Stealing With Style Read online

  In the elevator, I started to think. Odd that Richie had made no mention of our first conversation of the day, had said nothing about the figurines and molds. He acted almost as if he had never even seen me before. Or it could just have been Richie's powers of concentration. One thing was for sure-he was totally focused on the figure when I left him.

  BY THE TIME my Reuben arrived I was famished. On top of that, the morning's events had taken its toll. If I was going to be alert at the auction, a nap was in order. I headed back to the hotel. I'd rest, then leave early to go back to Layton's. Thanks to my late lunch I wouldn't need supper; I'd have a glass of wine and some nibbles after the auction.

  Back in my hotel room, the urge to know if I had any messages back in Leemont began gnawing away. I dialed 9 to get an outside line and hooked up with my home phone. Five calls were waiting. Funny what boosts your self-esteem when you're on your own.

  The first call was a throwaway from a telemarketer.

  Number two was a request for an appraisal, which gave me a little surge.

  Number three was from my daughter, Lily, bless her heart. She asked about the trip but managed to get in a few hints about new clothes. My mind wandered back to the many trips Lily and I had taken to New York when she was a little girl. At least she was thinking about me.

  Call number four gave me pause.

  "Matt Yardley from Babson and Michaels. I'm in the New York office, Ms. Glass. We have a large and unusual claim for some very fine antiques down in your area. The claim went to the Richmond office first, but they sent it on to me. They also gave me your name. If you could return my call. Again, it's Matt Yardley. Babson and Michaels Insurance. That's 212 ..."

  I replayed it twice.

  Number five was from Amelia Nottoway, my best friend, checking in after returning from a trip herself, calling to let me know that all was fine at my house, which was right down the way from hers.

  Two jobs out of five calls. Not bad.

  Of course, instead of taking the nap I'd promised myself, I called Matt Yardley. I figured my being in New York was a good omen. When I told him where I was, he insisted that I come right over. "It's worth it," he said. "This is a major claim."

  This time the dollar signs were ringing up in my eyes.

  I agreed to be there by three thirty, just enough time to wash my face, put on fresh makeup, and do a quick clothes change -I'd go straight from Mr. Yardley's office to Layton's. Nothing drastic, just a different top and dressier pumps to go along with the classic go-anywhere black jacket and pants. I put on my discount-house winter white silk blouse. The knit pants would make the blouse look considerably finer than its $59.95 original price, discounted to $22.95, less the 25 percent sale mark-down off that, which meant, with tax added in, the blouse had cost a little over eighteen bucks. I slipped into the Prada pumps that I'd splurged on in the fall, finished off the outfit with pearls (fake ones in the city, of course) and onyx and pearl earrings (real, since I figured no one where I was going would yank them out), and was out the door.

  The prospect of a new job had miraculously revived me. But it was a state of mind that would prove to be short-lived.

  Chapter 12

  Dear Antiques Expert: My neighbor's house was robbed and many valuable antiques stolen while they were on vacation. But the police told her she hadn't had a robbery, she'd had a burglary. What on earth is the difference?

  Most people whose homes have been broken into say they've been robbed. But the police and insurance companies are sticklers for using the correct terminology. To them a robbery occurs when force is used to relieve a person of his or her valuables-as in you're walking down the street and somebody sticks a gun in your ribs and says, "Give me your money and your jewels." You do, and you've been robbed. But when someone breaks into your house and steals your things without bodily forcing you to give them up, then you've been burglarized.

  SEATED ACROSS FROM Matt Yardley in the high-rise conveniently located on Sixth Avenue, I began poring over the milliondollar-plus fine arts insurance policy he handed me. He sat quietly, arms folded, watching me. I had to concentrate hard to keep from glancing up at him. When I felt a warmth creeping up my cheeks, I prayed that he wouldn't notice. Though any man that handsome was probably used to blushing women.

  If I hadn't thought Peter and I had missed our window of opportunity, I wouldn't have been swooning over this man. Then again, a girl can dream, can't she?

