The Big Steal (16 page)

“No. No,” I had begun saying during his brief pause.

“Well, good,” he said, vigorously bobbing his head in rhythm with his words. “I'm glad to see you aren't falling for all that trash in the paper about the foundation.”

“About the collection,
your
collection, of water vessels. It certainly sounds interesting. You said it was a gift?”

Keeping Frank Fox happy had suddenly been added near the top of my lengthening job description. All I needed was for him to start some rumor that I was there to
investigate
the Wynderly theft, truth though it was.

He shuffled about and relaxed against the back of the sofa. I ignored the groaning wood.

“Yes,” he said. “I met Victor Shafer at a party in Palm Beach. I like to vacation there, it's so cultured and sophisticated. Victor and I no more than met when we immediately connected. We are both interested in the environment. I told him about my dream—to create a living history of how water is essential to mankind. Do you realize that the quest for pure drinking water is as ancient as man is? That night Victor and I talked way into the wee hours, and that very next day my dream began to become a reality.”

I wondered how anyone could get that excited about water, essential though it is. Then the light went on in my head. His memories of meeting Victor were what had him so animated.

“We, Victor and I, decided right then and there that our
chance meeting had to have been in the stars. I had the knowledge. Victor had the money and he
loves
antiques. We agreed that he would put together a magnificent collection of vessels through the centuries—or anything related to water. Pottery jugs from Greece and Rome, copper vessels from Persia and Damascus and Brazil, holy water vessels from Provence, urns from Azerbaijan and Turkey, even old pewter tankards from England.” He paused to draw a deep breath before exclaiming, “And guess what business Victor is in?”

I tried to censor my thoughts, but my answer came tumbling out of my mouth. “The travel business?”

“Almost. Even better though.” His eyes settled on mine. “The
import
business. That's what he was doing at the party. He lives in South Florida.”

I exhaled my answer. “Oh. How convenient. So he has access to—”

“Yes,
yes
,” Fox said. “He not only knows the exporters in all those places, he
goes
to them himself. He had visited all the museums.” Frank Fox literally glowed. “Now
I
know just how Hoyt Wyndfield felt when he was collecting his treasures for Wynderly.”

What was I to do? Tracy DuMont had laid into Fox at the board meeting, openly humiliating him. Now it almost hurt me to look into his eyes. They were so shamelessly trusting. Clearly Fox idealized Hoyt Wyndfield and Wynderly. The sadness of the situation went beyond the moment.

This Victor Shafer—I didn't have any proof that Fox was being used by him, but my gut instinct told me some sort of deal was being cut. The question was how Fox fit into it all. From the beginning I had found his persistence annoying, but
now he seemed pitiful, little more than a gullible babe, trudging blindly into deep, uncharted … did I dare think … waters. Then again, Fox obviously was working his
own
scheme, asking me to anoint “his” collection. There were wheels turning inside wheels, and I didn't have a clue what was going on.

I glanced at the ornate Victorian porcelain mantel clock to check the time. Though it had been in my line of vision through my conversations with both Michelle and Fox, I had barely noticed the elaborately modeled satyrs and cupids dancing atop it—an indication that I was dead tired and distracted. It deserved a closer look. Meissen, perhaps?

“Look, Dr. Fox, it's really late and I've had a terribly long day. I want to hear more about your plans—”

“Museum,” he interjected.

“Yes, that's what I meant—plans for your museum,” I said. “And I want to hear all about the collection you and Victor have. It sounds interesting indeed. My first obligation though, as you understand, is to Wynderly.

“If I can make good headway tomorrow”—without too many interruptions, I thought—“then maybe we'll have some time before I head back to Leemont.”

Fox grabbed my hand and pumped it like he was trying to get water. “Oh, that would be wonderful. Almost as wonderful as my chance meeting with Victor.”

Fox gushed on about heaven knows what as we walked to the door. As we stepped out on the columned porch a cold wind brushed by, the sort that burns your skin and smells like dry ice. The temperature must have dropped ten degrees. Still I stood, watching in the dimness of the porch light, as Fox took his time going down the steps and into the parking lot.
He paused by my car, almost identical to his. For a moment I thought he was going to try to get into it. Then he moved on a couple of cars down to his own old dark blue Mercedes.

