The Big Steal (9 page)

I heard the longnecks rattling against one another as Michelle tossed them into the car.

Billy slammed his door shut, muttering, “Yes, ma'am,” as he did. I heard the souped-up engine rev and the wheels of the car behind mine spin as it lurched backward.

“Jeez,” Emmett hollered. “Don't get so hot. OK, OK. I'll get out if that's the way you feel. Somebody I know will come along. Hold on, will you? Don't take my foot with you.” He was still muttering under his breath as he walked away from the car, into the store.

If Mother had been there, she would have said Michelle drove off that lot like a bat out of hell, Billy Blake in tow. I thought she looked more like Thelma, or was it Louise, on the verge of road rage. I waited till the coast was clear before I got out of the car.

There might be two of us with a hangover at Wynderly tomorrow morning, I thought, as I walked straight back to the beer and wine section and grabbed up an overpriced bottle of
Ernest and Julio Gallo chardonnay from the display rack. It beat the Wild Irish Rose, Boone's Farm, and Thunderbird in the cooler. When I saw Emmett whatever-his-name-was hanging around the cash register, I hung back.

“Naw, I better not,” Emmett was saying. “I've already dropped a butt-load of cash this week. Give me back those twenties, and I'll just get five scratchers.”

The clerk handed him the lottery cards and two twenties. Emmett stuffed the bills in his pocket and went to work scratching and flicking the red specks off his Junior Ruby Red 7s cards, talking as he did. “One of these days I'm going to hit it big. Then I'll show some of these highfalutin folks.”

“What happened this time?” From her bored tone, I figured the woman, whose name tag read Cindy, had heard the story before.

“You just wait and see. One day my ship's gonna come in.”

“Yeah, yeah. Yours and everybody else's,” Cindy said, flipping the switch on the number 4 gas pump for the car that had just pulled in. “Yeah, I used to think I'd get a break, too … then I wised up. When are you gonna learn there's no free lunch out there, Emmett?”

“Say, is that Jimmy's car? He'll give me a ride.” Emmett grabbed up his cards and turned toward me. “You just wait and see,” he said over his shoulder. “There's other ways than the lottery to turn big money.”

With that, Emmett was out the door, but not before I glimpsed some company emblem on his jacket as I stepped up to take his place at the counter.

“Will that be all, honey?” Cindy asked me.

I smiled. “And some directions. No lottery tickets for me. Never bought one in my life.”

“Me neither,” she said. “My minister explained to me that the only one who is gonna get rich off the lottery is the person who sells the cards. We get a cut for each one we sell. And if a customer hits a big one—” Cindy smiled and counted out my change. “But these fellows around here? Some of 'em think they should have been born rich. That's not what the Bible preaches.”

“Thank you,” I said, wine bottle in hand. I wasn't about to stick around for a temperance lesson.

This time I hightailed it down the road myself, so fast, in fact, I missed the turnoff for Belle Ayre.

Ginny Kauffman was halfway up the winding staircase when I closed the door behind me. “Just on my way to slip a note under your door,” she said. “Actually, make that two notes.” She held up the while-you-were-out slips and started toward me.

“I can't imagine who'd be trying to reach me.” I shifted my oversized pocketbook around and hoped my precious bottle of wine wouldn't be too conspicuous. “Don't think I've had any calls on my cell phone,” I said. But before I could retrieve it, she laughed.

“Don't even bother. The reception's no better here than out at Wynderly. Totally erratic.”

I met her at the bottom of the steps.

“One of these is from Frank Fox,” she said, handing me the notes. “You know him? Some sort of professor.” She put her free hand out, around shoulder height. “Short, chubby fellow. He hung around for a while. Seemed nice. When you didn't come in, he said he'd better start for home. This time of year whole herds of deer are out in droves. Oh, and I guess you saw there's a corkscrew in your room.”

I smiled. “Thank you. So … till tomorrow.”

I was already fiddling with the pink slips to see who the other one was from. Houseman? That wouldn't have surprised me. But Mary Sophie McLeod? What did
she
want? To remind me we were having tea, it turned out. At 4 p.m. I thought I'd explained that I didn't know exactly when I'd be able to get away. Didn't she know I was a working woman, here on a job? In the world she lived in, it probably didn't register.

