not even a hairline crack in any of the Rose Medallion.
The next shelf . . . On the next shelf was grandmother Sibley’s silver creamer and sugar bowl, the fish-serving pieces from the Conklins, a cold-meat fork from Faith and Tom’s wedding silver, an Art Nouveau picture frame they’d bought at the Marche aux Puces de Clignancourt in Paris, and Great-Grandmother Fairchild’s gold thim-ble— or so it appeared. Her initials were engraved inside. Marian had given it to Amy on her first birthday, because their initials were the same.
Faith had decided to assume this was why and not respond to any hint Marian might be subtly trying to convey. Embroidering handkerchiefs and turning out samplers were not skills she could pass on to her daughter and she didn’t intend to take up needlework at this stage in her life, no matter how simple Pix said it was to count cross-stitches. The only needle Faith plied was a basting one, and she found French tarts infinitely preferable to French knots.
She was staring, transfixed, into the case.
“Tom!” It was hard not to scream. “Look!”
“I know, I know.” He was squeezing her hand so hard, her ring was cutting into her finger, but she didn’t let go.
“It’s our silver—and that malachite pin, on the bottom shelf. It’s mine. Hope gave it to me.
Quick, find somebody with a key.”
Feigning nonchalance wasn’t easy, but the Fairchild/Montgomerys gave performances wor-thy of at least an Oscar nomination. They’d have received a People’s Choice Award, hands down.
“This is nice, dear, but the stone is small. Do you think it’s a real amethyst?” Faith was holding a lavaliere on a long, thin gold chain that her parents had given her as a teenager.
“Let’s get it—and these other things.” They’d piled the silver on the front counter and now added the two pieces of jewelry.
“Can you hold these for us while we look around some more?” Faith asked the woman, who was listing their items.
“Sure,” she said. “Take your time. We stay open until dark.” She lit a cigarette. Clearly none of the rules applied to her.
At first, it was fun. Elated by their success, the Fairchilds scanned each case thoroughly. Then it got tedious and the items began to look alike.
Hadn’t they just seen those shaving mugs? Those shelves of souvenir spoons?
“Why don’t we split up?” Tom suggested.
Faith shook her head. “You wouldn’t recognize everything, particularly the jewelry. Some of the things I never wear, or wore, I should say,” she amended sadly. “Things from when I was a kid.
Things that aren’t in style anymore.” Finally, they reached the end. They hadn’t found anything else.
“Obviously, we don’t tell her the things are stolen. She’d call whoever the dealer is, and we can forget about ever seeing anything else again.”
“So, we just buy it back?”
“We buy it back, but dicker, Tom, dicker.” He gave her a withering look. You didn’t have to tell a Yankee to bargain.
“Are you dealers?” the woman asked.
“No. But I’m sure you can do better for us.
What’s your cash price?” Tom asked. The Fairchilds had stopped at an ATM. Faith didn’t want to have to give identification with a check.
The woman looked at them with a practiced eye, appraising their clothes, wedding and engagement rings, then entered the information into her mental calculator. Sharon Fielding, who owned the Old Oaken Bucket with her husband, Jack, could spot a reproduction iron bank at twenty paces. She also knew she had a relatively well-heeled couple who weren’t going to hold out for 10 percent and risk losing the items. “Five percent for cash—since you’re not dealers. That’s all I’m authorized to give.” Case number four’s dealer—where all the merchandise had come from—gave Sharon free rein, but besides rent, she extracted a commission from the dealers. Buying low and selling high was as important to her as it was to them.
Tom knew he was being taken, but he didn’t want to risk a delay. They needed to walk out of the place with everything now—for their peace of mind and in case anyone got the wind up. Or there was also the chance that someone else might purchase some of the items.
Faith moved into action. “There were such lovely things in that case,” she said. “Does the dealer have a shop? We’d like to see more.”
“No, he doesn’t.” Okay, it was a man.
“We wanted to talk to him about several of the other pieces we are interested in, especially the tea service.” It was the most expensive item in the case—vintage Jensen silver from Denmark. “Is he local? Could we get in touch with him?”
“No, he’s in Massachusetts, but we have dealer day the second Friday of each month and he often comes.”
“Oh dear, that won’t be for a while. Why don’t you give us his name and we’ll get in touch with him directly?” Okay, a man in Massachusetts.
“We never give out names.”
Period.
They’d succeeded in narrowing things down, but male Massachusetts antiques dealers com-prised a rather large group.
On the way home, Faith realized she was exhausted—and hungry. The little tea sandwiches she’d consumed at lunch were a distant memory.
She rummaged around in the glove compartment and found a bar of extradark Lindt chocolate she kept there for emergencies. She broke off a piece for Tom.
“Do you know what the worst thing about all this is?”
“No, what is the worst thing, and what is all this?”
“Looking for our stuff. The worst thing is that I’m even more dissatisfied now that I’ve found some.”
“Huh?” said Tom. “Is that all the chocolate there is?”
“No, here’s some more. It sounds crazy, but finding these things makes me remember what’s still missing, and I can’t appreciate what I’ve got, because I want it all back.”
“It does sound a little crazy, but also a little logical. Like being starving and only getting enough food to take the edge off your hunger. Or being thirsty—”
“I get it, I get it. Could be a sermon topic, honey.” Tom put his hand over Faith’s. “You never know.”
They were almost home. It had been a strange trip. On the way up, Faith had barely given a passing glance to the beautiful landscape—birches bent low against the looming dark conifers; maples and other hardwoods leafed out in brilliant greens that would give way to a more gaudy palette during fall foliage season. The small back road that crossed the state line would be bumper-to-bumper then. It was almost deserted now. On the way back, Faith was just as oblivious to her surroundings, at times forgetting exactly where they were. Peterborough? Pepperell? Lowell? Mars?
“Do we drive straight to the police station or call?” Tom asked.
“Call. We want to preserve your mother’s illusion that her grandchildren are perfect, and the longer we stay away, the more precarious that becomes. There’s also the danger that our children may start comparing me to her. ‘Granny never makes me take a bath. Granny never yells at me.
Granny lets me eat Happy Meals.’ I can hear Ben now.”
“Nonsense, you’re a perfect mother—and a perfect wife.”
Faith didn’t bother to correct him.
“Let me see if I understand this.” Faith was talking on the phone with Charley MacIsaac. “If you find out the name of the dealer from the Old Oaken Bucket people, you can’t search his house, even though he was selling stolen goods, because you wouldn’t be able to get a warrant without probable cause?”
Charley cleared his throat. They’d been down this road several times already in various vehicles.
