Six

Faith was slightly miffed. Especially since her own napkin ring was staring her in the face. It wasn’t as distinctive as Tom’s—a large sterling repoussé ring, originally his great-grandfather’s—but there were her initials in an elegant script and the slight dent from the time she’d heaved it at Hope and missed, hitting the dining room wall instead.

Yes, she was miffed. She’d spent most of Saturday fruitlessly chasing all over New England; Marian simply walked into a house barely a five-minute drive from Faith’s own and came up a winner.

“Please! What are you doing!” The volunteer had come unstuck and was frantically picking up the napkins.

“TFP, Thomas Preston Fairchild. It was his great-grandfather’s name and it’s his. I’ll thank you to call the police immediately or at the least show me to a phone,” Marian said.

By now, a crowd of very interested bystanders had gathered and others were trying to squeeze through the door. Word of the ruckus was spreading quickly throughout the house: Some woman was running amok with the table settings in the dining room!

Marian Fairchild was not paying the slightest attention to anyone except the hostess, who was beginning to strike her as slightly stupid. She’d recited the names and birth dates on each ring without looking—what further proof could the woman want? Faith, meanwhile, was taking the opportunity to scrutinize the rest of the room for a Fairchild gravy ladle or the odd butter knife.

The onlookers were parted by a small, very determined figure. She took Marian by the elbow and said, “I’m sure we can straighten this all out. These are such lovely things, aren’t they? Of course it’s a great temptation to pick them up, but why don’t I just put them back where they belong and we can have a little talk?”

Faith moved quickly next to her mother-in-law, who was ready to blow a gasket, although momentarily speechless. “I’m Faith Fairchild and this is my mother-in-law, Mrs. Richard Fairchild. It may be hard to believe, but these do belong to us. Our home was burglarized recently and somehow these, and perhaps other items, have ended up here at your show house.” She gently but firmly detached the woman’s hand from Marian’s elbow. “Is there someplace we can talk? We need to know where these napkin rings came from, and the police should be informed.”

The woman was not quite ready to give up. These little terrier types never do, Faith reminded herself. Fixing Faith with a stern eye, the woman asked. “Are you absolutely sure?”

“We’re absolutely sure,” Faith replied.

Marian had found her voice. “Faith, dear, she thinks I was trying to steal them! She thinks I’m a thief—or a lunatic!” Marian’s tone made it clear who, of the two of them, had the mental deficiency.

The crowd of ladies began to buzz. They would have paid twice the admission price! Conversations with those unlucky enough to have missed all this were rapidly being mentally rehearsed: “Did you hear what happened at the Byford show house? I mean, she looked like such a nice woman, well dressed…”

Hearing the whispered undercurrents and needing no translation after her years in Aleford, Faith addressed the group. “I’m sure all of you have heard about the recent rash of burglaries in the area, and our house was hit. My mother-in-law recognized the napkin rings as soon as she looked at the table, and she did what any of us would do—took them back. Now, if you’ll excuse us…” She led the way, she knew not where, through the nearest door. It was a large butler’s pantry and she was happy to see a phone. It hung on the wall and wasn’t disguised in any cutesy, decorative way. Just a plain—she picked up the receiver—working phone. Before she dialed, she turned to the hostess, who was dogging their heels, keeping the napkin rings in sight. “I’d like to call the Aleford police and let them know about this. I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.” She was excessively polite.

“It’s Mrs. Eleanor Barnett. Yes, I think the police should be notified. Nothing like this has ever happened at one of my houses before.” Clearly, it was Faith’s and Marian’s fault.

While she punched in the numbers, Faith was aware that Marian and Mrs. Barnett were having a heated discussion sotto voce. She listened as best she could while the phone at the police station rang—and rang.

“I can’t let you take these! Even if they are yours,” the woman corrected herself hastily. “I mean, they are obviously yours, but all our antiques have been supplied by Nan Howell. She owns Tymely Treasures here in town. I have to get in touch with her.”

“Never mind.” Faith had a sudden premonition. If this Nan Howell was honest, fine, but if she wasn’t, calling would mean any other things of theirs the woman might have in her possession would promptly disappear. “We’ll let the Aleford police handle this and finish looking at the beautiful job you’ve done here. Marian, we know where the napkin rings are, so let’s leave them for now.”

Marian looked as if she was about to protest, but Faith caught her eye and she got the message. She handed the napkin rings over without another word.

Faith was speaking into the phone. “Yes, we’re positive they’re ours, Dale. They have our initials on them and our birth dates.” Charley wasn’t at the station, which accounted for the delay in answering the phone, and Patrolman Warren was having a hard time believing they had found some of their stolen items—giving a lie to Charley’s well-meant reassurances that the Fairchilds’ goods might never be recovered. “Golly, Mrs. Fairchild! I don’t think I’ve ever heard of anybody getting their stuff back!” He promised to get the message to the chief as quickly as possible and Faith said she’d be in touch.

