Courir De Mardi Gras (11 page)

“I drink Jack Daniels and have plenty of shirts.” George dropped her arm when Birdie pushed into the kitchen.

“Go on doing whatever you was doing. Old Birdie has to wash those shirts. Don’t think about me none.”

“I’ll take it off right now and put it in some cold water.” George fled the scene.

“Now, I didn’t mean to do that. I was only joking with him, but Miss Virginia made him jumpy like that. Just when he was starting to warm up to you, too. Why, he hasn’t come home to lunch in months, and this time it wasn’t to see old Birdie.”

Great, Suzanne thought, returning to the silver spread on the dining room table. Now, she had two men she did not want, and one of them happened to be her boss. The afternoon rolled downhill from there. She started to check the larger pieces: the punchbowl; a pair of candelabra; a tea set with an amazing number of pieces from a waste bowl to sugar tongs. Each item seemed to have some little niggling thing wrong with it. The manufacturer’s mark and the sterling symbol were obscured and illegible on the punch bowl, though Virginia Lee listed it as Tiffany. The candlesticks had the proper weight for sterling, but something about their patina bothered her. She questioned Birdie, too heavily, perhaps.

“So you’ve been here thirty years,” Suzanne began subtly.

“More like forty. Mr. Fred and Miss Beatrice took me on right out of school to help old Effie. Then they died within a year of each other, Mr. Fred of a stroke and Miss Beatrice from missing him, I think. She got the pneumonia and wouldn’t call in a doctor ’til it was too late. Effie and me kept the house up until the boys got home from the war and settled everything. Then, Effie retired. Said she was too old to learn new tricks from the likes of Miss Virginia.”

“How often have you polished all this silver over the years?”

“Oh Lawd, least once a month, more when Miss Virginia entertained, maybe not so often after she got sick. I mean Mr. Georgie never has folks over, and it takes all my time to keep the place clean by myself. ’Fore, we had other maids and a cook. I does my best.”

“Of course you do, but look at these candelabra. When a piece has been polished often, it develops this sort of deep glow called a patina. This article seems almost new, but Mrs. St. Julien’s note dates it as 1853 and values the pair at nearly $4,000.”

“Well, I don’t know nothing ’bout that. That’s one of her new candlesticks she got the last five years, traded it for her old set with her antique dealer, trading up she said. So maybe I didn’t shine it so much. It’s hardly been out the bag since she got it. Liked the old ones better myself. They was all covered with curlicues and had these little cups to catch the wax.”

“Bobeches.”

“What say?”

“Bobeches, the little cups that catch the wax.”

“Yeah. They were the devil to clean, but I liked them sticks better. They did sort of glow.”

“Did Mrs. St. Julien trade any of the other pieces?”

“Nearly all the big ones. Trading up, she told me, every time.”

“It’s just that some of the pieces don’t quite match their descriptions.”

“I don’t know about that neither. When Miss Virginia died, the estate people took the inventory, one punch bowl, one tea set. They was all here. They still is.” Birdie’s lower lip protruded belligerently.

“She might have made some mistakes,” Suzanne suggested, trying to calm her down.

“Miss Virginia collected that silver for thirty years. You just a kid. What you know about it?”

Suzanne decided not to argue the point. She needed Birdie’s goodwill, and even more, her friendship in this lonely house.

“I think her dealer may have tried to cheat her.”

“Not old Mr. Mort. She dealt with him twenty years or more. Why he’d go off to New Orleans or New York, even London, England, and Paris, France, and bring back things only for her. They would sit right here at this table, and I’d bring tea in the special service. Mr. Mort would be showing her something nice from one of his drawstring bags. Each and every time, he’d admire the tea set, and Miss Virginia would say what a pleasure it gave her just to use it.”

“I’d like to talk to Mr. Mort myself.”

“You’d have to go on up to heaven. Mr. Mort’s been dead about twelve years.”

“Then, who traded for Mrs. St. Julien’s candlesticks?”

“Mr. Mort’s son, Randolph, took over the business. He’s nothing like Mr. Mort. He’d come and go with his little bags while Miss Virginia lay sick. He’d see her in her bedroom and lock the door behind him like I’d steal his ole silver. They never called for tea or coffee, and he never stopped to pass the time of day. No wonder Miss Virginia didn’t buy from him. They’d trade or they wouldn’t, and that was that. And every time he come, she’d say, ‘Don’t tell Mr. Georgie that Randolph has been here because he don’t like Mr. Royal.’ Royal, that’s the family name. Sounds made up, don’t it?”

