The Big Steal (13 page)

I was still recovering from Miss Mary Sophie's casual dismissal of the War. But I had to say something.

“Michelle doesn't strike me as being terribly knowledgeable about the house, other than about Mazie, that is. She seems to idolize Mazie and the house itself. But as far as knowing the antiques—”

“Well, we can't all be to the manor born, or with a silver spoon in our mouths.” Miss Mary Sophie looked me straight in the eye. “I'm told I'm harsh and expect too much,
but
, with education,
anyone
can learn.”

Was this the same woman who had just bemoaned the loss of her family's slaves? What had begun as a cordial teatime
was turning into a fiasco. But I wasn't about to cut our time short, for as a police officer once told me, DNA may put the bad guy away, but through conversation you'll learn who the bad guy is.

“And I'm learning much from you,” I said as sweetly as I could. “You've been immensely helpful. I do have one question, though.” I laughed to further soften the moment. “Actually I have
loads
of questions, but one in particular about Wynderly. With Hoyt's old Virginia ties and the conservative architecture and traditions of this whole region, how
did
he come to build a place like Wynderly? Was it Mazie's influence?”

“Even before they met, Hoyt loved to travel. He'd seen a lot of the world during the war and by the time he and Mazie married, mock French châteaus had become quite fashionable in America. Between Biltmore and Graylyn in North Carolina and the show places in Connecticut and Newport, Rhode Island, the second generation of robber barons were all trying to outbuild one another.”

“Mr. Merritt told me how Hoyt's tobacco business took him all over the world,” I said.

“Yes. I'd say his travels certainly made an impression on him. But there was another influence. A family down Richmond way. Great friends of Hoyt's grandfather.”

“Oh?”

Miss Mary Sophie leaned far back in her chair and laughed. “Everything in Virginia seems to harken back to our grandfathers doesn't it? This time it was the Valentines. Hoyt's grandfather Edward was great friends with Mann Valentine down in Richmond. Seems the Valentines were enthralled by archaeology and anthropology … you know the kind of things, arrowheads,
shards from old vessels and plates, bone fragments and tools. It was quite the fashion to make a show of your learning in your own home. Sir John Soanes had done it in London; Thomas Jefferson did it at Monticello. I remember, when I was a child, my grandfather told me that visiting the Valentines was better than going to the Smithsonian. He could
touch
the things at the Valentines' house.” She smiled. “Oh, it must have been wonderful.”

Once again Miss Mary Sophie thumped her cane hard on the lovely old Heriz carpet I had been secretly admiring. “Listen to how I
do
go on. Of
course
you know about the Valentine collection now that it's been turned into a museum.” She made no attempt to stifle a heavy sigh. “I used to get
so
irritated when old people would tell you their stories over and over, especially stories about their dead ancestors. It bored me to tears. I thought they were bragging about their legacy, showing off. Now I'm old, I understand. It's not that at all. Those recollections of people and events from the past are concrete and real and
dear
.”

The wistful look in her eyes was touching. And when she chuckled and said, “These days,
I'm
the one who is boring, boring
you
to tears,” I felt a tinge of remorse. Perhaps I had been harsh in my judgment of her.

“Oh no, Miss Mary Sophie,” I insisted. “Yes, I know about the Valentine Museum, but”—I smiled and reached across the years to pat her hand—“
but
, I can't say that I've ever heard anyone tell of a family member who saw the collection before it became a museum. I find that thrilling. Now I'll be able to tell others. The story will live on.”

“You're kind.” She clasped my hand. “But enough of that,”
she said. “Back to the point I was meaning to make—
hours
ago. Hoyt was trying to bring the fruits of his journeys and experiences home with him to share with all. Mazie added an extra touch of the exotic with her Louisiana ways and French and Spanish, and who knows what other blood running in her veins. And, Hoyt loved her. He gave her anything and everything she wanted.”

“But from what you said earlier, I'm assuming no dogs,” I said.

