The photo, an eight by ten, black and white glossy–standard for the era, glared up from the table top. The second I snapped on the latex glove, I understood my mistake. Taking the extra precautions to protect the item increased the price in our host’s eyes. He watched as I positioned it for proper viewing.
Ellie Latimer’s description was right on. Two people stood on the polished marble slabs of the hotel lobby. Melted snow puddled at their feet. They wore what to me resembled modern camouflage fatigues rather than military uniforms from World War Two. Like a green mottled igloo, a heavy jacket draped over the petite woman. She’d pushed the hood far enough back to reveal a small pale face framed by blonde waves.
My heart seemed to pause in my chest. The photo partly blurred the features, but nothing in the detail that survived suggested the couple was not Joe and Ally. The woman’s height, build, and the brilliance of her hair convinced me if not Ally Corrigan, it was her doppelganger. Despite the flawed focus, her image gave off a sense of almost childlike wonder at everything happening.
“Is this what you had in mind?” J.J. asked, but from my expression, already had his answer.
An uncomfortable silence extended through the room. Finally, when Jan began to fidget, I said, “I believe a thousand was the price?”
J.J. smirked from above. “That was before I saw what seeing it did to you. I think five thousand might be more like it.”
My face exploded in a wordless blend of shock and anger. I didn’t know whether to walk out or punch the little weasel in the nose. Jan eased forward and confirmed how right I was to bring her along. Crossing her legs left the hem of her skirt at mid-thigh. Having J.J.’s undivided attention, she locked on his eyes. Hers were moist and large, the color of a clear winter evening sky.
“Mr. Saxton, Matt is just trying to help me out here.” Words poured from her sweet as warm maple syrup. “My great-grandparents are the couple in the picture. It’s the only photo left of them. They’re dressed for a costume party and that night ended up at the wrong address. My Nana, their last living child, is a hundred. It’d mean a ton to her to have this.”
J.J.’s eyes never left the tightly interlocked thighs. My thoughts took an abrupt detour, too.
“I don’t know…” he said.
Jan removed her scarf, revealing a blouse filled with uplift and cleavage. From the corner of an eye, I caught the confrontational stance of J.J.’s wife. For me, she forced a brief smile and resumed a withering scowl at Jan and J.J.
“This is a genuine Gucci.” Directing her words to the wife, Jan waved the crimson accessory around for display and turned over a corner tag. “See, it’s the real thing. Eight hundred dollars at Acworth’s.”
The wife took a step forward.
“Feel the material. It’s the best silk around,” Jan continued.
As if she knew what she was doing, the woman rubbed the material. “Very nice,” she said, barely above a whisper.
Jan politely took back the scarf. “What do you say to the scarf and a thousand for the photo?”
J.J. opened his mouth, probably to make a counteroffer, but the nameless wife trumped him. “We’ll take it. J.J, give them the picture.” Her stare stayed on the scarf.
Back in the car, neither of us spoke until we entered the parkway and headed west. This time, I drove.
“We could have worked things out. You didn’t have to sacrifice your Gucci scarf.”
Jan chuckled. “Gucci? It was a Canal Street knock-off. Nineteen-ninety-nine at any of a dozen street vendors.” Facing me, she lowered and raised a thick black lash in an unhurried conspiratorial wink.
Ellie Latimer’s description was right on. Two people stood on the polished marble slabs of the hotel lobby. Melted snow puddled at their feet. They wore what to me resembled modern camouflage fatigues rather than military uniforms from World War Two. Like a green mottled igloo, a heavy jacket draped over the petite woman. She’d pushed the hood far enough back to reveal a small pale face framed by blonde waves.
My heart seemed to pause in my chest. The photo partly blurred the features, but nothing in the detail that survived suggested the couple was not Joe and Ally. The woman’s height, build, and the brilliance of her hair convinced me if not Ally Corrigan, it was her doppelganger. Despite the flawed focus, her image gave off a sense of almost childlike wonder at everything happening.
“Is this what you had in mind?” J.J. asked, but from my expression, already had his answer.
An uncomfortable silence extended through the room. Finally, when Jan began to fidget, I said, “I believe a thousand was the price?”
J.J. smirked from above. “That was before I saw what seeing it did to you. I think five thousand might be more like it.”
My face exploded in a wordless blend of shock and anger. I didn’t know whether to walk out or punch the little weasel in the nose. Jan eased forward and confirmed how right I was to bring her along. Crossing her legs left the hem of her skirt at mid-thigh. Having J.J.’s undivided attention, she locked on his eyes. Hers were moist and large, the color of a clear winter evening sky.
“Mr. Saxton, Matt is just trying to help me out here.” Words poured from her sweet as warm maple syrup. “My great-grandparents are the couple in the picture. It’s the only photo left of them. They’re dressed for a costume party and that night ended up at the wrong address. My Nana, their last living child, is a hundred. It’d mean a ton to her to have this.”
J.J.’s eyes never left the tightly interlocked thighs. My thoughts took an abrupt detour, too.
“I don’t know…” he said.
Jan removed her scarf, revealing a blouse filled with uplift and cleavage. From the corner of an eye, I caught the confrontational stance of J.J.’s wife. For me, she forced a brief smile and resumed a withering scowl at Jan and J.J.
“This is a genuine Gucci.” Directing her words to the wife, Jan waved the crimson accessory around for display and turned over a corner tag. “See, it’s the real thing. Eight hundred dollars at Acworth’s.”
The wife took a step forward.
“Feel the material. It’s the best silk around,” Jan continued.
As if she knew what she was doing, the woman rubbed the material. “Very nice,” she said, barely above a whisper.
Jan politely took back the scarf. “What do you say to the scarf and a thousand for the photo?”
J.J. opened his mouth, probably to make a counteroffer, but the nameless wife trumped him. “We’ll take it. J.J, give them the picture.” Her stare stayed on the scarf.
Back in the car, neither of us spoke until we entered the parkway and headed west. This time, I drove.
“We could have worked things out. You didn’t have to sacrifice your Gucci scarf.”
Jan chuckled. “Gucci? It was a Canal Street knock-off. Nineteen-ninety-nine at any of a dozen street vendors.” Facing me, she lowered and raised a thick black lash in an unhurried conspiratorial wink.
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