holding to the floor. “Do that again.”
Emily did.
Both women bent over the object for a closer look. Inside the egg were a tiny pair of scissors, a small pick, three needles thrust through a scrap of silk, a thimble, and two small, empty spools of thread, all made of tarnished silver.
“It’s a kind of chatelaine, I think,” said Emily, poking the spools. “You know, a stitcher’s helper. But I’ve never seen one like this. It’s beautiful.”
“Yes, it is, but I don’t think it’s a chatelaine,” said Georgie. “There’s another word—I can’t think of it . . .”
“Holy cow!” came a loud male exclamation from somewhere in the house. It was followed by a shout. “Hey, everyone! Come and see this!”
Chapter Eleven
THERE was a second extremely narrow and dark staircase off the back porch. It had been clogged solid with jars and canned goods but was now cleared. Georgie had vanished up it, and Emily could hear other voices coming from upstairs—Valentina’s and Jill’s among them. She hurried up.
Connor was in the back bedroom, where an ancient sagging bed was half out from under piles of tools, lanterns, pots and pans, clock radios, and empty Coke bottles. The rest of the floor was partially cleared, but Emily could not get into the room, since it was already crowded with Connor, Jill, Valentina, and Godwin, standing shoulder to shoulder amid big plastic bags filled with God knows what, and Georgine blocking the doorway.
Georgine stood behind Doris and Phil, looking eagerly between their shoulders. “What is it, what’s he got?” asked Phil in his loud, old-man’s voice, as Emily came up behind them.
What Connor had was a classic leather mailbag, the sort carried over the shoulder by an old-fashioned mailman. He was holding it so they could look inside and see that it was about a third full of letters and small packages.
“Why, it looks as if a mailman was interrupted while he was still delivering!” said Valentina. “How did this get up here?”
“Tom Take took it,” said Godwin with a laugh.
“How old is the mail?” asked Doris. “Maybe it can still be delivered.”
Connor reached into the bag and picked up a brown envelope with several postage stamps on it. He looked at the cancellation and said, “August 1996.”
“August 1996?” echoed Phil.
“Heavenly days!” exclaimed Godwin. “I was a mere child in 1996.”
“Oh, I think you were a bit more than that,” said Doris, laughing.
“Well, barely,” he grinned, with an abashed shrug.
“It appears that Mr. Riordan has been taking things for a long time,” said Georgie.
“And his father and grandfather before him,” said Valentina. “But what are we going to do with that mailbag?”
They all looked at Jill, the person present who stood closest to the law.
“I imagine it belongs to the post office,” she said.
“Couldn’t we at least look at what’s in there?” urged Godwin. “Maybe there’s an old Vogue magazine; we can laugh at the clothes.”
“It’s still a crime to interfere with the mail,” Jill said. “Even old, undelivered mail.”
“Who’s interfering?” said Connor, making a show of putting the brown envelope back—but he stopped just as he was about to let go of it.
“Look, this one’s addressed to Crewel World,” he said, turning it in his hand to show the neat printing. “I could take it with me.”
“Drop it,” said Jill in that cop’s voice she could summon at will.
Connor did, looking up at her in surprise. Then he mock-snarled, “You got me, copper.”
She laughed, a little surprised at herself. “Maybe the post office will deliver it.”
“What else have you found up here?” asked Valentina, anxious to get things back on track.
“Nothing as good as this.”
Phil put his hand in his pocket. “That reminds me, I found some costume jewelry that’s kind of pretty. You want it, Dorie?” He pulled out the rings and brooch.
“Ooooh,” said Doris, picking the brooch out of his hand. “This one I like.”
“Hold it,” said Valentina. “I may have to charge you fifty cents for that.”
But Georgine, leaning in between them, said, “Can I see it?”
Doris handed it to her, and Phil held out the rings, which Georgine, after a glance, took as well.
“Hmm,” said Georgine. “I wish I had my loupe with me.” She held the silver-colored ring close to one eye. “I can’t tell for sure, but I think this stone is a real sapphire.”
“What, that’s real?” asked Godwin, wriggling his way close to her and peering around her arm.
“If I’m right, yes, and the ring itself is platinum.”
“Oh, come on!” said Phil. “Tom Take owns a sapphire and platinum ring?”
“And a black opal and a ruby, both with real diamonds.” Georgine was looking all three pieces over. “I’m pretty sure.”
“Where do you suppose these came from?” asked Emily.
