The Big Steal (3 page)

Still, I tried putting myself in her shoes. With the house closed to visitors, she had to be lonesome. What else had she to do than show me around? I'm sure she thought I needed the orientation.

On the other hand, knowing that she was a possible suspect in this unexplainable burglary was bound to have her upset. Perhaps this was her way of trying to keep control of the situation.

A few minutes later, just as Michelle was about to show me another room, I finally asked directions to the lady's powder room.
Bathroom
just didn't seem the appropriate word in these surroundings.

Michelle was waiting for me. “Isn't it a beautiful room,” she said. “The faucets are gold-plated, and the mirror came from India—a gift from the maharaja. Those are real rubies and sapphires.”

The opulence of the powder room had taken me aback even more than had the mural and the blackamoors.

Now remember, Sterling, you have to forget that you're in Mr. Jefferson's country, I had told myself. Stop trying to make Wynderly something it isn't. It's not Monticello.

I nodded in agreement and smiled. “It really
is
remarkable.”

“But you've seen enough of the house,” she said, turning away from me. “Follow me. I'll take you to the workroom.”

Dear Antiques Expert: When I admired a large blue and white plate at an antiques show, the dealer called it an “English Delft charger.” My aunt brought back a vase from Holland that was marked “Delft.” I thought all Delft came from Holland, and what exactly is a “charger”?

Delft, also called Delftware, is an earthenware pottery with a tin-glazed exterior. It originated in the 1600s in Holland when Europeans were trying to discover how to make thin porcelain like the Chinese. But because the English also produced a glaze-finished pottery, the distinction is made between Dutch and English Delft. Dutch Delft, however, has always been better known. “Charger” is the name given to large, shallow plates that we today would call platters. Incidentally, truly old Delft pieces were marked with symbols. Pieces marked with the word “Delft” are of modern manufacture.

A
T LAST
I could get to work. I had headed straight to the table where pieces of what had been a seventeenth-century Delft charger were spread out on a card table.

“If you're going to look at the things the thieves left behind,
you're going to need these,” Michelle had said, handing me a pair of gauzy white cotton museum gloves.

Though a nice piece, the large plate really didn't call for curatorial gloves, especially not in its present condition. But trying to keep a positive attitude, I told myself Michelle's offer of the gloves had been a nice gesture. Perhaps she was worried that I might nick my fingers on some sharp, jagged edge.

I laid my things on an empty chair before joining Michelle at the table. “Thank you for the offer, but I don't think I'll be needing these. I'll be careful,” I said, holding out the gloves to give them back to her.

The look Michelle Hendrix cast my way told me she couldn't have cared less whether I cut myself or not. “Wynderly's house rules
require
that gloves be worn if you're going to touch anything—porcelain, crystal, furniture, silver—anything.”

“I understand, but …”

I looked at the broken bits on the table. Frankly, I get the same sort of rush from running my fingers over wood and silver worn smooth and silky from generations of handling and polishing that a wine connoisseur gets from tasting a perfectly aged vintage wine. As for the things at Wynderly? If the house was near bankruptcy, chances were its contents would be sold at auction. I'd yet to see an auctioneer wearing museum gloves to handle his goods. Why, every piece in the house had been dusted and moved, handled and touched by human hands for decades. I guess the police had worn gloves when trying to gather fingerprints, but now what was the point? And as for this particular Delft piece, finer pieces are routinely passed from hand to hand in many an antiques shop.

But what I was
thinking
, and what I dared to
say
, were two different things. I shut up and yanked the gloves on.

So far I had only had a rushed look at a small portion Wynderly and the things in it. Though the Tang horses had genuinely bothered me, I had also noticed what appeared to be some quite fine pieces of eighteenth-century English furniture. I knew the silver I'd seen in the drawing room was good, but some garishly painted pieces of Native American pottery I had glimpsed in what Michelle called the Game Room looked more like touristy bowls and jugs. A hodgepodge. That's what the Wynderly collection was, which was also what made it so fascinating. Any appraiser will tell you, the challenge often lies not so much in discovering the real, as in uncovering the fakes, frauds, and forgeries. I had a virtual playground awaiting me. The question was, had the thieves known what they were doing?

