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Adam didn’t waste a minute after his meeting with the mayor and Chief Quinn. He called enough antique stores from Boston up to Montreal to feel like he was becoming an expert on antiques, himself. As long as they were silver. The 1730 Marston Schaats Tankard, punch bowls by early Boston silversmith John Burt, Governor Stoughton Cups created by New England silversmith Jeremiah Dummer. The first mint masters of the Massachusetts Bay Colony, Robert Sanderson, Sr. and his partner John Hull. And of course, Paul Revere.
But no one had seen the tall, red-haired woman or anyone matching Laborde’s description, nor had the Revere bowl turned up for sale. Why in the world did the thief go to such an elaborate switch if not to sell it?
Yeah, he knew he’d told Beverly Laborde that the thief might sell it to a private collector and no one would be the wiser, but he’d hoped he was wrong about that. Otherwise, it would be impossible to trace. Game over.
After Adam’s research on the Forsythes, father and son, and some of the other members of the Northeastern Antiquities League, Adam was beginning to wonder if there were any honest antique dealers. But as he headed to Tossed Treasures in the center of town, he was convinced old Harlan Wilford was one of them.
He’d known Harlan for years. When he was a boy, Adam called him Uncle Harlan whenever he joined Adam and his father on their fishing outings. Adam felt a pang of guilt when he realized he hadn’t stopped by for a while. He already owed Harlan a lunch or two he’d bailed on due to work.
Adam waved at Harlan’s assistant, Prospero Rigas, and headed back to Harlan’s office, where the man didn’t look surprised to see him. “And there you are, Adam, right on time. She said you’d be along shortly.”
“She?” Adam hid his irritation. He had an idea who the “she” was and felt like a goose in Beverly Laborde’s Fox and Geese game. He was always one step behind her while she stage-managed his investigation to her benefit.
“That young lady who was just here, Beverly. Said you’d taken an interest in her.” Wilford winked. “With a figure like that, I can see why.”
“That’s not the kind of interest she was referring to.” Or was it? What had she meant by “nice eyes?” It was all likely an elaborate ploy on her part. And he wasn’t going to fall for it.
“Then you must be interested in the vision of Mount Adams she was asking about, Adam. And that silver figure they never found.”
“What did you tell her?”
“That I don’t know much about it, myself. But she mostly wanted me to help authenticate some documents.”
“What documents?” She hadn’t mentioned any documents to Adam. Yep, he was definitely a goose. Or should he say, a gander?
“A map and papers originally rescued from the estate of a man who died childless around 1900. They mentioned a silver Lady of Chartres statue stolen by Rogers’ Rangers, those papers did. It wasn’t among the deceased’s effects.”
“Why would the documents refer to it, then?”
“It was a puzzle, you see, those documents. Mentioned a ‘safe place’ or a secret storehouse, I believe it was. All very cloak and dagger. Not my line of work. More yours, I’d say.”
“I don’t suppose the location of this hidden storehouse was in there?”
“Not spelled out, A-B-C, no. It was part of a poem I couldn’t make nary heads nor tails out of. Several references to this area, though. Hartford, the Junction, and the Natick Indians.”
“Did you keep copies of those documents Miss Laborde showed you?”
“‘Fraid not, Adam. I think she’s staying somewhere here in town. If she returns, should I have her give you a call?”
“Thanks, Harlan, but I know where she’s staying.” At Harlan’s smirk, Adam, quickly added, “Do you happen to recall the name of that man, the one whose estate the papers came from?”
“Reckon I do. Reminded me of an old friend of mine, the name did. It was Kornelson.”
Adam pulled out a pad and wrote the name down. When he looked up again, Harlan was staring at him. “You look a little peaked, Adam. How long has it been since you had a vacation?”
“Vacation?”
“You know, where you go off to the beach, put some zinc on your nose, lie around turning into a lobster, drink piña coladas.”
Adam ignored the question. He was getting tired of people thinking he was fragile and had to be treated with kid gloves. “What did you think of Miss Laborde, Harlan? Did she seem suspicious? Anything set off alarm bells?”
“Quite the opposite, I must say. She’s highly knowledgeable about antiques. Nicely well-mannered, too. Although . . . “
“Yes?”
“She struck me as being skittish. Not outlaw-skittish, but more like a filly ready to bolt at the slightest touch. Like one of my nieces. Went through a spell where she was very much the loner. Her parents had a devil of a time getting her to make friends.”
“Thanks for your help, Harlan. If Miss Laborde stops by again, you’ll let me know.”
Wilford understood it was more of a command than a question, and he shrugged. “Best of luck with whatever it is you’re after, Adam. Don’t forget legends often have a grain of truth to them. As for that young lady,” he grinned. “If I were your age, I’d have no problem taking an interest. Just sayin.’”
§ § §
Adam left Harlan’s store and grabbed a copy of the Junction Jive from a news rack in front of the store. It was close to supper, but he wasn’t hungry, so he grabbed coffee and a sandwich-to-go from Miralee’s Market. Their coffee and turkey on rye were usually among the best around, but the coffee tasted stale, and the bread was like chewy cardboard with a slathering of brown mustard.
Nothing had gone right for him today. Maybe the black cat of his neighbor, Mrs. Carden, was to blame. Inkspot took every chance to get in Adam’s way, crossing his path several times this morning in the yard. Actually, the bad luck was more on Inkspot’s side, half-blind and running around on only three legs. Adam and the cat declared a truce after Adam fed him some leftover sardines a year ago. Kitty detente.
