A Killing in Antiques (2 page)

Right.

Brimfield appears like Brigadoon. Suddenly, in a magical moment on the appointed day, it’s there. Rather than once every century, it materializes three times each year, in May, July, and September. And the May Brimfield is peerless. Where before there were tree-studded fields and meadows sprinkled with occasional barns or buildings, there now stands an enchanted territory. A tent town packed to bursting with treasures. After six days of revelry, comedy, and tragedy, the phenomenon vanishes.

The fields line both sides of Route 20 for more than a mile, some as small as five acres, others ten acres or more. Within each, hundreds of tents are arranged into streets and alleys in a higgledy-piggledy imitation of city blocks. Gathering places have sprung up, perfect for eating or resting or socializing.

Big tents and little tents, in a carnival of colors. Yellow and white stripes predominate lately, looking far more festive than the army surplus colors of the old days. Each tent is an antique shop.

Imagine four thousand antique shops and only six days in which to examine every item in each one of them before those fifty thousand or so other buyers get all the good stuff.

My heart beats wildly. My adrenaline surges. My systems galvanize. The hunt is on!

I feel taller during the hunt. I feel thinner during the hunt. I’m convinced that, during the hunt, my eyesight improves. Hamp, my husband, has assured me that I’m deluded, but when I’m hunting I even forget that I have a fiftieth birthday chasing me. Tell me that’s not real.

 

By twenty past two, I was ready. I had spent the night alone in our tiny apartment in Boston. This put me closer to Brimfield. It’s a little more than an hour away from the apartment, and close to three hours from the Cape. It was easier for me to pull myself together here, since my stumbling and clunking about wouldn’t wake Hamp and the family, all snug back on Cape Cod.

An ironclad lease ties us to the apartment, which was a source of much anxiety in our family. We had rented it for our younger daughter, Nancy. It was adorable, safe, near school, and best of all we could almost afford it. Several months passed before we realized that she didn’t live there. Even before the handwringing and recriminations abated I noticed how much I liked the funky little place, and I began to find reasons for staying there with Hamp. We use it as a refuge.

We love our large, rambunctious family, who keep bouncing back home to us at the Cape, but we slip away to the little apartment whenever we get the chance. That’s how we remind ourselves that we love each other, too. Alas, this week I’d be here alone.

The coffee was ready. I poured an inch of it into the dearest treasure that I keep here, my Rozane mug, and sipped at the scalding coffee. I let myself dream, for a moment, about the possibility of acquiring a match for it this week.

Enough. I poured the rest of the coffee into my thermos and hurried away. The drive was an easy one from the apartment. The sky in Boston was clear and starry. Traffic was light, and at that hour the Mass Pike had no construction bottlenecks. I approached Exit 9, where the slight increase in traffic hardly made a ripple, then sailed down Route 20 for the final ten miles. There were enough vans and trucks and RVs going in my direction to assure me that the plunge in the economy wouldn’t be fatal for this year’s antique shows. We were all making the pilgrimage to Brimfield.

I found a good place to park, right off Route 20. Stepping out of the van, I felt the cool air, ripe with the smell of spring, and I sensed,
knew
really, that this was going to be one of those special days. I rolled Supercart out of the van. It was folded into its smallest position, but still it took up a good chunk of the van’s space. I headed for the parking attendant. I wanted to see if I could strike a deal with him for later in the day.

Parking at Brimfield is inexpensive. Arrive early enough and it’s convenient, too. The space is yours, but on a heavy day, if you move, you lose it.

I wanted a guaranteed parking space, and a little more. If I can fill my van several times a day, and drive to a barn nearby where I store things temporarily, it makes the day perfect. But on top of that perfect day, I’d like just a little more space, preferably near the parking attendant, where I can drop off large pieces of furniture that I acquire. I’m happy to pay for this convenience, but some parking attendants just can’t see it my way.

This one, a kid wearing a broad smile and a Boston cap, listened intently, nodding and “Yes, ma’am”–ing me as I told my story. He was young, and in charge, and he could give me the old “Sorry, ma’am, but rules are rules.” Instead, he asked, “What time will you make your first trip back to the parking lot?”

