feeling that on some level I knew less than when I’d arrived.
Back at Prescott’s, I entered the building through the tag sale shack. Eric and the part-timers were already at work. He stood by the inside door, huddling with his team. I waved hello to everyone, gestured that he should continue, and leaned against the back wall, listening in.
“We have a lot of glassware this week. As we bring it out, we’ll line everything up on this table, and then, once we can see it all, we’ll decide how to arrange it. Keep an eye out for some yellow bowls,” Eric told them, referring to the small collection of Depression glass we’d acquired when an older couple, preparing to downsize, decided to sell off most of their collection. “We don’t want to just mix them in with the regular stuff. We’ll do something to make them stand out.”
“Like what?” a new part-timer asked.
“Usually we create levels by covering plastic milk crates with tablecloths. Sometimes we put glasses on a tray. Once we even set a table with napkins and plates and everything.” He shrugged. “Any other ideas to make the inventory look good, we’re open!”
I caught his eye and mouthed, “Great job!” and waved, confident that when I returned, the Depression glass would be cleverly displayed.
As I stepped into the front office, Cara was dusting her desk—Gretchen’s desk. Sasha looked up from a catalogue she was reading. Fred was typing something.
“Any news about Gretchen?” Sasha asked.
I shook my head. “Not yet.”
The phone rang. Cara answered, then put the caller on hold and told me it was Phil. Phil’s Exeter-based auction company was known as a reliable source for architectural items, stocking everything from hinges and molding to fences and gates. He wouldn’t have called if he didn’t have something he knew I’d want. I had Cara tell him I’d be right with him and dashed upstairs.
“Josie,” he said, “how ya doing?”
We were planning an auction of architectural remnants called Architectural Antiques in August. For two years, we’d worked to amass and catalogue an impressive collection of objects, both those that are generally available, like early nineteenth-century flooring and windows, and those that are harder to find, like built-in bookcases. I’d put the word out among local dealers that I was in the market for any high-end architectural antiques that came their way. Given the trend to rip down old structures to build new ones, there was no shortage of inventory, but as in all aspects of the business, most of the available objects were run-of-the-mill, not distinctive. From dolls to porcelain and from furniture to paintings, it was routine and easy to acquire objects but labor-intensive and difficult to acquire good objects.
All antiques dealers depend on pickers—itinerant sellers of antiques and collectibles. Pickers have favorite dealers for various items, giving the first look to those dealers known to pay a premium, which most dealers can do only when they specialize in a certain category. I didn’t know who Phil’s pickers were, but he sure had an in with someone.
His voice sounded husky, as if he had a bad cold.
“You okay, Phil? You sound a little rough around the edges.”
“Got one of those damn colds going around. I’m okay. Listen, are you still interested in architectural antiques?”
“Definitely,” I replied. I crossed my fingers. “What do you have?”
“I just got in a few nineteenth-century locks. I know for sure there’s no gems, but they’re pretty ornate.”
My excitement waned. Because houses have so many doors, locks are fairly commonplace and sell for less than custom pieces like hand-carved mantels or decorative painted boards. Supply and demand, I thought. In an unregulated marketplace, it was one of the chief determinants of value. Still, there was a strong market for ornate antique hardware.
Phil named the price range he had in mind. “You can tell me what
Back at Prescott’s, I entered the building through the tag sale shack. Eric and the part-timers were already at work. He stood by the inside door, huddling with his team. I waved hello to everyone, gestured that he should continue, and leaned against the back wall, listening in.
“We have a lot of glassware this week. As we bring it out, we’ll line everything up on this table, and then, once we can see it all, we’ll decide how to arrange it. Keep an eye out for some yellow bowls,” Eric told them, referring to the small collection of Depression glass we’d acquired when an older couple, preparing to downsize, decided to sell off most of their collection. “We don’t want to just mix them in with the regular stuff. We’ll do something to make them stand out.”
“Like what?” a new part-timer asked.
“Usually we create levels by covering plastic milk crates with tablecloths. Sometimes we put glasses on a tray. Once we even set a table with napkins and plates and everything.” He shrugged. “Any other ideas to make the inventory look good, we’re open!”
I caught his eye and mouthed, “Great job!” and waved, confident that when I returned, the Depression glass would be cleverly displayed.
As I stepped into the front office, Cara was dusting her desk—Gretchen’s desk. Sasha looked up from a catalogue she was reading. Fred was typing something.
“Any news about Gretchen?” Sasha asked.
I shook my head. “Not yet.”
The phone rang. Cara answered, then put the caller on hold and told me it was Phil. Phil’s Exeter-based auction company was known as a reliable source for architectural items, stocking everything from hinges and molding to fences and gates. He wouldn’t have called if he didn’t have something he knew I’d want. I had Cara tell him I’d be right with him and dashed upstairs.
“Josie,” he said, “how ya doing?”
We were planning an auction of architectural remnants called Architectural Antiques in August. For two years, we’d worked to amass and catalogue an impressive collection of objects, both those that are generally available, like early nineteenth-century flooring and windows, and those that are harder to find, like built-in bookcases. I’d put the word out among local dealers that I was in the market for any high-end architectural antiques that came their way. Given the trend to rip down old structures to build new ones, there was no shortage of inventory, but as in all aspects of the business, most of the available objects were run-of-the-mill, not distinctive. From dolls to porcelain and from furniture to paintings, it was routine and easy to acquire objects but labor-intensive and difficult to acquire good objects.
All antiques dealers depend on pickers—itinerant sellers of antiques and collectibles. Pickers have favorite dealers for various items, giving the first look to those dealers known to pay a premium, which most dealers can do only when they specialize in a certain category. I didn’t know who Phil’s pickers were, but he sure had an in with someone.
His voice sounded husky, as if he had a bad cold.
“You okay, Phil? You sound a little rough around the edges.”
“Got one of those damn colds going around. I’m okay. Listen, are you still interested in architectural antiques?”
“Definitely,” I replied. I crossed my fingers. “What do you have?”
“I just got in a few nineteenth-century locks. I know for sure there’s no gems, but they’re pretty ornate.”
My excitement waned. Because houses have so many doors, locks are fairly commonplace and sell for less than custom pieces like hand-carved mantels or decorative painted boards. Supply and demand, I thought. In an unregulated marketplace, it was one of the chief determinants of value. Still, there was a strong market for ornate antique hardware.
Phil named the price range he had in mind. “You can tell me what
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