twenty-two

“When you said this auction would be huge, you weren’t kidding!”

Wren glanced around the crowded house and grounds of the Campbell house, trying to see it all through Death’s eyes. Heaven knew, it was better than seeing it through her own. She still had nightmares about the things that had happened here.

Today the future museum was a madhouse. The auction had drawn in a huge crowd, with serious art and antique dealers and collectors and regular auction-goers supplemented by curiosity seekers. There were cars parked in the surrounding blocks with plates from as far away as Michigan, and Cameron had pointed out a photographer from the Associated Press.

Death, arguably a story in his own right, had been keeping a low profile.

The first thing he’d done, when he’d gotten the reward money for finding the stolen jewels, was buy Wren a big bouquet of roses from a pricey florist. She’d accepted them with false enthusiasm and poorly-concealed disappointment, and he’d laughed at her when she admitted that she preferred the flowers he picked for her himself.

For the most part, though, he remained as frugal as he’d always been. He’d paid taxes on the reward, paid up his professional and vehicle insurance for a year, and signed a one-year lease on a combination office/studio apartment above an old department store in downtown East Bledsoe Ferry, and he still had just over $80,000 in the bank.

At the moment all the action was outside. Roy’s loudspeaker-amplified voice followed them across the porch and into the hall.

“And-a-seventy-and-a five-and-a eighty-and-a-five-do-I-gotta-five-and-a-one-that’s-a-eighty-one-and-a-two-and-a …”

Wren dragged her feet on the threshold, still reluctant to enter, even though she’d been here a hundred times since That Day. The house was empty—walking in the entryway was like being trapped inside a drum. The sale items were spread out on the lawn and in the back garden and the things the historical society meant to keep had been locked in the attics for their protection. Only some of the artwork remained, carefully hung around the walls, behind a podium one of the grandsons had dug up in an outbuilding. Grigsby, hired off-duty to work security for the auction, kept a watchful eye on two or three dozen well-dressed people who milled around studying the pieces on display.

Death paused to watch them. “I’m still surprised you’re selling the artwork.”

“They’re keeping some,” Wren said, “but the insurance alone would be outrageous if they kept it all.”

“Yeah, I understand that. What surprises me is that you’re selling it. I thought you had to send artwork to some big, fancy auction house in New York or London or someplace.”

Wren shrugged. “Merchandise is merchandise. We’re doing the art as a separate auction within an auction. And Doris is an expert appraiser. She’s advertised in all the right places. Actually, we might do better than a big city auction house. It’s not the auctioneer who sets the price, you know. It’s the bidders. And we’re apt to draw a lot of optimistic art enthusiasts who think they’re going to come out in the sticks and make a steal.”

“Okay, but as I understood, some of this is pretty high-dollar stuff. Are you really set up to handle selling things for that much money?”

“Death!” She sighed, exasperated. “We do vehicle and heavy equipment auctions. We sell real estate. Last Wednesday we sold a two-hundred-acre dairy farm for a quarter of a million dollars.”

“Well, I guess that answers that,” he said, and went on into the office.

The massive desk where Wren had found Obadiah’s love letters was the only piece of furniture still in the house, and Leona and Doris were set up there, where they could use the wall safe to protect the larger-than-average proceeds. At the moment, they were busy signing up a few stragglers and assigning them bid numbers.

“Better give me a number, too,” Death said. “I could still use stuff for my office and apartment.”

Doris and Leona exchanged a glance.

“What do you think, Doris? Do we want to give this boy a number?”

“Well, now, I don’t know. Does he have any identification on him? We wouldn’t want to give him a number and then find out he’s an imposter or anything.”

Death grinned at their teasing and fished out his driver’s license.

Doris handed Death a roughly square piece of poster board with his number on it.

“Six-seventy-two?” Wren was shocked. “Really? There’s almost seven hundred people here?”

