A Killing in Antiques (13 page)

I took the vase out. It was cloisonné, enamel over bronze; the metalwork between the enamel design work was heavily tarnished; probably silver rather than the usual brass or bronze. The shape of the vase was classic: widely curved shoulders tapering down to a narrow rim at the base. It was dusty.

Usually dealers clean their wares before they drag them out to the shows, but this might have been a lastminute choice, thrown in, to be taken care of later. Then, too, sometimes dirt or dust is sprinkled over an object on purpose, to hide something. This dust looked standard, the kind I keep a collection of around the house.

The vase was at least a hundred years old, new by Oriental standards, antique by American. I was afraid to turn it over and look for the mark that I expected—afraid, because of a serious character flaw that does not allow me to maintain a poker face.

The enamel was in good condition, but the widest part of the shoulder had a little ding in it where it must have fallen hard against something. The enamel showed no chipping around the dent. I didn’t brush the dust off it. I knew what it looked like under there, and I didn’t want the dealer to decide that I coveted it enough to pay the top price for it.

The design was exquisite, three goldfish with fanned tails, looking as if they were about to dart away from their deep blue enameled abode. It was Japanese rather than Chinese, I was sure. I asked the dealer if it was for sale.

“Hey, lady,” he replied, “everything here is for sale.” I looked at him for the first time. He was about twenty-five, maybe twenty-six, chewing whatever it was that had scented the air with the fragrance of grape. Young to have such a distinctive collection. I knew I had a real find in my hand, but the dealer didn’t seem too interested.

“That’s good stuff,” his voice said, but his posture indicated boredom, and he stayed where he was, scanning a newspaper, leaning against the tent pole, chewing. Several thin wisps of hair on the underside of his chin waved with each roll of his chewing gum. He appeared to have little interest in the vase. Odd. Now is when he should tell me some little story about it, to reel me in. Something was wrong here.

“Pretty.” My usual response whenever I’m interested, but don’t want to seem too interested.

“Yeah,” he said, “I just took it out of my uncle’s cellar when I packed to come here.”

His uncle’s cellar? His uncle’s cellar? Oh, my, my, my, my. Could he be the man of my dreams? I breathed as slowly and as deeply as I could. Quietly.

“Pretty,” I repeated. Oh, for pity’s sake, isn’t it time for me to think up some other refrain? “Have you decided on a price yet?” My nonchalance was making my stomach hurt.

“A grand,” he said. It was almost a question.

“A grand!” I said. I nearly dropped it. Doesn’t he know what this is? I turned it over slowly, and sure enough, there was the mark on the bottom. I didn’t want to peer at it. A grand. A gift!

“Maybe I can take something off it, if you’re serious,” he said, “but I’d want cash, and it’s good stuff. My uncle was behind the times, but he only collected good stuff.”

All dealers fantasize about finding someone selling treasures at rock-bottom prices. Stories abound where, because of some fluke, the seller has devalued the treasures and dumps them on the marketplace for a pittance.

I’ve never found one of these mythical dealers; the closest I’ve come to the legend is second wives. I love second wives. They dump the first wife’s treasures as fast as they can, eradicating all signs of the previous possessor, and at the same time making space to display their own impeccable taste. So this guy had an uncle.

“Is he here?” I asked. I hoped he was not.

“He’s dead, but he wouldn’t have given you a discount, lady.” He stroked the several hairs under his chin. Maybe he was counting them.

“My uncle was as hard-assed as they come. When he put a price on something, it stayed put. I’m getting rid of his stuff; look at the prices he asked. That vase isn’t priced. It was in the cellar because of the dent, but he would have asked more than a grand, I’ll tell you!”

He had that sheepish look kids get. It was a look that gave him away. I knew, as surely as if he had announced it, that he was the cause of the dent in the shoulder.

I looked around, and sure enough, all of the Oriental pieces wore stickers of the same old-fashioned style. Red-rimmed rectangles, with corners cut off at an angle. The brass and the Art Deco objects sported little white self-stick tags with rounded corners. The kind everyone uses now. The prices on the old, red-rimmed stickers were high indeed. The uncle was a lover.