Sitting in his car and munching on the dry sandwich, washed down with the bitter coffee, Adam flipped through the Junction Jive. One entry in the regional event calendar stood out and waved at him. Reginald Forsythe, III, the alleged theft victim’s father, was speaking at a district NAL meeting tonight down in Brattleboro. Adam checked the time. With any luck, he’d make it there before it began. He gave a quick call to Jinks to let her know where he was headed and started down I-91.
He found his way to the venue, a theater and gallery on the main street in town. Outside the modernistic barn-shaped structure, a marquee of upcoming events announced a performance of The Fantastiks, followed by a comedian—that was appropriate for the type of people he was checking out—and then a photography exhibit.
Following the sign for the NAL meeting, he walked down a set of stairs into the gallery where he stopped to admire a photo of a nubile woman in her birthday suit playing a harp. Very artistic. He could just hear Jinks snorting her derision, so he turned to study the rest of the lobby with its collage of pipes and glass-covered gauges, which he soon learned was part of the sprinkler system.
The small, amber-lit hall looked to hold about a hundred, and since most of the seats were taken, he grabbed the nearest empty chair in a corner in the back. The man sitting next to him, about fiftyish and wearing a red vest and a gold paisley cravat, turned to him. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you at one of these meetings before.”
“I’m, ah, new,” Adam smiled. “First timer.”
“You chose a bad one.” The man waved his hand around the room. “We’d better get our usual country club meeting space back for our next meeting. Forsythe must be steaming that it wasn’t available. Some roof leak or whatever. There goes my chance to get in a game of golf tomorrow morning.”
Adam mumbled a “Hmm.”
“I should have stayed at home watching Antiques Roadshow. These meetings are deadly dull.”
Adam took a stab in the dark. “Think he’ll mention that Revere bowl heist?”
The other man’s eyebrows almost launched into the stratosphere, and his voice lowered to barely above a whisper. “Better not let him hear you. You don’t want to be on his blacklist. Though the way he and his son are like oil and vinegar, you’d think he’d be elated at the chance to gloat.”
“Anything like that happen to you?”
“I would never fall for such an amateurish ploy. Forsythe is an imbecile.”
Adam didn’t have a chance to ask which Forsythe the man meant because a figure marched out on stage to the podium. In his upper seventies, unbowed, a silver wolf decked out in a hide of hubris and disdain—shady business practices would be a natural fit for this man.
To Adam’s surprise and that of his neighbor, who Adam saw flinch out of the corner of his eye, Forsythe-the-elder went on a tirade about antiques fraud. Nothing direct about the Revere bowl, just various oblique references. But the message was clear. The NAL, and by extension, Forsythe, were to declare war on “these moles, these infiltrators, these saboteurs.”
Adam knew a thing or two about war. Or battles, anyway. He wasn’t the slightest bit concerned what Forsythe would say if he found out Adam himself was playing a mole role right then. When the meeting dragged on and turned to tedious business items, Adam entertained himself by counting the types of ties in the room. Bow ties were neck-and-neck with cravats. He was proud of his apostate JC Penny tie.
After the meeting adjourned for “refreshments” in the lobby, Adam grabbed a glass of wine and casually strolled around the room, listening in on conversations. He took the occasional teensy sip for appearances, but he did have to drive an hour back.
He was surprised at how much of the chatter had to do with Reggie Forsythe’s “female Robin Hood.” Some of it was outrage, some of it was more on the side of misogyny. Adam looked around and noted the lack of female attendees. Maybe there was a darker reason than a mere lack of women antique store owners.
Adam sidled up to Reggie’s father, who pivoted toward him with a look of confusion. “Do I know you?”
“Mr. Adam.” It wasn’t his best alias, but he was in a hurry. “Enjoyed your presentation. Rogue antiques scam artists. What’s the world coming to?”
Forsythe growled. “Makes you long for eugenics.” Before Adam could decide how to answer that Hitler-esque remark, Forsythe continued, “Even that wouldn’t help. Although my foundation makes a dent through education.”
“Your foundation?”
“A little thing I do on the side. An orphanage, a few scholarships.”
“I wasn’t aware. Sounds fascinating.” Shocking was more like it. Forsythe talked about it without a shred of irony. Was there a heart beating in there somewhere? Or was it a mere tax write-off?
Adam took another sip of wine. “Such a shame about your son’s Revere bowl. Surely they’ve caught the scammer by now.”
“The police are a bunch of bumbling incompetents.” Adam nodded sagely, and Forsythe the Third added, “But so’s my son, apparently. Being taken in like that.”
Adam winked. “More so since I imagine he’s on a first-name basis with deception, wouldn’t you say?”
Forsythe’s eyes narrowed. “What did you say your name was again?”
Adam was about to offer up his pseudo-fake name when an intense man with frizzy white hair like an exploded snow globe grabbed Forsythe’s arm and mumbled in his ear. Adam caught a few words, “Salvage, black market, and discreet,” before the snow-globe man and Forsythe hurried off.
As Adam turned around, he caught a figure weaving through the crowd, headed for the door. A female figure. Once more, Adam was reminded of how few women he’d seen at this meeting, making this one particular woman stand out in the crowd.
She had her back toward him, letting him see she had coal-black hair tied in a French braid. He didn’t think he’d seen her before, and yet, there was something familiar about her.
He decided to catch her before she left, but an elderly man bumped his arm, causing Adam to spill wine down his shirt. After brushing off the man’s apologies as best he could, Adam sprinted after the woman, but when he reached the street level, she’d vanished.