  Matt was one of those men who looked you straight in the eye when he talked to you and kept looking you in the eye as you talked. Most guys' eyes wander the moment a woman opens her mouth. The ones who appear to hang on to a woman's every word melt her heart in no time. The fact that Matt's eyes were a deep gray green and his widow's peak gave him an elegant, sophisticated look didn't hurt matters.

  I tried to focus as I turned to the pages where the jewelry and decorative pieces were listed.

  "Look carefully at the starred items," Matt was saying. "Those are the ones that are now missing."

  I ran my finger down the list, glancing at the headings, pausing only when I came to a starred item. There were several of those.

  Copeland Spode dessert set, circa 1850-$7,800

  Chinese Export punch bowl, circa 1770-1790-$4,200

  Victorian silver-plated tilting water pitcher-$1,250

  * Modern Cartier ruby and diamond bracelet-$15,000

  * English Derby shell serving dish, circa 1830-$3,200

  Pair of 19th-century Dresden candlesticks-$2,800

  Swiss gold and enamel watch, circa 1780-$6,500

  Art Nouveau French silver gilt embossed cigarette case-$1,200

  Sterling silver water pitcher by Steiff, Baltimore Rose pattern- S2,800

  *Shirvan prayer rug, late 19th century-$2,700

  *Victorian brass chamber stick-$S00

  Sevres lobed dish, circa 1773, restored-$1,400

  Bronze figure of Minerva mounted on onyx base, 19th cen- tury-51,750

  *Georgian pearl and diamond floral brooch-$8,500

  I'd been skipping from one page to the next, just getting a feel for what was what. The brooch stopped me cold. I carefully read its longer, more detailed description.

  Georgian brooch fashioned as a floral spray consisting of three large blossoms, each blossom with a center single pearl (ap- prox. 7 mm each) encircled by old mine-cut diamonds (approx. .20 carat each) and accented by small, diamond-set leaves. Gold mounting with silvered prongs. In original fitted leather box. Circa 1850. $8,500.

  At the back of the appraisal, photographs corresponded to each object's written description. Though the appraisal said the pin came with a fitted leather box, and the box was clearly evident in the photo, the picture left little doubt that this was the same pin.

  "Matt," I said, finally looking up, "I think I've seen this."

  Matt ushered me into a conference room where I could spread the appraisal papers out. He returned to his office to call the Richmond branch to see if they had obtained any more recent information on the theft. I wasted no time making a call of my own.

  "Peter. Thank goodness I reached you."

  "Sterling? Did you get my message?"

  "Listen, I'm calling you from Babson and Michaels, the insurance company, from their home office. But wait, why did you call? It wasn't about the pin, was it?"

  "No. I was just calling to see how you-"

  "You still have the pin, don't you, Peter? At your house," I broke in.

  "Yes. Is something wrong?"

  "Well, I'm dead sure to positive that the pin LaTisha found is just one of several pieces listed as missing on a huge insurance claim. It's not your usual burglary. It's complicated. See, it wasn't in Leemont, which makes it all the more confusing. The claim came from one of those huge estates just outside of Charlottesville. Old money. Old people. People named Hanesworth. Originally, the claim went to the Richmond office, but it was so large that Richmond sent it to New York, along with my name." I paused to catch
my breath.

  "The pin? We are talking about Sarah Rose Wilkins's pin," Peter asked.

  "Well, it wasn't hers. It probably belonged to the Hanesworths. Just keep it safe for now. I need to verify that it is the exact same pin, but I'm positive it is. Thank God I didn't put it on that night!"

  "Keep it? Where?" Peter asked, talking over me. "It's Friday afternoon-getting close to five o'clock, Sterling. It's too late to get to the bank to put it in my safe deposit box. What am I supposed to do? Guard stolen goods over the weekend?"

  "Oh dear. When you put it like that. . ."

  In my panicked state I shook my head, thinking that might help me to think more clearly. I would have given anything for my Magic 8 Ball.

  "Sterling. I thought this was Sarah Rose Wilkins's pin and I was just holding on to it for safekeeping till you and Roy could get together. What you've just told me changes the situation. I'm not about to harbor stolen goods," Peter replied quietly and calmly, but sternly. "I'm not exactly worried about any, let's say, unexpected callers looking for hot goods at my house, the way it happens in the movies." Peter's long-distance voice was a blend of slight bemusement mixed with concern. "But I do have the Salvation Army shop to think about. Its reputation. There's only one thing for me to do-call the police. Tell them I inadvertently have something that may be stolen. Then leave it up to the insurance company and the police to sort it all out."