“What can we say?” Leona shrugged. “Antiques and bloodstains make for a powerful draw.” She smiled at Death. “Honestly, unless there’s something specific you’re interested in, you’d be better off waiting for a less spectacular auction to get any furniture you need. Was there anything in particular that caught your fancy?”

He shrugged. “I thought, since they’re selling them, maybe I could pick up one of old Obadiah’s political cartoons, just for a souvenir, you know?”

Doris shook her head. “Oh, I wouldn’t get your hopes up there, honey. We’re selling the four of them as a lot and there’s a collector here from Chicago. Marlon Obermeier? Wealthy political junkie. Very deep pockets and a bit of a fanatic.”

“Oh, well,” Death was philosophical. “Just my luck.”

“Here,” she offered him a small booklet. “There’s a special catalog for the artwork. Take a look at it. Maybe you’ll see something else that strikes your fancy.”

Death took the booklet, folded it and tucked it into his shirt pocket along with his number. Still more people were pouring into the room, some of them seeking numbers and some of them leaving early with their purchases. Death and Wren slipped out and went to explore the rest of the auction. As they went through the entry hall, they passed a group of middle-aged women standing in the parlor doorway and peering into the room.

“I think this is where they found the naked dead guy,” one of them was saying.

Wren groaned and slapped her own forehead with her palm and Death laughed, put an arm around her shoulder and led her outside.

In order to get through the auction in one day, Sam and Roy were working on opposite sides of the old house, both calling at once. Death and Wren spent the morning going back and forth between them, helping set up merchandise, keeping track of bids and, in one instance, breaking up a screaming, hair-pulling match over who outbid whom for an antique butter churn. Wren took turns at the microphones, spelling each of the brothers, and Death had a quiet word with a would-be shoplifter, who subsequently emptied her pockets and slunk away.

They got lunch from the food cart that was set up at the curb, filling the air with the scent of barbecue, and ate it sitting in a quiet corner of the garden and watching the chaos from a distance. When they ventured back inside, Sam had moved indoors and the art auction was under way.

Doris came over to stand beside them. “They’re selling the Healey political cartoons now,” she told them. “It’s up to twenty-five thousand. That’s Mr. Obermeier there,” she pointed out a tall, thin man in his sixties. “I expect he’ll get a deal on them. As a collection they’re worth at least forty thousand, but he’ll be willing to go well over that and all the serious collectors here know it, so I doubt anyone will bother to bid him up that high.”

“That much?” Death fished the art catalog out of his pocket and opened it, finding his place as the bidding climbed toward thirty thousand dollars. Wren grinned to herself as she heard him whisper softly, “holy crap!”

“And I have thirty-one thousand, five hundred,” Sam said. This type of auction called for a less boisterous salesman, and he had slowed his speech to normal speeds. He turned his attention back to the woman who’d been bidding against Obermeier and Wren saw in her eyes when she decided to back down. She shook her head and Sam looked around the room. “Anyone else? That’s thirty-one, five, going once! Going twice! And—”

“FIFTY THOUSAND!”

It seemed everyone in the room jumped, Wren especially, at the deep, powerful voice that broke out beside her. In truth, Death looked a little startled himself, but he caught Sam’s eye and repeated his words. “I bid fifty thousand dollars.”

“Death!” Wren squeaked. “Are you insane?”

“Trust me,” he said. “I’ll explain later. Right now, just trust me.”

Obermeier looked like he’d bitten a lemon. “If this is some kind of attempt by the auction house to bid the price up, you’re going to regret it.”

Death looked him in the eye. “What I’m trying to do is outbid you. If you think it’s a trick then teach me a lesson. Drop out.”

Obermeier considered it for a long moment, then turned back to the podium.

“Fifty-five thousand.”

“Fifty-six,” Death countered.

“Fifty-six, five.”

“Fifty-seven.”

“Fifty-eight.”

“Sixty.” Death spoke with no hesitation.

