Thicker than Blood

  Harvey was quiet for a moment. She had a feeling she’d disappointed him. “You really don’t want to see her, do you?”

  “It’s complicated, Harv.”

  “You’d like her.”

  “I’m sure I would.” Christy laughed and tried to make light of the subject, wondering if Harvey saw through it.

  “What should I say to her? You’re leaving me in the middle here.”

  She pulled a pack of Winstons from her purse, not sure how to answer. This had nothing to do with not wanting to see May. Hearing the tidbits from Harvey actually made her yearn to see what her little sister had grown up to be. What she didn’t want was for May to see her.

  ***

  May usually enjoyed the days she ran errands in Elk Valley. Picking up an order at Walker’s Feed Store, making a bank withdrawal, even grocery shopping at Safeway was a nice change from her ranch chores. But today she just wanted to finish them as fast as she could and get back home. While it still was her home.

  She parked her pickup at the curb of The Perfect Blend coffee shop. She’d stop for a quick bagel and coffee, then head over to the post office. The bell above the door jingled as she entered, and she waved to the owner, Stan Barlowe, busy at the espresso machine.

  “Hi, May. What can I get ya?” Stan gave her a big smile. He’d opened the shop a year ago, and with more tourists visiting Elk Valley these days, business had been brisk. The Spanish Peaks and the nearby Sangre de Cristo Mountains were always a draw to campers and RVers in the summer and fall, but even at this time of year there were still some enthusiasts staying up at the newly reopened Cuchara Mountain Ski Resort.

  “Medium coffee and egg bagel,” she said.

  “Cream cheese?”

  “Sure.”

  May ate the bagel at one of the tables by a window, then took her coffee with her as she walked to the post office. She loved how the cool, invigorating air brushed her face this time of year. She always had. Being outside in the open made her feel free. Like a wild horse. It’s why as a kid she’d walked to school rather than take the bus.

  That one year when she was twelve and three blizzards blew into town just about drove her crazy. Staying cooped up in the house while the snow swirled and the wind howled was like corralling a starving filly next to a field of lush alfalfa. She’d never understood how Chris could actually enjoy the time inside.

  A lump rose in May’s throat, and she swallowed more coffee to keep it down. It bothered her to no end that Harvey wouldn’t answer her questions about where Chris was living. The niggling feeling that he knew but wasn’t telling her messed with her brain. Why would Harvey do that? Tonight she planned to find out. She was going to Harvey and his wife Betty’s. They still had her over for dinner every couple months, and since she needed to pick up Scribbles they’d invited her to stay for Betty’s signature roast beef.

  At the post office May pulled out the letter she’d been carrying in her coat pocket, and with a deep breath, she stepped into the line of waiting patrons. The inheritance money she’d be getting from Aunt Edna wasn’t even close to what they owed, but maybe the bank would accept it as a partial payment and work out a plan with them for the difference. It had taken an hour for her and Ruth to find just the right words for the letter.

  When her turn came at the counter she paid to send it certified with delivery confirmation and watched the teller drop it into the mail bag. Time for the waiting game.

  ***

  “Here’s our number.” Hunter held out a yellow three-by-six-inch card to Christy. The number 156 was handwritten on it in black marker, and Perlman Auctions was printed beneath that.

  Christy looked at the card, wondering why he was giving it to her. “But you’re doing the bidding.”

  “Nope.” Hunter shook his head, grinning. “You are.”

  They were standing in the small foyer of the auction house, and nervousness seeped through her body. She’d been to only a handful of book auctions with Hunter, and she’d never done the bidding.

  “Come on. I’ll be right beside you.” Hunter guided her into the great room where the auction was held. Ten rows of folding metal chairs were set up in front of the auctioneer’s podium, and dozens of tables full of books and ephemera to be auctioned lined the perimeter of the room. In the back on the floor were the box lots.

  People swarmed around the tables, the hum of their voices like the drone of a thousand bees’ wings. Book auctions were a dying breed, and Perlman Auctions was the last of its kind in the area. It was hard to make money as a specialist anymore, so most auction houses supplemented with antiques or household goods. But Don Perlman was determined to keep his dream alive, though he feared each auction would be his last.

