Vultures at Twilight (4 page)

‘You're not going in to see Grandma Rose?'

‘No,' Ada said, feeling a guilty twinge at the mention of her ninety-one-year-old mother in her Lower East Side apartment. ‘I went last week.' And not wanting to give Susan any more of an opening into a topic that was tearing her up: ‘Tell Aaron I'll email him. I'd love for him to visit.'

‘I don't know,' Susan said. ‘He's gotten to be a handful.'

‘Whatever you decide,' she replied, knowing that it wouldn't be what her daughter wanted, but invariably would rest with her bullying husband. ‘I would love to see him.'

‘Well, I'll let him know. I should probably get going.'

‘OK dear, give my love to the kids.'

‘Love you, Mom.'

‘Love you too, dear,' Ada said and hung up. The call left her rattled, thinking about her grandson, her aging mother, but there was something else. She stared at her dated phone caddy, the kind where you move a lever over the letter and then press a bar to make it open. She moved it to ‘R' and looked at the name. Without pause she dialed, half hoping a machine would pick up. Instead a woman answered on the second ring.

‘Miriam?' Ada asked.

‘No, it's Beth. Ada? Is that you?'

And Ada chatted with her friend's partner, quickly catching each other up on their respective lives. ‘Hold on,' Beth said, ‘I hear her getting out of the shower.'

After a couple moments: ‘Ada! Dahling, how are you?'

‘I'm good,' she said, picturing Miriam, with her curly salt-and-pepper hair, deep brown eyes and warm smile. ‘I wanted to wish you
L'shana tova
.'

‘And a sweet New Year to you, as well. So when am I going to break you out of that ghetto for old folks? Especially for a hot ticket like you. Last time I saw you, you didn't look a day over thirty-nine.'

‘Your nose is growing and it's not that bad here.'

‘So you say. I was sure that once Harry passed you'd come back to the city.'

‘No,' Ada said, ‘I like it. It's a bit geriatric, but it's beautiful and I've got friends.'

‘So you've said.' Miriam's tone was questioning. ‘Anyone special?'

‘Oh, please. I'm sixty-two. I think that ship has sailed.'

‘Are you serious? Sixty-two isn't old, and besides, you're still a fine-looking chick.'

Ada blushed. ‘Yeah, but you should see the men out here . . . Slim pickings.'

‘Dahling, not so interested in the men, and I hear those places have like three women to every one man. Maybe I should check it out.'

Ada chuckled. ‘Actually it's more like ten women to every man, and I don't think Beth would appreciate your looking around.'

‘True. You know we're going to New Hampshire next month to get married? Would love for you to come, maybe force you into some horrible bridesmaid dress.'

‘Congratulations!' Ada said. ‘But why not Connecticut? You could stay here . . .' she added, a weird mix of emotions tumbling through her head and her chest.

‘Beth has family in New Hampshire, and good for you for keeping on top of this stuff. Wish it had gone through in Hawaii – oh well. Are you sure you're OK? Not that I don't love to hear from the girl that got away . . .'

‘God,' Ada said, ‘you still remember that?'

‘And you don't? I thought I might get you over to my team.'

‘No.' Ada smiled. ‘I think you scared me into getting married at eighteen.'

‘I hope that's a joke,' Miriam said.

‘It is . . . and don't all jokes contain some truth?'

‘Wow, this is unexpected. I don't know how I feel about that – scared straight. Shit! When are you coming in next?'

‘Probably next weekend, I've got the ongoing mess with my Mom.'

‘You want to meet up? Maybe grab lunch, or we could have you over for supper?'

‘I'd like that,' Ada admitted, ‘but I think maybe just the two of us, if that's OK.'

‘Sure, give me a call when you know your schedule.'

After they hung up, Ada looked around her condo. Her thoughts were troubled, and she couldn't quite place what had her so bothered. She caught her image in a mahogany framed mirror. Her short hair still a shock, like another woman.
No, you don't look thirty-nine, but you could pass mid forties
. ‘And what does that silver-haired woman in the mirror want?' she said aloud; and to herself:
is she brave enough to go for it?