I looked at my watch; it was almost four o’clock. “I’d like to be back here to empty my first load before the six a.m. openings.”

“Great!” he said. “I’ll take your offer, but I’ll need a signing bonus. Bring me a coffee and something good to eat, and you’ve got yourself a deal.”

I would have hugged him, but I didn’t want to scare the kid. It was shaping up to be a wonderful day.

I
t was still dark. Official opening time for the first day of Brimfield was still minutes away. Daybreak, it was called; the term is relative around here, but I was already in clover. Most of my take so far was of the bread-and-butter variety, but it was all I could do not to prance my way through the people streaming into the area early, trying to do a little preopening shopping. Naughty, naughty, that’s against the rules. May they get what they deserve. Unless I see it first.

Yes, yes, and yes again. In less than an hour I had Supercart half filled. I had lucked into a collection of art pottery almost as soon as I stopped at my first field. I paid three hundred dollars for the collection of eight pieces, less than I’d be willing to pay for one of the items, a pedestal.

There were three pieces of Rookwood and three pieces of Roseville, one of which was the top prize, a Normandy pedestal, just what I love. The sale included two McCoy flowerpots that I could have left behind. I didn’t really want them, but the dealer wanted to get rid of the whole group, almost as if it would sully his collection of primitive kitchen utensils.

It’s been said that you can get a bargain from a dealer who specializes in something other than the item you’re buying, implying that the dealer doesn’t recognize it or value it. But now there are books that help identify an unfamiliar object and give some idea of its current value.

If this guy did any price checking, he used information that’s long out-of-date, because this stuff was increasing in price even as we were completing our sale. If he’d waited until his field opened, he’d have been able to double his price within the first few minutes. There could easily have been a bidding war for that Normandy pedestal, even without the jardinière. Jardinières are easier to find than pedestals, and though Normandys are relatively rare, I knew that in time I’d come across one.

I walked along Route 20 and entered the flow of people heading toward the dim lights of the next field. The bare lightbulbs were slightly brighter than candles. No one at Brimfield has ever overspent money for lighting. It’s to no seller’s advantage to illuminate the chips and dents and cracks, nor to spotlight the outright fakes and forgeries.

Dark as it was, I nevertheless spotted Natalie Rosen ahead of me. Her athletic stride was easy to recognize, and her dark hair caught the scanty light. Natalie’s an old friend, and I hurried to catch up with her. Another of the pleasures of Brimfield is the renewal of old friendships.

Natalie and I met soon after we started our businesses in the same wretched building in Worcester fifteen years ago. The fact that we operated on shoestring budgets, had no idea what we were doing, and had opened businesses that were only slightly more advanced than lemonade stands might have been thread enough to weave us a friendship, but something else happened in that relationship.

We became learning systems and support systems and a mutual admiration society for each other. We were intricately linked providers of exactly what the other most needed, which was often just to be taken seriously.

“I hope you’ve had better luck than I,” she said when I caught up with her. “I’ve been here an hour and I haven’t found a thing.”

I immediately launched into a detailed description of my loot, but stopped. “Have you really not found anything?”

Natalie had turned to antiques far later than I, but she’s a much better shopper. She can see possibilities quickly, make decisions quickly, and strike deals quickly. I was surprised that she hadn’t found any treasures; there were lots of goodies around.

“Not a thing,” she said. “I wasted too much time trying to make a deal on a pickle castor, but the price was outrageous and I walked off in a huff. I can hardly keep my mind on what I’m doing. I’m going home.” She sounded angry. Her steps pounded along the gravel path. Her hair, a glossy mahogany helmet, shot forward at every step, then slipped back into its allotted place. Every hair on my head was jealous of its behavior.

“Don’t be silly, Natalie.” We pushed our carts along, Supercart rumbling a rich baritone, her smaller metal cart twittering timpani. “It will be daylight in a few minutes. You’ll get your bearings, and once you’ve bought that first trophy, you’ll feel better.”

