The War of the Roses

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A cold rain whipped across the clapboard facade of the old house, spattering against the panes. Like everyone else in the bone-damp parlor set up theater style with folding wooden-slat seats, the auctioneer raised his gloomy eyes toward the windows, perhaps hoping the gusty rain would shoot out the glass and abort the abysmal performance.

Oliver Rose sat on an aisle seat, a few rows back from the podium, his long legs stretched out on the battered wooden floor. The room was less than half full, no more than thirty people. Behind the auctioneer, strewn around like the aftermath of a bombing, lay the assorted possessions of the family Barker, the last of whom had lived long enough to make some of this junk valuable.

‘…it’s a genuine Boston rocker,’ the auctioneer droned, his voice cracked and pleading as he pointed to a much abused Windsor-style rocking chair. ‘Made by Hitchcock, Alford and Company, one of the finest names in chairs.’ He looked lugubriously around the silent room, no longer expectant. ‘Damn,’ he snapped. ‘It’s a genuine antique.’

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