Antiques Knock-Off (14 page)

Even if it was trash.

We watched the woman slowly walk to her car, though the quirky birdlike movements seemed to be returning. Then Mother took my elbow.

“Let’s go, dear.”

“And give her some privacy?”

“No—escape before she runs us down in the parking lot.”

In the backroom repair shop of the old funeral home, Mr. Timmons was working on a disassembled clock at one of the stainless-steel embalming tables. He looked up pleasantly as Mother and I entered.

But his cheerful expression dropped into a weary frown. From our expressions, he must have guessed we’d run in to the recently departed (from the mini-mall, not the earth) Mrs. Vancamp.

“You saw her?” the bearded little man asked, his brow making the kind of furrows that give birth to wrinkles.

I rolled my eyes and nodded, and Mother said, “Yes. It was a great blow to the poor soul to discover that her beloved clock was not an authentic Acklin.” Then she added dramatically, “I did what I could to ease her sorrow. As a wise person once said, ‘We are here for such a short
span, it is incumbent upon us to lighten the load of our fellow beings.’”

I gave her a look. “Who said
that?”

“Why, I did, dear. Just now.”

Timmons sighed sadly. “I hated to tell her—it just broke her heart. But she shocked the heck out of me.”

“How so?” Mother asked.

“She wanted me to buy the clock! I supposed she’d want to hold on to it, out of sentiment.”

I said, “In tough times, sentiment’s value drops faster than the dollar’s.”

Mother looked at me. “And who said that, dear?”

“I did. Just now.” To the clock repairman, I said, “So you had to break it to her. You couldn’t just say you weren’t interested.”

“No. Because if I didn’t want to buy it, she’d have tried to sell it to someone else. And that meant either she’d be unwittingly misrepresenting it to another uneducated buyer, or some dealer would have delivered the bad news, and let her down much harder than I did.”

“We understand, Ben,” Mother said. “It was the right thing to do. Can’t have a knock-off floating around out there.” She shifted gears, having given sufficient time to someone else’s problems. Mother has a lot of compassion, for an egocentric.

I said, “I hope you’re not about to give us similar bad news about
our
Acklin …”

He smiled, stepping away from his work. “Not hardly!”

“… because like Mrs. Vancamp,
we
want to sell ours.”

“Oh … I thought you were planning to keep it.”

“We were,” I said, shrugged, and sighed, “but now it seems we’ll have to sell it to pay Mother’s lawyer’s fee. You’ve seen the papers? I thought maybe the police would have been by to question you about our altercation last week. That’s what spurred everything.”

“I’m well aware of what’s been happening, but actually, no, the police haven’t stopped by.” Timmons stepped to the counter that separated us. “As for your Acklin, I’d love to buy it … if we can arrive at an agreement on price. Afraid I’m also feeling the pinch of the economy these days….”

I didn’t like the way the conversation was heading, with us put in the position of soft-balling a figure, so I turned to Mother.

“Say,” I said, “why don’t we not put Mr. Timmons on the spot today? We can do some research on the Net and through some auction houses, and see what a similar Acklin mantel clock has gone for. Then, let’s set a firm price and showcase it in our booth at the antiques mall. It won’t sell, of course, but we can at least get some publicity out of it.”

Mother’s eyes began to dance behind her glasses. “Wonderful idea, dear. Think of how it will attract people to our booth! If they can’t afford the clock, perhaps they’ll buy something else. We
are
overstocked. And then perhaps we wouldn’t have to sell the clock after all!”

Timmons didn’t seem to care one way or the other. He just shrugged and said, “Well, it’s your Acklin.”

I smiled. “Yes, it is. May we have it, please?”

For some time now, Mother and I had been renting an antiques booth downtown in an old (as yet unrestored) Victorian four-story building at the end of Main Street. The purpose of our venture was (a) to clear out some of our clutter, (b) make a little mazuma, and (c) keep Mother out of trouble. All of which was working …

… except for “c.”

The Victorian building, with its ornate facade and unique corner entrance, had a checkered reputation, several
murders having taken place in the building, which did not seem to bother antiques hunters looking for a bargain.

