The Curse in the Carousel Horse Read online

  The Curse in the Carousel Horse

  Finders Keepers Cozy Mysteries: Book One

  Kobo Edition

  Patti Larsen

  Copyright 2022 Patti Larsen

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  Kobo Edition, License Notes

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  Chapter One

  If you’ve never been to an auction, you’re missing out. I adore them, my favorite thing ever. The meander through the collection of items up for sale while potential bidders whisper and connive and pretend they couldn’t care a beat if they win or lose gives a rush like no other. The not-so-subtle build of tension as your item or items of choice near the block only adds to the anticipation. All for the heat of the moment when the caller rapid fires at the gathering and paddles wave-like Fourth of July flags in the stiff breeze of his encouragement. It’s as exciting as it gets, let me tell you, and I’m not known to be excitable.

  Though my husband Hank might argue that fact.

  As for my client, he hovered near me as we walked the warehouse space where the items up for sale stood on display, as jittery as a newborn colt at his mother’s shoulder, dark eyes wide, dabbing at the sweat on his furrowed brow with that ever-present red gingham kerchief of his.

  “There it is,” Norman Ryanette whispered loudly enough I know they heard him across the Potomac, and that great river was a good two hours away from Richmond. So much for subtle. It was hard not to share his excitement, truth be told, at the sight of our quarry now so close at hand.

  “Remember,” I said, easing forward with a nod to a familiar face here, a stranger there, “cool and composed.” You better believe I played on my barely 5’1” unintimidating self in situations like this one. Being a Southern lady, it wouldn’t do to let any rivals know the internal buzz of acquisitive excitement had begun like a long drink of sweet tea on a hot day.

  Norman stumbled next to me, his anxious expression not helping matters, and worse when I spotted none other than Arlene Plimpton watching me from her own slow predatory circle of the items. Well, she could take her Northern contempt and haughty airs and eat my dust.

  Bless her heart.

  “I know you know what you’re doing, Sissy,” Norman said, anxiety making his voice crack, “but you also know just how much this means to me.” He paused, gaze falling fully on the centerpiece of this particular auction, a tremulous smile lighting his face. “Margie is going to be so surprised.”

  I tucked my hand around his elbow and leaned on him enough to get the much larger man moving again. “You hired Finders Keepers for a reason,” I said. “It’s taken a year to track it down.” I paused then, now side-on to the prize, and admired it a moment myself. “Just a little while longer, and it’s yours.”

  The carousel horse might not have looked like much to the casual observer, but I knew better. This had been my most challenging hunt to date, and despite fifteen years restoring antiques and tracking down pieces for clients, I honestly worried I’d finally met my match. Because this was no ordinary horse, nor could any be substituted for Norman’s fiftieth wedding anniversary dreams for his adoring wife. I honestly believe it was the Good Lord’s will and my own sheer stubbornness that dropped this horse in my lap just in time for the big day.

  The very horse on which he’d proposed to his wife.

  I spotted the second item I was bidding on for another client nearby, the bone china set a classic and exactly what Jenny Matheson was looking for. It would be an easy acquisition, no matter if Mrs. Arlene Plimpton scooted herself around the horse to lay claim to the set herself. I let her have her moment of unwarranted triumph, her lack of grace showing her card hand so early in the game and offered her a custom Southern smile before turning that wattage on Norman. Momma taught her baby girl how to get what she wanted, and I was walking out with both today or my name wasn’t Sicily Scarlett Sloane.

  Time to swoop in ever so casual like and have a looky-loo at the provenance. A swift but thorough read of the documentation—in passing, my dear, only in passing—and I had what I needed.

  “It’s authentic,” I told him, voice low, still smiling as I led him away.

  “It’s the right horse.” He beamed at me, once again wiping the moisture from his forehead and cheeks, swabbing the back of his neck where his white shirt collar pressed to his tanned skin. “I can’t believe it. At last.”

  Found in a warehouse on private property by the children of the owner after their father’s death, no less. A miracle, praise the Lord and Halleluiah. And yes, I knew how irreverent it was to call on His name in times of material gain, but I also knew He forgave me my trespasses.

  Make no mistake, I hadn’t lost my pretty little head enough to forget there were others equally as interested in the horse. Despite its rough appearance, this was a classic and, once restored, would be worth far more than it was now. Which, I gauged from previous auctions, should sit right around twenty thousand. However, as I strolled away, dragging Norman with me, I took note of the competition doing their own inspection.

  The tall, handsome man in the dark suit had a creepy air about him, and I caught him grinning at me in between his brazen strides that circled the horse with the steady gaze of someone who knew what he had in front of him. That could be a problem. I had hoped not many would recognize the value of an authentic horse from the turn of the 20th century. If bidding grew heated, Norman might be out far more than the amount I hoped for. Not that he cared, already confirming he was happy to pay what was needed to acquire the piece. It certainly made my job easier.

  My, but I did love a bottomless purse.

  Still, if he didn’t have to pay a ridiculous amount, it would help my reputation further. Which had me leaving him to glide to the man still observing the horse with his hands in his pockets, a wry and rather unlikable smirk on his face.

