False Premises (33 page)

“Oh, I don’t blame you in the least. But you can make it up to me in the future by having a nice evening out with me. One that doesn’t end in your making a hundred-yard dash out the door.”

“So long as we ensure that Henry Toben won’t be your date, no problem.” I swept up the printout I’d made yesterday, which had since gotten misplaced but had resurfaced during my fumbling for a scratch pad while on the phone.“Would you like to see a chair that will look amazing in the den?”

“Is it an eighteenth-century Italian love seat?”

“No, a twenty-first-century High Point, North Carolina, one-seater.”

“Close enough.”

She gushed over the chair, then said, “But let’s consider furnishing that room entirely in period pieces instead. In fact, I’m thinking about doing a show on antiques . . . or maybe even a week’s worth of shows during next sweeps period.”

“That’d be a great idea.”

“Wonderful! What can you tell me about identifying fakes and frauds?”

“Nothing.”

“Oh, now, we both know that isn’t true.” She headed for the kitchen drawer where she kept her note-taking materials for the show.“What about the work you did for Laura?”

I shuddered.“Please! Don’t remind me.”

Even while I was voicing my refusal, out came the Dom Bliss notebook and pen.

“Seriously, Audrey. This isn’t my area of expertise . . . which is probably one of the reasons Laura made me her mark. I’ve taken all of one course in antiques. I’m looking forward to watching your shows so I can learn more about them.You’ll want to consult with an expert— with an antiques dealer.”

“And I will. But for now, I’m just looking for a place to start . . . the absolute basics.” She looked at me expectantly.

Reasoning that giving her this information was the very least I owed her for abandoning her to Hammerin’ Hank, I pulled out one of the bar stools and took a seat. “Okay. All I can do at this point is give you a hodgepodge of information.”

“Fine. Hodge this podge however you like. We’ll sort through it all later.”

“Start by learning your time periods. That’s a whole— and, frankly, dry—lecture in itself.You need to know what types of wood were used, when and where, and the types of construction methods used. And the dimensions of furnishings that were popular at that time. For example, during some eras, sofas were made to be almost too long . . . especially the Hepplewhites and Sheratons.”

She peered up at me from her notes. “I’m assuming Mr. Hepplewhite and Mr. Sheraton were British?”

“Yes, that’s right. You based that on the derivations of their last names?”

“No, on the prototypical Brit’s reserved, formal mannerisms. Let’s face it, if a Frenchman, such as Maurice Chevalier, were to have designed a sofa, would he have opted for a ‘too long’ couch or for a nice, cuddly love seat?”

At a loss for a suitable response, I could only laugh.“I’ll lend you my class notes and charts on furniture history.”

“That’s great, Erin. Thank you,” she said with a smile. “Go on, dear.”

“In general, you want to remember that antiques have lasted this long because they were handcrafted with great care . . . made one at a time. Nothing handcrafted can be as precise and symmetrical as machined pieces. Even so, you should be able to put a drawer upside down and still be able to slide it in or out; otherwise, I get suspicious that the drawer, at least, has been replaced with much newer wood.

“As for signs of fakery, circular saw marks are a dead giveaway. Round nails didn’t come onto the scene until the eighteen twenties. You watch for silly stuff . . . like the size and curvature of multiple dents on a supposed antique. If they’re exactly the same size, that can be a sign that someone deliberately aged the wood by smacking it with a heavy chain. Always examine a piece of furniture in bright lighting . . . preferably sunlight. Look at the wood’s patina—the reddish-brown of eighteenth-century walnut, the honey-yellow of aged maple, or the deep brown-red of mahogany. Meanwhile, the backings of pieces were almost always made with soft woods, so they will have turned dark with a hundred-such years of dirt and dust. Look for the grayness of tabletops from washings with harsh soap and water. Expect edges and corners to be a little rounded with age.”

On a roll now, I gave her a minute to catch up with her note-taking, then continued, “You have to always consider the way life was back when this potential purchase was made.The craftsmen didn’t waste time staining the backs of dressers or the undersides of drawers. You should be able to see the grooves of the jack planes . . . the lack of machine-tool precision. Authenticating labels and stamps on pieces should be viewed with extra suspicion. It’s just too easy to stick, say, the label ‘Paul Revere’ on something, because everyone knows about Revere and his pewter.

