The Big Steal by Emyl Jenkins Page B

number, haven’t you? It’s so embarrassing to be such a bother,” I said, casting Dr. Fox and Peggy Powers an apologetic look. “And to make matters worse, my cell phone doesn’t work out here—”
    â€œWe understand, dear.” Peggy, all sweet and nice, spoke up. “Michelle, you help Sterling. Dr. Fox and I have plenty to chat about I’m sure. Right, Frank?” No one would guess she had just spoken of him in less than complimentary terms.
    Michelle and I had taken only a step or two into the hall when, once again, the doorbell rang. “Her number’s on my desk,” Michelle said and turned on her heel.
    I made the call to Mary Sophie in blessed privacy. It turned out she wasn’t coming to the meeting Houseman had called. We agreed on tea at four thirty instead of four.
    By the time I returned to the front of the house, Dr. Houseman and a handful of the other board members from yesterday had arrived, including Frederick Graham and Worth Merritt. With Houseman calling the shots, there wasn’t time for conversation. In what seemed to be a replay of yesterday, Houseman pulled out his pocket watch, checked the time, and led his troops down the hall. Frank Fox and Peggy Powers hung back.
    â€œWe’ll talk later,” Fox mouthed nervously before scurrying off to catch up with the others.
    â€œSince I was already here, Alfred invited me to the meeting,too,” Peggy said. “I think he was a little embarrassed that he hadn’t called me. Who knows, it might have been an oversight.”
    I couldn’t tell if she was amused by the whole situation or was trying to save face.
    â€œAnd Michelle’s going to the meeting, too?” I asked.
    â€œI assume so. Alfred told her to get a notebook and join them. In fact, I’d better toodle-oo off myself,” she said gleefully, adding, “We’ll talk later.”
    â€œOh, I’ll be around,” I said casually.
    For half a second I thought about going back to further examine the broken items. That had been my intention hadn’t it? I threw that thought away. With no one paying me any mind, I was on my own. I was ecstatic. Thank you, Lord, I said, casting my eyes heavenward, which was also in the direction of the attic.
    My next thought wasn’t quite so pious. Damn. I needed a flashlight.
    Surely I couldn’t ask to borrow one, or snoop around in hopes of finding one. And where would I look in this huge maze of a place? I had only so much time. My only choice was to retrieve mine from my car.
    It only took a minute. I slipped back in and, tiptoeing to keep the heels of my shoes from clopping, started down the hall to the stairs leading to the attic.
    I had no more than glanced at the few sheets of paper I had absconded with the day before. Between dinner with Worth Merritt and the unsettling episode at the 7-Eleven, my mindset hadn’t been such that I could deal with much else. But what I
had
seen was enough to make me eager to dig further,to find more. My gut feelings told me more was to be found in those boxes. That’s what comes from being an appraiser. You get this eerie feeling—some people call it a sixth sense—that something is right or wrong, even before the evidence is spread out before you. That sense had drawn me to the shoe box at the flea market a couple of weeks ago where I found the Tiffany sterling silver candy bowl marked fifty cents. And the same sense had told me the Oriental figurine with the five-hundred-dollar price tag was plastic, not ivory. Rarely had this feeling led me astray.
    Plus there were all those other things up in the attic—the statues and lamps, the bedposts and stacks of chairs I had seen. Their call—like the call of the boxes and cartons—was as strong and compelling as that of Ulysses’ alluring sirens. There was no turning back. I tested the batteries in my flashlight. The bulb flickered, then shone. Though