The Big Steal (6 page)

Then interrupting himself, Dr. Houseman said, “Dear me.” He half raised himself out of his chair for a better view of the dining room's French doors that opened into one of the house's many gardens and driveways. What he saw clearly excited him.

“Michelle, I believe I see a car has pulled up. Must be our guest. If you'd greet her and usher her in, please.” He glanced toward the driveway while he spoke. “She—ah, Mrs. Glass—has assured me that everything will move along smoothly,” he said to the board while Michelle dashed out. “If any of you have questions, please seek Mrs. Glass out. I'm sure she'll be most accommodating.”

Figuring I had now or never to get my two cents in, I took my chances and spoke up. “May I very quickly add one thing?”

Dr. Houseman turned toward me.

“Thank you, Dr. Houseman. And the board,” I said without pausing. “Please, if any of you have information, or clues, or even … thoughts … on what has happened. Or, if you know anything about the objects—those missing as well as those damaged and broken—please share that with me.”

I might as well have been talking to those blackamoor torchères from the blank stares coming from the faces fixed on me. I pretended otherwise and smiled broadly. “If you go antiquing anywhere, around here, or on your travels, and you happen to see anything that even resembles items missing from Wynderly, let me know. It's amazing how often things can turn up—and where. It's happened before. Just in case you do think of something, when I'm not here at Wynderly, I'm staying at Belle Ayre.”

“Well put,” Houseman conceded. “Mrs. Glass, if you'd put out your cards, we'll get ready to hear from Mrs. Maitland, though Tracy tells me she prefers using her family name DuMont these days.” He smiled as if to insinuate that he and Tracy DuMont Williamson Albertson Maitland were on the coziest of terms.

I was sitting back down when the sound of clicking heels broke the silence. As one, all eyes turned toward the door.

Tracy DuMont swept in, thin, fashionable, and breathless.

I'd only seen pictures of Tracy DuMont. Pictures of her with Lauren Bacall, Vanessa Getty, the Keno twins, and the like. Pictures always taken in grand places—the Met, Le Cirque, Sotheby's. She looked much better in glamorous company than she did alone and in person.

I had thought she was blonde. Today she was brunette. She wore her hair short, but cut full across her forehead and so far down over her eyebrows it skimmed the top of the sunglasses she had not taken off. Then again, considering how gray it was outside, she might have just put them on. Beneath her mink-lined sheared lamb coat she wore a short brown leather skirt and purple cashmere sweater. For a moment I thought she had her coat on inside out, but I immediately dismissed my thought as folly, born of envy.

Tracy DuMont strode across the room where she met Houseman halfway.

“I don't think
you
need any introduction, Mrs. DuMont, but perhaps you'd like to meet our board members,” Alfred Houseman said, helping her off with her coat. “And Sterling Glass, the appraiser sent by Babson and Michael.”

“That's OK.” Tracy DuMont waved off his comment. “I know most of you already. And of course I've heard of Ms. Glass, though we haven't met.” She held her hands out to me and patted mine in both of hers. “I read your column every week. How
do
you know so much? You're wonderful,” she said.

She turned back to Houseman.

“What I have to say won't take long,” she said. “I'll get right to the point. This whole situation is a disgrace. I don't have to tell you that Hoyt and Mazie Wyndfield left a fortune to keep Wynderly afloat. It was their wish that their home be a gift to the people of Virginia after Mazie's death. He magnanimously left this estate—his house, his land, his dearest possessions—intending for it to provide jobs and income and …” Tracy DuMont paused, leaned forward, and rested her palms on the table in front of her. “And inspiration,” she said. “And
hope
for the people he loved, the people he never failed in his lifetime, the people who helped to make him who he was, and he helped in return. What happened to Hoyt's intentions? His
spirit
?”

She stopped abruptly. “What happened to his
money
? If I were sitting where you are right now, I'd be ashamed,” she said. “What has happened—And
who
knows what has happened,
really
happened?” She finished her previous thought. “What has happened is inexcusable. None of you … Not you, Miss Mary Sophie. Not you, Alfred Houseman. And especially not
you
, Freddy Graham. Not one of you would handle … make that
mis
handle … your personal affairs so, so cavalierly.”

