The Big Steal (34 page)

“What, if I may ask, was in the containers?” Peter said.

Before Matt could answer I held up my hands for silence. “Could this naive woman take a guess?

“Vessels,” I said. “Water vessels.”

Peter looked at me querulously. Matt was so surprised that he thumped the table with the sides of his hands. “But how did you know?” he asked.

I smiled triumphantly. “It was just a guess … what you'd have to call an
educated
guess. You see,” I said, “a couple of days ago Frank Fox asked me to appraise a collection of ancient vessels. He's a professor at a small college around here and his specialty is the hydrosphere—you know, water and the world.” I made a big circle with my hands.

“Anyway, Professor Fox told me how some friend of his in the import business was making a gift to him of water vessels that had been used in ancient times. Fox, in turn, was going to
set up an exhibition of the vessels showing water's importance to civilization and technology. He even mentioned setting up a foundation. But something didn't sound right. The idea seemed too obvious, too commonplace … not very scholarly or innovative.” I paused and rethought the moment.

“Or maybe it was Fox himself,” I said. “He's the nervous, twitchy type. I'm sure he was well intended, it's just that I couldn't see him persuading people to fund that sort of project. The way I figured it, Fox thought that if he put together an exhibit displaying the vessels he might get noticed by the University of Virginia. He had a friend, Victor. Victor, ah …”

“Shafer? The return address was some V. T. Shafer Enterprises.”

“Yes, that's it. Victor Shafer.”

“Well, using the vessels for an exhibit might have been what Dr. Fox told
you
,” Matt said. “The
truth
is, hidden inside the copper vessels in the containers addressed to him—drugs.”

“But you mentioned South America, not Central America. And not Asia,” Peter said.

“That was exactly my reaction,” Matt replied. “Most drugs come in from Central Asia and Mexico and Central America. From South America, Peru's the prime candidate. But Brazil? Their drug exports mostly head to Europe.

“The thing is, who knows the cartel's plans once Fox received the shipment? At this stage of the game we have no idea if Fox was in on the scheme, or just being used. It'll be up to the law to determine whether he was knowingly involved.”

I began slowly. “About the vessels, they were supposed to be antiques—”

“And they could have been,” Matt said. “You wouldn't believe
where drugs have been hidden. Heroin bricks sewn in the webbing of antique chairs. Packets of cocaine crammed inside hollowed-out cavities in picture frames. One of the best … if you could call it that … was a cloth tube concealing plastic bags of heroin hydrochloride stuffed inside a set of hammock ropes. The antique vessels make perfect sense.”

“If I could interrupt,” Peter said, “just how did they use them? You said copper. No stone or ceramic vessels?”

“No, these were all copper. Fake bottoms.” He held up his thumb and first finger to show us.

“The drugs were wedged between a paper-thin false base and the real bottom like a sandwich. The whole section—the top piece, the packet, and the bottom—took up less than a quarter inch and appeared to be one piece of copper, of course. In fact, the two sheets of copper were sliced so thin the extra piece didn't add any discernable weight. Actually, though, customs had encountered that technique several times before. But here's what made customs suspicious of these so-called antique copper vessels.”

Matt shifted his chair closer to the table. “First, the packages came from Brazil. When you think of true antique vessels you think of Africa or Mesopotamia or India, not Brazil. Second,
ancient
copper vessels from Brazil? That's another puzzler. Peter, you mentioned stone or porcelain. That's what you'd think of. Or even wood. As best I know, Brazil's not known for its copper. Chile and Canada and Zambia and Japan.” He ticked the countries off. “Even Russia.”

“I know, I know.” In my excitement, I knocked over my water glass. “Do you remember
where
in Brazil the containers were shipped from?”

While Peter dabbed at the mess I'd made, Matt said, “Well they were shipped from Rio, of course. Let's see.” He tapped his lips with his forefinger. “But the invoice was from a little town, some place I'd never heard of, of course. I do remember it was in, ah … what
do
they call the different regions in Brazil? States, provinces?”

“Federated states,” I said.

