“Edmund Cane. He is with Horton’s on Fortieth in New York.”
“Why’d he call you?”
“Apparently, just because I was there.”
“Yeah. He’s just following leads. I know all about it, that’s my life. But that desk.” He nodded, thinking. “That’s a good point. I really don’t think it has anything to do with the break-in, but I suppose it is kind of interesting. I might follow that. So you don’t know anything about it?”
“Not the buyer. I know about the desk.”
“I guess it was antique, right?”
“The desk was 1875; it was owned by President Taft’s father.”
“Right . . . and probably hard for a burglar to throw into his bag and run off with. But somebody did want it.” He shrugged. “But you don’t know why.”
“I don’t.”
“Okay. It’s a lead.”
“Who else have you talked to?” Charles asked. “Or may I ask?”
“Sure, I’ll tell you. I talked to dealers I know, to tell them to be on the watch for the stuff. I talked to a couple lowlifes that let me know things sometimes. I talked to the neighbors who had break-ins so they’d feel like someone cared, and his wife, too, so she’d feel like someone cared. None of that means anything; it’s just for their feelings. It’ll all come up on the Internet if it comes up anywhere. That’s what’ll actually mean anything. Or maybe we find the stuff somewhere, or else maybe we’ll never see any of it again.”
“You spoke with Derek’s wife?”
“Lucy Bastien. I figured she’d like to know that someone cares, but she doesn’t care. She could care less.”
“I never met her.”
“She’s there in the house. Anyway, here’s my card. Call my cell phone if you do think of anything.”
“I certainly will.”
“Anyway—thank you. Ma’am.” He lifted his hand to tip his hat and it wasn’t there. He grabbed it off his lap where he’d set it. Then he stopped, and looked at her again. “Do you mind if I ask? That’s a real nice silver in your hair. It’s natural, isn’t it?”
“I don’t color it,” Dorothy said, somewhere between indignant and flattered.
“You see, I have this theory,” Mr. Kelly said. “About that shade of silver. Not just any gray, but that real bright silver, I’ve seen that passed down mother to daughter. It’s like blue eyes. Did your mother have that same silver hair? If you don’t mind my asking.”
Charles coughed.
Dorothy smiled, thinly.
“I’m sorry,” Mr. Kelly said. “You do mind. I shouldn’t ask personal questions.”
“I never met my mother,” Dorothy said.
“Oh. Okay, I’m sorry. Never mind, shouldn’t have asked. Anyway, I’ll find my way out.”
“I’m going down,” Charles said. He held open the office door and followed the broad shoulders down the stairs, and he and Alice received one more tip of the hat as the front door closed.
“I couldn’t help but notice,” Dorothy said as Charles returned to his desk.
“Notice what?”
“You didn’t tell him what you found in the John Locke.”
“He didn’t ask.”
“Charles, that’s ridiculous. All right, what if he had asked?”
“I don’t answer rhetorical questions. And, I doubt the papers have anything to do with his burglaries.”
“They have to do with something. I think you’re making a mistake.”
“I’m trying not to make a mistake. And I couldn’t help but notice,” Charles said.
“Notice what?”
“How he noticed you.”
“Oh . . . well . . .” Dorothy’s cheeks blushed a delicate pink.
“Anyone would, of course. It’s quite understandable.”
“Don’t be silly, Charles.”
“When I am with you, it is everything else that seems silly. But I will try to attend to prosaic life.”
Dorothy already had. “And what will that be?”
“I think I know another doorknob to try my key in.” He found his telephone book.
“Who are you pestering now?”
“The wind is blowing toward Lucy Bastien.”
“You should not pester her, Charles.”
“I don’t believe I will be. Apparently, she could care less.”
“You know I have never liked that expression,” Dorothy said.
“You know that I haven’t either. Why is it supposed to mean the exact opposite of what it means?” He pushed buttons.
“It is a symptom of the hopeless state of our nation.”
“Exactly.” He waited as the telephone rang.
“Lucy,” a voice said.
“Charles,” he said.
“Charles?” The voice sounded puzzled, but amused. “What do you want?”
“To come see you.”
“You do? Why?”
“I thought it would be interesting.”
That was enough. “It sounds like it might be. Who are you, anyway?”
“Charles Beale. I knew Derek Bastien.”
“Then maybe I’m not interested. I’m not going to buy anything. What do you sell?”
“Books. Antique books.”
“Right. I hate antiques, and I don’t like books either.”
“I paid you twenty-seven thousand dollars for thirteen antique books last Monday. Isn’t that worth letting me in?”
“Maybe. Okay, come on, I don’t care.”
“Thank you. Would this morning be all right?”
“Anytime you want. If I’m here, I’ll answer the door.”
“Thank you. Very much.”
Charles looked at Dorothy.
“Just go,” she said. “I will not discuss it.”
“Yes, dear.”
“Except that I can’t believe you would say such things on the telephone to someone you’ve never met. Angelo isn’t the one who needs to learn manners.”
“Yes, dear.”