“The police have been informed,” Faith said emphatically. “Marian, shall we see the rest of the house?” She walked from the pantry into the large kitchen. Clutching the napkin rings, Eleanor Barnett went in the opposite direction to restore the table settings, leaving the Fairchild women with obvious reluctance. She glanced around the kitchen. Aside from some small potted herbs on the windowsill, there was nothing pilferable.

Marian spoke loudly and distinctly: “I think granite counters are getting slightly old hat, don’t you, Faith, but putting a hinged window seat along those back windows was terribly clever.”

The show was over—or one of them.

As soon as the woman left, Faith said softly, “There must be a back door. We’ve got to get to that antique shop before anyone—the police or someone from here—calls the owner. They’ll be so busy talking about all this among themselves that we may get lucky and no one will think to call the antiques store. Besides, they think we’re still here. Afterward, I want to come back and search the rest of the house.”

Marian nodded and said brightly, again in her crisp New England voice, a voice with great carrying power, “I wonder if there’s a mudroom. So handy if you have small children. And look at the garden! Did you ever see such roses? Such early blooms!” She had Faith outside and walking down the street toward the car before you could say Mario Buatta.

While Marian drove, Faith found the address of Tymely Treasures in the show house program booklet. It was on Route 62, which was nearby. She watched the numbers, and they were almost in Carlisle before they found it—next to a dry cleaners and, from the look of the brick, dating back in “tyme” to the mid-1970s.

A bell rang merrily as Faith pushed open the door. The store was deep and narrow. Every surface was covered—paintings and prints on the walls, rugs of various descriptions on the floor, most of which was taken up by chests, chairs, tables, and whatnots—layers upon layers. One side of the room was lined with bookcases and china closets, each appropriately crammed. The other side contained several showcases filled with silver, jewelry, and small objets d’art—tchotchkes. The afternoon sun caught a tabletop filled with cut glass. It also glinted off a group of offerings from the thirties—shiny cocktail shakers, blue etched glass mirrors, slender nymphs draped in impossible poses around clock faces. Fringed silk and paisley shawls had been draped over a row of late-nineteenth-century love seats and it wasn’t until one of the shawls moved, revealing a pleasant-faced middle-aged woman with a Dutch bob, that the Fairchilds were sure that someone was indeed minding the store.

“Hi, welcome to Tymely Treasures. I’m Nan. Are you looking for anything special?” She was wearing a long, loose caftan and, in addition to the shawl, had adorned herself with strings of amber and cinnabar beads, several inches of brightly colored Bakelite bracelets on both wrists, and a large cameo on her ample breast.

“We’re looking for a gift—silver, or maybe a piece of jewelry.” Faith had no intention of saying anything about the napkin rings until she’d thoroughly cased the joint and formed an impression of Nan Howell.

“Over there.” She pointed to her left. “I’ll be happy to show you anything you want to see. Take your time.” She resumed her position on the love seat and took up the book she’d been reading. It was a mystery—At Death’s Door by Robert Barnard.

Twenty minutes later, Faith realized dejectedly that while Nan Howell had lovely things, none of them belonged to the Fairchilds. The woman had gotten up twice, once to answer the phone and once to unlock one of the showcases and pull out a box of serving pieces so they could have a closer look. Marian had drifted off toward some Bennington pottery and Faith was trying to decide what to do next, when she was startled by Nan’s voice. She’d gotten up and was walking toward Faith.

“I bought the napkin rings. I didn’t steal them. You are Faith Fairchild, right?” Was the woman clairvoyant? Faith remembered the phone ringing. Charley must have gotten the message. But it wasn’t Charley.

“Ellie Barnett, the woman in charge of the show house, is an old friend. She called me right away. ‘A blonde,’ she said, ‘about five six, very well dressed, accompanied by an older woman,’ so I figured it must be you.” All this had been delivered in a sympathetic but also slightly amused manner. Faith had the feeling that Nan was picturing the scene in the show house dining room. She’d also clearly enjoyed letting the two “sleuths” search her store, all the while knowing exactly who they were and what they were up to.

Momentarily diverted by trying to analyze the owner of Tymely Treasures—and by the flattering description of her own wardrobe—Faith was soon back on track. “Where did you get the napkin rings—and when?”

“Let’s sit down. Do you want a cup of tea?” Nan locked the front door and turned the sign around so it read CLOSED.

She led the way to the rear of the store, which had been curtained off. Behind the curtain, there was a table with a hot plate, several chairs, and more stock. Nan put the kettle on.

“It’s a horrible experience—being broken into. I’ve had things taken from the shop or at shows, but never from my home. It always bothers me to lose something. You know that someone you took on good faith as a customer wasn’t really, but it would be much, much worse to have it happen in one’s abode. The old ‘Your house is your castle’ thing—impregnable, safe.”

Nan was a talker, something that had not been apparent at first. She knew enough to keep her mouth shut while people were browsing, but now there was no need. This was all fine with Faith. She simply needed to steer the conversation in the right direction.

