“I do,” said Corney, waving her hand at an English pine dresser generously filled with assorted pieces of pottery and pewter.
“That's a lovely display,” said Lucy.
“People often make a mistake with pewter,” said Corney. “They'll think that just because a piece dates from the eighteenth century and costs the earth, that it belongs with their fine mahogany sideboard. It doesn't, of course. Mahogany really requires silver, and it makes pewter look drab. But here with countrystyle pottery and baskets and pine and oakâwell, I think the result speaks for itself. It's spectacular.”
“So it is,” said Lucy, feeling rather humble as she produced the tankard and unwrapped it for Corney's inspection.
“Isn't that cute!” exclaimed Corney, taking it and looking it over. “I hope you didn't pay too much for it.”
“Fifty dollars.”
She nodded. “You didn't exactly get a bargain, but you didn't get rooked, either.”
“Really?” Lucy was disappointed. “Hayden thought it might be quite old.”
“Oh, no,” said Corney, shaking her head. Even after a morning of baking, Lucy noticed, she looked neat and fresh and when she shook her head every hair fell right back into place. “See how the bottom is smooth? That means it's something called Brittania. It was kind of a new, improved pewter that was introduced in the nineteenth century. It was lighter, and instead of using molds the craftsmen could shape it on a lathe.”
“But wouldn't that have left marks?”
“You'd think so, but the opposite is true. The very old pieces, the ones made in molds, have the marks. They're also much heavier.”
“I must have misunderstood Hayden,” said Lucy. “I thought he told me the opposite.”
“I'm sure I'm right,” said Corney, with a little nod. “I know my pewter.”
“I'm sure you do,” said Lucy, rewrapping the tankard. She felt her stomach rumble and realized she was hungry. Her eyes were drawn to the madeleines and she ran her tongue over her lips, wishing that Corney would ask her to stay for coffee. “These look so delicious,” she said. “Did you use Cousin Julia's recipe?”
“All my recipes are original,” said Corney, raising her eyebrows. “Besides, how would I have your cousin's recipe?”
Lucy laughed. “That's just what I call Julia Child.”
“Julia Child is your cousin?” Corney was definitely interested.
“No, no,” Lucy said and shook her head. “It's kind of an inside joke. When I was first married I used the Fannie Farmer cookbook a lot, and I happened to read the introduction by Fannie Farmer's niece. In it she calls Fannie Farmer âAunt Fannie.' After that, I started calling the book âAunt Fannie'. Then, when I got my Julia Child cookbook, I started calling that book âCousin Julia'.” Noticing Corney's somewhat puzzled expression, Lucy finished lamely. “It's kind of stupid, I guess. In those days I hadn't done much cooking and it made me feel better to think I had a family of helpers.”
“No, no. It's interesting,” said Corney, who didn't sound interested at all. She started to pack the cooled madeleines in a tin lined with waxed paper.
Lucy sighed. It didn't look as if she was going to be offered a single one. “So you don't use cookbooks? All your recipes are original?” Lucy looked past Corney, at a row of strikingly beautiful amaryllis plants in full bloom that were sitting on a windowsill.
“They have to beâmy reputation depends on it. I can't put someone else's recipes in my column.”
“But isn't that difficult? I mean, most recipes are pretty similar. How can you come up with a new pie crust recipe, for example?”
“Oh, you add something to make it unique. A pinch of nutmeg.” Corney waved her hands impatiently.
“I guess I really ought to be going,” said Lucy, taking the hint and sliding off the stool. “So you start with a recipe by Aunt Fannie, but you change it a little? Is that how it works?”
“Sometimes.” Corney's face was getting flushed. “Sometimes I have an idea for something new, like my Cheesy-Zucchini bread.”
“But that's really just a variation, isn't it?” They were standing by the door.
“Not at all.” Corney practically spit out the words as she opened the door. “It's my own recipe. It's original. Nobody else makes Cheesy-Zucchini bread.”
“Okay, if you say so,” said Lucy, shrugging. This didn't seem to be the right time for a lengthy good-bye and she hurried to zip up her parka. “Well, thanks for your advice about the tankard.” She gave a little wave and stepped through the doorway. The door thudded shut behind her, and the gilded pineapple rattled against the glass panes.
