“You still haven’t told us where our napkin rings came from. How did they end up with you?
They were stolen last Tuesday.”
“I got them from the Old Oaken Bucket Antiques Mart near Peterborough, New Hampshire, last Friday. The receipt may have the case number on it. Anyway, it’s the first large one you come to on the right behind the front counter. Oaken Bucket rents space to dealers, most of whom don’t have, or don’t want, shops. There are lots of places like this all over New England now. Antiques supermarkets. The small, owner-operated shop may become a thing of the past. Kind of like all those chains putting the old-fashioned drugstores—you know, with the soda fountains—and small independent bookstores out of business.
People want to look at a whole lot of things without driving around. I call it the Wal-Martization of America.” Nan was off on a tangent again.
Faith wasn’t paying much attention.
Her heart was soaring. Peterborough wasn’t far.
Maybe an hour and a half. She looked at her watch. But if she was going to make it today, she’d have to go now. Unless the place was open late.
Another thought suddenly occurred to her. She hadn’t seen any of their things displayed, yet that didn’t necessarily mean Nan hadn’t purchased more items. Some could have been sold already!
“What else did you buy from that case?”
“Just the napkin rings. I needed them for the show house and they were reasonable. There was a nice gold bracelet, but the price was too high. I left an offer.”
Marian placed a mug of tea in Faith’s hand.
“Why don’t you and Tom take a drive up there?
I’ll watch the children. There’s no point in going back to the show house if Mrs. Howell”—Marian had obviously spotted the heavy gold wedding band on the woman’s ring finger, as had Faith—
“bought only the napkin rings.” This was said a bit wistfully, and Faith promised herself that she would make it her number one priority in the future to take her mother-in-law to every bedecked house possible.
Nan had been eyeing both women. “It’s not a bad idea. They stay open later now that daylight saving time is in effect, and with Memorial Day weekend coming up, you’d better check things out as soon as you can. That’s the official start of the tourist season, and plenty of folks take the opportunity to go antiquing.”
Faith was seized with a sudden rush of panic.
They had to get to the Old Oaken Bucket and they had to get there as soon as possible!
“Thank you!” She put the mug down, tea forgotten.
Marian gave Nan a warm smile. “You have such a delightful shop. I’ll certainly be back when I have more time—and about the napkin rings.
Why don’t you tell your friend Mrs. Barnett to have them at the door? The children like to go to Carlisle for ice cream, and we’ll pick the silver up on our way.”
No flies on her.
As she walked the two women out, Nan told Faith to come back the next day. “I can give you a list of trade publications where you can send photos or descriptions of your stolen things. Also suggest other places you might look.”
“We wasted almost all day Saturday going to pawnshops. We should have been checking out antiques stores!” Faith had visions of her possessions changing hands almost before her eyes.
“It’s still very early—your things could be anywhere, including pawnshops. You can’t know where—or who’s involved—except that you were obviously broken into by pros.”
The first time Faith had heard this, she had felt a modicum of pride. They’d been robbed, but by high-class thieves. Now she wished it had been by thugs who didn’t know Meissen from Melomac. Maybe they wouldn’t have known where to look or taken the sideboard drawer. These guys would have grabbed the computers, maybe a little jewelry, and run.
“Yup, pros,” Nan said.
This was getting to be another one of those phrases that Faith wasn’t sure she could hear repeated again without seriously damaging something.
The Old Oaken Bucket was certainly not your average cozy antiques shop. There was nothing oaken about it, for a start. It was a long, low cor-rugated metal warehouse with a large sign at the entrance advising patrons to lock their coats and bags in their cars; otherwise, they would have to be checked. Another sign warned patrons that the premises were protected by Acme Alarms. AND smith & wesson had been added underneath, crudely printed with a black marker. There was no welcome mat. There was, however, a bucket—a large tin pail filled with sand and another sign—park your butts here. Faith went back to the car and locked her purse in the trunk.
“Ready?” she said to Tom.
“Absolutely.” She’d had no trouble convincing him to make the mad dash to New Hampshire before the place closed. He’d been stunned, and overjoyed that they’d recovered anything, and the thought of more had put him in a high good humor.
“I told Ms. Dawson she could take the rest of the day off,” Tom told Faith on the way up. “She really is working too hard, but she insisted on staying. You know, I’ve never seen work pile up on her desk. The woman is the best secretary I’ve ever had. I mean, assistant.” The church had recently changed the name of the position to administrative assistant.
Rhoda Dawson had been pushed to the back of Faith’s mind since last Thursday and now the questions that had nagged at her then emerged with full force. Was the woman a workaholic?
Maybe she had no other life except for her job? Or maybe she was nipping in and out of the church office to size up various prospects in the neighborhood for her partners in crime. Faith wasn’t about to voice this suspicion and get lectured again. Let Tom enjoy the sight of a clean desk.
He’d never see his own that way.
The inside of the Old Oaken Bucket was as sterile as the outside. A Formica counter barred the way from the entrance to the rows and rows of floor-to-ceiling glass booths. The booths were all locked up tight and employees walked up and down the aisles with keys. Faith watched someone open a case for a customer as Tom filled out a form requiring more information than a 1040. Apparently, the customer was interested in several pieces of jewelry. They were handed to her one at a time, the watchful eye of the Bucket staff member never leaving the item for an instant. There were also video cameras mounted on the ceiling, keeping track of things. Nan’s analogy to Wal-Mart was false, Faith decided. Wal-Mart was a whole lot more trusting.
She’d instructed Tom to give a false name and address and now peered over to see if he’d complied. If the Bucket people were involved with the Fairchilds’ robbery, they might recognize the address and send them packing, Faith had explained to Tom. He’d agreed, but she should have signed them in herself. Falsehoods did not come trippingly to Tom’s tongue—or hand. At the last moment, his conscience might force his fingers to write his real name and they would miss their chance. Next to the counter blocking entry to the booths, there was another intimidating sign: we reserve the right to refuse entrance to anybody for any reason. The woman behind the counter examined Tom’s form carefully and lifted the hinged section, allowing them to pass into the main part of the store one at a time. “Go right ahead, Mr. Montgomery.” That was the name Faith had given him, not too common, not too uncommon, and not Tom’s initials. Faith breathed a sigh of relief. They were in.
Unlike Nan Howell, this woman wasn’t wearing anything over five years old. She was dressed in tight black toreador pants and a sheer white blouse. Heavily made up and her bottle-blond hair elaborately coiffed, she looked more like a cocktail waitress than the proprietor of an antiques emporium. “If you want to look at something, I have people with keys on the floor,” she added perfunctorily.
Tom nodded and let his wife precede him. She made a beeline for the cases to the right. The surroundings might be institutional, but the silver, porcelain, glass, and other objects the dealers offered turned the drab interior into Ali Baba’s cave.
“The first on the right,” Faith whispered to Tom. “This must be it.”
The shelves had been covered with deep crimson velvet and each was devoted to a different category. The top one displayed four alabaster busts. Inspired by the beauty of the gods and goddesses purloined from the Parthenon, Victorians had wanted to bring Artemis and Aphrodite even closer to home—in the drawing room or parlor. These were fine examples.
The next shelf was covered with Chinese export porcelain and netsukes. Again, all were in perfect condition,