Marian had taken over making the tea. She automatically assumed tasks like this.

“You still haven’t told us where our napkin rings came from. How did they end up with you? They were stolen last Tuesday.”

“I got them from the Old Oaken Bucket Antiques Mart near Peterborough, New Hampshire, last Friday. The receipt may have the case number on it. Anyway, it’s the first large one you come to on the right behind the front counter. Oaken Bucket rents space to dealers, most of whom don’t have, or don’t want, shops. There are lots of places like this all over New England now. Antiques supermarkets. The small, owner-operated shop may become a thing of the past. Kind of like all those chains putting the old-fashioned drugstores—you know, with the soda fountains—and small independent bookstores out of business. People want to look at a whole lot of things without driving around. I call it the Wal-Martization of America.” Nan was off on a tangent again. Faith wasn’t paying much attention.

Her heart was soaring. Peterborough wasn’t far. Maybe an hour and a half. She looked at her watch. But if she was going to make it today, she’d have to go now. Unless the place was open late. Another thought suddenly occurred to her. She hadn’t seen any of their things displayed, yet that didn’t necessarily mean Nan hadn’t purchased more items. Some could have been sold already!

“What else did you buy from that case?”

“Just the napkin rings. I needed them for the show house and they were reasonable. There was a nice gold bracelet, but the price was too high. I left an offer.”

Marian placed a mug of tea in Faith’s hand. “Why don’t you and Tom take a drive up there? I’ll watch the children. There’s no point in going back to the show house if Mrs. Howell”—Marian had obviously spotted the heavy gold wedding band on the woman’s ring finger, as had Faith—“bought only the napkin rings.” This was said a bit wistfully, and Faith promised herself that she would make it her number one priority in the future to take her mother-in-law to every bedecked house possible.

Nan had been eyeing both women. “It’s not a bad idea. They stay open later now that daylight saving time is in effect, and with Memorial Day weekend coming up, you’d better check things out as soon as you can. That’s the official start of the tourist season, and plenty of folks take the opportunity to go antiquing.”

Faith was seized with a sudden rush of panic. They had to get to the Old Oaken Bucket and they had to get there as soon as possible!

“Thank you!” She put the mug down, tea forgotten.

Marian gave Nan a warm smile. “You have such a delightful shop. I’ll certainly be back when I have more time—and about the napkin rings. Why don’t you tell your friend Mrs. Barnett to have them at the door? The children like to go to Carlisle for ice cream, and we’ll pick the silver up on our way.”

No flies on her.

As she walked the two women out, Nan told Faith to come back the next day. “I can give you a list of trade publications where you can send photos or descriptions of your stolen things. Also suggest other places you might look.”

“We wasted almost all day Saturday going to pawnshops. We should have been checking out antiques stores!” Faith had visions of her possessions changing hands almost before her eyes.

“It’s still very early—your things could be anywhere, including pawnshops. You can’t know where—or who’s involved—except that you were obviously broken into by pros.”

The first time Faith had heard this, she had felt a modicum of pride. They’d been robbed, but by high-class thieves. Now she wished it had been by thugs who didn’t know Meissen from Melomac. Maybe they wouldn’t have known where to look or taken the sideboard drawer. These guys would have grabbed the computers, maybe a little jewelry, and run.

“Yup, pros,” Nan said.

This was getting to be another one of those phrases that Faith wasn’t sure she could hear repeated again without seriously damaging something.

 

The Old Oaken Bucket was certainly not your average cozy antiques shop. There was nothing oaken about it, for a start. It was a long, low corrugated metal warehouse with a large sign at the entrance advising patrons to lock their coats and bags in their cars; otherwise, they would have to be checked. Another sign warned patrons that the premises were protected by Acme Alarms. AND SMITH & WESSON had been added underneath, crudely printed with a black marker. There was no welcome mat. There was, however, a bucket—a large tin pail filled with sand and another sign—PARK YOUR BUTTS HERE. Faith went back to the car and locked her purse in the trunk.

“Ready?” she said to Tom.

“Absolutely.” She’d had no trouble convincing him to make the mad dash to New Hampshire before the place closed. He’d been stunned, and overjoyed that they’d recovered anything, and the thought of more had put him in a high good humor.

“I told Ms. Dawson she could take the rest of the day off,” Tom told Faith on the way up. “She really is working too hard, but she insisted on staying. You know, I’ve never seen work pile up on her desk. The woman is the best secretary I’ve ever had. I mean, assistant.” The church had recently changed the name of the position to administrative assistant.

Rhoda Dawson had been pushed to the back of Faith’s mind since last Thursday and now the questions that had nagged at her then emerged with full force. Was the woman a workaholic? Maybe she had no other life except for her job? Or maybe she was nipping in and out of the church office to size up various prospects in the neighborhood for her partners in crime. Faith wasn’t about to voice this suspicion and get lectured again. Let Tom enjoy the sight of a clean desk. He’d never see his own that way.

