The Big Steal (10 page)

Peggy Powers walked over to a twelfth-century silver-gilt reliquary modeled in the shape of an arm, its cupped hand reaching heavenward. She picked it up and brought it over to me.

“Who else would have had the vision to buy such a piece and to bring it here, to this rural setting—castle though it is? Oh, I know today a place like Wynderly seems little more than folly when you can turn on your TVs and have the world in your living room or den with the click of a remote. But long ago—” Holding the reliquary close, she said, “Yes, I think what Hoyt did was noble. Thanks to him, we have the world at our
fingertips
.”

I swallowed hard. Thank God Michelle hadn't been nearby to tell her to put the ancient reliquary down. Then again, as Michelle had said, Peggy Powers was a board member. I doubted Michelle would have whipped out white gloves to give to her as she had to me.

“There's no question that what the Wyndfields did was remarkable,” I said. Hearing my own words, I suddenly realized that she had spoken only of Hoyt, never Mazie. I had to wonder if she had read my thoughts.

“What you just said—the Wyndfields. It's true they traveled together and did everything as one. Ultimately, though, it must have been Hoyt who did most of the buying. Thinking it over, I'm sure he did. After all, it was
his
money.”

“So, all this is
his
taste,” I said looking around the expansive room.

“Oh yes,” she said quickly, but then paused, as if thinking things through more thoroughly. “Of course I was young when I knew Mazie. Maybe she was romanticizing her husband's memory, but
she
always spoke of all this as
Hoyt's
things. She used to say things like ‘I remember how much Hoyt loved the carvings he bought at the street fair in Milano,' or some such. But that isn't what I came to talk to you about,” Peggy Powers said. “I got carried away. I do that when I feel passionately about things. But I love this place so much. Maybe
too
much. Here, come sit by me.”

Mrs. Powers replaced the reliquary and moved to the gilt French furniture clustered beneath a deep bay of crisscrossed leaded glass windows. Banding the top of the bay were rectangular panes and every other one was inset with a stained-glass
French heraldic medallion—coats of arms in brilliant reds, blues, and gold. It was a little shrine to all things French.

And you promised not to be so critical
, Mother chastised me.

“What I'm going to say must remain between the two of us, dear,” she said. “Yesterday you said if anyone had any additional information, it might help you. It's about Sandra Lee Graham.”

I searched my mind for someone by that name. A former housekeeper or staff member perhaps.

“Oh, you don't know who she is?” Peggy Powers sounded crushed.

“N-no …”

“Dear me. I
have
spoken out of turn, haven't I?”

Oh no, Tinkerbell, I almost said.

“Not at all,” I assured her. “Every bit of information is helpful. Essential, really, if we're to make the right settlement. It might even help solve the question no one seems to have the answer to: who did this terrible thing?”

She exhaled. “That makes me feel better. Here, let me explain. Sandra Lee Graham is Frederick's wife. Frederick Graham. You remember him from yesterday.”

“Oh yes, of course. I guess I got stuck on the Sandra Lee part of the name.”

“Second wife.”

I smiled and waited.

“She's a lovely person, Sandra Lee is. It's just that she doesn't have the same, well, lineage Frederick has. She tries to make up for that by showing off what refined taste she has. Always name-dropping. And she only wears designer clothes.”

As if you don't, I thought.

“I'm sure she comes from a perfectly nice family. I've never heard a bad thing said about her. But—”

Peggy looked around the room, no doubt finding courage for what she was going to say next in her surroundings. She was, after all, a board member—a steward of these things, of this place.

“The rumor is that Sandra Lee wouldn't be all that upset if Wynderly had to close. That way, when the objects are sold—” she said, a tinge of excitement creeping into her voice.

“Is that what would happen,” I interrupted her, feigning innocence. “The things sold?”

“Oh, I'm quite sure it is. Zach tells me that when the bank has lent money that it can't recover, but there is personal property that can be sold, even if it's at a loss, then it's the bank's responsibility to foreclose and have a sale. Get back what money it can for the stockholders. Can you imagine anything worse than selling Hoyt's things?”

