Free The Price of Inheritance by Karin Tanabe Page B

She took off her red coat, folded it neatly behind her, and adjusted her perfectly pressed gray wool dress, which looked like something she’d been wearing to important lunches for years. “This is a question about ownership,” she said firmly. “And that table, the Hugh Finlay table on page seventy-three in this auction catalogue”—she moved down and took the Tumlinson catalogue out of her black laptop bag—“well, that’s not Mrs. Adam R. Tumlinson’s. That table belonged to my mother. Would you like to see a picture of that table?”
    Why was she showing me a picture of the table when she was about to show me the actual table?
    â€œHere it is,” she said, pushing a grainy photo in my direction, the same one I had in my email. “Here is the picture of that table. Not Elizabeth or Adam Tumlinson’s table, but my mother’s table. My table. I have a few other pictures, too.”
    She reached back into the bag as her brother looked on, and brought out a small manila envelope with a piece of cardboard inside to keep it from bending. She emptied the contents and showed two black-and-white photos of an attractive woman in a cotton dress with a small hat pinned to her head, sitting at a table. Though not zoomed in and slightly out of focus, the table did look a lot like the Tumlinsons’, which was printed in our catalogue right next to the photograph.
    Nina pointed to the picture again.
    â€œLook here, right here,” she said. “Even in black-and-white you can see it. Look at the decoration on the sides and on the legs and that thick marble top; it’s all clear in these photos: the pattern, almost like a double-sided arrow. That’s the same as the one you have here in the catalogue. It’s the same table!”
    â€œSo are you saying that yours is the real table and Elizabeth Tumlinson’s is not what it purports to be? Because I can assure you that we have done our research on her table and we have no reason to question its provenance. James Tumlinson, Adam Tumlinson’s great-grandfather, his name appears in Hugh Finlay’s sales records.”
    â€œWell, then it had to be for something else,” said Nina, clearly winning our staring contest. “Because this table here, this is the table that was in my mother’s shop until April seventh, 1968. She didn’t know it was worth a thing, which is why she had it in the store all covered in hats, but just before April of ’68 a woman, and I was there so I remember this very well, a woman who taught at Johns Hopkins came in because she was lost and she asked for directions. My mother gave them to her but the woman didn’t leave. She picked up several hats off the table, looked at the top of it and underneath, and asked my mother if she knew that she had a very expensive table in her store. My mom said she didn’t know too much about it, and the woman showed her the signature and explained that it was made by Hugh Finlay and the reason she knew this was because she had worked for the Baltimore Historical Society and studied that kind of thing. She offered to buy it, but I think my mother was pretty proud of herself for having something someone of that stature would recognize so she kept it. Turns out that was the wrong decision because just about two weeks later, on April seventh, it was gone.”
    â€œWhat do you mean by April seventh?” I asked. “April seventh, 1968? You wrote and said you would be bringing the table in the back of your brother’s car.” I looked at Richard, who looked at his sister.
    â€œWell, we don’t have the table anymore,” she said matter-of-factly.
    â€œYou don’t have the table? But you told me you did. The only reason I am here is because you said you had the table!” My knee hit the underside of the much less expensive table we were sitting at and rattled my water glass.
    â€œWell, my guess was