Wren grabbed hold of the banister for support. The room was suddenly stifling, with a dearth of air and an electricity running through the crowd that made the hair stand up on her arms.

Obermeier studied Death for a long minute, eyes narrowed.

“Sixty-five.”

“Sixty-five thousand,” Sam repeated. He looked helplessly at Death.

Doris tugged at Death’s sleeve. “Honey, those pictures aren’t worth that much!”

“Sixty-eight,” Death bid.

“Seventy,” Obermeier said. There was an air of finality about it. Wren couldn’t say what it was, but instinct developed over the years of watching people bid at auctions told her the man was nearing his limit. Plain old arithmetic and a knowledge of Death’s finances told her that he was nearing his.

Wren didn’t know what to hope for. Obviously Death had his heart set on getting those pictures, but if he did, he was going to be broke again. There was just no way she could see this ending well.

“Seventy-one,” Death said.

“Seventy-one, five,” Obermeier countered.

“Seventy-two.”

Obermeier stood up straighter, put his hands in his pockets and turned to look Death straight in the eye. “Seventy-five thousand dollars.”

Death turned to Wren. “Do you trust me?” he asked, and what could she say.

“I trust you with my life,” she told him. “How could I possibly not trust you with your own money?”

He grinned and turned back to face Sam. “Seventy-six thousand dollars,” he said.

“You’re insane.” The collector finally shook his head. “I’m out. If he wants them that badly, he can have them.”

Death slumped in relief and drew in a deep breath.

Sam paused, gavel raised, and gave Death a grave, concerned look.

“Son, are you sure about this? Because, when I bring this gavel down, the sale will be final.”

Death met his eye. “I’m sure.”

Sam shrugged. “All right, then. That’s a collection of four political cartoons by the artist Obadiah Healey and it’s SOLD to number 672.”

_____

It took Death most of the rest of the afternoon to go to his bank and argue them into giving him a certified check for most of the money he had left in his account. By the time he got back to the Campbell house the auction was winding down and the last stragglers were packing up their loot and making their escape.

The four cartoons were still hanging in their place on the wall. Death lifted them down, one by one, grinning like a maniac, and carried them into the office to pay for them. Wren was there, waiting for him, with the Keystone twins and their wives. He set the paintings down on the desk and pulled his number from his pocket.

“Six seventy two?” he asked.

“Well, let’s see.” Leona made a show of looking in her log books and digging out the file card with his information on it. “I have one purchase, four pictures, for seventy-six thousand dollars.”

“Will you take a check?” He offered her the certified check and she took it and gave him a receipt.

“Okay,” Roy said. “Now, are you going to explain yourself, or is this some kind of psychotic break with reality?”

Death laughed. “I would be glad to explain myself. Would it be alright if we close the door and lock it first?”

Sam went to close and lock the door and Death pulled the auction catalog from his pocket.

“So, who was it who put together this catalog, anyway?”

“Me,” Doris said.

“Doris,” Wren supplied. “She’s our art expert, remember?”

“Ah ha. I see. And you didn’t bother to read it before the sale at all?”

“Well, I’ve been busy. And we all knew what the stuff for sale was.”

“Did you? Really? Are you sure?”

Sam and Roy were standing side by side, arms crossed, and for once it was obvious that they were identical twins in spite of their different clothes.

“If he doesn’t start talking soon, I say one of us should kick him,” Roy said.

“I’ll flip you for it.”

“Wren,” Death said, “remember when you found those letters and we were reading them?”

“Before or after you started ripping each other’s clothes off ?” Leona asked.

Death felt his cheeks flame, but plowed ahead. “Before,” he said. “In the first part of the letter he said that Mr. Monroe liked Gentlemen Dancing, remember?”

Wren nodded.

Death held up the top picture, the one of smiling men shaking hands and hiding knives behind their backs. “This is Gentlemen Dancing. All of these cartoons have names.”

