Free Trophies by J. Gunnar Grey Page A

really is?"
    There was something else behind the shoes, in
the armoire's deepest shadows, a box of some sort. Whatever was in
it rattled at my touch.
    "Something else?" she asked.
    I got a grip on it and pulled it out. It was
an old pasteboard hat box.
    "Charles, I smell something burning." Caren
ran.
    Ladies' hats, to the best of my knowledge,
don't rattle. I flipped the lid off. Then I stared.
    I carried the hat box downstairs and set it
on the butcher block table in the kitchen, reveling in the light,
cheerful yellow expanse. I hadn't realized the dingy garret was
depressing me until I left it behind. "You have to see this."
    Caren had rescued the casserole and it didn't
look burnt to me as she ladled chicken lasagna onto plates. "Show
me, then."
    At the sight of food, my stomach reminded me
in no uncertain terms I hadn't eaten all day. I settled on a stool,
dumped the box's contents onto the table, and grabbed a knife and
fork.
    "Careful, it's really hot." Caren fingered
the jumbled items, one vertical line between her puzzled eyes. "I
thought you said Edith never wore jewelry."
    "That's why I can't believe she has this
stuff. Tasteless, isn't it?"
    The metals hadn't tarnished, but the
necklaces, earrings, and bracelets seemed dull and lifeless. The
paste gems adorning them were huge, conspicuous, embarrassing — the
polar opposite of Aunt Edith. Dropped in amongst them were an
old-fashioned masculine scent flask, emptied long since, a tiny
lace handkerchief, and a carved meerschaum pipe.
    "More love gifts, perhaps?" I asked. "And
perhaps mementos of Uncle Hubert? I never saw him light up, but
it's possible he quit so as not to show me such an example, or only
smoked upstairs out of my sight."
    "Well. . . ." Caren lifted the largest
necklace, blue graduated teardrops culminating in a real
cleavage-dangler. "This has dried mud on it."
    I tested the lasagna, but it was still too
hot to eat. I'd have to disappoint my stomach for a bit longer.
    Together Caren and I sorted out the stuff.
The well-smoked meerschaum, in shades of yellow and orange, was
carved into the head of Jupiter, a copy of the Pheidias statue. It
was easily the most valuable piece there, although the scent
container was elaborate and could be reworked into a hip flask. The
delicate lace hanky was in good shape although the embroidered
pansies had faded, several strands of green and purple silk
dangling.
    But the bits and bobs of jewelry were
barking. Besides the huge blue necklace, there was a smaller one of
linked mountings, each shaped like a stylized swan with a clear
stone on its back. A third was practically a waterfall of
intermixed blues, purples, and greens. There were several
bracelets, equally as gaudy; yellow and green dangly earrings that
reached halfway down the wearer's neck; and other pieces too
tasteless to describe. Last of all was a man's ring, again huge,
with an oversized blue-glass rectangle.
    I angled the ring toward the light. It needed
polishing badly but the glass still glimmered at its heart. "Bet it
would hurt to be hit with that."
    "This doesn't look as if it was selected by
the same person who bought the emerald ring. It's a completely
different style." Caren sighed and picked up her silverware. "Not
all love gifts are selected equally, I suppose. But I can't
believe. . . ." Her voice trailed off again.
    "You know, Uncle Hubert was fairly oversized
himself."
    She brightened and tasted a bite. "Mmm. No, I
never met him."
    "Not a tall man, but stout," I said through a
mouthful of cheese. "Do you think he might select jewelry that was
too large for his wife because it wouldn't seem so to him in the
store?"
    "Possibly. And Edith might have selected that
little emerald ring herself. Green seems to have been one of her
favorite colors. Oh, this is delicious."
    "Patty does have her good points. Although
some days I must dig to find them."
    "Are you going tonight?"
    "Have I honestly any choice?"
     

 
Archive Four
    seventeen years