Free Gold Coast by Elmore Leonard Page B

getting there. Seventy-five hundred, maybe eight grand.
    Hummel figurines, if you liked Hummel. Fifty bucks each. A couple that might go as high as a hundred and a quarter.
    Plates—very impressive. Stevenson, Enoch Wood’s shell-border pattern. Six, seven thousand bucks worth of plates on one shelf.
    And yes , Peachblow vases, the real thing. Creamy red-rose and yellow. Jesus, with the gargoyle stand. Name your price.
    A picture of Pope Pius XII. The Last Supper. Andsome real paintings, old forests and misty green mountains, a signed Durand, an Alvan Fisher, nineteenth-century Hudson River school. A few others he didn’t recognize—sitting down now as he studied the painting—
    And jumping up quickly to look at the chair—Jesus, feeling the turnings of the arms. Louis XVI bergère, in walnut. Pretty sure it was a real one.
    He sat in the chair again, carefully, and began thinking about the woman who lived here and owned this collection. Before, he had pictured a dumpy sixty-year-old Italian woman in the kitchen, rolling dough, making tomato paste, a woman with an accent. He’d lay it out to her: Your husband owes us money. She’d pay or she wouldn’t, and he could forget about it.
    But if she knew antiques—maybe he could fake it a little, establish some kind of rapport, trust . . . confidence?
    The dog came over and began sniffing.
    “That’s fish,” Maguire said. He didn’t stoop to pet the dog or say anything else.
    Karen, in the doorway, saw this much. And the color of his pants and shirt beneath the jacket, making her hesitate a moment.
    “Mr. Maguire?”
    He looked up to see a slim, good-looking woman in beige slacks, a dark-blue shirt with white buttons, hand extended.
    Maguire rose, giving her a pleasant smile, shaking his head a little. They shook hands politely and he said, seriously then, “You know something?”
    Karen expected him to say, I’ve heard a lot about you, Mrs. DiCilia. Something along that line.
    But he didn’t. He said, “We’ve got matching outfits on. Tan and blue.”
    Karen said, “You suppose it means something?” Playing it as straight as he was.
    “I don’t know about you,” Maguire said, “but I got all dressed up. This particular outfit is from Burdine’s, up on Federal Highway.”
    “I’ve heard of Burdine’s,” Karen said, “but I’m not sure I’ve heard of you. You were a friend of my husband’s?”
    “Well, we weren’t exactly close. I worked for him once.”
    Karen said, “And you want to know if I’m all right? If I need anything? What else? Are you with Roland or on your own?”
    “I don’t know anybody named Roland,” Maguire said.
    “So you’re an independent. All right,” Karen said, “let’s go out on the patio. That’s where we hold the squeeze sessions.”
    “The what?”
    “Come on, I’m anxious to hear your pitch.” She walked past him to the French doors.
    It had felt like a good start. But now, she wasn’tbeing cool, she was ice-cold, assuming way too much. Maguire hesitated. He said, “You’ve got some very nice pieces here. The bergère, is it authentic Louis Seize?”
    Now Karen paused at the doors to look back and seemed to study him a moment.
    “The what?”
    Maguire grinned. Was she kidding? She waited, looking at him, and he wasn’t sure.
    “The chair. If it’s real, it belongs in a museum.”
    “It is in a museum,” Karen said. She turned and walked through the doors.
    Putting him on, Maguire decided. Not wanting to sound agreeable or give him anything. He followed her out to the patio, where a torch was burning and swimming pool lights reflected in the clear water, Maguire looking around, thinking, So this is what it’s like. Sit out here at night, watch the running lights, the power-boats going by on the Intercoastal.
    Ring for the maid, get her with some mysterious signal, because there she was. Maguire said rum would be fine, surprised, wondering why Mrs. DiCilia was being sociable, hearing her ask