The Big Steal (27 page)

My mind bounced back and forth between Felipe and the saleslady in the English jewelry store. Using the Staffordshire spaniels as the vessels to carry them in had been a brilliant idea. Hoyt would have bought the figures in a secondhand
shop for a pittance after they'd been cast off by some of the immigrant families who had moved to Brazil in the early twentieth century.

Brazilian customs officers wouldn't have had any interest in a box of figurines described as “ornamental pottery dogs, circa 1850–60; country of origin, England” leaving the country. Brazilians have never paid a lot of attention to their
own
national heritage, let alone another county's.

On one of my trips to Rio de Janeiro, when I asked Francisco, my driver, to take me to a museum that I'd carefully researched, he had said, “Who needs a museum? We Brazilians have no memory.
We
live for today.” I had insisted, only to find it was closed. “Gone to the beach,” the note tacked to the door read. With that, we had headed for Ipanema.

If Rio's customs people had even bothered to look at the figurines they would undoubtedly have thought they were ghastly. Yes, using the Staffordshire spaniels to smuggle stones out of the country was brilliant. Or it
would
have been if the stones had been rubies. But why go to the trouble to smuggle out something that wasn't so valuable? The export duty couldn't have cost that much, not in those days.

Then again, exporting a few stones was one thing. Exporting them in quantity might have posed problems. Or perhaps bringing them into the U.S. was the problem. Who knew? I'd have to check with someone who knew more about customs laws than I did. And what would Hoyt do with the stones once he got them here? I was stumped.

I stopped my pacing and sat down on the bed. I stared at the diaries and papers and photographs as if the answer would pop out at me. “What did he do, Mazie?” I said aloud.

Mazie. That was it. Dear, innocent Mazie had written how they would go to New York or London after returning from Brazil. She had wanted to go shopping at Tiffany and Asprey. Instead, Hoyt would bring her a present from “where there were better deals,” as she had put it.

That had to be it. Bringing Staffordshire figures into the U.S. wouldn't have posed any problem, and taking them back to England, where they were prized, was a perfect cover. By hiding the rubelittes inside the dogs, no one could trace how the stones had gotten into either country once they were in the hands of unscrupulous gem dealers who then passed them off as rubies either on the legitimate or black market.

It was all coming together in my mind. Gem smuggling had been a big deal back in those days, the old black and white movies testified to that. The scheme fit right in with Hoyt Wyndfield's thrill of living on the edge. Though he probably got a cut from the sale of the stones, so what if someone else was making the really big bucks off the deal? Hoyt was having fun.

My imagination went wild. And if some truly valuable stones were in the mix—diamonds, emeralds, sapphires … After all, I'd taken only the one dog.

But how had Hoyt gotten the stones
inside
the Staffordshire figurines? Ironically, that was the easy part.

The dogs had been molded in two parts—a front and a back. These parts had then been stuck together when the clay was fired, which meant the two sides could also be separated. It took only a careful sharp whack with a punch tool that fit into the figure's base for the front and the back to separate. The
stones, wrapped in cotton, could then be stuffed into the cavity between the two parts, and the dog glued back together.

Even if the base had splintered in the process, or a section of the figure had cracked away, a good restorer could repair it with glue, plaster of paris, and a little enamel that only an expert would detect. Who would be looking for repairs anyway? Not the customs or import people. The figures would be closely examined only if they were going to be sold in a high-end antiques shop or auction, and these plentiful and inexpensive dogs would never have reached that market.

It all made perfect sense, at least to me. But I had no
proof
of Hoyt's intentions or actions. I thought of who might possibly help me out. Of all the people I had met, Miss Mary Sophie was the only one who had seemed to really know the Wyndfields.

I returned to the bathroom, carefully folded the towel around the stones and glanced at the clock. Where had the time gone? I had been so preoccupied that it wasn't until I was in the shower that I remembered that Matt was coming.

