Antiques Bizarre Read Free Page A

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 backwith 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