Lovers are not unusual in the antiques trade. They’re collectors masquerading as dealers. They select each piece lovingly or greedily, and they price them so high that they get to keep them. Most of the dealers I know have succumbed to this syndrome occasionally. Certain pieces are so thrilling that one wants to hang on to them. The uncle apparently made it a way of life. The nephew had his own agenda.

“I’ll take eight fifty for it, because of the dent, but only if you take it off my hands right now for cash.”

He was still negotiating price, while I was wondering if I could take anything else away from him.

“I think I’ll take it,” I said, forcing my voice to remain steady. The vase was signed with the chop mark of Nagoya Hayashi, which is not a person but a school of Japanese master artists who had worked in bronze and enamel. If perfect, the vase would sell quickly for twelve thousand dollars. Nice markup, and I could get an even better price, if I didn’t mind waiting for exactly the right buyer to come along. I didn’t even want to put it down to get my money out.

I had been speaking as quietly as I could in order to keep our conversation private. I knew that if we were overheard, others would catch on to my find, and that discovery could nix any further negotiations. I wrapped up the deal on the injured vase quickly, and then we began to discuss other pieces. Despite my efforts to keep the situation quiet, other dealers began to catch the scent of blood in the water, and several had assembled in the tent.

I was fearful that the gathering crowd might break the spell and that some inkling of common sense would slip into his skull, but I needn’t have worried. For all that he was indifferent to me when I’d begun my inquiries,
now
he fixed his attention on me, and could see only me.

He was aware that some of the crowd was watching him wrap up a big sale; that they saw it as entertainment. He didn’t seem to realize that some were here to buy. He ignored them as customers, and played to them as his audience.

Now I began to worry about the audience. They wanted to get in on the action. I didn’t want to step on toes. Didn’t want anyone to start bidding against me. I knew I’d better not be greedy. I’d have to be quick. He wanted to appear the
master
, wrapping up a big deal. One slip and I’d be down the tubes.

We negotiated two more purchases. He was firmer on the stuff that his uncle had price-tagged, but now that I was taking the damaged vase off his hands, he was able to see his way clear to some interesting discounts. I’d probably only make about a 500 percent markup on those items. God, this guy was better than a second wife.

While the money changed hands, he took great pains to explain to me, and his audience, that his interest was limited to Art Deco, and once he cleaned out all of his uncle’s stuff, he would carry only Art Deco. “It’s the coming thing,” he said sagely, and I nodded in agreement. Yes, Art Deco is fine stuff, and it’s making more headway all the time, but
this
was like throwing out your Leonardo da Vincis because Erté is the coming thing.

I left the tent. One dealer patted my shoulder on my way past, and another winked, quiet acknowledgment of a job well done. This tent would probably be specializing in Art Deco before the next hour was over.

Oh, God, I hope Hamp doesn’t become a widower before I sell off all of my inventory.

I
searched the rest of the field, but didn’t find another prize to equal the injured cloisonné vase. There was plenty that pleased me, though, and I filled Supercart several times. I transferred things into the van, admiring them again as I repacked. The cloisonné vase was the cream, its eminence undisputed, but there was plenty of tutti-frutti to keep it company.

I’d picked up a Boston rocker for only thirty-five dollars, all it was worth in my opinion, a copy of a copy. But it was nice and sturdy, with an unmarred finish, and Al would be happy with the bargain. The back of the van was filling up.

I took a minute to call Natalie from a phone-on-a-stick. I was in a perfect mood to cheer her. When her machine answered I was able to chat with it without antagonizing myself, and I left an extensive message outlining my plans for the next few days.

TJ, my regular Sherpa, would be here for the final field opening today. I’d been preparing him, and didn’t want him to miss out. I hadn’t yet figured out how to tell him about Monty’s murder; I didn’t want to shock the kid.

I drifted into another of yesterday’s fields; most would remain open for several days, some for the whole show. When I came upon a tent selling old hand tools, not usually of interest to me but perhaps to TJ, I stopped. I use simple tools. My feeling for them is strictly utilitarian, and I’m always surprised that so many people find them interesting as collectibles.

