“I’m sure they will all be happy to test, too.” Ivy tapped her fingers on the counter, thinking about the awards. She had painted the winner’s medallions by hand. “Perhaps we should add a popular vote category so everyone can choose their favorite.”
Mitch and Imani traded competitive glances.
“That one’s mine,” Mitch said.
Imani shot back. “In your dreams, surfer boy,”
After a little good-natured jesting, Shelly and Mitch left through the back door and got into Shelly’s old Jeep.
Imani raised an eyebrow. “As long as I’ve known Mitch, I’ve never seen him so serious about a woman. He’s a good guy. Sure hope your family likes him.”
“At least Shelly doesn’t have to deal with daughters’ opinions.” Ivy folded her arms and leaned against the counter. “For having a tough start in life, Mitch has done well for himself. And Bennett thinks the world of him. Mitch is like the younger brother he’d never had.”
“Shelly could do a lot worse.” Running a finger down the recipe, Imani lined up the ingredients and measuring cups and spoons that she would need. “I don’t think you need to worry about those two. Looks like you have issues of your own to resolve.”
Ivy nodded with a sigh. After making sure that Imani had everything she needed, Ivy made her way toward the ballroom, where she found Poppy tidying the room. This afternoon, they would have close to a hundred people there, maybe more.
The directors at the children’s center had been happy to move Santa’s visit to the Seabreeze Inn. The children were excited to see the tall Christmas tree in the old beach house that they’d once thought was haunted.
Ginger Delavie would preside over the gingerbread judging, and Ivy figured they would have plenty of gingerbread for the children to enjoy. And that would give Bennett time to change into his Santa outfit. After the children had their fill of gingerbread, Santa and his elves would arrive with gifts that had been donated by community residents.
Poppy was busy moving art objects and holiday decorations to higher shelves. “We’re going to have an army of young children here, so I thought I should secure the breakables.”
“Good idea,” Ivy said, picking up a blown-glass shell her mother had given them and moving it to a more secure location. “They’re going to be so excited. I can’t wait to see them all. Bennett said the children dress up, so let’s clear a special area for them. Santa could sit right about there. Between the tree and the fireplace.” She and Poppy moved furniture and shoved a large chair into position. Brushing her hands, Ivy stepped back to view the setting. “This will be a lovely photo op. I’m so excited.”
“So am I. Oh, I forgot to tell you. Two last-minute VIP contestants confirmed by email this morning,” Poppy said. “You’ll never guess one of them.”
“Carol Reston?”
“Bingo. And who else?”
“I have no idea.”
“Rowan Zachary,” Poppy said. “Carol thought it would be fun to enter a family recipe, and since Rowan is her houseguest for the holidays, he promised a special entry, too.”
“Just keep him away from the pool,” Ivy said. “I’d rather not have to go full lifeguard and dive in after his inebriated you-know-what again. Especially not in a dress and boots.”
Rowan Zachary was a well-known Hollywood film actor, and last summer, his son and Carol’s daughter married. When Carol’s home was damaged in the Ridgetop fire, the wedding planned at her estate was quickly shifted to the Seabreeze Inn. Carol Reston sang her top hits, but an inebriated Rowan fell into the pool. As the only one there with lifeguard training, Ivy dove in to drag the distressed man to safety.
“I’ll try to watch him,” Poppy said as she relocated the delicate ornaments on lower branches higher on the tree. “I used to do this to deter my old roommate’s inquisitive cat, but that tabby was determined. She clawed down the entire tree on Christmas Eve.”
“That happened with a family cat when we were kids, too.” Ivy laughed. “At least we don’t have to worry about that. And Gilda promised to keep Pixie away.” Her phone buzzed in her pocket, and she pulled it out.
“It’s Ari,” Ivy said. “I’d better take this in the library.” She answered the phone on her way through the house, then closed the door behind herself. In the course of dealing with the art discoveries she and Shelly had made in the old house, she’d grown rather fond of the FBI agent.
“Sorry to bother you on the weekend,” Ari said. “I thought you should know about this. Are you sitting down?”
Ivy sank into a wingback chair. “I am now. So whose stolen or sheltered property have we found this time?”
Ari’s laughter rolled across the telephone line. “We’ve run checks against every database we have. Is the egg in a secure place?”
“It’s in the bank vault, the same place where you picked up the tiara and other crown jewels, so you know the way. Are you coming before or after the holidays?” She knew the process now.
Ari paused and cleared his throat. “It doesn’t look like we’ll be transferring the piece at this time.”
“Oh, that’s fine,” Ivy said. “It can wait. I know you’re busy.”
“It’s not that,” Ari said. “An object of that value would certainly be listed in the stolen art database. We contacted our sources and shared the images you sent. Upon review, they identified this egg as one that Armand Hammer had for sale in the 1930s as a part of Russia’s treasures-to-tractors program, a Soviet drive to generate foreign currency. From 1918 to 1938, Russia sold off many national treasures, as well as property stripped from homes of aristocrats.”
“I read about that online,” Ivy said.
“Then you know the history.” Ari went on. “For this piece, the provenance on record includes Mrs. Gustav Erickson of San Francisco. While this is not an actual imperial egg, it did belong to a prominent industrialist whose property the Bolsheviks seized. Relatives have filed for restitution of some artwork and objets d’art, but in this case, it doesn’t appear that there were any surviving heirs.”
A prickly feeling gathered around Ivy’s neck. “So, what do I do with it?”
“I suggest you contact an attorney, who will most likely contact the attorney who represented the estate on the property sale.”
Imani had mentioned that. “Do you think this would be considered mislaid or abandoned property?”
“Couldn’t say,” Ari replied. “This happened a long time ago, but I’m not an attorney, which is why I suggest you engage one. If the egg is deemed yours, you can keep it or contact an auction house. Christie’s or Sotheby’s are good places to start for a piece with such high historical value. Should you wish to go that route, you’ll probably realize an excellent price for it.”
Ivy chewed her lip. This seemed so surreal. “I’m almost afraid to ask…”
Ari chuckled again. “A low to mid eight-figure value is my guesstimate, but again, I’m no expert. But please, keep it safe.”
Ivy hesitated, calculating the zeros. As she gasped, the phone slipped from her hand and tumbled to the floor. With trembling fingers, she picked up the phone. She thanked Ari for his news and hung up.