Antiques Bizarre Read online

  Madam Petrova lit like a dainty firefly on the edge of an ornately carved, red velvet-cushioned chair. Then she leaned forward to reach for an exquisite silver tea set, polished to a shine, which rested on a round table. “Tea?”

  I was dehydrated after my bout with morning sickness, and gladly said, “Yes, please.”

  Mother also responded in the affirmative, and Nastasya Petrova poured, then handed us both identical floral cups and saucers, whose colors were so rich, the blossoms looked real.

  After pouring herself a cup, the woman sat back, balancing the saucer on her fragile knees.

  “Now,” Madam Petrova began, “what can I do for you, Vivian?”

  Mother opened her mouth, but closed it again, as the woman said in an aside to me, “I don’t usually entertain people anymore…but your mother had been so kind to me years ago, when I was in the hospital with pneumonia. I do believe she did more good than those doctors by smuggling in her wonderful casseroles and soups.” The woman raised her cup of tea in a toastlike gesture. “Not to mention the occasional flask of vodka.”

  Mother beamed. “My lips are sealed.”

  If only.

  All this must have taken place during Mother’s Florence Nightingale phase, when she would haunt the hospital hallways looking for any juicy piece of gossip, until finally the hospital staff barred her from the premises.

  Madam Petrova returned her attention to Mother. “So, Vivian, my darling. Do tell me what’s on your mind.”

  Now, usually that could take some time, but Mother surprised me by being relatively concise (for Mother).

  She said, “I have been busy organizing a citywide church bazaar to help those affected by this terrible flood.”

  I goggled at her. This was all news to me.

  “So far,” she continued blithely, “all of the churches I’ve approached have agreed to participate, and they will be asking their congregations to scour attics and basements for antiques and collectibles.” Mother clapped her hands together.

  I jumped a little.

  Our hostess jumped a little, too.

  “Now! In order to make this event competitive, and to attract good merchandise—no white elephants allowed, mind you—I suggested that we form teams, all in the name of Christian charity and good fun. The Methodists will be one team, Presbyterians another, Baptists, Catholics…and so on.” Mother, for once, ran out of breath, and helped herself to one, a generous serving. “Some of the smaller denominations, however, must band together to form teams, and I was hoping that you might join with us…. ‘You’ being the Russian Orthodox Church, and ‘us’ being New Hope, of course.”

  When this lengthy explanation was met with silence—as can sometimes happen with Mother’s community theater performances—Mother became more animated, adding, “Also, included on our team would be the Episcopalians, the Lutherans, and our Jewish friends. So we’re nothing to sneeze at!”

  I wanted to crawl under the horsehair couch, which coincidentally was almost making me sneeze.

  “And,” Mother went on, raising a finger, “here’s the coup de grâce. I have attracted the interest of American Mid-West Magazine, whose publisher assures me that his periodical will not only match the winning team’s proceeds, but will feature that very team in one of its issues!”

  Had Mother revealed her true motivation? To be showcased in a national magazine? Or at least a regionally circulated one. (Mother had the peculiar ability to make even such a small ambition seem grandiose.)

  Madam Petrova was frowning, deepening the already-well-grooved creases in her face, yet she also seemed to be nodding her approval. I just sat and waited for this mixed signal to play itself out….

  Finally our hostess said measuredly, “I am sure I could find several quality items that would bring in a nice sum. And I’m certainly not concerned that my nephew—my only living relative—would object to these donations. Clifford has told me quite frankly that—beyond the house itself, which will one day be his—he is not interested in my possessions, as they are not to his taste…nor is he a sentimental man….”

  Clifford Ashland, a millionaire many times over, ran his own brokerage firm in Serenity. He lived with his wife, Angelica, in Serenity’s most exclusive housing development, and collected antique cars as a hobby. His aunt’s treasures would be knickknacks to him.

  Mother was saying, “Then I can count on you, and the other members of the Russian Orthodox Church, to participate?”

  Madam Petrova responded, “Yes, of course. I believe I can speak for all of us.” She laughed once. “But we are dwindling number, Vivian…only fifteen, now. We’ve never had enough members to have our own local church.”

