bedrooms, three fireplaces, everything done in light, creamy colors that shouted money and refinement and seemed not to be the residence of someone who spent a lot of time here. There was no clutter, the knickknacks relatively few and tastefully arranged. Everything modern, she realized; nothing at first glance appearing obviously old— very old —like the shabti Marsh’s friend had picked up here. But then no doubt such a treasure would be hidden.
She tugged off her gloves and moved silently throughout the rooms, kept her breathing shallow and stretching out her fingers, brushing them against cabinet drawers and closet doors, searching for a hint of something ancient. A large silver candlestick on the dining table called up the image of a young woman on her wedding day when Virginia was a colony. If she could not find a true treasure in this apartment, she would take the candlestick for her trouble—the silver alone put its value at $1,700.
All the while she listened to the CPAP, setting its dull and routine rhythm to memory. If Elijah Stone roused, Bridget would know it because the sound of the machine would change, and she would dive for the window. Other sounds whispered in, just a hint of traffic and wind teasing the panes, someone moving around in the apartment upstairs.
There were only a half-dozen books on a narrow floor to ceiling bookshelf in the office, most of the shelves empty or holding odds and ends: a souvenir shot glass of Niagara Falls; a bikini-clad woman with long blond hair and big turquoise eyes smiling out of a silver picture frame; two shiny black coffee cups with the Café Grumpy logo, a commemorative Lucite block with a ghostly image of the Twin Towers etched on it; and another picture frame with a middle-aged man in a business suit—Elijah Stone—standing next to an elderly woman in black slacks and a sequin-dusted red sweater, a Christmas tree in the background. Nothing of value or particular interest. She turned, and then spun back.
The thickest book on the shelf managed to catch her attention. She touched the spine: printed a little more than a century ago, it was volume two of a Masonic history set. A very old man with slicked-back white hair flitted in Bridget’s mind, likely the previous owner. The book was the most interesting thing she’d encountered so far, but not especially valuable, and not worth her time right now as it would no doubt sit in her shop too long to bother with.
There was a single shelf, decorative and attached to the wall over a widescreen television. Two items on it: a blown-glass paperweight with a purple blossom in the center and a baseball. The latter brought the scent of popcorn and dirt when Bridget touched the plastic sphere that held it and probed. The visage of a smooth faced black man came to the front. Bridget saw this very ball coming hard at the man. A crack and the ball sailed across an outfield carpeted with summer-parched grass. The man was fast, wheeling around the bases as the ball was snared and hurled back. “Safe!” Bridget heard an umpire shout. “Twelve seconds that took!” someone on the bench called. “Inside the park home-run for Papa!” a woman in the stands hollered. The umpire handed the man—James Bell was the batter’s name—this ball. Years melted and the man, old now and sitting in a dingy apartment in St. Louis—the famous arch was visible through the window behind him—signed the ball and mailed it to a fan. “Cool Papa Bell,” the signature read. He’d been a legend in the Negro leagues, Bridget registered. The ball wasn’t the relic she’d been searching for, but a treasure nonetheless. Bridget put the ball in her pocket and moved on. She could sell it for nine hundred in her shop when she was finished enjoying all of its summertime memories.
A glance at her watch. She’d been prowling for nearly fifteen minutes. Too much time. She looked to the kitchen window and saw the snow coming down a little harder.
She tugged off her gloves and moved silently throughout the rooms, kept her breathing shallow and stretching out her fingers, brushing them against cabinet drawers and closet doors, searching for a hint of something ancient. A large silver candlestick on the dining table called up the image of a young woman on her wedding day when Virginia was a colony. If she could not find a true treasure in this apartment, she would take the candlestick for her trouble—the silver alone put its value at $1,700.
All the while she listened to the CPAP, setting its dull and routine rhythm to memory. If Elijah Stone roused, Bridget would know it because the sound of the machine would change, and she would dive for the window. Other sounds whispered in, just a hint of traffic and wind teasing the panes, someone moving around in the apartment upstairs.
There were only a half-dozen books on a narrow floor to ceiling bookshelf in the office, most of the shelves empty or holding odds and ends: a souvenir shot glass of Niagara Falls; a bikini-clad woman with long blond hair and big turquoise eyes smiling out of a silver picture frame; two shiny black coffee cups with the Café Grumpy logo, a commemorative Lucite block with a ghostly image of the Twin Towers etched on it; and another picture frame with a middle-aged man in a business suit—Elijah Stone—standing next to an elderly woman in black slacks and a sequin-dusted red sweater, a Christmas tree in the background. Nothing of value or particular interest. She turned, and then spun back.
The thickest book on the shelf managed to catch her attention. She touched the spine: printed a little more than a century ago, it was volume two of a Masonic history set. A very old man with slicked-back white hair flitted in Bridget’s mind, likely the previous owner. The book was the most interesting thing she’d encountered so far, but not especially valuable, and not worth her time right now as it would no doubt sit in her shop too long to bother with.
There was a single shelf, decorative and attached to the wall over a widescreen television. Two items on it: a blown-glass paperweight with a purple blossom in the center and a baseball. The latter brought the scent of popcorn and dirt when Bridget touched the plastic sphere that held it and probed. The visage of a smooth faced black man came to the front. Bridget saw this very ball coming hard at the man. A crack and the ball sailed across an outfield carpeted with summer-parched grass. The man was fast, wheeling around the bases as the ball was snared and hurled back. “Safe!” Bridget heard an umpire shout. “Twelve seconds that took!” someone on the bench called. “Inside the park home-run for Papa!” a woman in the stands hollered. The umpire handed the man—James Bell was the batter’s name—this ball. Years melted and the man, old now and sitting in a dingy apartment in St. Louis—the famous arch was visible through the window behind him—signed the ball and mailed it to a fan. “Cool Papa Bell,” the signature read. He’d been a legend in the Negro leagues, Bridget registered. The ball wasn’t the relic she’d been searching for, but a treasure nonetheless. Bridget put the ball in her pocket and moved on. She could sell it for nine hundred in her shop when she was finished enjoying all of its summertime memories.
A glance at her watch. She’d been prowling for nearly fifteen minutes. Too much time. She looked to the kitchen window and saw the snow coming down a little harder.
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