And this red dragon . . .
I could have just spent fifteen dollars on something that came off an assembly line and that five thousand other people have sitting on their mantel. But I would hope that by now I can tell the difference, otherwise I probably shouldn’t bother pursuing this career path of mine.
And if I’m right, if this vase is what I think it is . . .
But everyone in the industry has written the twin vase off as lost. Destroyed. There have been enough false discoveries of it over the hundreds of years since its disappearance that to say you have found the long-lost twin vase is like crying wolf.
Nobody believes you.
I considered bringing it to Ling, but given she’s a Chinese art dealer, I’d feel obligated to sell through her. There’s no way I want to sell something as worthwhile as this may prove to be to some rinky-dink Chinatown dealer. This is a find for the likes of Hollingsworth, somewhere where I can make a name for myself in the industry.
Besides, I’ll need a slew of experts to assess the vase—I’m guessing, given the value of this antique, that they’ll want to use thermoluminescence testing to be sure of its age—before I’m able to ever claim its authenticity and auction it off. I’ve done all that my naked, semi-educated eye can.
I need to talk to Hans. He was supposed to come tomorrow night to check out the Fauxbergé but he bailed on me, again. He promised he’d come in a few weeks. I almost feel stupid even suggesting the authenticity to him. I’d rather just show it to him and see what he says.
Turning the vase right-side-up again, I carefully set it back into the cardboard box on the floor next to me. I send the picture of the vase’s front—the dragon—to my little inkjet printer, so I have something to add to my hard copy catalogue. Call me obsessive, but I like the ability to touch my records.
While that’s printing, I type out the headline for a new Relics Hunter blog post: “Discovery of a Lifetime?”.
CHAPTER 21
Maggie
December 9, 2015
“Has Rosa told you yet?”
“Yes. Just last week.” I watch Melody Sparkes, nee Roswell, smooth the cloth napkin over her champagne-colored pants, her elegant, fluent tone sounding the same as it did ten years ago. The funeral was the first time I’d seen her in close to a year, since I was last in San Diego to take care of Rosa. Between hectic work schedules and time zone conflicts, we’re lucky if we catch each other on the phone once a month. Our relationship mostly exists through email.
The woman has so far defied age, her complexion glowing, her features sharp. No doubt some of that is thanks to judicious Botox injections and laser treatments, but nothing over-the-top. She’s always been a classic beauty, her honey-blond hair kept long and layered, her makeup simple but effective, her wardrobe heavily geared toward traditional wool suits in pastel colors and pearls. It’s a rather deceptive front, given her reputation as a fierce businesswoman in boardrooms full of egotistical men in a male-dominated industry.
It’s that energy that first attracted my father to her, or so he said. I wonder, had he married a compliant country club debutante like all the Sparkes men before him, instead of a career woman, would they still be married today?
“I wish there was something we could do. She’s already been through so much,” my mom says through a glass of Perrier. I hear the sadness in her words, her voice, and that brings me some comfort. I like knowing that Rosa and Celine meant something to her, too. It’s not that Melody Sparkes is an uncaring woman. She’s just never been one to put her emotions on display for others.
“I’m heading back to San Diego as soon as I’m done here, to stay with her until . . .” My throat begins to close with a sizeable lump. “Until she doesn’t need me anymore.”
“You know, I come to New York so often. I wish I had made more of an effort to reach out. To visit Celine. I hadn’t seen her since . . . I don’t know when I saw her last. It puts things into perspective, doesn’t it?” She blinks several times. It’s the closest I’ve ever seen to her crying since her mother’s funeral, when I was ten. Clearing her throat, she asks, “How is handling the estate going?”
I sigh. “Slow, but I’m making progress. You wouldn’t believe how many antiques she crammed into that tiny apartment.”
“And how are you doing with that? Rosa said you’re actually staying there?” My parents have known about my claustrophobia since I was seven, when they took me to see a specialist. Up until that point, they had just attributed my getting upset about being in a car too long to being a fussy child; my refusal to walk through crowds or step into small rooms, and my need to search out exits, to being “difficult.”
When I accidentally locked myself inside the bathroom and Rosa found me curled into a little ball, drenched in sweat, my heart pounding in my chest, screaming at the top of my lungs, they decided to have me assessed. The diagnosis came back, and they sent me to a world-renowned therapist in L.A., who helped me learn to cope, to talk myself down from my panic attacks, should that ever happen again.
While my parents haven’t always been there for me, they always ensured I had the best of everything, I’ll give them that.
I shrug. “It’s manageable.” The waiter comes by with fresh drinks just as Doug’s ringtone chimes from my pocket, cutting into our conversation. “I’m sorry, I need to take this.”
She waves me away, pulling her own phone out as I stand.
I answer with “Hey, what’s up?”
“You’re right. Four pictures of that vase were deleted from the computer.”
A nervous flutter explodes in my stomach. It’s odd, how the sensation of being right about something so wrong can inspire excitement. “How do you know?”
“Zac found them. Whoever did it either didn’t care to delete them permanently or isn’t smart enough to make sure they were gone. Or was in too much of a rush. And guess what night they were deleted on?”
“November fifteenth,” I whisper. That date will forever be a dark day for me. The night Celine died.
“Someone also went into her blog account and deleted a blog post she had been working on for days. Guess which one?”
“The one about the vase.”
“Bingo.”
“What does this mean, Doug?”