Among the finer things I had noted in the house had been a truly valuable piece of Delft, a piece much finer than the charger I was working on. It was an exquisite blue and white water bottle, probably from the 1680s—the sort that would be estimated to sell for sixty or seventy-five thousand dollars, but might bring a cool hundred thousand or even more in the right auction venue. Why had they left
it
behind? If they didn't know what they were doing … Then again, the thieves who had made off with some three hundred million dollars of art from the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum in Boston had left some of the collection's most valuable items behind, and they'd had over an hour to decide what to take. But who had said there were
thieves
?

What if Michelle Hendrix had been behind the theft? Or, what if this were an inside job, a way for the museum to get the insurance money? Then the randomness of the pieces taken, some valuable, some not, might have been purposely done as a way to throw the investigation off.

No wonder Matt Yardley had sent me on the job. “Wynderly's claim may be on the money. To the penny,” he had said. “But, knowing the financial straits Wynderly's foundation is in, I want to be sure. Over the years more than one small museum has tried to wiggle its way out of financial difficulties by using its insurance payout to replenish its coffers. Not that I think that's the case here, but I have to be sure. Who knows, I may be paying you to tell me Babson and Michael owes the foundation more than they've claimed.”

While Michelle peered over my shoulder, I struggled to concentrate on organizing the broken and damaged pieces. Wearing, of course, gloves.

Dear Antiques Expert: My insurance agent says we need to have an appraisal made of our antiques and more valuable new pieces. How do we find a good appraiser?

Try to find an appraiser who belongs to a nationally recognized appraisal association with a strong education program and code of ethics: the American Society of Appraisers, Appraisers Association of America, or the International Society of Appraisers, for example. But if you can't, remember:

Never hire an appraiser who charges on a percentage basis or who buys the items appraised.

Because appraisers often have specialties, tell the appraiser your specific needs and the purpose of the appraisal.

Before the appraiser arrives, prepare a list and gather any receipts or pertinent information.

Finally, setting out items such as silver, china, and crystal sets will save the appraiser time and you money.

L
ATER, BACK AT THE
antebellum bed and breakfast in town, I had phoned my dear friend Peter Donaldson, partly for company but mostly to vent my frustration.

“You can't believe how huge Wynderly is, Peter. It's much larger than it looks in pictures. And the stuff in it—There must be tons of it. Remember Xanadu, the house in
Citizen Kane
, with its storerooms filled with all those statues and trunks and stuff? That's what Wynderly reminds me of, and I haven't even seen its storerooms yet. It wouldn't be so bad except for the curator. She won't leave me alone to get my work done. First she insisted on giving me a tour of the house when I was eager to see the damage the thieves had done. Then, once we finally
did
get to the workroom, the whole time I was trying to concentrate, she babbled away, asking me questions. But when I'd ask
her
a question she'd clam up like she'd been shrink-wrapped. I hardly got a thing done all day.” I paused to catch my breath.

Peter laughed. “Haven't you had anyone to talk to?”

“You wouldn't find it so funny if you were in my shoes,” I said. “Michelle was nipping at my heels like a hound dog all day. There's just the two of us echoing through the hallways. The place is a
morgue
.”

“A morgue? With so much stuff around? Sounds more like King Tut's tomb.”

It was my turn to laugh. “Well, I haven't stumbled over any mummies or gold caskets …” I hesitated, remembering Michelle's comment about removing the sheets and covers for my visit. “At least not yet.” Once the image of the shrouded furnishings came to mind, somehow finding a mummy didn't seem beyond the realm of possibility.

“But that's the only thing I
haven't
seen. Most of what I've seen today is bling to the extreme, but with a 1920s and 1930s twist. I guess because I was told the house was a museum I
had expected the owners to be collectors. Now don't get me wrong. It's obvious that Hoyt and Mazie Wyndfield loved the things they bought, but they weren't collectors. Not in the
true
sense, not like the duPonts or Rockefellers. Only way I can think of to describe the Wyndfields is … well … accumulators. Indiscriminate accumulators.”

