There wasn’t enough brandy on the island to put Jeff to sleep after what he’d seen. What the hell was Frank Hamilton doing here, anyway? The thought of the young picker being there gnawed at Jeff, churned the brandy in his gut, took the shine off his trip.
He left the bar, double-timed the stairs, and headed for the elevator. Go to the source of aggravation, he thought, as he punched the Down button. Confront Hamilton. Tell the bastard that he had no right being at the Antiques Festival. This was—what?—a private party. No. Off limits to unethical characters? No again.
As the doors slid open, Jeff stood there and realized how stupid he was acting. Hamilton’s childish “I was here first” remark from the roadside the day before rang in his ears.
And what about the woman? She was obviously talking to Frank willingly. Frank didn’t have an arm hold on her or a gun pointed at her. The fact was, it didn’t matter how much Jeff despised the man, there wasn’t a thing he could do about his presence at a public event.
Damn. Jeff watched the doors slide shut, then made his way to his room.
It made sense, he supposed, that Frank would attend. He was, after all, in the antique business as well. Strange, though, to have seen him only yesterday in Seattle—a yesterday that seemed more like ten years ago. Now, here he was on Mackinac Island, a world removed from Seattle, Washington.
Jeff undressed and crawled into bed. He tried to sleep, but his imagination conjured up one stressful scenario after another. What if Frank had learned that Jeff was here for the cabaret set? Blanche owned All Things Old several years before Jeff had gotten into the antique business. He supposed there was no way of knowing just how many people she had put on the trail.
Jeff wondered if Frank might allude to his “secret life,” as he’d also done the day before. Jeff was pretty sure that Frank didn’t know about Sheila. Otherwise, why would he continue to make it sound like Jeff was hiding some deep, dark secret?
He tried to gain control of his thoughts. If Hamilton knew about Blanche’s quest, then what? Blanche probably hadn’t ever thought that the treasure she sought might show up in an auction. If more than one person was bidding for it—for her—then she would actually be bidding against herself. One thing was certain: Blanche was a savvy businesswoman. No, Jeff decided, Blanche hadn’t heard about the cabaret set being here.
But anyone who knew how much she wanted it also knew that she was willing to pay anything to get it back. It was rightfully hers but, because it had been legally—if not ethically—sold by her father, she was going to have to purchase it outright. The letter of provenance didn’t change that fact. If Frank got his hands on the cabaret set, he’d soak the poor woman for all she had.
If he got his hands on it. Well. He would have to make sure Frank didn’t make the winning bid. Jeff was still prepared to pay anything. The young picker’s presence didn’t change that.
He toyed with the idea of calling Blanche and asking her how many people knew of her search. But he’d tried to keep his latest information about the cabaret set under wraps, just in case it didn’t pan out, and he was relatively sure she didn’t suspect his real reason for coming here.
Finally, he surmised, his best tack would be to avoid Hamilton altogether. Pretend he wasn’t there and not let him know how much he got under his skin.
That decided, Jeff stopped tossing and turning. The seminars he wanted to attend would be starting in a few hours, and he needed to get some rest.