Paula arrived seven minutes early for her appointment, but it took her four minutes to find the small glass door set into the side of the red brick building. The shade was pulled, and a handwritten sign said in impeccable penmanship, 'Closed-By Appointment Only'. She checked her watch, unsure of the etiquette in situations like this. Should she wait until the appointed minute, or was arriving early forgivable under the circumstances? She stared at her faint reflection in the glass, hoping for an answer, but all she saw was the dark circles under her brown eyes and the cowlick of black hair that she never could tame. Finally, after two and a half minutes, she rapped her knuckle against the old wooden door frame and took a small step back to wait for a response.
She halfway hoped there wouldn't be one. Mother might be convinced that Uncle Jim's basement full of junk was actually some kind of secret treasure trove, but Paula was pretty sure that hiring an appraiser was throwing good money after bad. It would solve a lot of problems if Mister Price decided to flake out on them. Didn't antique collectors have a reputation for being weird and eccentric? Especially ones who didn't keep regular office hours, and worked 'by appointment only'. That was a clear sign that they wore their pajamas all day and blew off their clients to go examine a rare find in the Lost Temple of Freedonia or-
The door opened to reveal a slim, dark-haired Caucasian man in his early forties. He had a small, well-groomed mustache, and he wore a neatly-tailored black suit with a vivid, bright red tie as the only splash of color about his person. "Hello, Ms. Reid," he said. "Thank you for your promptness. It is greatly appreciated, I assure you. I am Merrion Price-we spoke over the phone, I believe?"
Paula summoned up a smile, determined not to take her family squabbles out on what appeared to be a perfectly nice man. "That was my mother, actually," she said. "She wasn't able to make it today, I'm afraid; she has some difficulty getting around these days."
Merrion composed his features into an expression of mild contrition. "My apologies," he said. "I should have realized at once that you were far too young to be the Ms. Reid who made the arrangements earlier. I trust your mother isn't faring too badly?"
Paula tried to fill the pause as quickly as she could, but years of frustration fought with her social graces for a way out of her mouth. Years of living her mother's life instead of her own, of feeling like she was never alone even inside her own head, of giving love to someone who didn't seem capable of returning it. A long silence was probably the best possible outcome under the circumstances. "As well as can be hoped for," she said at last, burying a decade of resentment in the trite phrase. "Shall we begin, Mister Price?"
"Of course," he said, "and please-call me Merrion." He ushered her into the narrow hallway with a gesture. "Right this way, please." He closed and locked the door behind them, and led her into a small, brightly lit office off the main hall. "I hate to bring it up, but your mother and I did discuss my rates over the phone?"
"I've got the check right here," Paula said, reaching into her purse to get it out. Privately, she prayed that it wasn't entirely rubber; $200 represented almost half of Mother's disability payments for the month, and Paula was all too used to supplementing Mother's funds even under normal circumstances. Still, she knew better than to argue with Mother when she said that the money was in the account, because that inevitably led to the question of what other places that cash might have gone off to, and that quickly turned into an all-night conversation. She handed over the check and mentally crossed her fingers.
"Excellent," Merrion replied, taking the slip of paper and carefully putting it into his breast pocket. "Now, I believe you brought the items along with you?"
"The smaller ones, yes," Paula said as she unslung the knapsack from her shoulder. "I've taken photos of the larger things as you requested." She pulled out her phone and set it on the table as Merrion put on a pair of latex gloves.
"We'll get to those presently," Merrion said, flexing his fingers and smiling in visible anticipation. "For now, let's see what we've got right in front of us, shall we? After all, the true enjoyment in examining historical curiosities is holding the past in your hand." He opened the knapsack and began to carefully lift out the items in turn.
Paula tried not to wince as he examined them. She'd already seen each and every one while she packed them, and all she could see when she looked at them was a pile of junk that Mother was wasting money she didn't have over. There was a ceramic cup that was probably made at a Renaissance Festival, and an old copper ring that had turned pure green and would probably do the same to any finger it was placed on. There was a handful of foreign coins that probably wouldn't fetch a dollar at a currency exchange, a box of toy soldiers that looked half-melted, and an old key that looked like a prop the Crypt Keeper would use. Paula couldn't imagine all of it together would even cover the $200 appraisal fee, let alone put them on Easy Street like Mother claimed-
"Hmm," Merrion said, carefully lifting up first one item, then another. "Interesting. Most...eclectic. Your uncle-did he discuss his collection with you? Or with your mother?"
Paula shook her head. "I don't believe he and my mother spoke since I was about seven," she replied. "You'd have to ask her about it, though. She never talked much about Uncle Jim." Even when she'd been drinking, which was pretty impressive. Paula had always suspected it was to do with money, but she wasn't about to share her guesses with a complete stranger. Even a polite one.
"I see." He picked up one of the old coins. "And his will-did it contain any instructions for the disposition of these items?"
Paula's smile went a bit plastic for a moment. "I'm afraid my uncle didn't leave a will," she said. One of the many arguments she'd had with Mother about Uncle Jim's old junk was the dubious legality of selling it for large sums of money. Mother had signed some sort of paperwork attesting that it held only sentimental value in order to allow them to keep it after the various lawyers and creditors ate up most of Uncle Jim's wealth. Selling it would probably violate some sort of law.
"Died before his time, I take it?" Merrion asked, his expression sympathetic.
"I'm not sure Uncle Jim ever really thought he was going to have a time," she said with a rueful grin. She barely remembered the man, but she always had an impression of tremendous energy and an unshakable conviction that life was never going to stop bringing good things his way.
