A Fatal Appraisal Read online

  "Well, I'm certainly out of the closet so, no, I'm not hiding anything," Clayton said mischievously and avoided looking at Molly. He liked to take his time whenever he had a juicy tidbit of gossip to share. He helped himself to an orange from the bowl in the center of the table and began to meticulously peel the fruit, filling the room with its citrus scent. Finally, he popped a segment into his mouth and chewed with deliberate slowness. When Molly didn’t react, he sighed. "Fine, you win. No suspense for Miss Molly.”

  “Just spill.”

  Clayton rolled his eyes. “Matt had to fly to Ohio. Something to do with his brother."

  "Is he all right?" Molly was instantly alarmed.

  "The brother? I heard something about a car accident. Even though I had my ear pressed to your man's office door, I couldn't get all the details."

  Molly nodded, brows creased with worry. "I have no way of reaching Matt in Ohio. I don't even know what town his brother lives in. I hope he calls me before I leave for Richmond in a few hours."

  "Richmond?" Clayton grimaced. "Ugh. Not a good place to be gay. Too, too conservative. Still, they have some fabulous restaurants there. Better than the barbeque and chicken-fried steak crapola posing as restaurants around here. You'll just love eating in Carytown."

  "Sure, but who am I going to eat with?" Molly felt depressed. "I am tired of being on the road. See you in a week," she said glumly, scooping up her pottery coffee mug.

  Now here she was in Virginia, twenty miles south of Petersburg following a sputtering pickup and singing the bittersweet lyrics of Simon and Garfunkel's "Scarborough Fair." She hadn't heard from Matt before leaving town and was beginning to feel that obstacles were going to continue popping up to prevent them from becoming a real couple.

  Suddenly, flashing blue lights appeared in the rearview mirror of her seven-year-old silver Jeep. The lights belonged to a state trooper.

  "Damn it!" Molly yelled as she pulled over to the shoulder. The pickup sped merrily onward as Molly turned off her radio and rolled down her window, preparing for the worst.

  Even though she was paid a respectable salary to do what she loved most Molly had little money left over at the end of the month. She was always surprised by how much of her check was eaten up by utility bills and the mortgage payment on her tiny house. Any extra cash went into her "Antique Investment Fund," which consisted of a roll of bills stashed inside a pottery vase. Right now, she was saving to buy a chest of drawers for her bedroom and a $150 speeding ticket coupled with a hike in insurance payments would take a big bite out of her cache.

  The trooper approached the door of her Jeep in a spotless and pressed uniform with knifelike creases on his dark brown pants and a pair of black boots that shone like glass in the midday sun. He was short and stocky with thick arms and legs. Dark stubble framed his leathery, tanned cheeks and his brown hat covered up most of his hairless head. Removing his mirrored sunglasses, he looked at Molly with dark, stern eyes and an unsmiling mouth.

  "License and registration," the trooper demanded, carefully examining her front windshield.

  Molly followed his gaze and noticed that her inspection sticker was expired. Her shoulders drooped as she remembered that she had chosen to hang out at a bookstore instead of getting her car inspected the day the tag had expired. Thinking of her evaporating antique fund, Molly handed the officer her license while she continued searching her glove box for her registration.

  "I'll find it," she assured him, noting that his gleaming nametag read Jim Johnston.

  Officer Johnston frowned. "Do you know how fast you were going, miss?"

  Molly hated that question. Of course she didn't know the exact speed. Obviously, she had been going too fast, but the trooper didn’t need to rub it in with his rhetorical question. "No, Officer," she answered, deciding she had best be polite.

  "I clocked you at seventy-seven miles-per-hour. This is a sixty-five-mile-per-hour zone. Did you happen to notice that?"

  "Not really, sir," Molly said meekly.

  "What's your rush then?" he asked emotionlessly.

  Molly finally found her registration and handed it to the trooper. "Honestly, my mind was just wandering. I didn't even notice how fast I was going. I do have to be someplace by three o'clock though," she added feebly.

  "Oh? And where's that?" Johnston spotted the issue of Collector's Weekly on her front seat and displayed a trace amount of curiosity. His upright composure seemed to relax a fraction.

  Molly followed his gaze. She picked up the paper and held it out. "I work for this paper. I'm going to cover the taping of Hidden Treasures in Richmond."

