Killer WASPs (7 page)

Chapter 6

“R
OAD TRIP!”
I
told Waffles, after Sophie’s phone call.

It was the perfect day for a drive out to Lancaster County, a gorgeous area of Amish
farms an hour west of Bryn Mawr where flea markets and barn sales are plentiful on
Saturdays. I had quite a few pieces of furniture and some silver pieces in the back
room at The Striped Awning, but not enough to completely restock the store once everything
in the front of the shop was delivered to Sophie’s, so it was definitely time for
an antiques-­scouting expedition. This would also give me time to digest Sophie’s
phone call, fragments of which were still ping-­ponging around in my head. Barclay’s
“cousins” rang some alarm bells. Despite Sophie’s request for discretion, I’d have
to share this info with Bootsie. Just not at this moment. A phone call to Bootsie
could kill most of the morning.

Since Waffles is up for anything—­he even likes going to the vet, where they always
stick a thermometer up his rump—­he sat by the door and drooled happily while I jumped
in the shower, got dressed (Target cotton dress, $19.99), and threw a ­couple of bottles
of water and his water bowl in a pink L.L. Bean tote bag (Christmas present from Bootsie).

On the way out of town, I stopped at The Striped Awning and hung a sign that said
“Closed for the Weekend” since anyone passing by and seeing the entire contents of
the store packed into boxes and wrapped in tarps would no doubt think I was closing
up for good. Of course, it’s not like customers were exactly lining up around the
block, but just in case one of the few ­people in the greater Philadelphia area who
weren’t spending the morning whacking balls on a golf course wandered by, I wanted
to make sure they’d come back another day. Next, I stopped at the drive-­through cash
machine to withdraw money from my still-­limping checking account, and tucked two
hundred dollars in twenties into my bra. You have to pay cash at the markets, and
I figure it’s hard for anyone to steal a bunch of money from my chest without me noticing.
Plus, since I have almost no cleavage, anything I stick in there can’t hurt. Feeling
a little like Kate Upton, I headed out of town for the expressway.

A long drive to a flea market is one of my favorite things to do, and in May, it’s
heavenly. It was seventy-­two degrees and sunny, the best time of the year in Philly
before humidity grips the area for all of June, July, and August.

The markets around Philly are ideal for finding stock for The Striped Awning, even
if most of them open at unholy hours like 5 a.m. and close at 2 p.m. (I think this
is an Amish thing.) Occasionally, things like French chairs turn up amid all the locally
made Pennsylvania Dutch blanket chests and quilts, and you can find great smaller
pieces—­tableware, mirrors, Audubon prints—­for next to nothing.

Which is not to say that all the local flea markets are hotbeds of undiscovered chic.
There’s one held monthly in a dusty tomato field in South Jersey that sells creepy
castoffs such as vintage knickers and fusty fox stoles on rickety folding tables.
I don’t know why I schlep over there once a year—­I keep hoping it will get better,
but it never does. The last time I went, a straggly woman in a housedress behind one
of the tables had a pair of old socks hanging from a flagpole, flying in the meager
breeze. She claimed they were one-­hundred-­fifty-­year-­old Civil War stockings,
but, honestly, who would buy old socks, even if they’d once been worn by Robert E.
Lee?

Soon, the suburbs on either side of Route 76 blurred into just-­planted cornfields
and hillsides laced with grazing sheep and horses. I looked over at Waffles, who was
sitting bolt upright and staring bug-­eyed out the window in rapture at the fields
and animals all around him. Waffles was given to me two years ago, by a longtime customer
of The Striped Awning who raises basset hounds, when he was a nine-­pound, nine-­week-­old
puppy. His ecstatic reaction to every person he meets is contagious—­Waffles is the
most joyful creature on earth. So while he’d love to chase sheep around on a farm,
his good looks and schmoozing ability are perfectly suited to retail. While he can’t
describe the provenance of a table, he’s the ultimate sales associate (and the only
one I can afford). I cranked down the windows and cranked up the Doobie Brothers,
feeling upbeat, zooming past beautiful old white farmhouses and classic red barns,
with colorful hex signs placed high over the barn doors to ward off any evildoers.
“Sanderson could use one of those,” I told Waffles.

