Antiques Bizarre (4 page)

I had arrived at the communion railing, where four more long banquet tables displayed a wide variety of antiques and collectibles gathered from our team’s members; each item was tagged and, when appropriate, polished and carefully arranged on white linen tablecloths.

Among the donations were pottery, silver tea sets, china dishes, china figurines, lady-head vases, oil lamps, candlesticks, cookie jars, collectible toys, jewelry, and evening bags. Squatting around the periphery of the tables were a few antique furniture pieces, including a lawyer’s five-shelf bookcase, a set of six caned oak chairs, a claw-footed tea table, and a waterfall Art Deco dresser.

Of the dozen or so people present, I recognized only three from our small church: Alice Hetzler, a retired teacher; Frannie Phillips, former nurse; and Harold Kerr, ex-Army captain. The two women were gal pals of Mother’s, members of her Red-Hatted League mystery book club. The man also belonged to a club—the Romeos (Retired Old Men Eating Out)—and, if Mother is to be believed, the old boy had once
tried to play Romeo to her Juliet (after Father passed away, of course).

The other members of our team milling around were from the Episcopalian and Lutheran churches, and the Jewish synagogue. I recognized some of them, but didn’t know their names.

Nastasya Petrova was not among them. My understanding was that she was receiving the qualified bidders in her home early this morning for a private viewing of the Fabergé egg. The protocol was that each bidder would be escorted into the Petrova parlor for a private, individual examination of the artifact, for two purposes—first, to establish to each bidder’s satisfaction that this was the genuine article; and second, to present a sealed bid. All of the bidders were then gathered into the parlor, the sealed bids revealed, and the highest of these would be this afternoon’s opening bid—Mother had predicted three hundred thousand. We would see.

The egg itself had been locked away in Nastasya Petrova’s safe deposit box since the day after Mother and I dropped by to propose the auction. And it had been delivered by local police to the Petrova mansion this morning for that series of private viewings. Those or other armed police guards, provided by Chief Cassato, would deliver the egg just in time to be the star of the big show.

Anyway, as our team was getting its act together, Harold began barking as to who should do what once the bazaar began, and I knew Mother would not put up with the ex-Army captain’s orders, and had planned my retreat even before the battle had begun.

“Mother,” I said, “it doesn’t look like I’m needed here. Why don’t I check out the other teams and see how they’re doing?”

Mother always loved subterfuge. “Good idea, dear! And pick up some early bargains for our booth.”

Gathering my purse and map, I decided to first check out the kitchen in the basement, to see what was being served for lunch, hoping that something might look appealing to my finicky stomach.

But instead of heading back through the sanctuary and taking the main stairs down in the narthex (hereafter referred to as lobby), I decided to use a secret passageway, which was located behind the choir benches to the left of the tabernacle, an ornately carved altar with spiral finials supported on the heads of four cherubic angels (ouch).

Years ago, when I sang in children’s choir, I always sat in the back row in front of this panel, and when I got bored with mass I’d slip out and root around in the always-well-stocked kitchen, then return to my choir pew, often with food on my face, and not fooling anybody (especially Mother). I adored the secret passageway, as a child, as it was straight out of the Nancy Drew mysteries I was reading.

Even now I got a kick out of it. I slid the panel open, slipped through, and closed it again. Then, in the dark, I felt my way down the narrow stone steps, palms pressed to the cold, clammy walls.

At the base of the stairs I pushed open another panel, and reappeared in the kitchen behind a cart of pots and pans. Once a dark, claustrophobia-inducing place, the kitchen had been completely remodeled since I’d snuck my last piece of cake. Now it seemed huge—all bright white and shining chrome, with modern, restaurant-quality appliances.

I stood unnoticed as the room swirled with people in motion, coming and going as they added more and more food to the already-overflowing counters. The mixture of smells was dizzying—at once wonderful and horrible—but one really stood out: the inviting aroma of Mrs. Mulligan’s stew.

She stood a short distance away, at the oversized stove,
stirring her famous concoction in a large vat with a long wooden spoon. (She wasn’t in the vat—the spoon was.)