  Christy followed Hunter to the first of the tables where they could study the offerings. It was still preview time where people could see and handle all the books, plan their maximum bids, and otherwise mingle.

  And while most everyone knew each other, competitiveness laced through the air like it always did when you got a group of book dealers together. Most were middle-aged men who loved to boast about their past glories, but Christy found even that was somewhat of a stereotype. There was a whole new wave of twentysomethings cropping up and listing their books exclusively online, and she was starting to recognize a whole family or two that showed up at the auctions and book sales.

  When Hunter wasn’t looking, Christy took a moment to study him. He didn’t fit the mold, either. Thirty-five and wearing his usual jeans, hiking boots, and chamois shirt, she often thought he appeared more like a mountain guide than a bookstore manager.

  “Look at these,” Hunter said, flipping through the auction’s seventy-five-page catalog. He pointed at lot 56, a six-volume set called The History of the Indian Tribes of the United States by Henry R. Schoolcraft. Most of the lots contained one book each and were labeled with strips of paper sticking out of the books, but several were multivolume sets or a collection of books on a related topic.

  Christy lifted one of the heavy volumes in lot 56. Five hundred plus pages. Published by Historical American Indian Press. Brown boards. Unobtrusive. She leaned toward Hunter. “How much is this worth?”

  He lowered his voice. “We could get at least eight hundred.”

  According to the catalog the set was actually a facsimile of the original books published in the 1850s. Christy thumbed through the pages. Illustrated with engravings and color plates, a set like this would be invaluable to anyone studying American Indians.

  They went through the rest of the tables, and Hunter pointed out other lots he wanted her to bid on. Many of the books would be general stock, but there were still several, including the Schoolcraft set, Hunter knew he had a buyer for.

  With the Barn’s reputation, many individual collectors had standing orders with the store to purchase books in their area of interest. And Hunter’s memory was amazing. He could remember titles people told him they wanted years ago, which served him well when buying for the collectors.

  Ten minutes before the auction started, Christy found them seats in the back row. It was better to sit where she could see who was bidding. Hunter taught her that at their first auction a couple months ago when she tried to sit in the front row.

  Hunter handed her the catalog with a smile. “Not too nervous now, are you?”

  She returned the smile, not wanting him to doubt her abilities. Most of her four years at the Barn had been spent at the register ringing up purchases and directing customers to their subjects of interest.

  She always tried to take notice of what was sold and for how much. And Hunter always answered her questions, often enthusiastically elaborating on the history of certain books and what points made them valuable or not.

  Over the last year her hunger to learn had grown, and Hunter had started teaching her the fine details of acquiring and pricing. It was why she’d gone with him to the Thornton home—preparation for the new responsibility of going t
o estates solo, which she considered her redemption. A chance to secretly make up for cheating Hunter and his father and to show she was an asset to them. She wanted them to see she wasn’t in it temporarily like many of the college students the Barn hired and assigned to packing and shipping or shelf stocking and maintenance.

  She wanted to be someone they could trust, someone they could promote. And she enjoyed nothing more than being surrounded by books all day. It was the only part of her life that brought her any pleasure at all.

  “I still get nervous,” Hunter said.

  “Sure you don’t want to do this yourself?”

  “Yep. You’ll do fine.”

  She turned to the first page of the catalog, noting Hunter’s penciled maximum bids. They wouldn’t start bidding until lot 12, which contained three coffee table art titles. He was willing to go up to thirty on this one.

  “Hey, Hunter. Christy.”

  Christy turned around at the New York accent to see Mark Fletcher standing behind them. In his fifties with a bushy graying beard, he tucked his dog-eared catalog under one arm, extending his hand to Hunter.

  “How are things?” Fletcher said, grinning.

  This was not what she needed.

  “Fine, fine,” Hunter said. “You?”

  “Still kicking.” Fletcher turned his attention to Christy. “He showing you the ropes today?”

