Antiques Bizarre (2 page)

As Mother and I passed over the threshold, I said, “I’m her daughter—Brandy.”

In the large foyer of the mansion, Nastasya Petrova paused to appraise me with intense, dark, intelligent eyes. “Ah. And such a
pretty
daughter, too,” she said. “Are you just visiting, or do you live here in Serenity?”

I engaged the elderly woman in polite conversation,
covering for Mother’s bad manners…because Mother was staring openmouthed at the interior’s grandeur, her bug eyes flitting up the exquisitely carved staircase to the full-length stained-glass windows on the landing, then down again and over to a huge, ornately carved grandfather clock, and up once more to an Art Nouveau chandelier.

I said, “Mother….”

Mother gaped. She had the expression of a bird-watcher who’d just spotted a rare one.

“Mother!”

She whirled. “Yes, dear?”

“Madam Petrova would like to attend to us in her parlor.”

“Yes, dear.”

As I took Mother’s arm, I whispered, “Don’t drool,” and Mother wiped her chin with the back of a hand, taking me literally.

We followed the tiny woman through the large entryway to sliding, wooden double doors, which she opened for us to step into a room whose decor hadn’t changed since the 1920s.

The parlor was dark, having lost the morning sun, its furnishings somber, an eclectic combination of Victorian, Art Nouveau, and Mediterranean. But here and there were clues as to Madam Petrova’s heritage: religious crosses and small statues representing the Russian Orthodox Church, as well as a framed photo on the wall of Tsar Alexander and his family, all smiling, the poor brood not having an inkling of what was to come.

In front of a fireplace (unlit) with a large mirror, gleaming mantel, and an iridescent tile hearth, Mother plopped herself down on a horsehair couch, which gave forth a
poof!
of ancient dust. I followed her example, my poof being much smaller if no more dignified.

Madam Petrova lit like a dainty firefly on the edge of an ornately carved, red velvet-cushioned chair. Then she leaned
forward to reach for an exquisite silver tea set, polished to a shine, which rested on a round table. “Tea?”

I was dehydrated after my bout with morning sickness, and gladly said, “Yes, please.”

Mother also responded in the affirmative, and Nastasya Petrova poured, then handed us both identical floral cups and saucers, whose colors were so rich, the blossoms looked real.

After pouring herself a cup, the woman sat back, balancing the saucer on her fragile knees.

“Now,” Madam Petrova began, “what can I do for you, Vivian?”

Mother opened her mouth, but closed it again, as the woman said in an aside to me, “I don’t usually entertain people anymore…but your mother had been so kind to me years ago, when I was in the hospital with pneumonia. I do believe she did more good than those doctors by smuggling in her wonderful casseroles and soups.” The woman raised her cup of tea in a toastlike gesture. “Not to
mention
the occasional flask of vodka.”

Mother beamed. “My lips are sealed.”

If only.

All this must have taken place during Mother’s Florence Nightingale phase, when she would haunt the hospital hallways looking for any juicy piece of gossip, until finally the hospital staff barred her from the premises.

Madam Petrova returned her attention to Mother. “So, Vivian, my darling. Do tell me what’s on your mind.”

Now, usually that could take some time, but Mother surprised me by being relatively concise (for Mother).

She said, “I have been busy organizing a citywide church bazaar to help those affected by this terrible flood.”

I goggled at her. This was all news to me.

“So far,” she continued blithely, “all of the churches I’ve approached have agreed to participate, and they will be
asking their congregations to scour attics and basements for antiques and collectibles.” Mother clapped her hands together.

I jumped a little.

Our hostess jumped a little, too.

“Now! In order to make this event competitive, and to attract good merchandise—no white elephants allowed, mind you—I suggested that we form teams, all in the name of Christian charity and good fun. The Methodists will be one team, Presbyterians another, Baptists, Catholics…and so on.” Mother, for once, ran out of breath, and helped herself to one, a generous serving. “Some of the smaller denominations, however, must band together to form teams, and I was hoping that
you
might join with
us
…. ‘You’ being the Russian Orthodox Church, and ‘us’ being New Hope, of course.”

When this lengthy explanation was met with silence—as can sometimes happen with Mother’s community theater performances—Mother became more animated, adding, “Also, included on our team would be the Episcopalians, the Lutherans, and our Jewish friends. So we’re nothing to
sneeze
at!”

I wanted to crawl under the horsehair couch, which coincidentally
was
almost making me sneeze.

