The Wrong Stuff (15 page)

She needn't have worried. Silver was eager to share his new wisdom. He described his regime of walking and meditating, his clearing away the extraneous in his life, his elimination of the negative, his paring down of worldly goods.

“I only have two caftans, one pair of sandals. I keep one notebook for journaling and a separate one for poems. I have two sharp pencils and two pens. I use the same pen and pencil for poems, and I don't use them for anything else. They are my sacred instruments, and I keep them for my work.”

Silver stopped talking and ate three cookies in rapid succession. No wonder the guy was hungry. Martine had taken everything away from him. Eating was the only thing he had left. Jane figured Martine would have him on a juice fast within the month. She was going to make him pay for not having an agent who could get her a two-book deal.

Silver picked up the small, hand-lettered card that announced the day's meals. Jane was appalled that he could even read about food after the amount of it he had just consumed. He looked giddy with delight though as he read aloud the description of dinner.

“An Evening in Provence will be tonight's theme. We will begin with a silky seafood bisque…,” he read, enraptured with the words that would so soon be realized as a source of satisfaction. Jane stopped listening after the first line.

That was it. That was the missing piece to this puzzle. What was it that Claire Oh had told her about the Westman chest? She'd spotted it in the basement of an estate sale. It was being used for tools or junk by the home owners. No one had even known it was there. No one had bothered to put a price on it.

That's the part she had not thought to question Claire about. She really had to find Claire Oh; it was time to stop playing games. Silver was droning on about heavy cream and a soupçon of this, just a dash of that. Hell, he probably devoted more heart and soul to the reading of this menu than he did to reading his own work. Unless, of course, he had published a cookbook in iambic pentameter. Not a bad thought, every recipe in sonnet form or something close. Jane's mind was racing as he spoke, but she hadn't really heard a thing after the first line.

“A night in Provence.” Provence. Provence. Why hadn't she thought of it until now?

So what if the carving looked exactly like the work of Mathew Westman? Without piecing together some kind of history, some kind of explanation of how that particular chest had ended up in that particular basement, the chest could not be authenticated, not definitively. Even if an authority such as Glen LaSalle or Blake Campbell had declared the carving to be Westman's, without a clear time line on the piece, it would be a tough sell to make this the find of a lifetime.

Jane had been so enamored when Claire had showed her the piece that she hadn't thought to ask about the owners. How had the piece gotten into the basement? Had it been there when the owners moved in? Who had lived in the house before them? Any living family members to question? Was there anyone who could help them trace that piece of furniture?

Jane was a rookie, so it was understandable that she hadn't thought to ask. And as soon as she had dragged Tim up here, they had found Rick Moore dead, which provided a major distraction. But if Claire had brought the chest up here to be worked on, surely everyone would have been trying to trace the history of such an important find. A third Westman chest? This was museum time, major acquisition time. Jane hadn't wanted to mention the Westman connection to anyone until she found out more about the people here. Why hadn't they been talking about it to her though?

Horace Cutler's murder had been reported in the paper. Claire Oh's name was certainly mentioned. Wouldn't anyone here remember that she had just picked up the Westman chest? Wouldn't they be wondering what had really happened?

Jane stood up then realized that Silver was still reading to her, and she sat back down. She couldn't drag Tim and Oh away from the table to discuss this with them and get their take without arousing a good deal of curiosity. She cleared her throat to interrupt Silver, so she could make a polite exit. He was lingering over the description of the
pots du crème,
when he was stopped by someone other than Jane.

“May I have your attention, please?”

Officer Murkel had returned to the lodge, this time with several uniformed officers. Apparently whatever warrant Roxanne had advised him he would have to have, he had.

“We are reopening our investigation of Rick Moore's death here at Campbell and LaSalle. We will need to question everyone here, and we ask that no one leave the property without our okay. We'll be setting up an office in the gallery. The barn workshop and Mr. Moore's cabin and truck are strictly off-limits,” said Murkel, ignoring the low muttering that began to grow louder at his last statement.

