Luther's Odditorium
The millions of television viewers who regularly tune into American Pickers, Pawn Stars and Antiques Roadshow probably are not familiar with Franklin Devers, although his name is well-known among serious dealers and collectors. The author of more than two dozen identification books and value guides, he did more than merely dabble in the collectibles and fine arts market and was often called upon by Christie's and Sotheby's auction houses to act as a consultant when the worth or authenticity of an item was in question.
One would expect a man with his expertise to own either a high-end gallery or an exclusive antique shop; however, Franklin was not cut out for minding a store, nor did he enjoy hobnobbing with the kind of supercilious, self-centered people who often purchased Monets or eighteenth century armoires. What he liked best about his profession was donning a pair of old jeans and a flannel shirt, getting into his extended cab pick-up truck and scavenging rural America's flea markets, church rummage sales and swap meets. Although much of what was sold at such events was not worth very much, there were instances where he stumbled upon a treasure whose owner had no idea of its value. Such finds were exhilarating.
With few shopping opportunities available during the winter season, Devers spent the month of January skiing in Innsbruck, Austria. He fell in love with the Tyrolean capital several years earlier when he toured some of Europe's most popular Christkindlmarkts.
"I don't know why we couldn't just go to Aspen," whined Dakota Mattison, his on-again, off-again romantic interest, as she searched the bottom of her purse for a euro. "At least we wouldn't have to pay to use the toilets in Colorado."
"Aspen doesn't have the history that Innsbruck does. Why, the Goldenes Dachl alone is worth the trip."
"I can't see traveling halfway around the world because some emperor put a gold roof on his porch. Besides, I'm surprised you don't think such a place is overly ostentatious. You don't like all the bling in Vegas."
"This is the fifteenth century residence of the Tyrolean sovereigns, not a casino."
Dakota, who had no interest in history, turned her head away. Franklin did not need to see her face to know she was pouting. Luckily, it was a minor problem that a visit to Swarovski would solve.
As the couple headed toward a café to visit the pay toilet and purchase a hot beverage to warm them, Franklin's cell phone rang.
"Who's calling you here?" Dakota asked, annoyed at the disturbance.
"It's Renata," he replied, reading his assistant's name and number.
"Oh, and I suppose she conveniently forgot we're on vacation."
"Hi, Ren," Franklin said into his iPhone.
As he listened to his assistant's words, a look of surprise appeared on his face. This was soon replaced by a wide smile.
"Of course, I will! The first week of May is fine with me."
A few minutes later, Franklin said goodbye, ended the call and put his phone back in his pocket.
"What was that all about?" Dakota inquired.
"The first lady called my office. Apparently, she and the president just purchased a summer house on Nantucket, and she wants to consult with me on how to furnish the place."
"Why? You're not an interior decorator."
"No, but I am somewhat of an expert on antiques and art. She wants me to meet with her on the island the first week of May."
"I hope she plans on paying you and is not appealing to your sense of patriotic duty."
Devers did not bother explaining that he was not in need of the money. Not only had he made a fortune in the antiques market, but he also received substantial royalties on the books he wrote.
"Even if she offers to pay me a fee, I'll politely refuse it."
"Why? Both the president and his wife come from extremely wealthy families."
"Because I feel honored just to be given the opportunity."
"Promise me one thing," Dakota said with a mischievous smile appearing on her attractive face.
"What's that?"
"Don't suggest she have the roof of the White House plated in gold. The American taxpayers wouldn't approve."
* * *
March came in like a lion, dumping up to eighteen inches of snow on Massachusetts on St. Patrick's Day. Devers, already suffering from cabin fever, longed for spring to arrive.
"I can't wait to hit the road," he said, shoveling the walkway in front of his house.
Three weeks later, the last of the snow had melted and the temperatures went above sixty for the first time since the preceding November. After leaving word with Renata—there was no reason to inform Dakota since their relationship was currently in an off-again status—he packed his suitcase, got into his truck and headed south. After making stops in New Jersey, Maryland and Delaware, he crossed the state of Virginia from the east coast to the Blue Ridge Mountains in the west.
One evening after spending four hours haggling with vendors at a large outdoor flea market, Franklin checked into a Holiday Inn where he enjoyed a refreshing swim in the indoor pool before going to the motel's restaurant and ordering a barbecued chicken dinner. As he waited for his meal to arrive, he took a ballpoint pen out of his pocket and opened the wire-bound notebook where he kept detailed records of his purchases. He added to the list a composition Shirley Temple doll from the 1930s, a bouillotte lamp, a first edition of The Great Gatsby and other incredible bargains, which he purchased on behalf of other antique dealers—earning a generous commission in the process.