  Christy tried to smile, desperate to keep Fletcher from seeing how uncomfortable she was. He wouldn’t bring anything up in front of Hunter, would he? “There’s some great stuff here,” she managed.

  “Oh, I know.”

  “Anything in particular you’re looking at?” Hunter chimed in.

  Fletcher rolled up his catalog and stuffed it into the pocket of his wrinkled sport coat. He wagged a finger at Hunter. “Just have to wait and see now.”

  Thankfully, Fletcher left them to find a seat somewhere else. In fact, everyone was now finding their seats.

  A hush came over the room as Don Perlman strode toward the podium. He was probably only sixty, but his white hair made him look older, and she didn’t know a time when she’d ever seen him clean-shaven. He picked up the ancient corded microphone, tapped it a few times, then began. “Thanks for comin’ out today. We’ve got some fine books here, and I hope you buy a ton.” He took a deep breath and they were off.

  Don’s nephew, a gangly teen in a T-shirt and jeans, brought the first book. His shoulders drooped, giving away his boredom as he stood in front of the podium holding it while the bidding started.

  “Who’ll give me five, five dollars. To start things out. Five dollars.” Don’s words came out fast and furious, typical auctioneer style.

  Christy glanced at the catalog. The Book of the American West. Edited by Jay Monaghan, Bonanza Books reprint of 1963 edition, 608 pgs. It was a common book, and she was surprised they were offering it.

  Don nodded at a bidder. “Five dollars. Who’ll give me ten?”

  No one did.

  “Sold to bidder #43 for five dollars.”

  Who was #43? Christy scanned the room but couldn’t tell. She hadn’t seen anyone lift their hand. Which of course was typical. If the auctioneer knew a bidder, sometimes all that was necessary to bid was a nod.

  “It was Jack Mason,” Hunter said. “See him sitting up there in the front?”

  All she saw was the bald head of an elderly man leaning on a cane.

  “He’s a collector. Buys all the Americana he can. And the thing about collectors is they’ll pay much more than a dealer can. A dealer’s gotta make a profit, but a collector can pay retail if he wants. Whenever I see old Jack walk in a room, I know I’m beat on the Americana.”

  “Will he want the Indian tribe set?”

  “Not sure.”

  Lot 12 came all too fast, and Christy readied her number.

  “Okay, folks. Got a nice selection of art books here. Rockwell, Remington, and William Matthews. Who’ll give me fifteen?”

  “Just wait till he drops the price,” Hunter said. “He’ll start high and then go down if no one bids.”

  “Fifteen. Fifteen. Do I have any bidders? Ten. Let’s start it at ten. Who’ll give me ten? Ten dollars.”

  Christy raised her number.

  Don saw it and pointed in her direction. “I have ten. Who’ll give me twelve?”

  Her cheeks were suddenly hot. It was one thing to watch Hunter do the bidding. It was a whole different ball game to be doing it herself.

  A hand went up across the room. She didn’t recognize the bidder, an older woman with shoe-polish brown hair. Was she another collector?

  Don glanced at Christy. “Fifteen dollars. Fifteen.”

  She kept her number in the air. She wasn’t chancing him missing any gestures.

  “Twenty? Who’ll give me twenty?”

  The gray-haired lady lowered her number.

  “Seventeen? Seventeen?”

  No hands.

  “Sold to #156 in the back row.”

  Christy tried to keep from smiling at her success as the kid brought her the books and Don noted the bid in his ledger. He still went the old-fashioned route, swearing he’d never use a computer.

  Hunter elbowed her. “Good job.”

  There was no time to bask in the excitement as the bidding continued at breakneck speed. Hunter also wanted the next four lots, more art titles, which sold well at the Barn. Things went the same as before. The gray-haired lady bid once or twice, then gave up and Christy got the lots for less than Hunter’s maximums.

  “I’d really like to get 55 and 56,” Hunter said, tapping the listings in the catalog.

  “Tom Swift?”

  Number 55 was a box lot containing twenty original Tom Swift Sr. books in the illustrated mustard-colored cloth, many with their dust jackets, something she didn’t usually see on that series.

