I repeat my question. “What about the box, Dot?”

Dot is having a tough time finding her words, which is unusual. She pulls me down on the side stoop to sit next to her on two cement blocks she uses to prop the door open on hot days.

“Vernell, you ain’t a gonna believe this. But at the bottom of that box laid an aged newspaper. Dated back to 1950. Yellered and brittle. I lifted it out thinkin’ I might like to have it. I figured I’d pay you a dollar for it. I opened it and inside was a picture wrapped in blue tissue paper of some kind between two thick pieces of cardboard. A real purty picture of a good-lookin’ cowboy. I remembered you said that preacher woman got this box in Oklahoma. I thought maybe . . . well, I thought I ought to give the whole kit n’ caboodle to my friend in Greensboro. This nutty professor that likes old books. So I take the books and the cowboy picture to Professor Wendell at UNCG. My alma mater.”

“What? Say that again. You went to college? Now wait . . . I cain’t picture it.”

“Don’t tell anybody down here, it’s embarrassin’. I cover it well, don’t I?”

“Yeah,” I say. I’m in shock.

Dot’s mouth tries to keep up with her thoughts. “Middle of the night I get a phone call. ‘Bout scared the fuckin’ shit out of me. It’s Professor Wendell askin’ me to come in to talk about that damn picture.” I never saw Dot so flustered.

“Dot, please don’t use that language, it hurts my newly saved ears.”

“Sorry.” Dot stands and holds her hand out for me. “Git up Vernell, come inside.”

I’m puzzled. But like a foolish puppy dog, I follow her around to the rear of her store. There’s a car parked beside her pickup truck in the dirt lot. I step through the back door to her living quarters. Nothing’s changed, it’s still a pig sty and reeks of urine and cooking fat. I walk behind her through torn fiberglass curtains separating the back room from the front retail area. Two men are hunched over the antique pool table Dot’s been trying to sell for the last five years. Warped pool sticks have been rolled into a pile in the middle of the table. A glass counter where Dot displays her junk jewelry is covered with briefcases. They’re peering through a magnifying glass looking at a picture laid out on the end of the pool table.

Dot begins her introductions. “Vernell, this here’s Mr. Grant Tucker from New York City. Professor Wendell asked him to come to North Carolina. Grant here wants to talk to you about your picture.”

I stare at the odd-looking men. Mr. Tucker can barely take his eyes off the picture. He gives me a brief nod, then folds up the magnifying glass and sticks it in his vest pocket where I catch a glimpse of a pocket watch. He reminds me of what Sherlock Holmes must’ve looked like, if such a character existed.

I shake Mr. Tucker’s hand first. Then shaking the hand of the man Dot introduces as Professor Hal Wendell, I notice Hal could pass for someone around here. He’s wearing Levis, a plaid flannel shirt and boots. His salt and pepper hair match his mustache and only his wire rim glasses give him the appearance of a professor.

Mr. Tucker motions for me to take a look at the picture. “Miss Paskins, I work for a reputable auction house in New York City, called Sotheby’s. Have you heard of it?”

“No, cain’t say I have.”

“We are experts at finding and appraising rare art. When Dot and the good Professor here tracked me down, I must say I was skeptical. But, I’ve known Hal Wendell a long time and he persisted. You have a rare piece of artwork here, Miss Paskins. Rare indeed.”

By this time, my shock has turned to butterflies in my belly. “Well, you want to tell me about it or am I gonna have to guess?”

He clears his throat. “Charles Marion Russell was an accomplished painter, sculptor, illustrator, and a gifted storyteller. Russell was born in 1864 in St. Louis, Missouri on the edge of the flourishing Western frontier. He sketched in his free time and soon gained a local reputation as an artist. His firsthand experience as a ranch hand and his intimate knowledge of outdoor life contributed to the distinctive realism characteristic of his style. This is his Self-Portrait, painted in 1900.”

“In when?”

“1900.”

I bend over the picture. It seems to be in pretty good shape, but what do I know. The only art I have hanging in my trailer is of pretty little butterflies or bowls of fruit in cheap wooden or silver frames. I buy them at the flea market or from Dot. But, this is a cowboy. His feet are planted solid on the ground and his hat is tipped back. He wears a red sash and high-heeled riding boots.

“There’s not much else to say, Miss Paskins. I am a legal representative of my company and I have reported back to them the painting is the original. I have a check here. Sotheby’s has authorized me to pay you two hundred thousand dollars for this painting.”

I sit down on a nearby folding chair. My legs shake and my tongue is numb.

“All I want is a finder’s fee, Vernell,” says Dot.

***