The Quilter's Legacy (19 page)

Sylvia had no time to reply, for the smiling young woman behind the counter beckoned them forward. “May I help you?”

“I hope so,” said Andrew. “We're looking for a business called Brandywine Antiques. They gave this place as their address.”

The young woman's smile vanished. “They must be one of our mail clients.” She nodded to a wall of metal post office boxes on the opposite wall.

“We need to find the shop itself,” said Sylvia. “Do you have another address?”

The young woman glanced at a middle-aged gentleman behind the counter. He had not appeared to be listening, but he looked up at Sylvia's question and said, “I'm sorry. We can't give out any personal information about our clients. It's a corporate privacy policy.”

“We aren't asking for personal information,” said Andrew, “just the address of a business.”

“I'm very sorry, folks.” He looked past them to the next customer in line. “May I help you?”

Andrew scowled, and the young woman gave them a look of helpless apology. “Come along, Andrew,” murmured Sylvia, taking his arm. “We haven't hit our dead end yet.”

They left the shop and retraced their steps until they came to a pay telephone Sylvia remembered passing earlier. They searched the weathered telephone book, but Brandywine Antiques was not listed in either the yellow pages or the alphabetical business directory. “I suppose it's time to call home,” said Sylvia, digging into her purse for change. “Perhaps Summer said Fort Dodge, Indiana, or Ohio. Or maybe the city—”

Andrew placed a hand on her shoulder. “Hold on. I think I see help coming.”

Sylvia followed his line of sight and discovered the young woman from Letters et All hurrying toward them, glancing furtively over her shoulder. “Here,” she said, and handed Sylvia a scrap of paper. “The owner of the box gave this as his address. Just please don't tell anyone where you got this. I could get fired.”

Sylvia glimpsed a hastily scrawled address. “Are you sure, dear?”

She nodded. “This is the third time senior citizens have asked about him in two weeks. I think he's up to something, and I don't like it.”

“Thanks very much, miss,” said Andrew. “We appreciate your help—and we can keep a secret.”

The young woman gave them a quick smile and dashed back to the store.

Sylvia studied the address. “Well, Andrew? Do you feel like playing detective?”

Within minutes they were back on the road, following their map away from the business district into a residential area. When they stopped in front of a two-story colonial house on a pleasant, tree-lined street adjacent to a park, Sylvia shook her head in disbelief. “I suppose our Mr. Robinson might run the business out of his home.”

Andrew snorted, skeptical.

A woman who looked to be in her late forties answered the doorbell, wiping her hands on a dish towel.

“Oh, dear, I hope we didn't interrupt your supper,” said Sylvia, giving the woman her most disarming smile.

“Oh no, my son isn't even home from school yet,” she assured them. “He's a junior at the local college. Is there something I can help you with?”

“I hope so. We're looking for Brandywine Antiques.”

The woman looked puzzled. “Brandywine Antiques? There's a Brandywine Drive near the mall …”

“Yes, we're quite familiar with that,” said Sylvia. “I don't suppose you know a George K. Robinson?”

Behind them, a car pulled into the driveway. Sylvia and Andrew turned to see a bushy-haired young man in baggy clothes climbing out of a bright blue hatchback.

“I'm afraid I don't,” said the woman. “My son might. He has me at my wit's end most of the time, but he does know the neighborhood.”

“Hey, Mom, did I get any mail?” he called, sauntering up the front walk.

“Two packages on the hall table. Jason, do you know the Robinson family?”

“Who?” he asked, brushing past Sylvia and Andrew on his way to the front door.

“These nice people who you didn't even say hello to are looking for someone named George Robinson.”

“George K. Robinson, to be precise,” said Sylvia.

“Or his company, Brandywine Antiques,” Andrew added.

Jason froze. “Never heard of him. Or—or it. That company. Whatever you called it.”

“That's a shame,” said Sylvia. “Brandywine Antiques is supposed to have a quilt that belonged to my mother, and we were willing to spend quite a lot of money for it.”