As I approached, she glanced up from her task, and said, “Well, well…I’ll be a monkey’s auntie…. If it isn’t Brandy Borne.”

And she did look like a monkey’s aunt—a orangutan to be exact, with her short Lucille Ball-red wig (a little off-kilter), facial hair, and close-set beady eyes. She had the kind of unpleasant appearance that made it difficult to think kind thoughts even in church.

Mrs. Mulligan was well-known in Serenity as
the
town gossip, running rings around Mother. Unlike Mother, this woman was indiscriminate in her scandalmongering; she didn’t care if the gossip was true or not, or who it hurt. Still, that hadn’t stopped Mother from going over to Mrs. Mulligan’s, once or twice a week, and not for stew.

With a nod, I said, “Mrs. Mulligan.”

An eyebrow arched, she replied, “I can’t say I
approve
of any woman renting out her womb….”

At first I thought she had said “room,” Elmer Fudd-style, but then her ball-bearing eyes drifted to my stomach.

I said, “It’s rent-free. My best friend couldn’t have a child and I’m helping her out.”

But then, the town gossip knew all this.

Mrs. Mulligan raised another eyebrow, a lecturing one. “Our bodies are God’s
temple
and should not be used other than for his purpose.”

“Funny. I thought helping out a friend was a Christian thing to do.”

She sniffed and shrugged. “Still, what’s done is done….” She frowned. “You look
terrible
, dear.”

“Thank you for your concern.”

“How about some of my famous stew?” she asked, returning her attention to the cauldron.

It did smell good. She might have been a horrible woman, but her stew was legendarily wonderful; sometimes I suspected she was the
original
Mulligan. My mind said “Yes,” and I waited for my stomach to concur.

To my surprise it growled a long, loud affirmative.

“I’d love some,” I said. “Is it done?”

Mrs. Mulligan smiled proudly. “Oh, yes—I made it yesterday and it’s just reheating.”

I retrieved a bowl from a cupboard, and a bent soup spoon from the silverware drawer, and Mrs. Mulligan used a ladle to fill my dish.

I ate two bowls—it was that delicious.

MRS. MULLIGAN’S SPICY BEEF STEW

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. In Dutch oven, brown beef cubes over medium-high heat. Remove beef and stir in flour. Add all other ingredients, including beef, and bring to a boil. Cover and transfer to oven. Cook for 2 hours.

After eating the stew, I thanked Mrs. Mulligan, who responded warmly (suddenly she didn’t seem so bad), then left the kitchen for the dining hall area where I sat in a folding chair next to a bathroom. After fifteen minutes or so, satisfied that my stomach wouldn’t change its mind about the spicy meal, I headed upstairs to the lobby to begin trolling for bargains…

…and what I found was that there were none to be had!

Every team, in every location, had priced their antiques and collectibles way too high. Understandably, many of the items were family heirlooms going on the block for a worthy cause; but unless dealers—a significant part of the crowd—could make a profit in resale…well, basically, the only sales the teams had made so far were to each other.

I reported back to Mother.

“This is
not
good,” she responded, dismayed. “Everything will hinge on the auction, and we have our proverbial eggs in one basket.”

“Egg. Just
one
egg, Mother.”

I will now fast-forward through the luncheon (which I didn’t attend, having already eaten), and get to the auction itself.

To say that the sanctuary was filled to capacity is an understatement—people were packed into the pews like the Pope was speaking, and there wasn’t even standing room left. There were many familiar faces, including such cronies of Mother’s as various members of her Red Hat social club, lovely African-American Shawntea, who drove the local
gas-powered trolley, and local barfly Henry Something-or-other, looking surprisingly sober. The church was definitely in violation of the fire code, but no one seemed to care, since Our Heavenly Father apparently didn’t.

At the back of the sanctuary, the media had set up camp, which included several TV camera crews—local affiliates that would no doubt be sending their feed to national channels. But a few renegade reporters had sneaked up to the front where the bidders were sequestered in the first pew, the press squatting in the aisles, their camcorders at the ready.

