A Fatal Appraisal (2 page)

Molly had spent a pleasant afternoon sipping powerfully
strong mint juleps on Mrs. Coleridge's veranda as the older woman told tales of
the different places she had purchased her quilts. From garage sales to some of
the most distinctive auction houses throughout the country, Nancy Coleridge's
hunting ground reached far and wide.

After filling up the last line in her small notebook with
the woman's stories, Molly finally excused herself and wobbled back to her hotel
room, where she collapsed in a heap on the creaky bed. The two articles she had
planned to begin that evening, one on the show followed by a second article
about Mrs. Coleridge's breathtaking collection, remained unwritten.

She had only been home in Durham for a few days before her
boss, a cantankerous, overweight man named Carl Swanson, called her into the
office to send her packing to cover an auction in Charleston, South Carolina.

"Can't anyone else cover it?" Molly had pleaded.
"I still have to write up the two Charlottesville pieces. I'm only halfway
through the southern quilts article."

Swanson, irascible as ever, chewed frantically on his
nicotine gum and howled, "No!
You're
going and you're going
now
."

Molly beat a hasty retreat, grateful to get away from
Swanson's fetid breath and crimson face. Ever since her boss had decided to
quit smoking, he was more intolerable than ever, yelling at anyone who crossed
his path and snacking feverishly on Krispy Kreme donuts, cheese crackers, or
beef jerky followed by a several squares of nicotine gum. His temper was
intimidating, but the odor of his sweat-stained clothes and foul breath was
almost deadly.

After her escape, Molly barely had time to pop her head into
Marketing Director Matt Harrison's office and explain that she was leaving town
again. Matt had just returned from a sales conference and they had plans to
spend the weekend together. Since June, their schedules had only allowed for
three dates, two of which were wonderful, romantic dinners and the third, a
quick lunch before Molly hit the road again. Now, autumn was upon them and
Molly felt that despite her efforts to call Matt nightly from the road, their
relationship wasn't developing the intimacy that either of them sought.

After entering his office, Molly immediately closed the
door. Though some of the
Collector's Weekly
staff knew about the
romantic nature of her relationship with Matt, Molly preferred to be discreet.
She'd rather not have Carl Swanson making cynical remarks about her love life. Molly
seated herself in one of the two chairs facing Matt's desk, nervously smoothed
her long cotton skirt, and quietly told him that she was leaving for Charleston
and would have to cancel their plans for dinner and a movie.

"We can't seem to get a break," Matt had sighed,
running his fingers through his sandy brown hair. His light blue eyes showed
only a moment's disappointment before his customary shy, and utterly charming
smile returned. "Don't worry," he stood and enveloped Molly in a quick
but tender hug, "I'll be here when you get back."

Molly gazed up at him as he tucked a strand of her
shoulder-length, dark brown hair behind her ear. She felt a sense of
desperation welling up inside of her. How long could they put their
relationship on hold?

Instead of clinging to Matt and professing how much she
longed to stay with him, Molly smiled weakly and fumbled for something to say.
She wanted to ease the tension, to exchange some light banter and coax a laugh
from the man standing before her.

Matt searched Molly's slate gray eyes, which were framed
with a sweep of dark lashes, for any indication of what was going on in her
mind. He longed to kiss her lush, pouting lips, but they were at work, so he
unwillingly released his hold on her.

Yet she was clearly reluctant to let go. With her hand
resting on his arm, she sensed his desire to kiss her and her body responded in
kind. But she knew that if she kissed him now, she’d never want to leave.

"Okay, then," Molly had finally blurted, her heart
thudding like a drum in her chest. "I'd better get going. I’ll ... I'll
call you."