  Officer Johnston's face lit up like a Christmas tree. "I love that show! I've been dying to bring some of my collection in for their experts to appraise."

  "What do you collect?" Molly asked, surprised by the man's instant change in demeanor. Would his interest in collectibles get her out of a ticket?

  "A bunch of things," Johnston answered proudly. "Coca-Cola advertising, Hot Wheels, Lionel trains, and tobacco tins."

  "Well," Molly began, thinking furiously, "I'm sure I could get you into the show." She handed him her business card. "That's my cell phone number. Give me a call and I'll try to get someone to look at one of your collections. I don't think you can bring everything you own though," she added hesitantly. “The appraisers prefer to examine a choice piece or two instead of a box load of things.”

  "I'll just bring my best Hot Wheels," Johnston said, looking extremely pleased. He took his own card out of his wallet and handed it to her. Then, he seemed to remember his duty. His face clouded and the sternness returned, setting his jaw and transforming him into an unmistakable authority figure. "Look,” he said. “I've already called in your plate, so I've got to give you a ticket for something. I'll write you up for your expired inspection if you promise not to speed in my state anymore."

  "I promise!" Molly exclaimed, sinking back into the seat with a sigh of relief. She wiped her clammy palms on her pants and exhaled loudly.

  As she waited for Officer Johnston to fill out the paperwork in the comfort of his cruiser, she turned the radio back on. The Temptations sang, "Heard It through the Grapevine," and Molly hummed along, deciding not to share this anecdote with her mother who would certainly berate her for almost receiving another speeding ticket Her mother, Clara, also wanted Molly to invest in antiques. She never failed to offer her opinion when Molly purchased something Clara deemed a complete waste of money, such as an Ann Taylor sweater set or a spa pedicure.

  She could almost hear her mother saying, "Now, if you had gone on to be a lawyer like I thought you should be, it wouldn't take you a year to save up money for one piece of furniture."

  Officer Johnston returned, holding out a clipboard so that Molly could add her name to the signature line, acknowledging the receipt of her ticket. She noticed that the fine for an expired inspection was only twenty-five dollars.

  "Thanks so much," she told Johnston gratefully.

  "See you at the show, miss," he tipped his cap. "And don't let me catch you speeding on your way home to North Carolina," he added firmly.

  "No, sir!" Molly started her engine in time to Van Morrison's "Brown-Eyed Girl." Before pulling back onto the highway, she glanced gratefully at the folded copy of Collector's Weekly and smiled.

