Looking for Me (18 page)

Rising from the bed, I gave her urn a little
ping
with my finger and left the room.

T
here were several antique shops in Charleston, and though we owners had a healthy respect for one another’s quirks and individual areas of expertise, there was no mistaking the undercurrent of rivalry. I was just about to head out the door to see what my competitors were showcasing when a man walked in. He was short and paunchy, with a baseball cap pulled low on his head. A plastic pocket protector with the words
RODNEY’S WRECKING & TOWING
printed on its front glared from his navy blue polo shirt. He was one of those people who filled up a room upon entering, and not in a good way. He spoke before I even had the chance to extend a greeting.

“My wife was in here on Saturday. She talked to a short woman with red hair about that chest.” He pointed a beefy finger toward the eighteenth-century Renaissance chest that I’d recently acquired. “When she asked about negotiating the price, the redhead said all prices were decided by the owner. So that’s why I’m here. Is the owner around?”

“My name is Teddi Overman. I’m the owner.”

His eyes swept over me. “My wife says the price of that chest is three thousand dollars. I told her that was ridiculous. She must have misunderstood.”

“Your wife is correct. This chest was crafted in Italy in the mid-1800s. The Italians are known for selecting specimen woods. As you can see, it’s in remarkable condition.” I pulled open the top drawer and showed him how beautifully it was constructed. “This is Brazilian rosewood. Pieces like this don’t come along very often. All things considered, it’s a steal.”

He narrowed his eyes. “A
steal
? Are you one of those Charleston trust-fund kids who don’t know how hard it is to earn a dollar?”

Slowly, I pushed the drawer closed and looked him in the eyes. “No, I’m originally from Kentucky. And from where do you hail, Mr. . . . ?

“Barnes. Rodney Barnes. Came up from Miami to visit my wife’s nephew. He’s a cadet at The Citadel. Now,
there’s
a place packed with trust-fund kids. Anyway, as for this here chest, I’ve gotta be honest with you—”

Oh, here it comes, the baloney that precedes the dickering.

“There’s a shop a few blocks away that has a chest a lot like it for a whole lot less money.”

“Well,” I said, making a sweeping gesture toward the door, “then I suggest you go buy it.”

As this clearly wasn’t the response he was expecting, Mr. Barnes took a small step back. “I would, but see, my wife wants
this
one. It’s her birthday, and I promised her she could pick out whatever she wanted.”

“Oh, with your charming ways, I’m sure you can reason with her, Mr. Barnes. And who knows? Maybe you can get the other chest for even less than you think.”

He glanced out the front window and sucked his teeth. I could almost see his mind churning to come up with his next strategy. But I had my own strategy, too. Though Mr. Palmer had taught me the art of haggling, there were rare events when holding firm rendered the best results.

“Look, here’s the deal,” he said, turning toward me. “I’ll give you fifteen hundred dollars
cash
for this chest as long as you throw in the shipping.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t have any wiggle room.”

“Aw, c’mon,” he scoffed. “When cash is on the table, there’s
always
wiggle room. I thought you said you were the owner.”

I flashed him an icy look. “I am. But I wouldn’t be for long if I gave away my precious antiques. It’s been nice speaking with you, Mr. Barnes. I hope you and wife enjoy your visit in Charleston.”

Just as he opened his mouth, the bell above the door chimed and a woman walked in. From the look on Rodney’s face, I knew that the chubby blonde was his wife. Her red skirt was as tight as a second skin, and she hurried forward with quick little steps that sent her hoop earrings swaying.

Rodney looked both surprised and annoyed to see her. “Chrissie, I told you I’d meet you when I was done. We’re just now finishing up, so why don’t you run along and—”

“I couldn’t wait,” she bubbled. “Isn’t that chest the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?” Sliding her arm around his thick waist, she looked in his eyes. “Did you get it for me?”

His lips formed a stiff smile. “Yes, honey. I got you your chest for a real nice price.”

She rose on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “Oh, Rodney,” she cooed, “you’re the
smartest
man in the world.”