There was a thoughtful silence. Then Connor suggested, “The metal detector.”
“Why, I bet you’re right!” said Valentina.
Phil said, “You read
about people finding great stuff with them.”
“How much are they worth—if they’re real?” asked Valentina.
“Hard to say, exactly.”
“Well then, tell us inexactly,” said Godwin.
“Okay. The platinum and sapphire, around ten to fifteen thousand; the black opal and diamonds ten to fifteen thousand; the ruby brooch—I’m not really up to date on rubies, so much depends on the color as well as the cut. I’d guess that ruby is three and a half or even four carats, and they’re going for between seven and twelve thousand a carat. Plus the diamonds, plus the gold in the brooch itself.”
“Jeee-zuz!” said Phil. He added to Doris, “Sorry, sweetheart.”
Jill said, “That’s something else to take to the bank.”
“What’s the other?” asked Georgine.
“The Morgan dollars.”
“How many Morgan dollars?” asked Georgine.
Jill said, “We stopped at sixty-five; probably close to a hundred.”
She stared at her. “Oh my, that’s a lot!”
Phil reached for the brooch. “Meanwhile, can I hold on to these for a while? It’ll make me feel rich, at least temporarily.”
Valentina said, “Yes, you may.”
Georgine said, “But have you got something to wrap them in? Don’t leave them loose in your pocket.”
Doris went into her own pocket and came up with a little packet of tissues. Phil wrapped each piece in a sheet then wrapped a fourth around the lot before putting it into his shirt pocket. With a solemn expression, he patted the pocket tenderly to settle them deep in there.
“Anything else?” asked Valentina.
Connor said, “Nothing—except for all the soft drink cans.” He gestured at a cluster of gray plastic leaf bags that were leaning against one wall. “Hundreds of them. I wonder why he didn’t cash them in?”
“God knows,” sighed Valentina. “All right, everyone, back to work.”
“Hold on a minute,” said Jill. “I think Connor should take that mailbag over to the post office now. Get it out of our hair.”
“Fine with me,” said Connor. He checked his watch. “It’s quarter to twelve, so how about, since I’m going out, I bring lunch back with me? Betsy said her contribution to today’s cause will be to buy it. Do you want pizza or burgers?”
“Not pizza!” declared Emily. “Without access to hot water and a nail brush, these hands are not going to touch something I put in my mouth! At least I can hold a sandwich by the wrapper.”
That made the others look at their hands—Georgine hastily stuffed hers in her pockets—and agree, except Valentina, smug in her white cotton work gloves.
Connor found a scrap of paper, borrowed a pen from Jill, and took everyone’s order. Then he shouldered the mailbag and left the house.
The others went out to the backyard and used the outdoor faucet to wash up as best they could. Jill brought out a dirty old bottle of Palmolive she’d found in the kitchen, which helped a little, though they had to dry their hands on whatever clean spots they could find on their clothing.
Then they sat down on the overgrown lawn—it was a warm, sunny day—to wait for Connor and exchanged stories about the things they’d found.
Emily described the goose-egg object with its collection of tiny needlework aids. “Georgine says it’s not a chatelaine, but she couldn’t remember the proper name for it.”
“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” said Godwin. “I know! It’s a . . . an etty. Or etu. Something like that.”
“Maybe you’re thinking of an emu,” said Phil, mock-serious.
“No, that’s a bird,” said Doris, laughing.
“There’s a bird sitting on top of it,” Phil pointed out, although he was smiling as he said it.
“It’s a pelican,” said Emily.
“Why a pelican?” Valentina wondered aloud.
Jill burst out, “‘A wonderful bird is the pelican. His beak can hold more than his belly can. He can hold in his beak enough food for a week, but I’m darned if I know how the hellican!’”
“Nice, nice, nice!” said Phil, laughing.
“One of the few good limericks that aren’t naughty,” observed Doris with a wry smile.
“What do you know about naughty limericks?” asked Godwin slyly.
“Not much,” acknowledged Doris. “But, ‘The limerick packs laughs anatomical, into space that is quite economical; but the good ones I’ve seen, so seldom are clean, and the clean ones so seldom are comical.’”
“And I think we’d better stop right there,” said Jill, with an amused hint of her cop’s voice, casting a sideways glance at Emily.
Emily saw the look and laughed aloud. “But there are plenty of ‘clean’ limericks!” she pointed out. “And they are too funny! I recite them to my children all the time!”
