The Big Steal (36 page)

Yes, Peter was going to have to be my guide through the maze I had unintentionally walked into at Wynderly, a house whose walls really did have tales to tell.

A
T
W
YNDERLY IT WAS
business as usual. Frederick Graham was only as polite as the moment called for. Tracy pulled me aside long enough to make a typical Tracy DuMont comment. “Don't you hate annoyingly handsome men,” she said, referring to Matt.

I didn't ask for her opinion of Peter. He clearly wasn't her type.

I was able to slip Michelle off by herself to tell her that I was looking forward to working with her and to assure her not to worry about the burglary any further.

It was thinking about Michelle that touched off one of those moments when, like the changing patterns of a kaleidoscope, images flash across our minds. For me it was the faces of the women I had met at Wynderly: Michelle, Miss Mary Sophie, Tracy, Mazie. No four women could have been much more different from one another. Yet, each had harbored secrets that had shaped their lives.

Years ago Mother had told me that every woman's soul was filled with secret chambers. That image had been vivid enough. But later, when I read Edith Wharton's story “The Fullness of Life,” I had been shaken to my very being.

 

I have sometimes thought that a woman's nature is like a great house full of rooms: there is the hall, through which everyone passes in going in and out; the drawing-room, where one receives formal visits; the sitting-room, where the members of the family come and go as they list; but beyond that, far beyond, are other rooms, the handles of whose doors perhaps are never turned; no one knows the way to them, no one knows whither they lead; and in the innermost room, the
holy of holies, the soul sits alone and waits for a footstep that never comes
.

 

My own footsteps had invaded Mazie's holiest of holy rooms. Now it was my soul that was sitting alone, waiting.

Leaving the parking lot I did two things I hadn't done in a couple of days. First I plugged in my cell phone. As usual the screen read “No Service Available,” but this way it would be ready once I got out of the boondocks. And I turned on the car radio. I would have to settle for hearing Willie Nelson moan about his outlaw ways, or the Abyssinian Baptist Choir praising God for all His goodness until I got further down the road. I pushed the search button and listened to static crackling over the airwaves while the tuner magically looked for a station.

I glanced into the rearview mirror for a parting glance of Wynderly. Tracy in her mink and shearling coat, high heels, and sunglasses was standing on the top step of the entrance, hands on hips, giving Freddy Graham either instructions or a bit of her mind, or both.

I couldn't help smiling.

At that very moment, the static ceased, and a station came in. Joni Mitchell was despairing over how, too late, we learn what we've lost. By then, we've paved paradise and put up a parking lot.

The irony of the moment hit me like a wrecking ball.

But then, I thought, Wynderly was going to be saved. A maze in the pasture was a lot better than a golf course around the house. All that stuff in the attic would finally see the light of day, as would the treasures hidden away in Mazie's secret room. Tracy loved antiques way too much to keep those
priceless pieces closeted. And I had a good feeling that given a chance, Michelle might even blossom. Yes, with a lighter heart, I was starting to look forward to returning to Orange.

I came to the end of the driveway and stopped. An old pickup truck was lumbering along. Had it not been for the thoughts playing over in my head, I would have gunned the motor and beat it on to the road. Instead, I sat and waited.

What a day I had had.

Smiling, I rummaged in my pocketbook until I found the silver card case Peter had given me. Holding it in the palm of one hand, I ran the fingers of my other hand over the raised decoration—the cottage, the lovers, the nesting birds. If only I could wish myself into such an idyllic setting. My heart raced. I was more anxious than ever to get home.

As the truck came inching along, I couldn't help noticing the white-haired man and gray-haired woman snuggling close in the cab of the truck. No wonder he was poking along. That old geezer was loving the moment.

I let out a loud sigh. Maybe I could still pass them.

I looked to my left. All clear. Then to my right. Emblazoned on the back of the pickup was a brand new bumper sticker.
Virginia
is for lovers

That's the thing about life, Sterling
, Mother said.
When it rains it pours
.

Dear—please let's go back
To that little provincial museum,
& through its little rooms again,

gray-green beads & various
other objects worthless
or unauthenticated

Please let's go back

—E
LIZABETH
B
ISHOP
, “The Museum”

Y
ES, THERE
is an Orange County, Virginia, just as there's an Orange County in California and North Carolina and five other states. I came to know Orange County's beautiful rolling hills and stately Georgian and Federal homes when living in Charlottesville and visiting my dear friend, Joe Rowe. I chose Orange County to be the setting for this book because I wanted a location where Wynderly would be totally out of place. Other than the kind of houses found there, the hauntingly beautiful Barboursville ruins, and the region's topography, the Orange County in
The Big Steal
is as fictitious as the story and its characters.

