Body in the Bookcase

“I can get the name and question him. Have him bring his receipts if he claims to have purchased the things, but you said you don’t want to do that.”

“He’ll get rid of everything if he thinks we’re on to him. The only way is to raid his house or storage locker. Whatever he uses.”

“You have heard of the U.S. Constitution, right?

And I don’t mean the ship in Boston Harbor.”

“No need to get sarcastic. I know what you’re saying.” Since the beginning of the conversation, Faith had been wishing she was not such an ardent supporter of constitutional rights. It was all well and good in the abstract, but they were definitely getting in the way now. Maybe this is when they are needed most, an annoying little voice nagged at her. The voice sounded remarkably like her Aunt Chat’s.

Another voice told her she was going to have to handle this investigation herself. She was sorry she’d called the police. Their goals were not con-verging at the moment. Yes, she wanted the perpetrators caught and brought to justice, but she also wanted to recover as much as possible in the process.

“Give me the booth number, Faith, and I’ll drive up there tomorrow. Then I’ll have a talk with the dealer. You say he lives in Massachusetts?”

“I think that’s what the woman said,” Faith replied tentatively. She had her own plans. “I don’t have the case number.” She didn’t, not by the phone.

Charley was getting annoyed. “Look, do you want me to investigate your burglary or not?

There’s another call coming and I’m alone here, as usual. You come by tomorrow and we’ll straighten this out.”

That was fine with Faith.

Nan Howell had been as good as her word. When Faith arrived at the shop the next day, Nan handed her a list of publications: The Maine Antique Digest, The Newtown Bee, Unravel the Gavel, and another list of the major antiques marts in New England. It was daunting. How would Faith ever be able to do her job, let alone tend her hearth?

“There’s a big show this weekend, paid preview all day Friday. It’s at the Copley Plaza in Boston. And then there are the auctions. You need to check the paper each week.”

“Do you go to all these things? How would you have time?”

“I make my rounds, especially the auctions and the better shows. For the rest, I rotate. I hadn’t been to the Old Oaken Bucket, for instance, since last summer, but they close for a couple of months in the winter. I have to do this in order to get stock. And a good part of my business is locating things people have asked me to look for. I get called in to buy pieces when estates are settled every now and then, but people tend to auction everything off—the treasures with the trash. People come in with things to sell, too, convinced Great-Aunt Tillie’s lamp is a Tiffany. Sometimes they sell, even after I tell them it’s a repro. Of course, if the PBS Antiques Road Show is to be believed, we might all find one of the missing copies of the Declaration of Independence in the basement in a stack of old newspapers, or a fifteenth-century Venetian gold helmet in the attic, lodged in the beams to catch a pesky drip.” Faith was curious. “Have you had the store for a long time?”

“About fifteen years. It started as a hobby. I collected art pottery before the prices skyrocketed.

Then I started doing flea markets with things I’d bought before I knew better or had had to buy in box lots and didn’t want. One thing led to another, and I was picking up stuff to sell as well as for my collection, reading all the books I could. I knew the man who owned this store and I began to work here a few days a week. Then he wanted to sell the business, and my husband said to go for it. It was a good thing I did. A month after my grand opening, my husband passed away suddenly. A sweetheart, but he thought he’d live forever. You know the type?”

Faith did. No insurance.

“Anyway, the kids were in high school, and this place saw them both through college and kept me from going crazy. Still does.” College, and a nice BMW parked outside that Faith assumed was Nan’s from the vanity plate: anteek. Tymely Treasures must do very well.

Very well indeed.

Faith had told Nan about their finds the day before at the Old Oaken Bucket when she’d called to be sure the shop was open. In the clear light of day, each item was a treasure, doubly treasured for having been restored to its rightful owners. Faith’s depression of the day before had abated—somewhat.

“Wouldn’t the Oaken Bucket’s owners tell you whose case it is?” she asked Nan. “You did leave an offer on a gold bracelet, so you have a reason to call. I think it was still there—heavy gold links with a ruby in the clasp?”

“Yes, that’s the one.” Nan was flushed and it wasn’t just the green tea she’d brewed for them.

“This is exciting. I feel like Peter Wimsey, or Har-riet Vane, more likely. The Old Oaken Bucket opens at ten o’clock, too, and someone should be there. I’ve known the owners, Sharon and Jack Fielding, since I started in the business, and you’re right, I’m sure they’ll tell me.” They did.

“It’s George Stackpole,” Nan told Faith after she hung up the phone. “He lives in Framingham and does shows, has booths in a couple of places.

Cambridge, I think. Maybe Byfield. I saw him at an auction last week. He said he’s going to be at the show at the Copley that I told you about.”

“What’s he like?” Faith asked eagerly. After the trip to New Hampshire, she’d shelved her initial annoyance and had been blessing her mother-in-law steadily for starting her on the napkin ring trail. Nan was a similar gift from heaven, or so it appeared.

“He’s . . . well, unpredictable.”

“What does that mean?”

“He can get a little out of control at auctions—

accuses the auctioneer of ignoring his bids, that kind of thing—when he doesn’t get what he wants. He’s forgotten more than I’ll ever know about this business. But he’s . . . volatile.” Nan was being uncharacteristically reticent and Faith wondered why. Her whole manner had changed after she’d found out who owned case number four. The enthusiasm she’d displayed before making the call had given way to decided reluctance. Just how well did Nan Howell know this George Stackpole? Faith wondered. Was this a case of dealers closing ranks, or some other protective impulse on her part? Instead of the question she’d intended to ask next—Was he known to be crooked? —Faith posed a less threatening one.

“How old a man is he?”

“Hard to say. Probably mid- to late sixties.” Certainly capable of wielding a crowbar and carrying a loaded drawer, Faith thought.

“Does he ever sell out of his house? I know it’s an awful lot to ask, but maybe the two of us could go and see what he has?”

Nan considered Faith’s suggestion. “Well,” she said slowly, “crooked dealers make the whole profession look bad. I guess I could tell him I’m low on stock and want to see what he has, then take you along as my assistant or something. I’m not sure when I’ll have the time, though. It’s been quite busy here.” The empty store yesterday and today made Faith wonder when, exactly, the busy time was—probably weekends—but she was glad she’d proposed the scheme. She had to see what else this Stackpole might have of theirs.

“You’ve been an enormous help and I can’t thank you enough,” Faith said. “I have to get to work myself. This is a very busy time of year for me too. I don’t know why more people don’t get married say in January.”

There was forced laughter on both sides and Faith left. On the ride back to Aleford, it occurred to her that another matter she hadn’t brought up with Nan was whether any of the foot traffic seeking to sell her items had seemed like footpads—a guy with a silver chest, for example, or a pillowcase of jewelry.

Stephanie was waiting impatiently outside the catering kitchens. “I thought you got to work early.”

Remembering Courtney’s not-too-veiled repri-mand, Faith bit her tongue and put on a pleasant,

“welcoming” smile. Niki could be bad cop—not that she could be otherwise with Miss Bullock.

“I’m sorry. Have you been here long? Usually, I am at work much earlier, but it’s been a strange few days.”

Stephanie’s interest was piqued, and for once she asked about someone else. “What’s been going on?”

As Faith made coffee and took out the ingredients for a small test batch of the cold avocado bisque (see recipe on page 336) she planned to serve at the rehearsal dinner, she found herself telling Stephanie all about the hunt for the missing Fairchild loot.