I looked around the room. Only Mary Sophie Wellington McLeod, now clutching the gold knob of her walking cane, remained completely composed. She nodded in agreement.

“It's no secret that I have an interest in Wynderly. It's a gem. Just think of the luminaries who have dined in this very room—General George Marshall. Joseph Cotton. Lady Astor. Marion duPont and Randolph Scott often dropped by for drinks on their way home.” Her right hand waved in some direction. “
Those
people could appreciate these fine things.”

Then, gesturing toward the center of the table, she said, “This epergne is as fine as any money can buy. Just look at it. Wynderly and its things are our crown jewels. Or so I thought. Until I saw the financials, that is.”

There was no doubt in my mind. What was coming next was going to be a sandbox fight.

“This place has turned into nothing but a money pit,” Tracy continued. “You have carelessly and foolishly spent money you didn't even have to spend. You've been spending other people's money and now you've got to pay the price.”

“Now just a minute,” Alfred Houseman said. “I … I take exception to that statement, Mrs. Maitla—” He caught himself. “Mrs. DuMont. If we had let Wynderly fall into disrepair, the tourists would have stopped coming altogether. We had an image to maintain.”

Tracy DuMont ignored him. “I'm not blaming
all
of you,” she said. “Many of you are here because you love beautiful things. You revere Hoyt and Mazie's memories. But you don't know a thing about running a business. Take you, Professor Fox.”

Until Tracy DuMont singled him out, I had noticed the chubby man with horn-rimmed glasses only because he was sitting next to Michelle Hendrix.

“Tell me, Professor Fox, in your department at the college, how much money are you responsible for each year?”

“How … ah, just how do you mean,” he asked.

“Grants. Foundation gifts. Research money. You know, the kind of money that schools depend on to survive these days. The money they have to have to pay the staff, maintain the buildings. How much of that money do you bring in?”

Fox squirmed like a worm in hot ashes. “Well now. That's really not what I do, Ms. DuMont. The chairman of the department handles that, and the development people,” he added. Then, drawing himself up and pulling his coat across his extended front, he said, “But I
would
say that I've been responsible for some fine contributions over the years. Not money, exactly, but in-kind contributions. Right now I'm working on a collection of rare—”

“Which proves my point,” Tracy DuMont cut him off. “Collections don't pay the bills, Professor Fox. Their care and maintenance eats up the money.”

Leaving Fox to stew, she swept the rest of the board members with her eyes. “There's not one of you who is involved in the day-to-day operation of this place. You don't have a clue what's involved in keeping it afloat. You meet here every few months and talk about how much you love the place. Once a year you write a nice check to the foundation. You're what I'd call a, a … ‘do-good' board,” she said. “Individually, that's admirable. Collectively, you don't know diddly-squat about running a foundation. Now that there's not enough money, you're wondering how it happened.” She paused and spoke slowly now, as if to schoolchildren. “Money in. Money out. More money going out than coming
in
? You lose.”

Worth Merritt, the elderly gentleman seated to my right, whispered in my ear, “Don't sugar coat it, Tracy baby. Tell it like it is.”

I clamped my lips to stifle a laugh. Lord, what am I doing here? I asked myself.

I had taken the job at Wynderly for the chance to see some great things. My job was to determine the value of the antiques
that had been lost or destroyed. My job was to stand up for the objects that couldn't speak for themselves. My job …

What
was
I doing there? The truth was I had taken this job because I was trying to ingratiate myself with Matt Yardley, and hoped to catch his eye while doing so.

I figured I had two choices. Stay or leave. My instincts said leave, run away. On the other hand, if I could keep out of the fray, the money was good. Very good. I glanced around at the cast of characters. Just who does their appraisals, I wondered.

The room was deathly quiet. Eventually Alfred Houseman took a moment to breathe deeply, then began again. “Well, we thank you, Mrs. DuMont. We will certainly look more closely at our situation. We appreciate your openness. We assume … We assume you are not interested in helping us. Under the circumstances.”