Lucy stood on the farmer's porch a minute to pull on her gloves. Then she walked to the car, wondering why Corney had been so brusque. You'd think the recipe police were watching what people cooked, or something. Good thing, thought Lucy as she pulled open the car door, that she hadn't told Corney about that zucchini variation for the Cheddar Cheese Bread recipe that was printed right on the cornmeal box.
But as she drove down the snow-rutted streets to the rec center, where she was due to pick up Zoe, she wondered exactly how important this question of recipe authorship really was. She had certainly touched some sort of nerve with Corney.
And what if, she wondered, Bitsy had done the same thing? After all, Bitsy knew who took what books out of the library and didn't hesitate to jump to conclusions. If Corney had borrowed some cookbooks and then used the recipes in her column, claiming them as her own . . .
Lucy braked slowly at a stop sign and carefully turned the corner, pulling up in front of the rec building. She sat for a minute, tapping the steering wheel with her gloved hand.
“What am I thinking?” she muttered to herself. “That's just crazy,” she added under her breath as she unstrapped the seatbelt and climbed out of the car. After all, nobody would kill somebody over a stupid recipe.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The princess closed her eyes tight and kissed the ugly frog. When she opened her eyes she saw a handsome prince sitting in his place.
T
hat evening, after the kids had settled down, Lucy joined Bill in the family room where he was exploring the Internet on the computer.
“That's disgusting!” she exclaimed, when she looked over his shoulder at the image on the screen. It was a rather grainy photograph of two women and a man engaged in sexual acrobatics.
“I think it looks like something we ought to try,” said Bill, clicking the mouse. A dialog box appeared, inviting him to view more exotic pictures for the “low, low price” of nineteen dollars and ninety-five cents. All he had to do was type his credit card number in the box below.
He started to reach for his wallet, prompting a cry of protest from Lucy.
“Just teasing,” he said, chuckling.
“It's a good thing I'm here to keep an eye on you,” she said, settling herself on his knee and stroking his beard. “I had no idea this sort of stuff was in there.” She let her head fall on his shoulder. “Can the kids find this stuff?”
“Sure.”
Lucy watched as another picture gradually filled in the screen. It was a photograph of a naked woman in a dog collar on her hands and knees, lapping water from a bowl.
She clicked her tongue in disgust. “This explains a lot,” she said.
“What do you mean?” Bill clicked the mouse and the picture disappeared, to be replaced by one of a bare-breasted dominatrix brandishing a whip.
“I couldn't understand why some of the library board members were giving Bitsy such a hard time about going on-line. Now I know whyâcan you imagine Gerald Asquith giving the go-ahead to something like this?”
“Oh, you never know,” drawled Bill, clicking the mouse again. “Maybe Gerald enjoys a good spanking.”
“Bill!” Lucy gave his hand a little slap. “Maybe you're the one who needs a spanking.”
“Anytime,” he said, winking and adding a growl.
“But seriously,” began Lucy, “isn't it funny how you think you know people but you really don't?”
“What do you mean?” Bill gave the mouse another click to shut down the computer, and it began the usual series of squeaks and groans.
“Well, I've gotten to know some of the board members a little bit better and they're not quite what I expected. Take Hayden. I'd always kind of avoided him because I wasn't all that comfortable with his lifestyle, you know, the way he lives with Ralph. But I was over there the other day and they were terrific. I really like them.”
“What were you doing over there?” Bill asked suspiciously, as he reached around Lucy to turn off the power switch.
“I saw something in the shop and I stopped in to ask the priceâboy, that place is expensive! Anyway, after we'd established that I couldn't possibly afford anything in the place, Hayden gave me a cup of coffee.”
“Hmph.”
“Stop it. They're very nice. Both of them. You'd like them, too.”
“I'm sure,” said Bill. “But that doesn't mean I have to approve of them.”
“Whatever,” said Lucy, not willing to argue. “And you know who I ran into at the food pantry? Ed Bumpus! He gave them a ton of moose meat.”