  "Oh dear," I said again. "I don't know what to do. For you to do, I mean. I told Matt how the pin turned up at the Salvation Army. I thought that was the right thing to do," I said, now second-guessing myself.

  "The truth is always right," Peter said, his now calm voice reassuring. "You did the right thing."

  "I hope so."

  "Sterling. How much longer will you be at this number?"

  "I don't know. Matt-Matt Yardley-is calling Richmond right now, but I have to be at the auction by a little after five so I can bid for the Katzes."

  "I'm going to call Lieutenant Pavich. I've had some dealings with him. Can I reach you on your cell phone?"

  "You can try, but I'll have to turn it off once the auction begins. Call my room and leave a message. How late will you be up?„

  "If I can't reach you, I'll stay up until you call me."

  I thought I discerned a sweetness in his answer. But then, that's me, always hoping.

  I was placing the phone back on the receiver as Matt came back in.

  "No luck on my end. The Richmond office has only what they've sent me." He walked over to the table. "You've opened up some real questions here. Of the things on the list, you've only seen the pin, right?" He spoke cautiously.

  "From what I've seen, yes. But," I quickly added, "it's a big appraisal."

  I had checked some of the starred silver pieces indicating that they were stolen items, but no Paul Storr pieces or eighteenthcentury tea urns had surfaced. No reason to tell the story about Sarah Rose's tea urn now.

  Matt sat down across from me, ready to take notes. His hair was beginning to show an occasional hint of gray, and he looked the role of a New York executive.

  "It's not totally unheard of for members of a wealthy family like the Hanesworths to file a claim after their parents have died and they start dividing the silver and jewelry. When there are so many valuable items in a home, only then do they discover something is missing. We usually get two or three, sometimes more, claims like this a year," he said matter-of-factly. "Most times, though, the piece or pieces will show up. Some family member will already have it, or it was overlooked when going through the things. People, or should I say, rich people at least, are generally very honest about their possessions." A quick smile flickered across his face. "Makes my job easier."

  I couldn't imagine that Matt Yardley knew anyone but rich people.

  "It's the large number of items, and the variety of different things- everything from the pin," he said, flipping through the papers, "to the Shirvan rug-that makes this claim different."

  "All easily transportable," I said as I began scribbling some notes myself, partly to keep track of our conversation, and partly to keep focused. "You'd think, though, that over time someone would have missed some of the things. The prayer rug, for example, even though it is small and thin enough to fold and slip into a bag. Or"-I stopped on the page where the thirty-two-hundred-dollar English Derby shell-shaped server was listed-"a fine piece of porcelain."

  I found the corresponding picture in the index and turned it so Matt could see. "I'd imagine this piece would be displayed on a sideboard or in a corner cupboard. Then again, they have so many fine pieces ..."

  "Exactly. Plus the children weren't in and out of the house every day. Who knows how often, or how seldom, they might have gone into the dining room. Mrs. Hanesworth had died four, no, five years earlier. Mr. Hanesworth wasn't well either. He was so distraught after his wife's death that the children decided not to disturb anything at the time, even though she had willed many items to them. I think they were more concerned about their mother and father than they were about their family's things."

  "Mr. Hanesworth simply hung on longer than the family thought he would," I said.

  "True."

  "Which means it was possible for many items to, shall we say, leave the premises, perhaps one at a time?"

  Matt nodded his head to one side in regretful agreement. "So it might seem. Especially now the pin has shown up off the premises."

  "Yes," I said, "but I'm jumping to conclusions. I need to verify that this is the same pin, and of course I'll need to go over the claim more thoroughly. There's something wrong, but right now I don't know exactly what it is. What's the old saying, I just feel it in my hones."

  "I have no doubt that you'll figure it out, though," Matt Yardley said confidently. More confidently than I felt. He began gathering up his files. I did the same as I snuck a glance at his hands. No gold wedding band. Not that that meant anything. Hank had never worn a wedding band, nor had my father.

