CHAPTER FOURTEEN
T
he time display on my computer said it was almost time to leave for my appointment with Lina. I called down to Sasha and learned that her quick-and-dirty search for information about Faring Auctions in Cheyenne, Wyoming, had borne no fruit.
“As near as I can tell, it’s gone. That’s just from phone books and antiques association directories. I’ll try business associations and the chamber of commerce next.”
“All right. Meanwhile, I’ll get started on researching the mark.”
A Google search revealed what we’d suspected: The “AR” mark had originated with the Meissen factory, as had the crossed swords, but both marks had been fraudulently used by competitors for hundreds of years. The AR stood for Augustus Rex and indicated that the vase—if it was real—had been made for royalty. This partic u lar style of crossed swords was first adopted in 1723. The initials above the swords, “JGH,” probably referred to the painter, Johann Gregor Höroldt.
Höroldt had been named chief painter for the factory in 1720 and was known for his use of bold, bright colors and gilt. Gretchen’s vase, if it had in fact been painted by him, was an anomaly.
Why,
I wondered, would he have painted a scene in delicate blues when his expertise and reputation revolved around his use of innovative colors?
I pursed my lips, intrigued. I needed to discover if another artisan who worked for Meissen during the time those marks were used shared Höroldt’s initials, or if any records indicated that Höroldt had used blue paint on Asian-themed designs.
According to a reference book on our library shelves, no one but Johann Gregor Höroldt had used those initials, but the book might be wrong. Maybe a fellow named Josef Gustav Heinlein had only worked for Meissen for a week or two. If so, the researcher could easily have missed him. I knew that details fell between the cracks all the time.
I read that Höroldt had started his career as a wallpaper painter and tapestry designer and learned to paint porcelain at the Du Paquier porcelain manufactory in Vienna. In 1720, Meissen announced expansion plans and decided to hire an additional porcelain painter. Höroldt got the job. He flourished on many levels—innovator, designer, and businessman.
After countless experiments, Höroldt developed sixteen new enamel colors, including a violet luster made from gold that created a continent-wide stir and won him instant acclaim. These sixteen colors still comprise the spectrum most commonly used in porcelain decoration.
I glanced out into the rain.
Incredible,
I thought and read on.
Höroldt was also one heck of a good manager. He created the lexicon to describe his painting style and work products, trained dozens of painters, and established a workshop system—an early assembly line—so other painters could copy his designs.
Höroldt also designed chinoiserie scenes. “Chinoiserie,” I knew, referred to fanciful, idealized Chinese motifs.
Bingo,
I told myself.
Höroldt painted Asian-style vases.
Okay then,
I thought. If the vase was original and not a repro, it might well have been painted by one of the finest artisans of the day. If only I had the vase in front of me.
I stretched and spun toward the window, seeking answers in the sky, but I saw nothing but a rain-streaked reflection of myself.
Downstairs, I went into the tag sale venue. It looked good: well stocked with both unusual and expected objects. In addition to the displays of gardening tools, silver, samplers, and glassware that I’d already admired, and our usual assortment of art prints, porcelain, sewing items, and miscellaneous household objects, there was a collection of ornate picture frames that I was sure would sell quickly. Most were in gilt, priced from fifteen to seventy-five dollars, depending on the frame’s size and condition, but some were pewter, and a wrought-iron one featured clusters of wisteria. At fifty dollars, I was willing to bet that it would be gone within an hour.
“Great job,” I told Eric.
He smiled a little. “Thanks,” he said.
I decided to head out to the Blue Dolphin and get myself situated for my meeting with Lina. On the way, I stepped into the front office to say good night to my staff. Seeing photographs of the Cissy doll on Fred’s desk, I asked if he had any news.
He shrugged, leaned back, and pushed up his glasses. “Seven hundred. Maybe eight.”
“Including the wardrobe?” I asked, surprised at what seemed like a low price for a popular vintage doll with a nearly complete wardrobe—in its original case.
“Yeah. I expected higher, too. Turns out, there’s a lot of Cissys knocking about.”
“Some collector’s going to be thrilled.”
I told everyone good-bye and ran through pelting rain to my car.