“Ed's a good guy.”
“Yeah, he is. What I can't figure out is why he's on the library board. He doesn't really seem like much of a reader.”
“Ain't that the truth.” Bill smiled. “He probably got finagled into it by somebody. He's one guy who can't say no.”
“Not like Corney,” mused Lucy. “She's one tough cookie.”
“Really? I thought she was Ms. Bountiful, bringing the good life to one and all.”
“Ms. Stingy is more like it,” Lucy pouted. “I dropped in today while she was baking and she must have had hundreds of little cakes sitting there on her kitchen counter. Cooling, you know. Smelling absolutely divine. And it was getting on to lunch time and I was positively starving. I mean, actually drooling over the darned things, and do you think she gave me even one?” Lucy shook her head. “No way.”
“Poor Lucy,” said Bill, giving her a squeeze. “Come out to dinner with me on Valentine's Day at the Greengage Cafe and you can eat as much as you want. You can stuff yourself with crab ravioli and that terrific salad of theirs and all the tiramisu you can possibly eat.”
“Are you serious?”
“Absolutely.”
“Then you've got a date,” said Lucy, giving him a long, lingering kiss.
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The next morning, Lucy was humming as she fixed breakfast. After the kids departed, rushing out at the last minute to catch the bus, and Bill had given her a rather less perfunctory good-bye kiss than usual, she sat down at the computer.
“Mom! I want my bunny game!” complained Zoe.
“I want to check somethingâyou can have the computer in a minute,” said Lucy.
She leapfrogged her way through the World Wide Web and in a few minutes had e-mailed a message to S. Maddox Bailey, the curator of pewter at the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston. Confused by Hayden and Corney's conflicting advice about the tankard, she had decided to consult an expert.
She then played a few games of “Bunny Beware” with Zoe. She was surprised at how entertaining the game was; no wonder Zoe was addicted. After she finally won, she checked her e-mail and was disappointed to find no reply.
“I don't think this e-mail is all it's cracked up to be,” she said, turning the computer over to Zoe.
Sitting down at the kitchen table, she unwrapped the tankard and examined it in the bright morning sunlight that was streaming through the windows. She could not find any evidence of finishing marks on the tankard's smooth bottom but just to be sure she used the magnifying glass she'd started keeping in the telephone book. Even then she could find no trace of any scratches.
According to Hayden, that meant the tankard was probably about the same age as Josiah's Tankard, which didn't have finishing marks, either.
Corney, on the other hand, had been quite certain that the tankard wasn't even made of pewter but of something called Brittania. How could she be so sure, Lucy wondered. That was the really irritating thing about Corneyâshe was such a know-it-all.
She set the tankard down on the oak table and got up to take something out of the freezer for dinner. When she turned back from the refrigerator she noticed that the kitchen was growing darker; the morning light was already being driven out by thick clouds. Her eyes fell on the tankard, and she smiled. The dimmer light suited it, she thought. It had a quiet, muted presence all its own that spoke of the long, gray winter, icy ponds, and the black, bare limbs of trees.
Corney must be wrong for once, thought Lucy. The tankard really was lovely. It would look wonderful on Miss Tilley's tavern table, filled with a few branches of winterberry. In early spring it would be perfect with pussy willow branches, then forsythia, and a bit later, lilacs. Come summer it could hold bright orange and red and yellow zinnias.
She carried it into the dining room, where she tugged open the bottom drawer of the big old pine dresser she used as a sideboard and began looking for a box and a bit of wrapping paper. There wasn't much there except for Christmas wrap; she would have to make do with plain white tissue paper.
That would be fine, she thought; somehow a gaudy pattern didn't seem quite right for Miss Tilley. Fortunately, she had saved a gift box that was just right for the tankard. She tucked it in and wrapped it, finishing the package with a narrow maroon ribbon.
Maybe it wasn't quite as fancy as something Corney would do, but it looked very nice, she thought, setting it on the table. She put away the wrapping things; it was time to think about lunch.
