Body in the Bookcase

Three crumpled pieces of paper—two leading to Nan Howell and now one straight to Julian Bullock.

“I don’t understand why you want to go see another sideboard when the one at Bullock’s is perfect. It’s unlikely you’d find anything of that caliber at this auction. Early Ethan Allen, maybe.”

“You mean just because it’s in the VFW hall and not at Skinner’s? You of all people, Tom! You know the kind of treasures that can get mixed in with trash.” Faith wished she’d chosen another word than trash. Since they’d left Julian’s, Tom in fine fettle over the sideboard, she’d been obsessing about the phone number and Julian’s denial of any knowledge of George Stackpole. She’d mentioned the man’s name as they were leaving.

“I was lucky again yesterday at the antiques show at the Copley. I found a gold pendant watch Tom had given me. It was at this George Stackpole’s booth—the same dealer who has had everything else.”

“Congratulations. Would that it could all be returned.”

“You did say you didn’t know him, know anything about him? I’m anxious, of course, to find out as much as possible, especially where he sells his things.”

Julian sighed heavily. “I’m really terribly sorry, but I can’t be of much help, I’m afraid. Have only had a passing acquaintance with the man.”

“Thank you anyway.” It was all she could do to keep from grasping the man’s shoulders, daring him to look her in the eye and say that.

Now Tom interrupted her thoughts. “I’m sorry I didn’t listen to your message yesterday, but it would have been too late anyway. The only time all three of us could meet was tonight.”

“But you can meet here? I won’t have to get a sitter.”

“Yes, we can. That’s no problem.”

“I won’t be late. You’re probably right and Hummels will be the most interesting items put up for bid.”

It didn’t take long to get to Walton and Faith had plenty of time to preview the items up for bid. There were Hummels and just about everything else. It was an estate sale with additions, so boxes of kitchenware sat on the floor next to an Eastlake bedroom set. Tom had been wrong about the furniture. It wasn’t in Julian’s league and there was nothing close to the sideboard, but it was still good quality.

The parking lot was filled with vans, so the dealers must be out in full force. Nan Howell had told Faith she could expect this. The same stuff was appearing over and over again, so an estate sale with the possibility of items that were actually new to the market, and not simply touted as such, would bring out a large crowd. Late in the afternoon, Faith had called Nan to make sure they were on for the next day and to see if she knew about Morrison’s auction, reporting what she’d overheard George and the other dealer saying at the Copley. “Dealers who don’t have shops get rid of stuff they’ve picked up in odd lots themselves at auction. That’s often what the ‘with additions’ part means,” Nan had told Faith.

However, the real purpose of the call was to find out if George or Nan was canceling Sunday’s visit. Faith wasn’t sure she wanted to keep the appointment—images of lion’s dens and spider’s webs loomed large—but she was curious whether one of the dealers would call it off. Apparently not. It was still on, but Nan was going to another auction tonight, one featuring jewelry.

The VFW hall was filled with rows of folding chairs, but at this point they were occupied only by place-saving items—jackets, bidding numbers, containers of coffee. Everyone was roving about the stuffy room, checking out the merchandise.

Faith was excited. She loved auctions and there was an air of anticipation tonight that was common to all— whether the lots contained Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis’s personal belongings or the detritus of an old Swampscott family settling an estate, as now. Every bidder, dealer or not, was there for a coup—the Rembrandt etching hidden behind a print of The Maiden’s Prayer, a silver bowl, school of Revere, which turned out to be by the master himself, the locked trunk—no key found, buyer beware, the sly smile of the auctioneer daring you to be suckered in—or maybe not.

There was no sign of George Stackpole, or his friend Gloria. Faith hadn’t gone back to the Copley sale. There hadn’t been time. She would have made some if the woman had mentioned a cameo ring instead of earrings. Time. She wasn’t spending a great deal of it with her family lately. But she’d left a great snack for Tom’s meeting: smoked turkey, chutney, and a thick wedge of Wensleydale cheese on her own sourdough bread. There was pie, too. Pie was good meeting-type food and she’d taken a Dutch apple one out of the freezer.

