One of a Kind

iUniverse, Inc.

Bloomington

Copyright © 2011 by Barbara Erlichman

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Image courtesy of Heritage Auctions (HA.com)

Photograph © James Thew / Fotolia

Cover design by Todd Rawson

ISBN: 978-1-4620-0952-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4620-0953-4 (ebook)

Printed in the United States of America

iUniverse rev. date: 06/28/2011

Contents

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Chapter IX

Chapter X

Chapter XI

Chapter XII

Chapter XIII

Chapter XIV

Chapter XV

Chapter XVI

Chapter XVII

Chapter XVIII

Chapter XIX

Chapter XX

Chapter XXI

Chapter XXII

Chapter XXIII

Epilogue

To Jay

February

Chapter I

It just wasn’t right, thought Mary Frances O’Malley for the hundredth time that morning.

She was well aware of her place and it certainly wasn’t sitting in Mr. Sloan’s living room along with everyone else, waiting for the lawyer to begin.

Once again she wished for the comfortable familiarity of the kitchen. Even though she’d kept the living room spotlessly clean for over twenty years, it would always be her least favorite room. It was too formal, not a place where a body could relax. The Louis XV sofas and chairs were hard and uncomfortable and who could feel at ease walking over a rug that was known to be a priceless antique and irreplaceable? The room’s only personal touch, if such a term could be used, was John Sloan’s collection of alabaster animals, his only hobby. One of her tasks had been to dust them daily, and although terrified of breakage at first, Mr. Sloan had assured her that they were stronger than she was. Over the years she’d become quite fond of them and even given names to her favorites, not that anyone ever noticed or cared.

To this day, however, the thick-piled Chinese rug still frightened her. With its floral design picked out in the palest of pastel colors against an ivory background, it was more like a work of art. It belonged on the wall, she always maintained privately, and her fear spilled over into her nightmares. In her worst ones, she’d be vacuuming and a thread would catch in the motor. Unable to switch off, she’d watch the entire rug slowly unravel until all that remained was one long strand curled in an untidy heap.

She repressed a shudder at the image and let her gaze stray to the window. Usually the view of Central Park and the Manhattan skyline brought her pleasure, especially in the summer, but today it was all but obscured by rain from a winter storm. Once again, her eyes returned to the glass in her hand and her lips tightened. Given sherry too, and in the Baccarat if you please. Not that she wasn’t used to the delicate crystal. Over the years she’d washed it countless times. No, it just wasn’t her place to be sitting with these people like an equal. Her hands, reddened and cracked from years of housework, emphasized the difference. Everyone else’s were soft and flawlessly manicured, with slender fingers that looked to have done nothing more physical than sign checks and credit card slips.

If only she’d come later, she thought miserably, but the lawyer had stressed eleven o’clock. It never occurred to her that she might be treated like a guest, at least by the lawyer. No one else had paid the slightest attention to her, yet why should they? They were all relatives of John Sloan, or had good reason for thinking they’d be remembered in his will. She, they all knew, had merely been his housekeeper.

In spite of all the years she worked for him, Mrs. O’Malley had never liked John Sloan. He was not a likable man, but the money had been good. And as the Blessed Virgin knew only too well, that was all that counted, what with Pat unable to work these last twenty years and the children constantly needing things. Lord, it once seemed there’d be no end to paying out for them. Now they were all long gone except Peter, the only one of her brood left at home, but she’d still continued to work for Mr. Sloan. By then it was easier to stay, they were both used to each other’s ways. Mrs. O’Malley also felt slightly sorry for him. He’d never remarried after his wife’s death and rarely invited guests into his home. Night after night he’d return to his sprawling apartment with only his work for company.

It had only been really difficult during the last year when he was completely bedridden. In addition to her regular housekeeping duties there were special meals to prepare, and if something wasn’t to his liking he’d let her know. Not even his illness had taken the edge off his tongue. Toward the end, though, her indifference had turned to pity. Few people came to visit him, except his two children. Aware of their rocky past, young Mr. Adam had surprised her, displaying the patience of a saint when discussing business with his father. No relatives had called either, although they now they paced the room like hungry jackals, eyes glittering greedily despite mournful expressions.

Of course, private nurses had attended him constantly but they had needed breaks during the day and it had fallen on Mrs. O’Malley to relieve them. Initially she felt uncomfortable but he’d put her at ease, asking questions about her family, the first time he’d ever inquired about her personal life. Gradually she’d told him everything, finding it easier to talk as she realized his interest was genuine.

Her pride had shone through when speaking of Maeve and Sean and Rory, but she’d been more constrained about Kate who’d been left with three little ones after being deserted by her husband, that no good Aiden Kennally. Named after the saint indeed and him running off with the woman next door. Nor had there been any trace of self-pity as she told him about her husband’s bad back, or their oldest son, Pat, Jr., killed by a mugger just three blocks from where he worked, and Peter, her baby, who’d never be anything else.

