Ceres.”
“Can I buy you a drink later? Maybe we could just talk a little. I don’t want to impose, but I’d be very grateful.”
I could almost hear Pam thinking it through, and I crossed my fingers, hoping that she’d agree to meet me.
“Sure. A drink would be good,” Pam said with confidence, her mind made up. “I’d like to hear about Maisy from your perspective if it wouldn’t upset you to tell me about it.”
“I’ll tell you anything I can. When’s good for you?”
“I’m finishing up a project—I’m a graphic designer . . . Ummm . . . how’s eight? Is that too late for you?”
“Eight is perfect,” I said, and suggested meeting in the lounge at the Blue Dolphin. She agreed.
As I got out of the car, I thought again of Ty. It would be good to talk to him. I was missing him, and missing him felt good. Also, I was looking forward to getting his professional take on Maisy’s murder. Which made me think of my upcoming meeting with Rowcliff. All that interview promised was trouble.
One look at Verna’s living room and all thoughts of trouble disappeared.
The room was packed with items that shined and twinkled. In a battered old curio case, rays of sunlight glinted off of several cutcrystal bowls. Silver candlesticks sat on a copper tray. And hanging on a rolling coatrack, the kind we wheeled in on auction days for attendees to hang their wraps, were a dozen or more sequined and beaded evening gowns.
“What exactly are you interested in selling?” I asked as dispassionately as I could.
She gestured to include the entire room. “Everything. You want it, it’s yours.”
I nodded. “Is that true of the entire house?”
“Pretty much. I mean, we’re taking our clothes, of course, and some favorite pieces, but mostly we want it all gone.”
I wondered why. I never get involved in the underlying reasons that drive people to sell their possessions, but sometimes I get curious. What would motivate a thirty-something woman and her husband to sell what seemed to be all of their possessions? Were Verna and her husband hoping to start fresh in Las Vegas? Or had they accepted a job that came with a furnished apartment, like managing one of the hotels on the Strip?
After surveying the house, I made an offer and was turned down flat.
“What?” Verna asked, shocked. “Eight hundred dollars? I would have expected more than that for the contents of the living room alone!”
“You have some nice pieces,” I said without sounding overly enthusiastic. “But, with all due respect, most of the goods aren’t special. Don’t get me wrong—I’m not saying they aren’t special to you and your husband. I’m simply talking from my business perspective.”
She shook her head impatiently as I spoke. “No, no. I’m not talking about sentimental value. I’m talking business, too. I had another dealer in here and he offered me more than twice what you’re offering.”
“Really? Who was that?”
She tilted her head. “I don’t think I should tell you.”
I didn’t believe her. Other than the good stuff on display in the living room, there wasn’t much else. Amateur oil paintings hung next to chipped gilt-framed mirrors. There were two sets of flatware, both stainless, not silver or silver plate—and incomplete. Most of the furniture was painted and had been constructed of cheap veneer to begin with. She had a lot of stuff, and it would cost a few hundred dollars out-of-pocket to rent a truck and hire the temporary employees we’d need to help Eric pack and move everything. In situations like this, where there’s a mixed bag of good stuff and junk, there are two options: cherry picking the good stuff or basing your bid on the good items but offering to take it all. Most dealers want the former and most owners want the latter. My strategy of bidding on everything has several advantages to Prescott’s—it helps generate inventory for our tag sales, disguises where my true interest
“Can I buy you a drink later? Maybe we could just talk a little. I don’t want to impose, but I’d be very grateful.”
I could almost hear Pam thinking it through, and I crossed my fingers, hoping that she’d agree to meet me.
“Sure. A drink would be good,” Pam said with confidence, her mind made up. “I’d like to hear about Maisy from your perspective if it wouldn’t upset you to tell me about it.”
“I’ll tell you anything I can. When’s good for you?”
“I’m finishing up a project—I’m a graphic designer . . . Ummm . . . how’s eight? Is that too late for you?”
“Eight is perfect,” I said, and suggested meeting in the lounge at the Blue Dolphin. She agreed.
As I got out of the car, I thought again of Ty. It would be good to talk to him. I was missing him, and missing him felt good. Also, I was looking forward to getting his professional take on Maisy’s murder. Which made me think of my upcoming meeting with Rowcliff. All that interview promised was trouble.
One look at Verna’s living room and all thoughts of trouble disappeared.
The room was packed with items that shined and twinkled. In a battered old curio case, rays of sunlight glinted off of several cutcrystal bowls. Silver candlesticks sat on a copper tray. And hanging on a rolling coatrack, the kind we wheeled in on auction days for attendees to hang their wraps, were a dozen or more sequined and beaded evening gowns.
“What exactly are you interested in selling?” I asked as dispassionately as I could.
She gestured to include the entire room. “Everything. You want it, it’s yours.”
I nodded. “Is that true of the entire house?”
“Pretty much. I mean, we’re taking our clothes, of course, and some favorite pieces, but mostly we want it all gone.”
I wondered why. I never get involved in the underlying reasons that drive people to sell their possessions, but sometimes I get curious. What would motivate a thirty-something woman and her husband to sell what seemed to be all of their possessions? Were Verna and her husband hoping to start fresh in Las Vegas? Or had they accepted a job that came with a furnished apartment, like managing one of the hotels on the Strip?
After surveying the house, I made an offer and was turned down flat.
“What?” Verna asked, shocked. “Eight hundred dollars? I would have expected more than that for the contents of the living room alone!”
“You have some nice pieces,” I said without sounding overly enthusiastic. “But, with all due respect, most of the goods aren’t special. Don’t get me wrong—I’m not saying they aren’t special to you and your husband. I’m simply talking from my business perspective.”
She shook her head impatiently as I spoke. “No, no. I’m not talking about sentimental value. I’m talking business, too. I had another dealer in here and he offered me more than twice what you’re offering.”
“Really? Who was that?”
She tilted her head. “I don’t think I should tell you.”
I didn’t believe her. Other than the good stuff on display in the living room, there wasn’t much else. Amateur oil paintings hung next to chipped gilt-framed mirrors. There were two sets of flatware, both stainless, not silver or silver plate—and incomplete. Most of the furniture was painted and had been constructed of cheap veneer to begin with. She had a lot of stuff, and it would cost a few hundred dollars out-of-pocket to rent a truck and hire the temporary employees we’d need to help Eric pack and move everything. In situations like this, where there’s a mixed bag of good stuff and junk, there are two options: cherry picking the good stuff or basing your bid on the good items but offering to take it all. Most dealers want the former and most owners want the latter. My strategy of bidding on everything has several advantages to Prescott’s—it helps generate inventory for our tag sales, disguises where my true interest
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