Miss Mary Sophie let out a howl of her own. “No sir. Mazie Wyndfield was scared to death of dogs, which was most unfortunate. As you know,
every
Virginia gentleman, at least those in the countryside, has his dogs.” She pointed to the portrait above the mantel. “That's Brandy with my grandfather. A King Charles spaniel. You probably saw Colin when you came in. I've lost track of what generation he is, but his papers go back to Brandy. Poor Hoyt. He had to keep his springers in the kennel.”

I couldn't help thinking about the rows and rows of porcelain dogs I'd found up in the attic. Why had Mazie put them there? How did
they
fit into what I was hearing?

Dear Antiques Expert: My great-great-grandmother's pair of red and white china spaniels sat on my grandmother's living room mantel for as long as I can remember. They had wide eyes and big noses and a collar with a chain and I loved them, but my uncle has inherited them. I want a pair myself, but need to know how much they will cost. Can you help?

Your grandmother's English Staffordshire spaniels, also known as “comforter dogs,” were made in the last half of the 19th century. Staffordshire potters made many sizes, styles, and colors of various breeds of dogs for use as mantel decorations. Spaniels, then hounds and poodles were the most popular styles. Today a fine pair of Staffordshire spaniels standing about ten inches are usually priced between $500 and $800. But beware. Reproductions abound, and have for years. Be sure you purchase your dogs from a reputable dealer who guarantees that they date from the 19th century.

I
T WAS AFTER SIX
o'clock when I pulled out of the front gates of Oakcliffe and started toward the main road at the end of
the estate's private driveway. I remembered how Mother often spoke of the
quaint
old homes that dotted the Virginia countryside. There had been nothing quaint about either Oakcliffe or the woman who lived in it. Oakcliffe was old and grand. Miss Mary Sophie, old and formidable. They seemed uniquely well suited.

Thoughts of the strong-willed Miss Mary Sophie took me back to my childhood. Mother and I had gotten into the typical mother-daughter row about something. Who knows what, now? My father had taken me out to the backyard under the guise of punishing me for being disrespectful to Mother. But instead of giving me a tongue-lashing—my gentle New England born-and-bred father would never have spanked me—Daddy said to me, “Sterling, I could
try
to explain your mother to you if I had a lifetime, but I don't. Suffice it to say,
never
try to understand a Southerner, at least one of her generation.” Boy was he right.

I was getting hungry, but knew that if I stopped for supper and had a glass of wine I'd be done for the day. I had told Frank Fox that we'd get together, though I hadn't the vaguest idea what he wanted, nor, right now, did I give a damn. But he was as tenacious as a candidate chasing votes on Election Day. It was bad enough that Fox had tracked me down at Belle Ayre and Wynderly. When I had left to go to Miss Mary Sophie's, I found a note tucked beneath my windshield wiper insisting that I call him ASAP. He had included a string of numbers where he could be reached, and a p.s. Like before, he had underlined to make his point: “
No
time is too late. Try my
cell phone
first. I'll find something to do in Orange in
hopes
that
I'll hear from you
. I won't start home till 9:30 or 10
P.M
.”

What was really bothering me, though, was knowing I needed to call Matt. But tell him what?

Taking the day as a whole, I had little concrete information on the hard dollar-and-cent value of the stolen and broken items, or on the theft itself. Truth was, more questions had been raised than answered. So what news had I? The secret rooms up in the attic? I could practically hear Matt Yardley laughing in his Madison Avenue corner office about the Southern bimbo he'd hired.

This place, these people, their lives, those hidden rooms … the strange way things had unfolded when I ventured back up into the attic. Never would I have imagined the roof could have extended so far, or that the room hidden behind the priest hole could have been so large.

S
PIDERWEBS HAD ENVELOPED
the room's single crystal chandelier. Yet, when I tried the wall switch, two bulbs still burned.

Gradually, my eyes had adjusted to the dimness. There, on shelves running along the wall, were rows of Staffordshire china dogs. On the bottom shelf, one by one the figures grew larger, one, then another, larger and larger, on and on. Then, one by one, they grew smaller. In among red and white spaniels was the occasional curly-haired poodle and long-nosed hound. On another shelf were dogs with cats, dogs with Scottish lads and lassies, dogs with tunic-clad Romans.

