A Fatal Appraisal (24 page)

Mrs. Hewell puckered her lips in thought. "Let's see. I
believe they leave from Cary Street and Twelfth. But the Valentine Museum also
offers a Canal Walk, but that focuses more on the historic Shockoe area."

"Indeed?" Garrett remarked quietly. "I know a
fellow who deals in coins down in that area. Perhaps I'll pay him a visit
before I take that tour. I wonder if his shop is one of the stops on the
Appleby women's tour..."

"Well, have fun, dear," Mrs. Hewell said as she
straightened up from bending over the dishwasher. She was surprised to catch
something dark move across Garrett's face, momentarily clouding his handsome
looks, but just as suddenly as the shadow appeared, it was gone.

She hurried by him into the dining room to finish clearing
up the breakfast service. "I wonder who just walked on
his
grave," she muttered to herself as she nosily stacked china and gathered
silverware.

A few minutes later, Garrett had returned to his room and
Borris appeared in her kitchen. By the time Borris explained that he was
checking out, proudly showing her the ring he meant to give Jessica that very
day, Mrs. Hewell had forgotten all about Garrett's sinister look. She insisted
on packing a bag lunch for a very fidgety Borris as she plied him with heaps of
outdated but well-meaning romantic advice.

Finally, Borris was allowed to make it out the door after
planting a friendly kiss on his hostess's plump cheek. Mrs. Hewell bustled off
to her home behind the bed-and-breakfast to share the exciting news with her
completely disinterested husband.

~~~~~~~~~~

It is not always that I have gone to some white-columned
mansion of other days . . . where within its guarded confines rare pieces were
well-preserved. The doorways at which entrance had often been sought, have been
largely neglected doors, along the river country where old settlements remain
to tell the story of grandeur now departed.

—Paul Burroughs,
Southern Antiques

To Coin A Phrase was located above a small coffee shop
that doubled as a bookstore. A crimson and gold wooden plaque with a carved
coin hung above a narrow doorway and gave one the impression of the entrance to
an English pub rather than a door opening to a steep flight of stairs.  The
brightly lit staircase led to another simple wooden door upon which two signs
were posted. The first was a warning against shoplifting and the second
announced the presence of surveillance cameras. When Molly rapped on the solid
door, a hazel eye appeared through the peephole and she could hear a series of
deadbolts being unfastened.

Jared Freeman, a tall man in his early sixties with graying
brown hair, opened the door. He grinned widely and invited Molly and Clara
inside. "Welcome, welcome. Please come in." He shook Molly's hand.
"Sorry about all the locks, but this isn't exactly an upscale neighborhood
and I can be a bit paranoid about my inventory."

 Molly introduced her mother and Jared bent gallantly over
Clara's hand with a gentlemanly bow. "I believe I've seen you before, Mrs.
Appleby. Is that possible?"

Clara's eyes sparkled as she noted the expensive cut of
Jared's sand-colored suit and the winkling of his gold Rolex. "Of course.
I've spotted you at several of Tilman's estate auctions before, right? And do
call me Clara. We're all antique people here—that makes us practically
family."

"I'm honored that you've chosen to interview me,"
Jared said to Molly, then turned back to Clara and added modestly, "As you
can see, the shop I run with Mr. Fielding’s assistance is rather small. I
conduct most of my business via the Internet these days."

"At least you can avoid having to keep endless store
hours." Clara walked over to a waist-high display case and began examining
the coins.

Molly took out her notebook and began to ask Jared the usual
litany of interview questions. How long had he been in business? What inspired
him to become a dealer? What was the finest or most memorable coin he had ever
bought or sold?

Jared perched comfortably on a three-legged stool next to
his vintage manual cash register during the short interview. He spoke in a
soft, pleasant voice and answered all of Molly's questions succinctly, but also
provided her with several humorous anecdotes certain to charm all of the
readers of
Collector's Weekly
. Molly was enjoying her interview so much
that she almost forgot her primary reason for tracking down Jared Freeman in
the first place.

"That's great, Mr. Freeman. This is going to make a
terrific piece,” she told him with sincerity. “I'm going to photograph you by
your fabulous antique cash register, and then perhaps you can show me some of
