Hidden Treasure

by Jane K. Cleland

  “Let’s do it to it!”

  Sasha stood. “With pleasure!”

  She asked Cara to call the facility guys to bring a truck with appropriate packing materials, and told Lenny she’d follow him in her own car.

  As Lenny prepared to leave, I hugged him and kissed his cheek. “I’m going to miss you.”

  He told me he’d miss me, too, said warm good-byes to everyone, and left.

  * * *

  Sasha got back to the office at five, her eyes wide with awe. “I don’t think any of us knew the extent of their collection. There’s the print collection, which now numbers a hundred and eighteen separate pochoir prints, but there’s also some wonderful art deco odds and ends.”

  “I’m salivating,” I said.

  “Wait until you see everything. The guys are unloading now.”

  I pushed open the heavy door and entered the warehouse. Eric was overseeing the team as they off-loaded the objects into a cordoned-off area. I spotted a stack of light-switch plates in a small clear plastic tub and opened the lid. The pewter-colored plates were typical of the art deco style, fabricated of cast iron and nickel, with a geometric pattern clearly evoking the period.

  “Wow.”

  Sasha stood beside me. “Lenny kept all the receipts, so we have a paper trail.”

  “Any hesitations?”

  When we buy antiques and collectibles outright, we aim to pay no more than a third of the retail value, which allows for the costs associated with storing, appraising, cleaning, marketing, and selling the goods. For rare objects, the only way we could assess fair market value was by conducting an actual appraisal. We always offered to delay our bid, but nine out of ten sellers simply wanted the objects gone. My question to Sasha was code for whether she’d identified any objects that might be especially valuable.

  “A couple, if we can identify the maker.”

  “Lenny wasn’t interested in a delay,” I said.

  “Right. He was determined to settle it all today. I explained my reasoning, but he wasn’t interested. I always feel bad when I think a client might be leaving money on the table.”

  “Well, I suppose we need to remember that selling things is stressful,” I said, “and that for some people getting rid of the stress is worth more than money.”

  Sasha thanked me and smiled. “You have a way of helping me put things in perspective.”

  I left her to begin the process of videotaping the DeVito collection and went to join Fred at a worktable near the kitty domain. Hank chomped some crunchies. Angela was curled up in a velour-lined kitty bed, enjoying a little nap. Fred had hung our chandelier from a silk-padded brace of my invention.

  The chandelier was stunning, featuring four cascading rows of crystal drops, with accompanying bobeches, removable crystal cups devised to catch dripping wax. Each cluster was surrounded by a central candleholder, long since converted to accept electric bulbs. Under the bright work lights, the crystal drops sparked overlapping rainbows on the worktable.

  “My initial examination suggests that every palmette, crystal drop, and bobeche is undamaged,” Fred said. “You know how rare that is. I’m looking for maker’s marks now. So far, I haven’t found anything.”

  I recounted Maudie’s memory about the shop in Saint-Quentin, and his eyes lit up. There’s nothing an antiques appraiser likes better than a viable lead. Never mind that he would need to trace a purchase made more than a hundred years earlier, in the midst of the chaos that was certain to have raged through the small town during the war—at least he had a starting place.

  I said good night to everyone, Hank and Angela included, and went home.

  * * *

  I stood at the open refrigerator considering dinner options, thinking that I could give second life to some leftover roast chicken if I warmed it in a Mornay sauce. Before I could reach for the ingredients, my back door was flung open and Zoë was stomping across the kitchen, glaring at me.

  Zoë, tall and thin, had an olive complexion and near-black shoulder-length hair. She was willowy and lithe, and unless she was in one of her tempestuous moods, when she marched with militant passion, she seemed to glide rather than walk. In addition to being my best friend, she was my neighbor and landlady, and I could read her mood by observing her gait. Stomping meant trouble.

  Zoë slapped the counter, then spun to face me. “Don’t tell me it’s okay. It’s not.”

