reproduction, perhaps only four or five hundred years old. Delia was relieved—the museum-housed originals were forever complaining their pigments had worn off and begging her to touch them up with a little paint or some gilding. Delia picked up a disposable coffee cup from the plinth and tossed it in the trash.
“Thank you,” she said to Delia in warm, cultured tones, “It’s been there for years.”
Delia reached into her pocket for a glove to wipe a smear from the Roman matron’s cheek. Then she heard a high, soft, familiar voice.
“Delia? Is it time to go home yet?” he chirped.
She sucked in a breath and scanned the room. She wove through the stacks of LPs, battered baskets and tins of old buttons to the glass case in the display window. Kneeling behind it, she pushed aside a crate of sheet music.
“What is it?” Grant asked.
Reaching into the shadows under the case, Delia braced herself to pull a three-foot-tall granite Victorian hare. The carved flowers on his vest buttons were almost as clear as they’d been when she was a child. Someone had taken good care of him since he’d first been stripped from the Steward estate. He still had the tips of both ears.
“Bert,” she whispered.
“Are you going to read me a story today? I sure like the one about caterpillar that you read me last week.”
She could hardly breathe, but she patted her pockets for the other glove. She knew she should stop touching him. But this was Bert.
“What is it?” Grant was standing over her shoulder, and Delia forced herself to talk as if Bert were only a cold lump of stone.
“Victorian hare. Part of the Steward Estate. A local family bought him for a song. But he’s back now. It’s back,” she amended.
“Dime a dozen.”
“Hardly. And certainly not like this.” She took a breath to steady her voice. “He’s in near-perfect condition. They kept him indoors.” She stroked Bert’s back. “I played with him as a child.”
“But your father sold it.”
She couldn’t answer him. The lump in her throat was too large.
“Bring him here, dearie! I want to see that man.”
Delia looked up and tried not to laugh. The voice came from the corner shelf next to the front window. A marble Art Deco carving of a flapper danced in the dust motes and sunshine. Her perfectly rounded breasts came to smooth points on a ribcage shifted slightly to the right, elongating her gleaming white belly on the diagonal. Her arms snaked overhead, the backs of the wrists touching. Her face was emotionless and perfect, but her voice was all vinegar and sass.
“She’s new.” Delia lifted her chin toward the figurine even as she stroked the hare’s back. “Unusual too.”
Grant had already passed behind her to pick it up.
“Asymmetrical. Interesting.” He held it up, examining it in the sunlight from the front window. “It’s cheap, but there’s something about it…”
“Cheap? I am Sophie! Josephine Baker kept me!”
“Maybe,” Delia said carefully. “Check the inventory.”
He placed the statuette down, but didn’t take his hand off the base, as if he were reluctant to let her go. He rifled through the sheets of paper with the other hand, then flipped back to one and stared at it. “If you could prove this…”
The urge to tell him more, to impress him with knowledge she couldn’t possibly have, was hard to control. She’d done it once before. It had been gratifying to see admiration in Grant Wolverton’s eyes. It had been disastrous.
“Calling me cheap.” Sophie sniffed. “Dilettante.”
Grant stepped back, surveyed the shop and shook his head. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone.
“Lars,” he said, as she pulled Bert out to set him on the counter for closer inspection, “rent a dumpster for the shop and send down Ralph and Travis.”
“It’s not necessary to summon the henchmen,” Delia said. “St. Vincent de Paul will take most of this.”
“I wouldn’t wish it on
“Thank you,” she said to Delia in warm, cultured tones, “It’s been there for years.”
Delia reached into her pocket for a glove to wipe a smear from the Roman matron’s cheek. Then she heard a high, soft, familiar voice.
“Delia? Is it time to go home yet?” he chirped.
She sucked in a breath and scanned the room. She wove through the stacks of LPs, battered baskets and tins of old buttons to the glass case in the display window. Kneeling behind it, she pushed aside a crate of sheet music.
“What is it?” Grant asked.
Reaching into the shadows under the case, Delia braced herself to pull a three-foot-tall granite Victorian hare. The carved flowers on his vest buttons were almost as clear as they’d been when she was a child. Someone had taken good care of him since he’d first been stripped from the Steward estate. He still had the tips of both ears.
“Bert,” she whispered.
“Are you going to read me a story today? I sure like the one about caterpillar that you read me last week.”
She could hardly breathe, but she patted her pockets for the other glove. She knew she should stop touching him. But this was Bert.
“What is it?” Grant was standing over her shoulder, and Delia forced herself to talk as if Bert were only a cold lump of stone.
“Victorian hare. Part of the Steward Estate. A local family bought him for a song. But he’s back now. It’s back,” she amended.
“Dime a dozen.”
“Hardly. And certainly not like this.” She took a breath to steady her voice. “He’s in near-perfect condition. They kept him indoors.” She stroked Bert’s back. “I played with him as a child.”
“But your father sold it.”
She couldn’t answer him. The lump in her throat was too large.
“Bring him here, dearie! I want to see that man.”
Delia looked up and tried not to laugh. The voice came from the corner shelf next to the front window. A marble Art Deco carving of a flapper danced in the dust motes and sunshine. Her perfectly rounded breasts came to smooth points on a ribcage shifted slightly to the right, elongating her gleaming white belly on the diagonal. Her arms snaked overhead, the backs of the wrists touching. Her face was emotionless and perfect, but her voice was all vinegar and sass.
“She’s new.” Delia lifted her chin toward the figurine even as she stroked the hare’s back. “Unusual too.”
Grant had already passed behind her to pick it up.
“Asymmetrical. Interesting.” He held it up, examining it in the sunlight from the front window. “It’s cheap, but there’s something about it…”
“Cheap? I am Sophie! Josephine Baker kept me!”
“Maybe,” Delia said carefully. “Check the inventory.”
He placed the statuette down, but didn’t take his hand off the base, as if he were reluctant to let her go. He rifled through the sheets of paper with the other hand, then flipped back to one and stared at it. “If you could prove this…”
The urge to tell him more, to impress him with knowledge she couldn’t possibly have, was hard to control. She’d done it once before. It had been gratifying to see admiration in Grant Wolverton’s eyes. It had been disastrous.
“Calling me cheap.” Sophie sniffed. “Dilettante.”
Grant stepped back, surveyed the shop and shook his head. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone.
“Lars,” he said, as she pulled Bert out to set him on the counter for closer inspection, “rent a dumpster for the shop and send down Ralph and Travis.”
“It’s not necessary to summon the henchmen,” Delia said. “St. Vincent de Paul will take most of this.”
“I wouldn’t wish it on
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