Then, when we exited the highway, we did something not very Amish: We got gas at the
Sunoco near Route 100, and pulled into the McDonald’s drive-­through, the last sign
of civilization before everything goes totally Harrison Ford in
Witness
out here (if you can call McDonald’s a sign of civilization). Waffles loves Egg McMuffins,
so we ordered two, and as we ate and drove, I daydreamed about Harrison in carpenter
mode during the barn raising, and the scene when he almost has a romp in the hay with
the gorgeous Amish Kelly McGillis. This propelled me toward thoughts of Mike Woodford,
so I gunned the car to the flea market before I got too distracted by his stubble-­chinned
charms.

Just down Route 100 is Stoltzfus’s, one of the oldest markets in the area, owned by
a collection of Pennsylvania Dutch farmers–turned–weekend antiques dealers. After
passing a cow field (which, conjured up Mike Woodford again, darn), I pulled into
the crowded gravel parking lot, snapped on Waffles’s leash, and checked my bra. All
was good. Money in place, things looking a little more bodacious than usual, so we
headed for the indoor-­outdoor market.

Stoltzfus’s covers fifteen acres in all, and on sunny days like today, fifty-­plus
vendors sell wares ranging from 1950s bedroom sets to dolls to Spode china from long
wooden tables on a grass-­covered field just inside its gates. There’s an outdoor
snack counter selling Amish foods like bratwurst (I’ve never tried it, but to be honest,
it smells pretty good), and inside a massive old barn are the more established dealers
who sell here all year round.

Another awesome thing about Stoltzfus’s, and I really don’t have the words to describe
how cool this is, is that there’s a beer stand in the middle of the barn that opens
at 6 a.m. It comes from a fantastic micro-­brewery down the road, and they sell cold,
frothy pilsner in the middle of the flea market. The Stoltzfus beer is exceptionally
good, but it was only 10:30 a.m., so I decided to skip it and shop.

Waffles gave me Sad Eyes as we got out of the truck, then made a crazed run for the
bratwurst stand, so I took a left at the barn to divert him, and stopped at a stall
where a rickety-­looking guy aged about ninety was selling a pair of very pretty crystal
sconces that were perfect for an entrance hallway or dining room. They were just the
kind of thing that I like for The Striped Awning, but the vendor wanted two hundred
and fifty dollars, and though he looked like an ancient plucked chicken, he was a
tough bird when it came to negotiating.

“No fucking way,” he rasped, which I thought was a little rude, when I suggested seventy-­five
bucks as a more reasonable price. He wouldn’t come down more than twenty, so I headed
toward the middle of the field, passing tables of old books (not to be negative, but
I’m not really sure I believed that copy of
Gone with the Wind
belonged to Vivien Leigh), and glassware (okay, old Coke bottles can be valuable,
but these looked like they came out of the soda machine inside the barn earlier today),
and a dealer who purported to be selling mirror-­topped café tables from the original
incarnation of Studio 54. Waffles and I wandered around for another thirty minutes
before heading to the back field, where my favorite dealers, Annie and Jenny, are
usually stationed.

Annie and Jenny are two Californians who travel to antiques shows and sales all over
the country, and purvey silver and tabletop items that always include some serious
deals. I’ve scored silver creamers (ten dollars!) and candlesticks (four dollars each!)
from them before. Once, I got a beautiful footed tea tray (twenty dollars) that I
sold for two hundred dollars in the shop, which sounds like highway robbery, but was
so beautiful that it really merited the huge mark-­up. Today Annie and Jenny, draped
in their usual flowing peasant dresses circa 1973, looked very mellow and relaxed
behind a table full of pretty antique serving pieces.

“Hey, Waffles,” said Annie, bending down and reaching her arms around his big belly
to give him a hug as he thumped his tail happily.

Annie and Jenny spend winters in a teepee outside San Francisco, and rent a tiny cottage
near Stoltzfus’s in the summer, when they’re not making road trips. They’re incredibly
sweet. They had the Grateful Dead wailing away on a boom box, and had thoughtfully
provided a plate of snacks on their table for anyone passing by to enjoy. A small
square of paper next to the plate announced that these were homemade carrot-­quinoa-­gingersnaps.

“Cookie?” asked Jenny, gesturing toward the plate.

Gosh. I didn’t want to be impolite, but the cookies looked terrible. They were dry,
crunchy-­looking, brown disks with flecks of carrot poking out. “Cruelty-­Free!” read
the little sign. “Made with Love, but Without Any Flour, Sugar, or Butter.”