“Good for you, child,” said Godwin with a sage nod that included the others. Then he kindly changed the subject. “Does anyone here present think the house is salvageable?” he asked.
“If it were completely rewired, maybe,” said Jill. “And replumbed. Property in Excelsior is high-end, so it would probably be worth the expense to upgrade it.”
Valentina said, “Why don’t you go to the corner of the house and look down along the length of the sill?”
Jill looked at Valentina for a long moment, then got up and went to peer down one side of the house. She stood there for a while, frowning, then went to the other side for a look. “I see what you mean,” she said as she came back to join the group on the lawn.
“What does she mean?” asked Godwin. He leaned sideways but couldn’t see far enough to look down the line of the house.
“Go see for yourself.”
Godwin rose and went to look. The group could hear his proclaimed, “Uh-oh!” He came back and said, “The walls are going crooked at the bottom.”
Alarmed, Emily said, “Is it safe to go back in?”
“Sure it is,” said Valentina.
Phil got up and went for a look, too. He came back shaking his head. “It’s safe enough for the moment, I agree, but I don’t think the house can be saved. Oh, and look, Connor’s just pulling up out front.”
In another minute Connor came into the backyard. He was laden with white paper bags marked with golden arches, a heavenly odor wafting in his wake.
The burgers and chicken sandwiches were distributed, along with plastic forks that Connor had thoughtfully supplied so that the fries could be eaten without anyone’s fingers touching them.
“So, what are we talking about?” asked Connor as he sat down with his own sandwich.
“Did you notice the crooked walls as you passed by the house?” asked Phil.
“I noticed some bricks moved out of place, but not that the walls were crooked,” Connor replied, glancing over at the house. “Are they actually leaning?”
“More like bulging at the bottom,” said Valentina.
“So what does that mean?” asked Georgine.
“I’m pretty sure it means it would cost a whole lot of money to fix.”
“Are you prepared to do that?” asked Connor.
“I can’t afford to do that.”
“Maybe we’ll find more treasure inside another cookie jar,” said Godwin, “and then you will be able to afford it.”
“You mean treasure like the jewelry Phil found?” asked Connor.
“That, and the Morgan dollars,” said Godwin, nodding. “I called Rafael and he says there’s a wide range of values on Morgan dollars. Some are worth a lot—a lot—of money, depending on condition, date, and where they were minted. The price for an ordinary one is around forty dollars.”
Jill said, “So if there are a hundred ordinary ones, the least they’re worth is four thousand dollars. That’s pretty nice.”
God
win said, “Rafael says we should take them to a coin dealer for evaluation, because in a collection that large, there are likely to be one or two worth a lot more.”
“How can you tell where a coin was minted?” asked Emily. “I thought they were all made in Washington.”
“Oh no,” said Godwin, “there are mints all over the country: Denver has one, San Francisco has another. There are little initials on coins that indicate where they were made.”
“Which Morgan dollar is the most valuable?” Doris asked Godwin.
“I don’t know. Rafael knows. But please don’t ask him, or he’ll talk your ear off about things like condition and a rainbow patina.”
Emily said, “Connor, maybe you can help us remember the name of this kind of chatelaine or sewing kit. It’s shaped like an egg. It opens when you press down on a stem sticking out of it. It’s even got a tiny pair of scissors, and needles, and spools for holding thread.”
Godwin said, “What makes you think Connor would know? You’d think I’d be the one who knows, since I work in a needlework shop.” But he looked at Connor and said, “It’s a word that sounds something like etty.”
“An etui?” suggested Connor.
“That’s it!”
“How in the world do you know that?” demanded Phil.
“It’s a word that shows up in crossword puzzles,” explained Connor. He shrugged. “I guess all those crossword books I filled while at sea weren’t entirely a waste of time.”
“An etui,” said Emily. “I never heard that word before. But then, I never saw anything like that thing before, either. Maybe . . .” She looked at Valentina. “Are you going to hold a garage sale? Maybe I could buy it then.”
“A garage sale sounds like a really good idea,” said Valentina.
Connor pointed to Georgine. “I think you should let your expert here take the measure of what we’ve got worthy of sale, and what prices we—that is, you—should set.”
Georgine said, “You should get a professional to do the estimate of what I might think is valuable. Maybe, after all, there is enough treasure in the house to pay for its repair.”
Darned if You Do Page 8
