As the Crow Flies, page 2
“Nice mirror,” Samantha said with a sheepish shrug when Liz came up from behind.
She put her hands on Samantha’s shoulders, but Liz was slightly shorter and had to lean out to the side to see their reflections side by side. “So nice you lost yourself in it, huh?”
Liz was the first redhead she’d ever met who didn’t have freckles. Her skin was fair and flawless, her short wavy hair a dark russet, her eyes green as emeralds. Really, she was quite beautiful, and so young, Samantha thought. She looked at Liz’s roaring-twenties outfit in the mirror, smiling at the low-cut, sleeveless top, the loose and breezy skirt with its fringed hemline. “I could get lost in this whole store,” Samantha answered her.
“And find lots of ideas while you’re getting lost, I bet. I’ve always thought antique shops would be great places for writers to get ideas, you know?”
“I already have one,” Samantha said, “about a mystery writer who finds herself mesmerized by an old mirror…except the mirror isn’t really a mirror, but a portal.”
“Ah…” Liz twisted her lips. “Sort of like a C.S. Lewis grows up. I like it. Just remember to mention that you got the idea in my store. It’ll be good for business. And then you can do a book signing here, and I’ll have lines out the door.” She grinned and rubbed Samantha’s arms affectionately before letting go and stepping aside. “My customers thought you were Rachel Maddow when you first walked in.”
Samantha shrugged. “I get that a lot…even though I don’t wear glasses,” she said. “It must be my haircut.”
“Could be. Either way, you’re very attractive.”
“Why, thank you.” Samantha lowered her eyes bashfully. “And if you ever want me to do a signing here, I will.”
“Really?” Liz put a hand to her chest. “You’d do that? I’ll hold you to it, you know.” She turned and motioned for Samantha to follow her.
Samantha walked to the front of the shop and set her canvas bag on the counter, immediately drawn to the purple glow of a black light coming from a small curio cabinet mounted on the wall behind Liz. The small shelves held an assortment of green shot glasses and little glass animals that were brilliantly phosphorescent. “What is all that?”
“Uranium glass. Also called Vaseline glass. It’s radioactive.” She turned off the light. “See? Without the black light it looks like plain green and yellow Depression glass, but with the black light on,” she flipped the switch again, “it fluoresces. Is that cool or what?”
“Very cool. Is it safe?”
“Pretty harmless. The uranium is contained in the glass, and it’s just a tiny amount, although some pieces will register radiation on a Geiger counter. Sometimes I think of having a dinner party with uranium-glass table settings and replacing all the lightbulbs in the dining room with black lights so that the whole table glows green.”
“That’s a dinner party I don’t want to miss.”
“Then I’ll put you on the guest list.” Liz bit her bottom lip and gazed thoughtfully at her. “So the writing’s going well, huh?”
“Very well.”
“You’re one of my favorite authors, you know.”
“I didn’t know.”
“I tell my sister that all the time.”
“No one tells me anything.”
“I’ve read all your books, Sam. Do you remember my date at the wedding?”
“Sure. I danced with her. Lori, wasn’t it?”
“Good memory. After meeting you, she ran out and bought all your books. Then I started reading and,” she shrugged, “what can I say? I’m hooked.”
“Well, thank you. Thank Lori for me, too, for the compliment and all.”
Liz waved a hand. “She’s history. They all go down in history.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s me. I don’t do relationships,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “And speaking of all the dear and dispensable people in my life, have you seen our siblings?”
“Once since the wedding,” Samantha confessed. “Have you?”
“Twice since the wedding. We talk, though.”
Samantha narrowed her eyes. “Do we unconsciously avoid them?”
“Personally? I make a conscious effort to do so.”
“I guess it’s wrong to dodge our kin like that.”
“They leave us no choice, Sam. I mean, all they do is talk incessantly about their life, their work, their plans, their friends. There’s never any conversation, just boring monologues about people I don’t even know. No offense, but neither one ever shuts up long enough to say, ‘Hey, Liz. How’s the interior-design and antique-furniture business? What’s new? What’s up with you?’”