  “You’re a collector?” I flashed him my charm and he responded as expected with a tip of his head and a quick up and down look I let him think didn’t make my skin crawl.

  “Fred Miller.” He freed one hand from his pocket long enough to shake mine, though bent over it to kiss the back of my fingers instead. “I’m less a collector and more of a treasure hunter.”

  “Treasure?” I laughed at that, just this side of breathless, watched him light up at the attention. “My Heavens, what sort of treasure?”

  He seemed more than amenable to continuing our conversation, but the hasty arrival of one of the auction house staff curtailed further detail. Instead, I noted the sharp look of concern on the young man’s face and took note they had similar enough features they had to be related.

  “You shouldn’t be here.” While the elder’s expression didn’t change from that arrogant bravado, his younger counterpart didn’t carry himself with the same confidence. He met my eyes, his that light hazel that sparkles with green in the right light, nodding to me. “Mrs. Sloane,” he said, “nice to see you. Good luck today.”

  My mind fished for a name, came up with it in a flash of inspiration that left me smiling in relief but hopefully looked only endearing. “Michael,” I said, remembering he’d delivered my last two wins to me, introducing himself along the way. Michael Burne. Yes, that was it. “Thank you, dear.”

  He led Fred Miller away, the pair leaning into
one another, Michael’s hasty conversation met with a casual shrug from the unphased older man while I watched them go with growing curiosity.

  A mystery. How delicious.

  As I turned back to rejoin Norman, the skirt of my favorite 50s knee-length navy dress power flaring when I walked, I noticed Michael wasn’t the only one who seemed unhappy to find Fred Miller here.

  From the steady glare of dislike on Dean Drake’s face, either the auction house owner had his own run-ins with the man, or his reputation preceded him. I could only imagine the former.

  I had barely taken two steps toward my client when I felt something impact my shoulder, knocking me askew with an unladylike squeak of surprise, the offending gentleman who wasn’t apparently as bereft of manners as he was patience. He stormed up to Dean with ridged shoulders and a raised hand pointing in aggressive demand back behind him, his voice loud enough for everyone in the warehouse to hear.

  “You know the horse is mine, Dean,” he said, “and it’s not for sale.”

  You can imagine my heart went pitter-pat and not in a good way, even as a second person, at least a bit more polite, followed suit and confronted the auction house owner with a sheaf of papers in her trembling hand.

  “Wrong,” she said in her shaking voice, “it’s mine and I want it. Now.”

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  Chapter Two

  You wouldn’t expect me to just walk away from such drama, would you? Not when Norman’s precious gift to his wife was at stake. That meant I wandered closer, though I was far from the only one, my client standing so near to me when I came to a halt a polite three feet away, I could feel his breath stir my dark bob.

  “Ms. Halston,” Dean said, both hands up in front of his narrow chest, receding hairline carefully styled to hide the decrease in thickness, though his recent dye job hadn’t yet washed clear of his scalp beneath. “Garth, please. I’ve already told both of you the horse’s provenance makes it perfectly acceptable for my clients to sell it.”

  The woman he called Ms. Halston shook her papers at him again, her tall, lean body that bony thinness that would make her an excellent candidate for a helping of my pecan pie or three. Her pinched expression wasn’t helping matters, cheeks hollow, eyes somewhat sunken as though her anxiety over this issue left those dark bags beneath them. And I wasn’t so sure she physically rattled the sheets or if her hand simply tremored from upset. Whatever the reason, she seemed less than pleased with his denial, though no more so than Garth Laney.

  Yes, I finally recognized the man, if only because he attended every single auction I’d been to, if not literally all of the ones Dean hosted, always on the hunt for anything to do with old carnival rides, games and paraphernalia from the late 1800s and early 1900s. And while I was certain he’d amassed an impressive collection, what he did with said finds I had no idea.

  Nor was it my business. The horse on the other hand? Absolutely.

  “You can take those papers and burn them, Mariah,” Garth snapped at the woman. “You know full well you have no clear line of provenance.” She’d paled, the pages of hers held between them like a shield that wasn’t doing the job she’d hoped. “I, however, own the full collection of the original carousel. All but that.” He jabbed his index finger at Norman’s horse. Yes, you heard me. Norman’s. Had me huffing, this upstart with his ridiculous claim that had nothing to do with any factual information and only an entitled sense of ownership as flimsy as his faded blue button-up.

  “Sissy,” Norman hissed in my ear, leaning close enough I could smell the coffee from his breakfast. “What do we do?”

  I waved him off, though whispered a reply. “This kind of kerfuffle happens at times. Pay it no mind. The horse wouldn’t be up for auction unless Mr. Drake verified ownership.”

  And, in fact, the moment I finished, none other than Emily Christo appeared, calm and collected, just like I wished Norman could manage. The tall and elegantly clad in-house specialist not only worked to verify every single item on Dean’s floor, she’d been working as an art appraiser and authenticator for the very insurance company who protected this house, not to mention many of my own clients and their acquisitions. I will admit, I breathed a sigh of relief at her patience, knowing I’d reassured Norman on excellent grounds, because if she’d harbored any doubt, so would I.