April showers bring May flowers,
I thought. The temperature had dropped, and I knew there was a good chance that the rain would turn to snow overnight.
Once I was settled in my car, a wave of sadness hit me, and I leaned my head on the steering wheel and waited for it to pass.
It didn’t.
The rain was steady, drumming a staccato beat on the roof. Finally, I took a deep breath and prepared to carry on. As I latched my seat belt, I realized that I felt like talking to Ty. Hearing the deep timbre of his voice would, I knew, bolster my mood.
He was in the middle of a training exercise and couldn’t talk for more than a few seconds, but it was long enough for him to deliver good news—he expected to be home by seven thirty, relatively early on a day he commuted to Vermont.
_____
The Blue Dolphin took up the entire ground floor of an oddly shaped eighteenth-century fieldstone building. The structure had served as a public house since it was built. Roughly triangular in shape, the restaurant was positioned at the Bow Street end of a row of four-story brick buildings that ran along Market Street. The back sides of the buildings faced the river. The ground-floor units housed a real estate agent, an expensive clothing store, a jeweler, a specialty crafts store, a high-ceilinged elegant coffee shop that featured small jazz trios in the evenings, a children’s book and toy store, and a day spa. There were recently gentrified apartments above each one. The Blue Dolphin’s entrance, shielded by the shell-shaped overhang, was directly across from the Bow Street Emporium.
Safely underneath the hammered metal overhang, I shook out my umbrella, then pushed through the heavy wooden door and greeted Frieda, the hostess.
“Oh, look at you, Josie! You’re as wet as a dish rag!”
“But better looking, right?”
“
Much
better looking. I’m so tired of bad weather.”
“You know what they say about April showers . . . they’re good for the flowers!”
Frieda shook her head ruefully and smiled. “I’m so ready for flowers! You don’t have a reservation, do you?”
“No. Not tonight, Frieda. I’m aiming for a warm something-or-other in the lounge. I’m expecting a guest. Her name is Lina.”
“I’ll send her in!” Frieda said and turned to greet a just-arriving couple.
A man sitting at the bar with a beer looked up expectantly as I entered. When he saw that I wasn’t the person he was waiting for, he looked away, then glanced at his watch. Two women stood near three tables and discussed pushing them together. One woman said she thought ten people were coming.
Jimmy, the bartender, waved hello. “Hey, Josie,” he called. “How’s it going?”
“Good, Jimmy. You?”
“It’s going!”
My favorite table was tucked in a corner overlooking the Piscataqua River. It was available, and I nabbed it. After I got settled, I cupped my hands over my eyes and pressed my forehead against the bay window, trying to see the light house on the far bank. I knew it was there, but in the darkness and rain, all I could make out was its light. A wide sweep of gold arced rhythmically side to side, over and over again, alerting ships that they were approaching land. It was hypnotic.
“What’ll it be?” Jimmy asked, flipping a cocktail napkin onto the table as if he were skimming a rock over water.
I turned away from the window. “On this dreary day, I think I’m in the mood for a Cocoretto,” I said. The drink always reminded me of a lovely afternoon I’d spent with my friend Jo-Ann, the drink’s inventor. I’d taken the train out from New York City to Connecticut on a bitterly cold winter day to meet her for lunch. She wanted a warming drink, and the next thing I knew, we were drinking Cocorettos.
“You got it,” Jimmy said, interrupting my thoughts. “Hot chocolate and amaretto, coming right up!”
Lina arrived just after six, saw me, and threaded her way through the now bustling room to reach me. She looked worried.
She didn’t want anything to eat. “Just tea, please,” she told Jimmy, then asked me, “Do you have news about Gretchen?”
“No. I wish I did. What I mostly have is questions.”
She nodded. “It’s just awful.”
“It occurs to me—I don’t even know your last name.”
“Nadlein. Lina Nadlein—quite a mouthful. Don’t try to say it three times fast.”
I smiled. “How did you and Gretchen meet?”
“At the Laundromat. Gretchen started chatting with me.” She smiled a little, somewhere between wan and fearful. “She’s so friendly and outgoing. We hit it off right away.”
“Have you spoken to the police again?”
She nodded. “This afternoon. They said they may have even more questions for me.”
“Would you mind telling me what they asked?”