He patted her back. “Go on and let me finish up here. I’ll meet you at that coffee shop around the corner.”

Rodney watched his wife exit the door, then pulled out his thick wallet. His face reddened, and he avoided my eyes as he counted out the money and dropped it on top of the chest. He still didn’t look at me when he slipped a pen from his pocket protector and wrote down an address on the back of his business card. Tossing the card on top of the money, he clicked his pen closed and grumbled, “Have it delivered to that address. What’s the shipping cost?”

I smiled and threw him a bone. “Shipping is on the house, Mr. Barnes.”

After writing out his receipt, I tucked it inside a white linen envelope and handed it to him. Our eyes never met when he all but ripped the envelope from my fingers and walked away. I pushed his money and business card deep into my pocket, and when the door closed behind him, I raised my voice and chortled, “Oh, Rodney, you’re the
smartest
man in the world!”

While heading toward my office, I saw Albert and Inez standing in the hallway. Albert laughed and mimicked the voice of a radio sports announcer. “Teddi Overman takes the snap from Big Rodney and fakes a handoff. Then she goes straight up the gut for the
touchdown
!”

While I laughed along with him, Inez held out her hand, palm up. “I told you she’d get full price.”

Albert slapped a five-dollar bill into her waiting hand. “Yeah, when that man said ‘trust fund,’ I knew I was cooked.”

My mouth dropped open. “You two were
betting
on me?”

Inez pushed her hand down the front of her dress and tucked the bill into her bra. “Of course. We do it all the time.”

Just then the bell over the door chimed. Inez pressed her hand to her bosom and whispered, “Oh, shoot. I hope he hasn’t changed his mind.”

Ready for battle, I turned and walked to the front of the shop. But it wasn’t the return of blustery Rodney. Standing just inside the door was a short wisp of a man. His shirt hung limp from a hanger of bones, and his pants were so baggy they pooled at his ankles. He removed a straw hat from his head, and when he spoke, his voice was soft, almost apologetic. “Good morning, ma’am. I was wondering if your buyer might be handy.”

“I’m Teddi Overman, the owner. How may I help you, sir?”

“My name’s Willard Otis. Guess you’d say I’m a collector,” he said while eyeing my shop. “I’m in need of . . . Well, it’s time I cleared out some things. So I packed up my truck and drove down from Lee County. Thought I’d see if any of you city dealers might like to have a look.”

This kind of thing wasn’t uncommon, junk pickers and scavengers hoping to make a few dollars. In the past I’d always declined, but Lee County was poverty-stricken, and this man, who was eighty years old if he was a day, was clearly not doing well.

“I’d be pleased, Mr. Otis. Why don’t you show me what you have to offer? Is your truck close by?”

“Yes, ma’am. Got it parked right down the street.”

After asking Inez to mind the shop for a few minutes, I walked a half block with the old gentleman until we came to a rusty gray pickup with tall, makeshift sides built from weathered lumber.

His knobby fingers moved slowly as he unlatched the tailgate. Pulling a set of handmade steps from the back of the truck, he set them on the street and said, “Go on up and have a look.”

The truck was crammed to capacity, and the only place to maneuver was in a narrow aisle hollowed out in the center. I inched my way into the mess and began to hunt.

Shoved next to a 1920s icebox was a hideous green velvet chair, and sitting on top of a TV was a western saddle, its leather stiff and cracked. Boxes filled with toasters, hand mixers, and all sorts of clocks were jammed beneath a wooden bench. A hairless doll stared up at me from inside a galvanized washtub.

While I rummaged around, I caught a glimpse of the old man standing by the tailgate, his watery eyes bright with hope, his lips twitching as if in silent prayer. The desperation on his face got to me. I mean, it really got to me.

Beneath a rather nice old quilt, I found a small teddy bear sitting inside a pressure cooker. The bear was only about ten inches tall, and a good bit of his golden mohair was worn off—or “loved off,” as I preferred to say. He was an old bear with wide-set ears and boot-button eyes. I picked him up and gave his belly the squeeze test. He was stuffed with excelsior.