THREE

‘
I
t's odd,' Ada said, cueing into my mood as we surveyed Evie's condo and its contents.

‘Almost like she never left,' I agreed, taking in the beige wall-to-wall, the raw-silk curtains and the dark-wood furniture that gleamed from decades of butcher's wax and lemon oil.

We had come early to Evie's home in the oldest part of Pilgrim's Progress, both of us in sweatshirts and jeans, to check things over before the cavalcade of antique dealers descended.

‘What about this?' Ada balanced a fourteen-inch Chinese Export charger in the palm of her hand, like a game-show hostess displaying a potential prize. I smiled.

‘What?' she asked.

‘You're looking very Vana.'

‘Please, if Vana were verging on a little person. But what do you think it's worth?'

‘Hm.' It was one of Evie's favorites; around its border swam a herd of fantastical sea creatures and in the center was a fully rigged whaling ship. I looked at it objectively; it had no chips, was big, and was smack in the middle of the nineteenth century. ‘Fifteen hundred to two thousand,' I declared, offering my ballpark quote. ‘Double that in a shop, but we won't be getting that here.'

‘That much?' Ada asked.

‘I think so. What about the buttermilk blue step-back hutch in the kitchen?'

‘Four grand, easy,' Ada shot back. ‘Don't ask me why, but those things bring a lot. Personally, and I would never have said this to Evie, I think it's hideous.'

‘It's shabby chic. People like things with distressed finishes and chipped paint. It's ironic, you spend all that money to have beat-up furniture.'

‘It's a look,' Ada said, using her catch phrase for anything that veered from her gold standard of good taste: American Chippendale, preferably Philadelphia or Newport.

Ada had asked me to keep her company today when Mr Jacobs and the other dealers arrived. This whole executrix mess had her worried, and I was glad to help and just glad to be with her. Plus, although she'd never admit it, Ada was afraid of being taken advantage of. This was a pre-game warm-up.

As regular auction goers and visitors to the over one hundred and fifty antique shops in Grenville, we weren't novices. We'd even thrown around the idea of going into business ourselves. We both knew how and where to buy, and while everyone gets tricked into the occasional reproduction or outright fake, we could hold our own.

Ada came by it through all her years with Harry in retail. For me, born and bred in Grenville, I had lived with the antiques industry my entire life. Grenville was the antique capital of Connecticut, possibly the country. It was this fact that had saved the eighteenth-century flavor of the town. High Street, one of the most widely photographed roads in the world – a perennial favorite of calendars and coffee-table books with titles like ‘Scenic New England' and ‘Country Life' – was the epitome of well-maintained colonial America. Grenville is stunning and has the most rigid zoning in the state. Up until four years ago any house in the historic district had to be white, the only choice was whether you wanted black or dark-green shutters. But most of the wide-clapboard colonials and imposing federals, which were once private homes, had been converted into antique shops. Dealers and collectors viewed Grenville as Mecca. No buying trip to New England was complete without a day spent haggling at the open-air flea market, or haunting the upscale shops and auction houses for ‘sleepers': undiscovered and undervalued treasures. The major risk to living here was the over-accumulation of stuff, especially for those of us who loved to collect, but had moved from large houses down to spacious, yet smaller, one-, two-, and three-bedroom condos in Pilgrim's Progress.

‘What about doing it ourselves?' Ada asked. ‘What if we did an estate sale and sold everything ourselves?'

‘That's a lot of work,' I cautioned. ‘We'd have to tag and catalogue everything, collect sales tax, get a tax ID number. A huge headache. Plus, think about all the problems you're already having with her kids; they'd contest every sale. Much better have someone else do it.'

‘You're right. I was thinking more like our yearly tag sale for the animal shelter, but that wouldn't work with this stuff.'

We startled as a brisk knock came at the door.

‘Let me get that.' Ada strode through the airy living room and to the gray flagstone foyer.

I trailed behind as she opened the door on to a smiling and neatly pressed Tolliver Jacobs. I recognized him instantly. Not only was he a regular on the nationally syndicated antiques show,
Trash to Cash
, but years back my youngest had a crush on him; he had been two grades ahead of her. Now, his once-sandy hair was starting to gray, and with a start, I realized that this man I had known as a little boy was middle aged. His blue eyes twinkled pleasantly as he shook Ada's hand.

