Body in the Bookcase

touching with my eyes, Mommy,” he told her vir-tuously—and priggishly. And she was quick. This time it was easy. At each place, she said, “I’ve been buying from George Stackpole”—which she had. Then she added, “I’m sorry, but I don’t remember the number of his booth.” Each place gave it—and she added a pair of sugar tongs, a wine coaster, and her Pearson silver necklace and bracelet to the growing list of items back from the dead. She was flushed with success as they stopped at the Toys “ R ” Us in Fresh Pond to make good her promise to Ben. Bribery worked only if you carried through immediately. Deferred gratification was as alien a concept to children as supply- side economics.

At home, as soon as the kids were occupied, she looked in the Framingham telephone book and found George’s address. A plan was forming and she needed to think about it. Above all, she didn’t want to discuss it with Tom.

Seven

Everything about Julian Bullock shrieked bespoke, from the cut of his summer- weight suit to his Turnbull and Asser shirt, the cuffs linked by discreet Cartier gold knots. He was a tall man with a well-scrubbed pink-and-white complexion. His thinning blond hair appeared to have been cut that very morning. He used Penhaligon’s Blenheim Bouquet aftershave—but not too much.

He greeted the two women as they stepped out of Patsy Avery’s car. “So good of you to come by.” They might have been arriving for elevenses, rather than coming to what was, after all, a place of business. “Wonderful run of good weather. So good for the garden.” As with his person, there was a British inflection in his voice. It was a voice Faith had heard often since coming to New England—long pauses between words, followed by a sudden rush of sentences. And all the cliches, the Vaughn Meader imitations—those r’s and h’s where none existed. In short, it was the assured voice of the upper class.

Julian Bullock, however, was a fraud—or rather, he was his own creation. He’d been born in Massachusetts, but in South Boston, not in Milton or Prides Crossing. His ancestors had crossed the pond, but not on the Mayflower. He’d invented himself. Firmly turning his exquisitely tailored back on Southie, he’d pursued and won a scholar-ship to Deerfield, then another to Harvard. In one of her tantrums at Daddy’s “meanness,” Stephanie had gleefully revealed his roots. “He was so silly to divorce Mummy. I mean, it’s not likely he’ll marry a Cabot again, is it?” Blood will tell, Faith thought at the time.

“Yes, this weather makes me homesick. You Yankees get all excited at a few rhododendron,” Patsy was saying. “You should see Audubon Park back home this time of year. Makes your flora look puny. I know you know Faith Fairchild, and, by the way, congratulations on your daughter’s wedding,” Patsy added.

“Delightful to see you, Faith.” He extended his hand and ushered them into the house. “I suppose congratulations are in order, but, no offense to the caterer, you had best save them for after the happy day. So far, all it’s meant has been an enormous amount of aggravation.” His broad smile took some of the sting from his words. Faith sympathized with him, silently adding, And money.

She could imagine only too well what the year had been like.

“I’m off duty,” she said. “Here only to give my opinion if asked and possibly look for a sideboard. My house was burglarized and they took one of the drawers from ours to carry things in.” Julian shook his head. “I’m so sorry. Did you lose much?”

“All our silver, jewelry—everything of value.

They left us the plate.” Before he could tell her she’d been hit by pros, she quickly added, “We have recovered some items. They’ve been turning up in these large antiques marts.”

“Odd places.” He grimaced slightly. “One always feels so uneasy with those surveillance cameras. And they’re so superfluous. A show really for the poor unsuspecting public. Locking things up makes them seem more valuable, but the vast majority of the booths are filled with little flea-market turds.” He flung open a door dramatically, then caught it before it could hit the Queen Anne highboy on the other side. “Now, here, my dear, is your table.”

It was also the table for Stephanie’s rehearsal dinner, Faith realized. She’d seen it when she’d come here to check out the premises. If Patsy bought it, Courtney would be—she consciously echoed Julian’s slight crudeness, calculated to shock and amuse—bullshit. But Julian would get another in time. Twenty people couldn’t eat from TV trays.

Patsy was slowly circling the long, gleaming Federal mahogany dining table. She and Will entertained frequently. At last, they could have large sit-down dinners and forget balancing plates from a buffet. Conversations were so much better around a table. She crouched down to peer underneath and then stood up. “Faith?”

“It’s beautiful.” She’d start out slowly, waiting to take her cue from Patsy. It was, in fact, the perfect table for the Averys’ dining room, and Faith had already envisioned a runner covered with gourds, squash, beeswax candles, and fruit stretched down the center next Thanksgiving.

Patsy could spray them gold for Christmas.

Julian had effectively blended into the woodwork, effacing himself. Not an easy task in a room crammed with furniture. The whole house was like this. It seemed like someone’s home, but someone who delighted in multiples.

“Damn straight it’s beautiful. All right, Julian, I’ll take it. Let’s start playing that game where you name a ridiculous price and I say you’re crazy for a while.” Patsy was gleeful.

He materialized immediately. “Over tea? Or a glass of wine?”

They opted for tea and followed him out to the kitchen.

Boiling water was about all Julian could do, and the kitchen itself was not up to much more.

As Faith remembered, it looked marvelous. There was a Hoosier kitchen in mint condition and shining copper pots—all completely useless—hung from the rafters. But there was almost no counter space, the dishwasher dated from the fifties, and the oven was tiny, sporting the patina of years of spattered fats. She’d seen, and worked, in worse, but not many. Julian had made no apologies during her earlier visit, merely observing succinctly,

“I do very little cooking myself.” There must have been a cook—at least when Stephanie was growing up. Faith could not envision Courtney in an apron, whipping up meals for her family. The cook would have served up the plain, slightly monotonous fare that sustained this segment of the New England population: baked scrod, watery peas, lumpy mashed potatoes.

Julian had struck Faith as charming before, maintaining a slightly sardonic but amused manner with his ex- wife and daughter. Now, with a sale in sight, the charm had been turned up a notch. He carried the tea tray, loaded with objects of desire and all for sale, into the library.

“Tell me more about your quest,” he said to Faith after murmuring he’d “be mother,” pouring them each a cup of strong Darjeeling tea.

Knowing it was scripted as part of his sales campaign, Faith was nevertheless glad to have the opportunity to get some information.

“All the items have turned up in cases that belong to a dealer named George Stackpole. Do you know anything about him?”

“George Stackpole . . .” Julian popped a Pepperidge Farm Milano cookie into his mouth. “Met him once or twice. Know him slightly. He’s what’s called a ‘picker.’ Rather far down in the food chain, but you can make a decent living.” His smug glance around the room made the words nothing like me unnecessary.

“What’s a picker?” Faith asked.

Julian lifted the gleaming silver teapot with a questioning air. Both women extended their cups.

After pouring himself one, he drank half and put the cup down. He was in an expansive mood. He liked Patsy Avery and he liked his table. While he viewed the furnishings of his house as stock, he was not without prejudice when it came to part-ing with favorite items. The Averys had the mak-ings of discerning collectors, and collectors were his bread and butter.

“Pickers go around and knock on people’s doors, ask if they have any old junk for sale—that sort of thing. If you picture my business as a kind of pyramid, the pickers are at the base. Above them are runners. They don’t knock on doors, but they buy from the pickers and move good pieces on up. This is not to denigrate anyone, because at each level, you can’t make it in this business if you don’t have a good eye. A feel for things. A kind of visceral response to an object.”

“You make it sound very sexy,” Patsy commented.