Elaine Flinn - Molly Doyle 03 - Deadly Collection Read online

Molly almost hit the brakes. “What? Where on earth did you come up with that?”

  “Well, you know it’s true.”

  Pulling into the alley behind the shop, Molly parked. “I know nothing of the sort. Randall is a good friend, and that’s all. Got it?”

  Emma was laughing as she climbed out of the truck. She quickly put on a serious face, and said, “Okay, if you say so.”

  By the time they finished their hot cocoa, Emma’s yawn was genuine. “If business is bad, maybe we ought to think about her house sale. I liked helping you with the other ones.”

  “What makes you think business is bad?”

  “I heard you talking to Bitsy about it. And then with Max on the phone yesterday. Are we in serious trouble?”

  Hugging Emma as they sat on the sofa, Molly said, “We’re not in trouble. Things are just slow now because all the beauties are sold and we haven’t showy merch to jazz up the shop.”

  “So we look kind of common? Junky maybe?”

  “We are definitely not junky! Just not, well, dazzling. People like to see glamour in antiques shops. Gilt, drama, and elegance. Showy to-die-for pieces they might not be able to afford but can dream about owning. Sometimes just walking into an elegant shop makes people feel good.”

  “Maybe this house job is just what we need,” Emma said.

  For some reason, Molly didn’t think so. There was something about Frances O’Brien that rubbed her the wrong way. “Maybe. And then, maybe not.”

  2

  Molly eyed the strollers on Carmel beach the next morning as she and Emma drove down Scenic Road to meet Frances. The surf was high, and the whitecaps further out reminded Molly of scattered powdered sugar. Gray clouds were turning dark, and a crisp chill was in the air. With her window open a crack, the cozy scent of wood fires burning in the sprawling homes facing Carmel Bay made Molly wish she and Emma were down on the hard wet sand waving at the regulars they’d come to know. She stole a glance at Emma, and recalled her running on the beach last week flapping her arms like the child she’d hardly had a chance to be. It was a rare act for Emma, and Molly wanted to hold it in her memory. Wise beyond her years, no thanks to Molly’s sister, who had spent little time with her, Emma had learned early on to be self-sufficient. Her sharp sense of humor and dry wit were often the brighter parts of Molly’s day, and she was determined to give Emma all the love and support she had in her.

  Despite her shaky financial situation, Molly wasn’t in the mood to tromp through what she assumed would be another rambling home filled with boring furniture. She told herself to remember, though, not to judge a book by its cover. While more than one palatial estate in Pebble Beach had been sparsely furnished with uninspiring merch, she’d found wonderful treasures and buys in more modest homes. Carmel wasn’t much different than Pebble Beach in that respect. Downsizing and the turnover of property had been slow lately, and while she couldn’t afford not to check out the weekend sales, she nevertheless began to think the great collections that once filled the local homes had all been sold off. Convinced she faced the same situation this morning, she pulled up to La Casa with few expectations.

  Set back behind ten-foot-high stone walls, little was visible from the street except a peek of ivy framing the second floor’s wrought-iron grilled windows. The steeply pitched tile roof conjured up soaring ceilings. Three chimneys were in evidence, with hints of more.

  When they stepped through the iron gates into the front courtyard, Molly felt as if she’d been transported to an ancient villa in Cadiz. A canopy of tree ferns in verdigris copper planters led the way to the entrance. She began to think the morning might not be wasted after all. A dangerous thought, she reminded herself again. An English Tudor down the coast in the Carmel Highlands had been a major disappointment last week. Touted in the paper as one of the most important moving sales of the year by the owners, the furniture had been lackluster; a few vintage La-Z-Boys in a den, and the smalls were deplorable. It was apparent the classical music director’s taste did not include his creature comforts, and she’d left within five minutes.

  Even now, while she stood before a set of lusciously carved wood doors, she cautioned herself again to remember how many times she’d been fooled lately. The doors were beautifully fashioned in an arabesque style, and the intricate design could only have been made by a master. Judging them to be at least eight feet tall, they were set inside a cavernous entry ablaze with Moorish tiles in deep blues, greens, and yellows. Huge lion heads of cast bronze were centered on each door. It took both of her hands to lift the ring clenched in the lion’s mouth. When Emma used the doorbell, Molly gave her a smirk. “You’re no fun. These knockers cry to be used.”