She might be joining them for the snack. The only thing she’d found that she wanted to bid on was a small hanging cupboard that would be perfect to display the child’s tea set that had belonged to her grandmother, now intended for Amy. It was carefully packed away, too fragile for play. It would look lovely in Amy’s room—or maybe Faith’s.

The lots of silver and a small amount of jewelry were on two tables next to where the auction organizers were assigning numbers. After getting her own number, Faith had headed for them when she’d arrived, finding nothing. Since then, she noticed, they’d added some flat boxes of odd lots of silver and she went back for a look. Most of it was in pretty bad shape, tarnished and dented.

But still in the same jeweler’s cloth was the dessert set Tom’s aunt and uncle had given them—a cake server, berry spoon, large serving fork, six dessert spoons and forks with a gold wash on the bowls and tines. It was in a plastic bag with some salt spoons, one of which was theirs, and some Rogers silver plate—odd pieces.

Lot number twenty-five. It would come up fairly soon. Faith was thrilled. She couldn’t imagine she’d have much competition for it. She loved the dessert set, but it was new and wouldn’t interest any of these dealers. She knew from years of attending auctions that you could almost always outbid a dealer, since they had to be able to mark the item up at least 50 percent. Her only competition would be from someone like herself and she didn’t think there could be anyone else in the hall with quite her vested interest, but then, you never knew. She went to find a seat. Having neglected to save one, she was forced to the rear of the hall.

Bidding was spirited and the auctioneer was moving things fast. Much to Faith’s astonishment, an ocher- colored small painted shelf went for over a thousand dollars. There was a great deal about this business she didn’t know. When she’d pulled into the parking lot, there had been several groups, mostly men, smoking and confer-ring. Dealers setting prices, she figured—or maybe just passing the time of day with one another until the auction started. Now, nobody was leaving the room, not even for a smoke. She had the rear row almost to herself, though. Everyone else was in front of her, or standing along the sides.

“Lot twenty-four—sold to number—hold it high; don’t be ashamed—number one sixty-seven. Next item, lot twenty-five, assorted silver pieces. What do I hear for this lovely grouping?

Open that up, Jimmy. What’s in the cloth? Can we start the bidding at a hundred dollars? A hundred and go!” This was greeted with loud laughter.

“How about fifty, then? Do I have fifty? For this—let’s see, looks like a dessert set. Mint condition. Fifty, fifty, fifty—do I have twenty-five? All over the house!”

Faith had raised her card with a dozen others; she raised it again when he went to thirty-five. At forty-five, there was only one other bidder, another woman, near the front. “And to you, do I have fifty?” Apparently not. “All done at forty-five? Fair room and fair warning. Going once.

Twice.” He banged the gavel. “Forty-five it is to number one twelve in the back.”

Faith was so pleased she decided to wait and bid on the hanging cabinet. After all, it wasn’t painted. She might have a chance. For a moment when lot twenty-five had come up, she’d forgotten she was bidding on what rightfully belonged to her and just felt thrilled to be getting a bargain.

During the bidding, two men had come in, sitting on either side of her. She’d been too busy to pay much attention to them, but now, as the heavy musk cologne one was wearing saturated the air, she took a closer look. She was used to antiques dealers who didn’t seem like antiques dealers, but these two had definitely been cast against type. They were both wearing tight black cotton T-shirts designed to show off how much time they’d been spending at the gym, and an inordinate number of tattoos. Both appeared to be in their mid-twenties. One of them sported multiple Mr. T–type gold chains; the other opted for a single Italian gold horn. The one with the chains was the one with the musk and it seemed to be coming from his long, oily dark hair.

“You’re finished, lady.”

“I beg your pardon?” What was the man talking about? Maybe she’d heard wrong.

“I said you’re finished. Here and every other place you’ve been sticking your nose into. Now let’s get going.”

She was in a crowded hall; nothing could happen. She fought down her mounting fear and tried to reply