Downstairs I had a quick bite, all the while thinking how to arrange the day so I could somehow get back into the attic and work in a visit to Miss Mary Sophie. I would have been happy to spend the day holed up at Belle Ayre reading and sorting through the pictures and papers and books. I probably could have justified doing it—after all the insurance settlement would be based on the true value of the items. Chances were, Babson and Michael wasn't going to have to pay tens of thousands of dollars for the bronze figure of Lokesvara. The one Michelle had brought to me was heavy, the way bronze should
be, though, as I had told her, it would take an antiquities expert to know for sure. Yet, I felt reasonably sure that the one left behind was the real figure, and the stolen one was the tourist repro made of spelter, worth less than a hundred dollars.

The Delft charger was a different matter. It was worth far more than the two thousand cited on the most current appraisal. What I couldn't yet know was if all the values would even out in the long run.

I was pouring a second cup of tea when Ginny Kauffman burst into the room. “I'm so glad I caught you before you got away. You got a phone call last night, but it was late. You'd come in, but I thought you might have retired for the night. Anyway the caller, Matt … but you know his last name … said it wasn't urgent, and I'd already undressed.” She pulled the chair across from me out, asked “May I?” and without waiting for an answer Ginny sat down and handed me a folded piece of paper.

“I gave him directions. He'll probably be here around four or five, depending on traffic and when he gets away.” She began nervously fiddling with the place setting in front of her. “And well, I didn't want to pass on the other news to you, but it's probably better you hear it now.”

I was much more interested in the message Matt had left. But the tone of her voice caught my attention.

“News?”

“Yes. It seems there was a rather bad wreck last night. Dr. Fox came to see you, so I know you know him. Anyway, it's really tragic. Despite these curvy dark roads, we haven't had
a terrible wreck in a long time. I don't think he was drinking. Maybe he just fell asleep—”

“Frank Fox? In a wreck? He's all right isn't he?” I fought to control my voice and my thoughts.

She shook her head sadly. “Unfortunately …”

“He's not dead is he?” I blurted out before she could finish.

“No, but he was unconscious when he was taken to the hospital. The last I heard, it was touch and go.”

Dear Antiques Expert: I love the excitement of an auction. The trouble is, sometimes I get carried away when bidding. Recently I saw a piece in an antiques shop that was priced less than what I had paid for one very similar to it at an auction just a week before. What's your advice on how to keep from overbidding—other than not going to the auction?

You're not alone, even experienced auction goers can overbid. But here are some tips to help you bid “responsibly.” First, attend the auction preview and inspect the pieces you're interested in for condition and quality and set your own price limit. Then, to better establish a reliable top price, visit antiques shops, check out price guides, even eBay auctions prior to the auction, to know what the pieces you're interested in are selling for. Third, learn who the dealers attending the auction are. A good “rule” is to go one bid above what a dealer will pay for something. Good luck!

I
T'S A MIRACLE
I didn't faint dead away. Instead, a cold calm came over me.

“What time was it?” I asked. “The wreck.”

“It must have been sometime around ten? We got the call right after your friend called, so I'm sure you were already here. Dan's a volunteer fireman. That's how we knew. The call came in. But I said that, didn't I?” She tried to smile. “You didn't hear Dan leave? He tried to be quiet even though your room's on the other side of the house.”

“Do they know what happened?” I asked, ignoring Ginny's nervous small talk.

“No, at least not yet. The Wilsons down the way were coming back from Charlottesville when they saw something burning, like a little brush fire. You know how bad our cell phone service is around here, so they stopped at the nearest house and called the fire department and then started calling all the volunteers around this area. Nobody knows exactly what happened and obviously Dr. Fox can't say anything.”

“But surely somebody must have seen something,” I said, despite my memories of nothing but black pavement stretching out in front of my headlights. “What about the police? Have they said anything?”

“I haven't heard a word,” she said. “It barely made the newspaper. Dan said that it was way too dark to tell much last night even with the searchlights. Who knows? It could have been a deer bounding across the road. That happens all the time.” She gave a helpless shrug. “I sure am glad you got back safely. You didn't stay at Wynderly
that
late did you? Were you able to get a nice dinner?”

