Darned if You Do (17 page)

He consulted the book. “No, here it is, there's a gap after 1904, then they minted it just that one additional year.” He began a twenty-eighth stack, set a little apart from the others.

Silence fell again. There were more minted in the later than earlier years. Now and again, Rafael would give a little grunt when he found one the
Red Book
said was more valuable—though he was not a good judge of condition, which was terrifically important. He set the more valuable coins a little to the front of the rest of the stack.

It was getting late, and they were near the last when Godwin said, “Hey, here's one that's not a Morgan.”

“Is that so? What is it?”

“You're asking
me
? It's completely different, a whole woman instead of just the head.”

“What year is it?” Rafael asked.

Godwin held the coin up. “Ummmmm . . . 1838.”

“You are sure?” Rafael said sharply. “Give it here.”

Godwin passed it to him and watched as Rafael looked closely at the coin with a lighted magnifier.
“Madre de Dios!”
he muttered.

“What? What?” said Godwin.

“Do you know what you have found,
mi gorrión
?” Rafael held the coin out as if accusing Godwin of something.

“What? It's not a Morgan, but it's a silver dollar, right? A woman wearing a whole lot of flowing robes, sitting down, looking over her shoulder at something. What's she looking at?”

“Her nation's illustrious past, of course.” There was a shield resting against her leg, with the word
Liberty
on it. “It's called the Seated Liberty dollar.”

Godwin smiled. “Imaginative names you fellows give these coins.”

“The 1838 Seated Liberty silver dollar is worth a great deal of money.”

“How much? I mean it's not what you'd call Brilliant Uncirculated, right? And that affects the value, right?”

Rafael turned back a few pages in the
Red Book
. “Here, look at this.” But he didn't hand the book over, so Godwin rose and went to stand behind him.

On the page were two photographs of the obverse and reverse of coins that looked very much alike, featuring a seated woman on the obverse, a flying eagle on the reverse. The eagle side of one coin had a ground spangled with stars, and on the other the eagle had none. On the obverse of the second there was a semicircle of stars above the seated woman that was not there on the first.

The coin Godwin had found had the half circle of stars. “You mean, we have a VF-20 coin?” he asked, touching a line in the book. “Heavenly days! Fifteen thousand dollars!”

“No,
mi gorrión
, I think this is better than that; a very, very rare coin, one of a few ‘sample coins' struck while they were preparing to do a regular minting. See how sharp the stars are, how delicately the details on the eagle's wings show.”

Godwin looked but shrugged. “Looks kind of—what's the word you guys use? Circulated.”

Rafael nodded. “Indeed, this coin has led a harder life than its very few mates. So we must take it to an expert who will tell us what we have here. But if I am right,
if
I am right, we have an extraordinary prize right here in my hands.”

Godwin moved his finger up a line. “You mean this one? Wow, it says it's worth seventy thousand dollars! Do you really think we have a coin worth seventy thousand dollars?”

Rafael shook his head. “Condition is almost everything—but the extreme rarity of this coin carries great weight. It is going to take an expert to tell us how much this coin is worth.”

“So what do you think?”

“I don't know what to think. I cannot believe we have this coin here in my hand.” It wasn't in his hand, though; he was holding it carefully around the edges with just his forefinger and thumb.

“Well, we need to write something down. Let's write that it's worth fifty thousand, just so we have a number.”

“All right,” said Rafael, nodding.

“And I think we need to call Valentina and tell her what we've found.”

“No, not yet. Let's finish sorting the Morgans and see if there are any more rarities.”

In the end, they had two 1903S coins (the S meaning it was minted in San Francisco) that Rafael said might be considered Extra Fine in grade and therefore worth close to three hundred dollars apiece. They found an 1881CC (Carson City Mint) of perhaps the same grade, which made it worth a little over two hundred. But the prize for most valuable of the Morgans went to two 1893S coins, one of which was rather worn—“Maybe a Good grade,” said Rafael, which still made it worth sixteen hundred dollars; and one Extra Fine “or better,” said Rafael, which made it worth fifty-eight hundred dollars.

The rest were worth perhaps thirty or forty dollars each.

Which, with the remarkable Seated Liberty, brought the total to something under sixty thousand dollars.

“Strewth!” exclaimed Godwin, exultant, staring at the calculator results.

“This may well be a high estimate,” warned Rafael. “We are being very optimistic.”

They decided to wait until they had shared the find with a member of the Northwest Coin Club and gotten a better estimate. Rafael was a member, and there were several professional numismatists in the club so he felt comfortable taking the collection to a meeting.

B
ETSY
came back from lunch on Saturday to find Connor and Godwin deep in plans to rearrange the knitting display on top of the long white counter that thrust out from a wall near the front.

“What's all this?” said Betsy, looking at the library table crowded with the rattan upper torso form that had held a magnificent shawl of knit lace, two careless stacks of expensive homespun and hand-dyed yarn, two costly books of knitting patterns she had bought from Irish and Scottish printers, and a little basket holding expensive rosewood knitting needles.

“We've got this great idea,” began Godwin.