Samantha frowned. “Don’t feel too bad. When I sent them my last book, they never even called to thank me.”
Her lips curled in something of a snarl. “Are you serious? How rude!”
“I don’t know whether they liked it, hated it, or even bothered to read it at all.”
“What socially inept little shits.”
“Shits? You mean siblings.”
“Face it, Sam. We’ve got shits for siblings.”
“Maybe they’re just too busy.”
“They’re busy being shits! Don’t excuse that narcissistic behavior. If you ask me, they suffer from the same personality disorder, and if they’re busy doing anything it’s bumping into each other’s ego.”
Samantha grinned. “I guess that’s why they bought that enormous house in the Hamptons. So their egos would have enough space.”
“Oh, please don’t get me started on the East Hampton house. I have fantasies about that house floating into the Atlantic Ocean while they’re asleep in their Ralph Lauren pajamas under their Ralph Lauren sheets.”
Samantha smiled. “Maybe we should start an in-law support group.”
“Yeah. Let’s see…” Liz thought for a moment. “We’ll call ourselves…the Out-laws.”
“I love it. Sign me up.” They stared at one another, eyes twinkling with mischief, until they both laughed aloud.
When they’d regained their composure, Liz turned her attention to the object in front of her. “So. Now that we’ve vented and validated one another…what’s in the bag, mystery writer?”
“Your sister’s head.”
“Ha! You’re lying. You know how I know you’re lying? Because my sister’s mouth wouldn’t fit in that bag.”
Samantha chuckled as she fiddled with the zipper. “Actually, I’ve got a bookend from a yard sale.”
“Yeah? Just one?”
“I think it’s old, probably not worth anything, but I was hoping you might—”
“Well? Let me see,” she said, flailing her hand at the bag to hurry her along.
Samantha had covered it in a ridiculous amount of bubble wrap to ensure a safe and padded journey.
Liz tapped her polished nails on the counter as Samantha carefully unrolled several feet of the plastic stuff. But once she freed the sculpture and set it in front of Liz, her eyes widened with the intrigue of an antiquarian. “Oh, wow…this is Rookwood,” she said.
The moving blades of the ceiling fan caused the lights to shift and play upon the high-gloss finish of the crow’s dark-blue body and the yellow book on which it stood. The piece was ornate but eye-catching, especially here, where it complemented the other antiques.
Liz turned it upside down for careful inspection, then set it down again and stroked the ceramic crow as though petting a real bird. “What did you say you bought it for?”
Samantha shrugged. People collected all sorts of animals, didn’t they? Cats, frogs, bears, Scotty dogs, penguins. “I bought it because it was a crow.”
“I meant, what did you pay for it?”
“Three dollars.”
“Three—? Do you have any idea what you have here, Sam?” She shook her head, waiting expectantly. “Rookwood is a highly desirable American art pottery.”
“So, then the bird is a rook, not a crow?” Samantha asked.
“They list their birds as rooks, but I wouldn’t know a rook from a crow.”
“They’re all in the same family—ravens, crows, rooks, magpies.”
“Well, this one bookend is worth several hundred dollars. What made you bring it here if you thought it was worthless?” she asked, talking to Samantha as she picked it up and inspected the piece.
“I only bought it because it looked like my bird. One person’s junk is another’s treasure, I guess. But when I got it home and started looking at it—really looking at it—it seemed too perfect, somehow special.”
Liz gave her a sideways glance. “So you’ve got an eye for valuable pieces. I should start dragging you along to estate sales and letting you sniff out the treasures. It’s every dealer’s dream, you know, to buy a piece of furniture for—oh, a few hundred dollars, say—and discover it’s worth thousands.”
“That happens?”
“Sure it happens. Of course, now that tag sales and antique flea markets have become a favorite pastime, people are paying more attention to what they have.”
Samantha nodded. “How do you know it’s Rookwood?”
“Come around here and I’ll show you,” Liz said, turning the bookend over again and picking up a pencil.
