Darned if You Do

by Monica Ferris

  Emily said, “I found something else, a little red box carved with fish and flowers. You should look at it, Georgie. It was pretty, but inside was this little ball and when I looked again I could see it was like a ball of mice, ish!”

  “A ball of mice? What do you mean? A nest of them? Were they alive?”

  “No, it was like a carving or something, but they looked real,” Emily said. “They were so icky that I almost dropped the box!” She shuddered.

  “Ick is right!” said Georgine, climbing to her feet with a groan. “Are we all done here? There’s lots more to do.”

  Valentina sprang to her feet with surprising ease, looking at her watch. “Everyone’s finished with lunch, I think. So let’s get back to work. You be careful with that box,” she said to Emily, teasing. “Those mice might still be in there.”

  “But—” started Emily.

  “Come on, honey,” said Georgine. “Let’s have a look at that box.” As they filed back into the house, Emily said to Georgine, “It’s pretty, it’s got Chinese carving all over it.”

  Back in the dining room, Georgine looked around. “Where is it?” she asked.

  “Here, on the table. I put a magazine over it.” Emily lifted the old Look magazine to reveal the table’s scarred surface. “Hey, it’s gone!”

  * * *

  “WHEN did you last see it?” asked Jill.

  “The last time was also the first time. It was when Connor found the mailbag and everyone was heading upstairs to see it,” replied Emily. “I accidentally kicked the box. It was on the floor, under some magazines. I moved them and found it.” She was shifting her hands around, palms inward, to indicate the size of the thing, about nine or ten inches by seven or eight inches, and perhaps three or four inches deep.

  The volunteers had gone back out into the yard, where there was enough space for them all to look into one another’s faces without stepping on one another’s toes. The sky was clouding over and a wind had sprung up; they could hear the flapping of the thick blue plastic sheet laid over the roof of Riordan’s bedroom. The temperature was falling even as they stood there, and the women tucked their hands into their armpits.

  “And you didn’t see this red box?” Jill asked Georgine.

  “No, I must have left before she found it, going to see what Connor was shouting about. I don’t remember seeing it at all.”

  “Anyone else see it? Maybe move it?”

  But the others all shook their heads.

  Jill asked Georgine, “Any idea how much that box might be worth? I mean, could it be really valuable?”

  Georgine shook her head. “I’d have to see it. Was it painted wood? Maybe even plastic?”

  Emily said, “I’m not sure. It wasn’t very heavy. Maybe it was some kind of plastic.” Her expression was doubtful. “Though it didn’t exactly feel like plastic . . .” She shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  Georgine made a disparaging face. “But it could have been plastic.”

  Emily said, “Yes, it could. But it was beautiful! It had flowers and curved Chinese fish with big tails! And inside it were three needle cases, you know, like tubes, very delicate and pretty. I opened one and there were three needles in it, wooden needles.”

  “Sounds like a toy sewing box,” said Jill.

  “Maybe,” said Emily. “Or maybe the cases and needles were real ivory.”

  “What color were they?” asked Georgine.

  “Sort of almost white—well, you know, ivory colored. And there was this ball, it was wrapped in a gray rag, and when I pulled the cloth away, I saw it was a curled bundle of white mice. So I put the rag back fast—I mean, they looked like real mice at first glance, crawling all over it, with red eyes and those naked tails, ish!—and then I saw they weren’t real, but still—you know, mice! So I closed the box and went upstairs to see what Connor had found.”

  “I don’t think someone would sneak into the house to take just that, when there were other things, obviously more valuable,” said Connor.

  “Especially since I put a magazine over it.”

  “Why did you do that?” asked Jill.

  “Because seeing that mouse ball made me feel all tingly in my fingers. It wasn’t very big. The mice were like baby mice.” She made a circle with the fingers of both hands, not so big as a tennis ball.

  “That sounds like a Halloween trick,” remarked Doris. “Something you put in a teacher’s desk drawer.”