“And,” Mother went on, raising a finger, “here’s the coup de grâce. I have attracted the interest of
American Mid-West Magazine
, whose publisher assures me that his periodical will not only
match
the winning team’s proceeds, but will feature that very team in one of its issues!”

Had Mother revealed her true motivation? To be showcased in a national magazine? Or at least a regionally circulated one. (Mother had the peculiar ability to make even such a small ambition seem grandiose.)

Madam Petrova was frowning, deepening the already-well-grooved creases in her face, yet she also seemed to be
nodding her approval. I just sat and waited for this mixed signal to play itself out….

Finally our hostess said measuredly, “I am sure I could find several quality items that would bring in a nice sum. And I’m certainly not concerned that my nephew—my only living relative—would object to these donations. Clifford has told me quite frankly that—beyond the house itself, which will one day be his—he is not interested in my 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 back
with 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 harder to come by.”

The woman carefully opened the egg, revealing a small crystal bird with a gold wreath in its beak.

“The dove of peace,” the woman said proudly.

“Well, it’s not much to look at,” Mother said matter-of-factly, “but still, it
is
the fiftieth and
final
egg commissioned by the Tsar.”

I asked Madam Petrova, “How can you be sure this is the genuine article?” Quickly adding, after Mother shot me a reproving look, “Not to be impertinent.”

Our hostess smiled enigmatically.

Then she said, “As a very young man, my father, Peter Petrov, was an apprentice at the House of Fabergé in St. Petersburg. Then the Russian Revolution began, and one evening, when he was working late, the Bolsheviks broke down the door and ransacked the business, taking everything of value. My father had only enough time to escape out the back, but he managed to grab one item—this
precious egg. Which traveled with him to Finland, then Sweden. And in Norway he caught a boat to America.”

The woman’s smile turned inward.

“That’s where he met my mother, who was returning to Iowa after visiting relatives in Oslo. They fell in love on the crossing, and settled here, where my mother’s family—who owned a lumber mill—brought my father into their business.”

Again, I could tell that Mother knew all of this, and was trying hard not to show her impatience.

Mother cleared her throat. “
About
the egg…”

Madam Petrova took a deep breath. “I quite agree with you, Vivian.”

“You do?”

She nodded. “I can’t think of any better use for it. This town and its people have been good to me over these many years, and if this object can bring in a good deal of money to help those now in need…then, yes, certainly, of
course
I agree to donate it.”

Mother smiled broadly, as if auditioning for the Joker role in the next Batman movie.

But I foresaw a possible problem.

I asked, “What about your nephew? Wouldn’t he object?”

Knickknacks were one thing, but a Fabergé egg?

Mother had reached behind Madam Petrova and was in the process of pinching my side, when a deep voice asked, “Would I object to what?”

Entering the room was Clifford Ashland, the son of our hostess’s deceased sister. Tall, confident, with good looks rivaling the old swashbuckling movie star Stewart Granger, he wore expensive resort clothes—navy and white seersucker jacket, butter-yellow open-collar shirt, white slacks, and white deck shoes sans socks. Seeming more Palm Beach
than Serenity, the nephew bent and kissed the cheek of his aunt as she raised her smiling face to him.

Ashland’s eyes went to Mother, and then me; they did not have Granger’s twinkle, though in other circumstances, they might have. Were Mother and I skunks at a garden party?

Madam Petrova said with a gesture, “You know Mrs. Borne, and this is her daughter, Brandy….”

“Yes, of course,” he said pleasantly. “I’ve bought several small Art Deco items recently from your booth at the antiques mall.”

Mother had been stocking our little business in Pearl City Plaza since I’d been under the weather, so this was news to me.

Mother gushed, “It’s
so
nice to see you again, Mr. Ashland.”

I suppressed a gag. Had Mother forgotten that before Clifford Ashland had made his millions, he’d been a used-car salesman, from whom I’d purchased my first set of wheels, which had died an unceremonious death in the middle of an intersection on our way home, after which Mother had called him a charlatan (actually a blankety-blank charlatan)? But apparently, all is forgiven if you buy from our booth.

(Look, I know I said the “s” word was pretty much the extent of Mother’s swearing, and it is. What she
literally
said was, “You’re a blankety-blank charlatan!”)

The nephew’s attention went to the Fabergé egg cradled on his aunt’s lap.

“That ugly old thing,” he said with a chuckle, and a kind of shudder. “Definitely
not
laid by the golden goose.”

Madam Petrova gave me a knowing look. “As I said, Clifford harbors no sentimentality for this family heirloom. So I’m sure he won’t mind.”