Mother and I sat in the two celebrant’s chairs next to the lectern (stage left), while Father O’Brien stood stiffly at the pulpit (stage right).

He cleared his throat and a pin-drop hush fell over the crowd. The white-robed priest—a slender, middle-aged man with receding hairline and ruddy complexion, his shoulders hunched, perhaps by the weight of the world—raised a benevolent hand and gave a benediction.

Was a blessing really necessary today? I think the priest probably provided one in response to criticism from certain of his parishioners who reportedly felt the sanctuary should not be used for raising money, even if for a worthy cause. Christ throwing out the money-lenders had been cited. But what did these Christians think collection plates were all about?

After the benediction, a stirring at the back turned heads, and the standing crowd parted for Nastasya Petrova—looking elegantly regal in a long-sleeved, high-necked royal-blue evening dress—carrying the surprisingly unprepossessing Fabergé egg on a small red-velvet pillow.

Two policemen followed close behind her: tall and gangly Officer Munson, and sandy-haired, brown-eyed handsome Brian Lawson, my once and maybe future boyfriend. Our relationship was on hiatus while Brian tended to a
personal matter with his ex-wife (their daughter was battling an eating disorder), and while I had Tina and Kevin’s baby.

The presence of police security, by the way, was a Mother touch, to heighten the suspense of the auction; but considering the value of the egg, their presence wasn’t just stagecraft.

All eyes followed Madam Petrova as she made her slow, royal walk down the center aisle, trailed by the two officers, whose expressions suggested they were none too happy to be a part of Mother’s theatrics.

Brian spotted me in the celebrant’s chair, and we exchanged looks—his, exasperated; mine, chagrined.

At the communion railing, the little procession parted ways—Officer Munson taking a spot to the right of the pulpit, and Brian to the left of the lectern—while Madam Petrova ascended the two steps of the inner sanctuary and placed the pillow on the altar table. She then crossed over to the lectern and stood behind it, her head barely visible to the audience.

Mother jack-in-the-boxed up, rushed over, and bent the microphone neck to accommodate the tiny woman, in the process making a loud, amplified
THUNK!

After mother returned to her chair, and I did my best to crawl inside my skin, Madam Petrova—looking even more frail than she had during our visit—began to speak, sharing with the attendees the history of the Fabergé egg and how it came to be in her possession, much as she’d related to us at her home.

Honestly, I didn’t hear much of what she said, caught up in anticipation about the potential disaster that would soon follow in the form of auctioneer Mother. Would her performance find its way onto YouTube, I wondered, and/or Keith Olbermann’s “Oddball” segment on MSNBC’
s Countdown
?

I looked slowly down the row of bidders, seated near
me in front of the lectern. Resting on my lap was a legal pad with their names written down, along with a column for their bids, so that I could prompt Mother if (make that
when
) she got lost in the process.

The well-attired players were: handsome, businesslike Don Kaufman, representing the Forbes family, owner of eleven of the Imperial eggs; attractive gray-business-suited brunette Katherine Estherhaus, New York, representing Christie’s Auction House; slender, dark-haired, bespectacled John Richards, here for Sotheby’s of London; stocky, solemn Sergei Ivanov, wealthy Moscow industrialist; and white-maned, distinguished-looking Louis Martinette, the private dealer (and collector of other Fabergé works), who had originally appraised the egg. The dark-eyed Martinette had an oval face with half-lidded eyes and deep grooves of character or anyway experience.

Also seated among the players was the publisher of
American Mid-West Magazine
, Samuel Woods, a relatively young man in a dark pinstriped suit; he seemed a bundle of nervous tics, sweating profusely, most likely contemplating the next stockholders’ meeting where he would have to explain a drop in profits due to having to match today’s winning bid.

Madam Petrova ended her ancestral story to thunderous applause (I noticed, however, that the Russian attendee wasn’t clapping) and then she traded seats with Mother, who approached the lectern to start the auction.

I, too, had broken out in a cold sweat, knowing what disaster likely awaited, wishing I could be anywhere else—Mars or Kentucky or maybe that island on
Lost
. And yet—like a bystander at a bad accident—I couldn’t take my eyes off Mother….