The Big Steal (8 page)

“Now don't think that for one minute Hoyt and Mazie were affected by the Depression,” Worth said. “Theirs was
tobacco
money.” He straightened up and grinned. “Alcohol and tobacco. The last things a man gives up in hard times. Of course there was prohibition, but some people said that just made cigarettes all the more popular. Oh no, the Wyndfields never lost any real money during that time. In fact, their fortunes grew.”

“And they just traveled about? Carefree, gathering antiques?” I pointed to the photograph of the English Regency nesting tables pictured in the brochure.

“Most of the time. Mazie and Hoyt met on one of those Mississippi River paddleboat cruises. That pretty much set the tone of their life together. Travel and romance. Hoyt was an avid traveler, but he always said he did it backwards. Said he saw the world before he visited his own country, thanks to the war. The First World War, that is.”

“So you knew Hoyt fairly well?” My interest piqued. “And his family was from here,” I said.

“Oh yes. Hoyt grew up a few miles from where we're sitting. Talk about highborn families and FFVs. The Wyndfields settled here about the same time Jefferson and Madison's families did.” Merritt chuckled to himself. “The Wyndfield men either went down to William and Mary or over to Mr. Jefferson's University in Charlottesville. Except Hoyt. He broke the mold. Hoyt went to Virginia Tech. Passed up law or history to study farming.”

I had heard enough about who Hoyt's people were. I wanted
to learn more about Hoyt. It was getting late, yet I couldn't bring myself to force the moment … plus I was afraid I'd break Worth's train of thought. I wasn't sure what any of this had to do with the theft at Wynderly, or the fiasco at the board meeting, but my better sense told me to listen closely. This was, after all, the South.

“According to my grandfather, it had all begun many years earlier with one of Hoyt's ancestors, Tate Wyndfield. It was one of those old Cain and Abel situations. The good brother, that was Edward Wyndfield, and the bad brother, Tate Wyndfield. Now, Tate had a wild streak in him, and after a falling out with his brother he left these parts in the middle of the night sometime, oh, in the late 1830s or so. More than a little inebriated, of course. Four days later Tate found himself a hundred miles south, down around Powersburg. He was getting ready to make camp along the James River when he came on a, ah, a …” He started again. “One of those … ah … one of those flat-bottomed boats they used to ship tobacco on. Not a barge,” he said.

I waited a moment before speaking. “Bateau?”

“Of course. A bateau. Just wait till you're my age. You'll understand. So,” he said, “Tate came upon this
bateau
partly loaded with ‘bacca,' as we call it, waiting to be shipped down the James River to Richmond. There was a full moon that night. Nearby, Tate spied a tobacco sled filled with the golden leaf waiting to be loaded on the bateau at sunrise.” Worth's voice grew low and whispery. “And there, huddled close by the sled, in the light of a dim fire, was a group of men playing cards.” He paused to let the scene sink in.

“Tate saw his chance. In no time”—he snapped his fingers—“the sled loaded with tobacco was his.” He was grinning as broadly as if
he
had been the one victorious at cards.

“But you have to put something up to get into a game. If Tate left home in a huff—”

“Remember now, Tate Wyndfield was an aristocrat from Orange and Albemarle counties. Some things never change. Rich families had a wide reputation, just the way they do today. Those Johnny-come-lately Southside farmers knew the Wyndfield name, all right. Thought they had a fancy-pants pretty boy joining their game. Little did they know.” Worth Merritt laughed heartily. “Nor did they know Tate's recent break with his family and why he was a ‘fur piece,' as they call it, from home.”

Worth eyed his glass, picked it up and swirled the remaining ice and whiskey around. Seeing it was close to empty he put it down as if to save it. “You see, Tate's grandfather, Major Wyndfield, who, incidentally, was no saint himself, had died not too long before. It was an easy bluff. Tate just put up his share of the family land. Whether he actually had any claim … who knows? Little matter. Tate signed a piece of paper
saying
he did. Next morning, it was Tate Wyndfield's bacca that was headed to Richmond for auction on the bateau.”

Worth slapped his knee. “Those Southside guys got what they deserved.”

I gave Worth a politely impatient look. “So, did Tate come back to Orange County after that?”