  "Thank god for collectors," she said aloud in jubilant relief and once again headed north for Richmond.

  ~~~~~

  Molly pulled up in front of a stately trick row house in the heart of Richmond's Fan District A wooden sign reading TRAVELLER with a painted silhouette of Robert E. Lee on horseback welcomed guests to the quaint bed-and-breakfast.

  The front of the house had gleaming bay windows topped by small, horizontal panes of multicolored stained glass. An orderly garden filled with English ivy, red and yellow dahlias, fuchsia coneflowers and budding chrysanthemums were alive with the frantic hum of bees and a cluster of skittish monarch butterflies. Molly lifted the brass horseshoe d
oorknocker and rapped twice.

  The door was quickly opened by a short, plump woman rubbing flour-encrusted hands on a polka-dotted apron. Her light gray hair was cut in a bob, accentuating full, pink cheeks and the two dimples which sprang into place as she smiled.

  "Mrs. Hewell?" Molly asked.

  "That's me, dear," the woman drawled in a genteel southern accent. "Come in, come in. You must be Molly."

  "Yes," Molly replied, looking away from the friendly woman to inspect the sunny hall. Her eyes fell on a Victorian coat rack decorated with vintage hats. Nearby was a porcelain umbrella stand filled with antique wooden walking sticks. Photographs and framed prints of Lee and his famous horse, Traveller, lined the walls.

  "You're in luck," Mrs. Hewell bustled her forward, "I've just finished making my famous cinnamon scones. We have teatime here at Traveller. Don't let it be said that Richmond doesn't have class. Let me show you to your room first."

  Mrs. Hewell led her up a curved mahogany staircase to a wide hall with two doors on each side and one on the end.

  "How many bedrooms do you have?" Molly asked.

  "Five. Mr. Hewell and I live out back in the converted garage. That's where you can find us if you ever need anything," Mrs. Hewell chirped, opening the second door to the right. A placard on the door read THE FLOW BLUE in delicate script.

  "All the rooms are named after porcelain," Mrs. Hewell explained. "I've been collecting for years and it seemed like a good theme for the guest rooms. I do like displaying my goodies for everyone to see. There's no point in having them locked up inside some china cabinet. Besides, no guest has ever broken a single piece, and we've been running this place for twenty years."

  Molly stepped into her room. The first thing she noticed was a large four-poster bed covered in an off-white quilt with a cobalt and white plaid coverlet folded neatly over the bottom half of the bed. Dark blue and white toile curtains with sheer shades allowed soft light to fall upon a large and plump blue floral side chair sitting next to a cherry drop- leaf side table. Above an antique chest of drawers, three plate racks held Mrs. Hewell's collection of Flow Blue dinner plates. Rimmed with deep cobalt, the plates had pink and yellow rose designs blooming in the center. Above the small mahogany writing desk was another set of plate racks holding serving platters with the same pattern. A thick indigo and cream plaid rug covered most of the hardwood floors.

  "The Flow Blue in the bathroom is just a reproduction set, so don't worry about how you handle it," Mrs. Hewell said.

  Molly loved her room. The soft light combined with all the whites and blues made her feel immediately cozy.

  "It's wonderful!" she turned to her hostess. "What are the other rooms like?"

  'Take a look for yourself," Mrs. Hewell beamed. "A gentleman is staying in Wedgwood, but the guests staying in Limoges and Blue Ridge haven't checked in yet I believe all three guests are appraisers on that lovely TV show about antiques. The doors are all unlocked, as I've been misting the rooms with some delightful hyacinth-scented room spray. The Majolica suite, the big room at the end of the hall, isn't being occupied until tomorrow. Come down when you're all settled in and have some tea."

  "Thanks," Molly smiled. She was so glad she had persuaded Swanson's secretary to spend the extra twenty-five dollars a night to book Molly at the Traveller instead of the humdrum chain hotel originally chosen for her. Molly had insisted that if she stayed at quaint bed-and-breakfasts, she might discover material for another article.

  Digging her digital camera out of her suitcase, she knew that her hunch about staying at the bed-and-breakfast had paid off. She decided to write a short piece on Mrs. Hewell's charming establishment and thought she should quickly photograph the other rooms before their occupants checked in.

  The room directly across from her was the Wedgwood room. Completely forgetting that it was supposed to be occupied, Molly opened the door and was surprised to see such a room entirely different from her own. The bed was a tall sleigh bed made of deep mahogany with a scrolled headboard and footboard. The coverlet was smoky green and a fluffy, white shag blanket was folded at the base, nestled up against the footboard. All of the furniture was more ornate than the ones in hers. Heavy, dark pieces with an abundance of decorative carving gave the room a more masculine air. Racks covered every wall, displaying Wedgwood plates and platters in pale olive greens and grayish-blues. Molly peered closer at the classical figures embossed in white on the plates. Most were of cherubs or couples kissing.

  A Wedgwood vase on the dresser showed the procession of a group of harpists wearing togas. A thick bunch of dried lavender tied with a purple ribbon scented the room. Molly took several pictures and then looked around once more to see if she had missed anything.

  "Beautiful," she sighed.

  "From where I'm standing, I would agree," said a deep male voice with an English accent.

  Molly jumped and turned to see who had snuck up behind her. She came face-to-face with a man of equal height with sun-streaked hair, honey-brown eyes, and thin lips pulled aside to reveal a neat row of square white teeth. He looked to be in his mid-thirties and had a healthy tan. His lean body was clad in jeans, a white button-down shirt, and a red tie patterned with fleur de lis.

  "Inspection complete?" he asked, grinning. "Shall I do a twirl?"

  Heat rushed to Molly's face. She had been scrutinizing him as if he were another attractive object in the room. She dropped her eyes to the leather tote bags in his hands, noting that they were vintage Louis Vuitton and probably worth more than her car.

  "I'm sorry. Is this your room?" she asked, still flush with embarrassment.

  The man put down his bags and held up a set of keys. "Right-O. Mrs. Hewell is setting up for tea, so I told her I'd find my own way," he said glancing around the room quickly before his eyes settled back on Molly's face. "And you must be Ms. Appleby, the talented writer for Collector's Weekly."

  "How did you know that?" Molly was startled once again.

  Instead of answering, he smiled enigmatically and presented a strong, square hand for her to shake. "My name is Garrett Huntington. I'm one of the researchers for Britain's Hidden Treasures. I'm here for a few weeks to observe the American version of our show," he said teasingly. “And it’s a pleasure to meet such a lovely Southern belle straight away.”

  "It’s nice to meet you as well." Molly returned his easy smile and shook his hand. Garrett held hers for a long moment. He exuded a powerful aura of sexual intensity and electricity that seemed to surge through his fingers.

  Eventually, Garrett dropped her hand and moved towards the bed. He tossed his bags carelessly on the coverlet. Every movement of his body spoke of confidence and effortlessness. He turned a grinning face toward the mirror and examined his reflection.

  "You see, we're trying to figure out how to make ours a true road show. For the moment we're based in the London area. We do a few episodes in Birmingham and Edinburgh to spice things up a bit, but things have turned rather stale. And ... speaking of stale"—he gallantly proffered his arm—"let's not allow those delicious scones to cool. Shall we go down to tea?"