“May we see you now, Mrs. Wheel?” Murkel asked, phrasing it as a question, intoning it like a statement.

Jane stood up. She tugged the menu out of Silver's loving grasp and asked if she could use the pen sticking out of the patch pocket of his robe. Without waiting for an answer, she took it and wrote something on the card, and tossed the pen back on the table in front of Silver. By the stricken look on his face, she realized that she had taken his poem-writing pen, defiled his sacred tool. Martine would have her work cut out for her this afternoon. Did she do exorcisms?

On her way out, she slipped the card in front of Tim who was seated to Oh's left.
Let them get started on some of the work,
she thought, making sure Tim couldn't miss her alteration to the menu. The title of the theme dinner no longer read “A Night in Provence.” Jane had amended it to—“A Night in
Provenance!!!!!!!
”

The word “provenance” describes the source and history of ownership of a piece of art, a piece of furniture, any object of note or value. It is a word tossed around on the
Antiques Roadshow
almost as much as “patina” and “veneer.” Jane and Tim had long ago decided that if they ever had an imaginary son to keep their imaginary daughter, Patina, company, they would name him Veneer. And even if asked directly, they vowed to keep little Patina and Veneer's provenance a secret.

Jane berated herself as she followed Murkel to the gallery office set up by the police. Why had she not asked this before? How had Claire been planning to prove that this was a Westman chest? She would have had to have it authenticated by experts—they at Campbell and LaSalle could give it credibility; but before they did, they would need to know as much as possible about the discovery. Yes, valuable pieces had been found at sales and auctions, even thrift stores, far away from their birthplaces and original owners; but generally there was a paper trail, or at least an oral history, that could be discovered, that gave credence to a piece's authentication.

If, for example, a bill of sale for a third Westman chest had been found among Mathew Westman's papers, one could attach a name to the original owner. Say the Smith family had purchased a sunflower-carved chest from Mathew Westman. Research might show that the same Smith family, a few years later, had moved west to Chicago. Over the course of time, descendants scatter throughout the Midwest. Some pieces of furniture scatter with them; some, perhaps, were lost in the great Chicago Fire. Maybe the Smith family fell on hard times and their possessions were sold at auction. On a whim, a Mr. Jones bid on the now-worn and beat-up chest. He paid a few dollars for it, brought it home because he thought it looked interesting and well made, but his wife thought otherwise. It was sturdy, so they decided to put it to use, out of sight. Maybe they threw some paint on it to brighten it up. Perhaps the Westman chest was separated, its top shelf the perfect size to serve as a small side table in a child's bedroom and the bottom set of drawers, which were too ornate to be fashionable, ended up holding cans of paint and old brushes in the basement. Fifty more years passed. The Joneses' grandson's estate sale was held, and Claire Oh spotted the chest, which was so buried in the basement it was a throwaway.

Improbable, but not impossible. Jane was sure that Campbell and LaSalle would have tried to check the provenance of this piece as thoroughly as they would have examined the oxidation patterns on the undersides of the drawers and the marks of the carving tools on the sunflowers.

If Campbell and LaSalle had given their authentication, this piece would have the all-important “provenance.” Somewhat questionable, perhaps—not what every dealer and collector hopes for, a pure line of ownership, a piece passed down through the same family since its creation—but still, a possible scenario that might satisfy a well-heeled collector of Early American furniture.

If Campbell and LaSalle had not found any paper trail or oral history that might give the piece of furniture credibility as a Westman-made chest, it would be far less valuable. It would not necessarily, as Horace Cutler had accused, be a fake, not if it were simply being sold as a fine old Early American chest, carved in the manner of Mathew Westman; only if it was a fine new American chest, carved in the manner of Rick Moore, being passed off as the former.

Jane couldn't believe she had not quizzed Claire Oh about the owners of the estate. Or asked about what the experts had said about the chest when she brought it in. They must have authenticated it; otherwise she would not have delivered it to Cutler or, at least, not been surprised when he denounced it as a fake.

