Chapter 18

Untangling chains from ropes of pearls and other chains, I began to separate the pieces, laying them in individual piles on the bed. I didn’t see anything that made my heart flutter. They looked pretty much like the costume jewelry that Hazel Marie dearly loved, and I doubted they’d be worth the trouble of a trip to Benson’s Jewelry on Main. Still, I would take everything and let them have the responsibility of determining their value.

Finally, hoping for something outstanding, I opened the first little box—more pearls, but this strand had what looked like a sapphire on the clasp. Along with the strand was a pair of pearl earrings, each with a small dangling pearl. I put them together in a ziplock bag and set it aside.

The next little box held a brooch. I lifted it out to examine it, but it didn’t look any better than when it lay on cotton in the box. It was in the shape of a flower, outlined with gold filigree and studded with a few diamonds. Or maybe gold-plated filigree and studded with a few zircons or glass chips—who knew? Into a separate bag it went.

The next box held a ring made of silver, white gold, or platinum—better eyes than mine would have to decide which. The setting was an old-fashioned one with what I hoped was a small diamond surrounded by diamond chips. It looked very much like the engagement ring that had belonged to my mother.

As I studied it, I wondered if Mattie had inherited it or if it had been her own engagement ring, which made me wonder in turn if I’d ever seen her wear a wedding ring. And I hadn’t, because, I assumed, of her swollen arthritic knuckles.

Sighing, I slipped the ring into a bag and opened the next box—another brooch. This one, I was fairly sure, was costume jewelry and hardly worth a careful examination. It was one of those that people wear during December—a Christmas tree–shaped pin with colored stones sprinkled on it. Still, I bagged it and went on.

Earrings, or rather studs, were in the next box, and I did remember Mattie wearing them some time ago. If they were real diamonds, then they would be worth something. I looked at them carefully, then smiled because one of them was missing the little piece on the back that held the earring in place.

I declare, I didn’t know why earring makers couldn’t come up with a better method. I’d simply stopped wearing the studs I had because they required both good eyesight and nimble fingers to put them on. And once you dropped the little back piece, you could never find it again.

A wide gold bracelet was in the last box. At least I hoped it was gold—it was an etched bangle with a few small dents in it, which indicated that it might be gold. But whether ten, fourteen, or eighteen karat, I couldn’t see the markings on the underside well enough to determine.

The drawer was slowly emptying, and I’d yet to find anything that would noticeably increase Mattie’s wealth. I opened a larger box and found what the French call a parure—a matching set of necklace, bracelet, brooch, and dangling earrings made up, unfortunately, of tiny jet beads. The image of a Roaring Twenties flapper came to mind, but I seriously doubted that a jet set would thrill a jet-setting millennial.

The last box held another parure of what I assumed were garnets, consisting of earrings, brooch, and ring. Pretty, but garnets, I knew, were not at the top of the value list.

Putting those in a bag, I sighed in disappointment at what I’d found—or not found. The entire contents of Mattie’s jewelry drawer would be unlikely to bring much more than a couple of hundred dollars.

But, I thought with a lift of my spirits, maybe she had a safe-deposit box at her bank. If so, that’s where the valuable pieces would be, if she’d had any. I wrote a note to myself to call Mr. Sitton to see if she’d had a lockbox. At least, there was still a hope—though dim at best—of increasing the amount of money I would be able to distribute.

I spent the next few minutes opening every drawer in the bedroom and running my hand under and through underclothes, bedclothes, sweaters, and so forth hoping to find more jewelry boxes. Then, remembering my own attempts at hiding special pieces, I went to the closet and took down three hard-used pocketbooks. Excepting piles of Kleenex, hairpins, a stick or two of gum, and lint, they were empty. I sighed, conceding that I’d probably found the limit of Mattie’s jewelry collection.

“Julia?” Helen, holding a yellow legal pad, appeared in the doorway. “I’ve made a list of the pieces I’ve been able to reach and examine, but we’re going to need some help with the larger pieces.”

“Yes,” I said, nodding. “I figured as much. Have you found anything interesting?”

“Maybe. I just can’t get to them. But most of it seems to be fairly good reproductions. If we could hire someone to move things around at the same time we have Diane Jankowski here, we might make some headway.”

“That’s your appraiser?”

“Yes, and she knows her business. Do you want me to call her?”

“Yes, but wouldn’t it be nice if we could get those twins in here.”

Helen frowned. “What twins?”

“You know. The ones on Antiques Roadshow—they could walk in the door and give us an appraisal down to the penny. Of course,” I went on, laughing, “we’d have to listen to a thirty-minute dissertation on Queen Anne legs, claw feet, underside patina, and ebony inlay, complete with hand and arm gestures, but they’d be entertaining.”

“Julia,” Helen said, smiling, “you’re off on a tangent. I think Diane will suit us just fine.”

“Oh, I know. I’m just a little giddy about the amount of work in front of us. But it’s still early, so let’s see if you and I can move a few things.”

I carefully placed all the jewelry-filled ziplock bags into one of several wadded-up bags that Mattie had assiduously saved, ready to be taken to Benson’s Jewelry on Main. Then Helen and I moved, with a lot of to-ing and fro-ing, a large Chippendale chair in bad need of reupholstering so that she could examine the mahogany commode behind it.

