Kendel Lynn - Elliott Lisbon 02 - Whack Job (14 page)

I pulled out a hardcover edition of
Pet Semetary
. “I don’t really read him.” Except I totally did.
Pet Semetary
was the very first King book I ever read. And the number one reason I’ll never own a cat.

“It’s a collector. Rare, and signed.”

I shrugged as if rare and signed meant nothing to me. “How much?”

“I could let it go for around six and a half.”

Holy shit. I started to put it back on the shelf.

“I think I remember the egg you’re talking about. Full size, turquoise blue, right? With gold trim?”

I tapped the book in my palm and wondered how I could possibly charge this back to the Ballantyne as an expense. “I’ll give you three-fifty.”

“Five-fifty.”

“Four and a quarter.”

“Five, and that’s the best I can do.”

“Tell me about the Fabergé egg. Who brought it in?”

“Fella brought it in, oh, I guess goin’ on about three months. Right around Father’s Day I s’pose. Real nice looking egg. Good condition. He had a few other Russian trinkets to go along with it.” He held out his hand for my credit card and I handed it over.

“Can you describe this fella?”

“Don’t believe I remember that much. Besides, I run a confidential shop. Folks prefer discretion when selling their belongings for cash.”

“I understand,” I said. Gilbert referred to the client as “he,” so no big loss of information. “Did this fella want to pawn it?”

“Sell it. Worth about sixty tops, something like that. Gave him a written appraisal and offered him full price. I know a collector in Charleston. Almost had a deal, but my guy backed out, so I did, too. Never saw it again.”

After I signed the slim two-part receipt, I tucked my money pouch back into my hipster. “Anyone else come in asking about the egg?”

“Don’t remember.”

“A woman, perhaps? Thin, small, short hair?”

He simply shrugged.

“Uh-huh,” I said, and looked around his shop. “No offense, but why bring such a beautiful piece here? Unless it was a fake?”

He sat back on his stool, his hands once again clasped across his middle. “Definitely not a Carl Fabergé, though I’m not an expert in Russian antiques. Lots of repros out there. I know it was real gold and a real stone. So a guy wants fast cash, and we’re always open. In this economy, everything’s for sale and we’re always buying.”

I thanked him for his time and the Stephen King and walked out to the lot. An interesting establishment. But it lined up with Gilbert’s story. Mostly, anyway. I’m sure a fancy New York auction house would be a better bet to sell a treasure, but a slower payout. If you take a jewel-encrusted egg—even one valued at a paltry sixty-thou—to a pawn broker, then you needed cash fast.

Unless you needed to keep the sale off the grid.

Back to my Gilbert-bought-a-stolen-egg theory, I started to call Corporal Parker for an update on her nationwide search for stolen Fabergé eggs, but clicked off before she answered. Probably not smart to remind her of my theory: Gilbert bought (fenced?) stolen property. At least not while he sat in jail. Better to follow my own advice and keep gathering information.

SEVENTEEN

(Day #4: Monday Afternoon)

After a swing through the McDonald’s drive-thru (cheeseburger, ketchup only, fries and a small Coke), I crossed back over the bridge at half-past noon, eating while I drove, headed to the south side of the island. The other appraisal in Mary-Louise’s folder was from Bygone Wishes, an antiquities shop. I’d never heard of it, and after twenty minutes of brake-slamming and u-turns, I thought I’d never find it. But I finally did.

An ornate Victorian house, tucked behind the post office off Ocean Boulevard and way down a skinny gravel drive, bore a lovely large green canopy over the front door, “Bygone Wishes” printed along the front. A tiny bell jingled when I opened the door, and I walked into a dusky room.

Parlor chairs from an erstwhile era flanked the entry way, sitting on the edge of a threadbare rug. Worn nearly through in some spots, though probably quite expensive back in its day. Sometime when Aladdin flew the skies.

I approached a wide glass case. It nearly stretched the width of the room, but only held a smattering of select items. An interesting set up. Carefully arranged items, very few actually out for me to see, the low lighting, the dark carpet. Bygone Wishes? I’d walked into Stephen King’s
Needful Things
.