your better coins and I'll snap a few pictures of them as well."

As Molly took dozens of photos, Clara flipped through a
reference book on coin collecting and remained unobtrusive, which was quiet a
feat for her.

"So how long have you known Mr. Huntington?" Jared
asked after Molly had taken his picture.

"I just met him a week ago. I'm in town covering the
taping of
Hidden Treasures
," Molly said, relieved that Jared had
brought up the subject. "Garrett's quite a guy. How long have you two
known one another?"

"Oh, I've been buying rare coins from him for almost
ten years now." Jared left his stool and moved toward a tall display case.
"I only buy near mint to mint coins and Garrett has an excellent eye. I
have never failed to make a profit on a coin I've purchased from him."

"Any idea where he finds such good coins?" Molly
asked cautiously.

Jared laughed heartily. "Now you know dealers won't
kiss-and-tell when it comes to their sources. I only hope Garrett continues to
get ahold of the same quality coins he's always sold me. I only buy a few per
year from him, mind you, and I always have to pay him in cash, but I'll
never
discover where he's getting his coins."

"Did Garrett sell you something wonderful
recently?" Clara batted her eyes at Jared. "Can we see it? I know
absolutely nothing about coins, but I bet
you
could educate me a
bit."

Jared flushed with pleasure, but then his face quickly fell.
"Actually, I sold
him
a coin at the show, which is a rare treat,
believe me. Then Garrett stopped by unexpectedly yesterday to sell me a real
beauty. I turned around and sold it over the phone to one of my regular
customers within minutes. Unfortunately, I've already shipped that coin by
FedEx, so I'm afraid I can't show it to you." He looked wildly around the
store, desperate not to lose Clara's favor. "However, I could show you a
picture of one just like it." He scrambled over next to Clara and leafed
through one of the many reference guides displayed neatly in a bookrack.
"Ah, here it is."

"This one?" Clara queried as she pulled her
reading glasses from her deep purse. Jared watched her every move with
admiration. "Yes," he cooed. "This is an early half dollar,
called a Capped Bust Half Dollar because Lady Liberty is wearing a cap and is
posing in such a way that she reminds one of the busts from classical Greece or
Rome."

"What year was the coin you bought?" Molly asked,
an anxious constriction forming in her stomach.

"The one I acquired from Garrett was a Capped Bust 1836
Half Dollar in mint condition. A gorgeous thing." Jared puffed out his
chest as if he were personally responsible for the creation of the fine
collectible.

"Is that valuable?" Clara leaned in toward the
smitten coin dealer.

"I should say so. In today's market it lists at around
eleven thousand dollars. I give my best customers a discount, of course, but
you get the idea."

Clara watched her daughter's face contort with a combination
of shock and anger, so she steered Jared to another display case and began
asking him questions about the gold coins locked inside while Molly tried to
gain control over her raging emotions.

Finally, Molly thanked Jared for his helpfulness and
promised to let him know when the article was to be published. Clara handed him
one of her business cards and invited him to attend one of Lex's upcoming
auctions.

"I'd love to!" His hazel eyes gleamed as he
thanked Clara. "Please let me know if Lex gets any estates with any
coins."

"I most certainly will," Clara promised and
stepped outside to listen to the her daughter venting her wrath.

"That bastard!" Molly shouted. "Garrett told
me that coin was a fake! He gypped some needy widow! " A vision of the
beautiful African-American woman and her adorable son filled Molly’s vision.
"He gave her a few hundred dollars when her coin was worth thousands! Oh,
I'll kill that piece of sh—!"

"Molly!" Clara interjected. "Calm down!
Mr.
Freeman
sold the coin at that price. Who knows what he had to pay Garrett
for it?"

"Look, I saw Garrett count some bills into that woman's
hand. We're not talking about the eleven thousand that it’s worth. She'd be
lucky if he gave her three hundred dollars! He knew
exactly
what that
coin was worth! He took advantage of a widow and a hard-working single mom to
boot! I'd say we just learned something about his character, wouldn't
you?" Molly stormed up the street.

"Where are you going?" Clara demanded. "What
about our Canal Walk?"

"Screw the Canal Walk!" Molly shouted back over
her shoulder as she turned east in the direction of the Traveller. "I’ve
got a British fish to fry!"