“Thanks, I just ate,” I told Jenny. “But I’m sure they’re delicious.”

Annie handed one to Waffles, and he chowed down happily. They were so dry, though,
he had trouble swallowing. He chewed and gulped for a few minutes, then finally got
the lump of carrot and quinoa down his throat. He wagged, looking relieved.

“Yum!” I said to the women, on Waffles’s behalf.

While chatting with the vendors, I scooped up a dozen old silver serving spoons and
forks with intricate, delicate patterns, and found another great old tray from the
1950s, all of which came to sixty dollars. Annie and Jenny had some furniture today,
too, including a petite dark elm-­wood bench that had a curvy Art Deco shape, which
I loved and was only seventy dollars, so I told them I’d take that, too.

“Hey Kristin, you might like these bookends,” said Jenny, who was over by their van,
holding up a silver object. Jenny’s hair—­which probably hadn’t been cut in twenty
years—­flowed down her back, with some little braids in front keeping it off her face.
She wore no makeup except for some glittery lip gloss and two silver stars painted
on each cheek. She once told me she does this creative kind of face painting because
the stars draw in mystical powers, send them straight through her chakras, then shoot
them back out to the world. Anyway, Jenny was holding what looked like a large acorn-­shaped
bookend, maybe eight inches high and five inches wide, with a lot of intricate detail
and a light patina of age over its silver-­plated surface.

“We’ve got three of these, which I know is kind of an odd number for bookends, but
you know how it is in this business. Nothing ever makes sense,” Jenny said cheerfully,
as if her chakra stars
did
make sense. “They were made for a school in Bryn Mawr. Isn’t that where your store
is?”

“Yes, that’s where I live, and where the store is! Really, they’re from Bryn Mawr?”
I answered, surprised, as she handed me one of the bookends.

The acorn-­shaped object was much heavier than I’d have thought at first glance—­it
must have weighed nearly ten pounds—­and ornate, with the acorn figure set on a solid
square base. The wide part of the acorn was designed in a crisscross pattern, with
the narrow end coming to a pointed tip. The object was fantastic, I thought, solid
enough to give off a masculine vibe and to sit in a library or office, but pretty
enough to appeal to a female buyer. Given the weight of the acorn, I knew that underneath
the silver plate, the piece was made of cast iron, according it a pleasing heft.

“I love them! And I can sell them as a single item, so it’s fine that you don’t have
two pairs,” I said, inspecting the base, thinking that someone would surely buy a
single one to put on a mantel or desk. Or all three could be used on a shelf, with
various books between them.

The acorn’s base was marked underneath with the stamp of Farrow & Summers, longtime
Philadelphia silversmiths. Inscribed above the insignia were the words, “From this
acorn grows a mighty oak: Bryn Mawr Preparatory School,” in a bold, elegant typeface
that matched the classic style of the bookend. This lettering was old and worn, but
very legible.

“This is such a coincidence, Jenny,” I exclaimed. “I went to Bryn Mawr Prep. My whole
family went there, and so did my best friends Holly, Joe, and Bootsie.” It’s an extremely
expensive, competitive school these days, but when I attended, it had been basically
a collection of old buildings out in the countryside, where ancient teachers vainly
tried to drill Latin into our heads, and boys played on the golf team instead of trying
out for football. Nowadays, thanks to some mega-­donations over the past decade, the
Prep has a new gym, a high-­tech science building, and a glossy Olympic-­size pool,
and the teenage girls there are almost as chic as Holly. Even Holly hadn’t been as
chic as Holly when she was in high school.

I turned the bookend around in my hands, inspecting the marks on it more closely.
I wondered if the bookends were sold or given to alumni as a keepsake. They definitely
weren’t gifting them to graduates when Holly and I had finished school fifteen years
ago.

Whatever the case, they were perfect for The Striped Awning. I could see the Sophie
Shieldses of the worlds loving these tangible pieces of old Main Line history. To
top it off, Farrow & Summers had gone out of business in the late 1960s, so the acorns
had an even rarer pedigree than I’d imagined at first glance.

“I’d love to take them,” I mused aloud, squinting in the sunlight at the acorn. Annie
brought out the other two bookends, which were carefully swaddled in newspaper, and
unfurled the wrapping so I could see them. They were both a bit tarnished, but in
nice condition, like the first one, and had the same inscription. “Where’d you find
them?” I asked.