Free Mansions Of The Dead by Sarah Stewart Taylor Page B

hallway. “Have you heard anything about the tenure track job?”
    Fiona, whose specialty was modern sculpture, was Sweeney’s contact with the political inner workings of the history of art and architecture department, and with the mind of Ernest Bovato, the department chair. She was something of a gossip, but she could always be counted on for the latest news.
    “Yeah, word on the street is that Bovato is talking to someone from the University of Michigan.”
    “Darn.”
    “Sorry. I know he’s got it in for you. Have you talked to him about it?”
    “Not lately. The last time we talked, he said he wanted someone who ‘added to the international reputation of the department.’ Implying of course that I don’t.”
    Fiona smiled. “It’s a ruthless world, this career we’ve chosen. What are you up to this afternoon?”
    “Nothing,” Sweeney said. “Just a little research.”
     
    Dannika’s Fine Vintage, just off Newbury Street, was Sweeney’s favorite of the three or four concerns in the city that dealt in vintage mourning jewelry, and she decided to start there. In the course of her trips to the shop over the years, she had developed a fondness for Dannika Montrose and her wares. She often found herself stopping in on a Saturday afternoon or a Sunday morning just to browse. Usually, when Dannika caught sight of Sweeney’s bright head bent over the display cabinets, she would invite her back into the stockroom to look at a new jet pin or a particularly well-preserved hairwork necklace.
    Their companionability was in their shared enjoyment of objects that many people found macabre. The shop was a small, dark building with wide glass windows in the front and a selection of vintage jewelry laid out among antique clocks and silver cutlery. Dannika changed it with each season, sometimes suspending items of jewelry from a sparkling Christmas tree or arranging them with potted spring bulbs, the old rubies and emeralds and pearls setting off shining white narcissus or pink angelique tulips. Today, it was springy daffodils planted in tubs and wearing bracelets around their stems. From the top of the window, Dannika had suspended a banner made of old parchment on which she had calligraphed, “Fluttering and Waving in the Breeze, a Host of Golden Daffodils.”
    Sweeney pushed through the door, and was greeted by the peculiar smell she’d come to associate with vintage jewelry stores. It was, she’ddecided, an old metally kind of smell, mixed with must and the sharp tang of window cleaner.
    “Hi, Sweeney,” said Dannika from behind the counter. She was a thin, Dickensian figure, her gray hair in a severe bun at the top of her skull, her clothes tending toward lamb’s wool cardigans, tweed skirts, and thick, flesh-colored pantyhose. Her appearance argued with her cheerful personality, though. She had four grown children, all boys, and a fat, kindly husband, who sometimes helped out in the store. “I was wondering when you’d stop in. I haven’t seen you for a while and I’ve got something I think you’ll be interested in. Come on over here.”
    The inside of the store was crammed with every variety of display case—tall ones, short ones, modern chrome and glass ones, and antique ones made of old dark wood scrolled at the top. They went over to one of the older cabinets, where Dannika displayed her extensive collection of mourning jewelry, and she used one of the small keys hanging around her neck to open the latch and raise the top wide. She reached inside and pulled out a large brooch, handing it to Sweeney to inspect.
    The center was an intricate web of hairwork, the blond strands braided so that they looked like a net of gold. The hair was framed by a small rectangle of diamonds and outside of that was an elaborate band of gold, scrolled intricately into leaves, fruits, and flowers.
    “It’s English,” Dannika told her. “Got it for a song at an estate sale.”
    Sweeney turned it over in her hands.