The inside of the Old Oaken Bucket was as sterile as the outside. A Formica counter barred the way from the entrance to the rows and rows of floor-to-ceiling glass booths. The booths were all locked up tight and employees walked up and down the aisles with keys. Faith watched someone open a case for a customer as Tom filled out a form requiring more information than a 1040. Apparently, the customer was interested in several pieces of jewelry. They were handed to her one at a time, the watchful eye of the Bucket staff member never leaving the item for an instant. There were also video cameras mounted on the ceiling, keeping track of things. Nan’s analogy to Wal-Mart was false, Faith decided. Wal-Mart was a whole lot more trusting.

She’d instructed Tom to give a false name and address and now peered over to see if he’d complied. If the Bucket people were involved with the Fairchilds’ robbery, they might recognize the address and send them packing, Faith had explained to Tom. He’d agreed, but she should have signed them in herself. Falsehoods did not come trippingly to Tom’s tongue—or hand. At the last moment, his conscience might force his fingers to write his real name and they would miss their chance. Next to the counter blocking entry to the booths, there was another intimidating sign: WE RESERVE THE RIGHT TO REFUSE ENTRANCE TO ANYBODY FOR ANY REASON. The woman behind the counter examined Tom’s form carefully and lifted the hinged section, allowing them to pass into the main part of the store one at a time. “Go right ahead, Mr. Montgomery.” That was the name Faith had given him, not too common, not too uncommon, and not Tom’s initials. Faith breathed a sigh of relief. They were in.

Unlike Nan Howell, this woman wasn’t wearing anything over five years old. She was dressed in tight black toreador pants and a sheer white blouse. Heavily made up and her bottle-blond hair elaborately coiffed, she looked more like a cocktail waitress than the proprietor of an antiques emporium. “If you want to look at something, I have people with keys on the floor,” she added perfunctorily.

Tom nodded and let his wife precede him. She made a beeline for the cases to the right. The surroundings might be institutional, but the silver, porcelain, glass, and other objects the dealers offered turned the drab interior into Ali Baba’s cave.

“The first on the right,” Faith whispered to Tom. “This must be it.”

The shelves had been covered with deep crimson velvet and each was devoted to a different category. The top one displayed four alabaster busts. Inspired by the beauty of the gods and goddesses purloined from the Parthenon, Victorians had wanted to bring Artemis and Aphrodite even closer to home—in the drawing room or parlor. These were fine examples.

The next shelf was covered with Chinese export porcelain and netsukes. Again, all were in perfect condition, not even a hairline crack in any of the Rose Medallion.

The next shelf…On the next shelf was grandmother Sibley’s silver creamer and sugar bowl, the fish-serving pieces from the Conklins, a cold-meat fork from Faith and Tom’s wedding silver, an Art Nouveau picture frame they’d bought at the Marché aux Puces de Clignancourt in Paris, and Great-Grandmother Fairchild’s gold thimble—or so it appeared. Her initials were engraved inside. Marian had given it to Amy on her first birthday, because their initials were the same. Faith had decided to assume this was why and not respond to any hint Marian might be subtly trying to convey. Embroidering handkerchiefs and turning out samplers were not skills she could pass on to her daughter and she didn’t intend to take up needlework at this stage in her life, no matter how simple Pix said it was to count cross-stitches. The only needle Faith plied was a basting one, and she found French tarts infinitely preferable to French knots.

She was staring, transfixed, into the case.

“Tom!” It was hard not to scream. “Look!”

“I know, I know.” He was squeezing her hand so hard, her ring was cutting into her finger, but she didn’t let go.

“It’s our silver—and that malachite pin, on the bottom shelf. It’s mine. Hope gave it to me. Quick, find somebody with a key.”

Feigning nonchalance wasn’t easy, but the Fairchild/Montgomerys gave performances worthy of at least an Oscar nomination. They’d have received a People’s Choice Award, hands down.

“This is nice, dear, but the stone is small. Do you think it’s a real amethyst?” Faith was holding a lavaliere on a long, thin gold chain that her parents had given her as a teenager.

“Let’s get it—and these other things.” They’d piled the silver on the front counter and now added the two pieces of jewelry.

“Can you hold these for us while we look around some more?” Faith asked the woman, who was listing their items.

“Sure,” she said. “Take your time. We stay open until dark.” She lit a cigarette. Clearly none of the rules applied to her.

At first, it was fun. Elated by their success, the Fairchilds scanned each case thoroughly. Then it got tedious and the items began to look alike. Hadn’t they just seen those shaving mugs? Those shelves of souvenir spoons?

“Why don’t we split up?” Tom suggested.

Faith shook her head. “You wouldn’t recognize everything, particularly the jewelry. Some of the things I never wear, or wore, I should say,” she amended sadly. “Things from when I was a kid. Things that aren’t in style anymore.”

Finally, they reached the end. They hadn’t found anything else.

“Obviously, we don’t tell her the things are stolen. She’d call whoever the dealer is, and we can forget about ever seeing anything else again.”