Nothing stings us so bitterly as the loss of money
, I could hear Mother say.

“And you think Frederick Graham's wife would want to have some of them—” I said.

“Well, surely, the board members would get first choice. Wouldn't you think so?”

If Peggy Powers was so anxious about keeping Wynderly intact, then why was I having visions of her standing at the head of the line, waiting to get a front-row seat at some hypothetical Sale of the Century, the Property of Wynderly, the Home of Hoyt and Mazie Wyndfield?

“I wouldn't know about that,” I said, “but to sell them off … You think that's what would happen?”

“What else can the board do? If Frederick Graham isn't going to give us any more money and demands we pay the bank back what they've already loaned us, what else
can
we do?”

“Are things that bad? If Babson and Michael makes an insurance settlement—”

Peggy Powers moved closer to me. “Do you think there's really a chance they will?” she asked.

“Tell me, Mrs. Powers, what do
you
think happened? All I know is hearsay. There was a burglary. Some things were stolen. Some things were broken. I've been told no evidence was left, things like broken locks or forced entry, but
no
one seems to be under suspicion, at least I haven't heard any one specifically named. I'm really in the dark. But those of you who
live
around here, who know the situation …”

Her lips made a thin line. “I just can't
stand
being a gossip,” she said, looking toward the doorway. “Some people are saying we should keep an eye on Michelle Hendrix, but the police questioned her.” She ended her sentence on a high note, turning it into a question. “I don't think her name has been brought up recently. The board certainly hasn't seen any reason to let her go.” She frowned. “But why
should
she do such a thing? What would she have to gain? She'd be the first to fall under suspicion wouldn't she, having access to the house and being free to come and go?”

“And there's never been a night guard?”

“Used to be, but not for a while now. We've been working on a terribly tight budget. That's why the bank loan was needed to begin with. It's like Zach says, ‘insufficient funds.'”

“So when did Wynderly's financial trouble start?” I asked.

“Oh, I don't know,” she said. “Probably sometime before we found an earlier curator with his hand in the till. Looking back, I imagine he took more than money—but we didn't look any further. At the time the cash didn't seem like that much of a loss. He cashed a couple of contribution checks and skimmed a little money off the top during our busy Christmas and spring garden tour seasons. But he was having some personal problems, so nobody wanted to cause a big row. Maybe we should have. It seems that things have gone downhill since then.”

“When was all this?”

“Seven, eight, maybe nine years ago?”

“
That
long? How long have you been on the board?”

“This is my fourth term. It's more or less a lifetime appointment. Of course some people resign. Move away. Get bored. Get tired of asking for money—or
giving
money. Then again, it used to be fun when Miss Mary Sophie was giving a couple hundred thousand a year.” Peggy Powers laughed.

That reminded me, I needed to call Miss Mary Sophie about tea this afternoon.

“And what happened to him, the curator?” I asked.

Peggy Powers looked shamefaced. “Nothing. You know how it is. We Southerners, particularly Virginians in
these
parts, we're still trying to act like our English ancestors—with stiff upper lips. We go along pretending everything is just fine. We'd
never
let on we're responsible for any indiscretions that one of us makes under the other's watch. We knew we were to blame, but we kept quiet. That was the honorable thing to do. What difference did it make? Dr. Landerley found another
position right away. Oh, dear.” Her hand flew to her mouth so fast I thought she was swatting a fly. “I do hope you don't know him.”

I let her comment pass, but remembered what Worth Merritt had said the night before when I mentioned that something untoward might eventually happen to Wynderly. “I don't think that's a worry, Sterling,” he had said. How like Virginians to turn their heads the other way or, ostrich-like, to bury their heads in the sand as if nothing had happened.

“But didn't he have to have letters of recommendation to get the other position?” I asked.

“I said, we did the honorable thing,” Peggy Powers replied. “We kept quiet. We had trusted him. Landerley had been a guest in our homes. He had become one of us.”