“Why didn’t Georgie, I mean Mr. St. Julien, like Mr. Royal?”

“Because Georgie ain’t one of those sissy boys, I told you, and Mr. Royal is. Oh, young Mr. Royal was married, all right. He has a son, too, but we all knew why that marriage didn’t take. Yes, we do. He moved the shop to Opelousas after Miss Virginia died, said he needed more ‘custom’ to survive, but he wasn’t fooling anybody about why he got out of town. He married to one of the Patout girls under false pretenses, and her brother, Billy, was fixing to fix him forever.”

“By ‘sissy boy’, you mean gay? Randolph Royal preferred men to Mr. Patout’s sister?”

“You got that right!”

Birdie warmed up again, now that the conversation turned to local gossip and away from the silver. Unfortunately, Suzanne needed to know the whereabouts of Randolph, not his sexual preferences.

“I think I’d like to meet Mr. Royal.”

“No, you wouldn’t.”

“I think I must because something is definitely wrong here.” She picked up the sugar tongs that did not quite match the rest of the tea service and told Birdie that she wanted to borrow it for a while.

“You got to ask Mr. Georgie.”

“Naturally.” Suzanne had a few favors to ask George. Maybe it was just as well he had warmed to her lately.

****

Suzanne approached George that evening while he imbibed his solitary drink. He had not come home for dinner following his appearance at noon. She knocked on the door of his den loud enough to announce her presence, but not loud enough to make him slop his drink on another white shirt.

“Would you like something?” he asked every cordially, removing his stocking feet from the ottoman and trying to slip them back into his size thirteen shoes. Suzanne took another of the big leather chairs and accepted a gin and tonic that tasted a little oily without the twist of lime. Some liquor might move the conversation along, but she wanted him to know immediately this was a business call, not a social visit.

“Actually, I’ve run into a few problems with the inventory. I’d like to do a simple test on some of the silver with your permission.”

“What for?”

“Well, to be honest, I want to see if it is all sterling or just plate.”

“My mother was an infallible woman. If she said it was sterling, it is.”

He looked more stubborn than angry with those vertical lines forming behind the bridge of his glasses and his rather nice full lips turned down in a frown. She tried again. “It’s a routine verification. If you won’t let me do a test, then I must assume it is all plate. That’s the rule when it comes to silver.”

“Okay, do the test. My mother was never wrong.” He paused to take a big gulp of his drink and looked over at her. “I thought we might go to the Roadhouse for dinner on Saturday night. Maybe, we could discuss your results then.”

She almost said she planned to be at Joe’s Lounge on Saturday night, but changed her mind. She had more favors to ask, and one favor deserves another. “Fine,” Suzanne answered. “What time?”

“Seven?”

“Good. Oh, could I borrow your car tomorrow? I have to drive into the city to get some supplies for my test, and I’d like to take along one of the small pieces to get a second opinion from a dealer.”

“You’ll have to get up early and drive me to work. I’m always in the office by eight.”

“I don’t mind.”

“See you tomorrow early then.” He seemed pleased to be giving her his car keys, and she felt a trifle guilty as she went off to bed jingling them in the palm of her hand.

****

They had another of those old married couple, companionable mornings. George slung a leather garment bag and his briefcase into the backseat. Suzanne did not ask about the baggage and drove him to work saying very little on the way. She half expected him to give her a peck on the cheek and say, “Have a nice day, honey,” but he simply waved on his way to the office door.

Suzanne had no trouble getting to the larger town—only one road went there—and little problem finding Royal Antiques in the yellow pages. The ad stood out as the most artistic block in the antiques section. While waiting for Randolph Royal to open his shop, she killed some time drinking coffee in a diner across the street. When he arrived about ten, she gave him fifteen minutes or so to get comfortable, then wandered over. First, she peered at the playful display of antique toys in the window set up to look as if a child had just left the room and would be back at any moment to pile the blocks, feed pennies into the mechanical bank, and ride the rocking horse. A little brass bell rang as she entered and brought Randolph Royal hurrying to her side.

