“Sarah, this is great.” A wash of relief swept over me. “I’m impressed.”
“Why do you sound so surprised?” Betty said. “She is your daughter after all.”
I grinned at Sarah and we strolled around the room together as I made a list of items I planned to bid on. The beautiful antique dollhouse, of course, with its handmade furniture, hand-sewn linen curtains, real glass windows, and a miniature needlepoint carpet. Also the Singer Featherweight sewing machine and an old spool cabinet that read, “J & P Coats best six cord spool cotton cabinet. White, black and colors for hand and machine. Warranted 200 yards.”
There was a huge amount of merchandise to be sold. Lots of nice pieces like an oak rolltop desk, a grandfather clock, a lovely set of English Regency dining chairs, an extensive collection of Depression glass, and a jelly cupboard.
We stayed through the pre-auction walk-through and then went home to relax for a couple of hours. While Sarah took a nap, I took Jasper for a walk.
He really was a good pup, already walking to heel with me. I could feel his joy in all the scents of the countryside. He sniffed at every tree and telephone pole and kept lifting his leg even though he was peed out after about two miles. I hoped he would behave while we were at the auction tonight.
A tired dog is a good dog.
Chapter Eight
I could feel the buzz in the air before we even entered the auction building. With no sale last week, the crowd was full of a pent-up urge to buy.
Joe went off to find Betty while I took one last walk around. The “warm-up” lots had been moved into the loading area. Small valuable antiques, china, and jewelry were housed in locked rolling cabinets that could be wheeled up to the stage when their numbers came up.
There were plenty of familiar faces in the crowd, and it was easy to pick out the dealers. Auction halls are typically not well lit, and the pros were the ones armed with flashlights, tape measures, and magnifying glasses. They wore an intense expression as they cruised up and down the rows, making bets with each other about how high a price various items would bring. One man bear-crawled underneath a dresser in front of me, and I had to step over his boots, which stuck out into the aisle. Sometimes parts were “married together,” such as a highboy with a chest on top, and you had to make sure they were an original set.
Old men outweighed the women about two to one, many in plaid shirts and jeans, and several with long tobacco-stained beards. The old men, I mean. Well, for the most part.
“Better than the junk they usually have,” said one as he picked up a brass Westinghouse fan.
“Yup. Saw a fan like that sell at auction in Hatfield last week for three hundred dollars.” His friend smoothed down the edges of his mustache. “All depends on condition.”
They nodded sagely at each other. Condition was the magic word.
Some people just came for the entertainment every Saturday. They didn’t even register for a bidder number. I passed a husband saying to his wife, “There’s lots of stuff here this time, honey. You should be able to find yourself something else we don’t need!”
To the far right was an area with metal basement-type shelving holding the box lots. Typically the cardboard boxes contained miscellaneous items such as books, Christmas decorations, tools, kitchen utensils, and whatever else was too small or inexpensive to auction off individually. A bidder bought the whole thing for a few dollars.
Tablecloths and napkins, Victorian lithographed picture blocks, glass doorknobs, and vintage buttons were added to my list. Ah, vintage buttons. To me, they were like jewelry now. I’d become fascinated with how many different kinds there were. My mouth watered as I spotted butterscotch Bakelite, enameled metal, and some unusual ivory “spaghetti” extruded knot varieties.
Real jewelry was good, too, because it didn’t take up much space, and was sometimes a purchase that loosened up a buyer for something else in the store. Besides, I needed to dress up Alice.
Usually I focused on a certain type of item. At flea markets, it required tunnel vision to let the sewing notions jump out at me. Tonight, however, a set of French Majolica green oyster dishes caught my eye. I figured I had the poetic license to put certain pieces in my store that weren’t strictly sewing-related. Everything sold in the end.
My heart jumped as I recognized the tall figure of Fiona Adams striding through the crowd. What the heck was she doing here? Was she planning to make trouble? I braced myself as she came nearer, but she stalked right past, with no sign of recognition on her face.
I stared after her. I don’t know why it irritated me so much that the obnoxious Ms. Adams had passed over me like another piece of furniture up for bid. I didn’t want to talk to her anyway.