Over the months she’d become used to John Sloan’s ways and his sudden outbursts no longer scared her. Their last conversation took place shortly before he died. The day nurse had asked for a five-minute break, and as she took a seat by his bed, Mrs. O’Malley thought he was asleep. The bedroom was silent, peaceful almost, and she had begun to tell her rosary, the smooth beads as familiar as old friends.

I’m surprised you still have your faith, remarked John Sloan suddenly.

His words had sounded like an accusation and despite starting visibly, the rhythm of her prayer had continued as she murmured, Wasn’t the Lord’s fault.

You didn’t do it yourself, so whose fault was it? he baited her.

The Lord moves in mysterious ways, she replied, serenity undisturbed. There was a reason for it all.

I envy you your faith Mrs. O’Malley, but I don’t trust it, he had said with a cynical smile. That’s why I took care to provide for you, in case the Lord doesn’t.

After that he fell silent again, as if exhausted by the effort of speaking. From then on he’d steadily deteriorated, dying within the week. On the few occasions she was asked to sit with him, he was too heavily sedated to be aware of her presence. When the nurse finally came into the kitchen with news of his passing she’d been ready with a special novena.

Mrs. O’Malley felt a wave of sadness at the memory, and she closed her eyes tightly to stop the tears. Although he could be curt at times, he’d also been very generous over the years.

John Sloan, it was obvious, had more friends in death than life. People descended on the apartment in droves but the only one to take notice of Mrs. O’Malley was his daughter, the Princess Anne Kuspickski. The title was a legacy from her first husband whose untimely, although not entirely unwelcome, death six months into the marriage left her a widow at twenty. Despite an additional three husbands since then, she had retained the title.

After the funeral I hope you’ll keep to your routine and come in every day, the princess had said on the day of his death. If she did grieve for her father, her self-control was remarkable. It will take months to settle the estate and sort out the apartment. The work, of course, will be much easier than before. You’ve done more than enough these past few months, now you deserve to take it easy. Please stay on.

That’s very kind of you, said Mrs. O’Malley. I’ll gladly help any way I can.

You’ll get three months’ salary when you leave and please tell me if you want to keep on working. Plenty of people are very eager for your services.

Thank you, Mrs. O’Malley had replied, overwhelmed, suddenly remembering a half-forgotten talk with John Sloan. He’d been a man of his word. Evidently he’d spoken to his daughter and these were the arrangements to which he’d referred. It was good to know she wouldn’t have to worry about money or finding a new job for quite some time.

The conversation with the lawyer right after the funeral had been totally unexpected. She and her daughter Kate were about to leave the cemetery when he’d intercepted them at the main gate.

Mrs. O’Malley, it was good of you to come, said Marvin Stein. A frequent visitor to the apartment over the last year, they knew each other well.

Mr. Sloan was good to me. Mrs. O’Malley was not one to speak ill of the dead.

But not the easiest person to work for, Stein observed with a smile. I’m scheduled to read his will at eleven o’clock tomorrow in the apartment. Since you’re mentioned, you should plan on attending. Unfortunately, Adam has to return to San Francisco tonight, but Anne and I will be there to let people in so there’s no need for you to come early.

For the rest of the evening the O’Malley family talked of little else.

It has to be a large sum of money, they all agreed.

She knew John Sloan better. Probably just confirmation of the three months’ salary, she warned.

No, they insisted. This was something extra, a special bequest obviously. Possibly $10,000, maybe even $20,000. He was so rich his heirs wouldn’t miss it.

Nothing she said could dampen their speculation. Even Maeve had displayed a spark of interest, the first animation she’d shown in two long years. Mrs. O’Malley’s face softened as she thought of her elder daughter. Maeve, the most sensible of all her children, and the most independent. Who’d have thought she’d be the one to suffer the most? Thank heaven she had her fancy job to occupy her, although she shouldn’t have buried herself in it the way she had.

Marvin Stein’s unemotional voice calling for everyone’s attention brought Mrs. O’Malley back to the present. Standing by the marble fireplace, a sheaf of papers in his hand, his face was expressionless as he watched the assembled guests settle down.

This is the last will and testament of John Joseph Sloan dated and signed six months ago, he announced when the room was silent. There’ve been no changes since that date.

To no one’s surprise, John Sloan’s two children inherited everything, to be shared equally. But first, Stein added, a number of charitable contributions and personal gifts were to be taken care of. An anticipatory silence fell over the room.

Six distant cousins and several favored employees received legacies, varying dollar amounts up to $25,000. As the monetary sums rose, Mrs. O’Malley had allowed herself to hope but when the lawyer started on the names of people to receive special bequests it quickly turned to disappointment. Dimly, she heard John Sloan had left his gold watch to the chauffeur.

