According to Their Deeds (11 page)

“I would like to participate in one of your auctions, but I won’t be in town. Is it possible to bid by telephone?”

“I’m sorry, sir, but we require bidding in person.”

“Oh. I see. What do people do if they can’t be there in person?”

“It’s common to use an agent.”

“An agent? How does that work?”

“You would have to make your own arrangement.”

“Can you recommend anyone?”

“We can’t recommend agents, sir. We do have a list for agents who have registered with us, but we can’t specifically recommend any of them. That would have to be between you and that agent.”

“I would like to get that list. Can you send it to me? Or is it on your website?”

“You would have to come here for it.”

“Very good. Thank you.”

He handed the phone back to Norman.

“Thank you.”

“What are you, losing your mind? You know all that. And where are you going out of town?”

“Nowhere, and I was just asking.”

“I could have told you any of that, anyway.”

“But you don’t like me asking you questions,” Charles said. “Perhaps, Norman, the woman is somewhere on that list. Oh, and I do have one more question for you. Did you end up getting anything back that you sold to Derek?”

“Yeah, a chess set. Wood inlay. Real nice. It’s the real thing, you know? You can tell. Austrian, 1890s. It’s out of my range here in the shop, but I got it anyway. Somebody’ll buy it.”

“How much is it?”

“Four thousand. I paid thirty-one. You want it? I’ll sell it to you for thirty-four. That’s a deal. You try to find something this good.”

“I don’t think so. But my fondest memory of Derek is playing chess on that board.”

“Thirty-four. Okay, thirty-three. Thirty-two seventy-five, and that’s between friends. You’re not going to turn around and sell it again? Because it’ll go for four, and I’ll sell it for that if somebody does.”

“No, I wouldn’t sell it. But three thousand is a little rich for my blood. I’ll pass.”

“Okay, but it’ll be here if you want it. Until somebody else grabs it.”

“Thank you, Norman. Thanks for everything.”

The walk to downtown would have been as long as the walk to Georgetown. Charles took the Metro. The first train coming in from Arlington was too crowded and he had to wait for the next. Presently, though, he was back on the pavement and then at the same building where he’d been Monday.

The lobby oozed discretion and prosperity; the thickest concentration had solidified into the receptionist. “Good afternoon,” he said. “I called a little earlier. I understand that you have a list of agents available to represent buyers in your auctions?”

“Yes, sir. I remember your call. I have one here for you.”

“Thank you so much.” The dark doors to the blue auction room were open. The rows of chairs were empty. “I wonder . . .”

“Yes, sir?”

“A friend of mine was at an auction here Monday, and he noticed an agent—he assumed it was an agent, anyway, a young woman about your age.”

The woman at the desk was not very young. Her smile tightened.

“Sir, I don’t know who that woman was, and if I did, I still wouldn’t be able to tell you. I also don’t know who else is looking for her, or why. I also can’t give you any information about what she bought or what she did with anything that she did buy.”

“I’m sorry,” Charles said, “I didn’t mean . . .”

“Yes, sir. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“No. You’ve been very helpful. Thank you.”

He hurried from the room, and from the building. On the sidewalk he looked at the paper; it had dozens of listings. He folded it and slid it into his pocket.

“Have we sold anything, Alice?” he asked.

Alice’s dresses were invariably smart and new; but they were always the color of old things. “A volume of Robert Browning,” she said.

“Not my favorite poet. Sometimes he seems to me rather overdone.”

“If he were overdone, Mr. Beale, he would be Robert Burns.”

Charles stopped in his tracks. “That’s a terrible pun, Alice.”

“Yes, sir.”

“He is not some frozen turkey to put in the oven.”

“Certainly not, sir.”

“Because that would be Robert Frost.”

“Yes, sir.”

“There you are,” Dorothy said, gliding down the stairs. “That was a long visit.”

“I made a few other stops, including Norman.”

She had a stack of envelopes, which she set on the counter. “Has the mailman already come?”

“No, Mrs. Beale,” Alice said.

“Give him these.” Charles and Dorothy climbed back up the steps to the office. “And what was Lucy like?”

“She was in the sky with diamonds.”