The current owner, Ray Spillman, was a short, spry, slender fellow in his late seventies with thinning gray hair, a bulbous nose, and a slash of a mouth. After the most recent murder on the premises, he had asked Father O’Brien from St. Mary’s to bless the building, and the hocus-pocus had worked—no further homicides … so far.

But the priest should have included a blessing against burglary, because the store had been broken into several times, inspiring Ray to install an expensive alarm system, the cost passed along to his booth renters. So all of us were doubly concerned about turning a good profit.

While Mother held a dim view of breaking and entering, she was pragmatic on simple customer booth thievery: if a person wanted something so badly as to conceal it in their purse or pocket, then they could have it. She was assuming, however, that the snitcher didn’t have any money, and would take the item home and cherish it, which wasn’t always the case, as sometimes our items wound up in one of Serenity’s pawn shops.

Occasionally, however, items that disappeared were not stolen, just picked up and set down absentmindedly in another booth, when the customer decided against the purchase. Such was the case with our yellow smiley-face alarm clock (a bad purchase on my part, I admit), which I’d thought we’d finally gotten rid of, only to have it now staring back at me, as I surveyed our booth. Apparently, someone thought better of waking up to the silly grinning face.

Not much had sold since our last visit, August being a slow month for dealers. A few empty spots in the dust on the blue glass top of an Art Deco end table (display only) indicated some movement of inventory. Gone was a Fenton milk-glass candy dish, a Frankoma green vase, and a

Bugs Bunny drinking glass, items not valuable enough to have locked in our curio case, reserved for rare items like the Li’l Abner tin toy band, and a dress shield autographed by the older Frank Sinatra—Mother pushing her way backstage after a Midwestern concert, having a pen but no paper, and improvising as only she could.

While Mother was visiting with Raymond at the center circular checkout station, I dusted and straightened our booth, moving a few things around to make it look like we’d added new merchandise. Then, satisfied that I’d done what I could to make our little world enticing, I joined Mother.

She was informing Ray, “The Acklin clock will be in the curio cabinet. Please only show it to those who are serious about buying it—the less it’s handled the better.”

Ray, on the other side of the counter, with an ever-present bottle of Coke within easy reach, asked, “Firm price?”

“Yes,” Mother said, adding, “It will be too rich for most people’s blood, of course, but then we don’t expect to sell it, rather to draw customers to our booth. We’ll take the clock to auction, later…. Ah, Brandy!”

Mother had finally noticed me, and she gestured to the box with the carefully wrapped clock at her feet. “Bring the Acklin up on the counter where Ray can see it, will you, dear? My knees aren’t what they used to be….”

Neither were her elbows or shoulders, but the hips were fine, having been replaced. I didn’t point out the difficulty of a pregnant woman bending over, not that it would have done any good.

After I’d unveiled the mantel clock before Ray’s bright, shining eyes, the elderly man studied it carefully, stem to stern.

Finally he said, “This is a real find … a beautiful example of Acklin at his best…. Only …”

Mother and I frowned.

“Only what, Ray?” I asked first.

“I’ve never seen Acklin use anything but genuine gold for the face hands.”

Mother and I leaned in simultaneously for a closer look, and bumped heads.

“That’s not real gold?” Mother asked. “How can you tell?”

Ray had the clock’s glass face-cover open and was gently wiggling the minute hand. “By the thickness and weight, Vivian. This is flimsy—brass or gold-plated, most likely.”

Mother looked crestfallen.

I asked, “What will that do to its value?”

Ray shrugged his slight shoulders. “It
will
make a difference … but the rest of the clock appears authentic. You really won’t know until it’s appraised and taken to auction.”

I could almost hear what Mother was thinking:
Let the buyer beware.
But I always found it better to be up-front about known flaws in an antique: deceit had a way of coming back and biting one on the derriere.

Ray had a customer now, a teenage boy buying a 1970s vintage comic book, so Mother and I collected our fine but flawed Acklin and headed back to our booth.

After positioning the clock on the top shelf of the curio, showcasing it under the cabinet’s light, we left the comfort of the air-conditioned antiques mall for the blistering heat of the street, making our way slowly to the car.

I got the Buick’s air-conditioning blasting on high, but didn’t pull away from the curb.