Strange that she mentioned his name a second time after the dramatics of a moment ago, I thought.

“Now we're talking about it,” she said, “I realize how much the board has, well, gone down over the years.”

“Gone down?”

“Once all the really fine people were on the board. The ones with money and old names. People who were in a position of power, who could make decisions and ante up when money was needed. Then one by one, they seemed to drop off after their terms, or resign, or whatever. Soon we were left with trying to
find
people to ask to serve. People like, well, there's that nice man Professor Fox. I'm sure he's well intended, but—and I don't mean this in a bad way, my dear—but just who
is
he? And as far as having money goes? I've never heard of him having any personal wealth and …” Her voice trailed off.

“So, what Tracy DuMont said yesterday about the board being at fault—”

“We haven't faced that yet,” she said before I could finish my sentence. “Guess we'll have to come to grips with it though.” She paused. “Eventually.” She looked at me with wistful eyes.

I could return her look only with a wary one of my own.

Dear Antiques Expert: After much agonizing, my brother and I are selling our grandmother's living room furniture. It's French and very ornate and just isn't right for our houses. To our surprise, the auctioneer has told us the upholstery on the pieces is older and more valuable than the furniture itself. How is this possible?

During the 1910s and '20s, “old world” tapestries depicting Gothic, biblical, and mythological scenes were quite the rage. So was elaborately carved French and Italian furniture. Believe it or not, even though new tapestries were being loomed, many 17th- and 18th-century tapestries were cut up and used to upholster brand new reproductions of 18th- and 19th-century furniture. Had the antique tapestries been left uncut, today they might sell for tens, even hundreds of thousands of dollars.

M
ICHELLE
H
ENDRIX
was standing in the entranceway. I hadn't any idea how long she'd been standing there, or why I hadn't heard her approach. With its high, plastered ceilings, bare floors—some wooden, some marble—and with no one around, Wynderly was a virtual echo chamber. Trying surreptitiously
to catch Peggy Powers's attention, I simultaneously tipped my head toward the door and slithered my fingers along the eighteenth-century French tapestry upholstery toward her.

“If it does come to selling things—” she was saying, oblivious to my signals.

That's when I said, “Oh, Michelle. Won't you come join us?”

Peggy Powers started, only to instantly recover. “Yes, Michelle. Please do.”

“Aren't
you
the popular one today,” Michelle said, addressing me.

I pointed to myself. “Me?” I hadn't the vaguest idea what she was alluding to.

“First Mrs. Powers, and
now
, Miss Mary Sophie. She wants you to call her.”

Damn, I thought. Before I could respond, the doorbell rang. Michelle let Frank Fox in.

“Good morning, everyone,” he said in his fidgety way. “I know I'm early for the meeting, but, well, I was hoping I'd find you here, Ms. Glass, and that maybe I'd be able to have a few minutes of your time. But I'm afraid I'm interrupting something aren't I? Oh dear. Am I? I
do
hope not.”

My mind was on Miss Mary Sophie. I should have called her. No doubt she had assumed that either I had no manners or I was avoiding her.

I looked from Peggy Powers to Frank Fox to Michelle Hendrix. Peggy Powers flushed. Too much was happening too fast for my liking.

“Dr. Fox, would you excuse me for a moment first, please. Mrs. Powers? I do apologize, but there's a phone call I
must
make. Michelle, I, ah—”

I looked to her in hopes of finding some way of escaping what I saw as a potential uncomfortable situation. I thought fast. She wouldn't dare show an uncooperative side in front of two board members.

“I really hate to disturb you, Michelle, but you do have Miss Mary Sophie's number, haven't you? It's so embarrassing to be such a bother,” I said, casting Dr. Fox and Peggy Powers an apologetic look. “And to make matters worse, my cell phone doesn't work out here—”

“We understand, dear.” Peggy, all sweet and nice, spoke up. “Michelle, you help Sterling. Dr. Fox and I have plenty to chat about I'm sure. Right, Frank?” No one would guess she had just spoken of him in less than complimentary terms.