Montrose’s hands dropped neatly into his lap.
“Now, Mrs. Fairchild, you understand that the first thing the company needs to establish is exactly what was taken and the value of these items before any compensation can be offered.”
“I think we can go on to step two. We have submitted a detailed list with the values, as well as photographs of much of what we lost.”
“Ah, yes, the photos.” He leaned over, balanced his briefcase on his knees, and unsnapped it, pulling out a thin manila folder. “The problem with your snapshots is that we have no way of knowing whether these items were actually in your possession.” He handed her one—sterling flatware spread out on a piece of black cloth, per her father-in-law’s instructions.
“I don’t need to see the photos. I took them.
And what do you mean that you have no way of knowing these were ours? Do you think I went out, borrowed a bunch of valuables from friends, took pictures, and then brought them to the agency?”
He smiled smugly. “It’s been known to happen.
I’m sorry, but we need to establish ownership. . . .”
She cut him off in midsentence, ready to throw him out of the house. “Establish ownership!
There’s the date on the original roll of film, for one thing. You can subpoena the people at Aleford Photo who developed it! And wait—” She raced to the bookcase and took out an album. It was stuffed with photographs, still in their folders from the camera shop, that she had not gotten around to putting in. Roughly two years’ worth.
The next rainy day never seemed to come.
“Here.” She thrust a shot of Christmas dinner under his nose. “See the silver on the table. The candlesticks. The carving set my husband is holding. Gone. And they’re in the black-and-white photos. How dare you suggest that somehow we’re out to defraud the insurance company.
Maybe you think I staged the robbery, too?
Cracked my own door!”
“Mrs. Fairchild, there’s no need to take this tone. I have to do my job. Why don’t you show me the room in this picture?”
Fuming and muttering, “Maybe you think I borrowed that, too,” Faith led the way into the dining room. He took a small camera from his pocket and started snapping away.
“You can see they took a drawer from the sideboard to carry it all in.”
“Ah, yes, the sideboard. We’ll need an appraisal on it. We’ll be sending someone along.”
“I think we’ll be having it appraised ourselves, if you don’t mind.” Faith could well imagine what value his “expert” would assign.
“Probably the simplest thing would be to have another drawer made.” He’d shot a whole roll, or was finishing one up. In any case, the whir of the film rewinding automatically sounded like fin-gernails on a blackboard to Faith.
“And this drawer held what?”
“Mostly serving pieces, candlesticks, a set of coffee spoons in a leather case, some silver wine coasters.” Faith was discouraged from continuing by the look on Mr. Montrose’s face. Lurking behind his impassive expression was total doubt.
“What?” she asked.
“What do you mean ‘what?’ ” he countered.
“You don’t believe me again.”
“It’s not a question of what
That did it. Faith blew up. “I want you out of my house. Now! Do I have any receipts? I’m afraid they weren’t tucked in with our wedding gifts—or passed down over the years. What the hell do you think? That the perpetrators took a drawerful of tablecloths! I haven’t heard that linens are bringing too much on the street these days, but then, they may have specialized in them. In which case, they missed the ones in the drawer below!” She was shouting at him as he walked rapidly toward the front door, obviously eager to get away from this madwoman. “And give me back the picture of our Christmas dinner.
I don’t want you to have it. Give me the whole damn file!”
He tossed the photo her way but held his folder tightly and was out the door before she could try ripping it from his grasp.
Tom appeared twenty minutes later. Faith had fetched the children immediately, both with the thought of not imposing—below the surface, also saving up for another imposition—and because she wanted to exorcise the adjuster. First, she’d given Pix a quick rundown on “Mr. Monstrous,” as she was calling him out of real and pretended confusion as to his name; then she’d scooped up Ben and Amy for some cookie making at home.
Tom walked into the kitchen as Faith was putting out ingredients for her oatmeal chocolate goodies (see recipe on page 340), an absurdly easy, child-friendly concotion.
“That was fast. He’s gone already?”
“Yes,” Faith hissed, “and I’ve been waiting for you to get back before calling Gardner. He has to tell them they have to send another adjuster. If that particular man ever tries to come into this house again, I’ll pour boiling oil on him from the upstairs window.”
“Really, Mom? Could I watch? A big pot? Like from a castle? What kind of oil?” Ben stopped stirring, excited at the prospect of a siege.
“Olive oil, and no, you can’t watch,” Faith said, looking at Amy, blissfully ignorant of adult conversation as yet. Having Ben around was like living in China at the time of Mao’s youth informant program. Parental privacy had become a distant memory.
“Oh, no, Faith!” Tom had spent the last two hours mediating between an angry teenager and her mother with some success, for the moment.
He’d felt happier than he had in days—until he came home. “What happened?”
Faith switched to a combination of schoolroom French, pig Latin, and English, which seemed to suit the outrageous events of the morning, and soon Tom was boiling mad, too.
“It’s like getting robbed all over again!”
“Exactly,” Faith agreed. “And now we know what Edith Petit meant. They have got to come up with another adjuster!”
That more than agreed upon, Tom left the room to call, and Faith started to calm down. After the cookies were made and they had lunch, maybe Samantha could come over, or Danny. She was in the mood for action. There were a couple of pawnshops she wanted to check out.
He was the largest person she’d ever seen. Faith took a step backward, awkwardly bumping into Tom before she stopped dead in her tracks. pres-tige pawn—we buy everything a neon sign flashed over the front door, competing with the bright sunshine, which only served to highlight the dinginess of the strip mall just across the Massachusetts–New Hampshire border. It was the fourth pawnshop the Fairchilds had visited, starting in Lowell, and so far they’d turned up nothing.
“Whadya want? Selling or buying?” the man asked, stubbing out a filtered cigarette in an ash-tray brimming with butts. The lower part of his face joined his chin in loose layers of fat, both falling into his neck, straining the collar of his Ban-Lon shirt. Stacks of papers flowed over the desk. Empty Dunkin’ Donuts coffee cups and Munchkin boxes teetered on top of an overstuffed wastepaper basket. Faith had the sensation that she and Tom were about to be engulfed in this tide, too. She took a deep breath and went into her number.
“We’re looking for a wedding present”—after all, it was that time of year—“and we wondered if you had any silver—sterling?” She tried to peer behind his desk, which, with his massive girth, effectively blocked entry to the rear, where stock ranging from audio equipment to Beanie Babies filled the shelves. Browsing was apparently not encouraged. “Or a piece of jewelry—something antique. We’re friends of the bride.” Plenty of brides.
He cleared his throat—it was not a pretty sound—reached under the desk, and pulled out a fresh pack of cigarettes, all the while looking intently at the two of them. This had been more or less the same kind of reception they’d received at the other places. Faith wasn’t sure whether it meant the proprietors thought she and Tom were
