at work before three o’clock.
She parked at the Prudential garage and walked down Boylston Street into Copley Square. The square was the kind of place that made you feel like a walking Fodor’s. It was anchored on two sides by architectural landmarks: H. H. Richardson’s Romanesque-style Trinity Church and McKim, Mead & White’s glorious Medici palazzo of a library—the BPL, translated for outsiders as
Copley Square was in Boston’s Back Bay section—literally a bay before the 1850s. The new Hancock Building had caused the older ones, especially Trinity, to sink significantly into the squishy soil beneath, creating slightly tipsy angles here and there. Boston’s city planners were notorious for egregious mistakes, such as the de-struction of the West End and the creation of Stor-row Drive along the Charles River, turning Olmsted’s green necklace into an add-a-pearl. In the same spirit of progress, the lush lawn in the middle of Copley Square had been extensively paved. Still, it was one of the loveliest sights in town, and Faith slowed her steps in enjoyment.
She walked into the Copley, patting one of the gold lions that regally flanked the entrance for luck, and soon found herself in one of the ball-rooms, elbow-to-elbow in a throng of treasure seekers.
Clutching the ticket that allowed her to come and go the entire day, she wandered about the room. Many of the booths had been set up to look like rooms. Shaker simplicity vied with Louis Quatorze curves. The room’s cream-colored walls, gold trim, and deep rose draperies added significance to the wares, burnishing their luster.
Setting is everything, Faith thought. A booth filled with an assortment of Kirk silver, Bavarian china, and sentimental genre oils in enormous gilt frames looked completely at home. In a flea market or antiques co-op, they would have appeared a tawdry mishmash and suspect.
The size of the room helped keep the noise level down, but there was a steady drone of conversation—or rather, negotiation. It was hard not to be distracted by the merchandise, but Faith didn’t have much time. She began to comb the aisles systematically There was no sign of Stackpole. Had Nan Howell been mistaken?
There were booths on the balcony that encircled the room and it was here that she finally found him. He was having a heated argument with someone over the price of an Art Deco diamond brooch.
“Look, I don’t need your business, Arnold. I don’t even
“Calm down, George. I just said I thought the price was high, not that I wasn’t interested. We’re still talking here.”
Stackpole glowered at him. “Talk is cheap.
Come back when you’re serious.” He turned away and lifted another of the heavy flat showcases onto the table next to the one he’d just opened.
The man appeared to take no offense. “See you tomorrow night at Morrison’s. You consigned some lots, right? I did, too. If you haven’t sold the pin, bring it along and we’ll talk some more.” George totally ignored him. The man shrugged and left.
“Gloria,” Stackpole called to the woman who’d been at the house the night before and was now sitting in the back of the booth, sipping a cup of coffee. “Gloria, get your keister over here and help me make room for this case. Get your stuff out of the way.”
Faith trained her attention on the goods before her. There was a long row of glass cases, all locked, filled with jewelry and silver. Costume jewelry had been spread out on a piece of velvet at one end of a table. These were presumably Gloria’s things. Gone was the spandex of last night.
Today, she was dressed conservatively in a beige linen pantsuit and was wearing only a few gold chains. Her hair had been tamed by a scrunch.
The whole idea appeared to be to attract as little attention as possible. Let the customers concentrate on the goods, not her goodies, was the message. George was wearing what he’d worn the night before, but he’d shaved. It didn’t make a whole lot of difference.
Faith’s recent visits to the pawnshops and antiques marts had perfected her technique. Her eyes were minesweepers and rapidly trolled the merchandise for anything remotely resembling one of her possessions. They locked on the third case. It contained a Victorian gold pendant watch that Tom had given her when they were first married. A lovely ladies’ Waltham watch, still on the gold watch chain he’d bought to go with it, and still—she was sure—with the inscription inside:
“F.S.F. Always, T.P.F.”
“May I see that watch, please?” Faith asked.
She’d expected to be more nervous, more appre-hensive in Stackpole’s presence, but instead she was reacting to him as a kind of Jekyll and Hyde.
He seemed harmless, even pathetic—an ill-tempered, seedy, aging wreck of a man.
He put the watch in her outstretched palm. She opened the lid. The initials were there. It was her watch. “What are you asking for it?”
“I can do two hundred.”
Faith forced a smile, although she doubted charm of any kind made much impression on Mr. Stackpole. “Could you do a hundred and fifty—cash?”
“You a dealer?”
“No.”
It seemed to be in her favor. “All right, one seventy-five, but I’m losing money here.” Faith knew better.
“I’m also looking for cameos—pins or rings. Do you have any?”
“Do you see any?”
“I thought perhaps you might have things you haven’t put out yet.” There were plenty of boxes piled behind the tables and they appeared to be unopened.
Stackpole walked over to the next table to kib-itz with the dealer. He’d made a sale and wasn’t interested in Faith anymore.
“You come back later, honey.” It was Gloria.
“George’s bark is worse than his bite. Nobody puts all their stuff out at once. He’ll be filling in as he sells, and I think I remember seeing some cameo earrings.”
“Thank you.” Faith smiled warmly at the woman. What was she doing with a man like George Stackpole? Could he really be a teddy bear? An armed teddy bear? “I’ll try to get back tomorrow.”
“You do that, honey.” Gloria returned to her costume jewelry. She was painstakingly arranging it in glittering rows.
There was nothing else in the rest of Stackpole’s cases. After one last look, Faith left the hotel and drove back to what had once been her nice safe home.
The back door had finally arrived with hinges and been replaced the day before. In this respect, life was settling down to some semblance of normality. It would be physically complete when they replaced the sideboard. She let herself in to check the messages before getting the kids.
“Why, Mrs. Fairchild. I didn’t expect you to be here.”
“Nor I you,” Faith said, startled. It was Rhoda Dawson, emerging from Tom’s study with a sheaf of papers in her hand and a book.
“The Reverend asked me to get these things.
He’s a bit pressed for time.”
“Of course.” Faith didn’t know what else to say.
My house is your house? Drop by anytime? How often have you been here before? Tom, are you crazy? marched through her mind in succession.
“Well, I’d better get these over to him.”
“I’m sure he’ll be happy to see them.” Faith showed the secretary out, then leapt for the phone.
“Honey, your Ms. Dawson was just here.”