“Yes. It was, ah, Minas Gerais. But the town …”

“Ouro Preto?” I caught my breath so rapidly I began to cough.

“Are you all right,” they both asked at once.

“I'm fine. Everything keeps coming back to Ouro Preto. That's where Hoyt bought some of the Staffordshire spaniels, from antiques shops there, and São Paulo and Petrópolis. He spent a lot of time in Brazil with his tobacco business. And the stones, the rubellites—they're from the mines in Minas Gerais.”

I waved my thoughts away with my hand. “But the name of the town I was
really
trying to think of is Miriana, right outside of Ouro Preto. I bet the packing invoices were from Miriana. On our trips to Brazil, Hank—my former husband—and I would always take a side trip to Ouro Preto for three or four days. It was like stepping back into the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries,” I said, “especially the days we went out from Ouro Preto to the surrounding villages. Peter, remember I told you about the church in Miriana with the magnificent eighteenth-century German organ that was a gift from the king of Portugal—well, one time we stopped at a side-of-the-road crafts shop near Miriana, and I bought several charming
copper pieces to take home for gifts. Little pitchers and bowls and boxes.”

“So there must be
some
copper mines around there,” Matt said. “I doubt if copper items would have been imported into a village like that to be sold. They'd sell their native crafts.”

“Oh, there are all sorts of mines in Minas Gerais—and not just the gold and silver and gemstone mines …” I dangled the multicolored tourmaline bracelet Hank had bought for me there so they'd notice it. “There are industrial mines, too. There are definitely copper mines there. I remember watching the craftsmen making their wares. But you're right, Matt, there weren't many copper things. Most of the items were carved of soapstone or wood, or made of pottery.”

Matt, who was making notes on a pad taken from his inside coat pocket, said, “And copper oxidizes so quickly, you can make a new piece look old by putting a few dings and dents in it and giving it a bath of saltwater. But back to the hydrosphere exhibit or foundation or whatever—that explains Fox's connection. And the way you describe him makes it sound as if he'd be the perfect patsy for a setup. Now, what we don't know is who's really at the other end. Shafer could have gotten roped into the scheme, or he could be one of the head honchos. But that's customs's problem—or ATF's. Not mine. All that aside …”

He lifted his glass in my direction. “Sterling Glass, you're pretty amazing.”

I liked the way I felt, plus I'd had just enough wine to think that I was both smart and pretty.

“Are you the same guys who were calling me naive?” I
laughed. “You know what's really funny about all of this, though? I would never, ever, not in a thousand years have thought I'd use any of this information about Brazil … and certainly not to these purposes. Each trip was sort of a once-in-a-lifetime adventure. Who would have imagined how far the long arm of coincidence could reach?”

“Some people say coincidences are God's handiwork,” Peter said. “But that aside, Matt, thinking about that Miami warehouse … Wonder what the chances are there might be some connection between that fire and Fox's accident? Think it might have been a way to wipe out the evidence at one end, and a potential witness for the prosecution at the other? It's a wild idea, but …”

“That thought's been rolling around in the back of my head, too,” Matt said. “It's not as wild as it might seem. There have been countless incidences of … I guess ‘retribution' is as nice a word as any for a gang hit. You can't put anything past drug smugglers. It's not beyond the realm of possibilities. They knew where Fox lived. It'll be interesting to see if the vessels he already has are still intact, or if they've been conveniently taken care of.”

I slunk down in my chair.

For the second time at dinner Peter reached over and patted my hand. “It's all right, Sterling,” he said. “From the time that each incident occurred, it's clear that your incident with Cheatham and Fox's accident had nothing to do with each other. Thank goodness they didn't. I'm awfully glad you weren't dragged into that mess.”

“Me, too,” I said to Peter. “Thank you again for your advice.
” I raised my wineglass and savored the last drop. “And thank you, Matt, for a lovely dinner.”

“And look at all we've accomplished. Why, other than going over a few details tomorrow, I think we've done the bulk of the business tonight,” he said as he signaled to our waiter.

Peter extended his hand toward Matt. “Please, let me …”

“Absolutely not,” Matt said before Peter could finish. “I insist. Babson and Michael is
most
grateful.”