  “So see?” said Georgine. “A child’s toy box.”

  Phil said, “You know, there could be other things missing. We’ve been sorting through things in a big hurry—I for one couldn’t make a complete list of everything I’ve set aside, much less what I’ve thrown away. A thief could have taken something from my saved stack, a few teacups—heck, even one of those rusty bicycles, and I wouldn’t know it.”

  “That’s true,” several of the other volunteers murmured, nodding.

  “We should have locked the door when we all went out back to wash up,” said Godwin.

  “Yeah, well, hindsight is pretty generally twenty-twenty,” said Phil.

  “I don’t know why we’re so fussed about this,” said Valentina. “An old toy box with some little thingies—yes, all right, needle cases—in it, and a Halloween toy. How much could it be worth?”

  Georgine said, “It doesn’t sound like they were real ivory, because if they were real, they’d be old and turning brown. It’s illegal to import things made out of new ivory, so they’re probably plastic, like the box. The whole thing is probably worth six dollars.”

  Valentina said, “See? I bet some kid snuck in on a dare, grabbed something handy, and left. Big whoop!”

  “I think it’s scary that there’s a thief in the neighborhood,” said Emily. “And he walked right into the house while we were just outside the back door—that’s real scary. This is a safe town. Things like that don’t happen in Excelsior.”

  “Well . . .” began Connor, but then he changed his mind. “You’re right, of course.” Because she was, mostly. Especially now that Tom Take was in the hospital.

  Chapter Twelve

  BETSY went down the hospital corridor, looking at room numbers. The one she was after was easy to remember—321—and the door was open when she came to it.

  She rapped once on the door frame. “Mr. Riordan?” she called.

  “Who is it?” came a slow answer.

  “Betsy Devonshire, from Excelsior.”

  “Come on in.” The voice sounded a little brighter. When she entered the room, he asked, “Did you bring me something?” He laughed, not with his usual guffaw but weakly, and his dulled eyes were focused on her hands, which indeed held a shallow white box.

  Betsy knew his begging ways and had brought a box of chocolates from Truffle Hill—their handmade candy was marvelous. Tom might be poor as a church mouse, but his taste in chocolate was epicurean.

  She put the box on the one-legged metal table beside his bed, and he opened it. “These’re real nice!” he said. Then, remembering his manners, he added, “Thank you very much—can I have a piece right now?”

  Betsy laughed. “Of course.”

  His eyes ran swiftly over the choices. He picked up a milk chocolate caramel, put it in his mouth, and said, before he’d even finished eating it, “’Ould you lye a peesch?”

  Betsy didn’t have to be a mind reader to know the answer he wanted. “No, thank you.”

  Duty done, he relaxed back against his pillows. He looked worn down, his dark eyes sleepy and the skin around them shadowed, his graying hair ruffled. He needed a shave. But he wasn’t hooked up to any IV lines. Betsy could see just the big bandaged brace on his leg, uncovered for viewing.

  “If I ask you something, will you tell me?” he said, swallowing the last of the chocolate.

  “If I can. What is it?”
/>
  “Them people in my house. Are they taking my things for their selves?”

  “Good heavens, no!” said Betsy. “They’re being very careful as they sort things out. It’s a huge task, and very complicated, as you must know.”

  A complacent smile formed, and he nodded. “I got a whole lot of stuff.”

  “You must have been collecting for a long time.”

  “Sure I have,” he said, nodding again. “Since I was six years old. Used to go out with my grandad, hunting for stuff. And I know where I got ever’ single thing, and when I got holt of it.”

  Betsy doubted that. “Really?”

  “But I do,” he insisted. “They’re my things, and I love them, every one. Ask me about one of them.”

  Betsy said, “I haven’t been in your house, so how could I do that?”

  “I have a birdcage made of wicker. It’s in fine shape ’cept the door is broke out of it. I mean to get a new door an’ then it’ll be worth something. I got it from beside ol’ Doc Menderson’s house, after he died back in ninety-nine, and his fam’ly cleaned out the place. It was on the ground, outside the back door. It was about this time of year—no, more like a little while b’fore Thanksgiving.” He smiled proudly at her. “See? Ever’thing. Ask me somethin’ else.”

