False Premises (3 page)

Reeling, I studied the chair by the door. Two months ago, we had placed a Mary Washington chair from the 1800s in this very spot. Although the upholstery of the two chairs was roughly the same cinnamon color, this one’s hand—that all-important feel of the fabric against one’s skin—was dreadful. The stretcher was now a plain dowel, and the front legs had been lathed with modern machinery.

My stomach in knots, I made my way to the writing table. Pulling the drawer all the way out, I had to bite my lip as I caught sight of the bottom. Cheap particleboard. The joinery was crap—stapled together. The eighteenth-century desk I’d selected and installed in this house had been handcrafted with loving dovetail precision, mortise and tenon legs. Sick at heart, I replaced the drawer.

I’d stepped into my own worst nightmare. Every stick of furniture in sight had gone from a gorgeous antique to a tacky reproduction. Anything beyond a cursory inspection would reveal that at once to any knowledgeable eye.

What the hell was going on here?

Could someone have conned Laura and Dave into believing these fakes and frauds were the fortune in antiques that they’d purchased? But that was impossible. Laura would know instantly that these were fakes. And the authentic pieces had been in place the last time I was in this house, just two months earlier.

There was the slightest hitch in Laura’s step as she walked into the room and spotted me, and it broke my heart. I’d come uninvited, and, obviously, she knew I would instantly realize that the furnishings had been switched.

“Erin,” she said, that warm, Julia Roberts–like smile instantly on her face. “This is a surprise.”

Chapter 2

Had Laura hidden Dave’s glasses because she’d sold the antiques while he was on his business trip? Did she now plan to skip town with the profits? No, that was absurd. Nobody in their right mind would attempt such a thing. And Laura was a wonderful friend. I felt a pang of guilt for even thinking that she’d do something so rotten and underhanded.

I tried to calm myself. “I came over to make sure you were okay. I had visions of that guy you flipped to the floor last night tracking you down a second time. He left just a minute after you did.”

“That’s what
I
was afraid he’d do, too,” Laura replied. “So I headed straight for my car while calling the police. I’m sorry I didn’t call you back and explain all that to you last night. But Dave had been gone a whole month and got home unexpectedly, and we had a lot of catching up to do.”

“Did you recognize the guy with the dreadlocks or something?”

“Unfortunately. Though not at first . . . not underneath the beard and all that phony hair.” She glanced over her shoulder, then said softly, “I don’t know his name or anything, but he’s been stalking me all over town.”

“He
has
? Stalking you? Why?”

“I have no idea. He must have spotted me someplace and developed an infatuation.” She combed her hair back from her face, her fingers trembling slightly. “What happened after I left?”

“He claimed he was an undercover cop, then he left, too.”

Laura absently stroked her neck along the line of her cream-and-rose-tinted silk scarf. “He’s no cop. I’m sure of at least
that
much.”

Despite the serious subject matter, the duplicated furniture surrounding us pulled my attention like iron filings to a magnet. It was all I could do to keep my eyes focused on hers. I asked, “But you don’t know where he lives or works? And why he suddenly donned a wig?”

“Exactly.”

It was no use; my vision was drawn to the camelback sofa against the east wall. The seat cushions and back used to be covered in black woven horsehair, painstakingly blended with the original strands. The upholstery was now some sort of trashy-looking nylon-synthetic blend.

“It scares me half to death,” Laura said, recapturing my full attention. “At least the police are on the lookout for the guy now, so maybe they’ll catch him soon.”

“I hope so. Plus, you showed him you’re no pushover when you used him as your judo partner last night.”

“
Judo
partner?” Dave repeated as he returned to the room.

Laura laughed lightly. “I was honing my self-defense skills last night with Erin.” She pressed her chest against him in the process of giving him a little peck on the cheek and, in sugary tones, asked, “Sweetie, could you please go take care of that thing you were telling me about earlier?”

“What ‘thing’?”

“The burned-out lightbulb in the basement that you promised you’d replace.”

