Rustic done upscale, as Joy liked to call it.
I jumped when Fiona gestured toward the round table in the alcove near the window. A tray was set out with a pitcher of iced tea, some glasses, and tiny dishes of sugared lemon slices and fresh mint leaves.
“Please. Sit down.”
We sat down on the upholstered high-backed chairs, surrounded by ficus trees and bromeliads. She carefully poured and garnished two glasses of tea for us, and I stared across the table at her, wondering what the heck she wanted.
“Your klutzy friend must help you win a lot of merchandise,” she said, but there was a twinkle in her eye.
I cleared my throat. “Oh, I’m sorry about that, but don’t worry, Martha will pay you for the dry cleaning.” Or the replacement, I thought.
Fiona waved a hand impatiently. “It doesn’t matter.” She bent down and pulled a photo album out of a tote bag on the floor and put it on the table. “Look, this is what I wanted to show you.” She swiveled the album toward me and started flipping pages. There were beautiful color photographs of a variety of fountain pens, in close-up detail.
The missing collection.
She went rapidly through each page, explaining to me why they were all so valuable. “This is a vintage Parker Duofold Lucky Curve in mandarin yellow. It’s a first edition from the 1920s, has a solid fourteen-carat gold nib. Yellow is the most rare and therefore the most sought after.” She flipped a page. “Here’s a duo pen set by Krone called the Forbidden City. Highly detailed hand-painted pens.”
I leaned closer and peered at the photograph. The pens looked like a tiny emperor and empress with exquisite faces and detail.
She showed me a lapis blue Pelikan 101, a Waterman safety pen with gold filigree overlay from the 1920s, and a Montblanc sterling silver Lorenzo de Medici pen, with its octagonal hand-engraved sterling silver body.
“They’re incredible,” I murmured, and I meant it.
Fiona’s diction was perfect, as if she had undergone years of speech training. And in spite of the harsh persona she liked to project, there was also an air of fragility about her, especially when her voice softened as she described the history of the pens.
She traced a finger across the photos of her treasures, lingering over her favorites. It made me think of that gorgeous peacock fabric I’d sacrificed to pay my bills and keep the store afloat in the early days. As a lover of vintage things, I could see why these beautiful pens were so collectible, and suddenly I felt an unexpected connection to this odd woman.
I took a sip of my iced tea. “Fiona, let me ask you something. There was—um—a rumor about an estate liquidation company that contacted Jimmy Kratz.”
I’d protected Reenie long enough. Now I needed some answers. “Let’s say there was a crooked deal going on whereby Jimmy was supposed to bid on the pens, buy them for a low price, and then this company would get them back to resell them in a bigger market and—”
Fiona waved her hand again. “I already checked into the company the bimbo used. They seem legitimate, and all recent transactions have fetched a fair market price. Completely clueless, though, just like her. They hadn’t even known the pens were stolen or filed the insurance claim until I contacted them.”
“But why send them to this auction house? Why not one in New York or Philadelphia?”
Fiona blew out a breath. “She says it was for sentimental reasons. As if that gold-digging bitch has a sentimental bone in her whole body. Her grandfather was born in Sheepville, so supposedly that’s why she sent them here.”
I chewed on a piece of sugared lemon. Damn it. The estate company theory sounded like a dead end, and the clock was still ticking for Angus. And the police were doing nothing to search for the pens or Jimmy’s killer. So now what?
Fiona tapped the current page of the album to bring my attention back. “Here’s a Conklin Durograph pen. They were only made for about a year in 1923, so again, very collectible.”
Next came a Maniflex pen with a gorgeous tigereye casing, two Parker pens, a Sheaffer, and a Wahl pen with a Greek key pattern.
“These pens must be kept out of sunlight under climate-controlled conditions. If someone else uses them, they can be ruined for the owner because of the way the nib adapts to their particular writing style. I hate to think of how they might be being treated as we speak.” Fiona shuddered. “They’re easily damaged by heat and can fade or discolor. That’s why I cringe when I see them in glass cases at outdoor markets. They’re completely compromised by then.”
“Did it bother you that your father left all his money to his new wife?” I asked.