I peered over the top of the case just as a tall, older man appeared from behind a heavy curtain. Charming, friendly, familiar.

Oh my God
, I thought when I saw him. It’s the evil Leland Gaunt, straight from Stephen King’s pages.

He smiled warmly and approached the case. “Good afternoon,” he said. “And welcome.”

“Good afternoon,” I replied and dialed back my imagination. “What an interesting shop you have here.”

“Undeniably. A little bit of everything.” He folded his hands on top of the slim counter.

Three things were spotlighted in the center: A 1930s Russian Pelikan fountain pen, a vintage Mickey Mouse watch and The Elvis Presley Game, new in the box circa 1957. Three things I’d love to own, that fit perfectly into my collections.

My nerves started to hum. If he tried to hand me something, I wasn’t just leaving, I was moving off the island.

I gripped my hipster with both hands, casually, I hoped, and told myself to get it together. “I’m interested in a Fabergé egg,” I said. “An acquaintance of mine brought it in for an appraisal awhile back. He suggested I contact you.”

I had considered using some kind of ruse for information, but I couldn’t think of anything and I was pretty sure my credit card couldn’t handle another purchase.

“Ah. The turquoise egg with the fire opal clasp,” he replied. “I remember it well. I believe I provided the gentleman in question with a written appraisal report.”

“Yes, of course. I read it, but I’m afraid I don’t trust printed reports. Anyone can type one up and slap on a fake logo. I was hoping you could walk me through it, before I bought it.”

His hands clenched together. “You are purchasing the egg? I didn’t realize Mr. Goodsen was seeking another buyer.”

Another
buyer? Interesting. “Possibly, depending on the appraisal. Were you also interested in purchasing it?”

“Perhaps, but I only saw it briefly. It looked to be a genuine Fabergé. Theo, not Carl. The gemstone was of the right quality. The clasp worked beautifully. Reminiscent of the House of Fabergé. Mr. Goodsen was supposed to leave it for a more formal appraisal, but he never did.”

“Could you place a value on it?”

“Not without closer inspection. I held it only briefly.”

“But if it were authentic? What value would you assign?”

“As I wrote in my report, I estimate somewhere in the one hundred-fifty range. A truly pristine specimen, I’d love to see it again if you find it.”

One hundred-fifty was nearly triple the pawn shop price, and I wondered why Gilbert didn’t sell it to this guy on the spot. What was Gilbert hiding?

“One last question, did a woman come in about the egg?”

“Other than you, no. You’re the only one.”

“Thank you for the information,” I said. “For verifying the appraisal report.”

He nodded once and leaned across the case. “Here, I have something for you.”

I knew it! He would hand me something and it would ruin my life.

I reached into my hipster and dug around for my keys as I started walking backward. “I’m good, not really a collector of anything. Tight budget…”

He held out his card. “Horace Lovecraft. In case you wish to contact me.”

I stumbled forward and snatched it out of his hand. I mumbled thanks and flew out of there as if chased by children playing in a field of corn.

As soon as I slammed the door on the Mini Coop, I locked it. Of course the top was still down, but I felt safer. And he didn’t come out after me. The parking lot sat empty, other than my own car, so I took out my notebook to jot down what I could remember. The one-fifty price tag certainly stuck in my mind. Why such a discrepancy? Because of the type of establishment? He certainly sounded like he knew what he was talking about. Close to what Jane said. Also, did he say if you
find
it? I never said it was missing.

I went to tuck his card in a back slot of my bag when I noticed a logo on the other side. Seabrook Preparatory. Now what did that mean?

Seabrook Prep is a private school located in Harborside Plantation, close to the island’s landmark lighthouse. It looked fresh from a Roaring Twenties picture postcard with its red and white striped base and round lantern room perched on top. Wouldn’t take but five minutes for me to stop over to the campus and ask about Mr. Horace Lovecraft. However, as it was both Labor Day and still technically summer, I doubted anyone would be around to answer my questions.

