by Lyn Hamilton
“That’s when tourists pay way too much for what they think is an authentic pre-Columbian piece, and then try to smuggle it back home wrapped in their dirty underwear, I suppose,” Moira said. “What is it a replica of, do you think? It says Peru, so Incan perhaps?”
“I’m not sure. As you well know, I studied Meso-american history for a while, the Maya in particular, but I can’t say this is like anything I’ve seen. The fact that it’s made in Peru might make it Incan, but I really don’t know. Maybe I’ll do a little research, just for fun, when I’ve got a minute.”
“Could you ask Lucas about it? He should know about Peruvian stuff, shouldn’t he?” Moira asked, rather coyly I thought. She’d always liked my former partner, Lucas, and thought he and I should get together again. In her mind, I’d broken off the relationship, when in fact, he was the one who’d ended it a year earlier. He couldn’t do his patriotic duty for Mexico and maintain our relationship, he’d said. In Moira’s world, this was a mere technicality, however.
“He’s an expert on the Maya, Moira, not Peru. And it’s over, okay?”
“Whatever,” Moira said. Nothing short of a total reconciliation would satisfy her, I concluded. As irritating as this occasionally was, it was also sort of endearing. “Well, whatever it is, could you sell it in the shop?” she went on, turning the vase in her hands. “I think it would look good with the type of stuff you sell. You carry pre-Columbian reproductions from time to time, don’t you?”
“I do and it would,” I conceded. “It would fit in very well, in fact. But what would I charge for ,it? Do you think I could get five hundred by any chance?”
“Probably not,” Moira replied. I made a face at her. “Gotta go,” she said, rising from her chair. “Date. A new man. Do you think he’ll be The One?”
“Probably not,” I said, mimicking her.
She laughed. “Come on over to the salon. I’ll treat you to a free haircut next time you’re in. And it should be soon,” she said, reaching over and pulling a long piece of hair down in front of my eyes.
“Thanks,” I said. “That’s very nice of you.”
“What are friends for?” she replied. “And you can do something for me when I bomb out, as usual, with this guy.”
“You don’t bomb out, Moira, you dump them,” I said. “But I’ll be here.”
After she left, I took a closer look at the contents of the box. Right at the bottom there was a smaller version of the wooden box that had contained the vase. This one too had a card declaring the contents to be a pre-Columbian replica. The object was round, about two to two and a half inches in diameter, made of what looked to be gold and a turquoise stone of some kind. In the center was the tiny figure of a man with an elaborate headdress, carrying a scepter or something, and what appeared to be a shield. The scepter could actually be removed from his little gold hand, and a string of beads around his neck were each individually made. The rim of the circle was surrounded by the smallest gold beads. On the back of it was a rather hefty post. This time I thought I knew what it was. It would be one of a pair of ear ornaments—ear flares they are sometimes called—used by pre-Columbian peoples of Mexico, Central America, and presumably South America too. The workmanship, even for a replica, was really quite extraordinary, and promising myself I would take some time to look into it, I rewrapped it in tissue and set it carefully in the desk drawer.
The vase, I decided, would sell. I thought I’d try a price of $150—the drawing was exquisite, and it would make a very unusual decorative item for someone. I found a good place for it on a coffee table, where it could be seen all round for maximum effect, and propped the card, with my handwritten translation, against it. The peanut I decided to keep, to clean it up and thread it onto a very fine silver chain I had, to wear around my neck as a reminder of my impulsiveness. Perhaps next time I went to an auction, I should wear it, I thought. On a more positive note, it would make a very interesting piece of jewelry, a bit of a conversation piece.
The snuff bottle? I would have to decide what to do with that.
As I put the box away, I caught a glimpse of a piece of paper wedged between the packing material and the side of the box. I carefully extracted it and found a letter, written by an Edmund Edwards, proprietor of something called Ancient Ways in New York, to a gallery in Toronto I’d not heard of, although that didn’t mean anything. Toronto is a big place. It was called the Smythson Gallery, and the proprietor according to this letter was someone called, appropriately enough, A. J. Smythson. The letter was all very formal, befitting a gallery that had affiliates in London, Tokyo, Bonn, and Paris, as the letterhead discreetly informed you. Mr. Edwards sent his regards to Mr. Smythson, said that he hoped the merchandise had arrived in good order, and that, since many other objects were available, he also hoped to be of service in the future. The letter was dated just over two years earlier. On a whim, I looked up the Smythson Gallery in the phone book, but it wasn’t listed, nor was there an A. J. Smythson, although there was something familiar about the name, and the rather unusual spelling. Perhaps the gallery had closed, which would explain why the box was never picked up in customs. In any event, I decided, it was really no affair of mine, so I tossed the letter into the wastebasket.
