A Killing in Antiques (15 page)

“The worst year was the time they dragged it out for ten days in order to catch two weekends’ worth of business.”

A chorus of groans went up. I had forgotten. What a mess. Sellers and buyers alike had been torn between deciding which days to close their shops and come here to buy or sell. It was a total washout, and it created some bad feelings.

“That’s how the Connecticut show got such a toehold on the antiques market.”

Maybe, maybe not, but other antiques markets have been growing rapidly since about that time. The television shows have also spurred people on in the race to make a killing in the search for treasure.

I had expected to accompany TJ through the first rush, but when Coylie offered to “show him the ropes,” he looked interested. He turned to me, as if for permission. Piece of cake. It would be much easier for me to dash through the field without stopping to explain things.

I wished them luck and suggested that we meet at two at the Patio. “Remember, don’t buy anything unless you love it, and if you love it, don’t wait until later to buy it, because it’s not going to be there.”

TJ, who had heard these words a number of times, rolled his eyes and said he’d be at the Patio at two.

We crossed paths a couple of times in the next hour. Lucky for me, they were as involved in their search as I was in mine, and we barely exchanged nodded greetings before ducking back into the fray. The newly opened field was particularly productive from my point of view, and it yielded up a number of those very special furnishings that give the shop an edge and bring in a different sort of shopper.

I’m careful about buying stock in this category. High-end items do pop up at Brimfield, but the search gets dicey. There are fewer pieces to be found, the risks are higher, and there are no returns. This afternoon I acquired three outstanding prizes: a cherrywood Biedermeier bookcase, a secretary that I’ll feature prominently, and a mahogany desk that will show itself off with distinction.

I introduced antiques in the high-end category when I finally opened St. Elmo Fine Antiques, about a year after we moved to the Cape. It broke my heart to close Olde Stuff, but the move to the Cape was unavoidable. Hamp was offered the perfect job: more research and less teaching.

I never dreamed of living in two different locations at that time, and had no plans for myself other than to get settled into our new home and then figure out what to do. Hamp and the kids were, at first, happy to have me running the house again and taking care of things. Before long, the cottage at the Cape looked comfy and cozy, the family had settled into their lives, and I was bored silly.

On my second run-through I looked up a wicker platform rocker that I had noticed on my first dash. It was still there. It had a woven motif, the likeness of a sailing ship on the back of the rocker. It would look wonderful on a porch that overlooked the ocean. It would look wonderful anywhere. I suspected it would be a little pricier than I wanted to pay. I took a closer look.

Someone, or several someones, had applied many coats of paint to the rocker. The paint was chipped in places, and glints of a variety of colors showed through the final coat of yellow. A few of its curlicues had broken off and were missing. No price tag.

“What are you asking for the rocker?” I asked.

“Five hundred,” he said.

“A little high for me,” I said.

“It’s a Heywood-Wakefield,” he said.

Good stuff. “I’m not sure I can find someone to do the work it needs,” I said.

“I thought I had it sold to a guy who can do the work himself, but he never showed up.”

Yeah, right. “It’s heavy for wicker,” I said.

“That’s because the rocking mechanism that connects the rocker to the platform has heavy old steel springs,” he said. “Sit in it. See, it doesn’t squeak, and it’s well built. That rocker will never hop around the floor.”

I rocked in it. It felt right, good and solid, but the grass floor of the tent was not a good place to test for hopping.

“Would you take four hundred for it?” I asked.

His face reddened, and he looked irritated. “This rocker is a fine piece of American craftsmanship, even with its surface imperfections. It’s worth every cent I’m asking, and probably more,” he said.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Truly, I’m picking it up for a friend and this is over the limit she gave me.”

He thought about it. “I’m only here until tomorrow morning, and I’d hate to drag it back home. I can knock off fifty dollars.”

It was more than I should pay, but it was a fine-looking rocker. As I stood there looking at it, my appreciation grew. After all, I had only paid $35 for the other rocker. That would still only average out to $242 each. Not too much more than Al’s guidelines.

“I’ll take it,” I said.

 

The boys were chatting with Mr. Hogarth at the Patio when I arrived at two o’clock. They were enjoying their success. Coylie had found some railroad ephemera that pleased him, and TJ was happy with a small wooden dulcimer.

“I don’t think it’s antique,” he said. “But it’s older than I am, and I’m sure it’s handmade.”

“Is it a toy?” I asked. It was very small.

“I don’t think so,” he said. “I’ll bet it was made by a father for his child. I just tuned it. Listen.”

His huge hands plucked the strings of the little instrument. He can play anything. The soft, sweet sounds of an old song came to life. What was that song? A fellow nearby held up his hand, pointed at TJ, dove into his wagon, came up with a fiddle, and joined in.

I couldn’t remember what the song was, but I loved the gentle sound. Mr. Hogarth began clapping his hands in time with the music, and soon people around us joined in, and then with a flourish the song ended. The crowd applauded. Someone said the song was “Red River Valley.” Of course!

This kind of impromptu happening was not unusual at Brimfield, but there had been fewer light communal moments this time around than there usually were. TJ and Coylie were delighted with the feeling that had suffused the event. Mr. Hogarth, too, had lightened up. He’d had some mood swings lately, was not his usual self.

Before we collected the furniture that I had waiting for me around the field, I took TJ to the tool dealer I had visited earlier. He and the dealer made instant friends of each other when TJ said that he was in the metal business, too, and the dealer caught on that he meant metal music.

“I almost called my scrap metal business Metallica, but my son’s an attorney, and he told me that could be troublesome,” the dealer said.