“Let me put it like this, Alfred,” the unflappable Tracy DuMont said. “I don't approve of what's happened. But I haven't slammed the door shut. Not yet. Get yourselves together and I'll revisit the situation,” Tracy said.

Tracy exited as she had entered, self-assuredly and grandly, having paused just long enough to pluck one of my cards from the table.

Dear Antiques Expert: I keep reading and hearing about antiques and collectibles. Aren't collectibles the same thing as antiques?

An “antique” is an item that is one hundred years old or older. The term “collectible” is used to denote younger, but still desirable (and often expensive), “old things” that have yet to reach the magical 100-year-old mark. For example, an early 19th-century Meissen figurine is an antique, but a bright red Fiesta syrup pitcher mass-produced in the 1930s is properly called a “collectible.” In fact, in perfect condition and with its original lid, such a pitcher might sell for $500 or more.

A
LL
I
HAD WANTED
to do after the board meeting was get back to my quiet room at Belle Ayre. But Worth Merritt and Miss Mary Sophie McLeod had trapped me. To my surprise, Miss Mary Sophie invited me to come by for tea the next afternoon, and Mr. Merritt asked if he could take me to dinner. “Otherwise, it'll be my third Lean Cuisine this week,” he said, and I accepted his offer.

We wasted little time ordering the drinks we both needed. I opted for a ladylike white wine.

“Well,” Worth Merritt said, “
my
day calls for a double b and b. Maker's Mark for the bourbon and plain old branch for the water,” he said. “All this stuff about bottled water is a lot of baloney.”

His eyes swept the room. “I think you'll like this place. The food's not bad and the decor is, well … I know these aren't true antiques, but the decorations do give it a unique character,” he said, alluding to the crockery and kitchenwares sitting all about. He shook his head disbelievingly. “I sure do wish my parents had kept some of the stuff they threw away. I could open a museum.”

We both laughed.

“Oh, we kept the good stuff—the real antiques. It's the collectibles I'm referring to,” he continued. “The prices they're bringing these days? I'm astonished every time I walk into an antiques mall or go to a neighbor's yard sale.”

And so we chatted about Fiestaware and wooden coffee grinders. Once our drinks came, though, Worth Merritt dropped the small talk. Raising his glass in my direction, he said, “So, Sterling Glass. When I heard your name at the meeting, I made the connection. I once met your parents. They were older than we—Sally, my late wife, and I—were, but I remember them vividly. Your father was quiet. From New England, as I recall.”

I detected a hint of pride in his voice. His message was loud and clear: I've got my wits and my memory about me even if I am old.

“Yes. Massachusetts.”

“And your mother was, well—” He paused. “May I say, she was quite a fiery character. The sort you never forget.”

I laughed. “I'll agree on both counts. A character and unforgettable.” I hoped I had reassured him that I was comfortable with what he'd said. Worth Merritt's candor, as well as his memory, had won me over.

Worth Merritt chuckled. “It was at the Homestead. Sally and I were having a drink on the patio …” He raised his glass in a mock toast, then took a sip. “Your parents were at an adjoining table. You know how we Southerners are. The conversation just started. I think your parents liked our being a younger couple,” he added with a sweet smile, his eyes twinkling. “Sally was still in her twenties and I was …” He clicked his tongue against his teeth and looked away while he did the math. “In my mid-thirties.”

Judging as much from his gentlemanly manners and measured way of speaking as from his thin neck and wrinkled hands, I figured Worth must be in his late seventies.

“It was back in the seventies. You had just married your husband and your parents were—” Merritt smiled knowingly. “Let's say your parents were, well—” For the second time he halted. Then meeting my eyes straight on, his smile broadened. “Oh hell,” he said, “they were
recuperating
from the event.”

I almost choked when I simultaneously swallowed and laughed.

“Now don't get me wrong,” Worth said while I attempted to recover my composure. “But those society weddings can be taxing, especially when the guests are old FFVs.” He leaned over the table and lowered his voice the way a kid does when
he's sharing a well-known secret, “Those
first families
of Virginia can be intimidating, especially the big clans.”