The next few days more or less went back to normal, except for two things. One was that the security alarm took to going off in the middle of the night for no apparent reason. On two separate nights, and twice on one of them, I had to pull on jeans and a sweatshirt, and drive to the shop to meet the police. Neither time was there any indication of anything unusual. The following night, the alarm went off only once, but this time the policeman told me I’d be sent a bill for his services because there’d been one too many false alarms. I had the security company come to check out the system, but they told me it was operating just fine.
The other aspect of the week that made it a bit different from the norm was that I spent every spare minute dreaming up horrible things to do to Clive. These ranged from taking a hammer and smashing his beloved little jade bottle to powder right before his eyes, heaving a rock or two through his sophisticated front window display, or spray-painting his Armani suit. I did none of the things I imagined, of course.
Well, one: I called the police and had his spanking new BMW, which he persisted in parking illegally, towed. It was particularly satisfying to watch him sprinting down the street in a futile attempt to catch up to his car. It’s amazing, really, the depths to which we sink in dealing with an ex-spouse.
The trouble with this small victory, of course, was that while at the time it struck me as a masterful stroke, it merely escalated the conflict. He’d taken the goblets, I’d taken his snuff bottle. At that point we were more or less even. But I couldn’t let it alone, I was still so angry. In my heart I knew, of course, that there must still be something unresolved in that relationship, even though a few years and another love had gone by. It didn’t take a psychiatrist to figure that one out. But I kept going anyway, as petty as I knew it to be. And knowing only too well just how immature Clive was, I knew he’d figure out who had the car towed and would find a way to retaliate.
I didn’t have long to wait.
A few days after the car incident, Clive swept into the store. “Just coming to say hello to my neighbors,” he said. “The place looks very nice, Lara. And this must be your new partner. Sarah, is it?”‘ he said in his most charming voice.
Sarah murmured something polite, then disappeared in the back, wisely not wishing to be part of this little scene. I smiled weakly, then went to assist a customer in the second showroom. I heard Clive wandering around in the front room. In a few moments I heard him talking to an old customer of ours. “George!” he exclaimed. “How nice to see you again. Still collecting New World santos?” he asked. I heard George murmur a reply. “I have one you really must see, quite exceptional,” Clive went on. There was a pause. “Right across the road, George.” I could picture Clive pointing across the road, and I excused
myself for a moment from my customer. But it was too late. Clive, his arm on the shoulder of one of our oldest clients, was steering him over to his shop. He’d stolen a good customer right from under my nose.
It was not until the next day that I noticed that the silver peanut was missing. I’d been working on it a bit in the shop, and I thought I’d left it either on the desk in the little office or in the small drawer behind the front counter. But it was in neither place and a search of the whole shop turned up nothing. There was, in my mind, only one possible explanation. I marched across the street.
“I didn’t think you’d stoop so low as to steal something, Clive,” I huffed. “An auction is one thing, but this petty theft—”
“What are you talking about, Lara?” Clive replied. “Surely taking a customer away is not theft. Why don’t we call it healthy competition?”
“I’m not talking about George. I’m talking about the peanut,” I replied, knowing as the words came out of my mouth that I sounded like an idiot.
“The peanut,” Clive sighed. “My God, Lara, you really are losing it. Take a vacation or a Valium or something. There’s nothing wrong with my setting up shop across the street. Why do you think the big shopping malls have competitors at either end? Why are whole streets lined with stores selling the same kind of merchandise? Because it’s good business, that’s why. With you and I both here, this could end up being the antiques center of the city. There’s business enough for both of us. So please stop this nonsense about peanuts!”
I just looked at him. “Come on,” he wheedled. “Let’s kiss and make up. Or shake hands at least. We were a good team once, weren’t we? We’re even on the auction, and I’ll forgive what you did to my car, if you’ll forgive the abduction of George.” He held out his hand. After a second or two, somewhat reluctantly, I took it.
“Welcome back to the neighborhood, Clive,” I said.
“That’s better,” he said. I mentally pictured myself spray-painting his lovely beige suit purple. It helped a lot.
There didn’t seem to be any more to be said, and so I turned to go. “I don’t suppose you’d sell me the snuff bottle?” he said.
“Sure,” I replied. “Eleven hundred dollars.”
He laughed. “Three,” he said to my retreating back. I kept going.
“Okay, okay,” he called after me as I crossed the street. “Four hundred, make that four fifty if you’ll throw in the rest of the stuff in the box.”
I ignored him.
The next few days were quiet, if you don’t count the arrival at our front door of the resident nutbar with his news of impending doom. In fact, his presence made the store so quiet that Sarah decided to take a few days vacation, right in the middle of tourist season, leaving the shop to the care of Alex and me. I heard nothing more from Clive. I still didn’t trust him, in fact I never would, but so far the cease-fire seemed to be holding. There was no sign of the peanut. Alex and I both looked for it, and I still was not entirely convinced Clive hadn’t taken it, holding it hostage for the snuff bottle or something. But Clive said no more on that subject, and finally I had to conclude it had been stolen. Shoplifting is a disagreeable fact of life when you own a store, and the peanut would be very easy to snatch, particularly if I had been careless enough to leave it out on the counter, which I supposed I must have done. Just in case, though, I took the little gold and turquoise ear ornament home with me while I decided what to do with it.