If I'm lucky, he thought, closing the book when he saw the waitress approaching with his appetizer, I can pick up a few more items in Pennsylvania before returning to New England.
Normally, he would have spent more than a month on the road, driving into Kentucky and then up through Ohio before exploring the Keystone State. However, he was to meet with the first lady at the beginning of May and had to cut his trip short. Once his work on Nantucket was done, he would stop at his home for a few days before taking off again, this time traveling along Route 66 through America's Heartland.
Once he finished his chicken, he ordered a slice of apple pie for dessert, which he washed down with a cup of coffee—nothing fancy, just plain old coffee with milk and sugar. Then he went up to his room, showered and watched reruns of Cold Case before turning off the television and going to sleep.
The next morning, after a breakfast that most likely sent his cholesterol level to a dangerous high, he paid his bill and got into his truck. The quickest way to Pennsylvania from the southwestern portion of Virginia was to take Interstate 81. Franklin filled up his gas tank at a nearby Shell station and then programmed his navigator.
Twenty-seven miles to the highway? he thought with disappointment. I didn't think I was that far off the beaten track. Well, there's nothing I can do about that now.
For the next forty minutes, he followed his navigator along a series of windy, hilly, pothole-ridden rural roads. Although the speed limits on these back streets rarely went above thirty-five miles per hour, there was little to no traffic to contend with. He had just approached a fork in the road when the screen on his navigator went dark. He pulled onto the shoulder and turned the power button off and then on again. Unfortunately, no matter what buttons he pressed or what plugs he played with, there was no resurrecting the dead Garmin.
With the navigator out of commission, Devers reached into his pocket for his iPhone. Although his cell phone had sufficient charge to operate, there was no coverage in the rural pocket he was driving through.
If only I had a map!
He didn't, of course. Few people relied on such outdated methods of navigation.
When in doubt, bear to the right and hope it gets me where I want to go, he thought, unaware that his decision took him in the wrong direction.
Three hours later Franklin realized that at some point he had crossed over the state line—not into Pennsylvania but into the southernmost portion of West Virginia. He had not seen a sign welcoming him, but then he doubted every back road had one. Despite having travelled the country from coast to coast for the past fifteen years and gaining more than a passing familiarity with most states, he knew very little about West Virginia beyond coal mines, John Brown's raid on Harpers Ferry and John Denver's hit song "Take Me Home, Country Roads."
Franklin tried to visualize a map of the eastern states. West Virginia, if he remembered correctly, was bordered by Virginia, Ohio, Kentucky, Maryland and Pennsylvania.
If I keep heading north, I'm bound to run into either Interstate 70 or the Pennsylvania Turnpike, he theorized.
He estimated a trip of approximately four hours. Thankfully, he had filled up his gas tank before setting out.
* * *
After driving most of the day without clear directions, Devers had to admit he was hopelessly lost. He tried to make use of the sun to determine east and west, but the mountainous roads seldom followed a straight line. When he was driving in a northerly direction, the road would veer off to the west, and after a series of turns he would soon find himself heading south. During his journey into the unknown, he drove through no towns, passed no stores, gas stations or homes and saw no signs of humanity.
By the time the sun went down late that evening, Franklin was exhausted. Fearing he might have an accident driving along the mountain roads in the dark, he pulled over onto a field and turned off the engine. He didn't mind spending the night in his truck, but he wished there were a diner or a fast food restaurant nearby. The last time he had something to eat was at breakfast, and he was famished.
As he sat in the passenger seat, trying to fall asleep, he thought about Dakota Mattison. When the two of them were together they often fought, yet when they were apart, he missed her terribly. Most of their arguments were about his frequent antiquing trips. Spring, summer and fall he was on the road more than he was at home. His absence put a strain on the relationship. Although she usually accompanied him during his winter junkets to Europe, she rarely went with him on his business trips.
Who can blame her for not wanting to go to a flea market in Nebraska or a rummage sale in Kansas? Franklin thought as he tried to make himself comfortable in the cramped cab.
Just before he finally drifted off to sleep, he vowed to phone Dakota when he reached civilization and cell phone reception. He was sure she would jump at the opportunity of a romantic weekend in New York City.
Devers woke the following morning when the sun rose over the mountains. He got out of the truck, stretched to ease the stiffness in his muscles and then walked into the woods to relieve himself.
What I wouldn't give for a cup of coffee! he thought as he got behind the wheel. A nice omelet wouldn't be bad either. Maybe a stack of pancakes oozing with maple syrup.
