Unspoken (4 page)

B
ryce walked back toward Bishop Chicago. He liked Ann’s friends as a rule, and tonight had been no exception. It had been an enjoyable dinner with Ann and Paul Falcon, along with their guest, Ginger Nyce. So why had he not asked Ginger for her phone number?

He had spent a perfectly pleasant evening talking with her. She was an interior designer who specialized in kitchen remodels, they shared friends and some interests, she’d fit nicely into his life, and he’d merely said good-night when the evening was over. He knew Ann had been hopeful they would hit it off, and a bit disappointed when he had not pursued it. He should have been interested—that was the problem, and he couldn’t sort out why he hadn’t been.

Work was under control. His staff had risen to the challenge and were doing an exceptional job with the estate coins. The cash he needed to raise was well under way. He’d even found himself with enough idle time that he had been watching for Charlotte to reappear. She’d said she would be back in a couple of weeks, and it was now three. He told himself it was because he didn’t want the surprise of her arrival catching him off guard again, and that was true. But part of him wondered
if she would return or if she would simply vanish one day as abruptly as she appeared.

He’d geared up for a big change in the business, and now he was simply waiting. Asking for Ginger’s number would have been adding a new personal interest, and until he knew what was going to be happening with his professional life, he didn’t want to start something significant in his personal life. He relaxed at his reasoning. Starting a relationship and immediately shortchanging it for time wasn’t his style.

There was an outdoor concert coming up in a couple of months. If he wanted to get to know Ginger better, that would be a reason to call, and by then life should be more settled. He liked the idea and made himself a mental note to buy the tickets. He could always gift them on if he changed his mind.

He’d left his car in the lot at Bishop Chicago since Paul and Ann didn’t live far and downtown parking was always at a premium. He dug out his keys. It had been a good evening, but it was time to call it a day.

Bryce slowed and slid his keys back into his pocket. Heading home appeared to be on hold. Charlotte was leaning against his car.

“I figured you were around,” she offered by way of a greeting.

“I had dinner with friends.” And the rationale he’d just settled on for not pursuing Ginger bumped into reality. He was looking at the reason. Ginger was pleasant and comfortable, while Charlotte was dangerously unpredictable. Bishop felt his sigh deep in his chest. It was not a good thing to be attracted to what could be dangerous, but he had to admit that was part of what was going on.

“Group two is here if you would like to help me unpack them.”

“You don’t want to wait until tomorrow?”

“I’m not in Chicago tomorrow.”

He decided if she wanted to work tonight rather than sleep he wasn’t going to waste his time trying to change her mind. He’d help her get the job done. “As long as I don’t have to actually buy them for another ten days, sure.”

She unlocked the back security door, punched in the code, and preceded him inside.

White shipping boxes were lined up along the hallway wall. He counted as he walked toward the showroom. Thirty-two of them. “What’s your plan?”

“Open a box, put them in a display case. Rearrange after I see what is here.”

“You don’t know?”

“It’s been a busy few weeks. I gathered what was interesting, wrapped it in bubble wrap, and put it in a box. You’re not the only storefront I’m filling, Bishop. I’ve mostly dealt with the odd collectibles these last couple weeks. I’m the proud owner of about fifty hurricane lamps, Hershey memorabilia, sixty-year-old Coca-Cola bottles, and enough empty old cigar boxes that I lost count at two hundred.”

Bryce found a knife and opened the first box. “How did your grandfather die?”

“Old age.”

He looked up at her, saw the first flash of true humor on her face.

“He did his own thing, Bryce, and lived life like he wanted to. I doubt he saw a doctor more than twice in his final years. If he was in pain, he never said. The official cause of death was a heart attack while he slept. He was ninety-two.”

“Nice way to go.”

“He would have thought so. I didn’t know him well. I didn’t know he was my grandfather until six years ago, and it’s hard to bridge a generational age gap even when you’re both willing
to try. But I liked what I knew of him, even if he never did acknowledge my mom while she was alive.”

Her mom had passed way. Bryce tucked away that information along with the little else he knew about her. He tugged at the tape around a ball of bubble wrap. “You have an interesting way of wrapping things.” He finally freed the coin inside and slid an 1820s gold piece onto a display tray.

“There’s a story to the bubble wrap.” She didn’t bother to tell it, just slit open another box.

“We’re doing well selling the first group of coins.”

“Bishop—no offense—but I’m really tired of coins. Got anything else interesting to talk about?”

“Your interesting, or mine?”

She laughed and handed him back the knife. “You open the boxes, I’ll deal with the bubble wrap.”

She sat down on the floor and pulled an open box over to her side, picked up the next wrapped ball.

He started a new subject. “Where are your dogs?”

“John’s got them.”

He glanced at her hand. The way she said the man’s name sounded like more than just an old friend, but she wore no rings.

“Always liked Irish setters?”

“They’re friendly, normally quiet, and they like to keep you company. I prefer big dogs to small ones.”

“I had a collie growing up, but cities are hard on dogs. I don’t have one now.”

“Cities are hard on people too.” She set a Carson City Morgan dollar on top of a box with a casualness that had him reaching for gloves to properly pick it up and set it on the display tray.

She took the time to pull on white cotton gloves. “Okay?”

“Thank you.”

She nodded and picked up another bubble-wrapped ball.

“You said you’ve got other storefronts besides this one.”

