Antiques Fire Sale Read online

  “I don’t see how,” he replied. “Haven’t there been multiple vehicular charges?”

  “Frankly,” Mother said, “I’ve never understood why knocking over a mailbox should lead to a county infraction. Shouldn’t that have been a federal matter?”

  I said, “Commissioner, I will concede that her infractions have infractions . . . but couldn’t she get a license to use a motorcycle?”

  Gordon frowned. “That’s an interesting idea—the requirements aren’t as restrictive as a car.” He looked at Mother. “But, in my opinion, a police-grade motorcycle would be too hard for you to handle.”

  “How about a Vespa!” Mother exclaimed, clasping her hands in a childish “goody-goody” manner. “I’ve always wanted one ever since I saw Audrey Hepburn in Roman Holiday!”

  But what I pictured was more like Toad in American Graffiti.

  She was saying, eyes glittering, “It could be tricked out with siren and lights, in case I have to pull someone over! And be fitted with a big windshield to keep the bugs off my teeth.”

  The commissioner rubbed his forehead like maybe it was his turn to get a migraine. “I’ll look into it.”

  Mother asked gingerly, “And will it be necessary for me to appear before the board?”

  Gordon hesitated before answering. “I believe I can convince them that—after our talk—you fully understand where you went wrong, and will in the future adhere to a by-the-book work ethic. And it doesn’t hurt that you did get results. We can’t have some lunatic running around.”

  Mother frowned. “Well, I take issue with—”

  I touched her sleeve. “He means the killer we caught,” I said.

  “Oh. Well. That’s different.”

  He thumped the report on his desk with a finger. “But make no mistake—you step out of line again, Sheriff Borne, and you’ll find yourself impeached.”

  Mother beamed. “That has a nice ring to it!”

  He blinked. “Impeachment?”

  “No! ‘Sheriff Borne.’ And you may rest assured that I will henceforth stay in line with the precision of a Rockette!”

  And she crossed her heart, with the fingers of her other hand crossed behind her back. Me, I was wondering if anybody else in history had ever before used both Rockette and henceforth in the same sentence.

  He stood, releasing her, and one last sigh.

  “Why don’t I just leave this tin of scones,” she said softly, conspiratorially. Then she packed the thermos and cups inside her tote bag, and we left.

  Outside, in the cool autumn breeze, Mother paused on the portico of the courthouse. “Well, that went well. My research on the commissioner paid off! I didn’t even have to use the A material.”

  “What would that have been?”

  “Let’s just say that what happens in Vegas doesn’t necessarily stay in Vegas. I’ll keep that one tucked away.”

  “Yeah, and you only had to bribe him twice.”

  Another first in the history of Mankind: a raisin scone and TAB bribe.

  She breathed in deeply. “Will you just look at this beautiful day?”

  “Where to now?”

  “The Wentworth mansion.”

  “What? Why?”

  “The owner wanted me to drop by and give him news about my meeting last night with the Historical Preservation Society. And while we’re there, he can give us a tour. I’ve taken one, of course—more than one, actually—but never tire of it.”

  “That doesn’t sound like official sheriff business.”

  She raised a forefinger. “Yours is not to reason why, dear, yours is but to do and drive.”

  So, with the sun continuing its slow decent in the clear blue sky, we headed to the SUV.

  Soon we were cruising along Main Street, where the occasional law-abiding citizen gave us a wave, then we entered the trendy shopping block of Pearl City Plaza, with its antiques stores and boutiques and bistros. The end of the plaza signaled the conclusion of the downtown business section, and we began the slow-but-steady climb up West Hill. A few moderate homes sat at the base—our antiques shop was one—but as we ascended, the residences became bigger and better, increasing in grandeur, and value, commensurate with their view of the scenic Mississippi River.

  At the top of the hill, where the land leveled out, was an impressive array of mansions, many built in the 1800s by city founders—lumbermen, bankers, and pearl button makers—exquisite examples of baroque, Queen Anne, Gothic Revival, Greek Renaissance, each a work of art determined to outshine the other.

