The Big Steal (5 page)

As had become the custom, Michelle led and I followed. This time to the dining room to meet the Friends of Wynderly—whatever that meant.

Dear Antiques Expert: At a local auction, I saw a large china cabinet that I really liked but the auctioneer kept calling it a breakfront. What exactly did he mean?

In the 18th century, large multipurpose cabinets were made so books and china could be displayed in the top and linens and papers stored in the bottom. The middle section (which was in the bottom part) looked like a drawer, but could be used as a desk. When it was opened, its hinged “drawer” front could be released, or “broken down,” to make a writing surface. Thus the cabinet was called a
break
front. Some people call any large china cabinet a breakfront, but to be a “proper” breakfront the cabinet has to have the “break down” desk drawer.

“R
IGHT ON TIME
.”

With an elegant motion Alfred Houseman closed the lid of the gold pocket watch in his palm and placed it on the mahogany banquet table. Rising to his feet, he motioned to me. “You'll sit here,” he said, his aristocratic Virginia drawl matching his courtly manners as he pulled out the chair to his left.

Houseman wasted no time in addressing a nicely dressed, mousy woman, the type who would have the sort of handwriting perfect for note taking. “Madam Secretary, if you will call the roll, the meeting will come to order.”

Clearing her throat, she began. “Mrs. Giles M. Burns. Professor Frank Fox. Dr. James Irving Langford. Mrs. Z. Harrison Powers. Miss Mary Sophie Wellington McLeod. Frederick Richmond Graham. Thomas Worth Merritt …”

One by one, each board member responded. “Present.”

Good Lord! I hadn't heard anything so antiquated since I was in the third grade and our substitute teacher required us to answer “present” instead of “here.” We mocked her for days. And all this “Mrs.” stuff. Even the Junior League had dropped that pretentiousness years ago when too many first and second wives were being listed one after the other in the directory.

I tried following the roll call around the table, but there was no way I could keep everyone straight. Anyway, I was having too much fun summing up the cast of characters seated around the table to bother with their names. Whoever had appointed the board members must have first made a call to central casting. Mrs. Bulimic Bottle-Blonde sat next to Miss Corpulent Blue-Haired Matron. Dr. Ralph Lauren Casual Tweeds, more lounging than sitting, was across from a serious-looking Mr. Custom-Tailored Gray Pinstripe Suit.

Michelle was wedged in between some pudgy fellow in horn-rimmed glasses whose name I had missed, and a fidgety, squirrel-like brunette gnawing away at her bottom lip. I was wondering what was eating her when she caught me looking at her. I quickly glanced away and hoped she couldn't read minds.

I settled my gaze on the early nineteenth-century Coalport dessert set displayed in the breakfront at the end of the room. The center of each plate depicted a different English country scene. Now
that
was the sort of fine, understated antique I had expected to find in the home of a Virginia gentleman.

I looked back at the table cluttered with open notebooks and briefcases, pens and pencils strewn about. How grand this room must have been when filled with scintillating conversations and outrageous opinions served up with good food to beautiful people. Now it had come down to this—a business meeting.

Only when Dr. Houseman, whose full name I had learned from the roll call was Alfred Chittenbaum Houseman III, spoke up, did I snap back to attention.

“Now that's done, Madame Secretary, please note that, as usual—and as dictated in our bylaws—this is an
open
meeting. I'll introduce Mrs. Glass
after
we've accepted the minutes, and
before
we get on to the problem at hand.”

Worth Merritt, an older gentleman whose pink oxford cloth button-down shirt, English club tie, and houndstooth jacket spoke volumes about him, was seated to my left. He leaned forward. “No money,” he murmured in a stage whisper that was heard around the table. “
That's
the problem.”

Houseman let out an exasperated sigh. “Yes, Worth. But”—he paused for effect—“we may just have a
solution
to that.”

That got everyone's attention. Michelle's in particular. She flushed. I wondered if anyone besides me noticed, but their eyes were intent on Houseman.