“Who's ‘we'?” interrupted Betsy. Godwin had not said a word to her about a change to the knitting display.

“Connor and I. He came down and looked at it and said he had an idea to spark it up, and I thought it was great, so that's what we're doing. First of all, we're going to take that shawl away; it's been there for three months. Instead, we're putting a Sue Stratford sweater on display and her book on Christmas sweaters next to it. And a stack of the yarn it takes to make the sweater next to that.”

“But you didn't talk to me about any of this,” Betsy said, trying to keep her tone calm.

“You said you wanted to make some display changes,” said Godwin, reading her negative reaction correctly, and seeming surprised by it.

“I wanted the two of us to decide on the changes,” she said.

“But this is a good idea,” argued Godwin.

“It may well be, but you should have run it by me first,” she insisted.

“I think I should take the blame here,” said Connor.

She turned on him. “That's true, you stepped in where you don't belong.”

He raised both hands. “I apologize. I was only trying to help.”

“I don't need your help.” Betsy felt herself getting angry. “Why don't you go back upstairs?”

He looked about to say something but instead nodded at Godwin. “Sorry, fellow.”

“It's all right,” said Godwin, but it was to his back. Connor went through the twin set of box shelves that divided the front and back of the shop on his way to the back door.

“Now, what was that about?” Godwin asked Betsy.

“It's about his taking a role in this place. I don't like it. He's assertive, which is mostly all right, but he has a tendency to take over. If I don't nip this in the bud, next thing I know, I'll be sitting upstairs stitching models while you and he run things down here.”

“Well, if that's what you think, all right, I guess. Lesson learned. Meanwhile, do I continue with the new display or not?”

Angry as Betsy was, she wasn't about to cut off her nose to spite her face. “Is it a really good display?”

“
I
think so.”

“Talk to me about it.”

So he did, and in the end she said, “All right, go ahead with it.” She helped him arrange the skeins of yarn, then made a few suggestions for the rest of the counter, which included keeping the shawl on display, laying it out so it just barely fell over the edge of the counter but didn't block the glass doors. She'd made some good sales to customers whose eyes had been caught by the lovely detail of the stitches. They also put up an easel and on it the booklet pattern for the shawl.

On the end closer to the wall they put up the Sue Stratford sweater knit in a tiny pattern designed for a baby. It had an arm-and-shoulder pattern of midnight blue scattered with stars over a white skirt lined with red reindeer. They hung it on a baby-size hanger suspended on a stand.

It was a cardigan, and the buttons were gold stars. Betsy had knit it for Einar, but it was too big; she was going to save it for next year. Betsy was torn between annoyance that Connor had gone into her stash without permission and pleasure that he and Godwin thought the sweater worthy to be a model for the shop. She quashed the pleasure firmly. Looking through her stash was marginal; taking something from it without asking was crossing a line.

What was the matter with Connor lately?

Or was it her, getting defensive over nothing?

He seemed fine at dinner that evening. He didn't mention the display change but talked with concern about the missing rifle.

“Stolen guns get used in crimes,” he noted. “So it's a good thing this one turned up, and not at the scene of a crime. Speaking of opportunities missed, that is so sad about Alice not getting that letter from her would-be beau. Is she going to be all right?” he asked.

“I hope so. She's very upset. I don't know whether or not to share her story with the Monday Bunch. They're good at offering comfort and support, but this is a very private pain for her.”

“I'd vote not to. Let her tell it to them in her own time. Or not, as she chooses.”

“I think that's good advice.”

After dinner, Connor helped with the dishes. “Now there's two of us, maybe we should get a dishwasher,” he said.

“Maybe you'll find a nice one at the auction tonight,” she replied, putting the last plate away.

“No, this one doesn't have any appliances. But why don't you come along? The Pickering sisters will be there.”

“So now you agree there really are two of them?” she teased with a smile.

“Yes, I saw them together at the pre-auction on Saturday. I agree there are two of them, but I still think they're identical twins who no longer dress alike—if they ever did. I know parents are more likely nowadays to give them differentiated names and not make them dress alike if they don't want to.”

“I know of a mom who had to put an indelible ink dot on the wrist of one of her twins because they were so alike. Even so, she was never sure that the names she gave them at the hospital were the names she assigned them after she got them home. Did you know that Dear Abby and Ann Landers were identical twins?”

“Yes. Do you want to come to the auction or not?”

Betsy looked toward the back bedroom, which she used as an office, and in which her computer and several hours of record keeping waited. But she wanted to spend time after work this evening with Connor to make sure they were not on the verge of a quarrel, and so she found it easy to say, “Sure. What time does it start?”

“Seven, but we should get there early to look around.” She checked her watch. “So we'd better leave now.”

“So let's buy a pair of Jimmy John's sandwiches to eat on our way.”

Luther Auctions was a longish drive, located at the far east end of the greater Twin Cities, in the middle of a quiet street of shops and taverns. The entrance was in the center of what had once been three stores. They found a parking space down the way and walked back to the center store entrance.

