Dead Certain by Mariah Stewart Page A

It’s not that it’s so heavy, it’s just bulky, and I was having a hard time getting my arms around it.” Marian picked up the dropped purse, then dug in her pockets for her keys, speaking the whole time. “Here we go. . . . There, just bring it in here and you can set it down anywhere.”
    “Are you just getting back from the auction?” Amanda asked.
    “Yes. I’d hoped to be out of there earlier. I hate to keep the shop closed all day. Such a silly way to lose business. My neighbor’s daughter, who worked for me all summer, left for college on Saturday. But I really wanted this clock.” Marian cut through the packing tape and sorted through the newspaper in the box. Marian always came to sales prepared to buy and prepared to carefully wrap her purchases to protect them on the ride home. She was the most organized person Amanda had ever met. “Look here, isn’t it wonderful?”
    “It’s lovely, yes.” Amanda leaned forward for a closer look. “Russian?”
    “Yes.” Marian was positively beaming. “I’m so excited. I can’t believe my good fortune. Everyone was knocking themselves out, bidding on the early American works—and they were admittedly fabulous; did you stay for those? The Russian pieces were all but overlooked. Look here—look at what else I got.”
    Marian lifted a tissue-shrouded package from the bottom of the box. “One of the last miniatures to be put on the block today. It’s Alexander the First.” She handed the small portrait gingerly to Amanda, turning it over as she did so. “See the signature?” Marian was all but crowing as she announced, “Argunov.”
    Amanda whistled. “Wow. The court portrait painter. This is quite a find, Marian.”
    “You’re telling me. I have a customer who will faint when I tell him about this. He’ll give me just about anything I want for it. Well, within reason, of course.” She dipped back into the box and pulled out a very small package. “And this . . . do you know what this is?”
    Amanda unfolded the wrappings to find a small silver box. “A salt box?”
    “An open salt, yes. It was an old Russian custom to give one of these to your guests for good luck.” Marian pointed out the details. “Enamel on filigree. Turn it over.”
    Amanda did as she was told.
    “See the initials there? G.K. Gustav Klingert.” Marian was all but singing now. “So collectible. He worked for Fabergé in Moscow in the late 1870s. Cloisonné with enamel. This one is marked 1888.”
    “It’s remarkable. You really had quite a day, didn’t you?”
    “I had a wonderful day. One hell of a day. I also managed to pick up a few choice pieces of jewelry—a pendant, some earrings. All quite fine.” Marian set the salt box next to the portrait on the glass counter. “I can barely wait to call my customer. He’ll be so excited. Oh, and I have a dealer friend in D.C. who will just jump through hoops to get this Klingert piece.”
    “Well, then, what are you waiting for?” Amanda laughed. “There’s the phone.”
    “I am going to call my customer right now. I just can’t wait to see his face when he sees the miniature.” Marian reached behind the counter for the phone and lifted it, placed it next to her prizes. “You know, finds like this are what keep you in this business. You just never know what the next day is going to bring.”
    Still beaming broadly, Marian dialed the number.
    “Lock this behind me,” Amanda called to her as she left the shop.
    “I will. . . . oh, hello? Mr. Peterson?”
    Back in her shop, Amanda made calls of her own. To Iona, thanking her again for telling her about the sale and for dragging her to it. To Evan, apologizing for not having been able to meet him for lunch today. She’d had to leave messages for both of them.
    She locked the shop behind her, then walked the cobblestone path to the parking lot where she discovered that she had a flat.
    “Damn,” she said aloud, her fisted hands on her hips, before kicking the