  Before Emma could respond, the door opened and Frances stood before them with a smile. “I’m so glad you didn’t change your mind. Come in!”

  When Molly entered, her eyes immediately went into scan mode and began bouncing around so fast she had to blink to stop them. It was all she could do not to stammer or babble when she saw the enormous atrium off the foyer. Rising two stories, the wraparound balcony with arched openings and carved pillars on the second floor nearly took her breath away. Stepping closer, hoping her jaw wasn’t dropping, Molly said, “Oh, how absolutely lovely, Frances.”

  “Quite the architectural fantasy, isn’t it. Hardly what you think you’d find in sleepy Carmel with its quaint look. It’s more suited to Pebble Beach. I’ve got coffee and pastries set up in the morning room.”

  Following Frances across the atrium, Molly managed quick peeks through towering banana plants, tree ferns, and palms in huge terra-cotta pots. She could see glimpses of carved friezes on the walls framing leaded double glass doors leading to other interior rooms. Even the moss growing on the stone paved patio was perfect, and the sound of trickling water was soft enough to be romantic. She grabbed Emma’s hand and whispered, “Don’t comment on anything you see. Just stick to me like glue, okay?”

  Emma’s eyes were on the move too, and she quickly nodded.

  When they stepped into the morning room, Molly faltered. She suddenly imagined herself in Paris or Vienna. A massive marble-topped pastry table on a wonderful wrought-iron base hugged one wall between two arched doors of stained glass. An array of copper and silver serving pieces usually found in an elegant patisserie sparkled with elegance. Two four-tiered brass chandeliers hung from the coffered ceiling. Opposite her, the sun was struggling to break through its shroud of gloom. Filtering through a wall of multipaned glass, it bathed the room in a warm glow. Another patio could be seen, and it too was filled with tree ferns. Several good-sized oil paintings of pastoral scenes in wide gold leaf frames filled two walls, and a stunning limestone fireplace anchored the fourth wall.

  Instead of bistro tables with crisp, white linen cloths, a round rosewood breakfast table Molly guessed was William IV and worth at least ten thousand sat in the center upon a faded but still lovely Oriental rug. The highly polished wood floors of hexagon inlay fairly glistened. Molly almost bit her tongue when her eyes rested on the six Burgundy velvet wing armchairs that surrounded the gleaming table and were, she quickly assessed, George I and worth possibly twice the table. When she caught site of a gigantic mahogany and cross-banded satinwood sideboard, her internal calculator valued the likely Regency piece to be between twelve and fifteen thousand. And the exquisite setting of Mason’s ironstone china Frances had set out nearly made Molly lick her lips. So very desirable, it was becoming difficult to find and easier to sell than five-figure dining tables or chairs.

  Molly’s brain was in overdrive, and she was certain just the simple setting for the three of them was worth an easy twenty-five hundred. And her estimates, not even including the exquisite silver and porcelain pieces, or the fabulous gilded wooden dolphin plant stands, were only marginal. Without examining each piece for damages or repairs, this “morning room,” as Frances termed it, was worth a small fortune.

  “Coffee and nibbles first,” Frances said as she pulled out a chair for Emma. “It’s a big house and I want to entice you and your aunt Molly with the inn’s famous mini-croissants and pure Kona coffee so you’ll take on the job.”

  Looking around the gorgeous room, Emma was about to speak, then remembered Molly’s warning. She smiled instead, then added, in a French accent, “I luuve croissants.”

  Molly hardly noticed Emma’s joke. Her knees had begun to spasm and she needed to sit. Delicious merch did that to her. “Uh, well, we still have the rest of the house to see, and to decide if this is something I can squeeze in. Besides, Frances, we have to discuss—”

  “Whatever you decide is fine with me.” Frances said quickly. “I don’t want any of this. I prefer to live simply. I’ll be staying at the inn when I’m back and forth in Carmel even if I sell it.”

  “I can imagine this is awfully big for one person, Frances, but even though—”

  “I’ve made up my mind, Molly. I can’t bear to be here even now. It’s…it’s too painful without my parents. Too many memories.”

