Chapter 4
BUSINESS THAT DAY, as Molly expected, was slow. By two in the afternoon, she’d only made two sales: a small brass Art Deco letter holder and a pricey ivory Mah,Jongg set in a handsome walnut case with brass fittings. She knew Emma would be disappointed to see the set gone. Loomis was teaching her to play, but business was business, and the customer who’d bought the set hadn’t tried to haggle on the price of six hundred dollars. Considering the tiles were ivory, and not one was missing, her price was fair. She’d made her profit. It was time to move on.
Molly checked her watch. It was way past lunch time. She wondered if Carla Jessop was going to show up. Scooting into the storage room, she opened the door to the garage. She’d only discovered the door last month. It had been covered by storage shelves and hadn’t been used for years. When Max had exterminators spray the building for ants, they had found it. It certainly made moving stored merch into the shop much easier. “How’s the tagging coming, Number One Assistant?”
Seated at a card table, Emma was using her newly created “posh script” to transfer data from Max’s list to their fancy new parchment sales tags. “Almost done, Honorable Slave Driver. Randall thinks you should pay me more now that my elegant writing is making Treasures tags look so toney. He said ten bucks a week was a pittance for my artistry.”
Molly laughed. “Randall is a troublemaker. Stay clear of him. Ten bucks a week is pretty good for someone your age.”
“Hey, I’ll be thirteen in a few months.”
Molly heard the bell over the door. “I’ll take it under consideration. Got a customer coming in.”
Molly was relieved to see it was Carla Jessop. Even though Todd wanted her to bid for him, she nevertheless worried that something could go wrong, and she’d lose this great opportunity. Waving her over to a handsome camel-back sofa, she said, “Have a seat. I’ll get coffee.”
“I’m fine, Molly. I just had a huge lunch with my father.” Holding Molly’s portfolio up, she said, “This is fantastic! I love the pieces you selected, and I’m fine with the prices. I can’t wait to get started. How soon can we get delivery?”
“The two Brittany chests and the walnut display case are at Max’s shop in the City, so anytime this week is good. The fireplace surround is out in Carmel Valley, and the refectory table is in Santa Barbara. I think by the end of next week we’ll have our set pieces ready to place.”
“Fantastic. We can work around the painters you suggested. I’ll lct them know they need to get started right away with the colors you chose. Write me up a bill, and I’ll give you a check. By the way, my father loves the renderings you did. He wants me to take you to one of the caves, too.”
Molly almost fell off the sofa. “Caves? Uh, what caves?”
Carla laughed. “The wine caves. We have two huge caverns where we age wine. I can see I’m going to have to give you a lesson in winemaking. But don’t worry, he only wants you to see some old pottery his mother bought years ago in Italy. We might be able to use it for display.”
Molly’s hands began to sweat. Quick with the mouth, fearless when accosted, a she-cat if threatened, she nonetheless had a deadly fear of bridges, tall buildings, and anything underground. She would walk a mile out of her way, and often did, to avoid parking garages that plumbed the depths. “I’m flattered, and I’d love to meet your father, but maybe we could work with pictures? I’m...well, I got locked in a basement when I was a kid,” Molly said. “It’s never left me. I’m not crazy about tunnels either. Caves would qualify, too.”
Carla paused for a moment, then looked away. “It’s small boats with me. My brother was drowned trying to save someone. We were on my uncle’s fishing boat.” Rising quickly, she said, “Look, I’ve got to go. But my father still wants to meet you. Why don’t you and Emma come out to the ranch for dinner tomorrow night? It’s not far from the winery.”
“We’d love it. I’ll close early. Is seven too late?”
Carla hugged Molly. “Seven is perfect. And Molly? I’m so glad we’ll be working together. Daria was right. I like you a lot.”
“Same here,” Molly said. “And don’t forget—any time you need me, okay? I’ve been there and I know what it’s like.”
“Your number is in my cell’s memory. And thank you. Now, let me get out of your hair so you can sell some merch.” Carla laughed again. “I love that word!”
