TITLE:
Darkest Before Dawn 34 "The Gallery"
AUTHOR: Nmissi
PART:34/?
DISCLAIMER: I own Nothing and No one.
Especially not Spike. If I did,
what makes you think I'd share him with you?
DISTRIBUTION: Want it? Take it. Just let me know where it's going.
Feedback:
Please. Nmissi@aol.com
SUMMARY: The way the world would work if I wrote the Buffyverse.
NOTE:
If you don't like the way I write my story, hey, write your own! Don't email me
with your ideas, just write them and let me enjoy them as your story. I've got
notes, an outline- It's way too late for me to "incorporate" anyone's
suggestions, okay?
Back out onto the street, he
squinted into the daylight as he fumbled with his watch. He still wasn't used
to wearing one all the time, and it itched terribly, but not as badly as the
godforsaken tie he was wearing. Somehow he could feel the dratted thing through
the fabric of his collar, chafing and choking him.
It was one thirty. He'd been out
since eight this morning, after dropping the Nibblet off at school. So far, no
luck- thirteen "thank you, we'll be in touch" es, and no hire yet. He folded
the classifieds under his arm, grumbling.
"that stripper gig is lookin' better
all the time," he mumbled.
He realized he was only a block or
so from Joyce's Gallery. Although he'd never been there, he knew the address.
He'd passed by before, after hours, of course. Sometimes he'd peeked in the
windows, and imagined Joyce working there. The idea of breaking in had occurred
to him, naturally- But he had too much respect for Joyce to do that, so he'd
settled for the windows. She'd run a beautiful shop, full of treasured
antiquities that glittered like jewels.
"Mayhap the Slayer'd like a bit of
company," he thought. Yeah, maybe he'd see if she'd want to go get lunch or something.
She hadn't been eating very well of late. Maybe it was the morning sickness, or
maybe it was the stress, but either way- It wasn't good. Buffy was shrinking
daily, right before his eyes.
Yeah, that was it. He'd go get
Buffy, take her to get a decent meal. Then he'd go back to pedaling his phony
work history and his equally artificial credentials.
He pushed the door open, and was
immediately greeted by the scent of freesia in the air. It was welcoming. He
stepped inside, and took in the atmosphere of the gallery.
It was nominally an art gallery, but
it did a thriving business in antiquities as well. California style was growing
to encompass bits of Mayan and Incan, as well as references to the classical-
Grecian urns and roman amphorae had become sought after conversation pieces.
Spike noted the absence of the commonly found knock offs, and smiled. Joyce had
always enjoyed flawless taste.
A short brunette behind the counter looked up as he
came over.
"Can I help you?" she asked.
He smiled at her, but a customer stepped between them and
blocked his view.
"Yes. You can. I want to know how much this is worth."
The woman was stout, broad built, and middle aged. Her
shrill voice was like nails on a chalkboard, as she waved hunks of broken pottery
under the merchant's nose.
"I need to get an estimate on these, what they're worth.
The sign says you do estimates."
The girl tried to answer her.
"We do, normally, but our buyer is not available right
now. I'm afraid I'm not knowledgeable
enough to help you. Also, it helps to have an appointment for appraisals."
The thick woman was not happy with this response; she
reiterated that the sign stated that they did appraisals. She wanted one, now.
She might sell them her potshards if the price was right.
The girl explained again that the buyer was out. The
woman complained about business that led the public on, with lies.
At this point, Spike interjected himself into the
conversation. The older woman was getting rapidly worse, her speech becoming abusive.
The girl behind the counter seemed unused to confrontation, cringing away from
her.
He dripped charm as he enquired after the pieces, in
cultured tones he rarely used.
"Madam, might I see your pieces?"
She presented three potshards, and Spike quickly marked
them as authentic. Native American, probably Anasazi.
"Is this all you have?" he asked.
She shook her head, and furtively withdrew a larger,
intact pot from her oversized bag.
She handed it to him.
He looked it over, marked it to be twelfth century,
concurrent to the bits. He turned it over, and frowned intently at the small
hole drilled in it.
His voice was brittle, as he queried her.
"Where did you get this?"
There was none of his Eton accent now; he was north
London and a little bit angry.
She stuttered as she spoke to him.
"Give that back! Never mind, I don't want an estimate.
I'll get one someplace else."
He held the piece out of her reach, as he looked over at
the now terrified shopgirl.
"Call the police, please. It seems our friend here must
have done a bit of vacationing in Colorado recently. Right?"
He looked at the irate woman, and fear crept into her
face. She stopped demanding her pot back.
"And what did you do on vacation, Madam? Bit o' sightseein'? Some pueblo visiting? I
recall the Anasazi ruins to be lovely, even by moonlight."
He sneered at her, as she backed away.
"But unfortunately our little friend did herself a bit o'
grave robbing, too."
The woman fled the shop, leaving her evidence behind. He
turned to the shopgirl, already hanging up with the police."
"They'll be here any minute, but I don't think they'll
catch her."
"Ever see her before?"
"No. Never, sorry."
"Did you get her name by chance?"
The girl shook her head.
"No. I didn't even ask."
He sighed.
"Oh, well. We've contacted the police, and they'll get
these back to Colorado at least. I wonder how badly she disturbed the site."
"How did you know where she got them?" the girl asked
him.
He flipped the pot, and showed her the hole.
"This is a 'Killed Pot'- it's been bored out. That means
it was used as a funeral offering. It's a burial pot. Coloration and thickness
of the shards is similar; they were interred together. Those three pieces also
look to be from the same vessel."
He turned them in his hands, showing her what to look
for. He explained about the markings and the coloration, and wished for
something from a later period to help her better understand the differences.
"Anyway, it's a damn shame they won't get her. She'll
probably do it again, if she can find a disreputable buyer. It's easy money,
the stuff's just lyin' around the canyon. You don't even half to dig for it
half the time."
He realized he'd been talking, but hadn't introduced
himself, so he put out his hand.
"Hi, I'm Sp- William. William Walthrop."
She shook his hand, smiling.
"Jeanette Dupres. And thank you, you were quite a help!"
She glanced at the newspaper under his arm.
"Oh! You're here about the job! Of course!"
He opened his mouth to correct her, but she rambled on
ahead of him excitedly.
"I know Buffy will just love you! It's been very
difficult around here the last few months. Our owner died recently, and her
daughter's taken over the running of the business. But she and I, we don't
really have that much experience in the field. You saw me with that lady- I
know very little about southwest pottery. Buffy probably knows less. But You!
You were wonderful!"
She ran on in this manner for several minutes, and he
found himself considering it. He had over a hundred years experience with history. He'd traveled the world several
dozen times. He was no expert, but he had a good deal of broad knowledge with
regards to art and art history. And he confessed to a secret love of archaeology.
Maybe it would work.
If it didn't, there was always the gay club down the
street. They'd doubtless love him as a dancing boy in a cage.
Yeah, the Gallery might just be the ticket, he decided.
And wouldn't Buffy be surprised….