She was so lost in thought that Jane had to ask Murkel twice to repeat his question. Even then, she felt a bit lost. Was it only yesterday that she and Tim had arrived at Campbell and LaSalle?

“I asked you, Mrs. Wheel, if you were aware of any kind of odor, a chemical smell, when you entered the barn yesterday?” Murkel asked.

Jane tried to remember her first impression of the barn when she entered it. A beautiful workshop, well equipped and laid out. She remembered seeing the cans of paint and varnishes and solvents along one wall, but she couldn't remember seeing any of them opened. She mentally sent herself back up the stairs to the gallery library. She could not remember any smell. The windows were open, though, so why would she have smelled anything?

“I don't remember a smell. The windows were all open, though, and there was a breeze, so it might have freshened the air,” she said.

“You remember a breeze?” Murkel asked.

“Yes. Actually I do. When I was in the library, I noticed a book open on one of the tables. It had a bookmark in it, but the breeze had blown a few pages over it, past the marked page. And there was a little table-tent-type card that said something about the fact that Campbell and LaSalle did painstaking research on every piece brought to them for…” Jane stopped. That's right, further proof that someone knew the truth about the Westman chest before Claire picked it up. They wouldn't have restored it without getting its story.

“Yes?” asked Murkel.

“I remember the breeze blowing through,” said Jane. “If there was a smell, I didn't notice it.”

It struck Jane that no one had said why the investigation was being reopened, but considering what she had seen in Rick's truck, the carving tools, the imitation Westman sunflowers, she thought she might have an idea.

“Was Rick Moore murdered?” she asked.

Murkel smiled without the slightest trace of good humor. “What makes you think so?” he asked.

“I asked the question. I didn't say I thought anything,” Jane said, beginning to think quite a lot about the sandals back in her cabin and the envelope of papers marked important. How much trouble was she going to be in for taking all of this to study on her own?

Jane was surprised to see Murkel plant his elbows on the desk, rest his chin in his hands, and lean toward her. He looked ready to confide a deep and dark secret, so Jane prepared herself to listen.

“I know you're a detective of sorts, Mrs. Wheel, and I think you came up here following the same trail that I am now following. Don't you think we should share information?”

Jane was astonished. She was quite sure that, cartoon-like, her eyes had popped out of her skull and her chin had dropped to the floor. Since she was not sure she
was
a detective, how could a police officer in another state lean on his elbows and act like he wanted to dish the dirt with her?

“Don't be coy, Mrs. Wheel. You found Rick Moore's body. Didn't you think we'd at least check your name through our computer? It comes up in a few other recent murder investigations,” said Murkel.

“You googled me?” Jane asked, incredulous.

“Police don't have to google, Mrs. Wheel, but it's the same idea.”

Jane did not want to fail this test. She wanted to learn what Murkel knew without revealing what she knew, which wasn't all that much. Or was it? Lots of worrisome questions with no definitive answers. For example, where was Claire Oh? Why had she risked so much to come up here and hide in a tree house? What was in that envelope that Rick Moore had marked important? And what was the big secret of Campbell and LaSalle? That they had built a fake Westman and switched it, or that they had provided false authentification for what they knew was a fake? Or had they simply made a mistake that they needed desperately to cover up? Was someone desperate enough to kill Horace Cutler to shut him up? Oh yeah, and now the new jackpot question: Who killed Rick Moore?

If she could just satisfy Murkel for the time being, she could get out and put the right questions to the right people. Maybe Bruce Oh, if he'd been able to ditch Martine, and Tim, if he had been able to read her scrawled “provenance,” were already out there getting answers. She needed to be with them, now.