Conscious of Matt's eyes on her as she walked out of his
office, Molly wished for the millionth time that she was a slim size six
instead of a full-figured size fourteen. Her cheeks grew warm and she felt as
though every staff member was staring at her curvy hips, full breasts, and
thick legs as she hastened around the cubicles and out to the lobby. The
sensation made her long for the comfort of an iced cappuccino and a plate of
shortbread cookies.

~~~~~

During the weekend in Charleston, where the muggy weather
had necessitated three changes of clothes per day, Molly sat under a stifling
tent taking notes through two days of lot after lot of Chinese export porcelain
and heavily ornamented oak furniture until she thought she would swoon.

Molly left Charleston as soon as the hammer fell on the
final lot. Driving well over the speed limit on the way back to Durham, Molly
had called Matt at home, hoping to make a last minute Sunday night dinner date.
His answering machine picked up and after listening wistfully to his soft,
mellifluous voice, Molly left a hasty and slightly stilted message saying that
she had missed him and to call her soon.

The next day, his office remained empty and Molly received
no communication from him at all. Reluctant to ask Swanson to explain Matt's
absence, Molly approached the only person who catalogued every detail about
each employee's life, both personal and professional, and wouldn't hesitate to
share. Clayton, the self-titled "Queen of Classifieds," was the
staff's most flamboyant dresser and was cattier than a sorority girt. He
imbibed copious amount of coffee and though he was constantly eating, never
gained an additional ounce. Molly adored him.

"Darling," Clayton cooed, smoothing down a wave of
his carefully styled salt and pepper hair as he sat opposite Molly in the break
room. He flung the tail of a pink and white checked scarf around his neck and
reached for her hand, "Where have you been?"

"Miss me?" Molly asked, her flawless complexion
lighting up with pleasure. But her delight was short-lived. The image of Matt’s
empty office and the lack of messages on her answering machine prompted a glum
sigh. "I've been everywhere but where I want to be," she moaned, letting
her head sink onto the white laminate surface of the table.

"You mean, you'd rather be in the arms of that dashing
man down the hall?" Clayton gestured in the direction of Matt's office.

 "Kind of hard to date a guy when you never see each
other. Matt hasn't even shown up for work today. Do you know where he is,
Clayton?" Molly asked.

Clayton examined his neat nails and pretended not to hear
her question. "Do you think clear nail polish is gay?" he asked.

"No. And if it is, so what? You
are
gay,"
Molly snapped, narrowing her gray eyes at her friend. "Are you hiding
something from me?"

"Well, I'm
certainly
out of the closet so, no,
I'm not hiding anything," Clayton said mischievously and avoided looking
at Molly. He liked to take his time whenever he had a juicy tidbit of gossip to
share. He helped himself to an orange from the bowl in the center of the table
and began to meticulously peel the fruit, filling the room with its citrus
scent. Finally, he popped a segment into his mouth and chewed with deliberate
slowness. When Molly didn’t react, he sighed. "Fine, you win. No suspense
for Miss Molly.”

“Just spill.”

Clayton rolled his eyes. “Matt had to fly to Ohio. Something
to do with his brother."

"Is he all right?" Molly was instantly alarmed.

"The brother? I heard something about a car accident.
Even though I had my ear pressed to your man's office door, I couldn't get
all
the details."

Molly nodded, brows creased with worry. "I have no way
of reaching Matt in Ohio. I don't even know what town his brother lives in. I
hope he calls me before I leave for Richmond in a few hours."

"Richmond?" Clayton grimaced. "Ugh. Not a
good place to be gay. Too, too conservative. Still, they have some
fabulous
restaurants there. Better than the barbeque and chicken-fried steak crapola
posing as restaurants around here. You'll just
love
eating in
Carytown."

"Sure, but
who
am I going to eat with?"
Molly felt depressed. "I am tired of being on the road. See you in a
week," she said glumly, scooping up her pottery coffee mug.

Now here she was in Virginia, twenty miles south of
Petersburg following a sputtering pickup and singing the bittersweet lyrics of
Simon and Garfunkel's "Scarborough Fair." She hadn't heard from Matt
before leaving town and was beginning to feel that obstacles were going to
continue popping up to prevent them from becoming a real couple.

Suddenly, flashing blue lights appeared in the rearview
mirror of her seven-year-old silver Jeep. The lights belonged to a state
trooper.