“No, no. Tate had learned where the
real
money was. He sold the tobacco, took the cash, and headed straight down to Pittsylvania County. Chatham and Danville. Bought land and
grew Bright Leaf. Made quite a haul over the years. Built a fine home on the Dan River. But Edward's folks stayed put, except for fighting in the War, of course.”

There was no doubt which war Worth was referring to.

“Hoyt never left these parts till he went to Virginia Tech. You know,” Worth said, “I don't know that Hoyt ever gambled, at least not like Tate, but there is a fine game room in Wynderly …”

“And Tate and Hoyt … what kin were they,” I said, to keep Worth on track.

Worth reached in his inner coat pocket and took out a small leather bound notebook and mechanical pencil and began to write.

“See,” he said, sliding the notebook to me.

The Wyndfield Brothers
1830 Tate Wyndfield (Southside) Edward Wyndfield (Orange)
1890 Whitey Wyndfield    Hoyt Wyndfield

“In 1830, it was the Wyndfield bothers, Tate and Edward. Then in 1890 you've got Tate's grandson, Whitey, and Edward's grandson, Hoyt.”

I nodded.

“Now remember, too, there had been bad blood in the Wyndfield family when Tate left. The Orange County Wyndfields never had anything to do with the Southside Wyndfields. But two generations later when the cousins ended up at Tech over in Blacksburg in the 1910s, Hoyt to study animal husbandry and Whitey to study agriculture—well, having the same last name, they started up a conversation. In no time they realized they were distant cousins and became fast
friends. When World War One came along, they both went overseas—Hoyt in the trenches, Whitey behind the lines in an office job. There Whitey made a simple observation. Everybody was puffing away on cigarettes, troops and civilians alike,” Worth said.

“By the time Whitey was back home, he was raring to go—ready to expand his tobacco holdings. Timing couldn't have been better. Whitey got Hoyt to team up with him, and soon they were traveling the world over, piling fortune on top of fortune. When the Roaring Twenties came and glamorous women and handsome men took up the weed, the Wyndfield cousins were set for life.”

“And Mazie was one of those glamorous women, I'm willing to bet,” I said.

“Can't you just see them? Hoyt Wyndfield, tall and straight, polished and genteel. Mazie Bontemps, petite and lovely, sugarcane oozing out of every Cajun pore. She was as vivacious and colorful as Hoyt was handsome.”

I thought I caught a hint of that same adoration for the Wyndfields I had heard from Michelle Hendrix.

“Yes, Hoyt and Mazie had it all—his old family estate, the old furniture, the old name, the old money. What they thought they needed was the
new
style.” Worth laughed. “Know what was funny about that? The new style shown in all the magazines
was
the old style. But
not
the old
Virginia
style. The old
European
style—gilt chairs, etched mirrors. Wouldn't give you two cents for it, myself. Gilding the lily to my way of thinking. But Hoyt had seen it in Europe and he thought it was great. Mazie, being from Louisiana, had grown up with fancy things. It was the perfect match.”

My mind began seesawing back and forth, undoubtedly helped by the wine. Hoyt and Mazie, Tracy and that whole cast of characters, Michelle, Wynderly itself, the stories Worth Merritt was telling me, the theft—like so many pieces of a puzzle, they all had to fit together. But how? That I didn't know.

Our waitress appeared tableside, scattering my thoughts like the crumbs Worth was sweeping from around his plate. “So how's it going, Mr. Merritt? Dessert anyone?” She looked at me.

Worth glanced at his watch. “Where has the time gone? It's past nine, child. Their closing time. We roll up the streets early around here,” he said apologetically. “The check, Dolly.”

He picked up his glass and drained it dry. He gave me a broad wink. “Her name's not really Dolly,” he said.

“It's Bonnie Sue,” she said with a playfully exasperated roll of her eyes.

“But I think Dolly suits her better, don't you?” Worth said.

Dear Antiques Expert: When my great uncle died, he left his collection of walking canes to my husband. Actually, these were my uncle's father's and grandfathers' canes, so we figure they have to be over 100 years old. Is there a market for them?