“That’s not unusual,” Doris said. “Please tell me you didn’t just buy these because they have names?”

“It’s because of what their names are,” he said. When he spoke again it was in a high-pitched, feminine voice. “Oh, you poor thing! Those bad men took all your pretty jewels!”

He paused to look around at his audience and Wren, catching on first, gasped and sank down on the edge of the desk. He switched to a second voice, still feminine but lower pitched, with a deep Southern accent.

“They didn’t get them. Ah hid ’em good.”

“God in Heaven,” Leona said. “Millie Weeks is gonna go postal.”

“Tell me where,” Death continued in the first woman’s voice. “I’ll get them for you.” He grinned and went back to the second voice. “Look behind The Seventh Stone,” he said, lifting the picture that showed Maryland as a stone in the nation’s foundation. “Stars in the Water,” he switched to the cartoon about the War of 1812, with the tattered reflection of Old Glory, “and See All The Pretty Colors,” he finished, brandishing the last cartoon with the frontiersmen at the tailor shop.

“You think the pictures are a clue to where the jewels are?” Roy asked.

“I think the jewels are in the pictures,” Death said. He turned Gentlemen Dancing over and showed them the back. The back of the frame was open, with the back of the matting clearly visible. Then he turned the others over, one by one. The backs of the frames were covered with heavy, yellowing paper tacked on with rusted brads. Death picked up Stars in the Water and shook it gently and it made a noise like sand and gravel moving through a gold miner’s sluice.

“And you figured this out when?” Sam asked dryly.

“Just as you were about to sell them to Obermeier for thirty-one, five.” Death took out his pocket knife and slit the paper on the back of Stars in the Water on three sides. He peeled it back and the cavity it had closed off was completely filled with a tangle of tarnished jewelry. He repeated the process with the other two pictures and the six of them stood there staring in silent awe at the long-lost muddle of rare metals and precious gems.

“I can’t believe we’re the first people to see these since the Civil War.” Doris said.

“So what do you think now?” Death asked her. “Did I get my money’s worth?”

“Yes, and then some, I should say. Leona’s right, Millie’s going to have kittens. She has no call to complain, though. She’s the one who proofread the catalog. She should have figured it out herself.”

“What are you going to do with it?” Sam asked.

Death shrugged. “I haven’t really thought that far ahead. Sell most of it, probably. Donate some to the museum, maybe. I got a safe deposit box, but the bank’s closed now so I’ll probably take it to the police station and ask the chief to lock it up overnight.”

“You could cover your girlfriend in diamonds and jewels,” Roy suggested.

“No !” Wren and Death said simultaneously.

Death picked gingerly through the tangled mess of jewelry, grinned suddenly, and worked an elaborate serpentine necklace free.

“I’ve got an idea! We could play dress-up.”

Wren looked at him askance. “You want to play dress-up?”

“Well, I don’t want to dress up. I just thought it would be fun for you to dress up. See, I remember seeing this necklace in an old picture, and I was thinking you could wear what the lady in the picture was wearing and imitate the pose and everything. Art come to life, sort of.”

“That’s a clever idea,” Leona said. “And you could take pictures and display them side by side.”

“We could do that,” Death agreed. He was biting the inside of his cheek.

“I don’t know where I’d get a hoop skirt,” Wren said. “I suppose I could make one …”

“Oh, you don’t need to worry about that. The lady in the picture wasn’t wearing a hoop skirt. I think it was probably from before they were popular.”

“Not Carolina then? What picture was it? Do you know who she was?”

“Well, I assume it was Eustacia Healey.”

“Eustacia Healey? Where did you see a picture of … oh!”

“Yeah, that picture.”

“The one in the, um …”

“The one in the love letters. Remember? The classy porn?”

“She was wearing this necklace?”

“And nothing else.” Death leaned forward and clasped the necklace around Wren’s neck, then laughed at her as she stammered and stuttered. Her face turned as red as her hair.

But she didn’t say no.