To Mary Frances O’Malley for all her help, the lawyer continued, I leave a silver dollar in its original presentation case and to my secretary, Virginia Mason, since she was the only person to show an interest in them, my collection of alabaster animals.

Mrs. O’Malley wanted the floor to open up and swallow her, humiliated her presence had been required in order to hear her inheritance was a silver dollar. Face impassive, she silently vowed that no one would ever know of her hurt.

A lousy, stinking dollar, roared her husband, when she returned home with the news. His bad back had never affected his voice.

That’s all, exclaimed Kate, her voice heavy with dismay.

If it’s in a box, it must look pretty, defended Peter, always cheerful and optimistic no matter how much the rest of the family complained.

We really don’t need anything, pointed out Mrs. O’Malley. She’d recovered from her disappointment by the time she arrived home, having expected nothing anyway. Life had taught her that. I still have my job and even when that ends, there’s my three months’ salary. At least I’ll have a memento of him, she added with a careless shrug. Over twenty-five years is a long time to work for someone, even a person like John Sloan.

What do you want a memento of him for? growled her husband, in no way pacified. He never did anything for you.

The following day Mrs. O’Malley returned to work for the first time since John Sloan’s death. The empty apartment held no ghosts for her and she spent the morning in the bedroom, sorting out his clothes. His daughter had implored Mrs. O’Malley to take whatever she wanted and send the rest to charity. Ever thrifty, Mrs. O’Malley had swallowed her pride and set aside various items for her husband and son. Shirts and sweaters, still in their original wrappers, joined unworn shoes and a camel jacket that she swore had never seen the outside of the closet despite missing its tags. A little before noon, while making herself a cup of tea, the doorbell rang. To her surprise she found Marvin Stein standing in the corridor outside.

Good afternoon, Mrs. O’Malley, smiled the lawyer. I have your silver dollar.

You shouldn’t have put yourself to the trouble, she replied, flustered. One of my daughters could have picked it up.

It’s no trouble, and in any case I wanted to see you personally.

She stepped back, her hand nervously smoothing a stray strand of gray hair back into its neat bun. Please come inside.

An instinct for knowing the best way to handle people accounted for much of Marvin Stein’s success. Giving her a charming smile, he said, Perhaps we could go to the kitchen and I could impose on you for some tea?

It’s no imposition. I was just about to have a cup myself.

The kitchen had none of the forbidding elegance of the other rooms. Its yellow and white color scheme was bright and cheerful, compensating for the lack of windows. A round table surrounded by four chairs took up one corner, and as Mrs. O’Malley poured the tea, Stein sat down. As soon as she was seated, he produced a small box, the black leather cracked in places.

This is yours, he remarked, sliding it across the table toward her. Watching Mrs. O’Malley eye it suspiciously, he lifted his tea cup and smiled, Go ahead and open it. It won’t bite.

With the air of someone about to take a dose of bitter medicine, Mrs. O’Malley unhooked the gilt clasp. The dollar lay on navy velvet, nestled in an indentation on the right side of the box. Although the silver center shone like a full moon in its brightest phase, the edges of the coin had toned a rich purple-blue. For a moment she studied it in silence.

I’ve never seen one of these before, she finally commented. Her words contained little warmth and as if to sound grateful she added, The figure looks like an angel.

Its official name is Liberty Seated, said Stein.

My son will like it, he likes to look at pretty things. It’s about all he can do, said Mrs. O’Malley, sounding uncharacteristically bitter.

Before coming here, I called a friend who’s knowledgeable about coins to see if it’s valuable. Apparently the dollar’s quite rare. His advice is that you sell it.

Mrs. O’Malley looked surprised. I’m allowed?

Of course. It’s yours now. Stein paused for a moment. Actually, my friend said it’s so rare you should put it up for auction, you’ll get more money that way.

Who’d want to buy an old coin? Mrs. O’Malley didn’t even try to conceal her scorn.

Stein smiled. If my friend’s to be believed, lots of people. I really think you should take his advice, Mrs. O’Malley. John Sloan knew it was valuable and wanted you to sell it. That was the whole reason he left it to you. Although he seemed to be insensitive, he was acutely aware of the people around him, especially you.

I was only doing my job, didn’t expect anything extra.

Nor did anyone else, that’s why he was so cautious with his will. He didn’t want to leave you a sum of money outright in case some disgruntled relative contested it. But a coin! No one yesterday suspected it was valuable and selling the coin by auction will give you anonymity.

If you really think it’s the best thing, replied Mrs. O’Malley, still looking doubtful.

I think it’s worth investigating, said Stein. I took the liberty of contacting a reputable auction house so you can discuss it further. We can go any time today at your convenience.

We can go? she repeated in surprise.

Yes, although it’s your coin I thought you might like me to go with you.

