Hidden Treasure

by Jane K. Cleland

  “Speaking of which, I’d like to trek up tomorrow if you’re around. I want to scout some location shots. Do you have time? I’ll buy you lunch.”

  “Absolutely!”

  We agreed to meet at the Blue Dolphin at twelve thirty, then spend the afternoon checking out specific options so the team would have ample time to organize permits and permissions.

  “I’m hoping we can get all the actual camerawork done in a couple of days toward the end of the month,” he said. “What does your schedule look like?”

  I brought up my calendar on my iPhone. “I’m around all month.”

  We decided on July 21 through 23 for the actual taping.

  Timothy said they wouldn’t need me for every shot, but he wanted me on call. They planned to get some ocean footage, various shots around Rocky Point, and lots of me at my desk in my office, working the tag sale venue, organizing the auction room, and walking the floor at Prescott’s Antiques Barn, my newest location, recently rebranded to honor its former life as a barn.

  “Sounds perfect!”

  “Any antiques to set my hair on fire?” Timothy asked.

  I described the chandelier and the collection of art deco objects, including the prosaic light-switch plates.

  “I definitely feel singed! Keep ’em coming!”

  I chuckled, delighted. Timothy was warm, witty, and charming, and he had an innate sense of which antiques and collectibles would work on our show. If Timothy was happy, I was happy.

  I was telling Cara which days to block out on my calendar when the phone rang again. It was Maudie Wilson, and she wanted to know if she could come by my office now.

  “It’s urgent,” she said.

  I told her to come on ahead. Knowing that she wouldn’t use the word heedlessly, I wondered what could possibly be urgent.

  CHAPTER NINE

  “Whew,” Maudie said, laughing as she sidled out of the backseat of a black Camry. “My hips sure don’t swivel the way they used to. Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”

  I walked across the parking lot to greet her. “Anytime.” I suggested we go up to my private office, but she asked if we could stay on the ground level.

  “It’s not only my hips that give me trouble. In addition to bench-pressing fifty pounds, I can swim ten laps faster than women half my age, and walk a ten-minute mile with no problem, faster than that if I have to, but climbing stairs is too hard for these rickety old knees of mine.”

  I offered Maudie two private options: chairs in the currently unoccupied tag sale venue or a bench outside. She eagerly chose the bench.

  “I like this kind of weather. Cool and breezy.”

  “Me, too.”

  The temperature was in the sixties, and with milky yellow clouds blowing in from the north, I doubted it would be going up anytime soon. I led the way to the same bench Celia and Doug had sat on the other day. The willow tree’s long green tendrils swayed in the gentle breeze.

  Maudie leaned back against the wooden slats and placed her handbag, summer straw, on her lap. Her gaze drifted from the beds of tiger lilies that lined the walkway to the woods that separated my property from the Congregational church.

  After a few seconds, she readjusted her position so she was facing me. “I enjoyed our talk yesterday.”

  “So did I. Very much. I’m not usually so open.”

  “Me, either.” She twisted her purse’s woven handle into a tight screw, then let it unfurl. “You’ve met my nieces.”

  “Celia and Stacy … yes.”

  “Did they tell you I’m incompetent?”

  I picked my words carefully. “They expressed some concern.”

  “You’re being diplomatic.”

  I laughed. “A little.”

  “I would appreciate your keeping my visit here private.”

  “Certainly.”

  “I’m thinking of selling the trunk, the presentation box, and the cat. I don’t want anyone to know I’m looking into it.”

  My pulse quickened, but I maintained a calm tone as I assured her that confidentiality was the norm in my business, not the exception.

  She nodded but didn’t speak.

  I was tempted to ask her how I could help, but I didn’t. When people are thinking about selling their possessions, it’s not unusual for conversations to become charged with anxiety, fear, regret, or resentment, and over the years, I’d learned that patience was essential. It was hard for me, since by nature I wasn’t the least bit patient, but allowing potential clients to set the pace made the process easier for them, so I did it.