“Oh. Right. No problem.” He gave me a small smile. “Nice to see you again, Erin.” He added with a chuckle, “Even though you’re mostly blurry.”

“Good seeing you, too, Dave. And I hope you find your glasses very soon.”

“One of these days you’ll learn not to be so absent-minded,” Laura said to him.

“Too late . . . that ship has sailed,” he replied as he left the room, touching the wall as he cautiously rounded the corner.

The moment he was out of earshot, I demanded, “What’s going on?”

“With our antiques?” Laura asked, her voice breezy. “Didn’t I tell you about all that?”

“No.”

“We’re speculating . . . selling them, eventually, but we’re holding on to them in safe storage for a couple of years until their value increases and we can find some really motivated buyers.”

I stared at her, incredulous, yet she didn’t blink. Prior to this moment, she hadn’t mentioned one word about “speculating,” and that would have influenced my furniture selections immeasurably. Also, why would they duplicate their antiques with cheap replicas? “And yet you didn’t want to enjoy them yourselves in the meantime?”

She crinkled her nose. “Originally, that’s what we’d planned to do.” She sighed. “You’ve seen for yourself how Dave is, though. He’s such a klutz even
with
his glasses that, sooner or later, he was bound to do some serious damage to something priceless.”

My mind was in a whirl. Laura’s explanation wasn’t adding up; I needed to leave and sort through my thoughts. She continued, “He already managed to burn a hole clear through our new coffee table. He fell asleep with a lit cigarette on the edge of the ashtray.”

“I didn’t realize he smoked,” I replied absently. Smoking habits was one of my standard questions whenever I met with new clients to design their rooms; that affected my decisions from furniture placement to fabric selection. Both Dave and Laura had said they were nonsmokers.
Why was my dear friend lying to me?
“Had you already swapped the table with a reproduction?”

“Yes, thank God.”

I forced a smile, my stomach in knots. “Well, Laura, I’m glad to see that you’re all right. I’d better get to my client’s house now.”

“Thanks so much for dropping by, Erin. Let me walk you to your car.” She took my arm as we walked down the sandstone front steps. “I feel terrible about how our girls’ night out yesterday got cut so short. But let me tell you how I’m making it up to you.” She paused dramatically. “I’ve got a friend in Lyons who told me that she knows the owner of this gorgeous mansion up there, which, rumor has it, houses the nicest antiques west of the Mississippi. So, my friend is going to ask if you and I can take a private tour of the place sometime next week.”

“Really? That sounds great.” At least, it
would
have sounded great fifteen minutes ago, before I’d spied her houseful of reproductions.

“You can say that again. But that is strictly
entre vous et
moi
.” She hesitated. “That is, if what I just said means ‘between you and me’ in French.”

“It does.”

“Oh, good.” She grimaced. “It’d serve me right if I’d just accidentally told you to enter through my left nostril.” Her laughter was infectious, as always, despite the circumstances. “Don’t you just hate it when people throw French phrases into their speech? It is
so
pretentious!”

“Absolutely.” I unlocked the door of my van. “I find it
trés ennuyeux, mon cher
!”

She laughed merrily. “I’ll call you in a couple of days about Lyons. And, again, thank you for checking in on me. I’m really touched that you cared enough to come all the way out here.”

She gave me a quick hug, and I told her honestly, “I’m just glad to see that you’re all right, Laura. Let’s talk soon, okay?”

She trotted toward the door, turned, flashed her glorious smile at me, and, as she ducked through her door, cried over her shoulder, “Brrr! I’m freezing my
derriere
off!” She winked. “That’s French for ‘sorry ass.’ ”

I mulled over our conversation as I drove away. I truly liked and admired Laura, and it would hurt me deeply to lose her friendship. There was surely a simple, innocent explanation for the smoking-versus-nonsmoking issue; Dave must be one of those people who quits smoking periodically but always believes that, this time, he’ll kick the habit for good. But the cheap reproductions were harder to explain away. Why not place the speculative antique purchases directly into storage? Why duplicate everything, item for item? Most tellingly, if her actions were aboveboard, why hadn’t she told me of her plans?