“So, we just buy it back?”

“We buy it back, but dicker, Tom, dicker.”

He gave her a withering look. You didn’t have to tell a Yankee to bargain.

“Are you dealers?” the woman asked.

“No. But I’m sure you can do better for us. What’s your cash price?” Tom asked. The Fairchilds had stopped at an ATM. Faith didn’t want to have to give identification with a check.

The woman looked at them with a practiced eye, appraising their clothes, wedding and engagement rings, then entered the information into her mental calculator. Sharon Fielding, who owned the Old Oaken Bucket with her husband, Jack, could spot a reproduction iron bank at twenty paces. She also knew she had a relatively well-heeled couple who weren’t going to hold out for 10 percent and risk losing the items. “Five percent for cash—since you’re not dealers. That’s all I’m authorized to give.” Case number four’s dealer—where all the merchandise had come from—gave Sharon free rein, but besides rent, she extracted a commission from the dealers. Buying low and selling high was as important to her as it was to them.

Tom knew he was being taken, but he didn’t want to risk a delay. They needed to walk out of the place with everything now—for their peace of mind and in case anyone got the wind up. Or there was also the chance that someone else might purchase some of the items.

Faith moved into action. “There were such lovely things in that case,” she said. “Does the dealer have a shop? We’d like to see more.”

“No, he doesn’t.” Okay, it was a man.

“We wanted to talk to him about several of the other pieces we are interested in, especially the tea service.” It was the most expensive item in the case—vintage Jensen silver from Denmark. “Is he local? Could we get in touch with him?”

“No, he’s in Massachusetts, but we have dealer day the second Friday of each month and he often comes.”

“Oh dear, that won’t be for a while. Why don’t you give us his name and we’ll get in touch with him directly?” Okay, a man in Massachusetts.

“We never give out names.”

Period.

They’d succeeded in narrowing things down, but male Massachusetts antiques dealers comprised a rather large group.

On the way home, Faith realized she was exhausted—and hungry. The little tea sandwiches she’d consumed at lunch were a distant memory. She rummaged around in the glove compartment and found a bar of extradark Lindt chocolate she kept there for emergencies. She broke off a piece for Tom.

“Do you know what the worst thing about all this is?”

“No, what is the worst thing, and what is all this?”

“Looking for our stuff. The worst thing is that I’m even more dissatisfied now that I’ve found some.”

“Huh?” said Tom. “Is that all the chocolate there is?”

“No, here’s some more. It sounds crazy, but finding these things makes me remember what’s still missing, and I can’t appreciate what I’ve got, because I want it all back.”

“It does sound a little crazy, but also a little logical. Like being starving and only getting enough food to take the edge off your hunger. Or being thirsty—”

“I get it, I get it. Could be a sermon topic, honey.”

Tom put his hand over Faith’s. “You never know.”

They were almost home. It had been a strange trip. On the way up, Faith had barely given a passing glance to the beautiful landscape—birches bent low against the looming dark conifers; maples and other hardwoods leafed out in brilliant greens that would give way to a more gaudy palette during fall foliage season. The small back road that crossed the state line would be bumper-to-bumper then. It was almost deserted now. On the way back, Faith was just as oblivious to her surroundings, at times forgetting exactly where they were. Peterborough? Pepperell? Lowell? Mars?

“Do we drive straight to the police station or call?” Tom asked.

“Call. We want to preserve your mother’s illusion that her grandchildren are perfect, and the longer we stay away, the more precarious that becomes. There’s also the danger that our children may start comparing me to her. ‘Granny never makes me take a bath. Granny never yells at me. Granny lets me eat Happy Meals.’ I can hear Ben now.”

“Nonsense, you’re a perfect mother—and a perfect wife.”

Faith didn’t bother to correct him.

 

“Let me see if I understand this.” Faith was talking on the phone with Charley MacIsaac. “If you find out the name of the dealer from the Old Oaken Bucket people, you can’t search his house, even though he was selling stolen goods, because you wouldn’t be able to get a warrant without probable cause?”

Charley cleared his throat. They’d been down this road several times already in various vehicles.

“I can get the name and question him. Have him bring his receipts if he claims to have purchased the things, but you said you don’t want to do that.”

“He’ll get rid of everything if he thinks we’re on to him. The only way is to raid his house or storage locker. Whatever he uses.”

“You have heard of the U.S. Constitution, right? And I don’t mean the ship in Boston Harbor.”

“No need to get sarcastic. I know what you’re saying.” Since the beginning of the conversation, Faith had been wishing she was not such an ardent supporter of constitutional rights. It was all well and good in the abstract, but they were definitely getting in the way now. Maybe this is when they are needed most, an annoying little voice nagged at her. The voice sounded remarkably like her Aunt Chat’s.

Another voice told her she was going to have to handle this investigation herself. She was sorry she’d called the police. Their goals were not converging at the moment. Yes, she wanted the perpetrators caught and brought to justice, but she also wanted to recover as much as possible in the process.

