“Just a map?” He stood over her. “It isn’t my map, Allison. I’ve already promised it to someone else! It’s the centerpiece of his collection! I swore he could have it, he expects it, and what in hell am I supposed to do about that?”
She scrambled to her feet. “Stop screaming at me.”
Rhonda’s dog had gotten into the room somehow, yapping and snarling, jumping onto the furniture.
“Stuart?” Rhonda stood by the door to her room in a red chiffon dress, fastening one of her earrings. “What on earth is going on? Zhou-Zhou, be quiet!”
“One of my maps was just shot to pieces. Whoever killed Royce Herron destroyed the Corelli map. Bang, bang, bang. Gone.”
“Wasn’t it insured?”
The dog was still barking. Stuart picked it up, pitched it into Rhonda’s room, and slammed the door.
“Stuart!”
“Keep that damned dog out of here!” He took a deep breath and came back to Allison. “You say the map can’t be repaired?”
“I— I don’t know. Perhaps it can.”
“We need to find out. We have to get it back immediately.”
“The police might want to hold it for evidence, but . . . shall I call the detective for you? I have his card.”
“Would you, Allison?” He pressed his knuckles against his lips, then said, “If you have any trouble, let me know, and I’ll ask my lawyers to contact the mayor or the chief of police. I must have that map.”
“Darling, calm down. Please.” Rhonda pulled him over to the sofa. “I should have said something. I thought it was a foolish idea when she suggested it.”
“What are you talking about?” Allison said.
“You insisted that we lend the maps to Royce Herron. They should have gone directly to the museum. He should have worked on the exhibit there.”
“Are you saying it was my fault? As if I knew someone was going to put bullet holes in it? That’s totally unfair of you, Rhonda.”
“I am saying, if you would listen, that there was no security at his house. It was negligent to risk them in that way. And you see what happened.”
Allison turned her back. “I can’t talk to you.”
Her father said, “Go finish dressing, Rhonda. It wasn’t her fault.”
Rhonda smoothed his hair off his forehead. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. Go on.” He kissed her hand.
“You need to get ready, Stuart. Our guests will be here soon. Red cummerbund tonight, don’t forget.” “Yes, yes.”
Rhonda crossed the room and closed the door behind her.
Trembling from confusion and uncertainty, Allison sat on the other end of the sofa. “Dad? I’m so sorry about the map.”
“Can’t blame yourself.” He put his elbows on his knees and entwined his long, thin fingers. “Sorry for yelling at you, dear.”
“Was the Corelli so special? There are other maps, better than that one.”
He murmured, “People have their obsessions.”
“Who is he? Dad? Who did you sell the map to?”
He looked up at her. “A fellow in Europe. A Russian. A map fancier. One of my investors, actually. He wanted the Corelli because a member of his family once owned it. There are no others like it. I may have a devil of a time explaining.”
“I’ll get it back,” Allison said. “I’ll get it, and we’ll see. There are people who do restorations. You’ll just have to tell him what happened and offer to give him something even more wonderful if this one can’t be fixed.”
“Yes. Perhaps.”
She heard the soft tick of his wristwatch and, through the double-glazed window, the faraway noise of a jet airplane. “I’m glad to be home.”
He nodded. “We’re happy you’re with us again.”
She said, “I want very much to be a part of your life. We had our disagreements, and I used to blame you, but I can’t do that anymore. I wasn’t exactly a perfect kid, was I? Remember the time I stole your car?”
He smiled and nodded. “Twice.”
“But you forgave me,” she said.
“Yes. We’re a family. All of us.” He reached over and squeezed her hand. “Don’t worry about the map. I’ll take care of it. Well, now.” He pushed himself up. “I’d better get dressed or Rhonda will have my head.”
When she hugged him, he patted her shoulder. She had the feeling that he was embarrassed by the emotion, and it made her want to cry. She stepped away and said, “Enjoy the party. Maybe we could get together for dinner sometime. Just us.”
“Yes. Why not? See you later, then, Allison.”