“You? The Queen of Stuff, complaining about too many things? Now, Sterling.”

I ignored that. “Look, I'd be having a ball if left to my own devices,” I said. “There are some wonderful pieces in the house, but except for seeing a broken Delft charger and some porcelain, it's been a lost day. There are more questions running around in my head than answers.”

Images of the things I'd seen flashed across my mind, but it was Michelle who loomed even larger. “You should hear how she talks about the Wyndfields. She practically genuflects every time she says Mazie's name. This afternoon on our way out she stood in front of one of Mazie's portraits—there must be dozens of them.” I lowered my voice to imitate Michelle's hushed awe. “And she said, ‘Mazie was a princess—born and bred. And she married a
prince
.'” I stopped. “But I'm being too harsh. Actually, Michelle's admiration for the Wyndfields is rather touching.”

“So tell me more. You had mentioned a Delft charger.”

I grimaced. Here I was, trying to figure Michelle Hendrix out, and Peter wanted to talk about the Delft. But how like him. After all, the objects were what was really important.

Antiques had brought Peter Donaldson, a widowed and retired Episcopal priest, into my life. Sometimes it's still hard for me to believe that this old-line Virginia aristocrat runs
Leemont's Salvation Army thrift shop, where many a valuable antique has ended up, usually quite unintentionally. Naturally he
would
be more interested in the artifacts than my chatter.

“So what was it, Dutch or English Delft? What was the decoration?”

“Well it
had
been a wonderful seventeenth- or eighteenth-century Adam and Eve charger. You know, the type made in Bristol, England. One with the snake twined around the apple tree and big leaves hiding Adam and Eve's …” I hesitated. Then, remembering Peter's fondness for
Monty Python
, I said in my best British accent, “Their ‘naughty bits.'”

I stifled a smile when I heard Peter chuckle, then turned serious and said, “But then Michelle asked me what it was
worth
. Don't you think she should have known that? And when I asked her what condition the charger was in before it was smashed, she shrugged as if she couldn't have cared less. Eventually she did say that some appraiser had said it was ‘worth a lot, about two thousand dollars.' Those were her exact words. Why, years ago it would have been worth five or six thousand, even it was chipped or the paint was flaking off. Today? More like seven or eight. Maybe ten.

“What's bothering me is that I can't tell if she is really ignorant of the situation or playing dumb. Then again, it could be she's hiding something. If she's on the level, then how could she have been around these things and not have learned about them, especially since she had to take tour groups around the house? But strangest of all is the way she's so possessive of the house and the Wyndfields … like it all belongs to her.”

“How old did you say she is?” Peter asked.

I thought for a moment.

Should I even be telling Peter all this, I suddenly wondered. Matt Yardley's unexpected entrance into my life was complicating matters—not that mentioning Matt would make any difference to Peter. Truth was, it was my own feelings I was skittish about. I'd been crazy about Peter ever since we met. From the start I'd wished I were more a part of his life, and he of mine. I probably needed to get over him. But I didn't want to let my friendship with him go.

“Sterling? Are you there?”

“Guess the line dropped out here in the boondocks,” I fudged. “There's little to no cell phone service, too … I meant to tell you that. Let's see, you asked how old Michelle is? I'd say mid-thirties. Maybe as old as forty?”

“It could be that she's just in over her head. Seems I read something about a lot of turnover of Wynderly's personnel in some article on the back page of the paper about the theft. If this curator's only been there for a few months and the place is in trouble …” His voice trailed off.

“Speaking of curators,” he said more spiritedly. “The
New York Times
is full of news about the Getty Museum's curator, Marion True. Not only has the Greek government confiscated some of the antiquities found in her Greek island home, it seems the Getty has to return some of the museum's finest treasures to Greece. With all this interest in the art world, if the theft at Wynderly turns out to be an inside job, you might be in the throes of a news-making scandal.”