  I had been inside most of these mansions with Mother, who could usually wheedle an invitation from the owner—if not, she would find some pretext to drop by. But the Wentworth place I had seen only from the outside.

  Mother was saying, “The first Benjamin Wentworth founded Wentworth Lumber Company, back in the eighteen seventies, which remained in business until a fire destroyed it several years ago, under the tutelage of Benjamin Wentworth the Third.”

  I recalled the incident, which happened just after I’d moved back in with her. “People died, didn’t they?”

  “A night watchman and one firefighter. Tragic.”

  “What was the cause?”

  “Undetermined,” she said. “The whole place went up in minutes like a pile of—”

  “Lumber?”

  I pulled to the curb in front of a grand Queen Anne home, which sat back from the street on a small terrace. We exited the SUV, Mother gazing up at the place like a starving man at a sumptuous meal.

  The three-story mansion was built of tan brick with a stone foundation, the roof consisting of multiple levels sporting several round turrets with their own conical roofs, offset by gables.

  Steps, then a cement walk, took us to a wide porch that spanned the entire front of the house, whose numerous bay windows were fashioned of stained glass.

  We approached a massive wooden door with beveled lead glass, where a round metal bell with a handle was set into the wood. Mother cranked the ancient bell, which then produced a loud ding on the other side.

  After another crank of the bell, the door swung open to reveal a well-preserved silver-haired, middle-aged man with black-framed glasses, a straight nose, and prominent dimpled chin. He wore a yellow sweater, tan slacks, and brown slip-on shoes.

  “Hello, Vivian,” he said warmly. “Or should I say Sheriff? Thank you for coming by.”

  “Hello, Jimmy,” she practically purred.

  Hmmm. Was I in the presence of yet another on the list of Vivian Borne’s past paramours?

  She glanced my way, gestured to our host. “Brandy, this is James Sutter, the owner. Jimmy, this is my deputy daughter.”

  I was really starting not to like that phrase—“Deputy Daughter” sounded like a cartoon show.

  He held out a hand, which I shook. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Sutter.”

  “Of course, I know who you are,” he said, his smile revealing white teeth that may or may not have been his. “And I’ll call you Brandy and you call me Jimmy.”

  “Fine, Jimmy,” I said, smiling back at him.

  “I’ve seen you driving Vivian around town—so, are you an official deputy?”

  “No. It’s more like involuntary servitude.”

  That got some nervous laughter out of Jimmy and an extremely strained smile from Mother.

  “Well, come in, come in,” he said.

  We stepped through the portal.

  As I said, I’d visited other grand homes on West Hill before, like the Blackwood, Butterworth, and Wright mansions—even the pseudo palace owned by Nastasya Petrova, who was distantly related to the Romanov dynasty—but what my eyes were about to discern was the crème de la crème of the Serenity mansion crop.

  Mother was asking, “Could we impose upon you for a quick tour? Brandy’s never been inside.”

  “Certainly,” our host replied. “Only it will have to be limited to the downstairs. The upstairs rooms are being repainted and the plaster repaired, so th
e furniture is covered. But you can come back when it’s all done.”

  We embarked upon the tour beginning with the dining room, Mr. Sutter histrionically narrating its many unique features, like the gleaming wood-paneled walls that led up to a beamed and coffered (sunken-paneled) ceiling, and the elaborately carved buffet with lion’s heads, and matching custom-made table whose ten chairs were topped by the same lion’s heads.

  Also impressive was the bathroom with its floor-and-ceiling green glass tiles with black accents that Mrs. Benjamin Wentworth had spotted at the 1893 World’s Fair in Chicago, and purchased for the then outlandish price of $18,000.

  But probably the most beautiful—and reverent—spot in the mansion appeared to be the landing of the grand staircase, where—above a long velvet-padded seating bench—was a large, somewhat amateurish but charming portrait in oil of a child, blond and cherubic.

  As I gazed up from the foot of the stairs, Mr. Sutter said solemnly, “Arabella was the Wentworths’ only daughter, who died from scarlet fever at the age of five.”