  While Frances served and poured coffee, and hot cocoa for Emma, a horrible thought struck Molly. She prayed this room wasn’t a ringer. The owners of the last two estate sales had set up their best pieces in the living room when they met to engage her. She crossed her fingers under the table and prayed this would be different. If the rest of the house was only half as good as this room, she had an incredible opportunity to make some serious money.

  Not wanting to appear too eager, and wanting to be certain for her own peace of mind that she wasn’t being set up for a fall, she decided to hedge her bet. But knowing that Frances was one of Daria’s oldest and closest friends, she didn’t want to create any bad feelings. “As I said, Frances, before I commit, I naturally need to see the rest of th
e house.”

  “I want you to do it. I promise you won’t be sorry.”

  Molly smiled and sipped her coffee. “I’ve never had pure Kona before. I could easily become addicted. It’s wonderful.”

  On her feet, Frances picked up the silver coffeepot. “I’ve more in the kitchen. The inn buys direct from a grower on the Big Island. I’ll be right back.”

  Molly waited until Frances left, then whispered to Emma, “I know it’s hard not to ooh and ahh, but we’ve got to keep a straight face, okay?”

  Emma rolled her eyes. “Is this stuff fantabulous, or what? Oh, Aunt Molly! We have to do this house! I mean, gosh, George I and Regency? Here? In Carmel?”

  “Shhhh,” Molly cautioned. “We’ll talk after we leave.” Emma had been devouring her antiques books, and while her extraordinary talent for nearly instant recall was coming in handy, she was still, after all, only twelve, and had much to learn. Besides, Molly realized, all of it might not be genuine period pieces. “Look, I know you’ve already recognized the great stuff in this room, but it may be the best of the bunch, okay? Remember what happened before?”

  Emma’s eyes roamed the room. “Okay, but what about all the artwork in here? The frames alone must be worth zillions.”

  Molly laughed. “Hardly zillions, but we’ll see. Just play it cool and do not—I repeat, do not—react to anything else you see. Deal?”

  “Okay. Deal.”

  When Frances returned, Molly glanced at her watch. “Time for one more cup, then we really should take the tour. I’ve got to open the shop. But before we go any further, you should know that my fee is twenty-five percent. That’s standard, but in a situation like this, I’d make an adjustment for anything that goes to auction.”

  Pouring for Molly, Frances quickly said, “That sounds fair. I just can’t deal with it. I haven’t the heart or the time. There’s no rush. You can take all the time you need.”

  Offering Emma another croissant, Frances added, “We can run through most of the first floor before you have to leave, then maybe you could come back this evening. I don’t know if Daria mentioned it, but my parents were both set designers for films, and the house is filled with all sorts of movie stuff. I’m telling you all this because some of the rooms are, well, rather dramatic.”

  Molly’s knees began to tingle. Movie memorabilia was going for record prices. Collectors literally frothed at the mouth at auctions. “Really? No, Daria didn’t tell me. Movie memorabilia is an area where I am totally clueless. But I have friends in Boston who are experts in the field. I imagine you’re talking about posters?”

  “Oh, more than posters. Scripts, story boards…uh, furniture from movies. Tons of photos from the films, outtakes, and I’d guess dozens and dozens of autographed photos.”

  Despite the warning bell that clanged in her head when Frances said furniture from movies, the tingles moved to Molly’s arms. “Oh? Well, that should be fun.” She darted a look at Emma and willed her to be silent.

  Each room seemed to follow a separate theme. The grand salon, so very Marie Antoinette, was enormous and filled with furniture and dozens of objets d’art. Molly wondered how long it would take just to dust the room. Artwork and tapestries covered the walls; three chandeliers, which Molly thought could be Limoges, hung from the cathedral ceiling. The huge kitchen, with a large island in the center, reminded her of a Merchant Ivory film and was filled with enough copper pots and pans of all sizes and description to make a Williams-Sonoma devotee drool. The floor-to-ceiling glass shelves in the butler’s pantry had Molly salivating when Frances opened them. The dining room was another journey into the O’Briens’ movie careers. Errol Flynn would have been comfortable here. The planked walnut table, straddled by rough-hewn benches covered in needlepoint, was long enough to seat Robin Hood and his men. Two sideboards held silver serving pieces, tankards, and crystal wine decanters. Without the camcorder she’d bought for Trudy’s sale, what she’d seen so far would take weeks to catalog. Thank God for technology, she thought. The Canon Optura made transferring the video and voice to her computer a dream. The biggest job would be setting the photos up on a Web site for the out of town clients whose names were already creating a gridlock in her head.