During the 18th and 19th centuries, “walking sticks” were more than just walking aids. They were fashion accessories for men
and
women—especially ones with gold, silver, jeweled, or ivory handles. Some even concealed daggers and swords and had snuff compartments. But that was then. Today, walking sticks have generally lost their appeal. Having said that, some antique and even early 20th-century folk art canes carved as snakes, alligators, and such have sold for thousands of dollars. Hopefully you will find some folk art canes among your newly inherited collection.

W
E STEPPED OUT
into the cold night. Behind us, Dolly began turning off the neon “open” light in the front window. The street became even darker, the moon even brighter.

“I could go on and on about the Wyndfields,” Worth said.

“And I could listen forever,” I said, wondering if I'd have
another chance to hear what Paul Harvey called “the rest of the story.” “But I guess we should call it a night,” I said.

“I'm sure I'll see you again soon,” Worth Merritt said. “Houseman was already talking about calling another ‘emergency' session at Wynderly. He'll be crawling all over the place tomorrow, mark my words. He's not about to let that house permanently close down if he can help it.”

“Well he won't get any help from Miss Mary Sophie McLeod,” I said with a chuckle.

I made a U-turn in the middle of the block. In the rearview mirror I watched Worth turn onto a side street. The whole town was deadly quiet and it wasn't even nine thirty. Out of nowhere I had a gnawing desire to see Wynderly in the black of night. On just such a winter night years ago, I had seen Bannerman Castle. Though built a few short years before Wynderly, today only its hollow shell stands as a sad reminder of its past grandeur. But when the moon is high over New York's Hudson River and its crumbling towers and walls are silhouetted against the night, it is magnificent. I have never forgotten the romance and mystery of the moment. Tonight's moon was full and silver. Did I dare?

And then a lipstick red Nissan whipped around me and bolted into the 7-Eleven's parking lot without so much as a turn signal. I slammed on the brakes and the horn at the same time.

I proceeded on, but began thinking twice about venturing out to Wynderly, especially since I was now in the countryside, and in the dark nothing looked familiar. So much for knowing where I was. I turned into a driveway, backed out, and headed back to the 7-Eleven for directions.

I pulled into the only empty spot and had just turned off the motor when I heard a familiar voice. I was so new to Orange, I figured it could belong only to a handful of people. But at a 7-Eleven? It hardly seemed a likely place to be running into Miss Mary Sophie and her gold-knobbed cane. I glimpsed Michelle Hendrix. Of course. Who else could it have been?

Michelle was balancing a twelve-pack of Budweiser while she fumbled with the handle on the driver's side of the bright red Nissan.

“Couldn't somebody help,” she snapped. Her voice sounded different, more tinny and sharp. She was obviously pissed.

The rear door on the driver's side flew open, banging into the already dented pickup truck parked beside it. A small, thin kid looking no more than maybe sixteen or seventeen from the way he was dressed, jeans billowing around his ankles and wool stocking cap, jumped out. “Hold on. I'll get it.”

“What the hell're you doing? Watch the paint job.”

I heard the booming male voice before I saw where it was coming from. Then a man so tall his chest towered over the roof of the car came up out of nowhere. “Damn it, Billy. Watch it.”

“You two shut up. All you've done for the past half hour is bicker.” Michelle's voice cut through the night air. “You want me to keep driving, or drop this right here.” She heaved the bulky twelve-pack high in the air.

“She'll do it, too, Emmett,” the boy said.

I ducked down, sucked in my breath, and waited for what would happen next. Husband, boyfriend, son? I hadn't noticed a ring on Michelle's finger. Figuring this was the only store open this time of night, it wasn't all that surprising she'd be here, but —

Glaring headlights from another car turning in broke my train of thought. From the engine's roar, I figured it was some sort of souped-up car—a Camero or Mustang. It had stopped immediately behind me.

A voice from the car yelled out, “Hey, Emmett. Billy. What's the plan?”

“Enough's enough.” It was Michelle's voice again. “I'm going home. I've gotta go to work tomorrow. Emmett, you can get out right here and now if you want to. I don't give a flip. But you, Billy Blake, don't you even think about getting in that car with your buddies. If I have to buckle you in myself I'm taking
you home
.”