Molly took the portfolio to her desk after Carla left and let out a big sigh. If she managed to take the two display cabinets in tomorrow’s auction, three might be a problem. But then, she thought, the tasting room was huge. She’d make it work, one way or the other. On her way back to the garage, Molly couldn’t wait to see the look on Emma’s face when she told her they had the job. “Hey, slave!” she joked. “Mrs. Jessop just left. You’ve got your raise. We’re doing Bello Lago!”
On the floor, with boxes and bubble wrap surrounding her, Emma looked up and punched her fist in the air. “Way to go! So now I’m at twenty bucks a week?”
Molly sometimes wondered what life without Emma would be like. The daily joy of having her around was more than she’d expected. And she was close to being her right hand in the shop. “Well, I was thinking about maybe twenty-five? But some has to go into savings, okay?”
“You’re a hard one to bargain with, but I’ll take it.”
“How arc you coming along?”
“I’ve got all the smalls tagged, but I think you’d better do the provenance stuff on the furniture. I’m not sure about some of the chairs, and Max’s descriptions seem a little iffy.” Emma got to her feet. “I’m going to take a break and run over to Bruno’s. We’re out of Cafe Français and cat food. Do you want anything?”
Molly pretended to think. “Well. maybe a few brownies?”
Emma laughed. “We could use a few.”
While Molly handed Emma money for the grocery store, a man walked in. Molly smiled. “Hello. Welcome to Treasures. If I can be of help, just let me know.”
Very tall, lean, and dressed in golf clothes, the man appeared to be in his early sixties. There was an affluent air about him: the sauna-and-manicure type of an upper-echelon executive. His voice was deep but not aggressive. “That’s a refreshing welcome. I hate it when shopkeepers rush up and then hover.”
Molly smiled again. “I hate it, too. That’s why I leave people alone.”
When Emma left, Molly sat at her desk and pulled out the Blue Moon auction catalog. She’d already decided to ease out of the pub-style bar. It was ungainly and far too expensive. The two display cabinets wouldn’t be a problem after all, and she knew exactly where she would place them now. That was, if they were lucky and managed to snare them. The fax from Blue Moon had finally arrived, and she’d been able to get on the telephone bidding list just under the wire. The lots she’d listed would be coming up between eight and nine o’clock Eastern time. That meant she had to be up and lucid and by the phone by at least four-thirty. Molly pulled out her drawings of the tasting room and began to mentally place the auction additions just in case.
She’d paid little attention to the man wandering in the shop, and for some reason, didn’t consider him a serious customer. When he approached her desk with a large silverplate water pitcher and asked about it, she said, “You must not be a hotel-silver collector.” Taking the pitcher, she turned it around and pointed out the engraving. “The engraving is faint, but this came from the old Hotel Del Monte in Monterey.”
“Is that so? I had no idea. It just caught my fancy. Isn’t that the hotel Charles Crocker built?” Taking it back, he examined it again. “It’s in remarkable condition considering its age. That hotel burned down before the turn of the century, didn’t it?” He smiled then. “You seem surprised I know that. I try to learn all I can about places I visit.”
“I am surprised. Most visitors tend to ask about where they might spot Clint Eastwood. If I remember correctly, the hotel was rebuilt and then partly burned down again some years later. The Navy bought it during World War Two and it’s been the Naval Postgraduate School ever since.”
“Well, being an old Navy man, I guess I should buy this.” He handed Molly the pitcher, then pulled out his wallet and set three one-hundred-dollar bills on her desk. “I hope you’re not adverse to cash. I don’t use credit cards.”
Considering his bearing and appearance, Molly wasn’t surprised he didn’t try to haggle. Men of his age and demeanor seemed to think it beneath them. It was as if bargaining diminished their aura. Mlolly smiled. “Cash is always good.” She wrote up the sales slip, handed him his change, then wrapped the pitcher in tissue and placed it in one of the new bags Max had sent down. A soft gray with deep blue lettering, it was as handsome as much of the merch it carried out of the shop.