I gazed into the black night as he pulled out of the driveway and thought, Dear Professor Fox, look not to the stars but to yourself.

Dear Antiques Expert: Among my family's books and papers is my great-great-grandfather's 16-year diary from 1890 to 1905. Most of it relates to family events, but in 1903 he tells of hearing about the Wright Brothers' first flight in Kitty Hawk, North Carolina. Pasted in the book is the local newspaper report of the event. Would this information make the diary valuable?

For diaries, photographs, or other family papers to be valuable there has to be something distinctive about them. For example, a daguerreotype depicting a person posing for the picture is standard fare. But, if the subject is a black man in a Confederate uniform, then the image becomes historically important, and valuable. While your great-great-grandfather's telling of hearing about the flight is interesting, for his diary to be really valuable, the account would have to be his own firsthand seeing of the actual event.

I
N THE SANCTUARY
of my room, I leaned against the closed door and ran my hands through my hair and left them there. At last I was alone. Finally I could get down to the business at hand, the reason I was here. Frank Fox was already far from my thoughts. It was Hoyt and Mazie's world I was about to enter.

Reaching into my briefcase, I ever so carefully took out the Staffordshire dog, opened one of the lower drawers and tucked the figure in among my lingerie. I spread out the rest of the contents of my briefcase across the bed, leaving bits of yellowed paper like Hansel and Gretel's trail of bread crumbs. Photographs, receipts, papers, books. The photographs beckoned, but they could wait.

I settled in the middle of the bed where I heaped the pillows up against the high headboard. I gave the stack of papers closest to me a glance. Sales receipts, ledger pages. “Get organized before you start,” I told myself. “Papers in one pile, photos in another, books over here.”

I reached for the dark red leather book teetering so near the edge of the bed I was afraid it might fall off. Worn letters were embossed in gold across the front: “Mazie Wyndfield.” I opened it to the first page. There, written in the same hand I had seen earlier, the hand that had penned the strange obituary, I read, “Mazie Wyndfield, My Diary.”

I never had forgotten my disappointment upon discovering my grandfather's diary had been more a daily account of the weather than of his life. The typical entry had read something like, “Thursday, March 19. A much chillier day than yesterday. I had to wear a sweater under my vest. I took it off when I got to the bank.” I chuckled at the memory.

As I randomly flipped Mazie's book open to someplace midway through it, the pages, some so loose they almost fell out, flopped over by themselves. I let the book fall open where it would. Then I began to read.

 

Wednesday, April 23, 1930. With Hoyt away, these days all blend into one. If only he knew how very much I miss him,
would he go away and so far … and so often? I wonder. Why must he have the heart of an adventurer? I shouldn't complain. I know, I know. But it is lonesome in this big place, beautiful though it be, and I still grow lonely even after all this time, even with Daphne and Jacques living here now. Hoyt says when he returns from Brazil we'll plan another cruise. That gives me hope, but it doesn't help the endless minutes of the days or the nights pass. It isn't that I haven't enough to do with decorating and planning for our upcoming party when our friends from the last cruise come to visit, but I hunger for my husband's kisses, his caresses, and when night falls I remember the joy of lying with him, in his arms
.

I turned my head. I felt a little embarrassed, as if I had peeped through a keyhole. My mind scattered in a million directions. I had assumed the diary would be like my grandfather's—filled with facts about the things Mazie and Hoyt had bought over the years, all about their travels, where they had gathered their treasures, even mentions of parties and how they entertained … anything that would shed light on Wynderly and the objects in it. But these were the words of a passionate young woman, twenty-nine, maybe thirty years old. It was 1930. Mazie had been married for eight years by then. And she still loved her husband. She even held a deep passion for him. I smiled, partly in wonderment, partly in jealousy.

I glanced back at the page. Mazie's words were so intimate, so innocent and heartfelt, that on my second reading it was as if I had accidentally pushed open the door and beheld Hoyt and Mazie in a loving embrace.