I didn't bother to read Fox's note until I'd peeled off the clothes that were starting to grow to my skin. I looked for the corkscrew, found it, and then realized the bottle had a screw top. I poured a glass.

“Ms. Glass,” I read. “I'd like to make an appointment with you about an appraisal. Despite Mrs. DuMont's obvious dislike for me and her disparaging and insulting remarks of today, I
do
have
some
sense and rather
good
taste.”

He had underlined “do” three times, the other words only once. I could almost feel the smoke still searing the paper.

“Please call me at your earliest convenience and keep this private, please. FFox.”

The second
F
had practically torn through the paper and the
x
extended halfway across the page. He obviously hadn't stopped fuming.

Between Houseman, Tracy, Michelle, and now Frank Fox, this sleepy place was smoldering.

Where the roads are paved with good intentions
, Mother said.

Dear Antiques Expert: My mother suggested I write to you. I was reading about the Crusades in world history, and silver and gold reliquaries were mentioned. The librarian at school helped me find information on what reliquaries are, but I'm wondering if there are museums in America where I can see these?

I'm delighted to answer your question. Many adults didn't know about reliquaries until reading
The Da Vinci Code
. Reliquaries were made to hold holy relics, usually of a martyred saint. During Romanesque and medieval times, reliquaries were works of art, often made of silver or gold and sculpted as crosses, busts, even like a hand or arm. The Cleveland Museum of Art has a remarkable silver and enamel arm reliquary that actually holds an arm bone. Reliquaries can be seen in other museums but are seldom sold other than by fine auction houses like Sotheby's and Christie's.

M
ORNING CAME MUCH
too soon the next day. The accumulation of so many things—the board meeting, Michelle Hendrix's seeming unwillingness to help me, the 7-Eleven event—combined with not getting much work done had gnawed at me.
Every time I had tried to close my eyes, another snapshot of the day's events popped into my head. It was probably one or two o'clock before I convinced myself I should just head back home. I'd work through the day, see what I could accomplish, and then leave. The board could fight it out among themselves—whatever “it” was.

That resolved, I almost enjoyed the breakfast of homemade biscuits and ham and grits before starting for Wynderly. Once on the road I chuckled out loud, wondering what Michelle Hendrix's state of mind would be this morning. I was confident she hadn't seen me last night. But I couldn't help thinking about what would happen if it did come up.

I was lost in a pretend conversation with Michelle when Wynderly rose majestically before me. It was not a house Virginians had loved for centuries, or even generations, like many I had passed, set far back behind white fences, their names and dates on white plaques hanging between fence posts at their entranceways—names like Rolling Acres Farm, Edge-field Manor, Cottingham, and dates going back to 1815, 1796, 1807. I could well imagine that some of the residents of those stately estates had thought of Wynderly as an eyesore, perhaps even a blight on the Virginia landscape.

But today, Wynderly's bays jutting out across its front, its hipped roofline dotted with chimneys, and the quirky, intricate pattern of timbers and rocks, plum red bricks, and stucco weathered to a soft gray, looked different to me—romantic, enchanting. I chalked it up to the occasional flecks of dappled sunlight on the deep green ivy growing up its towers. I didn't allow myself to think I might be falling under Wynderly's
spell, especially since I had made up my mind to wash my hands of the whole situation, even if it meant looking bad in Matt's eyes.

To my surprise, Michelle was already at the house. So the red Nissan was definitely hers. But someone else was also there. Perhaps Dr. Houseman had called an emergency session. Alfred Houseman hadn't struck me as the Jaguar type, though.

It took two pulls on the bell rope before Michelle swung open the door. Behind her stood Peggy Powers in a tweedy blazer, tailored slacks, and understated gold earrings, looking quite different from yesterday.

“My dear,” she gushed over Michelle's shoulder, leading me to note that, despite her more refined look, her demeanor was the same, impatient and pushy. Then to Michelle she said, “I think Ms. Glass and I will talk in the drawing room. Will that be all right?”