  Not so the case, Emily’s kind nod to both Mariah Halston and Garth Laney more than their rudeness earned them.

  “I assure you both,” she said, taking the papers the other woman still clutched, looking down at them and then back up again, “I’ve done all due diligence in this matter. Mariah,” she said gently, full lips in a sad smile, huge, dark eyes compassionate as she laid one hand on the trembling woman’s arm, “we’ve gone over your proof of ownership. And while there might be some cause, there’s no clear line of possession. Without that proof, I have to grant the clients the right to sell their property. And Mr. Laney,” she directed her lovely attention on him, “you are well aware the fact you are in possession of the remainder of the carousel, while admirable and truly an epic find, doesn’t give you the right to someone else’s property.” They both spluttered, tried to speak up, but Emily had them in hand, nodding with her dark hair spilling over the shoulder of her black suit, white shell a contrast to the shining, dark mane she left long and loose. “I’m sorry. There’s nothing else that can be done. Mr. Drake.” She gave him her last nod. “We’re ready to proceed when you are.”

  And that, as the saying goes, was that. I turned to Norman, beamed a smile, once again guiding him, but this time off the auction floor and to the main gallery where we’d get our chance to claim his prize in short order.

  “Now,” I said with a wink and enough cheer he perked up, “the fun begins.”

  “I’m glad you find this fun,” he said, his rather hangdog expression and glances back over his shoulder while we followed the rest of the bidders to the gallery. “I’ve never been so anxious in my life.”

  We collected his paddle, his registry as a bidder duly logged the day before. I guided him down the center aisle and into a padded chair. Dean’s auction house might not have been Christie’s, but it had an upper-class air to it that appealed to me much more than the open-air auctions Hank sometimes encouraged me to visit for speculation pieces. And while my darling lug of a husband was right sometimes (please don’t tell him that!), I preferred to perch in comfort over standing in dust surrounded by bargain shoppers.

  And while that made me sound like a snob, I couldn’t care less.

  The seating quickly filled, today’s catalog a large one. I flipped through the booklet provided, examining a few of the other items that caught my eye, but I’d already perused the listing before today when it was posted on the Antiqua House website.

  If Norman wiped his face one more time with that kerchief his skin would come off. I gently touched his wrist and whispered to him as the first few items went up for bid. Nothing really interesting, though there was a painting I’d have loved to have if only for the antique frame. “Knowing the true value of the item is key,” I told him when Arlene Plimpton raised her paddle, gaze flickering to me as if waiting for me to challenge her. I smiled with enigmatic poise and let her sweat as I went on. “Your most important tool in an auction is knowledge. Once you know what you want, you can estimate worth based on other auctions of similar items. And while things don’t always turn out as planned, forewarned is forearmed.” He nodded as I went on, seeming to calm, as Arlene claimed the painting and the next item emerged. The walnut cabinet certainly was lovely, but I hesitated over the age claim despite Emily’s assurances and let it go. Arlene did as well, not that I was paying attention. “Aggression in bidding is key,” I said. “Make sure we’re the first to bid and don’t let another bid pass a single second without a challenge.” His eyes widened. “We’re in this to win this, aren’t we?” Norman nodded quickly. I smiled to soften the harshness of auction reality. “Trust me. And relax. You’r
e here to have fun, you know.”

  Norman managed a weak smile while looking a bit green around the gills. Meanwhile, the china set was up, and it was showtime.

  “Like this,” I said with a pert grin and, the moment the auctioneer opened the bidding, the game was on.

  I’ll spare you the details but rest assured Arlene Plimpton had sweated through that tacky blue plaid suit of hers and I was the happy winner of a bone china set. And I’d only had to knockout bid her once. The moment I saw her hesitate, I knew she was at her spending limit and took her out with a tidy $500 price raise that had her sagging and the hammer falling in my favor. Under budget, I might add, so Jenny would be delighted.

  “And that’s how we’re taking your horse home,” I said when Norman gaped at me.

  My phone buzzed while my client processed what he’d witnessed, the next item up for sale carrying on as I checked my messages.

  Wanted to wish you luck, Hank sent, and the other side grief and failure.

  Oh, Hank darling, I sent back, you know just what to say. So sweet, that man I married. Every message still made my heart leap, even after twenty years together. I smiled down at my phone as it buzzed again.

  See you when you’re done?

  That made me gasp, loud enough I had to reassure Norman before typing my excited response. I thought you were in Arlington another night? His work as a US marshal took him away from me frequently, though I did my best not to complain.

  Wrapped the case early, he sent. Was going to surprise you, but this is more fun. Go get ‘em, Siss. We’ll celebrate your win tonight.

  I had simply the most amazing husband on the planet, and no one would ever convince me otherwise.

  Two things to celebrate, I sent as the current item found a winning bidder, and the next was announced. You’re home. That’s all I need.