“Were you interested enough to read her correspondence or any primary documents from the era? I’m trying to find out if there are any mentions of gifts Jerome might have made to her-specifically a parure”- she stumbled over the French word, but Mary Yerkes nodded-“made from gold and emeralds.”

“It doesn’t ring a bell, but I’m an old woman. There are many bells that don’t ring in my belfry anymore. However, it’s something I could research for you, if you’d like. I have my own library on the upper floors, with all sorts of texts and articles about the clothing and jewelry of the day.”

Whitney, who could race through even the most comprehensive museum exhibits as if they were time trials, had taken everything in and was growing impatient, while Daniel had gone back to the literary display near the front. But Crow, still young enough to be indiscriminate about the way he stuffed his brain with facts and trivia, was entranced by the Mu-sheum. He had stopped in front of a case labeled poe’s women.

“Maria Clemm, with whom he lived. His mother, of course,” he said. “Virginia Lee, his cousin and bride. Elmira Shelton, the woman he was believed to be engaged to at the time of his death. I know all these. But who was Fannie Hurst?”

“A New York writer with whom he’s believed to have had a love affair,” Mary Yerkes said. “She was quite clever and talented in her own way. One story has it that when she went out one day and forgot her purse, she wrote a poem and sold it on the spot, in order to have cash.”

“Wouldn’t it have been easier,” Whitney asked, “to just go home and get her purse?”

Mary Yerkes ignored the question. “I wish I had something more than photographs for that display. But Poe objects are so hard to come by, and so expensive when one does find them. The books-well, I couldn’t touch those, and I don’t much care for collecting books anyway. But there are people who own locks of his hair, cut from his head as he lay in state. A professor I know has a piece of fabric from Virginia Lee’s trousseau. And the Nineteenth Century Shop, down in Southwest Baltimore, has a piece of his coffin. I can’t compete in those circles. Then again, few in Baltimore can compete when cash is the only consideration.”

“What do you mean?” Tess asked.

Mary Yerkes hesitated. Her protective veneer of irony was gone, and she looked more like the frail older woman she was. She was at least seventy-five, Tess realized, but her shrewd good humor gave her an ageless quality.

“There is a black market for all things,” she said, choosing her words with even more precision than usual. “People have approached me… or they used to, until they realized I had ethics. Still, I would hear rumors about things, every now and then. Rare things, things that belonged in museums, which had no innate value but could be priceless to serious collectors. Once, I admit, I was tempted, and I called the dealer a few days after our initial discussion to tell him I had changed my mind. He laughed and said I had been outbid, that the competition for his wares had grown quite intense.”

“The competition?”

“He did not choose to elaborate, but it was my sense this particular thief-after all, that’s what he was, although he called himself an antiques dealer-had found someone who was willing to pay almost anything for what he called ”Baltimorebilia.“ It was one of Toots Barger’s trophies.”

“Toots Barger?” Not even Crow knew this name.

“My dear, she was simply one of the greatest athletes Maryland has ever produced. She was a duckpin bowling champion. At any rate, he offered it to me, I said no, and later, in a weak moment, I had a change of heart. But when I called back he had gotten five times the price he originally named. I never heard from him again.”

“Would you tell me his name?”

“I would if I could remember it, but it wouldn’t help you much. He died at least five years ago. I do remember reading his obituary in the paper and feeling almost relieved, in a morbid way. He knew my secret, you see. He knew I had been tempted to do something wrong. Once he died, my secret was safe.”

“But you’ve just told us,” Crow pointed out. Tess could tell he was falling in love, in his own peculiar way. Crow’s flirtations were seldom sexualized; while other women watched their boyfriends tracking sweet young things, Crow was inclined to swoon for the eccentrics of both sexes. He was a slut for mankind. “Now it’s out again.”

“Ah, but you won’t exploit my weakness by trying to tempt me. At least, I hope you won’t. This parure: Does it exist, or is it merely a rumor?”

“A bracelet exists. We know that much.” Tess could not hide her disappointment. She had nursed the hope the antiques dealer who had tempted Mary Yerkes might be Arnold Pitts. Or perhaps Bobby Hilliard, peddling things he had stolen from the library, had called her. It was one possible explanation for why the things he stole were not in his possession. But if he had gotten money for them, where had the money gone? Not into his apartment of thrift-shop luxuries, or to his parents.

“The dealer who tried to sell you the trophy-did you ever get a sense of who his buyer was?”

“No, only that he must be extremely rich.”

Rich was a relative term. Tess had a feeling that she and someone with a million-dollar endowment might use the word differently. “Millionaire rich? Billionaire rich?”

“Let’s put it this way: This was a person who was willing to pay tens of thousands of dollars for a trophy whose parts are worth no more than a couple of dollars. Now, it’s theoretically possible he lives off saltines and canned tuna to afford such indulgences, but somehow I doubt it. To collect, one needs to be able to protect as well: climate-controlled rooms, security, the proper storage for whatever it is, whether books or old fabrics. I know people who give up much for their objects, but collecting requires upkeep. It is not a static activity for casual people with limited funds. You have to be fierce.”

“Would you kill for your things?” Crow asked.

“Crow!” Whitney scolded, giving an uncanny and unconscious imitation of her very proper mother. Daniel, who had turned back to listen to their conversation, also looked appalled. But Mary Yerkes cocked her head, intrigued by the question.

“Kill?” she said at last. “No, I couldn’t kill to protect my things. But I might put myself in harm’s way. If I arrived here one afternoon and saw smoke coming from the windows, I could be prone to do something… ill advised. Rush in and try to grab things before firefighters arrived, save whatever is most precious to me.”

“What would you take?” Crow pressed her. “What are your favorites?”

Mary Yerkes held a finger to her lips and cast a conspiratorial glance around the room. “Please,” she whispered. “They can hear you.”