Chapter 11 - The Counterfeit Pawn
While I was driving north toward Cape Haven, Paige was busy making a catastrophic mistake of her own.
Convinced that Grant’s financial troubles needed immediate cash infusions before his return from Chicago, Paige decided to liquidate the silver service she had stolen from my dining room breakfront.
She drove to *Vanderbilt Fine Antiques & Estate Jewelry*, a prestigious high-end dealer located in the historic shopping district downtown.
Carrying the heavy canvas tote bag into the carpeted showroom, Paige placed the wrapped silver bundles onto the glass counter before the proprietor, Mr. Harrison Vance—who happened to be the younger cousin of my attorney, Martin Vance.
“Good afternoon,” Paige said, offering her polished, country-club smile. “I’m looking to consign or sell outright this family heirloom sterling silver collection. It’s an authentic 19th-century American set. Museum quality.”
Mr. Vance adjusted his jeweler’s loupe and unwrapped the first silver teapot. He turned it over, examining the base beneath a bright halogen inspection lamp.
He frowned.
He reached for a testing stone and applied a tiny drop of nitric acid to an inconspicuous spot on the rim. The metal immediately hissed and turned a murky greenish-blue.
Mr. Vance laid the teapot down, took off his loupe, and looked at Paige with a mixture of amusement and disdain.
“Madam, where did you acquire this?”
“It’s an heirloom from my husband’s family estate,” Paige answered defensively, her smile wavering. “It’s valued at nearly ten thousand dollars!”
“This is not sterling silver,” Mr. Vance said flatly. “This is nickel-plated sheet metal produced in Taiwan circa 1978. It has zero precious metal content. At a scrap yard, you might get twelve dollars for the weight of the base metal.”
Paige’s face drained of color. “What? That’s impossible! It came from a historic home!”
“Furthermore,” Mr. Vance continued, reaching into the bottom of the tote bag and pulling out the small index card that had fallen out of the velvet chest, “the owner appears to have left a personal message for you.”
He handed Paige the index card:
*THOU SHALT NOT STEAL.*
Paige stared at my handwriting, her breath catching in her throat. Her hands began to shake violently. The humiliating realization hit her like an icy tidal wave:
May you like
I knew. I had known the entire time.
***