  Before I could reply, she collapsed. She sat on the floor, her back to the cabinet door. She raised her knees and hugged her calves as tears ran down her cheeks. She swiped away the wetness with the side of her hand.

  “Oh, God, Josie, what am I going to do? Emma signed the papers today. The marines, for God’s sake. She only graduated high school three weeks ago.”

  I sat beside her, my legs stretched out in front of me. “Oh, Zoë … I know you’ve been dreading this day.”

  Zoë cried harder. Her shoulders shook as she wept.

  “Emma is an athlete,” I said. “A star. She’s smart and disciplined, a team player.” I patted her back as she cried. “I know this isn’t what you want for her, Zoë, but it’s what she wants for herself. She’s wanted it for three years. Maybe longer.”

  I kept rubbing her back, telling her it was all right, it would be fine, Emma was strong, Emma was smart, over and over again until Zoë ran out of tears.

  “How can I stop her?” Zoë asked, her gaze on the floor.

  “You can’t.”

  “No, no, no!” she hissed, covering her face with her hands, rocking from side to side.

  “Once you’re over the shock, you’re going to be proud of her.”

  “No, I won’t,” she snapped.

  I smiled at her rebellious tone. “Ha!”

  She sniffed loudly, dragged a wadded-up tissue from her jeans pocket, and wiped her nose. She hiccupped. After a few seconds, she said, “We’re sitting on the floor.”

  “As good a place as any. Want a watermelon martini? I made a pitcher.”

  “I guess.”

  I stood and offered a hand, and she took it, getting herself upright.

  “Thanks. Sorry … I had a moment.” She raised her chin, pride triumphing over despair.

  “No need to apologize.”

  She turned on the faucet, letting the water run over her fingers until it was cold enough for her taste, then cupped her hands to drink.

  I took a glass from the cabinet and handed it over. “New invention.”

  She accepted it, filled it to the brim and gulped it down, refilled it, and drank some more.

  I got the martini pitcher from the fridge and glasses from the freezer. I kept peeking at her as I poured the martinis.

  “How are you doing?” I asked.

  “A little better.” After another minute and a few more sips, Zoë asked, “Where’s Ty?”

  “In DC explaining to his boss why his training flopped.”

  I added a wedge of juicy watermelon as a garnish and slid her martini glass across the counter.

  She raised her glass and quoted my dad’s favorite toast. “To silver light in the dark of night.”

  We clinked.

  “Tell me about your day,” Zoë said. “Take my mind off Emma.”

  “Let’s sit for a minute.” I slid onto the long bench behind the farmer’s table, arranging the toss pillows as a backrest. “I had a funny experience today.”

  She sat across from me, in a comfy armchair. “Funny ha-ha?” she asked, calmer now, but still on edge. “Or funny odd?”

  “Funny remarkable.” I told her about returning the trunk to Maudie Wilson and our lingering, intimate conversation. “Has that ever happened to you? Where you feel a real connection with someone you just met?”

  “Once, on a train. The guy sitting next to me and I ended up talking the whole way from Portland to Seattle, more than three hours.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  “Whether he should propose to his girlfriend. He couldn’t dec
ide whether his hesitation was cold feet or some instinct alerting him that he should hit the road. I asked questions to help him think it through. And I told him about my marriage, the problems, the way I was trying to extricate myself.”

  “That’s amazing.”

  “We helped each other, we really did, two strangers. He’s the only person who didn’t try to convince me to stay, who told me that if I wanted to leave, I should. It was a revelation. By the time we arrived, he’d decided to break up with his girlfriend. He figured that if he was that uncertain, he should listen to his gut, and since he wanted to get married and have kids, if he wasn’t going to propose to her, he should end it and find the girl he wanted to marry.”

  “Did you ever hear from him afterward?”

  “No, and I’ve always wondered what happened.”

  “Half a story—you know how much I hate that.”

