Mansions Of The Dead by Sarah Stewart Taylor Page A

the South Burying Ground—one of her favorite cemeteries in the Boston area—occupied her interest for a half hour before she headed over to the Blue Carbuncle.
    The antique jewelry and decorative arts shop was in a blue colonial building next to a toy shop and Sweeney pushed the front door open and spent a few minutes browsing among the estate jewelry and old silver before approaching the counter and asking for Bob Philips. When the middle-aged man behind the counter said that he was Bob Philips, Sweeney explained what she wanted. He took the sketches and lookedat them briefly before saying, “I didn’t sell this jewelry, but a young man came in a month or so ago asking me about it. It’s the earlier brooch that makes me remember him. He had all these pieces with him and he wanted to know about them, when they were made, how much they were worth, all that kind of thing.”
    “What did you tell him?”
    “Just told him a little bit about hairwork, you know, and mourning jewelry in general. He seemed to already know a lot about it. I wasn’t sure exactly what he wanted, to tell you the truth. He seemed to have some concern about the jewelry, I think. Perhaps about its value or its authenticity. He asked me if it was possible that the pieces had been tampered with, or changed. I had a quick look and they all looked authentic, but I told him I couldn’t do a proper appraisal unless he left them with me. He didn’t want to do that, though. I’m not sure I was able to offer him information that could ease his mind.”
    Carefully, Sweeney asked “Do you remember what he looked like?”
    He looked suspicious at that. “I don’t know that I should tell you,” he said. “It seems . . . dishonest somehow. Who did you say you were?”
    “I’m sorry,” Sweeney said, introducing herself. “I’m just trying to track down the jewelry. My interest is scholarly. Was he fairly tall, dark hair, blue eyes? Good-looking?”
    “That’s him,” Bob Philips said, still looking suspicious.
     
    Sweeney was back in her Somerville apartment by five o’clock. After sorting through bills and making a to-do list for the next day, she listened to her sole message, from her father’s old friend and lawyer Bill Landseer. Sweeney’s father, a well-known painter who had committed suicide when she was thirteen, had left behind a couple hundred canvases that were technically her responsibility. Bill had been nagging her about them.
    “Hey, Sweeney,” Bill’s voice said. “I was just thinking about you and wondering how you’re doing. Martha and I want to have you over fordinner and there are a couple of business things I need to discuss with you. We’ve had some more calls about your dad’s work and I want to talk about the possibility of maybe selling a few pieces. Anyway, give a call sometime and we’ll get together. Love from Martha.”
    Sweeney saved the message and made a note to call him back.
    The rest of the mail was unpromising, credit card come-ons and advertising flyers and Sweeney was about to chuck it all into her mail basket when a slim blue envelope with a London postmark slid out onto the table. Her heart sped up and she stared at it for a few minutes, then propped it up against a vase full of daffodils from the supermarket. The crisp blue paper was richly textured, the black ink a sharp contrast to the pale background. The envelope seemed somehow fraught with danger. She knew who it was from and she knew she couldn’t open it. She’d open it tomorrow. Tomorrow, she thought, with a little charge of excitement and fear.
    She left it propped up against the daffodils, then got up to pour herself another drink, and took out the sketches of the jewelry again.
    With Brad’s interest in mourning jewelry, it didn’t surprise her that he had gone out and acquired some for the seminar project. After all, he had the money and he certainly had the interest. Why wouldn’t he go out and buy a few pieces? She remembered