  Mother cocked her head with interest. “Where do you hold services?”

  The elderly woman’s eyes went to the ceiling. “Up in the ballroom. A bishop comes from a Chicago diocese once a month. We attend St. Mary’s on the other Sundays. I go with my nephew and his wife.”

  Mother most likely knew this, but—not wanting to overplay her hand—feigned interest.

  Madam Petrova, finished with her tea, set her cup and saucer carefully on the table. Her intense, dark eyes went to Mother. “What kind of antiques would you want from me?” she asked. “Furniture, china, jewelry…?”

  Mother placed her own cup and saucer on the table, making a clatter. “I’m thinking of just one item, Nastasya—if I may call you that.”

  Now Madam Petrova cocked her head. “Certainly, Vivian. And that item would be…?”

  “Your Fabergé egg.”

  Madam Petrova’s jaw dropped almost as far as mine.

  The woman gasped. “H-how do you even know about the egg?”

  Mother’s smile was triumphant. “Then it is true.”

  The little woman was shaking her head, her eyes wide and almost alarmed. “Yes…but…it’s been a carefully guarded family secret. Only my nephew knows of the egg.”

  And now Mother. Tomorrow the world.

  Mother smiled slyly. “Do you remember the night in the hospital when we shared that flask of vodka? Well, that’s when you spilled the beans…or the egg, I should say. But rest assured, my dear, I haven’t told a soul. Never let it be said that Vivian Borne doesn’t know how to hold a secret!”

  Normally, I would say Vivian Borne held a secret the way a bucket with a hole in the bottom holds water. But in all these years, I had never heard a word from Mother about the improbable notion that a Serenity resident might own a fabled Fabergé egg.

  What next? “Would you fetch the Maltese Falcon for me, my precious? It’s in the garage.” Or maybe, “Check the fridge, would you, dear, and see if that chunk of Titanic iceberg hasn’t suffered freezer burn?”

  Nastasya Petrova stood, pulling herself up to her full five feet, and for a moment I thought she was going to ask that we leave; but instead, the woman crossed over to the photo of the Tsar and his family and removed the frame from the wall, revealing a small safe. She spun the dial a few times, opened its door, reached in, then came back with something cradled in her hands. As the woman moved to sit between Mother and me, we scooted over.

  Slowly Madam Petrova unfolded the piece of green velvet, uncovering the prize inside. We leaned in, anticipating the treat our eyes were about to feast on.

  Mother and I simultaneously went, “Oh!” in a good way…then “Oh,” in not so good a way.

  The egg was a disappointment. Made of light-colored wood, it was lacking the diamonds, rubies, and emeralds that were the trademark of a Fabergé egg.

  Madam Petrova noted our reaction and said, “I know at first glance, the egg seems rather, well, unprepossessing. But you must remember, Russia had been at war for several long years, and—like the forty-eighth and forty-ninth egg—the Tsar felt it wasn’t quite right, in such times, to have anything lavish made for him to give to his wife.” She shrugged her slight shoulders. “Besides, precious stones and metals by then were harder to come by.”

  The woman carefully o
pened the egg, revealing a small crystal bird with a gold wreath in its beak.

  “The dove of peace,” the woman said proudly.

  “Well, it’s not much to look at,” Mother said matter-of-factly, “but still, it is the fiftieth and final egg commissioned by the Tsar.”

  I asked Madam Petrova, “How can you be sure this is the genuine article?” Quickly adding, after Mother shot me a reproving look, “Not to be impertinent.”

  Our hostess smiled enigmatically.

  Then she said, “As a very young man, my father, Peter Petrov, was an apprentice at the House of Fabergé in St. Petersburg. Then the Russian Revolution began, and one evening, when he was working late, the Bolsheviks broke down the door and ransacked the business, taking everything of value. My father had only enough time to escape out the back, but he managed to grab one item—this precious egg. Which traveled with him to Finland, then Sweden. And in Norway he caught a boat to America.”

  The woman’s smile turned inward.

