Read Vultures at Twilight for Free Online Page B

lips.
    Ada turned to me, smiling, clearly enjoying her role as the wide-eyed innocent. ‘Do you think it’s OK, Lil?’
    I shrugged, not entirely certain what her game was, and eager to get Taffy, with her too-cute matching orange polka dot ribbon, out the door.
    â€˜Let’s see.’ She counted on her fingers. ‘We just met with that lovely Mr Jacobs . . .’
    â€˜Tolliver?’ Mildred asked. ‘Did he make an offer?’
    â€˜No, but he said he would. And I must say that you and he had very different takes on things.’
    Mildred tensed, her lips tightened and she gripped Taffy like a furry football. ‘Well,’ she responded, ‘this is a highly subjective profession. Get any three dealers in a room and you’ll get three different stories.’
    â€˜Yes,’ said Ada, ‘I see that.’ And she showed Mildred and Taffy to the door.
    â€˜Two hundred dollars for Evie’s charger!’ Ada fumed after the dealer had left. ‘I should report her to The Better Business Bureau.’
    â€˜People swear by her,’ I commented, noting the flush in Ada’s cheeks, and how her eyes seemed bluer – like sapphires – when she was angry. ‘It does seem criminal. What if we didn’t know? Most people don’t, particularly in Pilgrim’s Progress. I hate to say it, but if I were a criminal, I’d definitely focus on older people.’
    â€˜A lot of them do,’ Ada stated. ‘Since I moved here, I’m forever getting these awful phone calls from people telling me I’ve won something, but in order to collect I have to buy a water purifier, or something equally ridiculous. The worst part is, I know people who’ve bought those damn things, and half of them know they’re being taken for a ride.’
    â€˜Me too. So why do they do it?’
    Before Ada could respond, the bell rang.
    â€˜Contestant number three?’ I asked.
    â€˜Enter and sign in please,’ she quipped. ‘I loved that show.’ And she opened the front door.
    Wafting in on the acrid stench of tobacco came Rudy Caputo, a potbellied man with a shock of white hair and a smoldering cigar glued to the corner of his unshaven mouth. He wore a well-loved black biker jacket and a pair of khaki paratrooper pants with pockets that tracked up and down his legs. I instantly recognized him as one of the major buyers at McElroy’s auction. On a good night, Mr Caputo could buy up a third to a half of the furniture, making the other dealers squirm as Chippendale highboys and Queen Anne tea tables were hoisted to his truck. Often McElroy would joke: ‘ Well, guess that’s heading to the West Coast, ’ or ‘ California here I come. ’
    â€˜You Ada Strauss?’ he grunted as he came through the door.
    â€˜Yes,’ said Ada. ‘And if you wouldn’t mind putting out your cigar, I’d appreciate it.’
    â€˜No problem.’ He flicked off the smoldering tip with his bare finger and then crushed the ash into the doorstep with his booted foot.
    â€˜Nice place,’ he commented, sticking the unlit stub back in his mouth. He moved from the foyer to the living room, with its vaulted ceiling, skylights and abundant windows. ‘Looks like some decent pieces, too.’ He dropped on one knee and examined the underside of a Queen Anne style wingback chair. ‘You know if this is all original?’ he asked.
    â€˜No idea,’ Ada admitted. ‘My friend collected a lot of things, and some came down through her family. I’m not sure which are which.’
    â€˜You getting multiple quotes?’ he asked.
    â€˜Yes.’
    He mumbled something unintelligible. I thought I heard the words ‘waste of my time’, but I couldn’t be certain. He was all business, tipping back chairs, running a flashlight over joints in the furniture and pulling out a tape measure when he came to