  “You told me your guesstimate of the trunk,” Maudie said a minute later. “What about the presentation box and cat?”

  “That’s trickier than the trunk. I can’t give you even a rough idea of value without considering the objects’ pedigree and provenance. It’s not that those factors don’t matter with the trunk. They do. If we knew the trunk’s origin and history, it might add value, but not knowing them won’t lower the value. The cat and box are a whole different story. If they’re genuine ancient Egyptian artifacts with a verifiable backstory, well, they could be worth many, many hundreds of thousands of dollars—or even more. If they’re reproductions with no history available, they’d be purchased for their grandeur and craftsmanship, maybe for a few hundred to a few thousand dollars.”

  “That’s quite a range.”

  “I know. The thing about antiques appraisals is that you need to investigate along two separate, yet equally important, tracks: authenticity and valuation. First you need to discover if an object is real. Then you need to look at the variety of factors that contribute to valuation.”

  “What are those factors? If it’s not too much to ask.”

  “Not at all. We look at rarity, scarcity, condition, association, popularity, and provenance. Rarity—how many were made or created in the first place? Scarcity—how many are extant? Condition—are we talking normal wear and tear, or what? Association—did anyone interesting or important own it? Did it figure into a notable event? Popularity—there are trends in antique collecting as in everything else, so we want to know whether this object is on trend. One of the ways you measure that is by examining the recent past sales of similar objects. Are the prices going up? Down? Holding steady? Are museums in the mix? Is there a known private collector on the hunt? And lastly, provenance—does the current owner have a clear title? Do we know who made it? Who bought it? We aim to verify how it got from wherever it was made or created to wherever it is now.”

  “Like a stamp or mark you find on the bottom of some sterling flatware or fine furniture … that’s how you know who designed or built it.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I had no idea the process was so complicated,” Maudie said.

  “The good news is there’s an actual process.”

  “That is all very interesting.” Maudie nodded slowly. I could almost see the wheels turning behind her sharp, intelligent eyes. “Very. I like to see the whole picture before I make a decision, and I like to look people in the eye while I’m doing it, so I thank you for clarifying it for me. How much does an appraisal cost?”

  “It depends on the approach, the time it takes, and the expenses incurred. In this case, I’d start with the materials. If the gold is gold and the silver silver, that would be an encouraging sign. If the jewels are real, that would be another positive sign. At some point, we might need to consult an Egyptologist, hire document specialists, translators, and so on. The more time we spend, the more experts we consult, and the more materials testing we undertake, well, no surprise, the more costly the appraisal. At a guess—here’s another guesstimate—I would say you’re looking at a few hundred dollars to determine whether it’s worth pursuing a full appraisal. From there, it might require as much as ten to twenty thousand dollars to finish the job. If you decide to proceed, I’ll be glad to give you the names of some reputable appraisers.”

  “Thank you. Do you do appraisals like this?�
��

  I kept my professional face on. This was the kind of project that had the potential to win the appraiser international acclaim. Equally exciting was the possibility that I could feature the objects on Josie’s Antiques. My instinct was to leap onto the bench and shout to the heavens, “Oh, yes, baby, we do this sort of work!” But I didn’t. I sat quietly for a few seconds to give my raging pulse time to quiet, then said, “Absolutely.”

  Mrs. Wilson asked about my training and background.

  I told her how I’d fallen in love with objects of great beauty as a child by viewing the glass flowers at Harvard University’s Museum of Natural History and the James McNeill Whistlers at Boston’s Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum; that I’d earned a college degree in art history; and that I’d spent years at Frisco’s, a famous New York City antiques auction house. I didn’t tell her how I’d been the whistle-blower revealing my boss’s price-fixing scheme, or how I’d been shunned by my so-called friends, fired for not being a team player, and hounded by the press. Instead, I expanded on what I’d told her yesterday, how I’d moved to New Hampshire to open my own business, and how it was thriving, and how much I loved the work.

