Free Bad Blood by S. J. Rozan Page A

there.
    “Here.” He made a round, inclusive gesture. “Here is old silver. But you, of course, had a particular piece in mind. What was it?”
    “A teapot. I called earlier; I may have spoken to you.”
    “I’ve spoken to no one on the telephone today, young man. Perhaps my wife . . .” He turned a full circle like the light in a lighthouse. “I don’t see her now, but she’s in the shop somewhere.”
    “It doesn’t matter,” I said hastily. If he went wandering off to find her it might be years before. I saw him again. “Is this all your silver?”
    “You’ve looked at none of it yet, but you’re unsatisfied?”
    I didn’t need to look at it. Everything was covered with a layer of dust so thick that the dust itself was probably on the National Register. Nothing had been put on these shelves in the last few days.
    “Is this all your silver?” I asked again.
    “Well,” he sighed, reached up onto the shelf. “As to teapots, this one, for example, is particularly fine.” He blew a cloud of dust off the graceful pot in his hands; it settled on my shoes like snow. He handed the pot to me. I took it, turned it, examined it. He was right; even tarnished as it was, it was beautiful. I handed it back.
    “I do have something particular in mind.” I described Eve Colgate’s teapot, the chased floral pattern, the scroll handle. He pursed his lips and shook his head slowly.
    “Young man, I can’t help you. If you really are going to insist on a pot of that description, good luck to you; you will waste more time searching for it than the finding of it will be worth.” He looked at me sadly in the dim light.
    “Well, thanks anyway,” I said. “You’ve been a great help.” I started to leave before I got any older.
    “Wait,” he said from behind me as I rounded the breakfront and reached for the door handle. “Young man, come back and look at these. They’ve only just come in. There isn’t a teapot, but if the one you describe is to your taste, these may be also.”
    I let go of the door handle, not without a pang of regret. I circumnavigated the breakfront again and found him kneeling in the dust, unwrapping newspaper from around a small silver tray. A pair of candlesticks, already unwrapped, stood on the floor beside him.
    Bingo.
    He smiled up at me. “You’re pleased. My, my.” He handed me the tray and clambered to his feet.
    They were a set, the tray and the candlesticks, as extraordinary as Eve Colgate had said they were. The minutely detailed pattern of grapes and grape leaves that covered the tray was repeated on the candlesticks’ shafts.
    “Where did you get these?” I asked.
    He frowned. “Young man.” He shook his head. “If you find them beautiful, you mustn’t worry about provenance. They are silver, I assure you. A pedigree does not ensure that they will give you pleasure, only that someone else will be willing, someday, to give you cash.” He peered again. “And you do not strike me as a man to whom that matters very much.”
    “Where did you get them?”
    His round eyes blinked in his round face. “Some people . . .” he quoted himself sadly. “A young lady brought them. She was given them by her grandmother and doesn’t care for them. Though I must say she seemed a refined young lady; I was surprised at her taste, but—”
    “When?” I interrupted.
    “When? Saturday.”
    Three days ago. “Did you know her?”
    “Not I.”
    “Can you describe her?”
    “Oh.” His face took on a faraway look. “Oh, my, she was lovely. Petite; with golden hair, not straight and pale as straw the way they wear it now, but thick and golden, like summer sunlight. Red cheeks glowing from the cold; shining eyes. Standing at the threshold of womanhood, but still with a child’s eagerness and joy. Lovely.”
    “And you believed her?”
    “Believed her? In what way?”
    “These things are stolen,” I told him.
    “Stolen?” He looked at me as though I should be ashamed of myself.