LITMIR.BIZ

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to her firm, the quicker she earned her bonus and could move on to the next transaction.

      However, the nature of her profession often called for forbearance. People became attached to their things, and sometimes letting go took time. Miss Winther had gone to a lot of trouble to make scones. Knowing what she knew about the Winther family, Tess wondered what the woman felt when she reminisced about the old days—fear and privation? Or happier times, when her family had been intact?

      As she bustled around her old-fashioned kitchen, Miss Winther would pause every so often in front of a little framed mirror by the door, gazing at the necklace with a faraway look in her eyes. Tess wondered what she saw there—her pretty, adored mother? An innocent girl who had no idea her entire world was about to be snatched away?

      “Tell me about what you do,” Miss Winther urged her, pouring tea into a pair of china cups. “I would love to hear about your life.”

      “I guess you could say finding treasure is in my blood.”

      Miss Winther gave a soft gasp, as though Tess’s statement surprised her. “Really?”

      “My mother is a museum acquisitions expert. My grandmother had an antiques salon in Dublin.”

      “So you come from a line of independent women.”

      Nicely put, thought Tess. Her gaze skated away. She wasn’t one to chat up a client for the sake of making a deal, but she genuinely liked Miss Winther, perhaps because the woman seemed truly interested in her. “Neither my mother nor my grandmother ever married,” she explained. “I’ll probably carry on that tradition, as well. My life is too busy for a serious relationship.” Gah, Tess, listen to yourself, she thought. Say it often enough and you’ll believe it.

      “Well. I suspect that’s only because the right person hasn’t come along...yet. Pretty girl like you, with all that gorgeous red hair. I’m surprised some man hasn’t swept you off your feet.”

      Tess shook her head. “My feet are planted firmly on the ground.”

      “I never married, either.” A wistful expression misted her eyes. “I was in love with a man right after the war, but he married someone else.” She paused to admire the stone once again. “It must be so exciting, the work of a treasure hunter.”

      “It takes a lot of research, which most people would find tedious. So many dead ends and disappointments,” said Tess. “Most of my time is spent combing archives and old records and catalogs. It can be frustrating. But so worthwhile when I get to make a restitution like this. And every once in a great while, I might find myself peeling away a worthless canvas to find a Vermeer beneath. Or unearthing a fortune under a shepherd’s hut in a field somewhere. Sometimes it’s a bit macabre. The plunder might be stashed in a casket.”

      Miss Winther shuddered. “That’s ghoulish.”

      “When people have something to hide, they tend to put it where no one would want to look. Your piece wasn’t stored in a dramatic hiding place. It was tagged and neatly cataloged, along with dozens of other illegally seized pieces.”

      Miss Winther arranged the scones just so with a crisp linen napkin in a basket, and brought them to the table.

      Tess took a warm scone, just to be polite.

      “It sounds as though you like your work,” Miss Winther said.

      “Very much. It’s everything to me.” As she said the words aloud, Tess felt a wave of excitement. The business was fast-paced and unpredictable, and each day might bring an adrenaline rush—or crushing disappointment. Tess was having a banner year; her accomplishments were bringing her closer to the things she craved like air and water—recognition and security.

      “That sounds just wonderful. I’m certain you’ll get exactly what you’re looking for.”

      “In this business, I’m not always sure what that is.” Tess sneaked another glance at the clock on the stove.

      Miss Winther noticed. “You have time to finish your tea.”

      Tess smiled, liking this woman almost in spite of herself. “All right. Would you like me to leave the contract with you or—”

      “That’s not necessary,” the old lady said, touching the faceted pink topaz. “I won’t be selling this.”

      Tess blinked, shook her head a little. “I’m sorry, what?”

      “My mother’s lavaliere.” She pressed the piece against her bosom. “It’s not for sale.”

      Tess’s heart plummeted. “With this piece, you could have total security for the rest of your life.”

      “Every last shred of security was stripped from me forever by the Nazis,” Miss Winther pointed out. “And yet I survived. You’ve given me back my mother’s favorite thing.”

      “As you say, it’s a thing. An object you could turn into comfort and peace of mind for the rest of your days.”

      “I’m comfortable and secure now. And if you don’t believe memories are worth more than money, then perhaps you’ve not made the right kind of memories.” She regarded Tess with knowing sympathy.

      Tess tried not to dwell on all the hours she’d spent combing through records and poring over research in order to make the restitution. If she thought about it too much, she’d probably tear out her hair in frustration. She tended to protect herself from memories, because memories made a person vulnerable.

      “You must think I’m being a sentimental old fool.” Miss Winther nodded. “I am. It’s a privilege of old age. I have no debt, no responsibilities. Just me and the cats. We like our life exactly as it is.”

      Tess took a sip of strong tea, nearly wincing at its bitterness.

      “Oh! The sugar bowl. I forgot,” said Miss Winther. “It’s in the pantry, dear. Would you mind getting it?”

      The pantry contained a collection of dusty cans and jars, its walls and shelves cluttered with collectibles, many of them still bearing handwritten garage sale stickers.

      “It’s just to the right there,” said Miss Winther. “On the spice shelf.”

      Tess picked up the small, footed bowl. Almost instantly, a tingle of awareness passed through her. One of the first things she’d learned in her profession was to tune into something known as the “heft” or “feel” of the piece. Something that was real and authentic simply had more substance than a fake or knockoff.

      She set the tarnished bowl on the table and tried to keep a poker face as she studied the object. The sweep of the handles and the effortless swell of the bowl were unmistakable. Even the smoky streaks of age couldn’t conceal the fact that the piece was sterling, not plate.

      “Tell me about this sugar bowl,” she said, using the small tongs to pick up a cube. Sugar tongs. They were even more rare than the bowl.

      “It’s handsome, isn’t it?” Miss Winther said. “But the very devil to keep clean. I was not in a terribly practical frame of mind when I picked it up at a church rummage sale long ago. It’s been decades. Rummage sales have always been a weakness of mine. I’m afraid I’ve brought home any number of bright, pretty things that just happened to catch my eye. Once I get something home, though, it’s anyone’s guess whether or not I’ll actually use it.”

      “This is quite a find,” Tess said, holding it up to check the bottom, and seeing the expected hallmark there.

      “In what way?”

      Could she really not know? “Miss Winther, this bowl is a Tiffany, and it appears to be genuine.”

      “Goodness, you don’t say.”

      “There’s a style known as the Empire set, very rare, produced in a limited edition. I’d have to do more research, but my sense is, this could be extremely valuable.” Not that it would matter

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