“Give me the booth number, Faith, and I’ll drive up there tomorrow. Then I’ll have a talk with the dealer. You say he lives in Massachusetts?”

“I think that’s what the woman said,” Faith replied tentatively. She had her own plans. “I don’t have the case number.” She didn’t, not by the phone.

Charley was getting annoyed. “Look, do you want me to investigate your burglary or not? There’s another call coming and I’m alone here, as usual. You come by tomorrow and we’ll straighten this out.”

That was fine with Faith.

 

Nan Howell had been as good as her word. When Faith arrived at the shop the next day, Nan handed her a list of publications: The Maine Antique Digest, The Newtown Bee, Unravel the Gavel, and another list of the major antiques marts in New England. It was daunting. How would Faith ever be able to do her job, let alone tend her hearth?

“There’s a big show this weekend, paid preview all day Friday. It’s at the Copley Plaza in Boston. And then there are the auctions. You need to check the paper each week.”

“Do you go to all these things? How would you have time?”

“I make my rounds, especially the auctions and the better shows. For the rest, I rotate. I hadn’t been to the Old Oaken Bucket, for instance, since last summer, but they close for a couple of months in the winter. I have to do this in order to get stock. And a good part of my business is locating things people have asked me to look for. I get called in to buy pieces when estates are settled every now and then, but people tend to auction everything off—the treasures with the trash. People come in with things to sell, too, convinced Great-Aunt Tillie’s lamp is a Tiffany. Sometimes they sell, even after I tell them it’s a repro. Of course, if the PBS Antiques Road Show is to be believed, we might all find one of the missing copies of the Declaration of Independence in the basement in a stack of old newspapers, or a fifteenth-century Venetian gold helmet in the attic, lodged in the beams to catch a pesky drip.”

Faith was curious. “Have you had the store for a long time?”

“About fifteen years. It started as a hobby. I collected art pottery before the prices skyrocketed. Then I started doing flea markets with things I’d bought before I knew better or had had to buy in box lots and didn’t want. One thing led to another, and I was picking up stuff to sell as well as for my collection, reading all the books I could. I knew the man who owned this store and I began to work here a few days a week. Then he wanted to sell the business, and my husband said to go for it. It was a good thing I did. A month after my grand opening, my husband passed away suddenly. A sweetheart, but he thought he’d live forever. You know the type?”

Faith did. No insurance.

“Anyway, the kids were in high school, and this place saw them both through college and kept me from going crazy. Still does.”

College, and a nice BMW parked outside that Faith assumed was Nan’s from the vanity plate: ANTEEK. Tymely Treasures must do very well. Very well indeed.

Faith had told Nan about their finds the day before at the Old Oaken Bucket when she’d called to be sure the shop was open. In the clear light of day, each item was a treasure, doubly treasured for having been restored to its rightful owners. Faith’s depression of the day before had abated—somewhat.

“Wouldn’t the Oaken Bucket’s owners tell you whose case it is?” she asked Nan. “You did leave an offer on a gold bracelet, so you have a reason to call. I think it was still there—heavy gold links with a ruby in the clasp?”

“Yes, that’s the one.” Nan was flushed and it wasn’t just the green tea she’d brewed for them. “This is exciting. I feel like Peter Wimsey, or Harriet Vane, more likely. The Old Oaken Bucket opens at ten o’clock, too, and someone should be there. I’ve known the owners, Sharon and Jack Fielding, since I started in the business, and you’re right, I’m sure they’ll tell me.”

They did.

“It’s George Stackpole,” Nan told Faith after she hung up the phone. “He lives in Framingham and does shows, has booths in a couple of places. Cambridge, I think. Maybe Byfield. I saw him at an auction last week. He said he’s going to be at the show at the Copley that I told you about.”

“What’s he like?” Faith asked eagerly. After the trip to New Hampshire, she’d shelved her initial annoyance and had been blessing her mother-in-law steadily for starting her on the napkin ring trail. Nan was a similar gift from heaven, or so it appeared.

“He’s…well, unpredictable.”

“What does that mean?”

“He can get a little out of control at auctions—accuses the auctioneer of ignoring his bids, that kind of thing—when he doesn’t get what he wants. He’s forgotten more than I’ll ever know about this business. But he’s…volatile.”

Nan was being uncharacteristically reticent and Faith wondered why. Her whole manner had changed after she’d found out who owned case number four. The enthusiasm she’d displayed before making the call had given way to decided reluctance. Just how well did Nan Howell know this George Stackpole? Faith wondered. Was this a case of dealers closing ranks, or some other protective impulse on her part? Instead of the question she’d intended to ask next—Was he known to be crooked?—Faith posed a less threatening one.

“How old a man is he?”

“Hard to say. Probably mid- to late sixties.”

Certainly capable of wielding a crowbar and carrying a loaded drawer, Faith thought.

“Does he ever sell out of his house? I know it’s an awful lot to ask, but maybe the two of us could go and see what he has?”

