Mansions Of The Dead (9 page)

AFTER RETURNING SOME E-MAILS
in her office and reading a memo from the Dean of Students about how to handle students’ reactions to Brad Putnam’s death (
Do
let students talk about their feelings.
Do
be alert for signs of depression or talk of suicide), Sweeney got out the sketches of the jewelry she’d made the night before, then took a couple of reference works down from her bookshelf.

In a few minutes she’d found a number of examples very similar to the hair-work necklace and decided that it had probably been made from a pattern in
Godey’s Lady’s Book
. That well-distributed magazine had introduced American women to the art of making hair-work jewelry in the early 1850s.

Women had little round tables, specially made for the purpose, with holes in the middle. The individual strands of hair were weighted with bobbins and the women would place little paper patterns on the top of the tables and wind locks of hair around a wire according to the instructions on the paper. When the coil was finished, the hair was boiled, baked in an oven, and the wire removed. To make balls like the one in the necklace Brad had been wearing, you had to weave the hair around little wooden forms. Sweeney looked through a dealer’s catalog and discovered that the necklace would be worth anywhere from $400 to $600.

The two brooches were a little more interesting. The earlier brooch with the basketweave design was very similar to one from the late 1850s in the catalog. The later one was quite typical of the 1880s, and she had been right that the locket was also Civil War–era—there were a couple of examples in her reference book that were almost identical. Altogether, the collection was worth a couple of thousand dollars.

Where had Brad gotten it? When they’d started talking about mourning jewelry a couple of weeks before, Sweeney had told the class that there were dealers in the Boston area who carried the jewelry and in whose shops they could find examples. The logical thing was to go to some of the stores and see if Brad had bought the jewelry there. That would be useful information.

The police hadn’t asked her to look into it, of course—in fact, Quinn had told her not to discuss it with anyone—but he had said they might be contacting her for further help. If she found out something more about where the jewelry came from, the police would surely be grateful, she reasoned.

“Hey, Sweeney.” Sweeney’s colleague Fiona Mathewson rolled past, her motorized wheelchair humming. “Are you doing okay?”

“Hey, Fiona. I’m hanging in there.”

“I’m so sorry about Brad Putnam. I know he was one of your favorites.”

Sweeney thanked her. “Hey,” she said as Fiona headed toward the end of the hallway. “Have you heard anything about the tenure track job?”

Fiona, whose specialty was modern sculpture, was Sweeney’s contact with the political inner workings of the history of art and architecture department, and with the mind of Ernest Bovato, the department chair. She was something of a gossip, but she could always be counted on for the latest news.

“Yeah, word on the street is that Bovato is talking to someone from the University of Michigan.”

“Darn.”

“Sorry. I know he’s got it in for you. Have you talked to him about it?”

“Not lately. The last time we talked, he said he wanted someone who ‘added to the international reputation of the department.’ Implying of course that I don’t.”

Fiona smiled. “It’s a ruthless world, this career we’ve chosen. What are you up to this afternoon?”

“Nothing,” Sweeney said. “Just a little research.”

Dannika’s Fine Vintage, just off Newbury Street, was Sweeney’s favorite of the three or four concerns in the city that dealt in vintage mourning jewelry, and she decided to start there. In the course of her trips to the shop over the years, she had developed a fondness for Dannika Montrose and her wares. She often found herself stopping in on a Saturday afternoon or a Sunday morning just to browse. Usually, when Dannika caught sight of Sweeney’s bright head bent over the display cabinets, she would invite her back into the stockroom to look at a new jet pin or a particularly well-preserved hairwork necklace.

Their companionability was in their shared enjoyment of objects that many people found macabre. The shop was a small, dark building with wide glass windows in the front and a selection of vintage jewelry laid out among antique clocks and silver cutlery. Dannika changed it with each season, sometimes suspending items of jewelry from a sparkling Christmas tree or arranging them with potted spring bulbs, the old rubies and emeralds and pearls setting off shining white narcissus or pink angelique tulips. Today, it was springy daffodils planted in tubs and wearing bracelets around their stems. From the top of the window, Dannika had suspended a banner made of old parchment on which she had calligraphed, “Fluttering and Waving in the Breeze, a Host of Golden Daffodils.”

Sweeney pushed through the door, and was greeted by the peculiar smell she’d come to associate with vintage jewelry stores. It was, she’d
decided, an old metally kind of smell, mixed with must and the sharp tang of window cleaner.

“Hi, Sweeney,” said Dannika from behind the counter. She was a thin, Dickensian figure, her gray hair in a severe bun at the top of her skull, her clothes tending toward lamb’s wool cardigans, tweed skirts, and thick, flesh-colored pantyhose. Her appearance argued with her cheerful personality, though. She had four grown children, all boys, and a fat, kindly husband, who sometimes helped out in the store. “I was wondering when you’d stop in. I haven’t seen you for a while and I’ve got something I think you’ll be interested in. Come on over here.”

The inside of the store was crammed with every variety of display case—tall ones, short ones, modern chrome and glass ones, and antique ones made of old dark wood scrolled at the top. They went over to one of the older cabinets, where Dannika displayed her extensive collection of mourning jewelry, and she used one of the small keys hanging around her neck to open the latch and raise the top wide. She reached inside and pulled out a large brooch, handing it to Sweeney to inspect.

The center was an intricate web of hairwork, the blond strands braided so that they looked like a net of gold. The hair was framed by a small rectangle of diamonds and outside of that was an elaborate band of gold, scrolled intricately into leaves, fruits, and flowers.

“It’s English,” Dannika told her. “Got it for a song at an estate sale.”

Sweeney turned it over in her hands. “It’s gorgeous. How can you bear to sell it?” Sweeney knew Dannika to display items she had no intention of selling, or to refuse to part with an item at the last minute because she disliked the buyer.

