“That’s really sad,” Ava says, looking to me.
I nod. “I’m not about to spend thousands for a simple birthday.”
She pulls a face. “No, I meant it’s sad that Mrs.Craft’s son died?”
My mouth forms an O and I’m about to agree when Matilda cuts in.
“Thousands?” Her nose scrunches.
I turn my head toward her. “You said this sale paid for her son’s wake,” I answer.
“No, dear. Mrs.Craft sold off multiple collections. She was practically a hoarder of fine pieces. This is only one of fifteen sets of antique dishes she sold. The least expensive of the lot.”Mrs.Hampson’s eyes narrow in on me. “Alyssa Mann, which birthday are you celebrating?”
“It’s over,” I say, shooting Ava a look I hope conveys that she’s going to pay if she spills any details.
Ava smirks, turning toward Mrs.Hampson. “The big four-oh.”
Mrs.Hampson’s eyes light up. “Happy birthday, dear. You must splurge, then.”
I blow out a breath. “How much?” I ask, shooting Ava another look as she laughs.
“For the set?” she asks, picking at something under her nail. “Six hundred.”
I purse my lips. “It does seem unfair that Gloria should have to part with these for such a meager amount. First her son, then one of her prized collections? It feels wrong.”
“Didn’t she lose a daughter a few years back?” Ava asks, and I rack my brain, unable to recall.
Mrs.Hampson frowns. “The cornered rat will lick the balls of the cat,” she says, tilting her head in thought. “Or maybe it’s the cat who licks the balls?” She shrugs both shoulders. “Either way, Mrs.Craft did what she had to.”
“Huh?” I ask, looking to Ava, who’s practically choking on her laughter.
“Turkish proverb, dear. I became very interested in the culture while researching the worth of the collection.” Her eyes practically glow with delight—whether from shocking me or from simply recalling her research, I’m unsure.
My eyebrows lift into my hairline. “Interesting.” It’s all I can manage. Those words coming out of little ol’ Mrs.Hampson are too much to unpack. “Can you wrap it all up?” I ask, trying to steer her back to safer topics.
“Of course.” She beams, rushing off toward the back room.
I turn to Ava, who’s bent over laughing.
“Ava Marie, pull yourself together.” My smile gives away the mock scold.
“I can’t,” she wheezes. “Your face when she said ‘balls.’ ” Her voice cracks and my eyes roll.
“And here I thought you were the mature one.”
She snorts and I turn toward the window.
My hands run across the dishes, taking in all the pieces. Two large and two small platters, a set of three large bowls, a decanter, four hand-painted stemmed glasses, and something I can’t identify. All in various shades of turquoise with a deep blue color creating the flower motif etched into the dishes.
Mrs.Hampson returns with bubble wrap and boxes, setting to work.
“What’s that piece?” I ask, pointing to the unidentified dish.
She doesn’t meet my eyes when she says, “That’s an urn.”
“An urn?” My bottom lip pops out. “With dishes?”
She continues wrapping the bowls in the bubble wrap and sighs. “That’s what my research found. But don’t worry, dear. When I spoke to Gloria, she assured me that it was only ever used as a cookie jar.”