Nan considered Faith’s suggestion. “Well,” she said slowly, “crooked dealers make the whole profession look bad. I guess I could tell him I’m low on stock and want to see what he has, then take you along as my assistant or something. I’m not sure when I’ll have the time, though. It’s been quite busy here.” The empty store yesterday and today made Faith wonder when, exactly, the busy time was—probably weekends—but she was glad she’d proposed the scheme. She had to see what else this Stackpole might have of theirs.

“You’ve been an enormous help and I can’t thank you enough,” Faith said. “I have to get to work myself. This is a very busy time of year for me too. I don’t know why more people don’t get married say in January.”

There was forced laughter on both sides and Faith left. On the ride back to Aleford, it occurred to her that another matter she hadn’t brought up with Nan was whether any of the foot traffic seeking to sell her items had seemed like footpads—a guy with a silver chest, for example, or a pillowcase of jewelry.

 

Stephanie was waiting impatiently outside the catering kitchens. “I thought you got to work early.”

Remembering Courtney’s not-too-veiled reprimand, Faith bit her tongue and put on a pleasant, “welcoming” smile. Niki could be bad cop—not that she could be otherwise with Miss Bullock.

“I’m sorry. Have you been here long? Usually, I am at work much earlier, but it’s been a strange few days.”

Stephanie’s interest was piqued, and for once she asked about someone else. “What’s been going on?”

As Faith made coffee and took out the ingredients for a small test batch of the cold avocado bisque she planned to serve at the rehearsal dinner, she found herself telling Stephanie all about the hunt for the missing Fairchild loot.

“You need to talk to Daddy. I’m sure he knows this George person. Daddy knows anybody who has anything to do with the business. Mummy, too.”

It was a good idea, made even easier by a call a few minutes later from Patsy Avery.

“Do you want to play hooky and go look at a dining room table with me? It’s at an antiques dealer’s out in Concord.”

“That’s funny. There’s one I want to talk to out there—Julian Bullock.”

Patsy laughed. “We are definitely on the same wavelength. The table is at Julian’s. We’ve bought quite a few things from him, and Will wants a really big table for entertaining. Julian says he has just the thing. Could you go tomorrow morning?”

What with the business, keeping things going at home, and the full-time job of tracking down her possessions, Faith had to think a moment before deciding she could go.

“I’d love to—and I have lots to tell you. We’ve found some of our things.”

“Say what!”

Faith gave Patsy a hasty description, aware that a few feet away Stephanie was bruising the avocados as she mindlessly picked them up and put them down, restlessly waiting for Faith to get off the phone.

“You can get all that money back,” Patsy was advising her friend. “A thief can’t transfer title, so the dealer has to give you back what you paid him. All you have to do is prove the goods were stolen.”

This was good news. They had the photographs, so when she was sure they’d retrieved everything they could, they’d send Mr. Stackpole a bill. It gave her a warm, righteous feeling.

“I thought you’d never get off the phone,” Stephanie said petulantly when Faith hung up. “So, you’re going to Daddy’s tomorrow morning?”

“Yes. Coincidentally, a friend wants to look at a piece of furniture he has for sale.”

“All his furniture is for sale. Forget about getting attached to anything. I came home from boarding school one vacation and had to sleep on a cot because he’d sold my entire bedroom.”

For a moment, Faith felt sorry for Stephanie. It couldn’t have been a happy home; furniture moving in and out was the least of the instability.

“Now”—Stephanie held up one of the alligator pears—“you’re sure the soup isn’t going to be too green?”

 

After Stephanie left, Faith quickly made the soup. She hadn’t used this recipe in some time and planned to serve it to Bullock mother and daughter, along with some of the other goodies from both the rehearsal dinner and wedding reception menus when they came on Friday afternoon. As she finished combining the ingredients, Faith reflected on her uncharacteristic behavior. It was a great recipe and there was no need to make it now, but she was anxious. Anxiety was seeping into all the corners of her life, yet at the moment there didn’t seem any way to control it.

It was a good idea to give the Bullocks something to eat, though. They’d already sampled most of the food, but as they ate, or picked, in Courtney’s case, Faith firmly intended to keep the conversation on the swatch Mrs. Bullock was bringing and what kind of flowers she wanted—anything but changes in the menu.

Faith poured the soup into a bowl, covered it, and put it in the refrigerator. The bisque was a lovely shade of green, like the owl and the pussycat’s boat. Looking at it made her feel better. She started taking out the fruit and cheese for some of the platters ordered for a function in Weston.

As she lined flat wicker baskets with grape leaves, the door opened and Niki arrived. “I‘m having so much fun, and I brought you a sample. Really, on days like this, I can almost get myself to believe that food is better than sex.” She was taking a course in desserts at the Cambridge School of Culinary Arts, and Faith had become used to the sugar high Niki regularly reached after class. She also looked forward to the treats Niki brought. Today, Niki announced they had each made a gâteau St.-Honoré, and she popped one of the extra cream puffs filled with chocolate pastry cream into Faith’s mouth. It was sinful.