I could tell she was trying her best to be nice. “Oh, everything was fine,” I said.

“That's good. And your friend … He said he'd be staying the night.”

Coming on the heels of the news of Frank Fox's accident, frankly I couldn't have cared less. My only thought was what
I
should do in light of the accident, and Matt wasn't the one to ask.

“Before I leave for Wynderly, I'm going to need to make some calls,” I said, probably more abruptly than I should have. “Is that OK? I don't want to tie up your lines.”

“No, go ahead,” she said. “It'll be fine.”

“And tell me, would you have Miss Mary Sophie McLeod's number, or know how I can get it? With her being a single lady, I'm not sure if it's listed.”

“It's probably not in the phone book, but it'll be in the church directory,” Ginny said, getting out of her chair. “I'll get it. And can I get you anything else? You've hardly touched your breakfast.”

“No, thank you. I'm fine,” I said. “Guess the news just took my appetite.”

B
ACK IN MY ROOM
I took a chance that Miss Mary Sophie would be up and called her first. She was having her hair done at ten thirty, but she would be home and have had lunch by one. Then I called Peter and told him what Tracy DuMont had said about the big boys coming down from New York for the auction. But my tone of voice must have given him a clue that more than that was on my mind.

“Sterling, is everything OK there?” he said.

My voice cracked and I broke into tears—something I never do. I walked Peter through what had happened, beginning with leaving Tracy's house and ending with what Ginny Kauffman had told me. “Oh Peter, this really isn't like me, but
what
should
I do? Go to the police? Keep quiet? What if those men come looking for me? I know you have to get to work. I'm sorry. It's … it's just that I don't have anyone to turn to, anyone to advise me. I've never been in a situation like this.” I made an attempt to laugh. “And I don't like it very much.”

A silence followed. Then Peter laughed quietly. “Me either.”

We both fell quiet. I spoke first.

“I've gone over and over it, as best I can. Ginny Kauffman said it might have been a deer. It could have been, don't you think?”

Peter's silence wasn't one bit reassuring.

“Or maybe Dr. Fox just ran off the road,” I continued. “I almost did once on the way up here. It was foggy and the road's so curvy and if you so much as take your eyes off it … Or he could have fallen asleep,” I said. “Or the guys who stopped me could have just …” My heart leapt into my throat.

“Look, you're absolutely right,” Peter said. “It might have been any one of those possibilities. And as far as the guys who stopped you, maybe it
wasn't
them, Sterling. Maybe Fox was drinking. You don't know. He could have been on medication or drugs. You don't want to jump to hasty conclusions. I know you're concerned about the men, but you told them you were just driving through. They wouldn't know any differently. Besides, over the years I've learned that oftentimes what we
think
is the obvious answer—in this case that the same guys who stopped you ran Fox off the road—isn't necessarily the
right
answer. How much do you know about Fox anyway?”

“Not a lot, and what I do know is as much from what I've been told as from what I've observed. The one time I talked to him for any length I found him a little boorish and braggy,
but he's not
that
bad. Mostly he was”—I looked for the right word—“overeager, like he was trying to be a big shot.”

“Trust me,” Peter said. “Until the cause of the accident is known and the police report comes out in the newspaper—”

“But don't you understand? That's why I'm so upset. Who knows
when
that'll be. And what if he
dies
? Oh Lord, why did I bring that up? Don't you think I should go to the police
now
and tell them about Emmett and the other man Joe, just in case?” The panic I'd fought hard to shake off was coming back with a vengeance. “Oh, I don't know what to do. What would
you
do?”

Peter's voice was calm and firm. “For now Sterling, don't do anything, not until I can get there. What I advise you to do is to go back to Wynderly. Isn't there's something you can do there that would be productive? At least that way you can get your mind on something else. That's going to do you more good than anything else at the moment.”