TJ’s interest in vintage musical instruments seems natural enough to me, but his interest in old hand tools is a bit of a surprise. I scanned them, making a mental note to bring him back later. I wanted to pack his visit with as many of the pleasures of this place as I could find. In fact, I hoped the kid would love the place.

The tools were attractive, in their way. They were laid out on shelves of scaffolding. Old burlap bags on the ground under the shelves also held displays of larger, heavier tools. They seemed to be sorted by kind, and also by size. I rattled around a bit, not knowing why, nor quite what I was looking for. The dealer was busy with customers and didn’t approach.

I looked at an assortment of picks. Some had curved ends, some straight; some were longer, some shorter. There were one-sided picks, but most were two-sided. Some had a different sized pick on each side; others had entirely different tools opposite one another. Who used these picks? Did each user have a special pick that suited him perfectly? Or did he prefer a variety? Different picks for different jobs? Would a woman choose a different pick for the same job?

I leaned over a burlap bag where some steel objects rested. They were a variety of interesting shapes. I picked one up. It was heavy for its size. Oily, too. I didn’t know what it was, but I dallied over the display. The steel had a certain sculpted quality. I picked up another piece. I thought I could use an object such as this.

The dealer approached. “Whataya lookin’ for?”

I put the oily tool back where I’d found it, and wiped my hand with a tissue. How should I explain? “I’d like to buy a gift for someone,” I said.

He squinted, scratched his head, and focused on me. I may have lost my cloak of invisibility.

I picked up another piece of steel, also oily. “What is this thing?” I asked. It had a nice heft to it. It was bigger than my fist, maybe five inches thick, had round sides, and flat sides, and curves and angles. There was a kind of beauty to it.

“It’s a whatcha-may-callit,” he said, grinning.

Good enough. “Do you know what it’s used for?” It was shaped like the head of an oversized hammer, with no place indicating where the handle belonged. There was a bulge where the flat part, that hits the nails, should be.

“Nah, it came out of an old machine tool place in Worcester. Went out of business years ago.”

“Worcester?” I said. Serendipity. “My first shop was in Worcester. Was it made there, or just used there?”

“I can’t say, I demolished the place last year. Made way for an empty lot. I’m a scrap metal freelancer,” he explained.

“What was the name of the place it came from?”

“Iduhknow, lady. I got no pedigrees here. Place stood empty for years. You want it? Fi’ bucks, it’s yours.”

I took it. I’d return it to Worcester later this afternoon. I strolled away satisfied. It was almost time to meet TJ.

I looked up from the path and spotted Mr. Hogarth ahead talking with John Wilson. I was in no mood for either of them or their opinions about Billy’s guilt, or Monty’s character. But I didn’t see how I could avoid them, and just then Mr. Hogarth noticed me and waved me over. I was hard to miss, wheeling Supercart along the narrow path.

“John has been telling me”—Mr. Hogarth hesitated as a quick look passed between them—“that he hasn’t seen much fresh merch here today, Lucy.”

“Fresh merch,” I repeated. “Are you looking for something specific?”

I’d bet he was tracking a treasure. Fresh merch is what draws us all here. It’s the stuff that dealers bring from elsewhere. Stuff that’s been hoarded away in attics and cellars, stuff that’s been scouted for, that’s recently been estated back into circulation. Fresh merch. How had he missed it? Brimfield is loaded with my favorite oxymoron: new antiques.

“I’m looking for things that will suit the museum, but not for specific objects, Lucy,” he said.

“I don’t remember ever seeing much old jade here,” I said.

“There never has been, except for the occasional odd piece of jewelry. And the jewelry that does show up here is apt not to be museum quality,” he said. “Today I’m looking for the kind of object that I can use to set off our existing collection. Furniture, or accessories that will compliment the jade that we already own.”

“I just saw some nice Oriental cloisonné that a young fellow is selling back there, mostly vases. Excellent work, good prices,” I said.

“We have more vases than we can use in a lifetime,” he said.