To break the spell, I got up and checked the lock on my bedroom door. Of course doing that was unnecessary, but it
helped to banish the unwelcome melancholy that had swept over me. To add to my misery, I was suddenly struck by the possible consequences of my actions. The responsibilities of discovering the priest hole and that other inner sanctuary, whatever it was, and now reading Mazie's innermost thoughts enveloped me like a shroud. It was as if I had entered Mazie's chambered catacomb.

Miss Mary Sophie had made mention of … what had she called it, a secret place. In my own worries of not having much to report to Matt, I had had a passing thought of telling him I'd discovered a couple of secret rooms in the attic. But how to explain having absconded with the papers if, just if, I
did
find some hard facts in them, or by chance discovered answers to the questions I had about the things in the house and their authenticity and value? I'd have to say where I'd found the papers, wouldn't I?

I returned to my bed and continued to read.

Dear Antiques Expert: My aunt used to travel extensively in South America. She was very proud of the santos she gathered in the various countries. Would these have much value these days?

South and Central American countries are famous for their figurines of the saints, called “santos.” These range greatly in style and quality, from naive wooden folk carvings to exquisitely molded and painted sculptures. Because every town and even household has its patron saint to protect its members, tourists have long purchased santos as mementos—usually at markets or bazaars, but sometimes from antiques shops. (Unfortunately, santos purported to be “old” have sometimes been falsely aged.) While truly old—18th- and 19th-century and older—handcrafted santos can be valuable, mass-produced touristy, 20th-century ones seldom sell for more than $50 or $100.

 

Hoyt totally surprised me today. I think we need a teahouse, he said. Or maybe a pagoda. Some cozy place where we can get away. I can't imagine why we would need to get away from Wynderly, other than our trips to see the world, of
course. Dear, dear man, he has so much energy! He always needs a project. I know the perfect place, he said. And then I realized he wanted to build it just beyond the house, over past the rose garden. I really don't see any reason to disturb that land. Wild turkeys live in the thickets and the deer are quite lovely when they come there to graze. I'm quite sure a family of red foxes lives nearby. If it stretched out flat instead of rising and rolling, that patch of land would remind me of home. I miss Louisiana, but not so much now that it is summer as I do in March when I'm ready for spring … and instead … it snows!

There was a sweetness about the way Mazie expressed herself with exclamation points that reminded me of a schoolgirl's outpourings. And in its own way, this page, dated June 17, 1930, was as loving and passionate, and as wistful, as the entry written three months earlier when Hoyt was away.

I turned through the pages, fast-forwarding the years of Mazie's life.

 

November 2, 1932. Today I defied Hoyt. I cut my hair. It's not that I hadn't cut it before, but now it is a real bob. Little by little I've had it shortened, but never have I done anything this drastic. I know how much he loves my long hair. But with the new hat fashions fitting so close, there's no room to tuck all my tresses up and under, and anyway I like the waves around my face. Hoyt wasn't very pleased, but he soon forgave me when I explained that he didn't want me to look like an old fuddy-duddy, especially with the holiday party season about to begin. He does like all the new fashions. He said he guessed it was an old Virginia way not to like change. But
when I pointed out that there is absolutely nothing “old Virginia” about Wynderly, he relented. I reminded him that people drive here just to see our fancy “French” house. Of course England was the Mother Country of Virginia, but she wasn't anyone's mother down in my part of the world. Our papas were French and Spanish and Italian, which is why Hoyt tells everyone he built this home, to make me feel at home.

 

I almost heard Mazie sigh when I read the next line.

 

Oh, if only he knew what was hidden away in my heart. I remember the first time I saw Hoyt. So straight and tall, so refined, not at all like those willful, boring boys I was used to being with—half bent-over from spending endless hours at the gambling table, still reeking of smoke and whiskey hours later. He reminded me of Dominique. I still remember the thrill I would get when I'd see Domi in the summertime when he returned home from college in Charlottesville. Each year he would be changed, quieter and more serious. He didn't swear like his boyhood friends, and I remember how he would hang back, apart, when in a crowd. But then the war came along —