Still Life by Melissa Milgrom (thriller books to read .TXT) 📗

at the eleventh hour, but now that seemed improbable. I knew the general public might find the collection distasteful (the dealers were ahead of the curve; taxidermy wouldn't be considered hip and trendy again for another two years), but some smart curator at some big museum had to know what was at stake, which was, in the words of Richard Taylor, deputy librarian at the art college in Dartington who had launched an unsuccessful campaign to save it, "an absolutely unique, irreplaceable collection, and a national treasure."

Half a million pounds, the Wattses' rumored minimum price for the entire collection, was unremarkable when compared to what a large museum might pay for a single Dutch masterwork, Pat Morris remarked. I wished someone would make a last-ditch offer that Bonhams and the Wattses couldn't refuse. And it had almost happened. Damien Hirst reportedly made a one-million-pound offer for the entire contents. He wanted to merge Potter's with his own sculptures to form his own museum of curiosities. But his offer had reportedly been rejected because he had missed the August deadline for single offers. Hirst published a letter in the Guardian in which he called the sale a tragedy. He owns a house in neighboring Devon and brought his kids to Potter's all the time to watch their faces light up. He said that Potter's had meaning only if it was kept together.

The next morning, Hawkins and I climb into her van and leave Fowey's old port behind. The auction will start in an hour, barely enough time to make the drive, which winds through quaint towns where no one—except Hawkins, who is in high gear—appears to be in any hurry. She still has to finalize lot prices with her boyfriend, and she's jumpy, fumbling for her cell phone with one hand while keeping the other one on the wheel. I try not to focus on her driving and look out the window instead. Shafts of sunlight stab through a huge white cloud—an incredibly dramatic sky over a breathtaking landscape of granite cliffs and green hills. Hawkins couldn't care less. But now her cell phone is dead, no reception, and she starts to lose it while barreling down the winding road. "I can't believe this!" she fumes. "I've got to readjust my game strategy! I've got to call some people! You've got to make sure you're making the right decision for your clients."

Things only get worse. Another snag: a car crash in our lane. Thankfully, her cell phone reception is restored. Suddenly stuck in traffic, she feverishly phones her banker to make sure she's liquid should Bonhams call to verify funds. But alas, the bank's computers are down, and Hawkins, in a near panic, convinces the bank manager to vouch for her. Then she clicks off her phone, bellowing with delight, "I love a bank when [its] computers are down!"

She calls a client to confer on a lot. "Darling, you're a star! You looked brilliant! Bye, gorgeous!" Then she calls her boyfriend. "At least my boyfriend and banker are on call."

At 9:49, the Jamaica Inn's parking lot is packed. The sun is blinding, bright white, and blue Bonhams flags, hung high on poles, snap in the wind. Hawkins calls her boyfriend one last time: "Lot 66. The scarlet ibis. Eight hundred fifty pounds." Then she clicks off and strides into the tavern. The du Maurier Restaurant, with its timber beams and rustic crockery, is now an auction hall, brimming with three hundred or so people seated in rows of white chairs, as at a wedding, with paddles instead of fans and people instead of kittens.

Rob Chinnery is pumped up. He grabs Hawkins and says, "I want a word with you!" Pat Morris stands around in a tie that says WISCONSIN PEREGRINE FALCON SOCIETY. Jamaica Inn owner Kevin Moore wipes his wet brow with the back of his hand. His small, dark eyes dart around the room, and he says, "I'm nervous. I had three hours of sleep last night." Meanwhile, seated in the back, is Andy James, vice president of Ye Olde Curiosity Shop (est. 1899) in Seattle. He's after a church made out of corks and two-headed monstrosities (he'll have to outbid Crime Through Time). He relates the information British traders most fear: "Bonhams says there's been more interest internationally than locally."

Hawkins and Chinnery emerge from their huddle. They stand, strategically, in the middle of the room, directly behind the seated crowd, where they can make eye contact with each other and also be seen by the auctioneers. "We're fired up! You're going to see some action!" Chinnery says to me.

Standing under a wagon wheel behind a podium flanked by a jungle of potted plants, from which emerge a polar bear and a stiff-faced tiger with a tongue that looks like spoiled meat, is Jon Baddeley. He is wearing a gray sport coat with a red Bonhams lapel pin and a blue tie. The sharp white sun and the black wood interior create a blinding chiaroscuro, obscuring the television simulcast of the first lot: the oil portrait of Walter Potter. Potter's portrait is a profile—as if he can't bear to face the crowd. The wide brushstrokes give him the saturated appearance of someone wearing makeup. He is radiant, with his bushy white muttonchops and thick tuft of silver hair, and this suddenly feels to me like a surreal wake. Finally, after a few tension-filled minutes, the auction is about to start. Baddeley, composed and smiling, grabs the mike and, in a steady voice that doesn't remotely evoke a sideshow barker, greets the crowd with words that will never be spoken here again: "May I welcome you to Mr. Potter's Museum of Curiosities."

POSTSCRIPT

In the end, the auction raised £529,800 ($847,600), far less than Hirst's million-pound offer. Hawkins bought The Guinea Pigs' Cricket Match, the scarlet ibis, a skinned rabbit floating in formaldehyde, and several other lots. Fuller snagged Athletic Toads and The Squire and the Parson After Dinner (those gentleman