Which also gave me a fabulous excuse to talk to Matty Gannon, my best friend slash the hunk from the Regatta who also happened to be the Seabrook Prep Headmaster. And I had an idea of just where he might be: Bay Harbor Yacht Club.

Matty looked handsome, rugged, tanned from days spent on the ocean waters. He wore torn cargo shorts and his Oakleys on his head and he knelt against the side rail of the
Fire Escape
, his brother’s sailboat.

“Hey, sailor!”

He looked up and smiled, low and easy. “Elli Lisbon.”

I walked along the short pier until I stood across from him. Me on the dock, him on the boat. He had a box of supplies behind him. Towels, a large cooler, sunscreen. “Heading out or coming in?”

“Out. Beautiful afternoon for it. High sun, calm seas. Been craving the she-crab chowder over at The Cotton Exchange in Savannah. But hey, never seen you two days at the docks in one weekend. Must be something special to bring you down here.”

He was right, even though we lived on an island, I rarely visited the docks or sailed the open seas. I’d been afflicted with motion sickness since my first stroller ride, and even thinking of a rocking boat made my head light and my knees heavy.

“I just met someone I thought you might know,” I said. “I couldn’t resist the opportunity to come by. Horace Lovecraft, proprietor of Bygone Wishes Antiquities.”

“Sure. He’s a guest lecturer at Seabrook. Teaches a course for the art department.”

“So he’s reputable, you’d say?”

“Highly. Eccentric, but knowledgeable. His class fills up fast. You thinking of him for the vacant Ballantyne board seat?”

“Not exactly. I came across Mr. Lovecraft while researching an heirloom quality valuable bauble for a donor who needs my assistance.”

The explanation sounded lame to my own ears. Me trying to delicately avoid stating the obvious, that I’m involving Matty, and his school, in one of my investigations. I questioned him about a student in the Hirschorn murder investigation and it didn’t go so well. I offended him, alienated him, and I’m pretty sure I insulted him, too.

He glanced at the dock behind me, then down at the long rope he was winding. “Well, then. Sure good to see you. I should finish up if I’m going to push off soon.”

I noticed he hadn’t asked me to join him. While he may be very aware of how seasick I get on boats, rafts, canoes, docks, pool floaties or anything touching the water, I had a feeling he already had a sailing companion. A twinge of jealousy stirred in my stomach and I feared he was already over me.

“Matty? I’m so sorry I blew our lunch date yesterday. It’s this case, well, not really a case, an inquiry. It’s more complicated than I thought. I’m not making excuses, really. But I miss you. Can we try again?” At his raised brow, I added, “Lunch. Can we try lunch again?”

He finished coiling the rope, then stood, leaning against the railing. “Sure, Elli. I miss you, too. How about tomorrow?”

“Yes! Wait, no. I’m having lunch with Mimi Ran—with, well, a lady trying to get me tables,” I inexpertly finished. Ransom might still be a sensitive subject, and I didn’t want to complicate it further by mentioning lunch with his mother.

“No problem, Elli. You have the Tea on Wednesday and school starts Thursday. We’ll just do it another time.”

“Okay, Matty. I’m going to hold you to me. I mean,
it
. Hold you to
it
.”

He smiled and hopped onto the
Fire Escape
, then walked along the side of the sailboat.

I sighed as he left, wondering how to fix our friendship, or if I ever could. And if it was friendship I wanted, or something more. Especially since seeing him with Nurse “call me El” Elaine. He disappeared from view, so I turned and crossed the dock, walking across the patio to the clubhouse.

I was so distracted, I nearly plowed into the perky nurse in question. She didn’t see me, thank God, and I jumped behind a potted palm. I wasn’t sure if it was because I didn’t want her to know I just saw Matty or if she might grill me about Gilbert Goodsen. Either way, I stayed hidden until she was out the back door. Not the most mature moment I’d had this week, but probably wouldn’t be my least.