The two exchanged glances and dissolved into laughter. "I warned you," Cheryl gasped, wiping her eyes. "Give me your card."
"No, no. I'm all right now," Karen assured her, clutching the magic ticket. "I won't do it again, I promise."
When the auctioneer started on the last row of decrepit furniture, Cheryl glanced at her watch. "Let's get something to eat and check out the things inside. It should take him about half an hour to finish this lot."
"No, wait a minute," Karen said abstractedly. "I want to see how much he gets for that old rusty stove."
"No, you don't. Aren't you hungry?"
"No. I just might be able to use that-"
"Karen!"
"Oh, all right," Karen grumbled, and let herself be led away.
Karen was glad she had a knowledgeable companion; she would not have thought to bring something to sit on, and now that her fit of auction fever was subsiding she realized her legs were wobbly with weariness. They found their chairs and Karen collapsed with a sigh.
"I should have told you to bring a hat," Cheryl said, looking anxiously at Karen's flushed face.
"I'm fine. Just let me sit a minute."
"You stay there, I'll get us something to drink."
She returned with cold drinks and sandwiches and two pieces of cake. Karen decided to forget about her diet; the cake was homemade and delicious. Refreshed and revived, she got to her feet and headed purposefully for the tables at the front of the shed, followed by an amused Cheryl.
Karen was tempted to linger over the dishes and glassware. Some of the pieces, especially the hand-painted Bavarian and Austrian bowls, were quite charming. However, after having watched Julie sell a single goblet for three hundred dollars and another that looked identical for twenty-five, she had decided she would not deal in such items. She simply didn't know enough about them, and she couldn't become an expert in every field of antiques.
One table was piled with linens and quilts. The choicer of these items were displayed on wooden racks, and Karen reached a covetous hand toward an appliqued quilt, each square of which had a different pattern.
"That's an album quilt," Cheryl said. "The squares were made by different friends-"
"I know, Julie had one. She sells these things for five and six hundred dollars. If I could get it for two hundred-"
"You won't," said another woman, who was subjecting the quilt to a searching scrutiny.
Karen stared at her. She was a pleasant-faced person, about Karen's age, with brown hair pulled back into a ponytail and laughter lines around her mouth; but Karen's viewpoint had changed. All other bidders were now potential rivals, and she was prepared to dislike each and every one of them.
"Are you going to bid?" she asked suspiciously.
"Probably. But I won't get it either. See that gal over there?" A flick of her thumb indicated a tall, white-haired woman dressed elegantly and incongruously in a knit dress, hose, and heels. "That's Liz Nafziger. She's got more money than God, and she collects linens and quilts. She can top any offer I could make, because I have to make my profit."
"You're a dealer?" Karen asked.
The woman nodded. "I have a shop in Harper's Ferry. Quilts, coverlets, old lace, vintage clothing."
"My friend is a dealer, too," Cheryl said proudly. "She specializes in vintage."
"Oh?" The other woman's smile faded; she and Karen studied one another warily. "Where's your shop?"
"I don't have one yet," Karen admitted. "I'm just starting. To be honest, I don't know what I'm doing."
"Sisters under the skin." The other woman held out a tanned dusty hand. "Helen Johnson."
Karen introduced herself and Cheryl. "I don't want to bid against you," she began.
"Boy, do you have a lot to learn," Helen said bluntly. "You bid against anybody and everybody, dear, and the devil take the hindmost. Don't bid against Liz, though, unless you want to run the price up just for spite. And speaking of spite, there's one you want to watch out for- see that fat little dumpling with the rosy cheeks and the sweet smile? She's got a place in Baltimore and she'll rearrange the boxes while you aren't looking."
"I don't understand."
Helen nudged the cardboard cartons under the table with her sandaled toe. "Well, suppose you scrounge around in these boxes and find something you'd like to have. You're bidding on the whole lot, but that one piece makes it worthwhile. So when your box comes up, you bid, and you get it cheap, and you think, hip hip hurrah- until you take a closer look and discover the one item you wanted isn't there. By a strange coincidence it happened to work its way into the box Margie just bought."
"It's very nice of you to tell me these things," Karen said humbly.
"You'll find it pays to stay on good terms with your colleagues in crime," Helen said. "We can help each other out now and then because we aren't competing, in the usual sense; our merchandise is one of a kind. If a customer comes in who is looking for a particular style or size I don't have, I'll send her on to you, and you do the same for me. If a check bounces on you, you warn me, and vice versa. Once you acquire a reputation for square dealing, people will be more likely to deal fairly with you. Don't expect any special favors, though," she added with a smile. "Not even from me."
"But doesn't it make sense for dealers to agree beforehand not to bid against each other-taking turns on the items they all want?"
Helen tried to look shocked. "Why, Karen, that's considered unethical, if not downright immoral." The amusement she had attempted to suppress surfaced in an unexpected dimple; grinning, she added, "I'm sure you wouldn't dream of doing such a thing, any more than I would. At least you shouldn't discuss it aloud."
She turned with apparent casualness to a heap of linens that had been left in a hopeless tangle by inquiring buyers. Helen's tanned, capable hands sorted swiftly through them.
"Nothing here," she announced. "Actually, I seldom buy at auctions. The merchandise is usually in terrible condition."
"Where do you get your stock?" Karen asked innocently.
Helen moved on to another pile of fabrics without answering. Karen was about to repeat the question when Cheryl nudged her. "Would you tell other dealers about your sources?" she whispered.
"Oh," Karen whispered back.
There were a few old dresses and bits of wearing apparel in the pile Helen was examining. One caught Karen's eye, and after Helen had tossed it aside she picked it up.
It was a dress made of ivory silk, the body unfitted, the modest neckline bordered with lace. A deep flounce of lace trimmed the hem, and rows of pearls, some of them missing, edged the neck and hipline. The rotted remains of a silk flower clung horribly to the left hip, like a big brown spider.
"How pretty," said the romantic Cheryl, seeing the dress as it had once been, not as it was now. "What period is it, Karen?"
Karen glanced at Helen. "Late twenties or early thirties, I think," she said timidly.
Helen nodded. "It's in terrible condition. The lace is hopelessly rotted and most of the beads are gone."
"But the fabric of the dress is in good shape," Cheryl said.
She was right; there were not even perspiration stains, which, as Karen had learned, made a silk garment useless to a dealer. Perspiration rotted silk and left a stain that no cleaner could remove.
"It's a wedding dress," she said.
Cheryl laughed. "She must have got married in January, in an unheated church. Or else she was the calmest bride in recorded history."
"But who would sell her wedding dress, or her mother's?" Karen asked. "I bought a veil from someone the other day; honestly, it's enough to make you a cynic about marriage."
"It was mine," said a voice behind them.
An arm reached out and seized the dress. The arm belonged to an elderly woman wearing a cotton house dress and faded sneakers. Her lined, deeply tanned face was bare of make-up and her hair had been pulled back into a tight, ugly bun. Her eyes, deep-set under bushy gray brows, fixed on the dress with strange intensity.