  “But—” Betsy broke off before she could tell him again that she hadn’t been to his house. The Monday Bunch crew had brought stories to her. “Tell me about the mailbag.”

  Tom looked out the window for a few moments, though the view was of a brick wall. Without looking back he said, “It was back in ninety-six. I saw it on the ground, in the rain, all by itself. I didn’t want the mail to get spoiled, so I brought it home. I meant to bring it back, but . . .” He looked at Betsy, his expression troubled. “After I kep’ it awhile, I thought they wouldn’t care anymore. I didn’t look inside it,” he added piously.

  Betsy doubted that but said only, “Connor took it to the post office.”

  He looked away again. “Are they mad?”

  “I don’t think so. Surprised, though.”

  He chuckled and wriggled his shoulders, relieved. “I guess they would be.”

  “Can I ask where you got the etui?”

  “I don’t got a— What’s a etui?”

  “It’s a holder for needlework supplies. Shaped like an egg with a stem on top of it, and when you press the stem, it opens and there’s scissors and needles and spools inside it. Emily told me about it, said it was on the dining room table.”

  “Is that what that’s called? I looked inside it but there wasn’t no thread on the spools. I was gonna get some thread and keep it like a sewing kit, except the scissors was too small for my fingers. I got it at a yard sale in Shorewood just this past summer. It was real dirty and nobody knew it would open up, but I washed it careful, an’ put a little three-in-one aroun’ the bottom of it, an’ in about a minute it opened just as pretty as could be. Cost me two dollars, which I never woulda paid, but I picked it up and it rattled and I thought maybe there was money inside it.”

  “Would you consider selling it?”

  “What? Oh no, ma’am, uh-uh; I never would part with any of my things. Neither would my dad, nor grandad, too. We none of us ever threw anything away. Every last thing in that house has a story, an’ I know the stories. Havin’ all those stories in my head makes me feel good.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  IT was raining the next afternoon, and at the store, Betsy was restoring order to a spinner rack after a customer had dropped nearly a third of the scissors and knitting needles on the floor searching for an item that was, as it turned out, on a different spinner rack.

  She looked around as someone entered wearing a voluminous raincoat with its hood pulled up. “Hi, Gracie,” she said brightly. “What brings you in today?”

  “Actually, Betsy, I’m Gracie’s sister, Georgie,” said the customer, who’d pulled her raincoat hood back to reveal her cropped blond curls.

  “Gosh, I’m sorry!” said Betsy. “It’s just that you two look so much alike. Except for your hair, of course.”

  “It happens sometimes.” Georgine turned and said, “Gracie and Valentina are right behind me.”

  And they were. They all stood there for a few moments to let the rainwater drip from their coats and from Valentina’s old umbrella onto the square of carpet remnant put there for that purpose.

  “Betsy,” Valentina said, “I asked these two to look over the things we’re setting aside in Tommy’s house to see if they’re worth trying to sell. They picked out a few things, then told me I should hire someone more expert than them to look at what we found.”

  Georgine said, “Gracie and I have some expertise, but we don’t know everything, and I’m afraid we might’ve misjudged some things.”

  Valentina said, “I thought about seeking out an antiques dealer—this town has a lot of antiques stores. But suppose some of the valuable stuff in there isn’t actually antique? Georgie gave us information about some of the things, like that awful Black Mammy cookie jar, but she says to get someone else to offer us appraisals, too.”

  “We thought you might know someone,” Grace added.

  Betsy said, “I think Leipold’s does that sort of thing.”

  “Who’re they?” asked Valentina.

  “Are they that strange shop on Water Street?” said Georgine.

  “Yes,” said Betsy, nodding.