Clasping his hands before him, the chairman rested them
on the edge of the table and leaned forward. “I've been approached by Tracy DuMont, Morrison Maitland's widow.” Houseman waited for the optimistic murmur brought on by his announcement to subside.

Anyone familiar with America's moneyed elite knew of Tracy DuMont, the jet-setting heiress famous for her habit of buying up homes—a villa here, a hacienda there, some old antebellum plantation house in need of preserving—whatever house struck her fancy.

“She'll be joining us later. Now for the minutes, Madam Secretary.”

From the looks being cast around the table, I doubted if anyone paid much attention to the minutes, or to my introduction, which Houseman took care of in short order—name, professional credentials, company working for. At least he hadn't mentioned Hank, my former husband, or elaborated on his well-known old Virginia last name, Glass. Southerners are notorious for dwelling on who you're kin to, through birth or marriage.

“She is here to …
verify
”—he lingered over the word—“the settlement for the lost and damaged items.”

I opened my mouth to say the usual—nice to be here, looking forward to working with you—but before I could get a word out, the board had started chasing the money hinging on my appraisal.

“Well, I just don't understand the whole situation. Why can't the
bank
come through,” blurted out Mrs. Giles M. Burns, who was stuck in my head as Mrs. Bulimic Bottle-Blonde. Her dark tan in the dead of winter suggested she had either just returned from the Caribbean or napped under a sunlamp.

“Frederick Graham, you're head of the trust department, surely
you
can get the money,” she said, sucking her lips tight against her teeth.

Mr. Custom-Tailored Gray Pinstripe Suit answered her. “Now Lane, the bank simply
can't
put any more of our investors' money into this place.” He gave her one of those there'snot-a-
thing
-I-can-do-about-it smiles that bankers must practice while shaving each morning. “The only way I got the funds
last
time was because of all the trusts Hoyt Wyndfield established at the bank way back in the twenties and thirties. In fact, if the trust department wasn't still administering those accounts, Wynderly wouldn't have gotten one red cent from the bank.”

Lane Burns crossed her arms and glared back at Graham. “I still don't understand,” she muttered under her breath.

“Well,” Mary Sophie Wellington McLeod harrumphed. Judging from her vintage nubby wool suit and the absence of any jewels, I surmised that not only did her blue blood match her blue hair, she could undoubtedly buy and sell the entire board with her old, well-worn money. “You certainly can't expect
me
to give any more money,” she said.

“Nobody's
asking
you to, Miss Mary Sophie,” Dr. Houseman said, a shade condescendingly, I thought.

“That's good news,” she shot back. Then in a voice just loud enough for everyone to hear, she added, “Asking and expecting are two different things.”

Dr. Langford made no attempt to hide his impatience. “This is ridiculous,” he said. “Every meeting it's the same thing. I'm worn out with it all. And the phone calls from the press, from the TV station, from my neighbors. Why, my patients would
rather talk about Wynderly than their ailments. Even the nurses on my hospital rounds.”

Dr. Houseman, rapped his knuckles on the table. “This isn't getting us
any
where,” he drawled. He settled back in his chair and turned slowly in the direction of a pleasant-looking gentleman who had left the scrimmaging to the others.

“Charlie Simpson, you were speaking to some powers that be. Any word on funds coming from either the county or our great Commonwealth?”

Simpson exhaled long and hard before speaking. “No. And I think our chances at both places are about as good as our chances with Miss Mary Sophie.”

Miss Mary Sophie's smile rippled through her multiple chins. “Oh, good. I can sleep now, knowing
you
won't be coming around, begging for money,” she said. A few chuckles echoed around the table.

“Listen here, Alfred,” Langford interrupted. “You and I know there are times in the medical profession when we've done all that can be done. That's when we tell our patients they need to set their houses in order. This house has been in financial disarray for years now. Wynderly's nothing but a white elephant. An albatross. And it's time we admit it.”

“Now Irv,” Houseman said, “let us not forget, however, that Tracy DuMont is scheduled to join us in …” He picked up his gold watch, opened it, and continued. “In just a few minutes, I'd say. I don't have to tell
any
one here that she's helped rescue many an endangered home in faraway places, and Wynderly is right in her own backyard.” Houseman flashed a confident smile as if the mere mention of DuMont's name set everything
right. “In the meantime … Mrs. Glass.” He looked over his shoulder toward me.