  ~~~~~

  The tantalizing smell of cinnamon filled the dining room as Molly poured Garrett a cup of tea. Trying to reclaim some poise after being bedazzled by the Englishman's magnetism, Molly averted her eyes from him and focused on the charming dining room.

  Other than a walnut sideboard the room's only other furniture consisted of two gateleg tables, each surrounded by armless upholstered chairs. Only one table was set for tea with a linen-colored lace tablecloth and an ivory and pink floral Limoges tea set. Delicate silver-plate utensils with roses spiraling up the handles sparkled in the afternoon sun. Molly's fork parted the warm, flaky layers of her scone and a waft of melted butter caressed her nose. She dreamily noticed the generous drizzling of cream cheese icing before delighting her salivating taste buds with a sugary bite of scone.

  "Splendid," said Garrett appreciatively. "I could eat a dozen
of these," he patted his flat stomach.

  Molly had been thinking about helping herself to a second treat, but one look at Garrett's trim waist reminded her that not everyone in the room was in perfect shape. Instead, she poured another cup of tea and helped herself to two raw sugar cubes using sterling silver tongs.

  "Do you know the rest of the crew?" Molly paused. "Or, I guess I should call them appraisers."

  "Certainly. I've been to the American set before lots of times before this." Garrett took a sip of his tea, the floral teacup looking fragile in his wide hand. "The major players are Victoria Sterling, the host, Frank, who appraises furniture, Jessica who does jewelry, Borris is books, Alicia is the art matron, Clarke is china, Lindsey is linens, and Tony is the Toy Man. There's also the managing director for the show, another Brit named Alexandra. Of course there are loads of assistant appraisers, but you won't need to interview them, as they never get camera time. And don't worry about last names. Nobody bothers with them."

  Molly laughed, "There's an awful lot of alliteration in that group. Are any of those real names?"

  "Just Victoria, Jessie, and Borris. Jessica and Borris are staying here, too, by the way."

  Molly dabbed at her mouth with a cloth napkin, trying her best to appear dainty and feminine, two traits she had never mastered. Determined, impatient, and strong-willed were more her line.

  As much as she would like to spend the remainder of the afternoon gazing at Garrett's Adonis-like features, she was scheduled to meet with Victoria Sterling at 3:30 and so she placed her napkin to the side of her plate and smiled at the Englishman.

  "I'd better head over to the set," Molly said as she began to stand, unaware that the hem of her long skirt was pinned under the chair leg. Trying to straighten, she ended up flouncing back into her chair with an ungraceful thud instead.

  "Oh, my, too much tea?" joked Garrett, his manner so relaxed and casual that she had to smile. Then he suddenly leapt from his chair with the grace of a jaguar. "But where are my manners? Forgive me. Milady?" he lifted the chair leg off of her skirt and raised her up by the hand. As they stood facing one another, Garrett gave her another deep stare and asked, "Could I give you a lift to the set?"