The Price of Inheritance (13 page)

“You're a bowl salesman!”

“Not exactly.”

“You're a soup maker?”

“Not at all.”

This nice man was trying to help me and it would be wrong to slam my head against the counter in frustration while screaming obscenities about pureed vegetables.

“Yes, I guess in a way I am a bowl salesman,” I said calmly. “I work in an antique store in Newport and I would like to sell this bowl.”

“But you bought the bowl here.”

“Well, I didn't, but someone did.”

The man was quiet. He looked at his colleague, slightly confused.

“Yes,” I lied. “I bought the bowl here.”

“So you want to know who donated this bowl.”

“That's right.”

“Okay, let me ask around.”

“Oh, the bowl was actually bought by Hook Durant, by the way,” I added.

“Hook Durant.”

“Yes. Do you know him? He runs an auction out in Narragansett.”

“Course I know him. He buys a lot of things here. He's a treasure hunter.”

“That's a nice way to put it.”

“One man's trash is another man's treasure, right?”

“I suppose it can be.”

“But you said you bought the bowl here,” he reminded me.

“I was confused,” I said loudly. “I meant my friend bought the bowl here. Hook Durant.”

“Feel free to look around the store,” he said as he walked off toward the back, to the donation area.

“It's okay, I'll wait here.”

“Don't you like buying things?” he asked, concerned. “I mean we don't have the fanciest things in the world but you might find something that's nice to look at.”

“That sounds great, actually,” I said with more grace than I'd been showing in my frustrated state. “That's kind of why I bought the bowl. I just thought it was pretty.”

“Well, we've got hundreds of bowls. You look and I'll ask a few people if they know about this,” he said, carrying it away. I thanked him, and started slowly walking up the aisles.

There were five shelves to my right, all packed with tiny porcelain and earthenware knickknacks. There were candleholders with wax drips down the sides, a pair of angel bookends, and a wooden carving of a fox that looked like it was carved by someone whose eyesight was nearly gone. In fact, the fox looked more like a rabbit but he happened to be wearing a plasticine T-shirt that said “Fox.” I walked to the back of the china and cutlery aisle and almost backed directly into a woman with a good one hundred extra pounds on her. She had a pleasant face and smiled when she saw me. I apologized and started to walk away.

“What are you looking for, dear?” she asked me as she placed a ceramic teapot back on the shelf.

I looked behind my shoulder because I didn't feel like a person whom someone would call “dear.” But I was the dear.

“Me? Oh no, nothing in particular. Just, you know, looking.”

“Oh, me too. I love to just look. But I always look for the same thing.”

“What's that?”

“Teapots. I'm crazy about teapots. But the funny thing is, I don't drink tea. I only like to drink lemonade.”

We both looked at a slightly cracked teapot in front of us and she swept it up into her arms before I could get to it.

“A teapot made of purple clay sold for two million dollars in 2010. And it wasn't even old. It was made in 1948. Just a year later a pair of melon-shaped teapots sold for two-point-one million,” I said, smiling at her and taking a teapot off the shelf.

She looked at the price tag of the one in her hands.

“This one's a little cheaper.”

“Oh, that's good. I thought two million was a bit of a rip-off anyway.”

“Really? Two million dollars on a pot?”

“Really,” I confirmed.

I smiled as I turned the corner and moved on to another shelf, where I found an old chess set. The pieces were strange. They looked almost like teeth. Was this some sort of serial killer's chess set? Was the board made out of pelvic bones? I wrapped my index finger in a tissue dabbed in Purell and attempted to touch it.

Before I had time to dry-heave at the thought, the teapot collector was back. She gave me a tap on the shoulder, though I was already quite aware that she was right behind me.

“You seem to know a lot about how much things cost. Why is that? Are you one of those people who are obsessed with numbers? Or maybe you're a mathematician?”

“I used to work at Christie's, the auction house,” I explained.

The past tense on that phrase was biting.

“Christie's! That's beyond my reach, but that's fascinating. Just fascinating. Tell me some other facts. You must know a whole lot. I love facts and figures.”