“Yes sir?” I jumped to attention.

Houseman responded with a polite nod. “You have a few words for the board?”

What to say? I sat up straight and tall. Those wretched music lessons I'd had to suffer through had at least taught me a little public poise. But I felt more like I was trapped in the witness stand than seated on a piano bench.

“Good afternoon.” I smiled and nodded toward the jury. “As you probably know, Matt Yardley, one of the vice presidents of your insurer, Babson and Michael, asked me to come to Wynderly to assess the damage done to the broken pieces—most of which are beyond repair, I understand. Of course,” I quickly added, “Babson and Michael is anxious that the foundation receive full compensation for Wynderly's losses—”

“That includes the
missing
items, doesn't it? We will be paid for those, as well as the broken ones I assume.”

The question, not surprisingly, came from Frederick Graham. I winced. The smug look written all over his face didn't sit well with me. This was the same man who moments earlier had said his bank couldn't fork over any more money. Yet he seemed mighty anxious for the insurance company to ante up. Not yet able to figure out who among this group were the friends and who were the foes, I proceeded cautiously.

“Good question. Yes, one thing we're hoping to establish is why some items were taken and other items—”

Graham didn't wait for me to finish. “So what's the plan?”
he asked. “There's not going to be any problem with collecting is there?”

I looked straight at Michelle Hendrix who might as well not have been in the room for all the attention she had commanded from the board. Suddenly she felt like the closest thing I had to a friend in the room.

“Your curator is being most helpful,” I said. “Mr. Graham, I'm here to gather
all
the information on every item in question—whether broken
or
missing. As you know, Wynderly's collection is huge.” I spread my hands open for emphasis. “As I was
about
to say earlier, we are trying to establish whether or not the thief or thieves were knowledgeable, or just took random objects. That could help in the recovery—if we're lucky. In addition, Babson and Michael has to be sure that one item hasn't been confused with another. When dealing with such a large collection, it's important to proceed slowly and carefully. My purpose in being here is to guarantee that the foundation will be adequately and
fairly
compensated for each and every loss,” I said, careful to keep my voice upbeat and positive, all the time silently praying no one would see the downside to my remark.

Mrs. Z. Harrison Powers, the fidgety brunette, broke in. “Excuse me, Frederick, but I want everybody here to know that Zachary and I have had our insurance with Babson and Michael for years. Remember?” She searched the room for sympathy. “Back four or five years ago we had that terr-i-ble break-in.”

I tried to imagine just how terrible it had been.

“Surely you all remember it. Zachary's great-great-grandmother's silver—”

I had a hard time keeping from staring at her. The twisted
silver and gold ropes encircling her neck and wrists belied her coquettish demeanor.

“Babson and Michael couldn't have been more helpful,” she said. “I'm sure
you'll
do the right thing, too, Ms. Glass.”

I met her look eye to eye. “Thank you,” I said with sincere, if somewhat bemused, feelings. “I'll do my best. Let me explain, though. I'm not an employee of Babson and Michael. I'm an independent appraiser.”

I angled my head so Frederick Graham would be in my direct line of speech. “I have worked with Babson and Michael on another case, though, and I, too, have found them to be helpful and cooperative. In that instance, I'd say they were even generous. They just need verification so they can do what is right for everyone involved. If, perchance, any charges, criminal or civil, have to be brought”—I paused long enough for my words to sink in—“in that case, positive identification and detailed information about each item will be essential.”

I shot a glance around the room so I could observe Michelle Hendrix. If she were involved in the theft, she didn't show it. She didn't flinch.

Houseman coughed. “Well, now. Yes, indeed. I'm sure everyone here understands better now. That's why we're so glad she's, ah,
you're
here. Mrs. Glass's reputation certainly precedes her. In fact, I think some of us know her former husband's family. The Ketchington Glasses of Leemont.”