Lethal Treasure: A Josie Prescott Antiques Mystery (Josie Prescott Antiques Mysteries) Page 3

  Suzanne smiled and nodded. “That’s so great to hear. That—exactly that—is my job.”

  “You said your company specializes in turnarounds. Are you here just to get the Blue Dolphin started back up again?”

  “My commitment is eighteen months, long enough to get the place back on track and take it through an annual cycle, and then we’ll see. I’m a city girl, but I must say, Rocky Point is so … I don’t know … warm and welcoming, well … we’ll see. It might be time to settle down.” She paused again, and this time her expression turned wistful. After a few seconds, she shook off her dreamy mood and smiled again. “Bottom line—so far, I love it here. Which is why I’m paying so much attention to my condo. I want it to be a home, not just a place I’m staying for a while.” She laughed. “Leigh Ann is delightful, but she doesn’t share my taste in home decor. I thought she was going to faint when I told her my color choices for the living room.”

  I laughed, too. “Let’s just say she was surprised.”

  “That’s very good, Josie. Very polite.” She paused, a slight smile drawing up the corners of her mouth. “The truth is I’m not interested in trends. Those were the colors I grew up with, and to me, they represent love and comfort and stability.”

  “You’re a traditional gal, and you know that about yourself. There’s nothing wrong with that. If you don’t mind my asking—why did you select Dubois Interior Designs? They’re known for their contemporary work.”

  “I’m a woman of many talents, but interior design isn’t one of them! Once I decided to bring in professional designers, I thought using them made sense. Not only did they do a great job with the restaurant’s traditional decor, they came in under budget, which, as I’m sure you know, almost never happens. I figured that if they could do a traditional design for a restaurant, they could do it for a condo.” She laughed. “Clearly Henri and Leigh Ann aren’t as comfortable with my personal taste as they were with the classic French country look we wanted to re-create for the Blue Dolphin, but—” She held up a hand. “I don’t want to imply I’m less than happy. I adore working with Leigh Ann and Henri. I never would have been able to update my kitchen so cleverly without them.” She paused again, her eyes shining. “This is a roundabout way of saying that I want wall art I know Leigh Ann is going to hate, and rather than get into a fuss about it, I’d like to present the object to her as a fait accompli. That’s where your company comes in.” She looked around, noting the two empty workstations, the desks where Gretchen and Fred worked. “Is Fred here?”

  “No, he just left for an appointment. Sorry. Can I help?”

  She smiled conspiratorially. “Maybe. I want one of those metal birds-in-flight wall art pieces, and Fred told me you had some in stock.”

  I smiled, too, knowing she was right—Leigh Ann was definitely going to hate it. “Sasha?”

  Sasha looked up from her computer, startled.

  “I have a question,” I continued. “This is Suzanne Dyre. Suzanne, this is Sasha, Prescott’s chief antiques appraiser. Suzanne is interested in metal wall art. Specifically, birds in flight.”

  Sasha tucked her straight brown hair behind her ears and smiled. Normally self-effacing, when talking about art and antiques, Sasha was transformed into a confident powerhouse.

  “Hi,” she said, then tapped something into her computer. “Oh, yes! We have a wonderful four-piece set and a single panel.” She stood up. “I’ll be right back.”

  “That’s too much to carry in one trip,” I said. “I’ll help.” To Suzanne, I added, “We’ll be back in a flash.”

  The phone rang as we stepped into the warehouse, and Cara answered with her typical friendly greeting.

  Sasha handed me the single panel and carried the four-pack herself. Back in the front, we laid them out on the guest table, placing the single unit at the top and aligning the four panels so the overall picture they created was clear. The single piece was cast from a mold and showed waves rolling in to shore, the sun hanging low in the sky. A pair of seagulls was swooping down, fishing. The four-panel set was artisan-made of copper and designed to replicate four panes of a window. Branches of a tree crisscrossed the panes. A bird’s nest perched high atop one limb. The mother bird was about to land, ready to care for her nestlings. In the background, a flock of birds flew across the sky in a chevron pattern.