  "You realize that I won't be back in Leemont until Monday night," I said.

  "You're on the clock, Ms. Glass. If you can do any research while you're here, talk to anyone, telephone calls, whatever. You've been here, in this office"-he glanced at his Piaget, the sort I've seen advertised but seldom glimpsed in person-"a little over an hour. Taxi fares. You took a taxi to get here. You'll need one to go, you said to Layton's, I believe. Just keep a log." Matt Yardley held his hand out to shake mine. "My card's in the folder. Have everything else you need?"

  "For now."

  Not quite, a voice inside me said. Oh well.

  Chapter 13

  Dear Antiques Expert: A friend and I are going to New York and she plans to go to an auction at one of the fancy auction houses. I've never been to a live auction and I don't know much about antiques. So the other day when she told me she was going to bid on several lots at the auction I didn't know what she meant. Could you please explain this?

  A "lot" is simply the numerical way auction houses identify their merchandise. Each auction begins with "lot 1 " and proceeds through the items, lot by lot. A lot can be one piece, or a group of items. For example, lot 115 might be a "Victorian arm chair, circa 1855, with rose carved crest rail," whereas lot 126 might be "Four hand-colored botanical prints dating from the early 20th century, plus two landscape scenes." Grouping similar items or sets together in one "lot" keeps the auction moving along.

  NOW YOU TELL ME, how, after all that had transpired in the past seven or eight hours, plus the Joey fiasco of the night before, I could have enjoyed an auction. I myself don't know. But once seated in the chair at Layton's, with paddle in hand and the bidding about to start, my memory of the last two days faded away, and the thrill of the chase took over. Even when not buying for myself, bidding was still a rush. Some folks like the roulette table. Others prefer the racetrack. I find a night at the auction quite exciting enough. They're all high-stakes games. Once you've placed your hid, les jeux sont faits. Your fate w
as sealed.

  Ten or fifteen years ago, I wouldn't have been in New York bidding on American antiques for a young doctor and his wife from Leemont. The Katzes wouldn't even be living in Leemont. But things had changed all over the South. People who once thought Charleston was in North, not South, Carolina, now were buying houses in Jamestown-a suburb of that fastgrowing metropolitan area, Greensboro, North Carolinaand nowhere near Williamsburg, Virginia. Reconstructed Yankees, Mother called the new breed of folks who began moving south in the mid-1960s. She loved twisting that bit of history in the South's favor.

  My mission was to hid on, and win, lot 37, a circa 1805 Sheraton curly maple candle stand with delicately turned pedestal estimated at twelve to fifteen hundred dollars; either the group of six Sheraton chairs I'd casually walked past the day before-lot 39 and estimated at five to eight thousand dollars-or lot 58, an important Philadelphia schoolgirl's sampler, circa 1800, estimated ten to twelve thousand; and lot 123, a nice five-piece Boston coin silver service, circa 1820, estimated at three to five thousand. I liked the chairs, but the sampler had the greater charm and more investment potential. I did the math. Only if the chairs stalled considerably below their low estimate would I enter a bid on them.

  Around the room I spotted the heavy hitters: Billy White, chairman of White, Cross, White, and Jordan, held paddle 32. Asher Berg, the premier New York antiques dealer sat at the back with his son-in-law, Sam, who would do Asher's bidding for their East Fifty-eighth Street gallery.

  I was thumbing through the catalog one last time when I heard Richie's voice outside the auction room.

  "Sweetheart! How are you?"

  I leaned forward to see who he was calling sweetheart this time. Luck was on my side. Richie's back was to me. Next to him stood Anna, looking even taller and thinner standing up than she had while sitting down, thanks to her long black cashmere Chesterfield coat she was wearing.

  Richie was greeting Margaret and French Everett who were looking eternally young in their matching ankle-length black diamond mink coats, despite their seventy-plus years. The Everetts were legendary interior designers who bought perfect pieces for their Westchester and Southhampton clients. Richie finished pumping French's hand up and down, then kissed Margaret's hand, bowing as he did so.