‘Mrs Strauss?' he asked.

‘Yes, please come in, and this is my friend Lillian Campbell. You know, you're much better looking in person than you are on TV.'

‘Thanks.' He chuckled. ‘And of course, I know Mrs Campbell. Her husband was our doctor for years.'

I laughed, charmed and a little confused by his faintly British accent; where did that come from? ‘You and everyone else.'

‘That was a different time, wasn't it?' he offered. ‘I remember your husband coming to our house in the middle of the night when I had the mumps. They don't do that anymore.'

‘No,' I agreed, feeling the surge of pride I felt whenever someone remembered Bradley. But as frequently happened, other feelings came; I fished a handkerchief out of my pocket and dabbed.

‘I'm sorry,' he said.

‘It's OK. I guess one never totally gets over these things.'

He looked at me closely. ‘It's not,' he said, and there was an unexpected throb in his voice.

I found myself drawn to this attractive man, who, like my own children, was in his thirties. As he went through the condo he took notes and outlined strategies.

‘Mrs Strauss?' he asked. ‘How eager are the heirs?'

‘Very,' Ada stated. ‘That and they're contentious, which is why the probate judge ordered the estate liquidated.'

‘That's different from the will?' he asked.

‘Yes and no. The will had a provision where the heirs could take turns selecting items from the house, but one of the sons said he just wanted the money and the other two wanted the same item first and then there are the grandchildren who wouldn't know Sheraton from Shinola. The judge tried, but after two hours, he couldn't take the bickering and asked me – as the executrix – to go ahead and liquidate.'

‘Out of curiosity,' he asked, ‘which is the piece that the two sons wanted?'

‘I'll show you,' Ada said, and we followed her into the living room.

There, behind a hyperactive philodendron and a potted palm, hung a gilt-framed painting of three women in Victorian dresses and picture hats at a seaside picnic.

‘Oh my!' Tolliver stared at the painting. He stepped over the plants to get a closer look. He ran the tips of his fingers gently across the surface of the large canvas. He pulled out a pair of half glasses and studied the red-paint signature in the corner. ‘Unless they are in a huge hurry, we should consign this to either Christie's or Sotheby's.'

‘What is it?' I asked, having never really given much thought to this particular painting hidden behind Evie's indoor jungle.

He sighed. ‘It's an extremely desirable work of American Impressionism. The painter was a man named Childe Hassam. He was part of the artist community in Old Lyme, so it's not unheard of for one of his canvases to turn up like this. Still, this appears to be in pristine condition and was painted at the height of his popularity; it's spectacular. It has everything you want in a Hassam painting; beautiful ladies, the beach, gorgeous sky, lots of impasto. To get top dollar, it should go to one of the New York houses.'

‘What's it worth?' Ada asked, cutting straight to the heart of the matter.

‘Hard to say. I wouldn't be surprised if it brought three hundred thousand, maybe more. It's clearly the single most valuable thing here.' He smiled in our direction. ‘Unless you know of any other American masterpieces hidden in the cupboards?' The corners of his eyes crinkled pleasantly and dimples formed in his cheeks.

It was hard not to like him, and I could tell that Ada felt the same. He knew his business, and thus far my antennae hadn't been alerted to any underlying fraud or attempt to put one over.

He finished his inventory, and as he set to leave, he handed each of us a heavy cream-colored card. ‘You might want to do something about that painting,' he cautioned. ‘I don't see a security system, and human nature being what it is, I've seen things like that go missing.'

‘You don't think . . .' Ada started.

‘It wouldn't hurt to get an insurance rider and put it in storage. Whether or not you decide to go with us, I'd be happy to show you how to do that.'

‘That's good of you,' Ada said. ‘I'll be in touch either way.'

We shook hands all around and then watched from the doorway as he headed out to a sporty black BMW convertible.

‘He seemed respectable,' I commented.

‘First of the bunch,' she said, checking the clock. ‘Let's put some water on before the next one gets here.'