With the needle on his gas tank hovering between the quarter and half marks, he pulled onto the road and continued driving. Midmorning, when the growling of his empty stomach was trying to drown out the music on his stereo, he spotted a building ahead. It wasn't much, just a small cabin of maybe two or three rooms at most, but it was the first sign of civilization he encountered since getting lost.
There was no car in the driveway, no sign of habitation. Franklin concluded it must be a hunting cabin. Still, deciding to take his chances, he pulled to the side of the road, got out of the truck and knocked on the front door. He was about to turn away and return to his vehicle when the door opened.
"Yes?"
The woman was tall, pale and extremely thin to the point of making a supermodel look overweight. The word that came to his mind when Franklin saw her features was wraithlike.
"I'm sorry to bother you," he apologized, "but I'm lost. I've been driving around since yesterday morning without a thing to eat or drink. I even slept in my truck last night. This is the first building I've seen. I hope you can tell me how to get to the nearest town."
She raised her hand and pointed in the direction in which he had been driving.
"Milton is about three miles down that road," she said in a breathy voice. "You'll find what you're looking for there."
Franklin momentarily turned his head in the direction she was pointing, but when he turned back to thank her, the door was shut and there was no sign of the homeowner.
Milton was not much of a town, not even by West Virginia standards. There was an old gas station that never made it out of the 1940s but was thankfully still open for business, the remains of a church that had been destroyed by fire, a dozen or so houses not much bigger than the cabin he first saw and—lo and behold!—a diner. Although it looked like an eatery Guy Fieri wouldn't be caught dead featuring on his show, Diners, Drive-ins and Dives, to Franklin, who hadn't eaten in over twenty-four hours, it looked better than one of New York's five-star restaurants.
I hope this place is open, he thought when he saw no sign of life in the town.
Thankfully, the door opened, and he walked inside. The waitress behind the counter was as pale and willowy as the woman who answered the door of the cabin. He wondered if anyone in the area ever had a good, calorie-filled meal.
"Can I help you?" the cadaverous waitress asked in a faint voice.
"I'd like to get some breakfast."
"Have a seat, and I'll bring you a menu."
After looking at the fare being offered, Franklin ordered the hungry man's breakfast special, not for the surprisingly low price but for the sheer amount of food it included: three fried eggs, two sausages, two slices of bacon, a cut of ham, three pancakes, grits, home fries, two slices of toast, orange juice and coffee.
"That ought to tide me over until I get to Pennsylvania. By the way, do you know how far it is to the nearest interstate highway?"
"I'd say it's a good two-hour drive."
"That far? Do you know where I can get a map?"
"Luther probably has one."
"And who is Luther?"
"He owns the Odditorium."
"The what?"
"Luther's Odditorium. That's what he calls the place. If you ask me, it's nothing but a big building full of second-hand stuff sold at cheap prices."
"And where is this place?"
"If you continue on this road about three miles, you can't miss it."
Feeling as though his stomach were about to burst, Franklin finished his third cup of coffee, put a twenty dollar bill on the table and told the waitress to keep the change.
"But your meal only cost six dollars," she objected.
"It was worth a lot more," he replied with a smile.
The waitress' three-mile drive was closer to five, but eventually he found Luther's Odditorium. The name was more impressive than either the old wooden sign or the building, which looked like a run-down warehouse. There were no cars in the parking lot, and Franklin wondered if the place was closed.
"Come on in," a voice called out as Devers looked through the grimy window to see if the lights were on.
"I wasn't sure if you were open or not," he said as he walked into the dusty, dimly lit exterior.
"Open seven days a week, fifty-two weeks a year," replied a deep baritone voice from somewhere in the shadowy region of the massive room.
"I was hoping you might have a map of the local roads I could purchase."
"Lost your way, huh?" the voice asked with a warm chuckle.
"You could say that. I've been looking for Pennsylvania since yesterday morning."
The man stepped out of the darkness, and Franklin was surprised by his appearance. He had expected the owner of such a dilapidated store to be an old man. Far from it, Luther appeared to be on the sunny side of forty. With his long hair and beard, he resembled a hippie, right out of the Sixties, a throwback to the Woodstock generation.
"I might have a map somewhere around here," he said.
"Mind if I explore your shop while you look for it?"
"Go right ahead. If you find something that strikes your fancy, let me know. I'm always willing to haggle over the price."
As Franklin made his way down the long aisles, he came across many items that were sure to be of interest to several of his dealers.
"You see anything you like?" Luther asked, appearing seemingly out of nowhere with an old gas station map in hand.
"As a matter of fact, I have."
For the next hour and a half, Franklin purchased close to a thousand dollars worth of items, all at ridiculously low prices.