The office had once been the master bedroom, and the other second-floor bedroom was now storage. The two closets had been combined, and then given their own door to the hall, and then they had been given Morgan.

“I have a search for you,” Charles said.

“Yes, sir?”

“See if you can find the telephone number of a Galen Jones, somewhere local.”

“Yes, sir. Just a second. Uh . . . it doesn’t come up right away. There’s thousands of Joneses. Any other clues?”

“He makes furniture.”

“Oh. Okay. Yeah, here. Maybe this is it.”

Charles copied the number from the computer screen. “Thank you, Morgan. And can you tell me the secret of life?”

“I could query Google.”

“Never mind.”

“Hello?” A tired female voice.

Charles settled into his own chair. “Hello. I’m calling for Mr. Galen Jones?”

“He’s not home.”

“My name is Charles Beale, and I’m trying to get hold of him.”

“Give me your phone number, and I’ll let him know.”

Dorothy was quite settled into her own chair. “And who is Galen Jones?” she asked.

“A matchmaker.”

“A what?”

“I am trying to find a wife for Angelo,” Charles said.

“Get one who doesn’t need lots of communication.”

“A good point, dear. A matchmaker is a maker of replica antique furniture. He was at the auction Monday.”

“Is this another gust of wind?”

“It’s the one that blew me past Norman. And there was another breeze, too, that I think I’ll send Angelo after. But first, I have to check up on my judge scandal.”

“The man in the newspaper? And why are you interested in that?”

“I’m not sure. There is just something about him. Ah, he’s only page six now.” He skimmed paragraphs.

“Anything?”

“No. The reporter just wants to keep the story alive. Maybe he gets paid by the sneer.”

“There’s obviously some audience.”

“Who would read this?”

“You are.”

“I mean, besides me.”

“Which brings up my original question. Why are you reading it?”

“Because . . . because . . . because it is a man who has been ruined by a piece of paper.”

“What piece of paper?”

“Someone told the
Washington Post
about this cheating back in law school. I don’t know if it was really a piece of paper or what, but that one little piece of information has destroyed him.”

“There wouldn’t have been a piece of paper if he hadn’t done anything.”

“But who hasn’t?” He smiled. “Besides you, I mean.”

“I’m not perfect, Charles, but I don’t think I have any scandals hidden away.”

“Then you are the exception, and besides, I think you are perfect. But just think what would happen if that paper about Karen Liu were sent to the
Post
?”

“The same thing that happened to the judge.”

“At least. That is why I am reading about what has happened to him. It seems important to know.”

“I wouldn’t have thought of that.”

“Because
you
are perfect, dear, and I
would
think of it because
I
am not.”

“I never know how to answer when you say things like that,” Dorothy said.

“That’s why I do it. When you recover, I want to tell you about Lucy.”

“When I recover, I will need to go out for the rest of the afternoon. However, I will look forward to another cup of coffee sometime
very
soon.”

Charles knocked. Voices muttered from within. There was a scream, and a crash, then gunshots. Then silence.

The door opened with a sinister creak.

“Hey, boss,” Angelo said. “What do you want?”

“I have a job for you.”

Angelo turned off the tiny television and sat on his bed. “Okay, what is it?”

“It is a little complicated. May I come in?”

“It’s your house.”

Angelo’s room was perfectly neat, although it would have been difficult to make a mess with the few possessions he had.

“It’s your room, though,” Charles said. He sat on the one chair.

“What job do you have?”

“I would like to find that woman I’ve asked you about.”

Angelo shook his head. “Hey, boss, you start looking for people, they hear about it and you get lots of trouble.”

“I only want to know who she is.”

“There is something she has that you want?”

“I just want to find her, that’s all.”

Angelo shrugged and offered no further advice. “Where’s she hang out?”

“Take this list.” Charles spoke slowly. “Somebody hired that woman to be at the auction on Monday.”

“Okay.”

“Maybe, they got her name from this list.”

“This doesn’t have any name of a lady.”

“No. It is a list of agents. Some of them are just individuals. Some of them are partnerships. Some of them are dealers who have regular businesses.”

“Dealers. You want to be looking for dealers? That’s not good, boss.”