“Everything, it seemed like, and mostly they were the same questions they’d asked before. What plans we made, when I last spoke to her, who her other friends are, that sort of thing.”
Before I could respond, Jimmy delivered her tea. It was served in an elegant porcelain pot, a match to the one containing my Cocoretto.
“Were you able to give them a lot of names?”
“Sure. Gretchen has a lot of friends.”
She poured a little milk into her tea. With her face in repose, she looked like Ginevra Benci as Leonardo da Vinci had painted her, with pale, flawless skin, wide cheekbones, and intelligent eyes that stared at something offstage.
In college, I’d looked at the painting for a long time. I’d been working on a paper discussing what da Vinci’s subjects’ expressions implied about the artist, and I’d been unable to articulate the emotions showing in Ginevra’s demeanor. Instead, I’d listed what the young woman wasn’t expressing: surprise, joy, pain, fear, anger, sorrow, love, amusement, or anxiety. Yet her expression wasn’t neutral. I could tell that her mind was busy. She was attentive, but I couldn’t see to what—it was off the canvas. That’s how Lina looked as she stirred her tea: alert and watchful, with an important but elusive emotion in play.
“Are she and Mandy close?” I asked.
“Sure. They’re friends.”
“How close?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. A bunch of us hang out. You know, we’ll all meet up at some restaurant or bar over the weekend. Or we go to the beach or have a barbecue. Or someone will have a party. That sort of thing.”
“What about Vince?”
Lina’s eyes fell to her teacup, then rose again to meet mine. “Have you met him?”
“No. I’ve just seen him from a distance. Even so, he seemed kind of intense, you know? Do you know anything about him?”
She bit her lip and looked down again. “No,” she said.
From the uneasy look on her face, I didn’t believe her, but I couldn’t think of what to ask to get her to open up. “Can you tell me about any of Gretchen’s other friends?”
“Well, there’s the Eagler sisters and Buddy and Roberta and Brenda and Morley and Preston and Alexis and—I don’t know, a bunch of others, too. Why?”
I shook my head. “No reason in particular. I’m just trying to figure out what’s going on. I’m so worried.” I looked at her but saw nothing but mildly friendly interest. I changed the subject. “Do you know anything about Gretchen’s background?”
“Why are you asking me that?” She looked startled and uncomfortable all at once.
I circled my cup with my hands to absorb some warmth and took a deep breath. Suddenly I felt exhausted. “I just want to help her if I can.”
Lina nodded. “Me, too.”
I reached over and patted her hand. “So, do you know anything about where she comes from? If I know where to look, I can check. Maybe she went back there.”
“Down south. That’s all she ever said—that it was freezing here in Portsmouth compared to where she was from, down south.”
“Did she ever mention family or friends from before she moved here?”
“Only once. She said that it was easier being alone than dealing with her family. I thought it was kind of sad.”
“Where down south?”
“She never said.”
“Not even a state—Georgia or South Carolina, maybe?”
“No,” Lina replied, shaking her head.
I didn’t want to bully her, yet I had to try to find a kernel of information she might not remember but possessed nonetheless. I couldn’t just sit around and do nothing while Gretchen might be desperate, wounded, or terrified—or all three. She might need help, help I could provide.
“Did Gretchen ever say something about her life growing up or an activity that she did as a kid—like her dad was a shrimper or she lived near a museum, or she learned to water ski on the lake before she could walk, something like that?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Isn’t there
anything
else you can tell me?
Please
?”
She looked at me and shook her head again, a sad-sweet smile on her face. “I’ve wracked my brain—but I don’t know anything else.”
I tried hard to think of another question to ask, and then I gave up. There was no magic bullet that I could use to get information Lina didn’t have. I smiled. “Thank you for meeting with me.”
She zipped up her coat. “One thing I can tell you for sure. Gretchen loves her job. She thinks you’re the smartest businesswoman she’s ever known.”
“Thank you,” I said, surprised at the accolade. “Wow. You’ve completely made my day.”
After she left, I thought about what I’d learned. Not much. Gretchen hung out with a large group of friends, and the police had their names. She came from somewhere down south. And Lina seemed afraid of Mandy’s boyfriend, Vince.