“Three. The furniture deal is similar to yours. I set up shop next to an expert and let them sell the antiques for a share of the profits. The other two are my employees, selling odds and ends, at the stores and online. One is in St. Paul, the other in Cincinnati.”

“How long have you been doing this?”

“He died in May of 2011. I’m just now getting up to volume with what needs to be sold. Probably another year, but that’s being optimistic. I don’t like estate auctions. I think items go for a fraction of what they should, and I’m not one to leave money on the table.”

“You’re doing that with me.”

“Bishop, these are chum.”

“Chum.”

“A fishing term. When you put bait in the water to draw in larger fish.”

“You’re selling me coins below market price because you want me interested?”

“Basically.”

“Interested in what?”

“I’ve got a lot of coins to sell.” She held out a shotgun roll. “You might like to buy these.”

He took the paper-wrapped roll of Wheat pennies, glanced at the date and mint, and nearly dropped them. He sat down hard on the floor beside her. “Don’t do this to me, Charlotte. I’m too young to die of a heart attack.”

“He had it in one of the cigar boxes. I think it’s an old forgery rather than the real thing.”

He gingerly turned the roll in his hand. It was paper-stamped as Mint issued, and those were 1909-S vdb Wheat pennies showing at the ends of the roll, still a brilliant copper red. “A forgery?”

“He had it in a cigar box on his desk, not in the vault.”

He studied the paper. “It’s hundred-year-old paper.”

“How can you tell?”

“I handle a lot of it. How much do you want for this? Side deal, unrelated to our bigger deal.”

She unwrapped another ball. “A hundred twenty-five thousand.”

“A single 1909-S vdb grading MS-66 sold last year at auction for seventy-eight thousand.”

“I know. I looked it up. But what are the odds that really is a Mint-issue roll? My grandfather certainly didn’t treat it as priceless. And most 1909-S vdb’s in solid grades will sell around three thousand. It’s rare to get a truly exceptional coin even in a fresh roll.”

“You could open the roll and know.”

“I could, but no. I’ll sell the roll unopened. It’s the potential of it that makes the price interesting. Is it an old forgery, or the real thing? Is there a spectacular coin among the fifty, or simply several solid-grade coins? Open it and we both know. I’m a gambler by nature. Besides, the market can only absorb so many at that high a grade. If it’s real you’ll have to hold the coins for several years and sell them slowly to get their true value.”

“One twenty-five, against the potential of five hundred . . . or a substantial loss.”

“Yes.”

Bishop studied the roll of coins. Maybe he was a bit of a gambler by nature too, but experience told him this was the real thing. He shook his head. “You should ask for more, Charlotte.”

“One twenty-five is tangible—reasonable enough that if you find the inside of that roll is full of nineteen twenty-eights, I won’t feel so awful I’m tempted to give you the money back.”

He smiled. “Will you take a check?”

“Sure.”

“You’ve got a deal on this one tonight.”

She offered the coin she had unwrapped. “This one is more certain.”

It was a Carson City Morgan in excellent condition and easily worth seventeen thousand.

“The unopened pennies are more interesting.” He wanted to open the roll and know but forced himself to leave it for later. He tucked the shotgun roll into an empty piece of bubble wrap and laid it by his jacket. He pulled over another box to open.

“It’s going to drive you crazy wondering about it.”

He almost chuckled but said instead, “I need to learn some patience. I’ll get a trash bag for this loose bubble wrap, but don’t toss out the sack until we go back through it and have made sure a coin didn’t get tossed by mistake.”

“Sure.” She tore at the tape on another wrapped ball.

“It’s like a Christmas party in here, Charlotte.”

“I’d rather be opening things I could play with.”

It took three hours to get the coins unwrapped and into the display cases. Bishop stood looking over the range of gold and silver she had brought and realized it was a step up in rarity from what was in group one. “I count four hundred eighty-nine coins.”

“Sounds about right.” Charlotte brought the coffee mugs she had washed out back to the beverage counter. “I’ll price them when I get back to town in a few days, give you a figure for what is here. Next Thursday evening work for you?”

“I’ll be ready. Where are you heading? One of your other shops?”

“No. Not a safe topic, Bishop. No offense.”

“None taken then.”

She pulled keys from her pocket, glanced at him.

He nodded.

She turned security for the showroom back on, and they walked through to the back of the shop. “I appreciate the help getting them unpacked. Going to open your roll of coins tonight?”

“Tomorrow morning, first thing. I’ve waited this long, I can let my expert do the unveiling for me.”

“I hope you find your treasure.”

He closed the back security door for the shop and saw the security camera move. He lifted a hand to whoever was watching.

“Can I drop you off somewhere, Charlotte? I can give you a lift back to your truck in the morning.”

“I’m tired, but roads are reasonably clear this time of night. I’ll be fine. We finished that pot of coffee.”

“I can feel the caffeine down to my toes,” he replied, oddly hesitant to say good-night. “Drive careful.”

“I will. See you in a few days, Bishop.”

Bryce waited until she backed her truck from its space before unlocking his car and settling into the driver’s seat. She was selling off the estate of a man who had lived a life with the habit of holding on to things—some, like the coins, valuable because of what they were, other items like the cigar boxes worth something now simply because they had not been thrown out years ago. Graham Enterprises, Trust, Wisconsin. The third largest transportation, warehouse, and storage company in the country. Bishop wondered how much of that storage space Fred Graham had used for his own personal things.