Matt pushed his chair back to stand and Peter placed his napkin on the table, but I didn't move.

“I don't mean to put a damper on such a delightful night,” I said, “but thinking about all we've said, it's as if Hoyt and Wynderly were just a preview to what was to come. First it was Hoyt with his counterfeiting and smuggling, though it seems to have been nothing but a game for him.”

Thinking of Mazie, I felt like crying. Instead I said, “Now Fox. He was like a moth flirting with a flame, asking to get burned. Greed and ambition. And Emmett. Lord knows what
he
was up to.” I laughed, but only for a second. “Speaking of which, who
knows
what the bank was doing in their connivance and manipulations? Force the close of the place so they could take it over—sell the house and the land? Sell the antiques?” I remembered Peggy Powers's insinuation that Frederick Graham's wife had her eyes on some of the pieces. “What's the world coming to … one big steal?”

Peter was the first to speak. “This is nothing new. Remember the Garden of Eden,” he said.

“Oh, no. Not that
apple
again.” Matt laughed.

Peter smiled and out of the corner of my eye, I thought I
caught a quick wink. “Can't get away from that apple, can we?” he said. “Even Hoyt and Mazie—”

“Huh?”

“The Delft plate, remember. That's the first piece you told me about,” Peter said. “Actually, my point is that in Saint Paul's Letter to the Ephesians he wrote, ‘We wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against spiritual wickedness in high places.'”

“Peter, you know me. I have to leave the Bible up to you,” I said, “but one thing I
do
know. Though I can't vouch for their spiritual wickedness, with the exception of Emmett Cheatham, in this instance the evildoers were certainly people in high places.”

“Which very often is the way it is,” Matt said. “Like the situation at the Getty Museum …”

Peter laughed. “Sterling and I were talking about that a couple of days ago.”

“Then you know that the grave robbers who
stole
the items seem to have gotten off relatively scot-free,” Matt said. “But the art dealers who
sold
them and the Getty's curator who recommended
buying
them …
they're
the ones being raked over the coals.”

A smile spread across his handsome face. “Know what's funny? It's not like this was my first insurance scam, but this one … When you put all the pieces together … it tops them all. Now every time I see an article about fakes and frauds and crooked art dealers all I'll be able to think of is Wynderly.”

I couldn't help laughing. “Bogie and Bergman will always have Paris, while Matt and Peter and Sterling will always have Orange County, Virginia.”

T
HE THREE OF US
walked from the parking lot to the front door under the brightest stars I'd seen since camping along the Blue Ridge Parkway many years ago. Inside, we made our ways up the same staircase, along the same hallway, to our separate rooms. When we said good night we sounded like the Waltons whose homestead is in Schuyler, just down the way from Charlottesville.

“Good night, Sterling.”

“Good night, Peter.”

“Good night, Matt.”

I closed my door, locked it, and slumped against it.

Damn, why'd they
both
have to be staying at Belle Ayre?

Dear Antiques Expert: How often should I have my insurance appraisal updated
?

Like the stock market, the antiques market fluctuates—sometimes just a little, but other times substantially. I recommend that you contact your appraiser after about five to seven years and ask that your appraisal be reviewed. A good appraisal should be so well documented that the appraiser won't have to return to your home, but can supply an update for any items whose values have changed significantly (either up or down). Your insurance agent will then have the new figures on record for your coverage.

I
LEARNED QUITE
a lot about Matt Yardley on the way to Wynderly that Saturday morning.

He really liked Peter, Matt said. That I could have done without. He'd been divorced twice … from the same woman. I was still trying to digest that tidbit of information when he explained that the second decree had come a few days after the first. But he'd laughed and said it had been a big mistake, that there had been some strange legal glitch. He'd been divorced
for eight years. How
had
he escaped some other woman's clutches that long, I wondered, but didn't ask. He loved antiques and knew a lot about them, but had never taken the time to study them in the depth that I had. That gave me the perfect opening, but I bit my tongue to avoid sounding too eager by offering to teach him.