Charles stood for a moment at the weighty oak door. There would be no chess game this time.
He rang the bell. The door opened.
There was no granite foyer table. No oval mirror on the wall above it.
He smiled. “Hello. I’m Charles Beale.”
“Come in. I’m Lucy.”
The foyer walls weren’t gray-green. They were light yellowish tan.
“Thank you.”
The floor wasn’t white and black marble. It was bleached pine. It was the only wood in sight. There was no mahogany, no cherry, maple or even oak; there was no Chippendale, no Hitchcock or Windsor; there was no inlay or carving; no pediments, corbels, medallions, ball and claw, egg and dart, or any molding; the rococo trace work was gone; there was no dark blue or burgundy or umber or ebony; no silk, velvet, leather, tapestry; no statuary, nothing framed, no crystal—the list of what there was not was too long.
“Make yourself at home,” she said.
Rattan. Everything. Yellow and white. The House of Bastien had become a Florida beach rental.
A poster of a palm tree hung where the mirror had been.
“I will.”
He followed her into the front room and sat with a scrunch on the yellow cushion of a whitewashed wicker chair.
“Lemonade?”
“No, thank you.”
Lucy perched on her own chair. “It looks like you’ve been here before.”
“Yes.” He forced his eyes back toward her. “A few times. It’s quite different.”
“That’s what I wanted.” She was not tall or thin. She was wrapped in beige and her long, dark, rough, graying brown hair was tied with a yellow ribbon.
“It’s very light,” he said.
“Finally. I can finally breathe.” She took a deep breath to prove it. “You sold him books?”
“Antique books.”
“Everything was antique around here. Fourteen books for twenty-seven grand?”
“Thirteen.”
> “I looked at the list. It said fourteen.”
“The list?”
“He kept a list of everything he owned. He kept lists on everything. It had fourteen old books on it.”
“I only bought thirteen. I’ll need to check my computer.”
“Whatever. Did you come here often?”
“Ten or twelve times over the years. I’m surprised I’ve never met you.”
“Nobody’s met me. I saw precious little of Derek, let alone his precious friends.”
“I’m sorry I never had the pleasure.”
“Blame Derek. That’s what I do.”
Charles took in his own breath, and nodded, and made a show of looking again around the bright room. “Well, then, thank you for letting me meet you now. I really didn’t have a specific reason to come, even. I think I just wanted to see what you were like.”
“Just like this. This is what Derek’s wife looks like in her natural state. Released from captivity and readjusting to the wild.”
“I’m sure it must be an adjustment.”
“I’ve done it before. It’s not hard.”
“Done it before?”
“Derek wasn’t the first husband I’ve buried. He was number two, not that he tried any harder.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize.”
“It doesn’t matter. I married for love the first time, and money the second. What’s left?”
“I’m still on love,” Charles said.
“Marrying for money gives you a lot more time to watch television. The shopping’s better, too.” There was a sigh in her cynicism that rang it hollow. “What’s it like to sell old books?”
“It’s wonderful.”
“Do you have a store, or do you just call on rich widows?”
“I have a shop. I’d be honored to show it to you sometime.”
“Not likely, Charles. I don’t ever want to see another antique as long as I live. So are you getting what you want out of meeting me?”
“Oh, yes. I couldn’t even imagine what Derek’s wife would be like.”
“I sure couldn’t,” Derek’s wife said. “Or him either.”
“Yes. Quite a failing on his part. Why was that, do you think?”
“Well, you know, I just don’t collect dust very well, and that was sort of a requirement of anything he had.”
“He had quite a few friends, and they weren’t the dust-collecting types either.”
“You’re about the first one I’ve met.”
“And the strange thing is,” Charles said, “you seem like just the interesting type of person he would have collected. Did you ever talk with him?”
“Not in years. I’d just see him around the house once in a while, and he’d say hello. Maybe I should have introduced myself.”
“I am just amazed,” Charles said. “It seems so unlike the Derek I knew.”
“Well, you’ll have to tell me about him sometime.”
“Really?”
“No. I don’t really care. And I’m just starting to get tired of talking now, if you get my drift.”
“Of course. I do appreciate your time. You’re a very interesting person, Mrs. Bastien.”
“Cloverdale.”
“Cloverdale?”
“Forget the Bastien. I made a mistake, so why should I be stuck with it the rest of my life?”
“I agree,” Charles said. “Why be stuck with an old mistake for a whole life? Mrs. . . . Cloverdale.” Charles stood and Lucy didn’t. “I hope we have another opportunity sometime.”
“Why would you want that?” she said.
“Because I think I deserve a second chance.”
She had still not thought of an answer as he left the yellow world for the multihued one outside.
AFTERNOON
Trees were green, streets were black, the sky blue, and tucked between, in signs and flower boxes and cars, were red and orange and purple and white. There was no need for more yellow.
He set off with a brisk pace, passing large houses, fenced yards, aged trees. As the distance between him and Lucy increased, the dignity of the neighborhood decreased. It was a very nice day for a walk.