"You seem like a man with a keen eye," Luther said.
"You might say that."
"I don't suppose you'd be interested in antique firearms."
Devers's eyes met the young man's gaze. There seemed to be an unspoken challenge there. Did Luther think, as a Yankee, Franklin was a bleeding heart liberal who would shy away from a gun, even a collectible one?
"I'd be very interested, in fact. I have several dealers who sell them, Civil War weapons in particular."
"Come with me. I'll show you some pieces that are museum quality."
"Where are we going?" Franklin asked as the shopkeeper led him out the back door.
"I don't keep the guns in the Odditorium," Luther replied. "I had a special high-security, fireproof storage facility constructed for them."
Obscured by trees, the building was not visible from either the road or the parking lot. Luther reached into his pocket, took out a key ring with only one key—an old-fashioned Victorian skeleton key—and opened the door. When Franklin stepped inside, he was taken by surprise. Unlike the ramshackle appearance of the Odditorium, the interior of the backwoods building was modern enough to rival the best museums in the country. From the immaculate carpeted floor, to the recessed ceiling lighting to the high-end stainless steel and shatter-proof glass cases, the display area was quite impressive.
What did you expect? the art connoisseur asked himself. These rednecks love their guns!
Unlike the old-fashioned lock on the front door, the display cases relied on much more sophisticated electronic devices to protect their contents. Luther walked over to the nearest one, entered a five-digit code into the keypad and removed one of the firearms.
"This," he proudly announced, as he lovingly handled the gun, "is from a pair of Wogdon dueling pistols."
"Do you have the other one?" Franklin asked, knowing the set would command a much higher price.
"The other one's not important. This one is. It's the weapon Aaron Burr used to shoot Alexander Hamilton."
"That's an excellent replica."
"It's no replica. It's the actual gun that killed one of our Founding Fathers."
"I'm sorry to burst your bubble, but I've seen the pistols used in that duel. They're located in J.P. Morgan Chase's headquarters in New York."
Luther smiled, a humorless gesture that made Franklin's skin crawl with revulsion.
"It's the gun in New York that's the replica," the neo-hippie insisted.
Devers shrugged his shoulders. Let the junk store peddler think he was pulling one over on him. What did it matter? He knew the gun in the other man's hand couldn't possibly be the real deal.
Luther put back the dueling pistol and removed another, much older weapon from the case.
"This is a 1570 Matchlock carbine used to assassinate James Stewart, first Earl of Moray and regent of Scotland."
"The only James Stewart I'm familiar with is the actor."
"Wrong one. The Earl of Moray's death was the first documented political assassination by firearm."
"It seems this gun should be in a museum in Edinburgh or London then."
"As you can see, it's not."
When the Matchlock went back into the case, Luther removed another gun.
"This 1910 Browning semiautomatic pistol is the weapon Gavrilo Princip used to assassinate Archduke Franz Ferdinand and his wife, Sophie, in Sarajevo, an event that was to trigger the First World War."
"Interesting," Franklin commented, knowing full well that the infamous murder weapon was housed at the Vienna Museum of Military History after being discovered in Austria in 2004.
The next gun was a .44-caliber British Bulldog revolver that Luther claimed was used by Charles Guiteau to assassinate President James Garfield.
"The president died eleven weeks later from septicemia rather than the actual gunshot wound. I've no doubt that with today's knowledge of antiseptic medicine, Garfield would have survived the shooting."
This guy may be a crook, Franklin thought with a growing respect, but he certainly knows something about history.
"And this," Luther explained, removing another gun from the case, "is the .32-caliber Smith & Wesson Iver-Johnson revolver that anarchist Leon Czolgosz assassinated President William McKinley with. Like Garfield, McKinley didn't die right away. He lasted eight days before gangrene did him in."
"You seem to have a fascination for political assassinations," Franklin said. "Or are you a history buff, in general?"
"Both," Luther replied, not bothering to elaborate. "This next little gem is a .41-caliber muzzle-loading derringer."
"It looks like the one John Wilkes Booth used to shoot Abraham Lincoln. But it can't be because that derringer is kept in the basement of Ford's Theater."
"Again, the one in Washington is a convincing replica."
"Are you showing these priceless firearms to me in the hopes that I'll offer to buy one?" Franklin asked, wondering what Luther was really up to.
"Certainly not!" the long-haired, bearded young man exclaimed. "These are precious pieces of history. I would no sooner sell them than sell my arm or my foot. I'm only showing them to you because I believe you can appreciate them."
"Okay. I just wanted to understand your motives for bringing me back here."
