The Auction
THE AUCTION HOUSE WAS a tall structure with missing shingles, drooping shutters, and an all-around creepy visage. It was in dire need of paint and was in a sad state of disrepair. It was here where the Private Auction was held by invitation only.
The Auctioneer was a tall man with sallow skin and deep-set eyes. He had long fingers that he waved around when he spoke in his low voice.
“Lot number 327,” he said, gesturing to the table. A canvas tarp covered the table. The Auctioneer’s assistant, a squat fellow with a toad-like face, whipped the tarp off the table with a flourish. “The left arm of Isabella Rothberger,”
The arm lay among a beautiful display of flowers. It was dressed in a lacy white sleeve and had a beautiful two-carat diamond ring on the ring finger.
“Bidding