Chapter 6
Jenny Gray opened her shoulder bag, took out a folded envelope, and gave it to Tom. Sunglasses hid her eyes; bright points of light shone in the lenses. “This
is a hundred and fifty dollars. I don’t think it will cost more than that. I put my mother’s address in there, too.” “I’ll send the boxes tomorrow.” Tom slid the extra key off his key ring. “Just turn the lock and leave this in the kitchen when you go.”
“Thanks, Tom. Please tell Rose I’m sorry I couldn’t be at the booth this weekend. Is she mad at me?”
“Not at all. In fact, we’re not that busy.”
Jenny would be catching a flight to London in a few hours. What she couldn’t fit into her suitcases, she would leave at Tom’s apartment, and he would ship for her. She had called this morning, and they agreed to meet outside the historical museum at noon. It had taken him a few minutes to spot her among the crowd. Perfect weather had sent people outdoors. The broad, red-tiled plaza was enclosed by two museums and the public library, and above them, the cloudless blue sky.
At one of the umbrella tables, ragged men gathered around a chessboard. At another, map dealers unwrapped their bag lunches. Red ribbons fluttered from their name tags. Tom had one like it pinned to his shirt. THOMAS W.
FAIRCHILD. THE COMPASS ROSE. MIAMI.
“Are you going to be living with your mom?” “Maybe. I haven’t told her I’m coming.” Jenny laughed. “Don’t want to give her a chance to say no.”
He noticed an empty table near the food kiosk. “Can you stay for a minute? Let me buy you a soda or something.”
“I really can’t. I have to be at the airport pretty soon.”
“This is kind of sudden, isn’t it?”
“I’m so tired of Miami, the whole bloody scene.”
“Since when?”
“Since I got here! This is one of the most shallow places I’ve ever been to. Except for you and about two other people I know, nobody cares about anything but how they look, and what they drive, and who they know.”
Tom shook his head. “Jen, you don’t have to talk to the police. Are you afraid they’ll find out your visa has expired?”
“They might. I don’t want to be deported. I could never come back.”
Jenny had called him the day after she had found Royce Herron’s body, wanting advice, maybe thinking that because Tom had his own experiences with the police, he could tell her what to do. Jenny didn’t want to ask her attorney, Allison Barlowe. She didn’t like her connection to Larry Gerard, who had a Miami police lieutenant on his payroll, or so Jenny alleged. Tom doubted that but believed Gerard had friends in the department. He’d heard rumors about Gerard from people he’d met at a bar or nightclub, like the call girl with a client list that included bankers and politicians, or the Miami events planner who needed some pharmaceutical favors for celebrities passing through. Tom couldn’t help it if people told him things. But if the Weasel ever found out who Tom’s friends were, he would be overjoyed to run to the judge with a violation report.
What surprised Tom was that Allison had come back, and apparently for good. She used to tell him that even flying to Miami for Christmas was too much. Tom had expected to bump into her at the map fair, but she hadn’t shown up either day. On Friday night Rose had seen her at the cocktail party, chatting with a woman from the Library of Congress. Rose had smiled and
waved, but Allison hadn’t recognized her—or had pretended not to.
“Tom?” Jenny’s voice broke into his thoughts. “If anyone asks you where I went, say you don’t know. Promise?”
He looked at her. “Why don’t you tell me what’s really going on?”
After a couple of starts she took a breath, then said, “I’m so totally freaked out by what happened to Royce Herron. I found him, Tom. Lying there. Blood all over his face. You can’t imagine.”
He put an arm over her shoulders. “Babe, they killed him for his maps. They’re not going to come after you.” When she didn’t answer, he said, “Jen?”
“What if they are after me?”
“Why would they be?”
“I don’t know. There’s just too much stuff happening. Like my roommate. She’s gone. She disappeared about a week ago. She went out—I don’t know who with—and never came home. Sometimes she does that, but when I got home Wednesday night, everything was gone from her room. Clothes, papers, address book, everything— but not the stuff in the bathroom, like her toothbrush and a new jar of La Prairie face cream that she bought for a hundred and twenty-five dollars. Carla would have taken it with her. I called her brother in San Diego, and he hasn’t heard from her in months. I asked everybody at work, and they don’t know. They’re like, oh, Carla, well, what do you expect? She probably took off with some guy to Las Vegas.”