Clutching the teddy to my chest, I moved toward the tailgate. I was about to end my search when I noticed a small cedar case with double latches. Taking hold of the handle, I pulled it free, then gingerly climbed down the rickety steps.

“Will you hold him for a minute?” I asked, handing over the teddy.

The old gentleman took the bear and set his gaze on the wooden case. “You have any idea what’s in there?”

“Art supplies?” I guessed, setting it on the tailgate.

His eyes sparkled as he shook his head. “I s’pect you’ll be surprised.”

I flipped the latches and opened the lid. Nestled inside was a tarnished brass telescope accompanied by a screw-threaded eyepiece and a short tripod base. It was a tabletop model. Though only about eighteen inches long and three inches in diameter, the telescope lay heavily in my hands. The circular backplate was inscribed with the name
J. VAN DER BILDT, FRANEKER.

I ran my fingertips over a small dent along its side. “Does it work?”

No doubt fearing he might lose a sale, Mr. Otis began to fidget. “Well, I
think
it does.”

Whether the telescope worked or not really didn’t matter. It was a beautiful old instrument, and I loved it. That was the thing about my business: When I least expected it, a certain piece I had no knowledge about would grab me, and against all logic I simply had to have it.

“Mr. Otis, I’d like to buy the telescope and the teddy bear. So what’s your price for both?”

“I’d sure like to get a hundred and a half for the spyglass.” He glanced at the teddy in his hand. “How about a dollar for the stuffed toy?”

On an ordinary day, I would have jumped on it with both feet. I would have paid the asking price and waited until he drove away before I squealed. But this wasn’t an ordinary day, and the man before me was no ordinary man. As I reached into my pants pocket, I wondered when he’d had his last meal. I removed the cash that Mr. Barnes had given me for the Italian chest, and counted out five one-hundred-dollar bills. Then I took the teddy from the old man’s hand, and replaced it with the money.

I snapped the latches closed on the case and turned to face him. “Mr. Otis, I have no idea what this telescope is worth, but I believe it’s more than you’re asking. So if you’re happy with the sale, I’m happy.”

He looked up at me, confused. “You sayin’ you’re giving me five hundred dollars?”

“That’s correct.”

A wide smile spread across his face, exposing several blank spaces between his stubby yellow teeth. “Well, I . . . Thank you, ma’am. God bless you!”

After shaking my hand, he lifted the steps into the truck and closed the tailgate. I stood on the sidewalk while he started the engine. The muffler sent a puff of exhaust into the air as the truck lurched from the curb. I watched him drive away and said, “God bless you, too, Mr. Otis.”

Later that afternoon I wiped down the telescope and screwed the eyepiece into position. Walking out the side door and down the alley, I looked for an open area where there were no trees. Holding the telescope to my eye, I gently maneuvered the setscrew attached to the cylinder. I saw nothing but a blur of dim light. With my thumb and forefinger, I kept moving the screw, my arm beginning to ache from the weight of the telescope. And then, with one last adjustment, a far-off chimney came into clear focus—so clear that I could see broken mortar between the bricks. I let out a hoot, took the telescope into my office, and attached it to the tripod base.

Pulling a stack of antiques-dealer reference books from the shelf behind my desk, I began to hunt. I went through book after book, and though I found several telescopes, none were like the one on my desk. I pulled down more books and continued my research, and an hour later, I found what I was looking for.

Jan van der Bildt (1709–91). Born in the Netherlands, he began his career making clocks and watches and then turned to making telescopes. He was revered for the masterful craftsmanship of his instruments, and his mirrors were of such a finely balanced alloy that the majority of them have maintained their reflectivity after more than two centuries.

According to my reference book, the retail value of the telescope was, depending on condition, between six and twelve hundred dollars. I priced it at $995, tied a tag to the tripod, and then spent a good deal of time cleaning and polishing the cedar box. Before leaving the shop for the evening, I placed the telescope next to its box on top of a masculine oak chest.