Charles tacked across Reservoir Road to Wisconsin Avenue and let the wind take him to M Street. The yards narrowed, then disappeared, and took the trees and gardens with them. The townhouses of Georgetown started.
Thirty minutes from the ruins of Derek’s world to the oddities of Norman Highberg’s.
“Mr. Highberg, please.” Charles waited, for not too long. An amethyst horse that had been in the front window Tuesday had galloped away to greener pastures. Now there was a stained-glass, framed mirror.
“Charles? What are you doing here?”
“I have every right to be,” he answered.
“Not around here,” Norman said. “Nobody’s got any rights. You want to put up an awning? You don’t have the right; you’ve got to get permission. You want to put up a bigger sign? You would never get permission.”
“Do you want an awning?”
“I want an awning. Too much sun in the front window. So I’ve spent the whole morning on the phone with city hall. The sun’s going to burn out before I can get enough permits to do anything. I should move to Montana or someplace.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Fifteen years. I bet they don’t have architectural review boards in Montana.”
“You wouldn’t have many customers either.”
“I could sell antiques and cow food. What do they feed cows, anyway?”
“I think you should stay here,” Charles said. “I was in the neighborhood and I thought of another question for you.”
“Everybody’s got questions. Cane’s got questions, the FBI guy has questions, now you’ve got more questions. Why is everybody asking questions?”
“It sounds like you have questions, too.”
“It must be contagious. So what’s your question this time?”
“You said there was a man who had been sitting beside you at the auction Monday, and he left just before I arrived.”
“It wasn’t because of you. What, you know him?”
“I don’t even know who it was,” Charles said.
“Galen Jones. What about him? I don’t think he left because you got there. I figured you might come, but I didn’t tell him to leave.”
“Who is he?”
“Galen Jones. I just said it.”
“But, Norman, who is he? How do you know him?”
“He’s a matchmaker. You’ve got to know them in this business.”
“A matchmaker.”
“Yeah, sure. You have three antique chairs and you need one more for your table? He makes you a match.”
“Oh, of course. I know what you mean. He makes replicas.”
“Replicas, replacements. Yeah, people ask me all the time. I’ve got to know a few in this business for people who ask. I don’t do furniture, but he does other work, too. And”—he narrowed his eyes—“I’ve got to know them to keep an eye on them.” He tapped his eye.
“And why is that?”
“You know, somebody like Jones, if I find out he’s had anything to do with a piece, I look at it real close.”
“I see—it might be a fake.”
“But I can tell. I know the real stuff, I can see it.”
“Was he there when you arrived?”
“Yeah, I sat next to him to be sociable. And Jones, I never heard specific, but if you ask around, there’s something back there, if you know what I mean.”
“Not really,” Charles said.
“Somewhere he got in trouble. I never heard specific, but if you ask around—”
“He tried to pass something he’d made as an antique?”
“Well, I don’t know, I never heard specific—”
“That’s very interesting, Norman.”
“Anyway, his work’s good and you’d have to look close to tell.”
“Why would he have b
een at Derek Bastien’s auction?”
“Oh, he did some work for him once. At least once, I don’t know how much. Bastien, he asked me once if I knew someone who was good and I told him to call Galen Jones.”
“What did he do for Derek?”
“I don’t know. Probably made him an extra chair. That’s what he does, if you have three chairs and you—”
“That’s very interesting, Norman.”
“Now if he did, it better not have been at the auction, or at least it should have said it was replica. That was all supposed to be real stuff. But I don’t do furniture, so what do I know.”
“And did you say an FBI person was asking questions?”
“That guy, what’s his name. The antiquities guy. Nice guy, whatever his name is. Yeah, he called me, back when there were all those burglaries up in Foxhall. I mean, just the usual stuff. He always calls me. I keep an eye out for stuff for him. Once in a while I see something he’s looking for. If I see it, I remember it. I remember a lot.”
“You certainly do, Norman.”
“And he called me yesterday. Checking in. I guess he was at the auction.” Norman took off his glasses to wipe the smudges more evenly over the lenses. “I told him he should find that blonde.”
“Sensible. I wonder, how would you look for her, Norman?”
“Why do I want to look for her?”
“I think I do.” Charles frowned, thinking. “Say you wanted to bid on the desk, but you didn’t want anyone to know who you were.”
“Why should I want that desk?” Norman was fuddled. “I don’t do furniture.”
“How would you find an agent to bid for you?”
“I don’t need an agent. I’d do my own bidding.”
“But if you did want to find an agent?”
“There are agents all over the place. I used to do that myself. I’m too busy now.”
Charles was lost in thought. “Maybe you don’t even know how auctions work . . .”
“I’ve been to a million auctions. Where do you think I get my stuff?”
“First,” Charles said, “you’d call the auction house.”
“You’re losing your mind,” Norman said. “What are you talking about?”
“I need to call the auction house.”
“So call them.” Norman had found his place in the conversation.
“What?”
According to Their Deeds Page 8
