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by the golden goose.”
    Madam Petrova gave me a knowing look. “As I said, Clifford harbors no sentimentality for this family heirloom. So I’m sure he won’t mind.”
    “Mind what?” Ashland asked, his smile fading.
    His aunt said, “I’ve decided to sell the Fabergé egg at a citywide church bazaar to raise money for our flood victims.”
    Clifford Ashland’s tanned face turned ashen. He took a few steps back and eased into an awaiting armchair.
    “You can’t be serious, Auntie,” he said in apparent horror.
    “Oh, yes, I can, dear,” Madam Petrova told him firmly, digging in the heels of her beige pumps. “I’ve made up my mind.”
    Ashland leaned forward in the chair, gesturing animatedly. “But you’ll never get out of it what it’s worth at a local bazaar! You’d be much better off selling the egg through an auction house like Christie’s or Sotheby’s.”
    Mother piped up. “And that’s exactly what we’re going to be doing…in a sense.”
    Ashland frowned. “What do you mean?”
    “Well,” Mother explained excitedly, “my plan is to hold an auction for that one item, and have representatives from all the large auction houses there…plus private buyers. Think of the publicity! And, we have matching funds promised by a magazine company.”
    “Then the magazine people know about the egg?”
    Mother put on her vaguely insulted face. “No, of course not. Only the people in this room know of its existence. The publisher, Samuel Woods, understands that there could be some large-ticket items, yes…but he has no idea there might be anything of this magnitude. Or that the likes of Christie’s and Sotheby’s will be on hand. Won’t he be surprised!”
    Ashland sat back and grunted, “Yes.” He raised an eyebrow. “Be sure to get the publisher’s offer in writing before you announce it,” Ashland the businessman said. “He won’t be expecting to have to match those kind of funds.”
    Madam Petrova looked at her nephew. “Then, dear, I have your blessing to donate the egg?”
    Ashland’s smile couldn’t have been more casual if they’d been discussing whether to lend the neighbors a cup of sugar. “Yes, of course. The cause is a good one, and Mrs. Borne has anticipated my objection—that it be given away for a song.”
    “You’re sure you don’t object, dear?”
    He shrugged. “It’s a charitable contribution. Should be deductible. I’ll have my tax people look into it.”
    “Well, that’s fine, dear.”
    “I just hope it’s what you want.”
    “It is , dear.”
    The room fell silent. Aunt and nephew obviously needed to discuss this further, and in private. Under all those “dear’s” was a certain strain.
    I stood and said (much to Mother’s dismay), “Well…I guess we should be going.”
    Madam Petrova placed the Fabergé egg gently on the coffee table and rose. “Yes, I am tired, now.” She extended her hand to Mother. “You will inform me with further developments of the bazaar? I will want to attend, naturally.”
    Mother promised she would.
    As Mother and I took our leave of Madam Petrova, Clifford Ashland announced, “I’ll walk you two ladies out….”
    And now for our private dressing-down , I thought.
    Mother, too, sensed something coming, and outside, under the portico overhang, turned to face Ashland.
    He didn’t mince words. “I’m not happy about this,” he snapped, looking from Mother to me, then back to Mother, “but if I know my aunt, once she decides to do something, it’s done.” He raised a lecturing finger, which also seemedlike a threat. “Understand, I don’t give a damn about that egg…but I do give a damn about my aunt! And I don’t want to see her hurt.”
    Mother looked puzzled. “What do you mean? How could she be hurt?”
    “What if someone buys the egg for an exorbitant amount, then claims it’s a fake?” he asked. “Next comes a lawsuit…and scandal. That’s just the kind of thing that could kill my aunt.”
    I