Making her way behind the counter, Samantha came up alongside her to view the incised mark on the bottom of the bookend.
“See the backward R and the P? They stand for Rookwood Pottery.” She pointed with her pencil. “Anyway, see the circle of flames around the letters?”
Samantha squinted to see the little squiggly lines.
“Each one represents a year,” Liz said. “This particular mark was first used in eighteen eighty-six. So, starting from the left, the first flame stands for that year. A full set of fifteen flames brings it to the year nineteen hundred. After that, roman numerals were added. See if you can figure out the date.”
Samantha counted fifteen flames. “Nineteen hundred,” she said.
“And…?”
There were two X’s and a V. “Plus twenty-five, so that’s 1925?”
“Exactly,” Liz said. They stood shoulder to shoulder. “Rookwood is one of the most expensive potteries. Some pieces command thousands of dollars, especially the earlier, artist-signed pieces. The pottery went commercial during the art deco period in America, and this rook bookend is one example of that fact.
“To give you an idea of how it compares with other pottery,” Liz said, “take a look at a few pieces around here. There’s McCoy, which, like Fiesta, was only dime-store stuff at the time. Of course, now it sells for a lot more—especially since Martha Stewart plugged it on her show. Then there’s Roseville and others, which you would have purchased in finer department stores. But Rookwood is top-shelf, so to speak.”
Samantha turned over the piece and examined the mark again. “I’m impressed with your knowledge.”
“Nah,” Liz said, straightening up and waving a hand. “This is all general stuff. I’m not a pottery expert. I deal in furniture, mostly—but I do know a few dealers who specialize in art pottery.” Liz looked up at an antique clock hanging on the opposite wall. It was five past five.
“I’m sorry to keep you,” Samantha said.
“Don’t be. It’s not like I have a wife to get home to or anything. In fact, let me make a quick call.” And with that she disappeared behind a curtain-covered doorway. A moment later Samantha heard her exchanging pleasantries with someone, and not long after that Liz peeked out from behind the curtain, her hand held over the receiver.
“Sam? You’re not looking to sell it, are you?”
“No. Ideally, I’d like to find a match.”
“How romantic,” Liz whispered. “That’s what we call a marriage…finding a cup to match a saucer, or a salt shaker to match a pepper shaker.” She extended her arm, motioning for Samantha to hand her the pad and pencil on the counter, and then disappeared behind the curtain again.
“Yeah, Ed,” Samantha heard her say. “Uh-huh…well, my sister in-law would like to make a marriage if possible. What do you think the chances are of…uh-huh…uh-huh…should I contact her directly?” Liz was silent for a moment, then, “That’d be great, Ed. Laraway? Where’s she located?”
Another minute and Liz was back, scribbling something on one of her business cards and handing it to her.
Samantha looked at it. “Gwen Laraway?”
“She’s up in the Berkshires, western Massachusetts, just east of the Hudson Valley. Ed says she has an enormous Rookwood collection, some of which are museum-quality pieces. He says she does sell on occasion but doesn’t do third-party dealings unless it’s at auction.”
“You think she might have something for me?”
“Call her. It’s worth a try. If you don’t have any luck, Ed suggested you look on eBay, or even call the Cincinnati Art Society. That’s where the Rookwood auctions are held every year.” Liz stared at her, a satisfied gleam in her emerald-green eyes. “Isn’t this exciting? I feel like a matchmaker.”
“On the phone you referred to me as your sister in-law.”
“Yeah, well, it’s easier that way,” Liz said.
“I wish I were your sister in-law.”
“No, you don’t. That would make you married to my sister.”
“Or you to my brother.”
“Don’t even go there, Sam.”
“You’re right. I guess it’s better this way.”
“Much better,” Liz said.
“Hey, do you have to be somewhere?”
“Not particularly. Why?”
“Let me take you to dinner,” Samantha said.
“You mean like a date?”
“Well, not a date-date…you know, just a dinner date.”
