Vultures at Twilight Read Online Free PDF Page B

own.
    Ada came by it through all her years with Harry in retail. For me, born and bred in Grenville, I had lived with the antiques industry my entire life. Grenville was the antique capital of Connecticut, possibly the country. It was this fact that had saved the eighteenth-century flavor of the town. High Street, one of the most widely photographed roads in the world – a perennial favorite of calendars and coffee-table books with titles like ‘Scenic New England’ and ‘Country Life’ – was the epitome of well-maintained colonial America. Grenville is stunning and has the most rigid zoning in the state. Up until four years ago any house in the historic district had to be white, the only choice was whether you wanted black or dark-green shutters. But most of the wide-clapboard colonials and imposing federals, which were once private homes, had been converted into antique shops. Dealers and collectors viewed Grenville as Mecca. No buying trip to New England was complete without a day spent haggling at the open-air flea market, or haunting the upscale shops and auction houses for ‘sleepers’: undiscovered and undervalued treasures. The major risk to living here was the over-accumulation of stuff, especially for those of us who loved to collect, but had moved from large houses down to spacious, yet smaller, one-, two-, and three-bedroom condos in Pilgrim’s Progress.
    â€˜What about doing it ourselves?’ Ada asked. ‘What if we did an estate sale and sold everything ourselves?’
    â€˜That’s a lot of work,’ I cautioned. ‘We’d have to tag and catalogue everything, collect sales tax, get a tax ID number. A huge headache. Plus, think about all the problems you’re already having with her kids; they’d contest every sale. Much better have someone else do it.’
    â€˜You’re right. I was thinking more like our yearly tag sale for the animal shelter, but that wouldn’t work with this stuff.’
    We startled as a brisk knock came at the door.
    â€˜Let me get that.’ Ada strode through the airy living room and to the gray flagstone foyer.
    I trailed behind as she opened the door on to a smiling and neatly pressed Tolliver Jacobs. I recognized him instantly. Not only was he a regular on the nationally syndicated antiques show, Trash to Cash , but years back my youngest had a crush on him; he had been two grades ahead of her. Now, his once-sandy hair was starting to gray, and with a start, I realized that this man I had known as a little boy was middle aged. His blue eyes twinkled pleasantly as he shook Ada’s hand.
    â€˜Mrs Strauss?’ he asked.
    â€˜Yes, please come in, and this is my friend Lillian Campbell. You know, you’re much better looking in person than you are on TV.’
    â€˜Thanks.’ He chuckled. ‘And of course, I know Mrs Campbell. Her husband was our doctor for years.’
    I laughed, charmed and a little confused by his faintly British accent; where did that come from? ‘You and everyone else.’
    â€˜That was a different time, wasn’t it?’ he offered. ‘I remember your husband coming to our house in the middle of the night when I had the mumps. They don’t do that anymore.’
    â€˜No,’ I agreed, feeling the surge of pride I felt whenever someone remembered Bradley. But as frequently happened, other feelings came; I fished a handkerchief out of my pocket and dabbed.
    â€˜I’m sorry,’ he said.
    â€˜It’s OK. I guess one never totally gets over these things.’
    He looked at me closely. ‘It’s not,’ he said, and there was an unexpected throb in his voice.
    I found myself drawn to this attractive man, who, like my own children, was in his thirties. As he went through the condo he took notes and outlined strategies.
    â€˜Mrs Strauss?’ he asked. ‘How eager are the heirs?’
    â€˜Very,’ Ada stated. ‘That