  Suzanne pointed to the ocean scene. “This one looks, I don’t know, too simple, or something.” She looked at the four-piece set and nodded. “This one is more complex … I love it.”

  I agreed with her assessment. The first piece was crudely crafted, a basic design. The second piece was subtle and detailed, creating a peek into a world. Placed against a painted wall, the effect would be vivid and evocative.

  Sasha told Suzanne the price of the 1985-ish handmade but unsigned piece, $450, and she wrote a check on the spot.

  “I’m meeting Leigh Ann at two to finalize the paint colors,” she said, her eyes sparkling. “I’ll show it to her then. Wouldn’t you love to be a fly on the wall during that conversation?”

  I laughed. “Truthfully … yes!”

  I left Sasha to package it up and headed out to the auction, admiring Suzanne’s silver Mercedes as I hurried to my car.

  I planned on wiping out the competition today. I was loaded with cash and ready to buy. Look out, Henri, I thought with a determined smile.

  * * *

  Crawford Self Storage in Rocky Point was located on Route 1, just south of Portsmouth. As I pulled into the lot the facility shared with an office building, I saw that Henri was already there.

  “Henri!” I called as I stepped out of my car onto the crusty remnants of rock salt.

  He waved and smiled. “Josie,” he said, waiting for me to catch up. “We had a grand time last night. Now today, here we are. We fight together for the lockers.”

  “You could just let me win everything,” I joked.

  “Moi? Non. Sorry, my friend. I play to win.” As we crunched our way across the lot, walking quickly in the bitter cold, he added, “About that phone call yesterday … a contract, a deal I’d almost finalized fell through. I’d hoped to surprise Leigh Ann with some good news, but … oh, well!”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “It would have been a nice extra.”

  “I understand,” I said, thinking that those were words to live by. When you owned a business, it was always nice to have extra.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Vicki Crawford, the Crawford Self Storage facility’s owner, was a big-boned woman twice my age. She stood by her office door holding a clipboard talking in an undertone to a man I knew to be a top auctioneer. His name was Tom, and he sometimes worked for Prescott’s. He was astute and competent and grumpy all the time. Vicki wasn’t grumpy, but she sure was by-the-book and no-nonsense. Everything about her, from her pugnacious stance to her take-no-prisoners glare, communicated that she hadn’t taken a wooden nickel in a year or two and didn’t plan on starting now.

  I stamped my feet a couple of times, trying to counteract the icy cold leaching through my heavy work boots and woolen socks. The temperature had risen to nearly twenty, which, while better than yesterday’s single digits, was still cold enough to make standing around on asphalt a penance. Crawford Self Storage’s units opened directly into the parking lot, handy for renters, but not so nice for us. Some high-end facilities included heated waiting rooms, but not Crawford’s, where the entire auction would take place outside.

  At one minute to ten, there were five of us gathered together in a ragged line, waiting for the auction to begin. In addition to Henri and me, there were two other local antiques dealers, one a chatty woman named CiCi, the other an old-timer named Caleb. CiCi was wearing an ankle-length faux-leopard coat with a matching beret and black wool mittens. Caleb wore an old anorak and an even older wool watch cap. The fifth bidder was a newbie. He was about my age, midthirties, with small brown eyes set close together and a stubble of beard. Both his Red So
x baseball cap and his dark blue parka were smeared with grease.

  “Listen up,” Vicki said. “We have three units to auction off today. You know the rules. I’ll open the door and you can look in for five minutes, but you can’t go in or reach in to open anything. You can’t touch anything.” She paused to stare at each of us, issuing a personalized warning. “Everything is sold as is and all sales are final. Cash and carry. You’ve got to pay in cash and you’ve got to carry it out by the end of the day, trash and all. You’ve all left a deposit. That gets you the right to bid. If you win a locker and don’t have the cash, I keep the deposit. If you don’t clear your lockers out on time, I keep the deposit. If you have the cash and leave the room broom clean, I give the cash back. Simple. Once we’re done, I take the winning bidders’ payments first, then give back outstanding deposits. You can wait or you come back later. Any questions?” No one said anything. “All right, then. The first unit up for sale is number twenty-three, around the other side. Follow me.”