“Good,” Liz said and took a deep breath, “because I think you’re hot, and if I didn’t know you I’d sleep with you in a heartbeat, but, well, we’re out-laws now. It would be a little strange.”
Samantha smiled in amusement. “Number one, as hot as you are, you’re too young for me, and number two, yes, sleeping with my out-law would feel incestuous. So how about grabbing a bite with me…and then I have to hurry home to my crow by sundown.”
“Okay.” Liz laughed. “I forget that Bertha, the psychic crow, is a real bird. I want to meet her one day. And you know what?” she said, her eyes darting around the shop. “Now that I know you collect crows, I might have something for you.” Sidestepping Samantha, she moved around the counter and went down an aisle. Samantha heard the clinking of glass and pottery and watched her return with a whimsical crow sporting a tuxedo, red vest, and top hat.
“It’s an old bourbon decanter,” she said, pulling off the hat to expose the cork, “from the Old Crow distillery in Kentucky.”
“Wow…he’s wonderful!”
“A dapper fellow, isn’t he?”
“I’ll say…” Samantha inspected the bottle, deciding she must add it to her new crow and rook collection. “Sold,” she said.
“Hey, we’re family. I can’t take money from an out-law. He’s yours. Consider it a gift from a fan and relative…or relative fan.” And with that she took the bottle, wrapped it in newspaper, and handed it back to Samantha.
“Thanks. This is very generous.”
“Don’t mention it.” She turned off the fan and the lights in the shop. “I picked it up at an estate sale. You know, Sam,” she added, as she disappeared down another aisle, “I really am glad you came today.”
“Me, too…” she said, carefully packing both her bookend and the Old Crow bottle into the canvas bag she’d transported it in. “Me, too,” she said again to herself.
Chapter Three
“Cappuccino, please,” Liz told the waiter. They’d found a busy café on Christopher Street and tucked themselves away at a corner table on the outdoor patio.
“Make it two.” Samantha pointed to their leftover mussels and calamari. “And a doggy bag, please.”
“A bird bag.” Liz corrected her. “It’s for her pet crow.”
“A crow?” The ponytailed waiter’s eyes lit up. “For real?”
Samantha nodded.
“That’s so cool. I’d love to have a crow,” he said. “Do you like mysteries?”
“Sure. Doesn’t everybody love a good mystery?”
“Oh, man, then you should definitely check out Samantha Weller. She writes the Detective Crowley series. It’s like…you never really know if Crowley is human or supernatural, but she has this pet crow who flies between this life and the afterlife to help her solve crimes.”
Samantha winked at her as they listened to the waiter. He couldn’t have been more than twenty. A college student, Liz guessed.
When the waiter cleared the table, Liz inclined her head toward Samantha and whispered, “Why didn’t you tell him you’re the author?”
“I don’t know…I’m shy that way.” Samantha shrugged. “But it certainly is nice to encounter a young person—anyone under the age of twenty-five, actually—who reads for pleasure.”
Liz nodded, regarding her thoughtfully before she spoke. “So…you live alone with that crow?” she asked, just as the waiter came back with Bertha’s bird bag and the check.
Samantha snatched the check as Liz reached for it and handed it back to the waiter with a credit card. “Just the two of us,” she answered.
“So Bertha isn’t just her fictional name?”
“Nope. She’s Bertha all the time—on and off the pages.”
“And she really eats this stuff?” Liz circled a finger at the bag of leftover seafood. Having read Samantha’s books and grown so familiar with Bertha’s fictional counterpart, she felt as though she knew the bird. “What’s it like living with a crow?”
“A challenge,” Samantha admitted. “She’s beyond inquisitive, hopelessly curious, constantly seeking stimulation.”
“Geez, Sam. That’s me to a T.”
“If she were a woman she’d have exhausted me by now.” Samantha laughed. “But she does retrieve my car keys when I can’t find them.”
“What…you mean she’s really psychic, like in your novels?”
“No, she’s a thief. She steals and hides them, then retrieves them when I lose patience. She likes to steal and hoard any shiny object she can carry.”