~~~~~

As Molly and Clara were climbing the steps leading to
Jared Freeman's coin shop, Detective Paul Robeson was standing at his office
window watching one of his officers hold open the door of a patrol car for one
Randy Merrill.

"That's one less redneck hanging out in our jail,"
Combs said upon entering Robeson's office. "D.A. said our evidence was too
circumstantial, so we had to let him go."

Robeson watched Randy spit a glob of mucus on the sidewalk
outside the police station before raising his middle finger to anyone unlucky
enough to be in the immediate vicinity.

"Guess he doesn't want a ride back to his hotel,"
Combs smirked. "And he says he's going to sue us, too."

Robeson sighed. "Don't they all. Did you warn him about
staying away from Molly Appleby?"

"Sure did, boss." Combs watched as Randy stalked
down the street, his lips moving rapidly in what was no doubt a string of
obscenities. "He's going to be pissed that he's out on a Sunday. All the
liquor stores are closed."

Robeson sighed. "We've got another round of questioning
to go through today. Before we get all wrapped up in that, you'd better get
ahold of that producer and bring him in. His cast and crew are going to be
staying in our beautiful city a little while longer."

"I'll call him right now," Combs answered with
barely disguised irritation. He was no secretary.

"And Combs"—Robeson turned back to the window—
"call the owners of that antique desk we've got sitting in the evidence
room. They should be informed that it won’t be returned to them until these
cases are closed. I wouldn't go into too much detail if I were you. Just tell
them their desk is now officially evidence in a criminal case and we will
return it as soon as possible."

Combs nodded, and knowing full well that Robeson could see
his reflection in the glass, he fought back the grimace struggling to surface
on his face. Back at the wobbly desk in the stuffy room he shared with three
other officers, Combs picked up the phone and barked at Guy to drive himself to
the station immediately.

"And I need you to provide me with the name and phone
number of the person who owns that desk, the one that had the black mold all
over it."

"That information would be with Frank's files,"
Guy protested. "They're all in his briefcase. I'm sure his wife
would—"

"Just stop by her room and get it for me, why don't
you? We'll be expecting you within the next half an hour." Combs hung up
on the spluttering producer with a smirk of satisfaction. "Those TV
people. Think they're above everyone else."

By the time Combs had polished off a bag of cheese puffs and
two Dr. Peppers and had read all of the comic strips in
The Richmond Times
Dispatch
, an officer was leading Guy to the interview room. Combs hustled
into Robeson's office just as the detective was sorting through the papers in
Frank's weathered brown briefcase.

"Here we go." Robeson scanned a pink receipt.
"Eleanor Calloway. Here's her number." Robeson slid the piece of
paper over to Combs. "Go ahead and use this phone."

Combs shot his superior a dirty look but picked up the phone
and dialed.

"Mrs. Calloway?" he asked as the scratchy voice of
an elderly woman came on the line. "My name is Officer Combs from the
Richmond police department..." Combs began. "No, ma'am, I'm not
selling anything. Actually, I'm calling about your old... um... antique desk,
the one you lent Frank Sterling. Yes, the appraiser for
Hidden Treasures
."
Combs rolled his eyes in irritation as Robeson watched impassively. Suddenly,
Combs perked up and gestured for a pen and paper. Robeson slid both items
across the desk toward the burly officer. "You say you sold it? To the man
who picked it up? Ma'am, this is very important. Do you happen to remember his
name? Yes?" Combs scribbled excitedly on the pad. "That
does
sound familiar. Thank you, Mrs. Calloway."

"So she sold the desk right before Frank collected it,
huh?" Robeson rubbed his chin. 'To whom?"

"I don't get it," said the befuddled Combs as he
slid the pad of paper back across the desk. "How could she sell it and
then lend it to the show?"

Robeson's dark eyes grew round with astonishment as he read
the name written on the pad. He stood up and put his gun in his pocket holster,
his massive arm muscles rippling in anticipation. "Let's go, Combs."