  “Got a guy who’s starting a collection. Maximum we’ll go—” Hunter lowered his voice—“ten a piece. We can turn them fast for twenty; otherwise, we normally don’t buy for half retail.”

  Christy liked the way he used “we” instead of “I.” She shifted in her chair, readying herself for bidding again. It wasn’t as hard as she thought it would be, and Hunter’s quiet confidence in her skill was helping.

  “All right folks, lot 55.” Don tilted his head to read from his own copy of the catalog. “Tom Swift. Gotta love that guy. Okay . . . let’s start bidding at twenty.” His voice ratcheted back up to full speed. “Twenty dollars. Start ’er up. Give me twenty, twenty.”

  Christy began to raise her number, but Don caught sight of someone on the other side. He pointed at the man, and Christy realized it was Fletcher. She clenched her jaw. This was bound to happen sometime, her bidding against Fletcher. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Hunter. Calm and confident. Hopefully she could draw from some of his reserve.

  “Twenty-five. Twenty-five.”

  Her hand went up.

  Don nodded at her. “Got twenty-five. Give me thirty. Who’ll—?”

  Another bidder jumped in.

  She leaped back into the fray, bidding the lot up to fifty. Tom Swift was hot.

  Don stopped his singsonging and just pointed from bidder to bidder.

  Fletcher. “Sixty.”

  Jack Mason. “Seventy.”

  Christy. “Eighty.”

  Fletcher. “Ninety.”

  Christy. “One hundred.”

  She kept her arm raised and glanced over at where she’d seen Fletcher. He did the same in her direction, giving her a toothy grin. She quickly looked away, focusing on Don.

  Back and forth. In all of ten seconds she was bidding two hundred. Come on, Fletcher. You don’t need this stuff.

  “Two hundred fifty.” The New York accent boomed, and she shot another glance at Fletcher. Did he have a buyer? Last time she checked, Fletcher’s store specialized in technical subjects, not children’s.

  “Anyone make it two-sixty??
?? Don paused.

  Christy dropped her hand to her lap, swearing under her breath.

  “Sold to bidder #27.”

  “Don’t let him bother you,” Hunter said, resting his hand on hers for a brief, reassuring moment, then returning it to his own lap.

  Then it was onto the Indian tribe set. Christy revved herself up again, card hand at the ready.

  “Lot 56. We’re gonna start bidding at fifty for this landmark work.”

  A card went up in the front row. Jack Mason.

  Hunter sighed. “You know what to do. Let’s just hope his pocketbook’s tight today.”

  “Seventy-five. Who’ll give me eighty—?”

  Christy got her bid in before he could finish.

  Don acknowledged it with a nod. He glanced at Jack Mason, and the old man nodded back. Here we go.

  “Eighty-five. Eighty-five. I’ve got eighty-five. Who’ll give me a hundred?”

  Jack kept nodding.

  She lifted her hand a little higher.

  “One hundred fifty.”

  Some guy two seats over with long hair and a scruffy face added his bid. Who was he? She recognized him from the last auction, but she would have to ask Hunter later.

  The bidding danced across the room. One second she was the high bidder, the next she was on the outskirts of the frenzy, trying to jump back in.

  Her heart pounded. They were nearing her maximum of three hundred. If she couldn’t get the Tom Swifts, she at least wanted to get this one for Hunter.

  “Two seventy-five.” She could barely understand Don’s auction voice, but she could catch the numbers.

  Don glanced at her, and she waved her number. Perfect.

  “Two seventy-five. I’ve got two seventy-five. Anyone for three hundred? Three hundred?”

  Yes! She was gonna get it.

  Don’s gaze shot to the side. “Three hundred. Who’ll give me three twenty-five? Beautiful set here. Worth every penny.”

  An arm popped up to her right, and she realized Fletcher was the bidder. Without thinking, Christy lifted her card. She couldn’t lose another lot to him.

  Don was back to her. “Three twenty-five. Three twenty-five.”

  Fletcher. “Three fifty.”

  Christy. “Three seventy-five.”

  Fletcher. “Four hundred.”

  Hunter reached for her arm and gently pulled it down. “Christy.”