“Well . . . ,” I said, thinking back on all the Christie's and Sotheby's milestones.

“Winston Churchill's dentures went for twenty-three thousand dollars. Not even his real teeth. Just his dentures. And Edward Scissorhands's scissorhands went for sixteen thousand dollars. Oh, and this is one of my favorites. In Japan two cantaloupes once sold for twenty-three thousand five hundred dollars.”

“The kind you can eat?” she said, almost giddy.

“Yes. The kind you can eat.”

“Well, I hope they were good.”

“Me too.”

Some people shopped at Goodwill because the very low price point was right for them, while others clearly just loved a bargain. Some seemed to be devoted to supporting a good cause and others, like my new pal Mrs. Potts, appeared to be really into the hunt, probably a hoarder trying to find another good thing to add to her collection.

“Discovering anything interesting?” she asked, peering over my shoulder to look at the chess set.

“I kind of like this chess set. But . . . what do you think the pieces are made out of? Kind of look like teeth to me.”

“Teeth? Let me see. . . .” She took the queen in her hand and rolled it around. She was definitely holding a human molar.

“This isn't a human tooth. It's a canine tooth.”

So much better.

Just as I was about to gag and weep, the man who was helping me walked my way with a pleasant smile.

“It's your lucky day. One of the guys taking deliveries today remembered this nice bowl.”

He handed it to me and I put it back in my bag.

We smiled at each other but he didn't give me any information. The woman who identified the dog teeth was also there, smiling, too. We were like three Cheshire cats with nothing to do.

“Did he say who dropped it off?” I asked, when I realized the information was not going to be forthcoming.

“Oh yes,” said the man. “He did. A Marine captain from the base dropped it off. He drops things off pretty often, so we know his car and all that. It's a Jeep Wrangler. Dark orange, like a pumpkin color, with a black roof. Not that kind you can fold down, one of the solid ones.”

“And do you know his name? What he looks like? Or could I talk to the guy in the back who knows him?” I motioned to the south side of the building.

“No need,” said the man, still smiling. “I've got all the information. His name is Greg LaPorte and he's on base. I don't know what he looks like really, but the guy out back, Bill, he said he's got brown eyes and a shaved head and is about yay big.” He held his hand out until the measurement seemed about six feet tall. Well, a man with a shaved head and brown eyes who was about six feet tall on a naval base. This wasn't going to be like finding a zebra in a pack of horses. But I had a name. That was all I needed. I thanked the man, wished the woman with the teapots luck, and bought the dogtooth chessboard just because. I would send it to Alex and he would write me and say I had the sense of humor of a mortician.

Naval Station Newport was on the western side of the city, on Peary Street, and when I was growing up it had always seemed like a world completely outside mine. My father had never served, and neither had either of my grandfathers. The military, though I appreciated living in a country that had a good one, wasn't something I gave much thought to. I would see navy men walking around town and though we both called Newport home, they had nothing to do with the Newport I knew.

I could have gone to base and asked for Greg LaPorte, but the idea of doing that intimidated me. It wasn't exactly a place you just skipped on over to and poked around in, unless you wanted to get shot. Thankfully, I knew I had just as good a chance of running into him at a bar on Thames Street called the Blue Hen. It was always packed with the men, and a few women, from base and we used to get in there with fake IDs when we were home for the summer in college because the staff were desperate to fill the place with girls. I asked Jane to go with me that Friday night but she said there was no way she was going to “that semen factory,” so I was on my own.

It was pretty busy considering it was February. I took off my coat and put it on the rack by the door, hoping no one would steal it. I had given up the cashmere coats with the thick fur collars I wore in New York for my old black ski parka.

“What can I get you?” the bartender asked me.

“A vodka soda. And can I ask you a question?” I said, leaning on the wooden bar.

“Sure. No lime?”

“What? No. Yes, lime. No, I have a question. Do you know who Greg LaPorte is?” I shouted. “He's from base.”