“What are you doing?” Niki asked. “Those are for the Weston job, right? Do you want me to get started on the dessert tray?”

“Great. There really isn’t much to do. They’re taking care of the drinks and heating up the other hors d’oeuvres.”

“So,” Niki began, arranging bite-sized palmiers, lavender shortbread, chocolate mousse cups, and other goodies on a tray decorated with crystallized fruit and flowers, “what’s the latest? Have you turned up any more valuables?” Niki had been one of the people Faith had called the night before with the news of the recovery of some of their loot.

“I went out to Nan Howell’s this morning and she got me the name of the dealer who rents the booth at the Old Oaken Bucket. She also gave me a list of places to write to with descriptions of what’s been stolen, as well as a list of antiques marts to check out.”

“Pretty full plate,” Niki observed.

Faith was feeling philosophical. “Getting robbed is like the gift that keeps on giving. You get trapped in the whole process, kind of like the twelve days of Christmas. You start out with one pear and a bird; then, before you know it, you’re up to your eyeballs in milkmaids, leaping lords, insurance adjusters—not to mention cowpats and bird droppings. Of course, you would have all those nice gold rings,” she mused.

Niki laughed. “Glad to see you’re not losing your perspective, boss.”

“Stephanie was waiting for me when I got here. You just missed her.”

Niki snapped her fingers. “Aw, shucks! Don’t you seriously wonder what this girl is going to do with her time once this wedding is over? I mean, doesn’t she have friends, people to go to lunch with, pick up trifles on Newbury Street, and other mindless delights of the leisured class?”

“I think all her friends have jobs or are still in college. Stephanie dropped out to concentrate on being engaged, remember.”

“Yeah, I remember. Mater was complaining that Pater had saved a year’s tuition and shouldn’t be forcing her, of all people, to pay for any of the nuptials. This was after he put his foot down about the monogrammed Pratesi sheets for the Little Princess’s dowry.”

“Right—but Courtney got them herself, Stephanie told me. ‘Daddy’s so cheap. He told me to get Martha Stewart’s at Kmart!’” Faith had Stephanie’s voice down pat.

“I never thought I would live to see the day—Martha Stewart and Kmart—talk about strange bedfellows.” Niki put the finishing touches on the tray, arranging clusters of tiny champagne grapes in each corner.

“Speaking of which, did you hear about Martha’s own daughter’s wedding? Julian Bullock would have been over the moon if Stephanie had gone the route Alexis Stewart did. Apparently, she’d had enough sugared almonds and tulle to last a lifetime and so got married in a gray flannel suit. There were virtually no guests, although Martha was there. They had lunch afterward at Jean Georges, that incredible restaurant near Columbus Circle in New York. Martha didn’t get to make so much as a petit four. I’d better be careful what I expose Amy to or she might do the same thing, and I’d like her to have as great a wedding as we did—and Tom has already practiced a few teary words to work into the ceremony. Stop it!” Niki was making gagging motions, as she did whenever she felt the subject of matrimony was hitting too close to home. “Speaking of Amy,” Faith said, “I have to pick the kids up in twenty minutes. Afterward, I want to check out two or three of these antiques co-op places Nan mentioned. Can you manage? The Weston people insisted on picking the platters up themselves to save the delivery charge, and they’ll be here before three o’clock.”

“I’m going to work on perfecting my chocolate ganache, so don’t worry. I had planned to stay anyway. But, Faith, are those antiquey places kid-friendly? I adore Ben and Amy, but do you seriously want to set them free amid all that bric-a-brac?”

“No, but I don’t have any choice. Leaving children home alone only works in the movies. Besides, Amy will fall asleep in the knapsack and Ben can be very good if sufficiently bribed. He wants some kind of Hot Wheels car, and if I keep reminding him about it, he’ll be able to hold it together. I don’t plan to stay long. Two of the places are in Cambridge and one in Boston.”

 

The act, seldom admitted, of a desperate mother worked like a charm. All Faith had to do was make vroom, vroom noises and Ben curbed the natural instinct he had to touch everything. At one place, he actually asked if he could sit on the bench by the entrance and just watch. “I’m only touching with my eyes, Mommy,” he told her virtuously—and priggishly. And she was quick. This time it was easy. At each place, she said, “I’ve been buying from George Stackpole”—which she had. Then she added, “I’m sorry, but I don’t remember the number of his booth.” Each place gave it—and she added a pair of sugar tongs, a wine coaster, and her Pearson silver necklace and bracelet to the growing list of items back from the dead. She was flushed with success as they stopped at the Toys “” Us in Fresh Pond to make good her promise to Ben. Bribery worked only if you carried through immediately. Deferred gratification was as alien a concept to children as supply-side economics.

At home, as soon as the kids were occupied, she looked in the Framingham telephone book and found George’s address. A plan was forming and she needed to think about it. Above all, she didn’t want to discuss it with Tom.