  “Thank you,” she said. “You’ve been very helpful. I’d appreciate that list of appraisers.”

  “Of course,” I said, deflating a bit. I was happy to give her some recommendations, but my fingers remained crossed that ultimately she’d choose Prescott’s. “Let me consider some options. I can email you the list tomorrow.”

  Maudie gave me her email address. “I don’t really use email, but if I know a message is coming, I’ll make a point to look for it on my phone.” She chuckled. “Mostly, I use my phone to take photos. Alicia, Celia’s oldest, taught me how. Alicia is ten. And I use it to call for an Uber … like now.” She tapped the app, and after a few more taps said, “Five minutes.”

  “Would you like a lemonade or an iced tea? I can run inside and get you something.”

  “Thank you, dear. I’m fine.” She smiled devilishly. “There’s something else I want to tell you, but I really want to keep it private. Will you keep another secret?”

  I used my index finger to draw an X on my chest. “Cross my heart. I’m actually very good at keeping secrets. I hate gossip, so I’m never tempted to share someone else’s secret.”

  “I called Rocky Point Computers this morning. In addition to selling computers, they offer private lessons. I have an appointment later today. They’re going to get me set up with a lightweight laptop and the right software, and they’re going to teach me how to use it.” She smiled. “I explained that I’m a travel writer.”

  “Oh, Maudie.”

  “I’m quite excited.”

  “It’s thrilling!”

  “I don’t want to deal with naysayers. Not now. Not at this point in my life.”

  “No one should have to deal with naysayers—ever. Have you decided on your first story idea?”

  “Snorkeling on my own schedule. I love to snorkel, but I hate being part of a crowd. I went to the Caribbean, St. Croix, last winter by myself, and I hired a man with a boat. We sailed to Green Cay, and I went snorkeling there. He showed me things I never would have noticed on my own. It was wonderful. I thought that writing about an older woman with hips that don’t swivel and rickety knees traveling alone might make for an interesting niche.”

  “It sounds fantastic.”

  “I could try an Endless Summer sort of approach—a hunt for the perfect snorkeling site. I always wanted to go to Yap in Micronesia. And the Cook Islands. But there are excellent options closer to home, too.”

  “You’re a woman on a mission.”

  “A newfound mission, thanks to you.”

  I was so touched, so moved, for a moment I couldn’t speak.

  “If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the course of my life,” she added, “it’s to listen for opportunity knocking. Sometimes the knocking is so soft, it’s easy to miss. Now is my time.”

  “Carpe diem.”

  “You better believe it. I’m seizing today, all right.”

  The car arrived on schedule, and I opened the back door.

  “I’ll call you in the morning when I send the email with those names, so you’ll know to look for it. If I don’t reach you for whatever reason, I’ll leave a message with Lainy.”

  She thanked me and waved good-bye.

  * * *

  As soon as I stepped back inside the office, I asked Fred, “How did the call to Monsieur Joubert go?”

  “Great! We learned he has the previous owners’ records, and he thinks they go back to the mid-eighteenth century, if you can believe it. I’m going to send him photos of the chandelier, and he’s going to research it.”

  “That’s fantastic!”

  “It really is,” Sasha said, “and it gets better. Monsieur Joubert’s daughter, Yvette, is fluent in English, so he said he’ll email me with her availability after they’ve had a chance to review the photos and their records, and we can schedule a call.”

  I smiled at them, one at a time, nodding, letting my appreciation register. “You two are awesome. Really, truly awesome.”

  * * *

  I decided to stop at the ocean on my way home. I pulled onto the shoulder on Ocean and climbed to the top of a dune. The wind was blowing harder now, and whitecaps dotted the water’s surface.

  A hundred yards away, a mongrel, part terrier, part something else, tried to wrest a piece of pied driftwood away from a young man wearing blue swim trunks and a long-sleeved Hitchens University T-shirt. The dog’s tail wagged so fast it was a blur.

