Angelina Bonaparte Mysteries Box Set Nanci Rathbun (i love reading books txt) 📖

that why I dreamed about Bozo? Because of frustration? Screw it, I thought. It probably has nothing to do with sex. After all, according to Freud, all kinds of non-sexual dreams had sexual meanings, so probably sexual dreams are really related to grocery shopping or gardening.

At six-thirty, sharp, I tapped on the door of AAAA Auctioneers, Starbucks carrier in one hand and my briefcase and purse in the other. I’d deliberately dressed down this morning, hoping to appeal to the no-nonsense tone that Larry projected on yesterday’s call. My black jeans, white tee and running shoes were aimed at making Larry think of me as a real working person, not a glamour girl. The roller shade on the door flapped up and I heard the door lock click open.

“You better be Angelina, ‘cause I want my coffee,” he growled, motioning me in.

“That’s me. Call me Angie,” I answered as I looked him over. He was tall, really tall—at least six-foot-six—and skinny, really skinny—about one-eighty. I was about eye-height to his belt buckle and didn’t want to appear to stare at his crotch, so I craned my neck back to look him in the eyes. “Is there someplace we can sit and talk, Larry?”

He grabbed the coffee carrier and walked to the back of the shop, calling, “This way. Watch where you walk.”

The place was a mess. I had to scoot sideways through narrow aisles of boxes, display cases and tables loaded with goods. It reminded me of rainy summer days as a child spent exploring Papa’s attic, dusty and mysterious, with treasures just waiting to be discovered. It also made me feel itchy and dirty. I would have to shower again before attending Elisa’s funeral.

Larry set the coffees on a small card table in the back room of the shop and motioned me to a folding chair. At least when we were both seated, I didn’t feel like a midget. I uncapped my coffee and took a sip as I looked him over. He wore khaki pants and a short-sleeved plaid sport shirt, with a paisley tie open at the neck. Did the man dress in the dark, or simply put on whatever was next in the closet?

I raised my eyes to his face to avoid the plaid-paisley combo and was pleasantly surprised. Dark brown hair, a little sparse, but he made no attempt at comb-over camouflage; green eyes, with crinkles radiating from the corners in an upward pattern, indicating good humor; unremarkable mouth, enclosed within those parentheses that some call dimples but which don’t really dent the cheeks so much as crease them. About forty-five. Not bad, I thought, except for the clothes.

“Finished?” he asked me.

I laughed, trying not to spray coffee. “Sorry, it’s an occupational hazard.”

“I don’t have a lot of time. The shop’s a mess since my assistant—who was also my wife—walked out on me three months ago. I’m trying to see clients, price and arrange stock and keep the shop open single-handed. So if we’re gonna do this, we better get to it.”

I laid the printout from the web on the table between us, and told Larry about Marcy and Hank Wagner. Larry’s recent break-up made me wonder if his sympathies would lie with Hank. I needn’t have worried.

“So the rat cleaned out their accounts and left, and she’s trying to raise the kids alone?” he asked.

“That’s about the size of it. If I could just get a handle on where he’s at, there’s a chance that I can recover some of their assets. I’m hoping I can flush him out of hiding with the Mego game. But I need to know how to auction it so that he has to reveal himself. A PayPal account or a cashier’s check won’t do it. I need an address, a phone number, something that will lead me to him. Any ideas?”

“Well, an auctioneer wants to know if the bidder will keep the item for himself or wants it for resale. That determines the value. Someone who wants the item for himself sets a private value on it. Someone who wants to eventually sell it sets a common value on it. Sounds like you think this Hank will want to collect it and won’t be as concerned about the common value.”

“That’s right.”

“So you want to advertise this item, which you don’t really possess, collect bids and investigate the bidders, just to see if one of them is Hank?” I nodded. “Sure hope you’re never after me, Angie.” He slurped his coffee and thought for a moment as he swallowed, his Adam’s apple prominent in his thin neck. “The thing is, no reputable auctioneer is going to advertise something that doesn’t exist. It would be unethical. But I guess you could place ads yourself. I don’t deal in this stuff, but there must be magazines that cater to the Trekkies. And they have conventions.”

He continued to ponder the options. “Or you can put it on sale through eBay. I’d use a Trading Assistant, a local company that offers to do all the work for you. They can collect all the info on the bids for you to investigate. Maybe even trace the bidders through their internet logins or servers. Or go down the list of bidders one by one, pretending that each one was the winner. Guess you’ll have to come up with a reason why you can’t deliver the goods, though. Seems like a lot of work for what might not turn out to be any gain.” His green eyes stared at me, waiting.

“It does. I need to rethink my strategy, Larry. But I appreciate your help and your time.” As I turned to leave, a thought struck me. “You’re looking for help in the shop?” He nodded. “Does it have to be someone with auction experience?”

“Right now, I’d hire Attila the Hun if he could ring up sales and straighten up this mess.”

“I might have a candidate. Marcy Wagner. I know she’s got office experience and she’s worked