“Did you call the police?”
She shook her head. “They arrested her twice for prostitution. I really don’t think they would care, would they? I have to go.”
“Jenny, wait—”
She gave Tom a quick peck on the mouth. “Take care. I’ll e-mail you when I get to London.” With another glance around the plaza, she hurried across, vanishing under the colonnade near the library.
Like her friend Carla, Jenny Gray had been hired as a hostess and server for a private club, the Blue Orchid, located in one of the high-rise bank buildings on Brickell Avenue. Larry Gerard had a stake in the club. Jenny’s real job was being eye candy for VIP customers. What Gerard didn’t know: She was having an affair with his stepfather. That hadn’t lasted long. When Barlowe dumped her, Jenny came over to Tom’s house one night crying about it. They had slept in the same bed, but she turned away when he kissed her. She never had sex with friends, she said; it always ruined a good relationship. So Tom had lain there in a sweat, listening to her breathe, wishing she hadn’t liked him so much.
The name tag on Tom’s shirt took him past the line of people waiting to go into the museum. He nodded at the volunteers selling tickets. In his khaki pants and longsleeved white shirt with the cuffs rolled, he was just another map dealer.
The museum was barely big enough for all the tables and dividers winding through the lobby and corridors and small exhibition rooms. The dealers stood at their tables, their best maps on display behind them. Collectors lifted maps out of boxes, turned pages in Mylar-protected folders, and stopped to stare at a 1513 Waldseemüller world map priced at three hundred thousand dollars. Cheap. The Library of Congress had paid ten million dollars for the wall-size 1507 version, the first to use the word “America.”
The Compass Rose booth was on the second floor. Tom went up the carpeted steps two at a time, the polished brass bannister turning at right angles around an immense glass lens from an old lighthouse. He had promised to watch the table while Rose took the girls to lunch. Her sales had been no more than break-even. Most customers had bought the cheaper items: a Caribbean sea chart that Tom had hand-colored; a U.S. map from 1875; an Esso or Phillips 66 highway map from the fifties. People who had bought nothing took the shop’s publicity flyer for the Ortelius map on the reverse side.
Rose had a customer, a bald man with a New York accent and a blue sport coat that rode up on his thick shoulders. Tom saw the dealer ribbon and guessed he was sniffing for bargains in the few hours remaining. Behind the table, the twins sat side by side in folding chairs with the latest Harry Potter novel open on their laps. Tom reached over and ruffled their bangs.
“It’s about time,” Megan said, closing the book. “We’re starving to death.”
Jill elbowed her and found their place again. “We have to wait for Mommy.”
Rose asked Tom to take down the Crusoe on the display wall, A Map of the World on wch. is Delineated the Voyages of Robinson Cruso, a small map about eight-byeleven inches mounted on mat board. Two circles represented the hemispheres of the world as known in 1711. California was an island with nothing above it but empty space.
The bald man gave it a cursory glance. “How much are you asking?”
“One thousand dollars.”
“C’mon. I’ll give you seven hundred. You won’t do better.”
Tom said, “Hold out for a thousand, Rose. I’ve had two people show interest. One said he’d be back.”
With a laugh the dealer said, “You bet. I’ll check with you later. If somebody offers you more than seven, grab it.”
As he walked away, Rose rolled her eyes and blew out a breath that puffed her cheeks. She had been working flat out for a week with barely any sleep, and it showed. “I refuse to sell it for less than I paid! Here, Tom, hang this back up, will you? Let’s go, girls. Lunch. We won’t be gone long. I want to take them over to the library after. Do you mind?”
“Not much going on here,” Tom agreed.
For the next half hour he watched the crowds slowly moving past the tables. He smiled and answered a few questions and straightened the maps in the boxes. He saw people pause to gaze up at the display wall, where he had painted islands, wooden ships, and sea monsters.