“Mother?”

“Yes, dear?”

“What if our clock hands
had
been gold … before we
took it to Mr. Timmons? And what if Mrs. Vancamp’s clock had been authentic, before she had him clean it?”

Mother was staring straight ahead. “Yes, dear … I’m thinking the same dire thoughts. And what if Connie Grimes hadn’t been angry with Timmons about an overcharge, but something completely different?”

“Like plundering clock parts?”

“Plundering clock parts. Yes.”

I pulled out into the street, and we drove home in silence. But our two little brains were buzzing.

A Trash ‘n’ Treasures Tip

Sometimes, a knock-off will be priced high, to help convince the buyer that it is real. If the owner suddenly gets cooperative and begins to reduce the price dramatically, the antique may be a fake. Unless the owner is trying to make bail, like Mother.

S
enator Clark’s campaign office was located in Pearl City Plaza—which wasn’t really a plaza at all, rather the last block of Victorian buildings on Main Street. These grand old structures had been re-gentrified and transformed into bistros, boutiques, and specialty stores, giving downtown Serenity a much-needed boost.

Due to the senator’s upcoming November midterm election, a team of young people had descended upon Serenity at the beginning of the summer, moving their operations into a storefront that had been abandoned by an antiques dealer who hadn’t been able to compete with the nearby larger antiques mall where Mother and I had our booth.

Per Peggy Sue’s arrangement, I had a late-morning appointment with the senator—I can’t bring myself to write “my father,” not yet anyway—and my first impulse had been to show up looking a slovenly mess (I’ll let my therapist, Dr. Cynthia Hays tell me why, at my next appointment—if I think there’s anything to it, I may share it with you).

But, since I was also meeting Tina for lunch afterward—and she was such a worrywart lately that if I had even one hair out of place, she might call 911—I fixed myself up
and put on a leopard-print maternity sundress and gold gladiator sandals. (I guess we don’t need Dr. Hays to interpret
that
choice of wardrobe.) (I think I’ll also ask Dr. Hays about my compulsion to litter my writing with all these asides.)

Outside was gearing up to be another hot and humid August day, and I quickly exited my car parked on Main Street in front of the campaign office, then hustled through the slogan-plastered glass front door where an old air conditioner rattled and wheezed above the door, barely winning its campaign against the heat, greeting me by dripping water on my head.

The front room (there were others, trailing back in boxcar fashion) also hummed noisily, as mostly young volunteers worked the phones at various desks and tables. This was a grass-roots effort, typical of the Midwest, nothing fancy: donated furniture, stained carpeting, scrounged amenities, poorly (and un-) paid staffers. Still, electricity sparked the air with the positive charge that only a campaign bullpen can generate.

A petite, pretty woman of about twenty, clipboard in hand, stepped forward to acknowledge me. She had a sorority girl look—long blond hair, tennis court tan, pink polo shirt and white slim skirt, a RE-ELECT EDWARD CLARK button pinned above one perky breast. Did the senator do his own job interviews for staffers?

“Hi,” she chirped. “My name is Kara. Are you here to volunteer?”

“No,” I said, businesslike. “I have an appointment to see Senator Clark.”

“Oh.” She sounded disappointed, probably hoping for another door-knocker willing to brave the heat. (Really? A pregnant woman with swollen ankles? In the world of volunteer politics, hope springs eternal, if not logical.) Kara crinkled her cute nose. “Would your name be Brandy?”

“It would.”

A crisp nod. “Senator Clark said to expect you. Would you follow me, please?”

Kara turned, long hair swinging, leading me back to a second room where staffers worked at computers, then on through a break room with homemade goodies spread out on a table to keep up morale (though no one was nibbling at the moment), and finally to the caboose—a small, windowless room with an exit door to the alley.

Above the alley door, a newer air conditioner was noiselessly keeping the senator cool as he half-sat on the edge of a black metal desk, talking on his cell. He was wearing a crisply pressed white shirt—sleeves rolled—with a sky-blue silk tie, navy slacks, and mirror-shine shoes. From one wrist, an expensive-looking gold watch winked at us as we stood in doorway. I’d trade that Rolex in for a Timex before shaking any farmer hands, if I were him.