  I said, more to myself than him, “Wealth can’t protect people from tragedy.”

  Mother, who had been lurking within earshot, asked, “Jimmy, wasn’t your late wife a Wentworth?”

  Sutter turned toward her. “Shirttail relation. It was her idea to buy the mansion. Diane always fancied living here. Shall we move on to the kitchen?”

  He led us back to a large kitchen that had retained the original black and white floor tiles with a very distinctive pattern. So distinctive, in fact, that I stood frozen in the doorway.

  My eyes went questioningly to our tour guide.

  “I know,” Sutter said. “I always feel it necessary to point out that the house was built long before the Nazis incorporated the swastika motif. Actually, the double-hooked cross dates back to ancient Troy, where it meant ‘good fortune.’”

  Not such good fortune for either Hitler or the early Wentworths.

  He went on, “But since the flooring is original to the house, it must remain.”

  I wasn’t so sure. The rest of the kitchen had been changed, perhaps several times over, with modern appliances (although authentically pleasing). The cupboards might have been original, and certainly the oak table with high-backed caned chairs was of the period. All I knew was I couldn’t ever eat in here.

  After we had come full circle, returning to the entryway, I asked Mr. Sutter if all the furniture was his.

  He chuckled. “Oh, no, I couldn’t’ve afforded to buy any of it. Nearly everything belongs to the Wentworth estate, which stipulates that the antiques must remain with the house.”

  I was confused. “But you do own the house?”

  He nodded. “That’s right. I bought it from Ben Wentworth, who didn’t want the responsibility of the place anymore—there was no restriction on the house itself, only that the contents remain with it.”

  “Doesn’t that bother you?” I asked. “Not having your own things? Not being able to decorate the way you want?”

  To me it would have been like living in a museum—no matter how valuable and handsome the contents, it was still . . . a museum.

  He seemed surprised. “Not in the least, Brandy. Who wouldn’t want to be around all this beauty?”

  Maybe, if it was Art Deco.

  I pressed: “But the responsibility . . .”

  Sutter nodded. “That is true. But I enjoy the task.” He paused. “Except . . . ever since Diane died, that task has become so much harder.”

  His eyes went to Mother, who was examining an unusual-looking vase on the center marble-topped round table. The vase was shaped like a nuclear reactor tower with a gold barber-pole-style band wrapped around midnight blue glass. But Sutter wasn’t studying the antique, unless Mother qualified.

  Holy cow! Was our host contemplating making Vivian Borne the new Mrs. Sutter? Didn’t he know that Mother wouldn’t be a caretaker to anyone else’s things? And that included husbands.

  She looked his way. “Is this an original Tiffany lava vase?”

  “It is.”

  Her eyes, already huge behind the eyeglass lenses, got bigger. “I’d be afraid to dust it.”

  Not that she was big on dusting.

  Sutter chuckled, then gestured toward the parlor. “Why don’t we sit down for a while, and you can tell me how the board meeting went.”

  We followed our host through open pocket walnut doors into what I thought was the least impressive area of the downstairs—or maybe I’d just become jaded by all the splendor. But the very typically Victorian furnishings, however high quality, had none of the unexpected surprises of the dining room.

  Mother and I sat on a curved velvet couch facing the fireplace, while Mr. Sutter took a needlepoint armchair, angled toward us.

  “In a nutshell,” Mother began (no comment), “the Historical Preservation Society believes we can get you another grant to help with the ongoing repairs.”

  He sighed in relief. “That would be wonderful. My only other option would be to put the house back on the market, and well, you know there was no interest last time.”

  “Yes,” Mother said, nodding. “Not even at the below-market price you’d asked.”

  Not many people want to buy a home that required them to be a museum curator.

  Sutter shifted in his chair. “How . . . how much are we talking?”

  Mother shrugged. “Hard to say. Grant dollars for historical homes are decreasing every year . . . but I think an amount of twenty thousand might be attainable.”

  Sutter looked disappointed, but only briefly. “That would certainly help with tuck-pointing the brick, which is especially needed on the side facing the river.”