A woman with an expensive silk scarf around her neck began turning the big pages in the map folder. The lights flashed in her diamond rings. Tom walked over. “Welcome to The Compass Rose. Are you looking for anything in particular?”
“Do you have Georgia? We’re from Atlanta. I want something for my husband’s office.”
He lifted a box to the table. “Let me show you a nice one of the Southeast, printed in 1757 in Paris.” Tom showed her a copperplate engraving. “It’s a beauty. I can let it go for four hundred.”
At the other end of the table a tall man with a grayflecked beard stood silently watching this. He held a copy of the Compass Rose flyer. A purple ribbon hung from his name tag; the gold letters spelled out DONOR. Tom thought he looked familiar.
The woman said, “It’s French. I’d rather have something in English. And I really don’t want to pay that much.”
Tom showed her a less expensive, four-color map of Georgia a hundred years newer. Rose had penciled the price on the back: $250. “It was printed in Philadelphia. Notice the distance chart there in the corner.”
“This is nice,” she said. “Do you have anything else?”
He brought out a map of South Carolina and Georgia, which she looked at for a minute or two before deciding she didn’t want both states in the same map. The man still waited at the end of the table, and Tom began to grow impatient with his customer’s dithering.
“If you want the Georgia map,” he said, “I can let you have it for two hundred. You’d be getting a bargain.”
When the man turned to flip through the box of European maps, Tom took another look at him. Gray tweed jacket, dark gray slacks. Thin fingers, plain wedding band, a leather strap on his watch. His face was narrow, with a high forehead, a straight nose, and dark, sad eyes with prominent circles underneath. The lights painted shadows on his cheekbone and temple. His cheeks were shaved; the mustache and beard compensated for a thin upper lip and an overbite.
This was Allison Barlowe’s father. Tom had last seen him getting out of a limo at the Pierre Hotel in New York City, meeting Allison for high tea, making a detour on his way back from Europe. Tom had taken a taxi with Allison and watched from across Fifth Avenue in a freezing rain. Allison hadn’t wanted to go, but Tom had talked her into it. He’s your father. Have some respect.
The woman said, “Would you
take one-fifty?”
Tom focused on her again. “Sorry, I really couldn’t do less than two hundred.”
“Look here. There are some brown spots on the corner.”
“The price takes that into account,” he said.
“I don’t know. Let’s split the difference. One seventyfive.”
Without looking around, the man at the other end of the table murmured, “Madam, the map is two hundred dollars. Don’t haggle. This isn’t a rug bazaar.”
She stared at him, then dropped the map on the table. “Then buy it yourself.”
With an audible sigh, Tom put it back into the box.
Barlowe opened his wallet. “All right, I will.”
“I didn’t ask you to pay for it,” Tom said.
“I insist. It’s my fault you lost the sale.” He laid two hundred-dollar bills on the table, and with a shrug, Tom reached for the receipt book.
“The price is two hundred and twelve with the sales tax,” Tom said.
More bills were added to the stack. “My name is Stuart Barlowe.”
Tom put down the pen to shake the offered hand. “How are you? Tom Fairchild.”
“Your grandfather, William Fairchild, was a collector. He and my father were acquainted through maps. I know your sister, Rose. Rather, I know the shop.”
Tom put the map of Georgia into a bag. “We do acidfree framing, if you want this framed. We can also color your maps with archival-quality paint.”
Leaving the bag on the table, Barlowe held up the publicity flyer. “Tell me about this map. It says here, ‘Original Art by Tom Fairchild.’ What does that mean?”
“It means the map doesn’t exist. I drew it. My apologies to Mr. Ortelius.”
“As he died several centuries ago, I doubt he can object.” Barlowe studied the flyer. “How did you do this? Freehand? Or did you base it on a photograph?”
“Trade secret,” Tom said.
“Remarkable.” Barlowe put the flyer into his pocket. Hands behind his back, he strolled down the length of the table, then returned. He smiled at Tom, then retraced his steps to the other end, where he nodded at the Crusoe map that Rose had tried earlier to sell.
The Perfect Fake Page 6