“So.That’s a quick rundown on what I know. Like I said, I’ll give you my notes. Also, it’s really a good idea to establish a relationship with a trustworthy antiques dealer. By the time you hear from a couple of different sources that a particular antiques shop owner is knowledgeable . . .” Discouraged at the thought of what would face me when I had to appraise Dave Holland’s antiques on Monday, I let my voice fade.

Audrey frowned. “I have to admit, Erin, you suddenly don’t sound all that convincing.”

“It’s good advice, though. Dealers spend years examining antiques. They can amass so much more knowledge than anyone who simply dabbles in antiquing. I guess I got so thoroughly conned by Laura that it’s difficult for me to talk about trusting others on this one subject. But I’ll get over it eventually.”

Audrey gave a sympathetic cluck. “I know you’re going through a really rough time right now, Erin. I’m sorry if I made it even worse.”

“Your heart was in the right place.”

“Well, I can tell you one thing I already know about recognizing fakes and frauds. You’re the real McCoy, Erin Gilbert.”

I beamed at her, knowing that this was about as sentimental and mushy as my landlady ever got. “Thank you, Audrey. So are you.”

Chapter 23

Monday morning, I worked with a couple of new clients out in Lafayette, then drove once more to the Crestview police station. Though I had almost an hour free, eating lunch was out of the question. My stomach was as knotted as an elaborate macramé.

The day before, I’d met Linda Delgardio at the station house. I’d told her about the Chinese chest, which I suspected had been removed from George Wong’s store, and gave her my theory that Laura had stolen the chest as some kind of trophy, not realizing how dangerous Wong was and how swift and total his retribution would be. To my surprise, Linda agreed with me and began to put a surveillance operation into motion.

For my one P.M. appointment with George at Dave Holland’s house, I would be wearing a wire. Now, even after more than twenty-four hours to get accustomed to the idea, my mind balked at the surreal concept.
Wearing a
wire? Me?
It felt as though I’d suddenly slid into an episode of
Law & Order.

“Okay,” Linda said as she and her partner, Mansfield, accompanied me into the inner sanctum of the police station, “here’s the deal. You’re going to be wired for sound, like we discussed yesterday. Manny and I are going to be in the back of your van, listening in. If there’s any sign that you’re even slightly getting into some possible danger, we’ll bust in and make the arrest.”

“Like Del said, we’re taking no chances here,” Mansfield added. “You get nervous, just say, ‘Help,’ and we’ll be there before you’ve reached the letter
p.
”

I nodded, thinking that would make the word
hell,
which was chillingly appropriate. “I can draw you a floor plan of the house right now. That way, you’ll know exactly where I’ll be and how to get there quickly.”

“Good idea,” Mansfield said. He grinned at Linda. “Having a designer as our front man has some advantages.”

With Linda and Mansfield out of sight in my van,
which I’d parked as close to the front door as possible— even having backed into the driveway so the van’s back door was a straight shot into the house—I rang Dave’s doorbell. To hide the contraption taped to my abdomen, this morning I’d deliberately chosen to wear a three-quarter-sleeve burgundy button-down blouse that was slightly too big for me, flatteringly tight black slacks, and the one pair of Jimmy Choo shoes I own—black sling-back sandals. I’d also given myself a pedicure and painted my toenails to match my blouse. My reasoning was that, on the off chance that Dave or George was into women’s feet, I needed to do everything I could to draw their eyes away from my midsection.

Dave opened the door. He was wearing his omnipresent gray corduroys and a black T-shirt under an unbuttoned pin-striped collared shirt. He’d used some sort of product that only succeeded in making his messy hair look shiny. I felt a hideous pang, as my memory flashed back to the fateful time when he’d let me in to check on Laura, only to discover that her antiques—and she herself—were frauds. Now that he’d replaced his glasses, he recognized me at once and said, “Come on in, Erin.”

I felt like I was walking into a lion’s den. My stomach lurched at the sight of the mirror that had been the first spark of the conflagration to follow. A moment later, I spotted the original—the antique—mirror, propped against the wall. I immediately knelt to inspect it, forgetting for the moment the real purpose behind my visit. “This is gorgeous. You can not only sell it for what you paid for it, but at a profit, so if George wants to bid on it, don’t let him have it for anything less than twenty K.”

