Julian looked at her and took another cookie from the plate. “Every item can tell a story. A story of the past. Sometimes we know the tales, sometimes not. Your grandmother gives you something that was her mother’s and tells you about it. She’s connecting you to the past and leaving a bit of herself for the future.” Faith knew this. When she was robbed, the thieves had, in effect, taken scissors and cut some of these threads forever. She pictured her cameo ring on another finger, the wearer oblivious to stories about Great-Aunt Phoebe so often repeated to Faith —her musical ability, her love of poetry. Julian had warmed to his subject. “Someone like Stackpole doesn’t have the connections to sell a really expensive item. He doesn’t deal with museums and the major collectors. The further you go up the chain, the smaller the number of people involved—buyers and sellers.” It was fascinating.
“Of course, the deal is off if Will doesn’t like it,” Patsy said as she and Julian shook hands after arriving at a price.
“That goes without saying.”
“When can you get it to us?” Patsy asked. She knew full well her husband would adore the table—and would have ended up paying too much for it.
“As soon as you like. Today? Tomorrow?” While they were talking, Faith wandered out into the hallway. There were no price tags, but she knew the small oil painting of a rolling meadow in the last long light of the day, which looked like it had been done by a member of the Hudson River School, probably had been. And equally probable was the possibility that it was high up there on top of the pyramid, far out of her reach.
So, too, was the beautiful sideboard standing beneath it. It was elegant, graceful. She ran her hand across the surface. The wood was as smooth as butter. Much nicer than the sideboard they had, bequeathed by an aunt of Tom’s when she moved to a retirement community. It hadn’t been in the Fairchild family. Just something they picked up to fill the space, she’d told them. Tom and Faith had been happy to get it. This piece of Julian Bullock’s was in a whole different league.
“Nice, isn’t it?” Julian said. “A fake, but a very good fake. One hopes the intent was not fraudu-lent. Hepplewhites have always been very popular in this country and there have never been enough to go around. It was probably made at the turn of the century. I can give you a good price on it if you’re interested.”
“I am.” Tom had demanded and received another insurance adjuster. He’d turned up on Monday night, an elderly Irishman who won their hearts with his first sentence. “I treat every burglary as if it were my own house that was broken into. It’s a terrible, terrible thing to experience.” When he left, he told them to start replacing what they could. Faith hoped the fact that they’d been finding things wasn’t going to throw a monkey wrench in the works. But there was no question about the sideboard. They weren’t going to find the drawer in any of George Stackpole’s booths.
“I’d like to bring my husband by. We might be able to come on Saturday.”
“Just give me a call to make sure I’m here and come anytime you wish.” He made it sound as if they would be doing him a great favor. “I’ll also arrange to appraise your piece if you like. I can have a drawer made and keep it from being a total loss. We could apply the amount to the price of my little faux Hepplewhite—depending on how your insurance company handles things.” Faith liked the idea. She didn’t want to have a drawer made herself. She’d always know it wasn’t the original, yet she hated the thought of the whole piece being junked. Plus, now that she’d seen this sideboard, she would never be satisfied with the old one, intact or not.
“And a good time was had by all,” Patsy declared, waving good-bye to Julian.
On the way back to Aleford, Faith felt better than she had for days, weeks. The possibility of getting rid of the sideboard with its gaping reminder of the break-in filled her with optimism.
“What a roller coaster this is,” she told her friend. “You can’t believe some of the things I’ve been doing. I’ve only just stopped telling perfect strangers all about the robbery. It was beginning to get embarrassing. Even Ben noticed. I suppose it was a little weird when I told the clerk while I was picking up milk at the 7-Eleven last weekend.”
“I don’t think it’s weird at all. I’d be shouting it from the rooftops, only I know you all don’t do that kind of thing in Aleford. I’d be saying, ‘Somebody ripped me off! Ask me how I’ve suffered!’ ”
“It’s so pathetic, though. I should have carried a placard with feel sorry for me on it. This is what it’s all about, I suppose.”
“Nothing wrong with that,” Patsy was quick to reply. “Pretend you’re on one of those talk shows—you have a right to your pain!” They both burst out laughing.
As she got out of the car, Faith thanked Patsy.
“This was great. You have a gorgeous table and I may have a gorgeous sideboard. And I learned a lot about the antiques world. I wouldn’t have known the Hepplewhite was fake, you know, if Julian hadn’t said so. I looked at it pretty closely and there were no metal screws or obvious give-aways.”
“If Julian knowingly sold fakes, he wouldn’t be in the position he’s in. We are minnows in his pond, but those big fish don’t like to be fooled. He has to maintain trust or he would be eating Ring Dings before you could say ‘Going, going, gone.’ ”
Faith didn’t think Ring Dings were all that different from the supermarket cookies Julian was presently consuming, but she got the message.
“I’ll do your first party. My thanks for taking me out there.”
“You’ll do no such thing. But you
Julian didn’t know George Stackpole—or rather, he didn’t know him well. He hadn’t been much help there, but he had given Faith a new perspective on the world of antiques. She knew it was big business simply by following the Christie’s and Sotheby’s auctions reported in the
But how to find out more about George Stackpole? The police weren’t going to investigate her hunch, even though she had what she felt was conclusive evidence. The first thing was to go to the antiques show preview tomorrow that Nan Howell had told her about and find Stackpole’s booth. It was a three-day affair, with dealers and the public paying for the privilege of first crack on Friday. She could go in the morning while the kids were at school. So long as Courtney didn’t decide to change their meeting time at the last minute—always a possibility if something in her own schedule changed—deciding to walk her dog herself, for instance.
Tom was holed up in his study, starting Sunday’s sermon. Occasionally when someone asked him what it was like to be a minister, he replied,
“Like always having a paper due, with no possibility of an extension.” Faith didn’t know how he did it week after week, especially the no exten-sions part. All-nighters and appeals for more time had been her modus operandi in college. She was sitting at the kitchen table, idly flipping through her recipe binders, one ear open for sounds of nocturnal activity from upstairs. Because Tom wanted to get to work, they’d eaten early, and Faith had seized the chance to get the kids into bed a little earlier, too. Ben especially had seemed tired after school and Faith hoped he wasn’t coming down with something. She’d finally reached the point where she didn’t have to wear a diaper on one shoulder as part of every ensemble and, even though she knew it was in vain, she planned on permanently avoiding any form of spit-up.
The house was uncharacteristically quiet. She could hear the clock ticking. It was 7:30. Maybe she’d call Pix and see if she wanted a cup of tea or something. This was the dreaded homework hour, though, and Danny needed his mother’s physical presence to stay on track.
She decided to put on the teakettle anyway.
She’d take Tom a cup. Waiting for the pot to boil, she confronted her restlessness. This wasn’t the run-of- the-mill weltschmerz she’d been experiencing for the last two weeks. It was worse. She wanted to find out more about George Stackpole and she wanted to find out now. Like so many of her responses since Sarah’s death, the impulse was . . . well, impulsive. She was itchy. She wanted to get out of the house. She wanted to see where he lived. She wanted to see what he looked like. The little bird on the top of the kettle began to chirp. Faith looked at it with annoyance. It was so cheery. She would have to get a kettle with a plain old-fashioned whistle.
She put some molasses spice cookies on a plate to go with the tea and went into the study.
“Honey, I thought you’d like some sustenance.”
“Hmmmm? What? Oh, thanks. Great.” Tom was frowning at the computer screen. “I don’t know whether