Speaking of places, as a child traveling with my parents, I toured many historic homes with hidden rooms and saw the Bannerman Castle ruins in the Hudson River. More recently, my husband and I visited the charming colonial Brazilian town of Ouro Preto, where the great American poet Elizabeth Bishop—whose unfinished poem “The Museum” is this book's epilogue—lived during the 1950s and 1960s. It was when visiting some of the galleries, shops, and roadside stands
there that many of the ideas for
The Big Steal
began to form. Thus it is that experiences and memories come to play in the creation of a story.

A heartfelt thank-you to so many who provided encouragement and information, especially the librarians and booksellers who helped to promote Sterling's first adventure,
Stealing with Style
. My agent Jeanne Fredericks, editor Kathy Pories, and copy editor Bob Jones, and many friends at Algonquin deserve special recognition for their patience and wisdom, as does my daughter Joslin Hultzapple.

Thank you for your contributions, Gibson Worsham, Stephen N. Dennis, Jerry G. Keefer, Cynthia Price, Shawna Christos, Billy Jenkins, Wayne Oates, Annique Dunning, John Kukla, Susan Boaz, Nancy Evans, Bill Pillsbury, Carol Roper, Janella Smyth, Martha Steger, David B. Voelkel, Arthur J. Glaude, and my friends at James River Writers in Richmond and River City Writers in Danville. Thank you, Suzanne Savery at the Valentine Richmond History Center, Richard Lingner at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum, and the instructors at the Henrico County Citizens Police Academy. David Tulk of Madelena Samplers painstakingly explained technical details about Staffordshire dogs. Tracy Bryan at Virginia House and Deborah Knott de Aréchaga at Agecroft, in Richmond, and Melanie Leigh Mathewes and Kristin C. Law at Hermitage Foundation Museum in Norfolk, Virginia, provided invaluable information about hidden rooms and passageways. Supplementing my research on the early-twentieth-century American and Brazilian tobacco industry was Tobacco Merchants Association President Farrell Delman and his “strong right hand,” Roberta Crosby. And thank you, Carol Foster, for
sharing pictures of your father's years in Brazil after his graduation from Virginia Tech, and Roberto Ferreira de Novais and Magda Viera Novais, our Brazilian friends, for our magical time in Ouro Preto.

And to readers everywhere who treasure their antiques and the stories they hold, thank you.

When Sterling is in the homes of Miss Mary Sophie and Tracy DuMont she is surrounded by beautiful classical antiques like the ones you see when touring Mount Vernon, Monticello, and Williamsburg, or the wonderful eighteenth-century homes open to the public throughout the Mid-Atlantic and New England states. You may have seen this beautiful furniture, but not known exactly what to call various pieces you were looking at, and been timid about asking questions. You're not alone. Many people love antiques but feel intimidated by them. And if you don't know where to turn to learn more about these treasures, that may be because some dealers, museum curators, even collectors, prefer to keep their knowledge to themselves.

But you don't need privileged information to identify antiques. This brief layman's guide consists of two parts: a discussion of the terms “period” and “style,” and illustrations of the most often found classical antiques.

Antiques can be fun and fascinating. Once you have some of the basics down, you may be ready to launch into a lifelong study that leads to wonderful discoveries and treasures—and
keeps you from making mistakes. As Mabel Bason, the legendary Chapel Hill, North Carolina, antiques dealer told me when she was in her nineties, “I can learn something new about antiques every day.”

Period antiques are pieces that were made during the time that the design originated, whereas pieces made at a later time to resemble those made earlier are distinguished from the older, original period pieces by the word “style.”

So, Queen Anne
period
pieces were made in the early eighteenth century—in England from around 1702, when Queen Anne was crowned, until the end of her reign in 1714. But fashions then didn't change as quickly as they do today, especially across the ocean, and in America the Queen Anne period lasted till around 1750 or 1760.

Now fast forward: Pieces that look like Queen Anne period pieces but were made one or two hundred years later in the 1870s or 1950s, or even just last year, are properly called Queen Anne
style
or are said to be in the Queen Anne
style
.

Most helpful to know when looking at antique pieces is which elements distinguish one design from another. For example, what is the difference between a Queen Anne chair (whether it was made in 1730 or 1930, in England or America) and, say, a Chippendale or a Hepplewhite chair? It really isn't that difficult.

A quick study of the following illustrations and explanations should help you begin to feel more comfortable around antiques connoisseurs and experts when they start talking
about major categories of classical antiques—Queen Anne, Chippendale, Hepplewhite, and Sheraton.

Years ago, I overheard a crusty old dealer talking to a young couple shopping for a dining room table. Glancing down at the woman's shapely ankles, he said with a sly grin, “Start by looking at the legs.” I don't know the outcome of their excursion, but as far as furniture goes, a piece's feet and legs can tell you a lot. Begin by looking there, then move upward to take in the entire piece. There you will see that the basic lines of the feet and legs are generally repeated.

Queen Anne highboy circa 1720–35