The Big Steal Read Free

Houseman blew in earlier than I had expected. He has a way of doing that.” She rolled her eyes. “I was back in my office when he showed up, a full half an hour early.
    Didn’t bother to call ahead either.” She made a low growling sound. “That man thinks he owns this place.”
    Michelle pointed to her watch. “You’d better hurry. Houseman doesn’t allow for lateness.”
    â€œMe?”
    What to do? I swooped up the papers with every intention of putting them in the open box. Michelle had started toward the steps. With her back turned, did I dare slip some of them in the zip-up binder I had with me so I could take notes? Just one or two, maybe.
    Opportunity makes the thief
, Mother scolded.
One thief in this place is enough
.
    I hesitated, but only momentarily. What’s an appraiser to do?
    Evidence, I thought.

Chapter 2
    Dear Antiques Expert: In a recent article about a fabulous European palace museum there was mention of a pair of blackamoors, but it didn’t explain what blackamoors are. Could you help me, please?
    During the late 17th century, life-size statues depicting the Muslims, who had spread from Africa into Spain and Europe during medieval times, became popular household decorations in grand European homes and palaces. These were called blackamoors. (Incidentally, servants sometimes wore Moorish costumes. Remember Cary Grant in
To Catch a Thief
?) If the statue or figure held a light or torch (candle, oil lamp, or later, an electrified bulb) it was called a blackamoor torchère. But be warned. Not all the “antique” statues seen in shops are old. Reproductions come in a variety of material, sizes, quality, and prices.
    I WAS STILL wrestling with my conscience when I reached the last attic step. Mother was right. One thief
was
enough. On the other hand, I rationalized, I had been sent to Wynderly to get to the truth, and that meant digging for evidence.
    By the time I reached the main floor, three flights down, Iwas no longer thinking about the papers I had confiscated, but the tension building between Michelle and me. Yesterday’s encounter had set the tone for all that followed.
    G ETTING TO W YNDERLY had been no small feat. The twisty, narrow back roads would have been nerve-racking in bright sunshine. Yesterday had been gray and threatening. Only when I had brought the car to a stop in front of the mansion and tossed the directions I had clutched between my knees onto the passenger seat did I relax a little. I should have turned around right then and headed back to Leemont.
    I had been reaching for the pull of the bell mounted on the front archway when Michelle Hendrix flung open the massive front door as if this were her ancestral home. Had she really been the lady of the house, surely she would have invited me to come in out of the cold and inquired about my trip. That’s the polite Southern way. Instead, she had motioned me inside with a grand, sweeping gesture. “The drawing room,” she had said.
    My eyes had followed her arm and voice. Assuming the red velvet rope marked off the drawing room, I ventured forth. I paused at the top of the four steps leading to the sunken room beneath the vaulted ceiling. Below lay a magnificent sight.
    At the far end of the room hung a Venetian mirror with a rich cobalt blue glass border. The glow of the enormous silver-plated chandelier reflected in the mirror was as dazzling as a summer sun. In contrast, the furniture was dark and elaborately carved, the sort tourists go to great expense to see in the grand castles of Europe. Ornate sterling picture frames graced every tabletop. Pairs of trumpet-shaped silver vases filled withbunches of blue and green peacock feathers adorned the twin marble mantelpieces on the side walls.
    â€œOh dear, I forgot to turn on the sconces,” Michelle said.
    It hadn’t been necessary, the room was splendid enough. But when she did, my appraiser’s mind