The Old Cape Teapot (14 page)

I finished my coffee at the kitchen table and thought about how much of a treasure I had actually found. The coinage was only
valuable in its present stage, so to reap any substantial money, I would have
had to melt the coins down. I promised myself I would never do that. It would be such a loss to history. The coins’ heritage was more precious to me than cash; they were secure in a safe deposit box at
the bank. The necklaces and gemstones that I managed to sell to different collectors
and antique dealers were a real bonus. It felt satisfying to contribute to the kids’ college fund and pay for some major repairs on the house. As a stay-at-home mom for most of my married life, adding
cold hard cash to the budget was a rarity for me.

Martha sashayed past
the kitchen on her way to clean the bathrooms. She was my one treat…a wonderful nanny and housekeeper.

As another load of laundry hummed through the quiet house, I
thought of Brian back on Antigua and his yellow, stained clothes. He should’ve already called to tell me more about the robbery. Then again, I didn’t know what to tell him except that maybe I was not
pursuing the hunt for treasure. It sure would have been satisfying if I could’ve helped John give all of his kids a better future.

Within the hour, other responsibilities came running up the deck and into the house, one from the school bus and the other from our minivan in the driveway.

The children raced each other to the foyer door. Molly slid it open and then shut it with a bang and yelled, “Where is it?”

Danny struggled with the slider but managed to come in fast behind Molly. “Yeah, where is it?’

Martha had been hiding after-school treats for the kids for several weeks now. She coyly busied herself in the kitchen,
pretending that she
didn’t know who left the little snacks of candy, pretzels, or chips around the house. I laughed as they dropped their book bags and
lunch boxes
on the foyer floor, eager to search under every nook and cranny for
their surprises. Of course, the treats were easy to find and were discovered in lightning speed, then devoured instantly.

Paul walked into the house. “Did they find them already?
They’re getting faster each time.”

I smiled at the thought that our little ones were developing into two great detectives.

Later, I found Martha in the laundry room. “Here, give me the clothes,” I said, “I’ll take them upstairs for you. Keep your eye on the
kids; they seem to be a little wild today.”

“Sure enough,” Martha replied and went to make herself a cup of tea.

After dividing the towels between the two upstairs bathrooms, I
passed my bedroom closet and the small safe caught my eye. I kneeled on the floor and revisited the old pottery shard that I’d found on the beach with Danny a few days ago. The delicate blue
flowers were so
interesting to me. Tomorrow would be a good day to visit a few antique shops to find out more about the shard. When I’m feeling
discouraged, I only need a good adventure to recharge my batteries.

I headed down the stairs and into the dining room, looking for Paul.

I heard him call out. “I’m in the kitchen.”

“Got anything going on tomorrow?” I asked.

“Nope. Why?”

“I’d like to find some background about this pattern on the
pottery shard I found.”

He looked at it with a quick glance. “Go ahead. Danny will be home but Martha’s here to help.”

With eager anticipation, I walked out of the kitchen planning my route for the next day.

***

I was up early, grabbed some coffee, and headed west on 6A. It was a few weeks before Columbus Day, the official end of the tourist season on Cape Cod, and I hoped that most places would still be
open. To save
time, I drove on the Mid-Cape Highway to the beginning of the Cape,
just before the Sagamore Bridge. A quick turn around on Route 6A
took me into Sandwich, a town with several antique stores to choose from as I worked my way back east and then home again.

Driving through the autumn countryside, the blue sky reflected
in the water of the flooded cranberry bogs. I saw a couple of men in the
water corralling the crimson berries into tight circles on top of the
watery bog. The sight of those beautiful images reminded me of
how lucky I was to live on the Cape.

My first stop was September Antiques, a large white building that
sat close to the highway. It looked like it had once been an old gas station. Bentwood chairs, quilt stands, ironwork, and tables were
lined up against its outside walls. The shop looked hopeful.

“Good morning,” said the proprietor.

“Hello.” I walked past a glass counter filled with jewelry and small collectibles. “I just have a question.” I pulled the pottery shard
out of my pocket and asked, “Can you identify this pattern?”

The elderly man took it from me and examined it under a light. “I’m afraid not. I get many old pieces in here but I’m no expert when it comes to china and porcelain.” He handed it back and added, “I can’t help you, but I know someone who can.”

I perked up and took out a pad and pen.

“There’s a lady over in Dennis, goes by the name of Agnes. She has a shop there and she knows her stuff when it comes to fine china and the real old ones.”

“Where about in Dennis?”

“Well, I’m not sure, but the building is painted a pale yellow, right on Route 6A near Scargo Hill. You can’t miss it.”

“Thanks, I appreciate it.” As a courtesy for the kind gentleman’s information, I made a few passes down the rows of tables and
shelves filled with memorabilia from times past. It’s always a polite gesture when browsing to give hope for a sale, even if it is a false hope.

 “Thanks again,” I said on my way out the door.

“Good luck,” he called back.

The next stops along the historic highway proved fruitless. By 11
o’clock I paused at a little convenience store for coffee and then
decided to head straight for Dennis.

***

The old, buttercup-yellow building stood alone on the edge of the road and was in need of a paint job. Newer buildings connected to each other like a mini mall, surrounding it on three sides. The sign hung perpendicular to the front façade:
Antiques, will buy estates!

There was no parking out front, so I looked for a driveway to pull into and found a good spot in the back lot. I followed a sidewalk alongside the building to the front, where a paper sign was taped to the locked door. It was handwritten in an old Spenserian style and read:
If you want to see this store, go over to Corabells across the street and ask to see the inside of this store.

I laughed at the repeated words and its odd message. I peered to
the other side of the highway and saw the sign for Corabells. It
looked like a consignment shop. The door was open. I crossed the street and entered through the doorway. “Hello, is anyone here?”