  Leipold’s was an Excelsior institution. It had begun as a gift shop, then expanded into the sale of lampshades and the restoration of old lamps. Then it started carrying souvenirs of Lake Minnetonka, and then collectibles and antiques, later adding old books, T-shirts, vintage postcards, rag dolls, old coaster wagons, milk cans, comic greeting cards, and just about anything that caught its owners’ eyes as interesting or peculiar or nostalgic.

  “How’s everything coming along in Tom’s house?” Betsy asked.

  “It’s coming, it’s coming,” said Valentina. “Tommy got mad at me when I told him I had people helping me clear things out, told me not to visit him again. Mr. Penberthy said that might happen and told me not to worry about it, because when Tommy sees how nice the place looks . . . he’ll forgive me.” She did not seem very sure about that, though.

  “I’ve been to see him,” said Betsy.

  “Really? What did he say during your visit?” asked Valentina.

  “I’m afraid he is really attached to the things he’s stored in that house. He claims he knows every object in his possession: where he got it, when, and from whom. He proved it by describing that etui, which he got at a yard sale in Shorewood for two dollars, and a wicker birdcage he found outside Dr. Menderson’s house after the family closed it up.”

  “The etui we’re keeping, but I’m afraid all the birdcages are gone,” said Valentina.

  “Have you told him that?” asked Betsy.

  “No, like I said, he told me not to come back to see him anymore.”

  “Did you ask him about the mailbag?” asked Georgine.

  “Yes, I did. He said he found it sitting alone in the rain and brought it home with him for safekeeping. I didn’t press him, but I could see he wasn’t telling the whole truth. The postman probably left it unguarded for a minute and he took it. That’s his pattern, stealing opportunistically. I once had a notion that he does that sort of thing absentmindedly, even unconsciously, but now I think it’s deliberate, since his remarkable memory extends even to his thefts.”

  * * *

  GEORGINE went with Valentina to Leipold’s. Mrs. Leipold was behind the counter at the back of the thickly cluttered store. Georgine nudged Valentina when they saw the iconic flying red horse on the back wall. The horse was life-size, startling to the eye, but this one appeared to be modern fiberglass, while the one in Riordan’s house was vintage enameled steel, with the rust and chipping that
were common to old metal.

  “Mrs. Leipold?” asked Valentina.

  “Yes, that’s me.” Mrs. Leipold was a medium-size woman with short white hair and gentle blue eyes. “May I help you?” she asked.

  “Is that fiberglass Mobil sign for sale?” Georgine asked, gesturing at the horse.

  “No, we’ve decided to keep it. And it’s not fiberglass but enameled metal.”

  “Really? It’s in remarkable shape,” Georgine said, and persisted. “If you did sell it, what would you ask?”

  “Probably three thousand.”

  Georgine nodded appreciatively. Considering its condition, the price was probably in range—but high enough to keep idle bids away.

  Valentina said, “I’m in town to clear out Tommy Riordan’s house. Ms. Pickering, here, and her sister know quite a lot about collectibles, but I’ve decided I’d like a second opinion about some of the objects in the house. I understand you and Mr. Leipold are willing to go through a house and price its contents. Is that so?”

  “Yes, we do that.”

  “How much do you charge?”

  “That would depend on the size of the house, how much property is in it, and whether or not you need a written report.”

  “It’s not a big house, two bedrooms, but it’s got a lot of stuff. And I think a written report might be a good idea.”

  “Well . . .” Mrs. Leipold hesitated, then said boldly, “How bad is it?”

  “Pretty bad,” acknowledged Valentina.

  “In that case, the cost will be about three hundred dollars.”

  When she heard the cost estimate, Valentina’s soft whistle sounded like an old-fashioned bomb coming down out of the sky.

  Mrs. Leipold shrugged and waited.

  Georgine turned to Valentina. “That’s not a lot,” she whispered. “Say yes, then get the estate to pay for it.”

  So Valentina, blinking as if in pain, said, “Okay. When can you do it?”

  “How soon would you want us to start?”

  “As soon as possible.”