One evening, my little group of friends decided to get together for a drink. We went to the bar in the Four Seasons, just down the street from our shops. Moira, who changes her hairdos and her men the way the rest of us change socks, brought her new man, whose name was Brian. Brian was subjected to a baptism of fire, if ever there was one. Elena, the craft store owner who rather fancies herself as an amateur therapist, did a snap psychological profile of him to his face; Dan, tall, thin, scholarly, the perfect bookseller, interrogated him about his reading habits; and Moira and I talked shop most of the time. Brian seemed very nice, but had he asked me, I wouldn’t have held out much hope for him.
It was a pleasant outing for me, until Clive arrived and pulled up a chair, leaving me wondering if this was coincidence, or if one of the group, a traitor, had invited him. After a few minutes of watching him being charming, ingratiating himself with my friends, most particularly Moira, I decided it was time to go, and headed for my car. Only then did I realize I’d left my keys—car, home, shop, all of them—at the store. I was damned if I was going back into the bar to ask for help with Clive there.
I looked at my watch. The store was open until eight, and it was now about eight-thirty. With any luck, if it had been a bit busy, Alex would still be there, doing the paperwork, putting the cash in the safe, and generally straightening up the place.
I went first to the main door. The shop was dark, and since it was just twilight it was difficult for me to see in, particularly since we had a metal gate that we pulled in front of the glass doors when we closed as an extra security precaution. Disappointed, I turned to leave. Perhaps, I hoped, Alex had found the keys and, not knowing where I’d gone for a drink, had taken them home with him. He lived just three doors from me, so I would be all set. I’d cab it to Alex’s and leave my car in the parking lot overnight.
Just then, I heard a clunk against the door behind me. I turned back in time to see Diesel pawing at the glass in some agitation. I went back to the door and tried to peer in. Diesel turned and disappeared into the gloom, but I could see him framed against the light from the small window in the back door opposite me, circling and circling in the middle of the room.
Gradually my eyes adjusted, and I saw what had upset Diesel. Someone—it could only be Alex—was wandering erratically around the store. I rattled the gate as hard as I could, but it wouldn’t budge, and Alex, if that was who it was, did not appear to notice me. There had to be something seriously the matter with him. I ran down the alleyway beside the shop and around to the back door. It too was locked.
There was a wrought iron chair and table out on a tiny patio where we occasionally take a coffee or lunch break. I picked up the chair and heaved it at the back door. The glass in the little panel in the door shattered, and I was able to reach through the small opening and unlock the door. Instantly the alarm went off, but I didn’t stop. I figured that would bring help faster than a phone call. I raced up the four steps to the main floor.
It was, as I had feared, Alex. He was wobbling a little, almost staggering, and muttering to himself. A stroke, I thought. He’s had a stroke or something. But then I noticed there was blood in his hair, and a bruise was forming on the side of his head above one ear. He’s fallen, I concluded, and hit his head.
I went over to him, being careful not to startle him. “What happened, Alex?” I said, taking his arm as gently as I could. He looked toward me, but his eyes were not focusing properly. “Let’s go,” I said gently. “I’m going to take you to the doctor, okay?”
“Can’t,” he said finally, the first intelligible words I’d heard him say. “Not finished. Something I have to do.” He mumbled incoherently for a moment, then said, “I have an account to settle with…” He looked confused. “With someone,” he said vaguely.
“I’m sure it can wait until later,” I said soothingly. “Now you just come along with me.” It was hopeless though. He wasn’t going to leave. I knew I would have to get help. I gently eased him into a chair and headed for the desk.
Throughout our conversation, if you can call it that, the alarm was making a terrible racket, which struck me as a bit odd. I didn’t think Alex would have set the security system until he was ready to leave the shop. The reason for the alarm would soon become clear.
As I reached for the phone, there was a roar, then a crash, and I was thrown backward as the storage room door just a few feet away from me was blasted off its hinges. Dense, black smoke filled the air. The sprinkler system activated. There was smoke, there was water, Diesel
was circling my legs, howling in terror, the alarm rang on and on. Fire, I thought, it’s the fire alarm.
But it was even worse than that. Crumpled just inside the storage room was a man. He lay on his side, his back to me, knees drawn up a little, not quite in a fetal position, and his hands had been tied behind his back. I couldn’t see his face, and I couldn’t bring myself to look. He did not move at all. I thought I could see blood, though, on the side of his neck and his hands. For a second, I had this vision of a man on his knees, begging his executioner to spare him, then falling over into the position in which he now lay.
