The Marriage Casket by Deborah Morgan

Author:Deborah Morgan [Morgan, Deborah]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: cozy mystery
Publisher: Crossroad Press
Published: 2017-07-09T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-Two

Luck was with him, and that afternoon he purchased a hodgepodge of furniture for next to nothing—both primitive and country pieces (the primitive being more crudely made than the country): three little pine hutches, a maple rocking chair—Shaker craftsmanship, if he wasn’t mistaken—and a couple of rope beds, also Shaker, that were stored in a smokehouse adjacent to an old frame farmhouse.

The guy who sold him the stuff had been thrilled to do so. He had said his wife was always complaining about the clutter and that she wanted it cleared out. With Jeff’s offer, the man could, as he put it, “get rid of the junk, and recoup some of the money she’s out spending on Christmas presents for grandkids who already have more toys than their parents have sense.”

Jeff hauled it all to Blanche’s in five trips, with a bonus that the guy threw in with the last load: a dilapidated cardboard grab-bag box full of what looked like sewing supplies.

He left the box with Blanche while he unpacked the beds, and when he returned, found her with a jeweler’s loupe screwed to her right eye and an absolutely sparkling brooch in her left hand. Scattered across the desktop were spools of craft ribbon and cards of seam tape and ric-rac. Directly in front of Blanche, however, was a jumble of jewelry: screw-back earrings, brooches in every design and shape imaginable, and enough Christmas tree pins to rival the real trees that had been hauled into his house that morning.

Blanche plucked the loupe free and swept her hand in a grand gesture over the display. “All this was stashed below the sewing notions. Jeffrey, it’s a potential fortune.”

“In other words, they’re all signed.”

“Every one of them, from Eisenberg’s Swarovski crystals and Christmas trees to Coro’s enameled birds and whimsicals from the Thirties to Miriam Haskell’s horseshoe-marked pieces that are bringing a fortune right now. Also Marcel Boucher, Schiapiarelli, Hattie Carnegie—it’s simply amazing.”

“You know as well as I do, Blanche: Most people don’t have a clue that they should look for a mark on costume jewelry.”

“Even if they did,” she said, “most of them wouldn’t be caught dead wearing ‘grandma’s junk jewelry.’ But it’s fast becoming the thing, and this group is just in time for the holidays. I don’t have to tell you, it’ll sell like mad.”

She began punching keys on her adding machine, working faster than a ticker tape, then ripped out the paper and looked it over. She jotted a figure on a notepad, and handed it to him with a question. “Fair enough?”

“Generous is the word I would use.”

“You’ve been my best picker this year. Consider it a Christmas bonus.”

He bowed slightly, and she grabbed a checkbook while his own mental calculator told him that he had made enough profit on the day’s finds to cover his upcoming insurance premium on the woodie. Coverage for a classic car was a killer bill.

She handed him the check, and he put it in his wallet without looking at the amount.

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