Passing through the family room to the kitchen she noticed Zoe had abandoned the computer; she was lining up her Barbies against the couch. Lucy gave the e-mail another try, but there was nothing.
Shivering, she checked the thermometer outside the kitchen window. Five degrees; now that the sun had disappeared the temperature was dropping. She went into the pantry for a can of soup and heard the furnace, down in the cellar, turn on.
She plopped the tomato soup into a pot and added water. As she stirred, she wondered how two experts like Corney and Hayden could have such different opinions on the tankard. Maybe Corney had been confused for some reason or other. If Josiah's Tankard didn't have finishing marks, and her tankard didn't either, they must both be about the same age.
While the soup heated, Lucy made sandwiches and poured two glasses of milk. Then she called Zoe for lunch, and ladled the soup into bowls.
“Careful, it's hot,” she warned, sitting down opposite the little girl.
“I know, Mom. I'm not a baby.”
“You're right, you're growing up,” agreed Lucy, taking a bite of her sandwich. “What would you like to do after lunch? Do you want to invite one of your friends over to play?”
“Can I call Sadie?”
“Sure.”
When they finished eating, Lucy checked the computer while Zoe made her phone call. This time, she had a response.
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This is a question that I am frequently asked by beginning collectors. Oddly enough, the answer is different from what you might sensibly expect. Brittania, which is worked on a lathe, does NOT have finishing marks. Older pewter which was cast in a mold DOES have finishing marks. Hope this helps you.
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So, Corney was right. She always was. Old pewter had finishing marksâthat was what the curator at the museum had said. But hadn't Hayden told her that when he examined Josiah's Tankard a few months ago he had found no finishing marks?
Stunned, Lucy slid into a chair. Could that be right? Had she somehow misunderstood? No, she clearly remembered Hayden telling her that old pewter, like Josiah's Tankard, had a smooth bottom.
Lucy felt her chest tighten. This was important. She drummed her fingers on the computer table. If Hayden was right, Josiah's Tankard was a fake. It had to be a relatively modern reproduction that had been substituted for the original.
Was that why Bitsy had been killed? Lucy found herself on her feet, heading for the phone. What if Bitsy had discovered the theft? That could be the motive for her murder. She didn't even need to know that the tankard was a fake to be a danger, realized Lucy, pushing open the swinging door to the kitchen. Simply suggesting that the tankard could be sold to raise money would have put the thief in jeopardy.
After all, only a few people had access to the tankard. Once the theft was discovered it would be easy enough to figure out who had taken it.
Zoe looked up as her mother approached the telephone. “Sadie's not home,” she said, shaking her head sadly and replacing the receiver on its hook.
Lucy didn't reply, but started to snatch the phone, determined to call Horowitz. Suddenly, her hand in midair, she stopped. Hayden, she thought, feeling her heart sink. Oh, no. It had to be Hayden. He had told her himself that he had been the last person to handle the tankard.
But he'd said the examination had been supervised. Miss Tilley had been there, probably a few others besides. And a policeman. Lucy gladly seized on the idea. Hayden couldn't have taken it then. He had been watched far too closely. And besides, she thought, her mind whirling, the substitution could have been made earlier.
It must have been, Lucy realized. In fact, it could have been switched anytime in the last hundred years. She heaved a great sigh of relief and started once again to pick up the phone. Just then it rang.
“LucyâJulia here.”
“Julia? Oh, Miss Tilley! I didn't recognize your voice.”
“Lucy,” she began, her voice more quavery than usual. “Something terrible has happened.”
“Are you all right?” Lucy's first thought was that the old woman had had an accident. “Have you fallen?”
“No, no. I'm fine,” Miss Tilley said, impatiently brushing away her concern. “It's the tankard. It's gone.”
“Gone?”
“Gone. Stolen. When I got to the library I found the case smashed to smithereens.”
“Oh, no.” Lucy tried to absorb this new information. “When did this happen?”
“I don't know. I just discovered it.”
“Are you in the library now?”
“Yes.”
“Who's with you?”
“No one.”
Lucy was suddenly fearful for her elderly friend, bird-thin and frail, possibly alone with a thief in the closed and deserted library.