The Big Steal Read Free Page A

instinctively kicked in: English, nineteenth century, originally intended for candles, now electrified.
    As if reading my mind, Michelle said, “The sconces weren’t electrified until after Hoyt died and Mazie decided it was too much to have the servants lighting and snuffing out the candles every night. Candles … that’s how they lit the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles,” she said.
    Thank goodness Michelle couldn’t see my frown. Despite its size and grandeur, Wynderly hardly measured up to Versailles.
    â€œWe seldom turn them on these days. Way too wasteful,” she continued. “But I wanted you to get the full effect, to see the way the Wyndfields lived in Wynderly’s glory days … when they were here, that is. They traveled all the time. And I took the sheets and coverings off the furniture especially for you.”
    I glanced about. In my mind’s eye I could envision shrouds of white sheets and gray tarps mounding over the furnishings, turning the room into its own dreary mausoleum. Michelle turned and made another, even grander gesture, flipping her wrist and pointing ballerina-like. Assuming she meant for me to go down into the room for a closer look, I stepped forward. When I did so, Michelle announced, “No. No.
This
way. The ballroom is to the left.”
    She reminded me of Gloria Swanson in
Sunset Boulevard
, preparing for her grand entrance.
    I followed her along the paneled corridor separating the two rooms, our echoing footsteps the only sign of life. Portrait after portrait of unsmiling people entombed in heavy gilt frames lined the oak walls. At the hallway’s end, two larger-than-life wooden blackamoor torchères guarded the entrance to the ballroom. The flickering bulbs in their outstretched hands cast a golden light across the parquet floor. Only the white ceiling, a flurry of plaster loops and swirls carved to imitate fully opened rose blossoms, broke the gloomy darkness.
    I know, my responsibility was to identify quality and assign a value to my client’s treasures, not pass judgment on someone else’s taste. But the house wasn’t at all in keeping with the slightly frumpy style this part of Virginia was famous for. This was horse country. Fashions might come and go, but not the family’s ancestral huntboard or threadbare Oriental rugs.
    Michelle stopped to remove the roping before she almost pirouetted over to the light switch. When she turned to face me, her eyes left little doubt that not only was I expected to be impressed, I should tell her so. But gushing isn’t my way.
    â€œHmm-humm,” I mumbled noncommittally, all the while thinking that I might be more enthusiastic if I could shed my heavy coat and break away to the lady’s room after such a long trip. But when Michelle flipped on the lights and I saw the life-size mural on the far wall of the room, I forgot my discomfort. So what if the scene of a masked ball replete with bejeweled women, their hair adorned with billowing plumes and feathers, flirting with men in satin britches and lacy shirts was a bit too tony for these parts. It was masterful.
    â€œHow wonderful,” I said. “Venetian?”
    â€œOh, yes, and hand-painted,” she answered.
    For the first time since we’d met, Michelle Hendrix smiled a pleasant, almost warm smile. Leaning toward me as if sharing a secret, she said, “Hoyt and Mazie brought craftsmen from Italy to paint the murals. In fact, there are murals all over the house. Masons. Painters. Artists of every sort, even sculptors. The Wyndfields brought them all here. You’ll see the marble statues in some of the gardens later,” she added. “Mazie loved her gardens.” Michelle held up her fingers as she named them. “Herb, formal, cutting, rose, even a vegetable garden, Italian, Elizabethan … ah …” She faltered. “Boxwood. And of course the maze. That’s always been the