“Whatever,” Dave said. “I already decided to take Mr. Wong up on his offer to haul all the crap he made for Laura out of here at a fifth of what she paid. So I just need you to appraise the old stuff again, now that they’re damaged, to keep him honest when he makes his offer to buy them from me. We still have all the paperwork that shows exactly how much I paid for each piece, so it shouldn’t take you long. Right?”

“Right.” I still felt ungodly nervous, so it was good news that I wasn’t going to be in an adversarial role with Wong regarding his offer on the furniture Laura had commissioned him to build.

“Let’s get to it, then. The sooner we’re done, the sooner I can get back to my office. I’ve kind of got a lot going on today . . . set my computer up in the kitchen so I can work at home. That’s the one room Laura didn’t touch, since we went with state-of-the-art modern appliances to begin with.”

“I remember.”

“Yeah. So. Where do you want to start?”

“I’d like to see that chest you were describing.” If my allegations proved baseless—if it was obvious at a glance that this chest was in no way related to George Wong—I needed to alert Linda and her partner as soon as possible.

We made the journey through the foyer and up the stairs. About half of Dave’s antiques intended for the living room had survived the warehouse fire. He’d placed each original beside its vastly inferior clone. A faint charred-wood scent hung in the air.

“The only room that Laura didn’t provide duplicates for was the master bedroom.” Dave sighed. “Guess the princess wasn’t willing to sleep on the pea even for the short time it would have taken to get her plan into effect.” His voice was more sad than bitter.

“You’re selling your bedroom furniture, as well?”

“Yeah. But it was never in the fire, so it’s not damaged, and I don’t need you to reappraise it.” He swung open the six-panel door to the guest bedroom. “Here we are. These were toward the back of the warehouse, so almost all of ’em were burned beyond recognition.”

Indeed, all that remained of Laura’s glorious antiques was a Boston rocking chair in the corner. The condition of this room I’d designed staggered me. This had once been a beautiful, serene retreat for houseguests. Now the bureau, nightstands, and bed were garage-sale items—not even of the quality of the fast knockoffs that George had supplied her for the main level. That only made the Chinese chest stand out all the more in contrast. She’d placed it dead center. There were six carved panels on the front. The wood inlays were hand-carved and had a natural red sheen.

I knelt, opened the hidden drawer, and ran my fingertips along the surface of what would have formed the ceiling of this tiny chamber for a young George Wong. I could feel markings—shallow impressions in the wood— perhaps carved there by his fingernails. I reached deeper inside to feel the entire surface with my palm. Every inch was covered; it felt as though there was an elaborate carving there, turning the rough-wood underside into a private piece of art. My throat clenched, and I jerked away and shut the drawer. Whatever horrors George Wong had absorbed as a child didn’t excuse him from being a murderer as an adult.

I turned away and saw that Dave was watching me from the doorway. He donned a wan smile. “How much is it worth?”

Ironically, even though it was on the underside of a drawer, the carving George had made as a child would drive up the price. “Six, seven thousand. Minimum.”

“That’s something, anyway.”

“Did you mention this chest to Mr. Wong already?”

Dave nodded. “He said he’d like to take a look at it.”

No surprise there
. Linda and I hadn’t discussed my handling of this subject matter with Dave, but I decided to treat him as I would if I weren’t wired for sound. “I have to warn you, Dave, it’s likely that Laura stole this chest.”

He gaped at me. “Pardon?”

“I think that she stole this chest from Mr. Wong. In which case, of course, you won’t get anything at all for it.”

“Oh, my God.” He rubbed his forehead. “Well. I guess I shouldn’t be so surprised. You know, at this point, Erin, I’d believe anything anyone told me about Laura.”

“I’m sorry,” I replied, and meant it.

Frowning, Dave glanced at his watch. “I should really get to my teleconference call. You remember where everything is, I’m sure. Mind showing yourself around?”

“Not at all.”

Dave returned to the kitchen as I pulled out my notes on the original antiques. I was still so nervous about my upcoming meeting with Wong that I needed to talk and kept up a running monologue to my wire as I inspected the one-time prized antiques. In addition to the nearly total loss of this bedroom’s furnishings, I was heartsick about some exquisite pieces downstairs that were gone—the cherry console, the mahogany hutch, the fabulous early-Victorian walnut salon chair. The finish on many of the pieces had been badly charred. Because Dave was guilty of arson, he surely wasn’t getting any insurance money for the damage to his possessions.