While we waited for TJ, Coylie told me that he’d been thinking about lace. “If it’s as strong as you say, it’s a perfect weapon.”

“Why so?”

“It’s silent, no big bang. No blood splash-back as with a gun, or especially with a knife. And best of all it’s easily available, and probably not traceable.”

I couldn’t come up with a way to trace the lace. Maybe it was the perfect weapon.

TJ finished up with the tool dealer, and he and Coylie got into the big rental truck and followed me to fields where I had furniture waiting. Then we drove to Al’s, where they made quick work of loading my stuff from the van and the barn into the rental truck.

With that job finished, Coylie took TJ into Al’s. I tidied up my almost empty van, and when I got to the kitchen they were already at the table tearing into Al’s treat for this afternoon, lemon squares. We visited, and I told Al that I had found another rocking chair for her, and that it was a little pricier than she had been looking for.

She shrugged. “It must be special,” she said.

Good. I nodded agreement, and before we could discuss it any further, I got up, announcing that we had to get TJ back on the road to the Cape. Our leaving created enough of a flurry that I never did mention exactly how much I had paid for the rocker.

Al packed lemon squares for both boys, and we all said good-bye to TJ at the end of her driveway. I drove Coylie back to his campsite. Not much going on there.

“Where are the campers who were here yesterday when Billy was here?” I asked.

Coylie pointed to two tents nearby. I called “Hello” in front of the tents, but there was no answer.

“Do you know their names?” I asked.

“Nope.”

“I’ll try to catch them early tomorrow,” I said.

I
had an errand in Worcester. I avoided the Mass Pike in favor of a shortcut over Dead Horse Hill. The road crested, dipped, and crested again, unveiling, at every level, a woodsy New England that is fast disappearing. I coaxed the van up a series of climbs. Spring greens exploded out onto the road. Crystal pools mirrored the vegetation. Streams rushed by, bashing and bubbling against stony beds.

Dead Horse Hill still shelters a few small orchards, one-man farms, and picturesque woodlands—a patchwork bound together by mossy old stone walls.

The carton with the vase and hammer rested snugly on the passenger seat next to me. With a little luck the vase would revert back to “museum quality” before the day was over. I’d begun to feel uneasy about the hammer. I worried that I’d made a mistake buying the silly thing.

I crested the last hill and caught a fine view of the city below. When we’d lived in this area it was the first time that a place had provided me with a sense of contentment. Thinking about that made me feel good. I reached the last bump before the final steep grade and treated the van to a splendid plunge down the hill. It screamed “Whee!” in delight as we descended.

I drove toward Webster Square, which may have actually been a square at one time. It’s been a sprawling, busy neighborhood for as long as I’ve known it. The emissaries of franchise-land are more fully represented now than when Hamp and I settled in the area. The fast-food chains and gas stations have been joined by hardware outlets, lube joints, nail salons, convenience stores, and video emporiums.

None of this competition seems to have choked off the zeal of the local entrepreneurs, who still offer an innumerable variety of goods and services. The area is busy with cars, pedestrians, baby carriages, dogs, and bicycles. It teems with color and noise and movement. The three-deckers that are still abundant throughout the city are packed together tightly here, and the smattering of elegant but shabby old Victorians still give testimony to the fact that the neighborhood began with higher aspirations.

Hamp and I moved to Worcester the day after he finished graduate school. We, and our rapidly hatching flock, settled at first into a three-decker in the heart of Webster Square. It was low rent then and it’s low rent now. It was great fun.

I eased into Edgar-the-auto-body-guy’s driveway and parked the van as far out of the way as I could manage. The yard was busy with activity. Cars were being worked on in the mild spring sunshine, and more cars waited their turns. The garage doors were open across the front of the building. The hammering and clanging of the work blended nicely with the eruptions of music coming from several radios, each playing full blast and tuned to a different station, inside and outside of the building. The squawk of a police scanner clawed the air for its share of the melee.

There was a busy feeling at Edgar’s Auto Body Shop. Things were chugging right along for Edgar. But no Edgar in sight. I wondered if he’d seen me coming and ducked. I took the carton with the cloisonné vase and the hammer out of the van and headed for the small office in the corner of the building just as Edgar stepped out of the door.

“Hey, Loose Lady, how-ah-yuh?” he said and smiled, which is something he does with his whole face. Then he noticed the box I was carrying and his smile froze.

“Oh, no, Loose Lady, you ain’t gonna con me into another one of them antique projects.” It began as a statement, but ended as a question.

“Of course not, Edgar. I don’t
do
conning, but I do have this vase, and you did tell me yourself that you’re one of the few left who can do this sort of work. That you were trained when cars were made of steel, not plastic.”

“Aww, Loose Lady, that’s what I get for bragging. I never shoulda done it,” he said. “Lookit the business I got here. Lookit the jobs I got waiting for me. I got work here. Real work. Respectable work. I ain’t no vase repair guy. Jeez, Loose . . .” His words hung there.

Edgar was sorry he had, long ago, while repairing one of my early fender benders, shown off his metalworking skill. He was proud of his work. He had done it to cheer me up. And it had. Immeasurably.

I didn’t learn how to drive until we moved to Worcester. Prior to that we lived in the cocoon provided by graduate school, and I didn’t mind trotting around for anything I needed, or waiting for Hamp to chauffeur me on my errands. That changed, of course, when we moved out into the
real world
, where I quickly learned how to drive well enough to acquire a driver’s license, but not well enough to stay out of trouble.