“No,” she said, “I’m giving up and going home. The day’s hardly started but it already feels like a total loss.”

“Don’t go home, Natalie. If you’re down in the dumps, you’re better off here. You’ll see old friends, and you’ll get involved in this circus. It will be good for you.”

We didn’t see each other as often these days because our businesses are now at opposite ends of the state, but our friendship is still deeply felt. We missed the daily details of each other’s lives, but we picked up old conversations comfortably and somewhat regularly. I suspected her old scars were acting up. In the dim light her dark eyes glistened. I was afraid she might cry.

“I’m interviewing,” she said.

Well, I’ll be draped! This was Natalie’s code for saying she was dating.

When we met, Natalie, a fragile young widow with two small children, was still reeling from the loss of her husband. She had nevertheless created her odd little business. She plunged all of her energies into the business and the children, and they’d responded. Each had teetered precariously on occasion, but had adapted and developed. In the end, though the business and the children had changed, all thrived and grew.

Slowly but inevitably her healing took place. I like to believe I played a part in it. She mended and gathered strength, and her recovery progressed. I’m only half a dozen years older than Natalie, but I mothered her quite a lot. I sometimes sensed that her recovery was stalled, but I saw, too, that she was resilient and that she could work her way through the damage. It’s a fact of my life that the most interesting people have all had to work their way through the foulest damage.

She began to date. That was when I noticed that she had created her obscure code of euphemisms that I call Natalieze. I watched her “interviewing” with intense interest. I couldn’t wait to hear what she’d dream up to call a boyfriend once the interviews got serious. But I’d be waiting still, because things never got that far. Natalie dismissed all her suitors before they reached boyfriend status.

“Who’s the lucky fellow?” I gushed. “Do I know him?”

“Don’t get excited, Lucy. This may just be another bit of research.”

“I know, I know. So why don’t you stay here and shop around? You may find another pickle jar.”

“It’s a pickle castor, Lucy, sterling silver, with a mother-of-pearl insert. I’m sure it’s like the one I saw at the McGirr Museum a while back, so I don’t think there will be too many of them around.”

She was put out with me. I think she needed comforting, but I didn’t have time to comfort her just then. This early part of the hunt must be done quickly. The competition immediately following opening time is vigorous, and for good reason. The unusual stuff goes fast. You can wait years before seeing its likeness again. Could we meet later for coffee? She hesitated, then agreed. I thought I knew the cause of her jitters. I’d calm her later. She was just worked up about the d-a-t-e.

“Good,” I said. I was happy that she wouldn’t go home and fret, and only mildly guilty over my relief in not having to take the time to console her. “You’ll find something you like better, and you’ll make a killing on it.”

We hugged, said our good-byes, and I rushed off. More fields open on opening day than on all other days. Efforts to stagger the opening hours and monitor the selling hours are imperfect. Plenty of deals are made before the listed business hours, and I intended to make as many as I could.

I was flying. Supercart was holding up well. This was its sixteenth year of Brimfield. When filled, it has been the object of much eye rolling by onlookers. Made for me by my oldest son, Philip, when he was fifteen years old, it was built to be a repository in transit for my lovely treasures, and as I go along buying more and more goodies I can keep raising its sides and its supporting shelves higher, and wider, until it’s packed six feet high and about four feet wide.

I like Supercart so much because it makes me feel like Superman as I roll it around the fields. I used to be called petite, sometimes even tiny. That was okay. But over time I’ve acquired some age, and some mass, and now I’m more often called short. I don’t feel short, and I don’t like the term.

Each and every one of the twenty-seven definitions in
my
edition of
Webster’s
implies that “short” means not enough. I see Webster as a trifle dogmatic, but his work has caught on in our house, so it’s hard to argue with his decisions. With Supercart I feel that I’m showing the world that I’m
more
than enough. It’s perfectly balanced, has springs, and its nice fat wheels are nifty for keeping my stuff from getting jounced around on the rutted gravel paths and lumpy fields.