“Is there something special I could show you, or would you like to browse?”

She did not find Randolph Royal to be flamingly gay, not compared to some of the activists she’d known in college. Slim of build and balding, he wore a tidily-trimmed moustache to make up for his hair loss. His well-manicured fingers hosted several large gold rings. He was, perhaps, a tad too graceful for Port Jefferson tastes, and she suspected that town had a very low tolerance for the different. Though admiring his neat little shop with its clever displays, she recalled how her mother always said the best buys came out of dingy, cobweb-afflicted places. Almost without intending it, she adopted her mother’s persona.

“I found these lovely tongs in a shop in New Orleans, and I’ve just fallen in love with the pattern. Beautiful, isn’t it?” Suzanne thrust her possession at Randolph for his perusal and praise.

“I’ve been looking for matching pieces ever since. I have the creamer and the teapot, but I’m really looking for the sugar bowl. I saw your charming little shop while I had coffee at the café and thought I’d inquire before going on my way to Alexandria.”

As Randolph Royal handled the small treasure, his palms became sweaty. “A set like this passed through my hands a few years ago, but a wealthy client purchased it. I haven’t seen anything similar since then.”

“Do you think your client would be interested in selling?” she pressed. “If you would give me his name and address, I could…”

“Oh no! Certainly not. He is a private collector and sensitive about his dealings. It would be a breach of trust on my part to divulge his name.”

“Rotten luck for me. Oh well, I’ll be passing through Port Jefferson on my way north. It’s such an old town. Perhaps, I’ll have some luck there.”

“Believe me, there is nothing but nothing in Port Jefferson. I used to have the only antique shop in town and could barely make a go of it. With only a very few exceptions, the people are impossibly ignorant and crude with no appreciation of art or beauty. I tell you, it’s a hell hole. I had to get away from that place.”

Randolph clutched her arm and stared into her eyes in his attempt to convince her of the wickedness of somnolent Port Jefferson. “And to think my son is being raised there among the barbarians.”

Now, he captured both of her arms and dropped the tongs. “The laws of this state are as backwards as that town, I tell you. I’m not allowed to see my son unless his mother or his Uncle Billy or his grandfather is present, and I cannot endure that family. Louise was so sweet and innocent when we married, but she turned out to be a true Patout just like the rest of the clan.” He released her arms and sighed as he picked up the tongs. He plucked a polishing cloth from his coat pocket and wiped them off.

“I’m so sorry. I hope I haven’t scratched it. Forgive my little outburst. Port Jefferson is a sore point with me.”

More like a raw nerve, Suzanne thought, but replied soothingly, “Oh, I do understand. My gay brother had similar problems after his divorce, but he was able to get permission to see his children as often as he wanted.” She wondered how Blake would take her portraying him as a homosexual, divorced father when he was none of the above, a little payback for introducing her to Barry Cashman.

“What enlightened country are you from? It must be paradise!”

“Actually, it’s near Philadelphia. I have only a limited time to spend here and had better be moving along. It’s been a pleasure to see your shop.” She extricated herself from a conversation becoming far too intimate for her tastes. She’d come to uncover a crooked antiques dealer and gotten his life story instead.

“Just a thought. I might be seeing my client in a few weeks. I could ask if he would be interested in selling the tea service, but more likely, he might want to buy your pieces. Please leave your name and address and telephone number. I will contact you if he wants to get in touch.” Randolph produced two “Royal Antiques” business cards, beautifully embossed, white on white, with a golden crown above the name.

Thinking that the best lies are the ones closest to the truth, Suzanne wrote “Mrs. Patricia Hudson” boldly across the back of one card and gave her parents’ address. Her mother would not mind being on one more antique store mailing list. She pocketed Mr. Royal’s card and went on her way to the nearest drug store.

When she asked the druggist for dichromatic acid, he snapped that he did not run a chemical supply house. Suzanne wondered if he knew what the substance was. Instead of arguing with him, she tried a placating technique and bought a bottle of aspirin, asked his advice about which vitamins he recommended, and finally came away with a small glass bottle of nitric acid. She could have tried a specific gravity test, but frankly had done that only once in one of her seminars and doubted the outcome. The hardware store down the street provided a set of small, fine-toothed files. Mission completed and suspicions inflamed, she made her way back to Port Jefferson by lunchtime.