Sylvia and Andrew bid his mother good-bye and turned to go.

“Just a sec,” said Jason, with a furtive glance at his mother as he followed them down the stairs. “I do all my business over the Internet, see? You can only buy my stuff through AsIsAuctions dot com. I don't have a storefront yet.”

“What?” his mother said. “Since when are you an antiques dealer?”

“You told me to get a job,” protested Jason. He turned a pleading gaze on Andrew and Sylvia and lowered his voice. “I'm saving up money to buy a store, but until then, I'm running my business out of the house. Really. What was it you said you were interested in again?”

“A quilt,” said Andrew, loud enough for Jason's mother to hear. “The pattern's called Ocean Waves. It's made up of lots of blue and white triangles.”

Jason nodded, but before he could reply, his mother called, “You mean that raggedy old thing you got at the Hixtons' garage sale?”

Jason managed a weak grin. “You'd be surprised where great finds turn up.”

“Great finds? That's no antique. Mr. Hixton's mother made that quilt, and you know it. I heard her tell you myself.”

Jason held up his hands, begging Sylvia and Andrew not to leave. “Let me just run inside and get a contract. Once you sign that, I can show you the quilt.”

He hurried back up the stairs, but his mother blocked the doorway with her arm before he could duck past. “Sign a contract before they see what they're buying?” Her eyes narrowed. “Just what kind of business are you running, anyway?”

With his mother's help, Sylvia and Andrew eventually dragged the truth from him.

The young man had indeed been running a business out of the house—a shady business Sylvia considered to be just this side of fraud. He trolled Internet Web sites such as the Missing Quilts Home Page and eBay to find potential customers. With a list of the desired items in hand, he rummaged through garage sales and flea markets until he found similar products. Then he would contact the potential customer with the good news that he might have what they were looking for. “The key word is ‘might,’” said Jason, glancing from his mother to Sylvia and Andrew apprehensively. “All my sales were through AsIsAuctions. They clearly state in their service agreement that all items for sale are as is. It's the buyer's responsibility to inspect the item in person if they want. All sales are final, so you can't get a refund unless you never get your product or you can prove the seller lied about it.”

“You certainly lied to us about this quilt,” declared Sylvia.

“I didn't lie.” Jason turned to his mother and quickly added, “I didn't.”

Andrew frowned. “You said you believed this quilt might have come from Pennsylvania.”

“Exactly. I said ‘might.’ That also means it might
not
have come from Pennsylvania.”

“But you knew for a fact that it did not,” exclaimed Sylvia. “And what about your alias, George K. Robinson? There is no such person.”

“Everybody uses fake names on the Internet. It's for personal privacy, that's all.”

“Young man,” said Sylvia, shaking her head, “you have such a gift for double-talk I'm sure you're destined for a career in politics.”

Andrew folded his arms and regarded Jason sternly. “If you're such an honest dealer, why did you pretend to know nothing about Brandywine Antiques?”

Jason hesitated. “I didn't want my mom to get mad. I knew she wouldn't want me to run a business out of the house.”

“A business I could handle,” said his mother sharply. “A scam, on the other hand …” She shook her head and gave Sylvia and Andrew an appraising look. “The question is, what are we going to do about this?”

Sylvia was reluctant to involve the police, but she and Andrew were both resolute that Jason should not be allowed to perpetrate his scheme any longer. They also insisted that he make restitution for any past customers he might have deceived and write every one of them a letter of apology.

“Oh, he'll do that, all right,” said his mother. “If I have to stand over him while he writes every word.”

They all agreed that Jason should be denied access to the Internet at least until his obligations to his customers were fulfilled, and that AsIsAuctions must be informed. If all those measures were followed, Sylvia and Andrew would be satisfied, and they would not press charges.

“Do you think that's enough?” Sylvia asked Andrew as they resumed their journey east.

