“Sorry about that. Duty calls, you know?”
I concentrated on examining a pair of vintage Raggedy Ann and Andy dolls, awake on one side, asleep on the other. These were the real deal and should fetch a pretty penny.
Angus and Birch reached the top of the stairs ahead of me and I scrambled after them.
The finishes on the second floor were as upgraded as downstairs, with crown molding and five-inch baseboards throughout, or what little I could see of them. I’d thought the first floor was crammed, but it was nothing compared with this. A wide hallway had been whittled down into a slim lane by the dollhouses arranged along its length.
We walked into the first bedroom, with its custom drapes and high-end light fixtures. I trailed my fingers across the brushed nickel handle and glanced back at Angus, catching his almost imperceptible nod. It was like we were picking again, and we could read each other’s minds.
This door handle alone probably cost fifty bucks.
The room was stuffed with dolls. French dolls in gorgeous clothes that would make any collector’s mouth water. There were German dolls, too, but without the same fancy attire. Those were often sold naked or with a simple shift, the idea being that the German child would learn to sew.
I stared at a whole row of French “Bebe” dolls from the 1880s, with their jaunty hats, soulful brown eyes, and bisque heads. There was about thirty thousand dollars sitting on that one shelf alone.
“Some of these are German,” Birch said. “Simon and Halbig, I think? There’s plenty of those, and then she got on a Jumeau and Bru kick.”
Birch actually knew more than he realized. He reminded me of my daughter, Sarah, who professed to have no interest in the store, but unconsciously absorbed information by osmosis when she became immersed in my world for a while on one of her infrequent visits home.
A group of boudoir dolls sat on the bed, as they were designed to do, seeing as they were not meant to be played with by children. I was inspecting a porcelain doll with bushy bangs and a smug expression when Birch’s phone rang again.
“Whoops. So sorry,” he whispered, and disappeared into the hallway.
As I’d told Angus, I wasn’t an expert, but I could tell these dolls were really old and really unusual, which is the key with most collectibles.
“Angus, there’s a fortune in this place,” I murmured.
He set the notepad on the bed and flexed his fingers. “This is going to take a couple of weeks to pull together. I’ll tell you Daisy, this could be the biggest auction Backstead’s has ever had.”
I nodded. I could see people coming from hundreds of miles away, eager to add a rare doll like one of these to their collection.
“I’m fairly sure they’re real, but you may want to consult an expert once you get them back to the auction house.” I picked up one of the Bebe dolls. “Look at the body for a start to check for fakes. Someone might be able to duplicate the face, but an older body is harder to do.” I showed him the numbers on the back showing the mold mark and size. “Often the heads and bodies were made in different places and this helped match them up.”
“Yeah, I had one of these at auction last May,” he said as he took it from me.
I smiled at the sight of the fragile figure in his massive, but gentle grasp. “The closed-mouth ones are twice as valuable as the openmouthed,” I said.
Angus nodded. “Yup. I can see why Kunes is anxious to get his paws on the cash from this lot.”
We cataloged the rest of the room and moved down the hallway to the second bedroom.