“They aren’t that kind of dealer. They’re antiques dealers or jewelers or art dealers.”

“They’re dealers,” Angelo said. “Dealers you should stay away.”

“I’m a dealer, Angelo. I can handle them. Now this is what I want you to do. I want you to go to each of these businesses that you can and look for that woman.”

“You want me looking? I told that judge I wouldn’t do any of that.”

“This is not criminal, Angelo. You’re just looking for her.”

“You tell me to, so it’s okay?”

“It’s okay.”

“How do I look? Look in a window? Look how?”

“This is where you get to practice your manners. Mrs. Beale and I think you need to learn proper professional behavior. Go to each place and go inside. Talk to the people. Look around and ask questions. See if this woman works there.”

Angelo was processing. “These people in buildings, they don’t talk to me. You they talk to, they don’t talk to me.”

“I think you can do it. Wear your good clothes. Be polite.”

Again he shrugged. “But you don’t want her to know you’re looking?”

“That’s right. Good. You understand.”

“So for why do I say I’m asking them?”

“We’ll think of something. We’ll try the first one together tomorrow.”

“Mr. Beale?” Angelo’s door had just closed. “You have a telephone call. A Mr. Galen Jones.”

“Oh, good! Thank you, Alice. I’ll be right there.”

He hurried back down to the office. “Yes, hello, this is Charles Beale.”

“Right.” A deep voice, gravelly, but it didn’t sound like a big person. “I got a message you called?”

“Yes, I did. Thank you for calling back. Mr. Jones, I was a friend of a man named Derek Bastien. I’ve heard you may have known him?”

Charles waited.

“What do you want?” the voice asked.

“Well, to talk. Either on the phone, or to meet with you.”

“Right.” Another wait. “Who are you?”

“I sell books. Antique books. I sold some to Derek. That’s really all. And I heard your name, and a little more than that about you, and I wanted to talk.”

“Talk about what? Look, do you want some work done?”

“No. I just want to talk. About Derek Bastien.”

A long wait. “Okay, I’ll talk. I’ll come see you. Where are you?”

“At my shop right now. In Alexandria. I’ll give you the address.”

“I’ll be there this afternoon.”

Charles had only set the telephone down when it rang again. By reflex, he picked it up again, without waiting for Alice to get it.

“Alexandria Rare Books, this is Charles Beale.”

“Answering your own phone?”

“Oh, hello, Jacob. How are you?”

The rusted, squeaking hinge of a voice answered, “Better than you are if you’ve lost all your help there.”

“I haven’t. I just had a feeling who it was, and I didn’t want to inflict them with you.”

“Someday you’ll learn respect for your elders.”

“You’re about the only one, Jacob. What can I do for you?”

“It’s what I can’t do for you. I’m not going to that auction here, so you’ll have to do your own bidding if you want anything.”

“Oh, that’s fine,” Charles said. “There wasn’t anything I wanted.”

“So you would have had me go for nothing?”

“You’re not going.”

“Then it’s a good thing I’m not.”

“I would have told you. But I do have another question.”

“Go ahead,” Jacob said. “Run up my telephone bill.”

“Thank you, I will. It is about the man at the auction Monday, who you saw bidding on that desk.”

“What about him? I don’t know anything but what I saw.”

“I’ve found out that man’s name. It’s Galen Jones.”

“Never heard of him.”

“I’m not surprised. Even you, Jacob, have not heard of every person.”

“Just most.”

“Just most. This man, Galen Jones, is a maker of replica antique furniture.”

“Oh, is he?” A conspiratorial tone entered Jacob Leatherman’s voice. “Matchmaker? Bidding on the desk?”

“Exactly. Now, this is what I’ve pieced together. He was sitting in the back row. Norman Highberg came in and sat next to him. Norman is an antiques dealer and knows Mr. Jones. Then, when the bidding on the desk began, Mr. Jones went to where Norman wouldn’t see him bid. And then, when the bidding escalated, Mr. Jones gave up and left. Would you say that was accurate by what you saw?”

“That’s just what I saw, Charles.” Jacob chuckled. “Are you after something?”

“I am, a little bit. I’m not sure what, it’s actually rather complicated. But I just wanted to compare my guesses with what you saw.”