“Nothing short of shutting down this AsIsAuctions place would be enough for me,” said Andrew. “They're just as guilty as he is. But I guess this will have to be enough unless we want to have Jason prosecuted for fraud.”

“He's just a boy. I hate to ruin his life when all we lost was a few hours of our time and the cost of gasoline.”

“We wouldn't be ruining his life. He did it to himself. And I don't know how we can rely on his mother to punish him when she didn't even know what was going on under her own roof.”

The harshness in Andrew's tone surprised Sylvia. “She seemed furious. I'm sure she'll see to it he can't swindle anyone else.”

Andrew shook his head. “Remember what the girl from the mailbox place said? This is the third time seniors have asked about Brandywine Antiques. Jason's targeting old folks, and that shows calculation and contempt. He's a crook, Sylvia. A young crook, but still a crook, and he's just going to get worse. Mark my words.”

Sylvia did not know what to say. They drove on in silence until they stopped for the night, just west of the Illinois border.

T
wo days later they arrived in Silver River, Indiana, just outside Fort Wayne, to pursue the last of Summer's Internet leads between them and Elm Creek Manor. Although he didn't complain, Sylvia knew Andrew just wanted to get the visit over with and go home. She could hardly blame him. Her anticipation had lessened with each dead end. She might have considered abandoning the search altogether if not for a sense of duty to her mother—and if not for her proud proclamations that she would not give up the search until every lead had been followed to its end.

“At least they're expecting us this time,” Sylvia said as Andrew drove through town, keeping an eye out for the Niehauses' street. Sylvia had phoned them the previous night, for while it was perfectly acceptable to stop by a museum or antique shop unannounced, she would not dream of intruding on a private residence that way. Mona Niehaus herself had answered the phone, and when Sylvia explained they were in the area, Mona invited them to come see the quilt for themselves. Her description sounded so much like Sylvia's mother's Crazy Quilt that Sylvia allowed herself to hope their luck would take a turn for the better here.

They parked in front of a sky-blue Victorian house with a white picket fence and a minivan in the driveway. In the front yard, a sudden gust of wind rustled the boughs of a pair of maple trees, sending a flurry of brilliant gold and orange leaves dancing to the ground. Dried cornstalks adorned a black lamppost in front of the house, and on the wraparound porch stood a white stone goose dressed in blaze orange and camouflage, a wooden duck decoy propped up against its booted feet. It was such a typically idyllic autumn scene that Sylvia would have been thoroughly charmed if not for their sojourn in Fort Dodge.

“Reminds me of Jason's house,” remarked Andrew, echoing her own thoughts.

“Don't be ridiculous,” said Sylvia, unfastening her seat belt. “His house was brick, and they had no picket fence.”

She spoke mostly for her own benefit, however, and tried to prepare herself for the worst as they climbed the porch stairs and rang the doorbell. A boy of about seven opened the door halfway and greeted them in a very formal manner. When they asked for Mona Niehaus, he said, “She's my grandma.” At that moment, a girl about two years younger peeped shyly around the door. “I'll get her.”

“Thank you, darling, but I'm right here.” The door opened all the way, and a tall, thin woman with salt-and-pepper hair pulled back in a batik scarf stood before them. Silver bracelets jingled as she placed her hands on the children's shoulders and steered them back into the house. “You must be Sylvia and Andrew. I'm so pleased you could come.”

She welcomed them into the living room, where the two children played with a jumble of unrelated toys in the center of a woven rug. Sylvia took the seat Mona offered, an overstuffed armchair with legs shaped like lion's feet, and glanced about the room for the quilt. She saw heavily embroidered pillows on the sofa, all manner of candles on the mantel, and framed photographs and other eclectic pieces covering so much of the walls that she could barely see the flowered wallpaper behind them. She saw no quilts.

Mona excused herself and returned with a tray. “Please help yourselves,” she said as she placed the tea and sandwiches on the coffee table and hurried back out. In a moment they heard the creaking of footsteps on stairs.