Courir De Mardi Gras Page 9

  “Miss Virginia collected that silver for thirty years. You just a kid. What you know about it?”

  Suzanne decided not to argue the point. She needed Birdie’s goodwill, and even more, her friendship in this lonely house.

  “I think her dealer may have tried to cheat her.”

  “Not old Mr. Mort. She dealt with him twenty years or more. Why he’d go off to New Orleans or New York, even London, England, and Paris, France, and bring back things only for her. They would sit right here at this table, and I’d bring tea in the special service. Mr. Mort would be showing her something nice from one of his drawstring bags. Each and every time, he’d admire the tea set, and Miss Virginia would say what a pleasure it gave her just to use it.”

  “I’d like to talk to Mr. Mort myself.”

  “You’d have to go on up to heaven. Mr. Mort’s been dead about twelve years.”

  “Then, who traded for Mrs. St. Julien’s candlesticks?”

  “Mr. Mort’s son, Randolph, took over the business. He’s nothing like Mr. Mort. He’d come and go with his little bags while Miss Virginia lay sick. He’d see her in her bedroom and lock the door behind him like I’d steal his ole silver. They never called for tea or coffee, and he never stopped to pass the time of day. No wonder Miss Virginia didn’t buy from him. They’d trade or they wouldn’t, and that was that. And every time he come, she’d say, ‘Don’t tell Mr. Georgie that Randolph has been here because he don’t like Mr. Royal.’ Royal, that’s the family name. Sounds made up, don’t it?”

  “Why didn’t Georgie, I mean Mr. St. Julien, like Mr. Royal?”

  “Because Georgie ain’t one of those sissy boys, I told you, and Mr. Royal is. Oh, young Mr. Royal was married, all right. He has a son, too, but we all knew why that marriage didn’t take. Yes, we do. He moved the shop to Opelousas after Miss Virginia died, said he needed more ‘custom’ to survive, but he wasn’t fooling anybody about why he got out of town. He married to one of the Patout girls under false pretenses, and her brother, Billy, was fixing to fix him forever.”

  “By ‘sissy boy’, you mean gay? Randolph Royal preferred men to Mr. Patout’s sister?”

  “You got that right!”

  Birdie warmed up again, now that the conversation turned to local gossip and away from the silver. Unfortunately, Suzanne needed to know the whereabouts of Randolph, not his sexual preferences.

  “I think I’d like to meet Mr. Royal.”

  “No, you wouldn’t.”

  “I think I must because something is definitely wrong here.” She picked up the sugar tongs that did not quite match the rest of the tea service and told Birdie that she wanted to borrow it for a while.

  “You got to ask Mr. Georgie.”

  “Naturally.” Suzanne had a few favors to ask George. Maybe it was just as well he had warmed to her lately.

  ****

  Suzanne approached George that evening while he imbibed his solitary drink. He had not come home for dinner following his appearance at noon. She knocked on the door of his den loud enough to announce her presence, but not loud enough to make him slop his drink on another white shirt.

  “Would you like something?” he asked every cordially, removing his stocking feet from the ottoman and trying to slip them back into his size thirteen shoes. Suzanne took another of the big leather chairs and accepted a gin and tonic that tasted a little oily without the twist of lime. Some liquor might move the conversation along, but she wanted him to know immediately this was a business call, not a social visit.

  “Actually, I’ve run into a few problems with the inventory. I’d like to do a simple test on some of the silver with your permission.”

  “What for?”

  “Well, to be honest, I want to see if it is all sterling or just plate.”

  “My mother was an infallible woman. If she said it was sterling, it is.”

  He looked more stubborn than angry with those vertical lines forming behind the bridge of his glasses and his rather nice full lips turned down in a frown. She tried again. “It’s a routine verification. If you won’t let me do a test, then I must assume it is all plate. That’s the rule when it comes to silver.”

  “Okay, do the test. My mother was never wrong.” He paused to take a big gulp of his drink and looked over at her. “I thought we might go to the Roadhouse for dinner on Saturday night. Maybe, we could discuss your results then.”