After returning the derringer to the case, Luther shut the door and entered a code in the keypad to lock it. Franklin thought the bizarre tour was over; however, the owner of the Odditorium moved to another display case on the other side of the room.
"This is one of my most prized possessions," the shopkeeper announced, removing a rifle from the case. "Do you recognize it?"
"It looks like Lee Harvey Oswald's 6.5-mm Carcano rifle, the one allegedly used to assassinate John F. Kennedy."
"Allegedly?" Luther repeated with a sly smile. "So you're a conspiracy theorist."
"Maybe."
The rifle went back into the case, and another handgun was taken out.
"You're probably less familiar with this gun. It's the .38-caliber Colt Cobra revolver Jack Ruby used to kill Lee Harvey Oswald—the alleged assassin—in the basement of the Dallas police headquarters."
Franklin saw in Luther's enraptured face that he actually believed the guns he owned were authentic.
He's like those women who purchase knock-off handbags and think they're getting a Louis Vuitton for only ten dollars.
Luther put back the pistol and took out another rifle.
"This here is the Remington 760 Gamemaster used by James Earl Ray to assassinate Martin Luther King, Jr., in Memphis. Don't tell me you think Ray was a patsy, too?"
"I'm not that familiar with the facts in King's death."
"What about this one?" Luther asked taking out another handgun. "This is a .22-caliber Iver-Johnson Cadet 55-A. It was used by Sirhan Sirhan to take Robert Kennedy out of the 1968 presidential race."
Since Franklin did not believe the weapons were authentic, he did not bother asking where or how Luther had acquired them. Still, even if they were not the actual guns used in the history-making killings, they were antique firearms in excellent condition and must be worth quite a bit of money.
"This one I'm sure will bring back a few memories for a man of your age. You may not have been born when the Kennedys or Dr. King were killed, but you must have been alive in 1980 when Mark David Chapman used this .38-caliber Charter Arms snub-nosed revolver to murder former Beatle John Lennon outside his Dakota apartment building in New York."
"I clearly remember learning about his death when I watched the late-night news. It was a tragic loss. I always thought it was ironic that so many men who cried out for peace died violent deaths."
"That's life," Luther concluded after locking that case and moving on to the next one.
The third case housed weapons used to kill—according to Luther, that is—Prime Minister Spencer Perceval of Great Britain, Yitzhak Rabin of Israel, Olof Palme of Sweden and Indira Gandhi of India; as well as Egyptian president Anwar Sadat; Mahatma Gandhi, leader of the Indian independence movement; and Civil Rights activist Malcolm X.
Franklin, suddenly remembering that he had a long drive ahead of him, looked at his watch.
"This has been fascinating," he announced, "but if I'm ever going to make it to Pennsylvania before the sun goes down, I'd better get started. I don't relish the idea of sleeping in my truck another night."
"Just one more item I'd like to show you. Then I'll point out on the map the quickest way to the interstate."
Luther led the antiques expert to the furthest corner of the room, to another locked case. Again, he put in a five-digit code and opened the door. This time, however, he did not describe the gun in any way. He simply handed it over to Franklin. It was the only firearmthe antiques expert was allowed to handle.
"What's this one?" Devers asked, enjoying the feel of the weapon in his hand—much to his amazement since he was, in fact, a die-hard liberal who was in favor of stricter gun control laws.
"That one's yours," Luther replied.
Franklin raised his eyes from the gun to the shopkeeper's face. The soft brown eyes of the twenty-first-century hippie glowed a deep crimson color. The bizarre transformation did not frighten Franklin. On the contrary, it elicited no reaction whatsoever.
"You're going to Nantucket to meet with the first lady," Luther said in a soft, hypnotic voice.
Devers slowly nodded his head.
"The Secret Service will be there, so you'll have to find a way to smuggle the gun inside the house. You're a clever man. I'm sure you can find a way to hide it inside an antique vase or a piece of artwork."
Again, Franklin nodded his head.
"While you're there, the president will make an unexpected stop to see his wife. That will be the time to use your gun."
"And should I return it to you afterward?" Devers asked in an emotionless monotone.
"No need to. It'll find its way back to me."
Franklin put the gun in his pocket and followed Luther outside. His truck was still the only vehicle in the parking lot of the Odditorium.
"The map?" he asked when he got behind the wheel.
"You don't need it. You'll find your navigator is working perfectly now."
There was no goodbye, no final exchange between the two men—although only one of them was actually human. Franklin Devers simply started his engine and drove off, heading north toward the West Virginia-Pennsylvania border and ultimately toward a place in history.
Sometimes Salem pretends he's a cat burglar, but don't worry. It's not a real gun. It's a dog's toy from Pet Smart.
