“What happens in antique shops stays in antique shops.” I loosen my scarf and square my shoulders. “Let’s do this.” I focus on my mission, refusing to allow myself to get distracted by the urge to browse the aisles. I love to visit other shops to get ideasfor my own, but now’s not the time. I approach the counter, Leo hovering near.
A middle-aged man with a bald head and bleached goatee is sitting on a stool and polishing cufflinks. He glances up with the standard, “May I help you?”
“We’re looking for Jeff Reilly.”
He stands and sets the tray of cufflinks on the counter. “That’s me.”
“I’m Greta from The Memory Bank.” I offer a friendly smile. “You called me earlier about having a Vallerton.”
“Ah, I didn’t realize you’d be coming. I thought the piece is for your customer.”
I don’t bother to explain. “May I see it?”
“Give me a second.” He disappears into a back room, and I allow my gaze to roam. Vintage sports things, like wooden golf clubs, leather football helmets, and a row of ice skates, line the far wall. My focus snags on a table next to Leo. “Do you want a souvenir with your name on it?” I point to the display of Remington typewriters.
His mouth tips into a flirty smile. “That’s more your style. Wouldyoulike something with my name on it? You know, to remember our little adventure.” He moves closer and drops his voice. “Though why buy that old dusty Remington when you can have the real thing cheaper? It’ll move better and run longer.”
I still. “Did you … just quote Hitchcock’sTo Catch a Thief?” Okay, not an exact quote, considering the character from the film wasn’t discussing typewriters, but Leo’s remark was similar enough that I caught the reference.
His grin gentles around the edges. “It’s what happens when one’s raised by their grandparents.”
He was too? I know he said that he spent summers with them while not at school. It seems they had an influence on him as well. I return his smile, then force myself to focus on the goal athand. “These typewriters are all in decent shape. He’s got quality merchandise.”
“That’s promising.” Leo pulls out his wallet. “I should’ve stopped by the ATM. Think he’ll take credit?”
Before I can answer, the owner returns, holding a single piece. “Here’s what I got.”
I glance at Leo and back at the owner. “It’s the baby Jesus.”
He places it on the counter. “The most important figure, if you ask me.”
It is, but that’s not the point. “I thought you had the complete set.” When I started running The Memory Bank by myself, most people openly questioned if I had the expertise to oversee it. I’ve had longtime customers doubt and challenge my antique knowledge, but no one has ever looked at me with so much annoyance mixed with showy superiority as Jeff Reilly.
He leans on the counter, looking down at me. “Do you realize how difficult it is to get a Vallerton?”
Leo widens his stance in true alpha male fashion, but I press a hand to his arm.
“I do, actually.” I lift my chin. “That’s why I was surprised when you said on the phone ‘I got what you’re looking for.’” In this case, air quotes are necessary.
“I’m sorry for the misunderstanding, but this is all I have.”
I gently pick up the figure and study it. The paint colors and glazing seem on point. No dents or scratches, which is amazing for an early twentieth-century piece. I turn it upside-down. “Oh.”
“Oh, what?” The man leans over, getting into my space.
“We have to pass.” I set the figure down rather than handing it to him. I don’t want him intentionally bobbling the piece to make us pay for anything broken. “Thank you for reaching out.”
His face reddens, which, coupled with his slightly oblong, bald head, makes him look like an oversized Christmas bulb.“Are you passing because I don’t have the full set? I’ll offer this to you for eight hundred dollars. The infant figure alone is worth a thousand. Any true antique dealer would know this is a steal.”
I abandoned my store to come here. I’m hangry. And in my left shoe, my sock is slipping down my foot. So no, Jeff the Jerk, I’m not in the mood to coddle your ego. “Anytrueantique dealer would know your baby Jesus is a fake.” I pivot on my heel, grab Leo’s wrist, and stride toward the door.
“It’s authentic,” Jeff blusters.
“Check the hallmark,” I say without looking back and make my exit with Leo glued to my side.
The second we’re outside, Leo lets out a low whistle. “Nicely done, champ.” He nudges my shoulder. “It’s now confirmed that you do have a payback side.” He threw back my words from the gala. “But I want to know if it’s really a fake or were you pranking him for being an idiot?”
“It’s a phony.”