  She almost said she planned to be at Joe’s Lounge on Saturday night, but changed her mind. She had more favors to ask, and one favor deserves another. “Fine,” Suzanne answered. “What time?”

  “Seven?”

  “Good. Oh, could I borrow your car tomorrow? I have to drive into the city to get some supplies for my test, and I’d like to take along one of the small pieces to get a second opinion from a dealer.”

  “You’ll have to get up early and drive me to work. I’m always in the office by eight.”

  “I don’t mind.”

  “See you tomorrow early then.” He seemed pleased to be giving her his car keys, and she felt a trifle guilty as she went off to bed jingling them in the palm of her hand.

  ****

  They had another of those old married couple, companionable mornings. George slung a leather garment bag and his briefcase into the backseat. Suzanne did not ask about the baggage and drove him to work saying very little on the way. She half expected him to give her a peck on the cheek and say, “Have a nice day, honey,” but he simply waved on his way to the office door.

  Suzanne had no trouble getting to the larger town—only one road went there—and little problem finding Royal Antiques in the yellow pages. The ad stood out as the most artistic block in the antiques section. While waiting for Randolph Royal to open his shop, she killed some time drinking coffee in a diner across the street. When he arrived about ten, she gave him fifteen minutes or so to get comfortable, then wandered over. First, she peered at the playful display of antique toys in the window set up to look as if a child had just left the room and would be back at any moment to pile the blocks, feed pennies into the mechanical bank, and ride the rocking horse. A little brass bell rang as she entered and brought Randolph Royal hurrying to her side.

  “Is there something special I could show you, or would you like to browse?”

  She did not find Randolph Royal to be flamingly gay, not compared to some of the activists she’d known in college. Slim of build and balding, he wore a tidily-trimmed moustache to make up for his hair loss. His well-manicured fingers hosted several large gold rings. He was, perhaps, a tad too graceful for Port Jefferson tastes, and she suspected that town had a very low tolerance for the different. Though admiring his neat little shop with its clever displays, she recalled how her mother always said the best buys came out of dingy, cobweb-afflicted places. Almost without intending it, she adopted her mother’s persona.

  “I found these lovely tongs in a shop in New Orleans, and I’ve just fallen in love with the pattern. Beautiful, isn’t it?” Suzanne thrust her possession at Randolph for his perusal and praise.

  “I’ve been looking for matching pieces ever since. I have the creamer and the teapot, but I’m really looking for the sugar bowl. I saw your charming little shop while I had coffee at the café and thought I’d inquire before going on my way to Alexandria.”

  As Randolph Royal handled the small treasure, his palms became sweaty. “A set like this passed through my hands a few years ago, but a wealthy client purchased it. I haven’t seen anything similar since then.”

  “Do you think your client would be interested in selling?” she pressed. “If you would give me his name and address, I could…”

  “Oh no! Certainly not. He is a private collector and sensitive about his dealings. It would be a breach of trust on my part to divulge his name.”

  “Rotten luck for me. Oh well, I’ll be passing through Port Jefferson on my way north. It’s such an old town. Perhaps, I’ll have some luck there.”

  “Believe me
, there is nothing but nothing in Port Jefferson. I used to have the only antique shop in town and could barely make a go of it. With only a very few exceptions, the people are impossibly ignorant and crude with no appreciation of art or beauty. I tell you, it’s a hell hole. I had to get away from that place.”

  Randolph clutched her arm and stared into her eyes in his attempt to convince her of the wickedness of somnolent Port Jefferson. “And to think my son is being raised there among the barbarians.”

  Now, he captured both of her arms and dropped the tongs. “The laws of this state are as backwards as that town, I tell you. I’m not allowed to see my son unless his mother or his Uncle Billy or his grandfather is present, and I cannot endure that family. Louise was so sweet and innocent when we married, but she turned out to be a true Patout just like the rest of the clan.” He released her arms and sighed as he picked up the tongs. He plucked a polishing cloth from his coat pocket and wiped them off.