After a few moments of silence, a middle-aged woman wearing
tennis shoes, a white polo shirt, and a long denim skirt that molded itself across her wide hips emerged into the front area. She awkwardly moved past racks of used clothing. “Howdy. What can I
do for you?” she asked with a smile.

“Well, I was over at the antique store and the sign said to come here if I want to see anything inside.”

“Yup, you came to the right place, just a moment, I need to get the key,” she said and disappeared into a back room.

From behind a flowered curtain strung across a doorway, I could hear, “Freddy, I’m going across the street. I’ll be right back.”

“Okay, Ma.”

“Stop playing that dumb video game and get out here, in case we get some customers.” She looked irritated but then she smiled
and gestured for me to follow her out the door.

When we reached the yellow building and she opened the weathered portal, a heady, musty smell attacked our nostrils. Dirt, dust, and dampness emanated from the neglected old rooms that were once
formal
living and dining rooms. Contributing to its ancient aura were
remnants of strong perfume and mothballs. It all combined into what I prefer to call an ‘old-lady smell’.

 “Sorry about the odor,” she said and flipped on the light switch. “Poor Agnes hasn’t been well lately. The shop’s been closed more than open over the last year.”

“No problem.” I was confident it was the right place after
hearing the name Agnes.

I began to browse up and down the dimly lit aisles looking for anything that would match the flower pattern on the beach find.

A cell phone went off to the tune of
Born Free
. “Howdy,” my
guide
answered. Then silence. “I have someone in here now…sure,” she said. “See you soon.” The woman flipped her phone closed. “Well,
you’re in luck. The owner will be here in a few minutes.”

“Thanks.” I was hopeful that now my adventure would not be a waste of time.

I wound my way through the shelves of platters, bowls, plates, and tureens towards the rear, where one window opened to the
outside.
The sun’s rays reflected on the floorboards in turquoise and rose from hobnail glassware that lined a shelf across a small window. I
stepped
onto the faceted reflections twinkling on the floor and noticed, out of the corner of my eye, a PT Cruiser pull alongside the building. Standing in the sunlight, I watched as the car door opened and the
end of a cane
appeared, followed by a bejeweled wrinkled hand that assisted a
woman’s exit from the cruiser.

Agnes, I thought, and then turned my attention back to my quest amongst the antiques. Lingering as I walked, I inched my way closer to the front, hoping to give the elderly proprietor enough time to settle in at the large desk behind the glass counter.

“I’ll be with you momentarily,” the frail antiquer called over her shoulder.

“Take your time,” I said.

I pretended to be interested in a few etchings stacked against the back wall. As I made one more trip down an aisle, I heard Agnes call out with breathy words as she sat down to rest. “Now, what can I do for you?”

Hurrying up to the desk, I pulled the shard from my pocket.
“Can you tell me anything about this pattern?”

“Where did you find this?”

“On the beach, about a week ago.”

“I’ve seen it before but can’t put my finger on it.” She lifted her glasses, which were attached to a silver chain, up onto her nose.

I waited for her answer.

“The pattern looks to be from the Kangzi period. It was probably made in China between 1662 and 1722.”

She examined it from all angles, and then held her chin, apparently lost in her thoughts. Agnes closed her eyes and looked
like she hoped it
would help in deciphering where it came from. “I remember,” she said with a glint of success in her voice. She held the piece in her fingers and continued, “A while back, almost a year now, a young
man came in and inquired if I bought estates. Of course, I said yes.”

I stepped around the counter to get closer.

“He was a bit rough looking. Wore a black hooded sweatshirt
with terrible looking figures on it and words that I dare not repeat.”

The woman’s reference was understood.

Agnes looked over to her friend and told her, “You can leave, my dear. I’ll be fine. Thanks for your help.”

“No problem,” she said, leaving with a wave of her hand.

“Now, where were we?” Agnes looked down at the shard.

I chimed in with, “You were telling me about someone who
wanted to sell some things from an estate.”

“Oh, yes. Would you like a peppermint?” she asked, sliding a small crystal bowl filled with red and green mints towards me.

“Don’t mind if I do.” I assumed the cellophane wrapped candies were safe to eat.

The elderly woman swiveled around in her chair and reached down to a file cabinet’s bottom drawer. “Let me see, it’s in here
somewhere,” she said as she rifled through several manila folders.

The stale hard candy was refreshing even though it tasted like soft taffy.

“Here it is.” The old woman pulled the file up and laid it on top
of her desk. She scanned one of the papers inside. “It says here that the purchase was made last September and it included various tea bowls, saucers, and one teapot.”

“So do you think the china shard is old?”

“Hard to guess. You see, there were more pieces made in later years, through the late 1700s and 1800s by English and American
craftsmen, all copying the Chinese patterns.”

“Was the estate from the Kangzi era?”

“Yes. I identified them by the marks on the bottom of one of the saucers,” she said as she closed the file.

“Do you have one that I can look at?” Now I was intrigued.

 “I’m sorry to say that I sold the set to a buyer in London soon
after my acquisition from the young man.”

“Oh, I see.” Disappointed I started for the door and turned. “Thanks for your time.” I thought maybe one more question
wouldn’t hurt.
“Could you tell me the name of the young man who sold you the
set?”

“Well…I like to keep my clients confidential.” She busied herself with opening some mail from her desk. She paused. “You know, I think I may have something you’d like. Come with me, dear.” She directed me to follow her to a small room in the rear on the side opposite the lone window. Agnes leaned her cane against a shelf of hurricane lamp parts and bent over an old box.

I stood quietly, wondering what the old woman was going to show me.