Pulling out the top drawer, Helen shook her head. “Very nice, but it’s a reproduction. See, Julia, here’s the maker’s stamp with the year of manufacture—1930.”

“It’s a pretty piece, though. What do you think it’s worth?”

“Maybe seven or eight hundred retail. Half of that if you sell it to a dealer. If you’re lucky.”

“Oh, my. Well . . .” I stopped at the sound of a knock at the door. “Who can that be?”

Opening the door, my eyes lit up with the prospect of some strong-arm help. “Mr. Wheeler, do come in. Can we help you?”

He smiled, standing there with his shirtsleeves lopped up over his elbows and sawdust sprinkling his forearms and a smattering of it in his dark, though slightly graying, hair. “No, I just stopped by to see if I could help you.”

“Well, you’re just in time. We’d like to move some furniture around—just a few pieces for now.” Turning to Helen, I said, “Helen, this is Mr. Wheeler. He’s remodeling one of the units here and has been kind enough to offer a hand. Mr. Wheeler, this is Helen Stroud, a friend of mine and Mattie’s. She knows furniture better than I do.”

Mr. Wheeler’s gray eyes took in Helen, specifically—I thought—her carefully manicured but ringless left hand. She, in spite of having crawled around and under tables for the past hour or so, looked as cool, unruffled, and unimpressed as she always did. He nodded and shook the hand she held out. “Nate,” he said. “Nate Wheeler. Happy to help.”

So for the next thirty minutes we made use of a man with a strong back and muscular arms, for which I make no apologies for noticing. I myself am partial to a well-turned arm. Helen noticed, too, if I wasn’t mistaken, although I doubted that she’d be really interested in a man who worked with his hands. She leaned more toward the professional and/or executive suit-and-tie type, who were rarely called upon to sweat while getting their hands dirty. Still, there was a paucity of such types in Abbotsville to choose from, and at one point, probably at her wit’s end, she had almost succumbed to the dubious charms of Thurlow Jones. She’d finally come to her senses, though, and settled back into her unmarried state, seemingly with relief for having escaped an even worse existence with Thurlow.

After that fiasco, I doubted that the sawdust-covered Mr. Wheeler had much of a chance with her, although the amount of eye cutting he was doing toward her revealed his possible interest.

“Oh, look, Julia,” Helen called out. “It’s a handkerchief table. See how the triangles open out to make a square game table. Oh, this is lovely.” She ran her hand over the green felt on the top of the table. “Surely this is worth something.”

“I truly hope so,” I said, standing back to admire it.

Mr. Wheeler squatted down beside the table. “Look at these casters,” he said, rubbing a finger over the tiny wheels. “They’ve got to be the original ones—eighteenth century, I’d say. With a little careful cleaning, this brass will shine.”

“Oh,” Helen said, somewhat taken aback, “do you know furniture, Mr. Wheeler?”

“Nate,” he said with a smile. “Not really, just enough to recognize good workmanship. I make a few pieces now and then.”

Helen gave this handyman type an appraising look that seemed to indicate a shift in her thinking. Still, once burned with the likes of Thurlow Jones, twice shy with anyone else, even if he did know good furniture when he saw it.

“Perhaps,” I suggested, “we’d do well to move what we’ve looked at to the guest room. That way we can get to the pieces in the back. Besides,” I went on, “I’d love to get to that cellarette back there, if that’s what it is.”

So Mr. Wheeler moved the tea table and the handkerchief table to Mattie’s guest room, and Helen and I pulled out the lovely little cellarette.

“Mr. Wheeler, Nate,” Helen said as he came back into the room. “See what you think of this. Julia’s in love with it.”

Actually, I was less in love with it than fearful that it might hold a cache of Mattie’s bottles. Helen wasn’t a gossip, but I’d as soon not share Mattie’s secret vice with anyone.

Mr. Wheeler grinned at me, then leaned over and lifted the lid—no bottles, I was relieved to see. “Uh-huh,” he said, “it has the dividers and it’s deep enough to hold bottles, and—look here! The key’s still with it. That’s amazing and probably because it’s been in the same family since it was made.”

Mr. Wheeler squatted beside the small table, running his hand lovingly up and down the slender legs. “Walnut,” he said, “with some kind of fruitwood inlay. I’m guessing a Southern provenance, maybe Tidewater Virginia or the Carolinas. There were a lot of itinerant cabinetmakers making the rounds of the coastal plantations. They’d stay at a place for a few weeks or months, make whatever was wanted, then move on to the next place.”

Helen, if I wasn’t mistaken, was captivated by Mr. Wheeler’s knowledge. “Do you have any idea what it might be worth?” she asked.

“Not a clue,” Mr. Wheeler said, standing. “I wouldn’t even venture a guess. You’ll need someone better informed than I am.”

“Yes,” Helen said, nodding. “Julia, I’ll see if Diane can meet us here tomorrow afternoon, if that works for you.”

“That’ll be fine. Mr. Wheeler, thank you so much for your help. At least we’ve made a dent in this pile of furniture and have a glimmer of hope that Mattie might have a few things of value.”