"Damn it!" Molly yelled as she pulled over to the
shoulder. The pickup sped merrily onward as Molly turned off her radio and
rolled down her window, preparing for the worst.

Even though she was paid a respectable salary to do what she
loved most Molly had little money left over at the end of the month. She was
always surprised by how much of her check was eaten up by utility bills and the
mortgage payment on her tiny house. Any extra cash went into her "Antique
Investment Fund," which consisted of a roll of bills stashed inside a
pottery vase. Right now, she was saving to buy a chest of drawers for her
bedroom and a $150 speeding ticket coupled with a hike in insurance payments
would take a big bite out of her cache.

The trooper approached the door of her Jeep in a spotless
and pressed uniform with knifelike creases on his dark brown pants and a pair
of black boots that shone like glass in the midday sun. He was short and stocky
with thick arms and legs. Dark stubble framed his leathery, tanned cheeks and
his brown hat covered up most of his hairless head. Removing his mirrored
sunglasses, he looked at Molly with dark, stern eyes and an unsmiling mouth.

"License and registration," the trooper demanded,
carefully examining her front windshield.

Molly followed his gaze and noticed that her inspection
sticker was expired. Her shoulders drooped as she remembered that she had
chosen to hang out at a bookstore instead of getting her car inspected the day
the tag had expired. Thinking of her evaporating antique fund, Molly handed the
officer her license while she continued searching her glove box for her
registration.

"I'll find it," she assured him, noting that his
gleaming nametag read Jim Johnston.

Officer Johnston frowned. "Do you know how fast you
were going, miss?"

Molly hated that question. Of course she didn't know the
exact speed. Obviously, she had been going too fast, but the trooper didn’t
need to rub it in with his rhetorical question. "No, Officer," she
answered, deciding she had best be polite.

"I clocked you at seventy-seven miles-per-hour. This is
a sixty-five-mile-per-hour zone. Did you happen to notice that?"

"Not really, sir," Molly said meekly.

"What's your rush then?" he asked emotionlessly.

Molly finally found her registration and handed it to the
trooper. "Honestly, my mind was just wandering. I didn't even notice how
fast I was going. I
do
have to be someplace by three o'clock
though," she added feebly.

"Oh? And where's that?" Johnston spotted the issue
of
Collector's Weekly
on her front seat and displayed a trace amount of
curiosity. His upright composure seemed to relax a fraction.

Molly followed his gaze. She picked up the paper and held it
out. "I work for this paper. I'm going to cover the taping of
Hidden
Treasures
in Richmond."

Officer Johnston's face lit up like a Christmas tree.
"I love that show! I've been dying to bring some of my collection in for
their experts to appraise."

"What do you collect?" Molly asked, surprised by
the man's instant change in demeanor. Would his interest in collectibles get
her out of a ticket?

"A bunch of things," Johnston answered proudly.
"Coca-Cola advertising, Hot Wheels, Lionel trains, and tobacco tins."

"Well," Molly began, thinking furiously, "I'm
sure I could get you into the show." She handed him her business card.
"That's my cell phone number. Give me a call and I'll try to get someone
to look at one of your collections. I don't think you can bring everything you
own though," she added hesitantly. “The appraisers prefer to examine a
choice piece or two instead of a box load of things.”

"I'll just bring my best Hot Wheels," Johnston
said, looking extremely pleased. He took his own card out of his wallet and
handed it to her. Then, he seemed to remember his duty. His face clouded and
the sternness returned, setting his jaw and transforming him into an
unmistakable authority figure. "Look,” he said. “I've already called in
your plate, so I've got to give you a ticket for something. I'll write you up
for your expired inspection if you promise not to speed in my state
anymore."

"I promise!" Molly exclaimed, sinking back into
the seat with a sigh of relief. She wiped her clammy palms on her pants and
exhaled loudly.

As she waited for Officer Johnston to fill out the paperwork
in the comfort of his cruiser, she turned the radio back on. The Temptations
sang, "Heard It through the Grapevine," and Molly hummed along,
deciding not to share this anecdote with her mother who would certainly berate
her for almost receiving another speeding ticket Her mother, Clara, also wanted
Molly to invest in antiques. She never failed to offer her opinion when Molly
purchased something Clara deemed a complete waste of money, such as an Ann
Taylor sweater set or a spa pedicure.