It was like being in a haunted toy store.

Beneath the shelves, old magazines and books were stacked high on worktables, but my eye had been drawn to a lady's desk—small and elegant. It had a flat writing surface and a
narrow raised shelf at the back. On the desk, as if arranged for a photograph, had been a brass candlestick and an open book. A gold-tipped mother-of-pearl fountain pen lay across the pages. To the far side of the desk was a crumpled sheet of paper speckled with yellowish brown, like so many liver spots brought on by the years.

I slipped my fingers beneath the cobwebs just far enough to remove the wadded up page. Moving closer to the window to catch more of the winter's day low light, I half blew, half shook away the grime covering the fine vellum. The page's thickness had helped preserve it. I folded back the corners and smoothed them out. The writing was large and legible, though where the paper had been creased for so long, some words were distorted. I began to read.

 

Mrs. Hoyt Thompson Wyndfield, wife of Hoyt Wyndfield, died suddenly at ten o'clock last night at Wynderly, her home in Orange County, Virginia. She was born at Apulosa Plantation, Louisiana, the daughter of Colonel Claudius Adolphe Bontemps. An accomplished woman, she had attended school in Nazareth, Kentucky, and later, the Peabody Conservatory of Music. Surviving is her husband
.

That was all. Thinking I might have missed something, I rotated the page back and forth in the light when, at the bottom right hand side, I saw some small numbers: “12/25/55.” Christmas Day 1955.

It was all too weird. Mazie hadn't died until 1985. Had Hoyt had another wife? Of course not. He couldn't have. Hoyt and Mazie had married in 1922. Even if there had been another wife, she certainly would not have come from Louisiana
like Mazie, and had the same last name. I reread it to be sure I hadn't missed the name. I hadn't. And whose handwriting was it? It was too feminine to be Hoyt's.

Running my fingers across the roughness I had realized that what I had thought was part of the wrinkles and creases was a deeply embossed monogram.
MWE
. Mary Elise Wyndfield … Mary Elise Wyndfield.

Somehow, I had enough wits about me, or was it just plain nerve, to gather a few papers and books to examine later. Yes, it must have been nerve, because I had also done something I had never done before, but then I'd never been in such a situation before. Whatever the reason, I had grabbed up one of the figures—a medium-size spaniel, maybe eight, nine inches tall, sitting on a raised white base with a single gold line painted on it. I slipped the dog next to it over a bit; with so many dogs lined up like ducks in a shooting gallery, one would hardly be missed. In doing so, I stirred up the dust and left an uneven trail. That bothered me. Then again, would anyone else ever find this godforsaken place? What if
I
were never found?

That ghastly thought had about done me in. I had come upon this room completely by accident. It had been by chance that the wall had moved. If the wall had closed behind me, entombing me in the room with no air, no light, no —

Present fears are less than horrible imaginings
, Mother had said years and years ago, using my childish dread of going to the dentist as an excuse to spout a line from
Macbeth
.

I headed straight to the opening and stepped back into the priest hole. The slanted wall had remained ajar. I didn't dare touch it.

Thank God the door between the priest hole and the attic
had not closed. What
had
I been thinking, blindly stepping into first one black hole, and then another? Alice in Wonderland hadn't had anything on me when she fell down the rabbit hole. Like her, I had never once considered how I was going to get out again.

With my small flashlight, I was able to find the small knob on the attic side that had gotten me into trouble in the first place. In the priest's secret room, instead of a knob, there was a single round hole, an inch across at the most. In the darkness anyone might have mistaken it for a simple knot in the wood. I slipped my finger into it to be sure I could move the door if, just if, it ever closed on me. If, just if, I ever came back and got trapped. I grabbed the door ledge with my thumb and crooked my pointer finger into the opening. It was when I pressed my fingers against the door itself that I felt a deeply embedded line running vertically down from the hole. I looked more closely. There was a second line running horizontially. A cross. Of course. Even in total darkness, the mark of the cross would have shown a priest or those in the room with him, the way out.