  When they reached the study, Molly was relieved. It wasn’t another jarring theme room, but a sedate pecan-paneled haven befitting a man of taste. At least twenty by thirty, it easily held two overscale pieces of furniture. An enormous French bibliotheque took up most of one wall, and centered almost squarely in the room was a two-sided partners desk. Molly sucked in her breath. The swirling curves on the apron and corners were a seductive dream of the Art Deco period. Surrounding the desk were four leather smoking chairs, each with ebonized smoking stands holding cut crystal ashtrays. Three stained-glass windows, amber and pale green, cast a soft glow in the room, and a lingering scent of pipe tobacco filled the air.

  “Oh, I like this room!” Emma blurted. “I could curl up here and read for days. Especially by that fireplace with all those beautiful Art Deco tiles.”

  “That’s exactly what I used to do when I was your age,” Frances said. Giving Emma a curious look, Frances added, “How do you know those tiles are Art Deco?”

  “Oh, I…I saw some in a book Aunt Molly has,” Emma said.

  “It’s absolutely lovely,” Molly quickly interrupted. “There’s a serenity here—”

  “The other rooms don’t have?” Frances finished for her. “This house has been a work in progress for as long as I can remember. An occupational hazard for set designers. Just wait until you see the upstairs.”

  “Your mother did a wonderful job with this,” Molly said.

  “Dad did this. I was around Emma’s age when we moved here. I vaguely remember carpenters coming in and out for days. The former owner, Marius Lerner, was a film producer. My parents designed sets for many of his films. Historical epics were his favorites. In fact, the study and studio used to be a huge playroom that had an Egyptian theme.”

  Fascinated, Molly said, “With this architecture, such a room would certainly seem out of place.”

  “Dad must have thought so too. Oh, the bookcase, by the way, is bolted to the wall. There was a strong earthquake just before the room was completed and Dad worried about it toppling over. I can’t imagine why, it must weigh a ton. But you know Californians! Always waiting for The Big One.”

  Molly was as perplexed as Frances. The house was filled with any number of objects that an earthquake might destroy. Certainly not this lumbering bookcase. Standing before it, she shook her head. “That might reduce the value.” Running her hands over the carving, she paused for a moment, then opened one of the glass doors and angled it. Satisfied the glass was wavy enough to be authentic, she said, “Then again, maybe not.” She next opened a carved door at the end and nearly fainted. On two shelves stood four Art Deco, carved ivory, gilt, and cold-painted bronze figures of women. Could they be genuine chryselephantine statues? The exquisite statutes of lithe women in sensuous roles of dancers and singers were representative of the gaiety and high style of the late 1920s and 1930s.

  With both hands Molly carefully ran her fingertips over the bronze casting. Smooth as silk. She knew the figure to be Cabaret Girl. She prayed it was a genuine Johann Preiss. If it was, it could easily bring anywhere between eight and twelve thousand. She almost didn’t want to believe the one on the bottom shelf was a real Demetre Chiparus. The figure of a woman with two greyhounds was one of the most sought after and an easy six figure sale. While they were limited editions, Molly knew reproductions were also well made, and highly deceptive. Not protected by copyright, they’d flooded the market recently. One of the telltale signs was an inferior base. The originals were mounted on high quality marble and onyx from Brazil. Her lips were bone dry. She fought the urge to moisten them. “These are lovely, Frances. Why are they tucked away like this?”

  “Mother hated them. Especially the one on the top shelf. I think it’s called Sun Worshiper. She used to say they were decadent. I always liked them, but Dad gave in and put them away. They’re not copies, by the way. Dad had them authenticated some years ago.”

  Relieved, Molly nodded. “Hmm, yes, I can see that.” Closing the door, she glanced at her watch. “Cripes! I’ve got to go. I’m already late in opening.”