  She smiled, a weak one, for sure, but it was progress. “What did you and Maudie talk about?”

  I recounted the details of our conversation, then said, “It’s very unlike me to be so open so quickly. I like her a lot.”

  “It’s great to make new friends.”

  “Especially so unexpectedly. A real treat!” I sipped my drink. “Can I ask a question about Emma?”

  “Ask away!”

  “When does she leave for basic?”

  “September fourteenth.”

  A knock sounded at the back door, and Ellis Hunter, Zoë’s live-in boyfriend and Rocky Point’s police chief, came inside.

  Ellis and Zoë had been dating for a decade, taking it slow, trying to protect themselves from future pain. Ellis’s wife had died from lung cancer when she was only thirty-three, leaving him heartbroken and rudderless. Zoë had survived a bruising divorce that left her emotionally battered and wary.

  “I just spoke to Emma,” Ellis told Zoë.

  “And?”

  “And she’s totally psyched.”

  “Even though she knows she’s breaking my heart?”

  Ellis sat next to Zoë and took her hand. He kissed her knuckles. “I get the impression she thinks this decision is hers to make.”

  “And you agree with her.”

  He kissed her hand again. “I do.”

  “So does Josie.” Zoë teared up again. She withdrew her hand and pushed her chair back a few inches. “Excuse me for a minute. I need to throw some water on my face.”

  She plodded down the hall toward the bathroom.

  “Watermelon martini or beer?”

  “Beer. Thanks.”

  I took a bottle from the fridge and handed it to him. “What do you think?”

  “I was a marine.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “Eight years. I was in for the long haul until I fell in love with a Rockette.”

  “And moved to New York City to be with her. That’s very romantic.”

  “Aw, shucks.”

  “Thank you for your service.”

  He smiled. “Thank you for your support.”

  I smiled back and slid onto the bench. “Any regrets about leaving a career you loved?”

  “Not a bit. We all make the best decisions we can with the information we have available at the time. I don’t believe in regrets any more than I believe in one and onlys. I loved being a marine, and I love being a cop. I loved Shelby until the day she died, and now I love Zoë.” He drank some beer. “Zoë needs to find a way through this. Emma’s going. It will be better for them both if she goes with Zoë’s blessing.”

  “I know.”

  “I know, too,” Zoë said.

  She stood at the entry to the kitchen. Her cheeks were splotchy, her eyes rimmed in red. Ellis placed his beer bottle on the table, crossed the room, and enveloped her in a hug. She stood with her arms by her sides, her eyes closed, her shoulders shaking, silent tears streaking her cheeks.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The next morning, Thursday, I sat at the guest table in the front office greeting my staff as they arrived. Fred was last in, no surprise, since he was a night owl, often arriving close to noon and working late into the evening, a schedule that matched Suzanne’s at the Blue Dolphin. Today he came in holding a supersized thermos of coffee just after ten. Hank was in my lap, napping. Angela had sashayed away on her own business. I suspected she’d be back soon, carrying a felt mouse by the tail.

  While Sasha finished telling me what she’d learned about the art deco light-switch plates, Fred grunted hello, got himself behind his desk, and turned on his computer.

  Sasha handed me one of the plates and placed another on her desk. “They were manufactured between 1910 and 1930.”

  “In other words, they’re on the cusp.”

  Prescott’s policy was firm: an object had to be at least a hundred years old for us to call it an antique. These switch plates could be antiques—or they could be mere collectibles. The demarcation mattered on several levels: pricing, promotion, and customer appeal.

  “Exactly. From what I can tell, these were produced en masse. They’re not rare, but neither are they common, perhaps because they’re still popular.” She stroked the cold metal. “They’re beautiful, aren’t they?”

  “Very. Can we identify their origin?”

  “No. There aren’t any marks or stamps.”

  “How would you price them?”

  “I don’t know … there are minor inconsistencies that indicate the use of a crudely constructed mold and rushed production. Nothing a customer would be likely to notice or mind, since all the imperfections are on the back.” Sasha’s shoulders lifted, then dropped. “Ten dollars, maybe.”