  We tramped along behind Vicki. The storage facility was shaped like a T, and the first unit was on the far side of the crossbar. CiCi ran to join me, slapping her upper arms with her mittened hands.

  “Brrr!” she said. “It’s a cold one! They said the temperature was rising, but I don’t feel it, do you? My uncle says his bones are acting up—that means a storm is coming, a bad one.”

  “The weatherman said it would only be a dusting.”

  “Ha! Who are you going to believe? My infallible Uncle Willy or a meteorologist with wavy hair and a fake smile?”

  “Uncle Willy,” I said, laughing. “No question. How bad does he say it’s going to be?”

  “He says the ache is wicked deep and in both legs. One arm, so far, not both. That means two feet, maybe more. Starting tomorrow night, lasting for at least a full day.”

  “Wow … Uncle Willy is very specific, isn’t he?”

  “He’s been calling storms for close on sixty years.”

  “All right, then. I better get to the store and stock up. Please thank Uncle Willy for me.”

  I’d planned on picking up a chicken. If we were going to be snowbound for the weekend, though, I needed more than one chicken. I offered a private prayer that the storm would hold off until six tomorrow evening, after our weekly tag sale, and after Ty got back from overseeing the training exercises he’d scheduled upstate. Intellectually, I understood why Ty often planned training exercises over weekends—their work was easier when venues were empty, plus, of course, it caused less disruption to business. But emotionally, I hated to have him gone, especially on Sundays, the family day. This week, he was only supposed to work on Saturday—good news.

  Vicki used metal cutters to shear off the padlock.

  “Here we go,” she said. “This is a small locker, five by six.” She swung the door wide. “You’ve got five minutes, starting now.”

  The five of us crowded together in front of the unit aiming our flashlights into dark corners and narrow crevices, trying to intuit value. Rocky Point was an amalgam of wealthy and not, so the neighborhood offered no hint of what the unit might contain, and this locker offered up no obvious clues on its own. Two rows of oversized trash bags were stuffed full of angular somethings, like boxes or storage tubs, and piled to the ceiling. In the very back, I spotted a pair of wooden ladder-back chairs, the kind we could sell at the tag sale for twenty dollars or more each depending on their age and condition.

  “What’s in those bags?” CiCi whispered, a rhetorical question.

  “Nothing,” Caleb replied, disgusted, turning away. “A lot of nothing.”

  I didn’t think it was nothing. Those bags hadn’t been tossed in haphazardly. Someone had taken the time to pack and stack them carefully, and those angles … it could be excess inventory for some small business, now defunct. Or winter clothes someone put away last spring, then never retrieved, who knew why. Or kitchen goods. Or jigsaw puzzles or toys or games. Or electronics. It could be anything, but I thought it was something, and my competitive dander was up.

  Tom started the auction, his patter rhythmic and constant. Henri jumped in with a $50 bid, the minimum. CiCi ran him up to $110, then Caleb entered the fray with a bid of $120. Evidently he didn’t think it was nothing after all. I bid $130, and Caleb countered. CiCi dropped out at $160, and Caleb at $170, and I won the unit for $180.

  I won room 18, too, a large one, stuffed to the rafters with reproduction British Colonial bamboo furniture and matching decorative elements, like monkey-themed picture frames and plates. I paid $720 and couldn’t wait to dig in.

  “Reproductions,” Henri said, wrinkling his nose.

  I laughed. “You’re an antiques snob, my friend,” I said, thinking he shared that quality with Fred. To Fred, collectibles were like unwanted stepchildren. Sasha was more open-minded.

  “And proud. I am a very proud man,” Henri said, smiling.

  The last room up for auction was huge, the largest Crawford offered, 15' by 10' by 10', and it was packed. In addition to boxes and plastic tubs, I spotted what appeared to be a nineteenth-century ornately carved mahogany occasional table. It looked pristine, and I felt my pulse quicken. Tallying my guesstimates of what the visible goods would sell for, I determined that I could bid as much as $1,300 for the unit and still meet my company’s 30 percent max protocol.