  “I’m so sorry. I hope I haven’t scratched it. Forgive my little outburst. Port Jefferson is a sore point with me.”

  More like a raw nerve, Suzanne thought, but replied soothingly, “Oh, I do understand. My gay brother had similar problems after his divorce, but he was able to get permission to see his children as often as he wanted.” She wondered how Blake would take her portraying him as a homosexual, divorced father when he was none of the above, a little payback for introducing her to Barry Cashman.

  “What enlightened country are you from? It must be paradise!”

  “Actually, it’s near Philadelphia. I have only a limited time to spend here and had better be moving along. It’s been a pleasure to see your shop.” She extricated herself from a conversation becoming far too intimate for her tastes. She’d come to uncover a crooked antiques dealer and gotten his life story instead.

  “Just a thought. I might be seeing my client in a few weeks. I could ask if he would be interested in selling the tea service, but more likely, he might want to buy your pieces. Please leave your name and address and telephone number. I will contact you if he wants to get in touch.” Randolph produced two “Royal Antiques” business cards, beautifully embossed, white on white, with a golden crown above the name.

  Thinking that the best lies are the ones closest to the truth, Suzanne wrote “Mrs. Patricia Hudson” boldly across the back of one card and gave her parents’ address. Her mother would not mind being on one more antique store mailing list. She pocketed Mr. Royal’s card and went on her way to the nearest drug store.

  When she asked the druggist for dichromatic acid, he snapped that he did not run a chemical supply house. Suzanne wondered if he knew what the substance was. Instead of arguing with him, she tried a placating technique and bought a bottle of aspirin, asked his advice about which vitamins he recommended, and finally came away with a small glass bottle of nitric acid. She could have tried a specific gravity test, but frankly had done that only once in one of her seminars and doubted the outcome. The hardware store down the street provided a set of small, fine-toothed files. Mission completed and suspicions inflamed, she made her way back to Port Jefferson by lunchtime.

  Birdie, having prepared a luscious chicken salad full of chopped pecans and green grape halves, got a little put out when Suzanne barely touched her meal in a desire to get at the silver immediately. Birdie absolutely refused to give up the key to the cabinet and took exactly sixty minutes to finish her salad, crackers, iced tea, and a dish of ice cream. Slowly, Birdie swayed through the kitchen and dining room. Painfully, she knelt by the latch and fiddled with the lock for several minutes, then parted the doors of the sideboard with a slow motion gesture.

  Suzanne snatched up the punch bowl and lugged it into the kitchen. Her set of metal files and the acid sat ready by the sink. Birdie gasped when she began to saw a very small notch into the base of the bowl. With her best chemistry class technique, Suzanne pulled the stopper on the acid bottle between two fingers and placed a drop on the scratch. The acid turned a sickly green. Most of the large pieces in Virginia St. Julien’s collection tested the same way. Except for the candlesticks, George’s infallible mother had amassed the largest assortment of forged silver-plated replicas she had ever seen.

  The candlesticks still puzzled her. They tested as sterling silver. Then, she applied her file to the fine crack around the base and prayed she wasn’t destroying a $5,000 antique. She hadn’t. The base popped off like the lid of a paint can. Beneath the silver shell lay pure cement. A few of the large bowls had been similarly packed in the base. As for the tea set, only the overlooked sugar tongs were sterling. The rest of the pieces tested as silver plate adhering to a poor casting of the original set.

  Birdie disappeared during the first act of desecration and pounded down the hall to the telephone. Suzanne could hear the maid reporting her crimes to George. Birdie returned and found her standing over the dismembered candlesticks, file in hand like a murder weapon.

  The housekeeper crossed her arms over her big bosom and said, “Mr. George says not to worry, just to help you out. He’s going down to Lafayette to work with a client for the rest of the week and check out a new business. Says he see you Saturday night.”

  Birdie stared fixedly at the candlesticks as she gave her report. “Just ’cause I said I didn’t like those as good as the old ones don’t mean you should of done that to ’em.”

  “Look.” Suzanne tapped the silver base into place. “Now only the experts will know this is a fake, but I dread telling George his infallible mother was duped.”