  Fred grunted again. “Call it a buck per and get ’em out of here.”

  Fred was an antiques snob, seeing little merit in an object that wasn’t rare, valuable, or important.

  “You’re harsh,” I told him, laughing. “And a snob.”

  “And proud of it.”

  I picked up the sample and gently tossed it in my hand, assessing its weight and feel. “It’s got real heft to it. Maybe we should price it higher.”

  “You can buy new ones with an art deco theme,” she said, “in brushed nickel for as little as seven or eight dollars.”

  “Are we competing with the new product market?” I asked.

  “If something comparable is available, then yes, I think we are.”

  “You’re right. Ten dollars each is fair and reasonable. Good job, Sasha!”

  Sasha twisted a lock of her lank hair into a tight screw. “Thanks.”

  Sasha’s hair twisting was a tell, an unconscious action that revealed her true emotional state. She was gratified that I’d accepted her recommendation, but she was also anxious, worried, I knew from experience, that she’d gone too far, pushed too hard. She hadn’t, of course, but don’t tell her that.

  “You know who’d love these?” I asked. “Lieutenant Commander Silberblatt.”

  Sasha nodded. “She would. I’ll have Cara call to let her know.” She turned to Fred. “I got your email. You want me to call that shop in France?”

  “Yeah, if you can. At eleven.”

  “Is this about the chandelier?” I asked.

  “Yes. There’s only one antiques shop in the town that was operating in 1910 and is still in business today. If this isn’t it, I can try tracking down the ones that have gone out of business through the historical society. When I called yesterday, I spoke to a Monsieur Joubert, who is, I think, the current owner, but his English is only marginally better than my French, so we didn’t make much progress. I told him I’d call back with a translator at eleven this morning. If Sasha isn’t available, I’ll call and reschedule.”

  “I’m available.”

  “Great. Thanks.”

  Cara joined in our conversation. “I didn’t know you were fluent in French, Sasha.”

  “I’m not.”

  Fred drank some coffee. “She may not be fluent, but her French is way better than mine.”

  Sasha
leaned back with a sassy smile. “C’est peu dire.”

  I laughed. “My high school French is limping along behind you, but I think that means ‘that’s an understatement.’ Am I right?”

  “Mais oui.”

  “Ha,” Fred said, grinning. “I’m not that bad.”

  “Just bad enough,” Sasha said, laughing.

  “Will you call for me? Or do you plan on spending the day embarrassing me in front of the boss?”

  Sasha’s eyes clouded over; her tone shifted from jocular to appalled. “I’m sorry, Fred. I’m glad to call, and I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

  Fred pointed his index finger at her chest. “Gotcha.”

  Sasha exhaled loudly. “What is it you said before? Ha? I’ll meet your ha and raise you a gee whiz.”

  “So you’ll call?”

  “Of course.”

  “Merci.”

  The phone rang, and a few seconds later, Cara told me, “Josie … it’s Timothy on one.”

  I reached for the guest phone. Timothy was my TV show’s producer and director, and my heart always pounded an extra few beats when I heard his name—I was still a little starstruck. Between having my own show, Josie’s Antiques, and being around TV industry professionals, well, I found the process intimidating and exhilarating in equal measures.

  “Timothy!”

  “Hey, Josie. I don’t need to ask if I’m calling too early, do I?”

  I laughed. “It’s nearly ten thirty and I’m wide awake. Why? Are you still in bed?”

  “Heavens, no. I’m even dressed and having coffee on my balcony.”

  “Overlooking the East River.”

  “It’s a beautiful day.”

  “Here, too.”

  “I can only imagine. All those trees and grass and things.”

  I laughed. “You sound like my friend Shelley. She talks about New Hampshire as if it’s the Outer Hebrides, not a place you fly or drive to—you trek.”