My father was a man who lived for the job, but one thing he enjoyed when he had the time was antiquing. He’d often have me join him; after he’d died, Mother would take me with her. Between the two of them, I’d learned the best places to go for eighteenth century thimbles, for fin de siècle timepieces, for statues of bronze or marble, terra-cotta, teak or monkey wood, even sandstone.
I drove to O Street Northwest in Georgetown, where Horatio Primm, who dealt in hard-to-find items, had his antique shop. It was elegant and uncluttered, and I knew from previous visits the scent of the pipe tobacco he favored would fill the rooms, along with the underlying odor of the furniture polish he used on the shelves that held the beautiful, unique, and extremely costly items of which his inventory cons