  The other four bidders leaped into a fierce battle. I stayed on the side until Caleb stepped out, which happened the moment Henri bid $700. He stomped off to his car without a word. I jumped in with a $900 bid, trying to shut down the bidding then and there. It didn’t work.

  Henri called out his hallmark “Oui,” raising me to $950.

  The four of us went around and around and the price went up and up until finally I hit my max and shook my head, signaling I was out. CiCi bid one more time, raising her offer to $1,350. Henri bid $1,400, and CiCi waved her arms back in forth in front of her, communicating she was done.

  “Darn!” she said, turning to leave. “Next time I’ll win one!”

  I was chilled to the bone, but despite my discomfort, I decided to stay and see who won the bidding, then take a quick look at my units. Curiosity trumps cold every day of the week.

  The newcomer in the Red Sox hat went toe to toe with Henri until the end, finally dropping out at $2,200. When he heard Henri’s “Oui!” raising the bid one last time, he stomped off toward his car. Maybe he’s embarrassed at losing his first time out of the gate, I thought. Bidding on abandoned storage units wasn’t for the faint of heart. He’ll be back for his deposit in an hour or two, after he’s cooled down, just like CiCi and Caleb. Seconds later, he revved up his engine and tore out of the lot.

  After about a minute and a half rummaging through the smaller of my two lockers and finding delicate glassware of no particular value, I decided that I wasn’t so curious after all. It was just too cold for outdoor work. I snapped the padlocks I’d brought with me into place, knowing I could trust Eric to oversee the move-out process. I jogged around the corner and passed Henri’s unit in time to see him slit open a sealed cardboard box with a small box cutter. I shouted good-bye as I passed, but he didn’t respond. He was deep in acquisition mode. Probably he didn’t even hear me.

  * * *

  The best find from the first load Eric brought back was a box of vintage jewelry, some obviously costume, some maybe not. I reached into the box and, under a warped old cardboard gift box, uncovered a Fulco di Verdura–style wrapped heart, a brooch, about three inches high. The stones appeared to be cabochon rubies and diamonds set in white gold or platinum, with thick strands of what, from the rich color, I suspected was 18-karat gold, draped like ribbon over and around the heart. The ribbon was creased and shone like gilt. It was breathtakingly beautiful. I turned it over and used a loupe to examine the back for hallmarks and signatures. I spotted the mark indicating it was made of platinum, Pt999, and then saw faint etch marks. I moved closer to the light, and only by squinting was I able to make ou
t a code: C-136. I didn’t know what it meant, but I knew it meant something. I soft-whistled and used the wall phone intercom to summon Sasha.

  “Take a gander at this,” I said, handing it to her as she approached the worktable.

  Sasha’s eyes lit up as she turned it this way and that. “It’s magnificent, isn’t it? Is it marked?”

  “Yes. It looks like a Verdura, don’t you think?”

  “Yes,” she said, nodding, “and I know he did a series of wrapped hearts back in the forties.”

  “We need to get it over to Nate, pronto.”

  Nate, the third-generation Blackmore to work at the jewelry store his grandfather founded, was our go-to guy for jewelry appraisals. Blackmore’s Jewelers was the best jewelry store on the coast, bar none.

  She nodded. “I’ll take it myself.”

  “There’s a boxful of jewelry. Jade earrings. Rope necklaces. All sorts of things. Take everything—you never know. If Nate thinks this heart might be real, we should call Verdura’s in New York. I remember them from when I worked at Frisco’s; they were able to authenticate a brooch from one of Verdura’s original drawings. They have something like ten thousand of those drawings, and all the original bills of sale. And almost nothing is computerized, or at least it wasn’t back then. Can you imagine?”

  “How can they find anything?”

  “They’re organized! If the piece is unique, and many of Verdura’s were, since he designed one-of-a-kind pieces for Coco Chanel and Babe Paley and Greta Garbo and the Duchess of Windsor and so on, the process is pretty straight ahead. On the other hand, there are thousands of gold crisscross bracelets, for instance—it was one of his most popular designs—and those are, obviously, harder to authenticate. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. The first thing to do is get Nate’s opinion.”

  She nodded and glanced at the clock mounted nearby. It was 11:55.