  “That’s where he met my mother, who was returning to Iowa after visiting relatives in Oslo. They fell in love on the crossing, and settled here, where my mother’s family—who owned a lumber mill—brought my father into their business.”

  Again, I could tell that Mother knew all of this, and was trying hard not to show her impatience.

  Mother cleared her throat. “About the egg…”

  Madam Petrova took a deep breath. “I quite agree with you, Vivian.”

  “You do?”

  She nodded. “I can’t think of any better use for it. This town and its people have been good to me over these many years, and if this object can bring in a good deal of money to help those now in need…then, yes, certainly, of course I agree to donate it.”

  Mother smiled broadly, as if auditioning for the Joker role in the next Batman movie.

  But I foresaw a possible problem.

  I asked, “What about your nephew? Wouldn’t he object?”

  Knickknacks were one thing, but a Fabergé egg?

  Mother had reached behind Madam Petrova and was in the process of pinching my side, when a deep voice asked, “Would I object to what?”

  Entering the room was Clifford Ashland, the son of our hostess’s deceased sister. Tall, confident, with good looks rivaling the old swashbuckling movie star Stewart Granger, he wore expensive resort clothes—navy and white seersucker jacket, butter-yellow open-collar shirt, white slacks, and white deck shoes sans socks. Seeming more Palm Beach than Serenity, the nephew bent and kissed the cheek of his aunt as she raised her smiling face to him.

  Ashland’s eyes went to Mother, and then me; they did not have Granger’s twinkle, though in other circumstances, they might have. Were Mother and I skunks at a garden party?

  Madam Petrova said with a gesture, “You know Mrs. Borne, and this is her daughter, Brandy….”

  “Yes, of course,” he said pleasantly. “I’ve bought several small Art Deco items recently from your booth at the antiques mall.”

  Mother had been stocking our little business in Pearl City Plaza since I’d been under the weather, so this was news to me.

  Mother gushed, “It’s so nice to see you again, Mr. Ashland.”

  I suppressed a gag. Had Mother forgotten that before Clifford Ashland had made his millions, he’d been a used-car salesman, from whom I’d purchased my first set of wheels, which had died an unceremonious death in the middle of an intersection on our way home, after which Mother had called him a charlatan (actually a blankety-blank charlatan)? But apparently, all is forgiven if you buy from our booth.

  (Look, I know I said the “s” word was pretty much the extent of Mother’s swearing, and it is. What she literally said was, “You’re a blankety-blank charlatan!”)

  The nephew’s attention went to the Fabergé egg cradled on his aunt’s lap.

  “That ugly old thing,” he said with a chuckle, and a kind of shudder. “Definitely not laid by the golden goose.”

  Madam Petrova gave me a knowing look. “As I said, Clifford harbors no sentimentality for this family heirloom. So I’m sure he won’t mind.”

  “Mind what?” Ashland asked, his smile fading.

  His aunt said, “I’ve decided to sell the Fabergé egg at a citywide church bazaar to raise money for our flood victims.”

  Clifford Ashland’s tanned face turned ashen. He took a few steps back and eased into an awaiting armchair.

  “You can’t be serious, Auntie,” he said in apparent horror.

  “Oh, yes, I can, dear,” Madam Petrova told him firmly, digging in the heels of her beige pumps. “I’ve made up my mind.”

  Ashland leaned forward in the chair, gesturing animatedly. “But you’ll never get out of it what it’s worth at a local bazaar! You’d be much better off selling the egg through an auction house like Christie’s or Sotheby’s.”

  Mother piped up. “And that’s exactly what we’re going to be doing…in a sense.”

  Ashland frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Well,” Mother explained excitedly, “my plan is to hold an auction for that one item, and have representatives from all the large auction houses there…plus private buyers. Think of the publicity! And, we have matching funds promised by a magazine company.”

  “Then the magazine people know about the egg?”

  Mother put on her vaguely insulted face. “No, of course not. Only the people in this room know of its existence. The publisher, Samuel Woods, understands that there could be some large-ticket items, yes…but he has no idea there might be anything of this magnitude. Or that the likes of Christie’s and Sotheby’s will be on hand. Won’t he be surprised!”