“Officer Murkel, I have an idea about those windows in the barn,” Jane said, trying to think one second ahead of her actual speech. “Maybe someone saturated the air with something, poured it on cloth, and put it in with Moore while all the windows were closed. I mean if he wasn't in there to cure wood, he might not have opened them. Then when he staggered out, that person led him to the stream, easily held him in the water, then went in and opened everything up. It wouldn't have taken that long, and during quiet…”

“Yes, during quiet time, I know. Everyone just disappears, and no one has an alibi for anything,” Murkel said with a sigh. “I don't know. The windows are hinged at the top and push out easily. Maybe…” Murkel stopped and sighed again. “Maybe we should start at the beginning. Have you found out anything about Horace Cutler's murder since you've been here?”

Jane felt like she could answer with an honest no, since she certainly had nothing definitive to say; but before she could even get that syllable out, Murkel went on musing, finishing his thought. “I mean, besides the fact that Rick Moore killed him.”

Murkel smiled when he saw Jane's face. “I'm sure by the time you leave this office, everyone will be talking about it,” he said. “I explained it, in part anyway, to the secretary here when I stopped in this morning. An eyewitness puts Moore and his truck at the scene of the murder. Cutler was holding on to some strands of hair that match up with Moore's. There's a boatload of stuff on my desk that all point to him. The woman they questioned has been cleared, her story checked out.”

Jane reeled, but just a bit. She must be getting better as a detective because her reeling time was getting shorter. Rick Moore had been murdered. Jane knew that. But perhaps it wasn't because of his carving skills or his knowledge of furniture forgery. Perhaps it was to cover the tracks of Cutler's murder? But weren't they Rick Moore's tracks? Why not just let him get caught? Jane was relieved at the convoluted thinking here. Maybe she
could
be a detective since the bad guys seemed to be even more confused than she was.

Murkel was treating her like a professional. Jane couldn't leave the office without giving him something. It was a matter of pride.

“I have Rick's shoes, his sandals. They were in the library under a chair. I'm pretty sure he was up there reading until something drove him outside.”

Murkel nodded. “Anything else?”

“I'll let you know,” said Jane, feeling guilty that she was keeping Rick's papers a secret from the first person to treat her like she was indeed a private investigator, not guilty enough to give them up until she'd had a chance to look them over, but guilty nonetheless.

Jane left Murkel shuffling some papers, still looking like he wanted to rest his head in his hands. Jane felt just the opposite. She was ready to put on her deerstalker cap and head for a gaggle of Campbell and LaSalle artists and fire questions. Claire Oh would come out of hiding soon, as soon as she heard she had been cleared. Jane guessed she'd send a squirrel with a message tied to his tail up to the tree house and let her know she could come out and play. The fact that she had been lurking around on the grounds might seem suspicious, but she didn't have anything to worry about here. She was at home when Rick Moore took his last drink of water.

When Jane went back to the lodge, she was surprised to find it empty and quiet. She had expected Martine to be organizing a séance or something. Shouldn't everyone be buzzing about the murderer among them? No one was going to be allowed to leave for a while, so shouldn't they all be standing around casting suspicious glances and shouting accusations? At least one of them should burst into tears and be afraid. But, no.

It was quiet time. Jane half expected that somewhere she would find one of those small, hand-lettered, table-tent signs that would say, “We at Campbell and LaSalle respect the quiet hours even when a murderer is running amok.” Jane set off to find Oh and Tim. She was quite sure they were not keeping silent, although she knew it was possible that Tim might be running amok.

The barn was supposed to be off-limits, but Jane thought she'd just walk by it on her way back to her cabin. That's where Tim and Oh would be or where they would leave her a note. The barn was taped off, and she could see a uniformed policeman standing at the door. The windows, she noticed, were open. They were large windows on the ground floor, hinged at the top. It was easy to tell from far away that they were open since they were simply pushed out and held with a wooden bar. The higher windows, the ones that provided light and air to the gallery library, were open as well.

“Officer, is it possible to retrieve a book from the library? That's the second-floor gallery,” Jane asked.

He shook his head, as she knew he would, and she shrugged, bit her lip, and walked on, circling around to the back as if she were taking the path to one of cabins that faced the stream. Annie was in one of those, and maybe Geoff and Jake, Jane wasn't sure.