  “Honey,” said Birdie, “I’m glad I don’t work weekends.”

  Chapter Six

  Suzanne’s story

  No matter what Suzanne did, the days marched relentlessly on toward Saturday. Relieved, she found no discrepancies between the cards and the furniture downstairs at the Hill. She thought of all the nice things she could say about the Renaissance sideboard and the Wooten desk to temper what must be said about the silver collection.

  She’d moved her cataloging upstairs and was working on the Jacques St. Julien gothic bedroom when the dreaded day arrived. With her nerves jangling by the time George returned at 6:00 p.m. sharp, she did not have enough courage to ask for an immediate interview. Saying “hello,” Suzanne watched him pass with his bulging garment bag over one shoulder like a cape.

  “I’m going to clean up and change. You might want to put on a dress to go to the Roadhouse,” he directed, looking at the dusty jeans and T-shirt she wore, grubby from crawling around his father’s bedroom.

  Too hell with this weird and awkward date. She wanted to tell him about his mother’s fraudulent silver collection right this very minute and simply get it over with, but George went into the bathroom, locked the door, and turned on the water. If she’d spoken up more quickly, she might have gotten out of the date altogether while he was still in shock.

  To pass the time, Suzanne put on fresh make-up and the suit she’d arrived in. She set her hair to smooth it out, changed the style two times, and finally let it loose around her shoulders. At first selecting her highest heels so she could more nearly look George in the eye, she switched to low heels in case she offended him, or he offended her, and she had to walk back to the Hill.

  Taking off the suit, she chose a black dress, a trifle short and low cut, to provide some distraction from the bad news. Oh, for heaven’s sake, he was only George St. Julien, not some hot movie star or athlete she wanted to seduce. She should consider this a business dinner. She decided to take off the sexy black dress and put on the suit again, but struggled with the back zipper and caught it in the cloth. At that moment, George knocked and asked if she was ready to go.

  “Not exactly. My zipper is stuck.”

  Nonchalantly, he entered her room as if he owned the place. Well, he did. His big warm fingers tugged the zipper free and up past the hooks of her black and lacy pushup bra. His hands lingered.

  George murmured, “Ready?” and sniffed her neck. “Great perfume, ter
rific dress.”

  “I’m not wearing any perfume,” she snapped.

  This close, he smelled good, too, some kind of spicy cologne or aftershave, she didn’t know which, and would hardly ask. Moving away, Suzanne kicked off her low shoes and put on her highest heels again. At least, she would be almost able to look him in the eye when she told him about the silver.

  “Umm, nice soap or hairspray or whatever, then.” George stepped back toward the door as if she had slapped him. “I meant to say you smelled nice.”

  “Thank you, but you shouldn’t say things like that when we’re having an ordinary, friendly business dinner, just boss and employee.” There, now he knew exactly where they stood. This would not be a repeat of her problem with Paul.

  With the heels, she barely reached George’s shoulder, even slumped over as he usually was. Looking into his eyes—out of the question unless she stood on a stepladder. What an absurd idea. She would wait until after dinner and a few glasses of wine to break the news. She could do a “good news—bad news” routine.

  “I’ve got some good news and some bad news, George. You have a lot of valuable antiques people will pay money to see, but the bad news is the family silver insured for $100,000 is worth about $10,000 because your mother was cheated on her deathbed by an unscrupulous dealer.” Maybe he would laugh if she brought it off well, but she doubted it.

  On the drive to the Roadhouse, they remained characteristically silent. She saved her energy for the evening to come. Once inside the eighteenth century building, Suzanne exclaimed over the ancient walls of handmade brick, the charming wrought iron fixtures, and the pewter plates. Her comments came out so loud in her nervousness, the owner, all aflutter, rushed over to seat them and restore the quiet ambiance of the place. He shook hands, called George by his first name, and asked where he had found such a lovely companion.

  “She’s working on my house, Bobby,” George replied rather tersely. “Maybe she could do something with the décor of this place, but she can’t cook—something you have in common.”