“Good morning,” I said to them both. “Fine with me. May I get rid of my coat and things first?”

“Oh my. I guess I'm overanxious this morning,” Peggy said, her cheeks flushing.

Michelle glanced in the direction of the room. I could tell she didn't like the idea of our crossing behind the ropes, sitting in Mazie's chairs, acting as if we were guests.

“You
are
a board member,” she muttered. “I guess it will be OK. Do you want me to take your things, Sterling? I'll put them in my office …”

“No, no. I'll do that. Mrs. Powers, would you excuse me for a moment. No reason for you to trek back and forth, Michelle.”

“Then I'll be turning on some lights,” Peggy Powers said cheerfully.

“So, how are
you
this morning,” I asked Michelle as we walked toward the back of the house. I was thinking about last night. She turned to answer me. I searched the corners of her eyes for bloodshot telltale signs.

“Considering that Houseman called me at home last night and left a message about a meeting sometime today—he didn't say when—and then with
her
here … How d'you think I am?”

I dropped my thoughts of last night. “So
that's
why Mrs. Powers is here. The meeting.”

“That's what I thought, too. But she said she wanted to see
you
. She didn't seem to know anything about the meeting.”

“What on earth can Mrs. Powers want with
me
?” I asked. “I've got other things to do. Did she say?”

“Who knows? Who knows
anything
these days?”

“So how did you and Houseman leave it? I don't think the meeting will involve me, do you? Other than ‘where's the money,' everything I heard yesterday was about the house, not anything that I'd know about.”

“With
that
man? Who knows?” She shrugged. “I have to admit, though, I almost felt sorry for him yesterday. I wouldn't want Tracy DuMont working against me. What does she care about a house like this for? How many's she got? She's not even around these parts half the time. Only comes back here when she's not off to somewhere else—her penthouse in New York, her villa in Tuscany, her hacienda in Argentina, her ranch in …” She paused. “It's either Wyoming or New Mexico. I wouldn't know. Never been there myself.”

A hint of the tough Michelle Hendrix I'd observed last night was shining through.

“But, say … good luck to you up there with Tinkerbell. Let me know what happens.”

“Tinkerbell?”

“Yeah. All sugar and sweetness. But get in her way and you're zapped. Tinkerbell could turn on a dime. Peggy Powers can too. When I was a kid I always liked Tinkerbell, but I never trusted her.”

“Thanks for the warning,” I said.

Peggy Powers was seated in one of the high-backed Jacobean chairs flanking the marble fireplace. The heavily carved wood and velvet upholstery practically swallowed her. It was the first time I'd seen her close up, other than for the fleeting moment this morning. I gauged her to be in her early to mid sixties. She would have blended into any crowd of well-to-do women her age who were putting on a few more pounds than they wished.

“I could sit here for hours and do nothing but stare,” Peggy Powers said as I descended the steps into the grand room.

“Indeed,” I agreed, glancing around. It was my first chance to get more than a walk-through of any of the public rooms other than the dining room where the board meeting had been held.

“Of course if I were you, I'd be turning things over, looking at the wood and examining nails to see what I could find,” she said, her fingers nervously rubbing the acanthus carving on the arm of her chair. “That's what appraisers do, isn't it? For me, it's just a chance to bathe in splendor.”

I let her comment pass.

“When Wynderly was being built, poor people—black
and
white—would walk for miles just to see it, to thrill at its grandeur,” she said.

“Even today, you should see the look of wonderment on the schoolchildren's faces when they see the sculpture Hoyt brought back from India and the swords from Japan. The masks from Bali. And the Palm Court. Have you seen it yet? No? What a shame. Just like the one at the old Plaza Hotel, or the one at Biltmore … marble floor and all.” She sighed. “Their glory days are now a thing of the past. The Plaza, Biltmore, Wynderly. But make no mistake. Wynderly is more than just another grand house with beautifully landscaped gardens. Wynderly will always be the
world
to those of us who will never see the places Hoyt traveled to. Perhaps his journeys don't seem so extraordinary these days, not to the rich and the privileged, at least. But in the 1920s, '30s, and even '40s, why, what Hoyt did … it was …”