  A little farther on, Stacy Collins stood at the bottom of a dune near a jetty where the crashing waves sent spumes of water shooting fifty feet into the air. She wore a mint-green skirt with a white blouse and sandals. Pointing at the jetty, she said something to a man who appeared to be a few years her senior. He wore khakis and a black collared T-shirt.

  Stacy turned in my direction. She opened her arms wide, including everything from shore to horizon in whatever point she was making. She broke off when she noticed me, smiled and waved, then spoke to her companion. The two of them picked their way toward me, stepping over driftwood, rocks, and tendrils of slick green and brown seaweed. I sidestepped down the dune and walked to meet them.

  “This is Kyle Previns, Josie,” Stacy said. “His firm is thinking of investing in my company. I was just sharing your comments about how my designs are unique.”

  Stacy was using her satiny voice, and she exuded warmth and confidence.

  “Totally,” I said, smiling and offering a hand to the potential investor. “I deal in antiques, but I recognize good design in all its forms. Stacy’s work is spectacular.”

  He smiled politely.

  “I wanted to show Kyle where my inspiration comes from.” She faced the ocean. “The power … the beauty.”

  She was positioning herself as an artist, and I wondered if her strategy would work. From his bored expression I inferred he wasn’t impressed. I suspected he was inured to needy entrepreneurs’ tactics and dismissed anecdotal opinions like mine and touchy-feely concepts like inspiration out of hand. Show him the potential to make money, or go home.

  I told him it was nice to meet him, smiled at her, and left. I wished her well, but I got the impression her climb to success was all uphill, and the hill was steep.

  * * *

  As I drove home, I found myself wondering how Maudie was doing for real. Signing up for computer lessons indicated curiosity and motivation, not capability. The same was true for her questions about the appraisal process. Certainly, they were insightful and on point, but I’d done most of the talking. In both our interactions, Maudie had been pleasant, clear, and deliberate. Everything seemed fine, but I’d heard that one of dementia’s cruelest tricks was letting people think all is well when it isn’t.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Maudie called me at nine the next morning, Friday, before I’d had a chance to call h
er.

  “I just opened your email,” she said, “and I wanted to thank you. You said you’d send the list in the morning, and you did.”

  “You’re an early bird! I haven’t even had time to call you.”

  “’Tis true … I am an early bird, always have been. How about you?”

  “Mezza mezza. It depends.”

  “Fair enough. So of the three names on the list, do you have a favorite?”

  “They’re all good options for different reasons. The Rocky Point dealer is a generalist, like me. Since you like looking people in the eye, I thought I ought to include another local option. The company in Boston concentrates on ancient artifacts, and the consultant in San Francisco is a world-renowned Egyptologist, in case you’d feel more comfortable with a bona fide expert.”

  “Wouldn’t everyone, you included, consult an Egyptologist?”

  “Assuming the preliminary tests are encouraging, yes.”

  “Why did you pick someone so far away?”

  “He’s the best.”

  “Eli always said, you want the best, buy the best.” I could hear the smile in Maudie’s voice. “Could he do every aspect of the appraisal?”

  “No. He’d need to work with a jeweler, and he’d probably recommend that the sale be orchestrated by an antiques auction house, someone who excels at the marketing aspects of the process.”

  Maudie thanked me again and said she’d let me know what she decided.

  * * *

  I got to the Gingerbread House to meet Monte, our general contractor, at ten, and found Julie on her knees in the side garden, weeding. It was still cool and windy, with the sun struggling to fight through the clouds.

  On the off chance I’d find Julie there, I’d written a thank-you note before I’d left my office, tucking in a fifty-dollar bill. I handed it over. “Here you go, Julie. Thanks again for your help with the measuring.”

  She leaned back on her haunches and pulled off one of her gardening gloves to accept it. She tore it open it and exclaimed, “Oh!” She looked up at me. “Thank you. Thank you so much. You have no idea…” Her voice trailed off.