Gemma was relieved to hear that her aunt wasn’t trying to sell the Electric Rose out from under her. But the fact that this well-connected woman couldn’t find any clues about its whereabouts was discouraging. Was it possible her grandparents simply locked it away somewhere after her mother’s death? It seemed the most likely explanation. She said as much to Sloan, who looked dubious.

“It’s possible,” she said. Then she pulled her handbag onto her lap and fished out a business card, sliding it across the table, avoiding a puddle of spilled hot chocolate. “If you think of anything, feel free to be in touch. I’ll keep my eyes out, too.”

Gemma took the card, knowing that when she got her hands on her mother’s ring, the last thing she would ever do was call Sloan Pierce. The problem was she had no idea how to go about finding it on her own.

11

For Celeste, antiquing was never about the object itself. It was the thrill of the hunt.

It had taken a few seasons for her to get to know the sweet spot of her Provincetown clientele. They had impeccable taste and plenty of disposable income, but they didn’t come to her for million-dollar paintings or rare Chinese porcelain. They wanted things that spoke to them: a great piece of pressed glass, a wooden medicine cabinet from the early 1900s, a Baccarat paperweight. At this point, she could spot something at an estate sale and purchase it with a specific client in mind. She’d text that client from the road and they’d be at the store first thing in the morning. Sometimes that client was herself. Just last week she’d found a Federal-style mahogany sideboard for their bedroom. Of course, this sort of impulse buying was an occupational hazard—one that drove Jack crazy. Just that morning, as she headed out for the sale, he’d said, “Remember, you’re looking for the store only.”

They both knew it was likely she wouldn’t find anything even just for the store. Queen Anne’s Revenge had become so well-known on the Cape that they fielded dozens of calls a week to come visit estate sales. More often than not, Celeste had the unenviable task of disappointing them—either declining to attend or showing up only to leave empty-handed.

Today, the seller was the daughter of a recently deceased author of several acclaimed bird-watching guides. The family was fifth-generation Cape Cod, a promising pedigree for estate-hunting. Sure enough, just a half hour into her perusal of the tagged items throughout the Craftsman house, she found some unusual Bakelite buttons, a goose-necked copper kettle from the 1800s, and a gold-topped wooden walking stick. The walking stick was just the type of thing her customer Clifford Henry, the town Realtor, had been asking for. This particular piece was beautiful but needed a little restoration. She’d ask Jack for help with that.