A statue of a human-size frog stood upright inside the door, wearing a blue tailcoat and red vest, a salver in one hand—it had once been at the entrance to a grand house, collecting calling cards. Betsy paused to admire it, then saw the five-by-seven sign:
NOT FOR SALE
.

“What would you do with it, anyway?” Connor asked.

“I don't know. It's one of those things I sometimes see and have to tear myself away from before I buy it. Curious trait to have.”

Connor chuckled. “I think you will see a great many people here tonight with that same trait.”

She looked up at him questioningly. “Why do you come to these things? You're not forever coming home with tchotchkes.”

“For all you know, there is a storage shed I've rented somewhere filling up with little precious things.”

She cocked her head sideways. “Somehow I don't believe that.”

He nodded. “Very intelligent of you.”

They walked into the back of the place and found a large room with row upon row of unoccupied folding chairs. At the front of the room was a high stage about twenty feet long with a podium and lectern in the center. It was brilliantly lit. No one was on it.

Near the stage was a display case featuring pocket watches, with a pleasant-faced woman behind it. “Are you going to be bidding this evening?” she asked.

“If I see something I like,” Connor said.

“In that case, you'll need to sign in and get a number,” she said, and turned a notebook toward him.

Connor filled in his name and address, phone number and e-mail address, and was given a white square of cardboard with a three-digit number on it.

“Wow, a hundred and nineteen people here already,” said Betsy, looking at it. “How many do they usually get?”

“It varies, from just under a hundred to sometimes close to three hundred if there are some hot items.”

They were also handed four sheets of paper, printed front and back, stapled together. It was a list of everything going up for auction, with a one- or two-line description. There were over two hundred items listed. Betsy, looking down the list, saw that at least a third of them were “lots,” meaning two or more related items grouped together.

Connor and Betsy walked around the rooms, looking at the articles to be auctioned that evening. The auction was to begin in about forty-five minutes. Betsy couldn't believe the variety, from early twentieth-century furniture to estate jewelry to baseball cards.

In one of the side rooms, full of old toys and sports equipment, they ran into Grace and Georgine.

“Hey!” said Grace, surprised. “What are you doing here? Are you after the spinning wheel?”

“No, I'm just curious,” said Betsy. “Connor's the one who likes auctions. Are you after anything in particular?”

“Just smalls—things we can send through the mail,” said Georgine. “For our mail-order business,” she added.

“So you're not interested in that giant wardrobe in the other room,” said Betsy, smiling.

“Definitely not.”

A man's voice came through the sound system. “The auction begins in five minutes,” he said. “Five minutes until the auction starts. Please take your seats.”

The four of them went to find seats. There weren't four together, so they broke apart. The Pickerings sat near the front, Betsy and Connor near the aisle in the center.

A brawny man with a graying crew cut jumped up on the stage. He had a clipboard with a lot of paper on it in one hand. A young man, tall and thin, and a woman with Indian features, nearly as tall, and strongly built, joined him, and they had a quick conversation.

The two assistants left the stage, and a very young woman came to sit beside the lectern. She had ash-blond hair streaked with pink. After picking up a pencil, she looked at the man and nodded. He stepped up to the lectern and turned on the microphone, which gave a loud pop.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to Luther Auctions. We have a lot of items this evening, so we're going to move fast. If you see something you like, hold up your numbered card. We have spotters throughout the room to let me know when you are making a bid. A reminder: All items are cash-and-carry. We do not take checks but will take credit cards with proper ID. Everybody set? Good, let's get started.”

He consulted his clipboard.

“First up, a bentwood rocking chair and footstool, fresh from your great-grandmother's house.” The thin man and dark-haired woman came to the front of the stage, the man carrying the rocker and the woman holding up the footstool. “Do I hear fifty dollars?”

He didn't, so he immediately dropped back to thirty, and someone held up a card. Using a combination of fast talk and auctioneer's chant, in less than a minute he built the bidding to a hundred and twenty, then slammed down his gavel. “Sold, number fifty-six.” The young woman made a note.

“Next, a smoked-oak matched set, dresser and chest of drawers, as is.” Connor murmured in Betsy's ear that that meant there was some not-obvious damage to the pieces.

Betsy found the auction a strange combination of exciting and boring. She had no interest in the vast majority of things offered, and when a very fine nineteenth-century oil painting of an old woman darning a sock came up, it quickly rose to a price beyond her comfort level.

Connor occasionally bid on items—an early edition of Dickens's
Little Dorrit
, a sailor's peacoat that looked his size, a heavy gold ring with a ruby stone—and was outbid on all of them. The Pickerings, when Betsy managed to follow their participation in the swift action, did much better. They bought about a dozen “smalls”: things like Hummel figurines, a box of baseball cards, a necklace and brooch set.

One item Betsy was interested in, a quartet of antique engraved steel needle cases—she had in mind buying them and selling at least one of them to Emily—was skipped over when their turn came. No explanation was given.

Betsy asked Connor, “Why aren't the needle cases being offered?”

“I don't know, but that sort of thing happens. Sometimes it's because someone got to the person offering them on consignment and bought them, sometimes it's discovered there's something wrong with them—”