lunatic!” Marian’s tone made it clear who, of the two of them, had the mental defi-ciency.
The crowd of ladies began to buzz. They would have paid twice the admission price! Conversations with those unlucky enough to have missed all this were rapidly being mentally rehearsed:
“Did you hear what happened at the Byford show house? I mean, she looked like such a nice woman, well dressed . . .”
Hearing the whispered undercurrents and needing no translation after her years in Aleford, Faith addressed the group. “I’m sure all of you have heard about the recent rash of burglaries in the area, and our house was hit. My mother-in-law recognized the napkin rings as soon as she looked at the table, and she did what any of us would do—took them back. Now, if you’ll excuse us . . .” She led the way, she knew not where, through the nearest door. It was a large butler’s pantry and she was happy to see a phone. It hung on the wall and wasn’t disguised in any cutesy, decorative way. Just a plain—she picked up the receiver—working phone. Before she dialed, she turned to the hostess, who was dogging their heels, keeping the napkin rings in sight. “I’d like to call the Aleford police and let them know about this. I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.” She was excessively polite.
“It’s Mrs. Eleanor Barnett. Yes, I think the police should be notified. Nothing like this has ever happened at one of my houses before.” Clearly, it was Faith’s and Marian’s fault.
While she punched in the numbers, Faith was aware that Marian and Mrs. Barnett were having a heated discussion sotto voce. She listened as best she could while the phone at the police station rang—and rang.
“I can’t let you take these! Even if they are yours,” the woman corrected herself hastily. “I mean, they are obviously yours, but all our antiques have been supplied by Nan Howell. She owns Tymely Treasures here in town. I have to get in touch with her.”
“Never mind.” Faith had a sudden premoni-tion. If this Nan Howell was honest, fine, but if she wasn’t, calling would mean any other things of theirs the woman might have in her possession would promptly disappear. “We’ll let the Aleford police handle this and finish looking at the beautiful job you’ve done here. Marian, we know where the napkin rings are, so let’s leave them for now.”
Marian looked as if she was about to protest, but Faith caught her eye and she got the message.
She handed the napkin rings over without another word.
Faith was speaking into the phone. “Yes, we’re positive they’re ours, Dale. They have our initials on them and our birth dates.” Charley wasn’t at the station, which accounted for the delay in answering the phone, and Patrolman Warren was having a hard time believing they had found some of their stolen items—giving a lie to Charley’s well-meant reassurances that the Fairchilds’ goods might never be recovered.
“Golly, Mrs. Fairchild! I don’t think I’ve ever heard of anybody getting their stuff back!” He promised to get the message to the chief as quickly as possible and Faith said she’d be in touch.
“The police have been informed,” Faith said emphatically. “Marian, shall we see the rest of the house?” She walked from the pantry into the large kitchen. Clutching the napkin rings, Eleanor Barnett went in the opposite direction to restore the table settings, leaving the Fairchild women with obvious reluctance. She glanced around the kitchen. Aside from some small potted herbs on the windowsill, there was nothing pilferable.
Marian spoke loudly and distinctly: “I think granite counters are getting slightly old hat, don’t you, Faith, but putting a hinged window seat along those back windows was terribly clever.” The show was over—or one of them.
As soon as the woman left, Faith said softly,
“There must be a back door. We’ve got to get to that antique shop before anyone—the police or someone from here—calls the owner. They’ll be so busy talking about all this among themselves that we may get lucky and no one will think to call the antiques store. Besides, they think we’re still here. Afterward, I want to come back and search the rest of the house.”
Marian nodded and said brightly, again in her crisp New England voice, a voice with great carrying power, “I wonder if there’s a mudroom. So handy if you have small children. And look at the garden! Did you ever see such roses? Such early blooms!” She had Faith outside and walking down the street toward the car before you could say Mario Buatta.
While Marian drove, Faith found the address of Tymely Treasures in the show house program booklet. It was on Route 62, which was nearby.
She watched the numbers, and they were almost in Carlisle before they found it—next to a dry cleaners and, from the look of the brick, dating back in “tyme” to the mid-1970s.
A bell rang merrily as Faith pushed open the door. The store was deep and narrow. Every surface was covered—paintings and prints on the walls, rugs of various descriptions on the floor, most of which was taken up by chests, chairs, tables, and whatnots—layers upon layers. One side of the room was lined with bookcases and china closets, each appropriately crammed. The other side contained several showcases filled with silver, jewelry, and small objets d’art—tchotchkes.
The afternoon sun caught a tabletop filled with cut glass. It also glinted off a group of offerings from the thirties—shiny cocktail shakers, blue etched glass mirrors, slender nymphs draped in impossible poses around clock faces. Fringed silk and paisley shawls had been draped over a row of late-nineteenth-century love seats and it wasn’t until one of the shawls moved, revealing a pleasant-faced middle-aged woman with a Dutch bob, that the Fairchilds were sure that someone was indeed minding the store.
“Hi, welcome to Tymely Treasures. I’m Nan.
Are you looking for anything special?” She was wearing a long, loose caftan and, in addition to the shawl, had adorned herself with strings of amber and cinnabar beads, several inches of brightly colored Bakelite bracelets on both wrists, and a large cameo on her ample breast.
“We’re looking for a gift—silver, or maybe a piece of jewelry.” Faith had no intention of saying anything about the napkin rings until she’d thoroughly cased the joint and formed an impression of Nan Howell.
“Over there.” She pointed to her left. “I’ll be happy to show you anything you want to see.
Take your time.” She resumed her position on the love seat and took up the book she’d been reading. It was a mystery—
Twenty minutes later, Faith realized dejectedly that while Nan Howell had lovely things, none of them belonged to the Fairchilds. The woman had gotten up twice, once to answer the phone and once to unlock one of the showcases and pull out a box of serving pieces so they could have a closer look. Marian had drifted off toward some Ben-nington pottery and Faith was trying to decide what to do next, when she was startled by Nan’s voice. She’d gotten up and was walking toward Faith.
“I bought the napkin rings. I didn’t steal them.
You are Faith Fairchild, right?” Was the woman clairvoyant? Faith remembered the phone ringing. Charley must have gotten the message. But it wasn’t Charley.
“Ellie Barnett, the woman in charge of the show house, is an old friend. She called me right away. ‘A blonde,’ she said, ‘about five six, very well dressed, accompanied by an older woman,’
so I figured it must be you.” All this had been delivered in a sympathetic but also slightly amused manner. Faith had the feeling that Nan was picturing the scene in the show house dining room.
She’d also clearly enjoyed letting the two
“sleuths” search her store, all the while knowing exactly who they were and what they were up to.
Momentarily diverted by trying to analyze the owner of Tymely Treasures—and by the flattering description of her own wardrobe—Faith was soon back on track. “Where did you get the napkin rings—and when?”
“Let’s sit down. Do you want a cup of tea?” Nan locked the front door and turned the sign around so it read closed.
She led the way to the rear of the store, which had been curtained off. Behind the curtain, there was a table with a hot plate, several chairs, and more stock. Nan put the kettle on.
“It’s a horrible experience—being broken into.
I’ve had things taken from the shop or at shows, but never from my home. It always bothers me to lose something. You know that someone you took on good faith as a customer wasn’t really, but it would be much, much worse to have it happen in one’s abode. The old ‘Your house is your castle’ thing—impregnable, safe.”
Nan was a talker, something that had not been apparent at first. She knew enough to keep her mouth shut while people were browsing, but now there was no need. This was all fine with Faith. She simply needed to steer the conversation in the right direction.
Marian had taken over making the tea. She automatically assumed tasks like this.