  Ashland sat back and grunted, “Yes.” He raised an eyebrow. “Be sure to get the publisher’s offer in writing before you announce it,” Ashland the businessman said. “He won’t be expecting to have to match those kind of funds.”

  Madam Petrova looked at her nephew. “Then, dear, I have your blessing to donate the egg?”

  Ashland’s smile couldn’t have been more casual if they’d been discussing whether to lend the neighbors a cup of sugar. “Yes, of course. The cause is a good one, and Mrs. Borne has anticipated my objection—that it be given away for a song.”

  “You’re sure you don’t object, dear?”

  He shrugged. “It’s a charitable contribution. Should be deductible. I’ll have my tax people look into it.”

  “Well, that’s fine, dear.”

  “I just hope it’s what you want.”

  “It is, dear.”

  The room fell silent. Aunt and nephew obviously needed to discuss this further, and in private. Under all those “dear’s” was a certain strain.

  I stood and said (much to Mother’s dismay), “Well…I guess we should be going.”

  Madam Petrova placed the Fabergé egg gently on the coffee table and rose. “Yes, I am tired, now.” She extended her hand to Mother. “You will inform me with further developments of the bazaar? I will want to attend, naturally.”

  Mother promised she would.

  As Mother and I took our leave of Madam Petrova, Clifford Ashland announced, “I’ll walk you two ladies out….”

  And now for our private dressing-down, I thought.

  Mother, too, sensed something coming, and outside, under the portico overhang, turned to face Ashland.

  He didn’t mince words. “I’m not happy about this,” he snapped, looking from Mother to me, then back to Mother, “but if I know my aunt, once she decides to do something, it’s done.” He raised a lecturing finger, which also seemed like a threat. “Understand, I don’t give a damn about that egg…but I do give a damn about my aunt! And I don’t want to see her hurt.”

  Mother looked puzzled. “What do you mean? How could she be hurt?”

  “What if someone buys the egg for an exorbitant amount, then claims it’s a fake?” he asked. “Next comes a lawsuit…and scandal. That’s just the kind of thing that could kill my aunt.”

  I s
poke up. “Do you have any reason to think the egg is not legitimate?”

  Ashland shrugged. “No…but what proof is there that the ugly old thing is authentic, really, other than my aunt’s recollections?”

  Mother shrugged. “Then let the buyer beware, I say.”

  “That’s not good enough,” Ashland said flatly. “If my aunt, and her estate, can’t be protected, then I’m against this.”

  I asked, “Is there someone with expertise who could examine the egg? Someone willing to authenticate it, and put his reputation on the line?”

  Ashland stoked his chin with one hand. “There was a expert from Chicago, who appraised the egg some years ago—for insurance purposes. In fact, he wanted to buy it.”

  “Well then, there’s our answer,” Mother said brightly. “If he could draw up a new appraisal, I’m sure that would give your aunt the necessary legal coverage.”

  Ashland was nodding slowly. “Perhaps. I’ll try to contact him. It was a long time ago.”

  With that, we left a somewhat appeased Clifford Ashland, who went back in as we walked to my car.

  I had a queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach that had nothing to do with morning sickness. No one had yet mentioned other obvious pitfalls in auctioning off such a valuable and rare item—little things, like crowd control and police security….

  Had Mother finally bitten off more than she could chew? Was she about to meet her Waterloo? And why was I rhyming all of a sudden?

  I looked at Mother, seated next to me in the car. Her face was placid.

  As usual she left the worrying to me!

  “Chop chop, dear!” Mother said. “So little time, and so much to do. And detour signs be darned, take us into the downtown.”

  If she could throw caution to the wind, why shouldn’t I?

  “All right,” I said, starting the car, “but you’re paying for any tickets we get.”

  “After this auction,” Mother said, “we’ll be the most popular women in town. Any minor offenses we might commit in the meantime will be forgiven. After all, we are the Borne girls, who brought relief to our fellow citizens, all in the form of an antique egg.”