Taking the bag, he nodded his thanks and headed towards the door. He stopped, then turned back. “I like that ship model you have on the desk by the fireplace. I’ll have to think about it. Do you arrange transport?”
“It’s not an antique. But it was built by a high-quality craftsman, at mid-century Shipping wouldn’t be a problem. Where are you from?”
He paused, then said, “Vancouver.”
“I’ve never been there, but I understand it’s a lovely city. Are you here for the golf?”
“Personal business.” He reached for the door, then stopped again. “I just noticed the bookends in the window. Plato and Socrates?”
“You have an excellent eye.”
“I try to stay on top of things.” He opened the door, then grinned. “Keeps one young. Your daughter, in fact, reminded me of Harry Potter. That short, dark hair and those glasses caught my eye when I saw her leave.”
“Emma is my niece. How astute of you to notice. Harry is one of her favorites.”
He touched his forehead with his finger in a small salute. “Well, she’s certainly chosen a fine hero. I’ll think about the ship.”
Molly watched him leave and wondered if he’d really be back for the ship. Somehow he didn’t seem a mariner type. But then, what
was
a mariner type? She’d sold ship models to women and fancy dinner services to men. Collectors came in all shapes and sizes. Molly had learned a long time ago that trying to figure out what a person’s particular obsession might be was a wasted use of brain power.
The remainder of the day was slow: three walk-ins who seemed bored, and two women who’d admitted they only wanted to poke around. Molly itched for the moment she could put the CLOSED sign in the front window. She made arrangements for Carla’s pieces to be shipped, wrote up the invoice for her, then kept busy updating the shop’s website with new photos of merch, had a coffee and brownie with Emma in the storage room, and sent an e-mail to Cleo Jones, her close friend who worked at Sotheby’s in London.
After a quick dinner with Emma of waffles, their favorite Sunday menu, they watched
Sixty Minutes,
then Molly said, “I’m off to bed. I’ve set the alarm for four. I’ll try not to wake you.”
“That early?”
“The auction house is in Maine, remember? And this one starts at eight. The lots Mr. Jessop wants are in the first hour, so I’ve got to be up and filled with caffeine. Telephone bidding is a nerve-wracking adventure, and I’ll need all my wits about me. Offers fly fast and furious, and not just from the floor or other telephone bidders. We’ve got on-line bidding to contend with as well.”
“Can I get up with you? I’ve never watched you telephone bid.”
“Not this time. You’ve got two tests tomorrow. You need to be bright-eyed. By the time you’re ready to leave for school, it will be all over except for the shouting.”
Emma laughed. “Think you’ll be shouting?”
Molly shook her head. “I doubt it.”
Chapter 5
THE NEXT MORNING, a bleary-eyed Molly threw on her sweats. She set a jumbo mug of half regular coffee and half instant espresso on the desk downstairs, then picked up the phone and called Blue Moon. She counted ten rings before her call was answered. She was positive it was a message from on high when she was told her bidding request had been cancelled. Todd Jessop had not forwarded payment information and they could not allow her to bid without the guarantee. She’d barely had a chance to speak when she was put on hold for a moment.
“Molly Doyle? As in Elizabeth Porter? That you?”
Molly’s voice was hesitant. There were few people who could connect Elizabeth Porter to Molly Doyle. After fleeing from New York and the notoriety of her husband’s antiques fraud, she had reverted to her father’s pet name of Molly, and her family name of Doyle. “Yes, that’s me. Who is this?”
“Terry Jorgenson. A voice from your past.” She heard a deep chuckle. “I worked with you and Cleo at Sotheby’s on that deaccessioned art from the Met some years ago. Hey, I read all about you in the
Times.
Even saw you on CNN last year. Way to go, gal!”
Molly sucked in her breath. Every time someone mentioned her homicide involvements, she felt an ache in her chest. She quickly put an upbeat lilt in her voice. “Terry! Of course! How are you?”
“Hey, I’m good. Been with Blue Moon a couple of years now. I was handed a note about your problem and when I saw your name on it, I just had to say hello. So what’s up with your client? He forget, or something?”