“Yeah, sure, he's here all the time. He's a Marine captain. Been here in Newport about six years I think. He's here tonight, if that's what you're asking.”

“Yeah, it is. Can you point him out to me?”

“That one. There,” said the bartender, pointing to a table in the back where five guys with telltale military haircuts were drinking beer. Above them a Bruins game played on a flat-screen TV and there was a red plastic basket of soggy ripple-cut chips and hot dogs on their table.

I thanked him and walked over. It was when I was standing there, staring at them, that all the men at the table looked up at me, a little eagerly, a little surprised. I had no choice but to talk.

“I'm sorry to bother you, but I'm looking for Greg LaPorte. Is one of you him?”

“Yeah,” said one with very short reddish hair and brown eyes. He smiled at me and put his hand out. “I definitely am Greg LaPorte.”

“Oh great.”

“It is great. I love being me.”

I laughed and tried to ignore the fact that his friend on my right had just tipped his chair back to get a better view of my ass. I instantly regretted taking off my coat.

“Can I help you with something? I'm happy to help you however I can,” said Greg, offering me a beer from the table.

“I'm good,” I said holding up my drink.

His friend who had just let out a low whistle when he admired my posterior joined in.

“And if he can't help you, I am happy to help. I'd love to help you.”

“I work over at William Miller's Antiques on Spring Street and I bought something at auction the other day, which I think belongs to you,” I said, ignoring Greg's friends. I reached into my bag and took out the heavy bowl.

“Is this yours?”

Greg took it from me, turned it around in his hands, turned it over, looked at the base, and shook his head.

“It's not mine, but I did drop off a huge load of old stuff at the Goodwill in North Kingstown about a month ago. It wasn't just my stuff, though. I do a collection on base and I take it in because I'm just that kind of guy. I'm a really, really nice guy. You should get to know me.”

“I think that's Ford's,” said one of his friends. I looked at him, surprised to see how young he was.

“I remember I saw him drop it off one night with some other junk he was giving away. I went through it because sometimes Ford has really good shit. I got this shirt once, it's like this really thick cotton. I wear it all the time.”

“You steal Ford's Goodwill donations? That's sad,” said one of the other guys laughing.

“Shut the fuck up,” said the Goodwill pincher. “I saw it in there,” he said to me. “I'm sure. It's pretty cool-looking. I should have taken it. He's got all sorts of weird old crap from Iraq. He's been there four times.”

“He's a sandman,” said another one of the guys, waving his hands around and laughing. “He even speaks sand.”

“The rest of us call that Arabic,” said Greg.

“Stay far, far away,” his friend continued, still moving his fingers like a drunk sorcerer.

“It's Ford's,” said Greg, looking up and smiling at me.

“Ford's . . . his name is Ford?”

“It's Tyler Ford,” said the friend. “Why do you care?”

Why exactly did I care? Because both William and I thought it could be our ticket to another five-figure sale. Because it was beautiful and had potential. I wanted it to do even better than the last lots I'd turned a huge profit on from Hook's. I had William treating me like I was the auction whisperer and there was no way I was going to miss something about it, some telling detail, the way I'd done in Baltimore. That was never going to happen again.

“I want to sell it, so I need to know something about it. I was hoping that the person who dropped it off—Ford—might be able to fill me in on a little history. It could be worth a few thousand.”

“A couple grand? Oh, well it's mine then,” said Greg, reaching out his hand again. “My name's Ford, Tyler Ford.”

“This guy's clueless. It must be mine,” said another one of his friends. “I'm Tyler Ford. My memory's going. You understand. I did just turn twenty-six.”

He looked a lot younger than that.

“So, Greg,” I said, looking at the one whose name I knew. “Where would I find Ford?”

“Oh, you can't find Ford. He'll find you. We'll tell him you're looking for him.”

The butt pervert laughed.

“No really, ignore him. We'll tell him you're looking for him, like in the normal way,” said Greg. “Though lots of girls are looking for him for the other reason. You looking for anyone like that?”