Very much. There was relief in her voice. You’re very kind.

No, Mrs. O’Malley, you are. I know very well how difficult John Sloan could be.

Banner & Ash, the auction house selected by Stein, was located on a quiet side street between Park and Madison Avenues where the area changed from corporate to residential. The three-story townhouse, once the home of a railroad magnate who’d lost his entire fortune in the ’29 crash, looked like an Italian palazzo. Frescoed walls and carved ceilings still graced the entrance hall, and the spacious rooms on the lower floors overlooked a terraced courtyard with a marble fountain in the center. Only the top floor had changed, the former servants’ quarters replaced by a warren of offices.

The oversized closet that served as an office for the head of Banner & Ash’s numismatic department was just to the left of the wide oak staircase. Buried beneath a sea of papers, his desk stood in front of a narrow window with a view of the backs of other buildings. Books overflowed the crammed bookshelves onto the floor where they leaned against each other in unsteady stacks.

Carter Holland, Ph.D., looked like a caricature of an absent-minded professor. His tweed jacket was too baggy for his lanky frame and he emanated a slight air of bewilderment. But while looking at the coin, he became a changed man.

After giving Mrs. O’Malley and Stein a cordial if somewhat distracted greeting, he’d removed some papers and books from the two chairs by his desk and then appeared to forget them. As he studied the coin beneath the strong light of his desk lamp, his movements were sure and deft. Flashes of color erupted from the coin and his excitement visibly mounted as he examined it through ever stronger magnification. When he finally spoke, however, his words revealed nothing.

Will you excuse me for a moment? he asked.

Mrs. O’Malley looked at Stein, and at his nod, stammered, Yes, of course.

She was still trying to recover from the experience of going to Banner & Ash, and to distract herself she studied the note again, the one they’d discovered lying on the bottom of the box. The business card had yellowed with age and the bold copperplate handwriting was of another time, the black ink slightly faded in parts.

To my good friend Adam Sloan.

      In grateful appreciation of all his help.

             Arthur Fletcher

                August 29, 1873

That would be the Adam Sloan who founded the company, commented Stein. Young Adam was named for him, you know.

I wonder what the help was, said Mrs. O’Malley.

Transportation perhaps. Stein was equally baffled. That’s where the Sloan fortune began.

Dr. Holland ambled back into the room, his expression thoughtful. This is a very unusual coin you have, Mrs. O’Malley. So unusual, in fact, I’d like to get a second opinion. It appears to be genuine but before making any sort of commitment I’d prefer to show it to some of my colleagues. Can you come back tomorrow?

Again Mrs. O’Malley looked at Stein for guidance, who responded, That’s no problem for me.

Or me, she shrugged. It seemed a waste, but if the coin was worth something, she’d rather have the money. Even a little bit would help.

When they returned the following afternoon, Holland was almost quivering with glee but Mrs. O’Malley remained unimpressed. Convinced the outcome would be disappointing, she had told no one of her visit to the auction house.

Holland shook her hand vigorously. Mrs. O’Malley, I’m delighted to tell you that your coin is indeed genuine. Two colleagues, considered the best in the business I might add, have also seen it and their opinion concurs with mine. From his pocket he produced the now-familiar leather box and took out the coin, carefully placing it on a velvet pad. For a moment he gazed at it as if being given a glimpse of Paradise.

As I said yesterday, your coin is very unusual. This Liberty Seated design was used on most silver coins minted from around 1837 through 1891, in the case of quarters and half dollars. Dollars, however, were only minted until 1873.

Is that why this coin’s so rare? asked Stein. Because it was the last year of this particular series?

"Not really. Although the 1873 Mint Record shows that 300,000 dollars were issued, far fewer were produced in other years. It was a simple case of supply and demand. No, what makes this coin so special is that tiny letter on the reverse. It’s called a mintmark. Four mints produced Liberty Seated dollars during their thirty-four years of issuance. Philadelphia and San Francisco are still in operation but the other two, New Orleans and Carson City, are long since closed. This S, which denotes the coin comes from San Francisco, is what separates your coin from all the others."

That makes it unusual, commented Mrs. O’Malley, barely able to make out the minute letter he indicated.

Extremely. According to San Francisco’s mint records, seven hundred pieces were struck but none has ever turned up, either in circulation or in a collection. Mint records notwithstanding, the coin simply didn’t exist. Until today.

How can you be so sure it’s real? she asked.

Just the overall appearance is enough to tell me a coin’s origin. There are also certain identifiable characteristics, like the sharpness of strike. In addition, this figure of Liberty here and the eagle on the reverse are extremely well defined, undeniable evidence that not many coins were actually produced from the mint’s dies. He paused to tilt the coin before adding reverently, And just look at the mirror-like surfaces of the fields, the flat areas of the coin. They’re so smooth they really give the appearance of a mirror.

As he indicated the various