Baroque and Desperate Read Free Page A

?”
    He nodded. “I’m surprised you don’t know. What do we have in the east that the Californians don’t?”
    I bit my tongue. There are plenty of Californians with sense. My brother Toy just happens not to be one of them.
    â€œA hundred and fifty years of English colonial history.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œWe’re talking about the resale of history, here, Abby. Apparently it happens with some frequency. Especially up north. I thought you would—”
    I tuned Greg out. It had finally sunk in. The czarist samovar I bought at an estate sale in Myers Park last month, and hadn’t even gotten around to pricing, was going to end up gracing the credenza of some Hollywood mogul. I found myself hoping that the purveyor of my stolen goods scalded himself where the sun didn’t shine. Unless, of course, he or she was innocent, and especially not if he was Steven Spielberg. I’m still waiting for the sequel to E.T .
    â€œI don’t get it,” I said.
    â€œDamn it, Abby, don’t you listen to a word I say?”
    â€œOf course, I do.”
    â€œI just got through telling you that this was a professional job, possibly even part of a nationalring. You’re probably never going to see your stuff again.”
    â€œThey were treasures, not stuff .”
    He nodded.
    â€œHow did they know I was going to be gone?”
    â€œMaybe they overheard you talking to your travel agent, or one of the other antique dealers on this street. It could even have been someone from church. They’re not all saints, you know.”
    â€œBut they had a key, right? You said there was no sign of forced entry, and—”
    â€œWhere do you hide your key, Abby?”
    â€œ What ?”
    â€œYour key.”
    â€œWho said I hide a key?”
    The Wedgwood eyes rolled impatiently.
    â€œAll right, but I don’t hide it on a doorsill. Or under the front mat. I’m not that stupid!”
    He sighed. “One of those fake stones you order through a catalog?”
    â€œOf course not!”
    â€œShow me.”
    I sheepishly took Greg to see the clever hollow brick I keep in the alley by the back door. It is much more subtle than those fake stones, and it’s a real brick. I bought it at the Southern Home & Garden Show last spring.
    But except for a rolled-up pill bug and a squashed cricket, the spot was as bare as Mrs. Hubbard’s cupboard.
    â€œWell—uh—it was there!”
    â€œAbby, Abby, Abby, whatever am I going to do with you?” Greg shook his handsome head.
    â€œNot a damn thing!” I stamped back into my empty shop, my very footsteps mocking me withtheir echoes. Greg trotted after me, adding to the mockery.
    I was in no mood to see Jane Cox, aka Calamity Jane, standing in the middle of my display area. Given the circumstances, she was, of course, delighted to see me.
    â€œOh Abby, dear,” she wailed, and draped herself over me like a flag on a casket, “it’s just so awful. Is there anything I can do to help? Anything ?”
    I bit my tongue, which takes some doing in my case. As the mother of two college kids, I have permanent indentations in my lingual organ.
    â€œDon’t worry, Abby, my cousin Orville back in Shelby had the same thing happen to him, and it turned out just fine. You’ll see.”
    I struggled free from her embrace. “Your cousin Orville had an antique shop that was burgled?”
    â€œGracious no, Abby. Cousin Orville dabbles in the future, not the past. He makes organic dentures.”
    Greg and I couldn’t help but exchange glances. Calamity Jane—“C.J.,” we call her—is as loony as a lake in Maine.
    â€œDon’t tell me he makes teeth out of ivory,” I chided. “Elephants may be making a comeback in some countries, but—”
    â€œOh, no, of course not ivory. Cousin Orville Ledbetter uses pig teeth.”
    â€œAnd someone swiped his stock of