“I might not,” she said, smiling wickedly. “Want a cup of tea? I have the feeling you’re not here to browse.”

“Why would you say that?”

“Because it’s Monday. You never stop by to browse during the week. And because you’ve got a very determined look on your face.”

Sweeney laughed. “All right. I do have something to ask you about. And tea would be great.”

Once Dannika had made the tea and they were seated across from each other in chairs behind the counter, Sweeney took out the sketches of the jewelry she’d made the night before and handed them over. “Do these look at all familiar? Do you think they might have passed through here in the last few months?”

Dannika took the sketches and flipped through them, staring at each for twenty seconds or so before moving on. “I don’t think so. But you know, the necklace and locket are pretty typical. I see a lot of similar ones. Nice drawing of the clasps. I can’t say for sure about those, but no to the brooches. What’s going on anyway?”

“A bit of detective work,” Sweeney said. “But I can’t tell you what it’s about.”

“Hmmmm. You’re a dark horse, aren’t you?”

“I know you’re the only mourning and memorial jewelry dealer worth anything around here.” She winked. “But is there anyone else who might know about this stuff ?”

Dannika grinned. “I don’t know what you’re up to, but you could try Bob Philips at the Blue Carbuncle in Concord. Him or Jeanne Manders at Beacon Antiques.”

Sweeney thanked her and said she wanted to browse a little. She spent a happy ten minutes looking at the jet jewelry. Jet, the black carbonized wood that had long been associated with death and dying, had been embraced by Queen Victoria as proper mourning jewelry for its dull sheen and modest appearance. It had always held a special fascination for Sweeney, and this seemed as good a time as any to add to her collection.

She picked out a brooch in the shape of a rose and a string of jet beads, their matte facets barely reflecting the overhead light. Flushed with the pleasure of acquisition, she paid Dannika and watched her wrap the pieces up in black tissue paper and slip them into a little white paper shopping bag.

She decided to try Beacon Antiques first, finding surprisingly easy parking on Walnut Street and pushing through the door into the luxe space, inhaling the scent of potpourri and the expensive wood oils Jeanne Manders used on her wares. Sweeney always felt as though she were a guest in a very expensive and perfectly appointed home when she walked in the door, hyperconscious of her body, feeling all dangerous knees and elbows. Unlike Dannika’s shop, Beacon Antiques featured furniture and decorative arts as well as a small collection of vintage and estate jewelry. Jeanne usually had a few pieces of mourning jewelry, but it wasn’t her first love. Sweeney looked at the pieces she had—ones she’d seen before—and showed Jeanne the sketches.

“As you can see, I haven’t had anything new here in months. It’s funny, I’ve been going to sales, but I just haven’t seen any mourning stuff recently. Sorry, wish I could help you. You tried Dannika already?”

Sweeney nodded. “Yeah, she hadn’t seen it.”

“I don’t know what to tell you. Maybe the Blue Carbuncle?”

“Yeah, that’s where I’m going next. Thanks, Jeanne. I always love coming in here.”

It was still early afternoon and the traffic out to Concord wasn’t too bad. Sweeney always liked going out that way. There was something about Concord that made her feel she’d traveled much farther from the city than she actually had. The stately homes that led the way into the town and the compact little commercial district took her back in time; the South Burying Ground—one of her favorite cemeteries in the Boston area—occupied her interest for a half hour before she headed over to the Blue Carbuncle.

The antique jewelry and decorative arts shop was in a blue colonial building next to a toy shop and Sweeney pushed the front door open and spent a few minutes browsing among the estate jewelry and old silver before approaching the counter and asking for Bob Philips. When the middle-aged man behind the counter said that he was Bob Philips, Sweeney explained what she wanted. He took the sketches and looked
at them briefly before saying, “I didn’t sell this jewelry, but a young man came in a month or so ago asking me about it. It’s the earlier brooch that makes me remember him. He had all these pieces with him and he wanted to know about them, when they were made, how much they were worth, all that kind of thing.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Just told him a little bit about hairwork, you know, and mourning jewelry in general. He seemed to already know a lot about it. I wasn’t sure exactly what he wanted, to tell you the truth. He seemed to have some concern about the jewelry, I think. Perhaps about its value or its authenticity. He asked me if it was possible that the pieces had been tampered with, or changed. I had a quick look and they all looked authentic, but I told him I couldn’t do a proper appraisal unless he left them with me. He didn’t want to do that, though. I’m not sure I was able to offer him information that could ease his mind.”

Carefully, Sweeney asked “Do you remember what he looked like?”

He looked suspicious at that. “I don’t know that I should tell you,” he said. “It seems . . . dishonest somehow. Who did you say you were?”

“I’m sorry,” Sweeney said, introducing herself. “I’m just trying to track down the jewelry. My interest is scholarly. Was he fairly tall, dark hair, blue eyes? Good-looking?”

“That’s him,” Bob Philips said, still looking suspicious.

Sweeney was back in her Somerville apartment by five o’clock. After sorting through bills and making a to-do list for the next day, she listened to her sole message, from her father’s old friend and lawyer Bill Landseer. Sweeney’s father, a well-known painter who had committed suicide when she was thirteen, had left behind a couple hundred canvases that were technically her responsibility. Bill had been nagging her about them.

“Hey, Sweeney,” Bill’s voice said. “I was just thinking about you and wondering how you’re doing. Martha and I want to have you over for
dinner and there are a couple of business things I need to discuss with you. We’ve had some more calls about your dad’s work and I want to talk about the possibility of maybe selling a few pieces. Anyway, give a call sometime and we’ll get together. Love from Martha.”

Sweeney saved the message and made a note to call him back.