The mega-wealthy often wear paste jewelry copied from the phenomenally pricey jewelry that they keep locked in their personal vaults. Surely it wasn’t unheard of to do the same thing with one’s antique furniture. Which was not to say that
I’d
ever heard of such a thing. But surely there were
some
antiques collectors and dealers who put their items in storage and lived with the replicas.

It’s just that, unfortunately, my every instinct was screaming at me that Laura Smith was not one of them.

Two hours later, I felt frustrated as I left my client’s
house. He was a wealthy widower who wanted to completely revamp his lifestyle and had hired an image consultant, who, in turn, had hired me. Although my client had denied it when I asked him point-blank, he seemed to be having serious second thoughts regarding our agreed-upon plans for his home makeover. If so, the sooner we got in sync the better. The design business is based on referrals, and I’d hoped that this job would lead to more work with the image consultant. That would never happen if my client was unhappy with the final results.

I felt myself easing up on the accelerator as I neared the café where I was supposed to meet my boyfriend, John Norton, for a lunch date. That wasn’t a good sign. On the surface, John was the perfect match for me. It’s just that I had the sinking suspicion that our relationship was heading down my typical path—even though he was wonderful in many ways, ultimately he was just not
the one.
We’d only been going out for two months, however—not long enough for me to come to a definitive conclusion. Besides, I could unconsciously be holding him accountable for something—and someone—he had no control over whatsoever.

I pulled into a space in the restaurant lot, shut off the engine, and sat in my van, staring through the windshield.

John was a terrific guy—nice-looking in that clichéd tall, dark, and handsome way. He was also intelligent and charming. He even had a professional interest in interior design; he managed a design center for one of the largest residential developers in the state and was in charge of furnishing showcase “demo” homes for his employers. It certainly wasn’t
John’s
fault that Steve Sullivan, of all people, had been the one to set up the two of us.

To John, Sullivan was an old friend. To me, Sullivan was a sometimes friend, sometimes professional rival. What Sullivan
always
was, though, was an enormous thorn in my side. With our downtown offices on the same street and separated by just three blocks, potential customers—especially the ones who were familiar with comic English operattas—sometimes got Gilbert versus Sullivan confused. In the two and a half years since I’d first moved to Crestview, both of us had been guilty of falsely accusing the other of deliberately taking advantage of our clients’ confusion. A couple of months ago, just as our frayed feelings were finally on the mend, they’d unaccountably begun to unravel once again when John and I started dating.

The door to my van opened, and I jumped, my reverie abruptly shattered. John smiled at me, his dark eyes merry. “Oops. Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you. I spotted you through the window and figured you might be waiting for a personal escort, beautiful lady.”

“I was just lost in thought.” I returned his smile. “But I’ll gladly accept an escort, kind sir.”

He gave me a peck on the cheek as he helped me down from the van. “Client troubles?”

“Something like that.”

He held the restaurant door for me. The female maître d’ gave him an appreciative once-over as she deposited us at our table. He and I chatted effortlessly, and I soon began to realize, as I always did whenever we were alone together, why it was that I was so drawn to him. John was excellent company and a really good guy. I was nuts to think that there was no magic between the two of us. I took a moment to silently admire his features. In his mid-thirties, John had the most wonderful laugh lines imaginable; when he smiled, they crinkled at the edges of his dark eyes, making them all the more appealing.

We ordered our lunch, and while we ate, I started to relate how I’d arrived at a client’s house this morning and found her “myopic boyfriend” stumbling around the place and the antiques “downgraded to chintzy reproductions.”

“Man, that’s weird,” John exclaimed. “So, what’d your client have to say for herself?”

“Well, the ‘client’ is my friend Laura . . . the one I went to Audrey’s presentation with last night? She basically claims that she’s keeping all of her pricey antiques under lock and key, while she and her boyfriend use the much less expensive replicas. She says they’re simply speculating with the antiques and hope to sell them at a profit in another couple of years.”

John’s brow furrowed as he polished off the last bite of his chicken tetrazzini. “Her name’s Laura?”