  “I’ll keep you informed,” Mother said.

  When the conversation between the pair turned borderline gossipy, I excused myself and went out into the anteroom, where a large elaborately carved grandfather clock was striking five. I walked over to the base of the staircase and stared up at the portrait of the little girl, who gazed back at me.

  I hoped I’d never know the grief of losing a child.

  Someone touched my arm, and I jumped a little.

  “Time to go, dear,” Mother said.

  At the door I thanked Mr. Sutton for the tour, then went on out, while Mother stayed behind to exchange a few more words with him, in a way that verged on the intimate side. Jimmy Sutter seemed nice enough, but I couldn’t see myself ever calling him Daddy.

  After Mother finally joined me, and we were outside descending the steps, I said, “Tell me you’re not interested in him.”

  “Dear, I am interested in him, just not seriously.” She took my arm. “Don’t worry, I have no desire to be the caretaker of anyone else’s former belongings—furniture or otherwise.”

  Told you.

  On the drive home, Mother couldn’t stop chattering about the Tiffany lava vase, and how “Louie,” the American artist and designer (and son of Charles Lewis Tiffany, founder of the Tiffany Company), had devised the unusual glass technique after a trip to Italy, where he was inspired by the volcanic eruption of Mount Etna in Sicily.

  Frankly, I found the free-form abstract unattractive. But I’d take one. To sell.

  At home—a two-story stucco white house with wide front porch—I pulled the SUV into the drive and up to a stand-alone one-car garage that was crammed full of Mother’s garage/yard/dumpster finds.

  Inside, we were greeted by the third member of our household—and arguably the smartest—Sushi, my brown-and-white diabetic shih tzu.

  The little darling had her leash clenched in her tiny, sharp teeth, and I knew there’d be no putting her off. So I picked Sushi up, went outside, grabbed the plastic pooper-scooper (no plastic bag stooping for me), and off we went.

  The evening was uneventful, and I was in bed with Sushi by ten, lights out.

  Then I was being shaken awake by an hysterical Mother; the digital clock on the nightstand read 2:00 a.m.

  “Wh-what?” I
stuttered. “Is the house on fire?”

  “Not ours,” she said, wild-eyed. “But the Wentworth mansion is in flames! Let’s go!”

  She was pulling my arm.

  “But . . . I’m not dressed,” I protested groggily.

  Mother was—she’d taken to sleeping in one of her uniformed jumpsuits, in case she had to bail out of bed for a call to duty.

  “Anyway, you’re the sheriff,” I said, grabbing a robe, “not the fire chief.”

  Which was the only thing that had stopped her from installing a fire pole.

  On the way, she initiated the siren and lights in the SUV, even though it was the dead of night and the streets were deserted.

  In the distance, the fire could be seen lighting up the dark sky, and Mother urged me to drive faster as if we could do some good. She had no jurisdiction over a fire, which was first and foremost the fire department’s job, and then the police department’s, if something criminal had transpired.

  But we were almost there.

  Two fire trucks were in front of the mansion, along with two police cars and a paramedic truck, all blocking the street. I maneuvered the SUV as close as I could, and Mother jumped out before I’d even put the car into park.

  She headed to the nearest yellow-suited fireman, who was grappling with a hose—another firefighter up in a bucket was aiming his at the roof’s blazing turrets—and I hurried to catch up to her.

  “Did Mr. Sutter get out?” she shouted at the hose grappler.

  When the firefighter didn’t seem to know, she moved on to find someone who might, and I stood watching the conflagration, thinking about the beautiful one-of-a-kind, priceless, irreplaceable antiques that made up the contents of the mansion, including the oil-painting portrait of the Wentworth’s dead daughter, haunting if far less than priceless.

  A female firefighter spun me around. “Your mother!”

  “What about her?”

  “I told her we couldn’t reach Mr. Sutter without risking our lives, and she went inside!”

  My jaw dropped, and I turned back to the house in time to see the roof collapse onto the second floor and the second floor onto the first.

  A Trash ’n’ Treasures Tip