The Key in the Attic(48)

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Sanders picked up the telephone about half an hour later. “Antiques and Oddities.”

“Frank? It’s Dave. I think I found what you were looking for.”

“That was quick. Hang on a second.” Frank sat down and grabbed a pad and pencil. “OK, where is it?”

“Kind of in the middle of nowhere right now. They’re clearing for a new housing development, about three miles off the main highway, a little more than five miles from the house you told me about.”

Frank jotted down the directions Dave gave him. “And when are they clearing?”

“Day after tomorrow.”

Frank laughed softly. So that was her hurry. She’d found where the trees were that the note talked about. Somehow he’d have to find them too. While they were still standing.

“Well thanks. I owe you, Dave. Big time.”

Dave snickered. “You know this is all public information, right? You could have called them direct.”

“Yeah, but you know the right questions to ask and who to call to get past all the red tape. I owe you.”

“Just bring plenty of cash on Saturday. Deal?”

“If this ends up being the right information, that won’t be a problem.”

Frank hung up the phone and went to his computer. As he expected, last-minute airfare anywhere was not inexpensive, but it would be worth it. He didn’t have a choice at this point. He either went and found out what the Dawson woman was up to, or he missed out on the chance of a lifetime.

He clicked the final button to book his flight to Virginia and then locked the front door of the shop. It was a little early to flip the “Open” sign to “Closed,” but he had some things to do before his flight left in the morning. He pulled the blinds shut and then, as an afterthought, taped up a little note card that could be read from outside the front door: WE WILL BE CLOSED UNTIL SATURDAY. SORRY WE MISSED YOU.

He recorded a similar message on the shop’s answering machine. That should take care of things while he was away. If things went as he hoped, this little trip would be well worth missing a couple of days’ sales.

He gave the front door a little tug, making sure it was firmly locked, and then he shut off the lights in the front part of the shop.

“Just one last thing.”

He looked around the now-dim room as he walked toward the office area. It wouldn’t be long before he had one of those posh shops like Park Cambridge, where they handled only the best of the best. And he would keep the very best of all of it for himself.

He’d miss his room full of treasures, the interesting bits of historical trivia that weren’t worth much except as conversation pieces, but it wouldn’t do to have a showroom like this in the better part of town. The posh set wouldn’t like it. On the other hand, maybe in a day or two, he wouldn’t have to care what anyone thought, posh or not.

He flipped off the light in the office and went into the warehouse, his steps echoing as he walked across the concrete floor to the loading dock. He locked those doors too. It wouldn’t do to be seen. Not just now.

Once everything was secured, he took a sturdy cardboard box from the supply he kept and filled it halfway with packing peanuts. Then from one of the lower warehouse shelves, he slid a large wooden crate onto the floor. It was one of many marked with stickers and labels, some in Chinese, most in English. The labels on this particular crate showed an address in Hong Kong, one in New York, and the address of his shop. And several of them, in neon orange, announced that the contents were fragile.

He pried up the lid with the hammer he kept for just such purposes and propped the lid against the wall. Then he rummaged in the straw packing and took out a number of delicate porcelain dishes, small and dainty, in blue and white. He set those on the floor beside him and removed another layer of straw and lifted out a squarish object about fifteen inches high and ten inches wide wrapped in heavy paper. He set it on the floor beside him, careful not to jar it. Then he replaced the straw and the dishes and nailed the lid of the crate back into place. That done, he slid the crate onto the shelf once more.

He picked up the paper-wrapped object, laid it in the box he had prepared, and then covered it with more packing peanuts.

“That ought to ride just fine.”

He tucked the box under one arm, and with a final glance around the tidy warehouse, flipped off the light and left through the back door.





16

“This is crazy.”

“Just drive, Mary Beth.” Annie leaned forward in her seat, silently urging Mary Beth’s SUV to go faster. “You’re going to lose him.”

“He can’t get far in this traffic. And if you’re right, we know where he’s going anyway. We should just let the police take care of it.”