False Premises

by Leslie Caine

  “You need to get out of here,” Laura snarled at him. Her eyes were blazing. “Now!”

  “Take it easy, miss. I’m just minding my own business, trying to learn about table settings. If someone could just get me a freakin’ chair with four legs the same length, you won’t hear another—”

  He made a broad gesture and accidentally smacked Hannah in the chest. She gasped and stepped back.

  Laura cried, “That does it!” She kicked her seat aside, grabbed the man’s arm, and, in one swift motion, flipped him onto the floor, nearly upsetting a display of cutlery in the process.

  The store patrons gasped and shrieked, riveted. I couldn’t help but stare. The man’s hair had shifted. As if merely checking his skull for injuries, he grabbed his head with both hands to center his wig. He struggled to his feet, and the weapon fell from his belt. A middle-aged woman in the seat next to his shrilled, “Oh, my God! He’s got a gun!”

  Everyone began to clamber to their feet. Already racing for the exit, Laura whipped out her cell phone and cried over her shoulder, “I’m calling the police! I’ll be right back with them!”

  Audrey’s crowd also started to head for the exit. The man stuffed the gun into the back of his pants and shouted over the pandemonium, “Wait! It’s okay, everyone! I’m an undercover cop!”

  His words had an eye-of-the-hurricane effect on the crowd. The frantic commotion gradually quieted a little, and the two women closest to the exit hesitated and looked back at him tentatively.

  “Ladies. Please! As an officer of the law, I have no intention of firing my gun, I assure you, and I’m not even on duty tonight.” His voice was authoritative, even as he made placating gestures. “If everyone could please just take their seats . . .” He kept repeating this request, and eventually the edgy patrons began to shuffle back toward the chairs. The man glanced at Audrey. “Real sorry, ma’am. I’ll get out of everyone’s hair now.” He left in the same direction that Laura had gone.

  Audrey cleared her throat briskly and rang a small brass bell. “I hope everyone enjoyed my preshow entertainment, provided to you courtesy of the Free-for-All Players of Piedmont, Colorado. Be sure to check your local papers for their next performance. I hear their Instant Shakespeare is especially enjoyable. But right now, it’s time to talk table settings.”

  Everyone chuckled with relief and began to reclaim their seats in earnest. There was no way I could simply sit down and listen to Audrey’s presentation. Much as I wanted to believe that the wig-wearing man was truly a police officer, he hadn’t shown his badge, he’d called attention to himself despite claiming to be undercover, and he was following Laura again.

  I started to make my way toward the exit, past Hannah. She grabbed my elbow. “Erin. Are you all right?”

  “Fine. But I’d better go check on my friend. Even though she’s probably already on her way back here with a uniformed officer.”

  Hannah clicked her tongue and grumbled, “You obviously don’t know Laura very well. There’s no way she’s coming back, let alone with a cop.” She turned on her heel and stepped beside Audrey to introduce her to the audience.

  I mouthed “Sorry” to Audrey and left. I trotted in the same direction Laura had headed and circled the entire pedestrian mall twice. Laura had vanished, as had the “undercover cop.”

  Worry niggled at me the next morning as I made the drive west toward Laura’s sprawling mountain house, so I repeated to myself my personal mantra—confidence and optimism—which helped me to calm my nerves. Although I’d phoned Laura twice last night and left messages both times to “please call me back regardless of the hour,” she hadn’t returned my calls, and there’d been no answer when I tried again just an hour ago. If no one was home now, I decided, I could at least leave a note on the door.

  I parked in the driveway of the two-story house, which, with its formidable white columns and arched windows, had a grand, Gone with the Wind aura despite its stucco exterior and mountain setting. I rang the doorbell and glanced around as I waited on the porch. The flowers were starting to bloom, after a late start. The climate in the mountains tends to delay Colorado’s lower-elevation growing season by a good month or so.

  Laura’s boyfriend answered the door. Dave Holland had a case of bed head—the hair on the back of his head stuck straight up in the air like the flag on a mailbox—and he wasn’t wearing his thick glasses. He gave me a goofy grin and queried cautiously, “Erin?”

  “Yes. Hi, Dave.”

  “Well. Hello there. Long time no see.”

  “How’ve you been, Dave?”

  “Good. Just got back from a long business trip to Atlanta late last night.”

  “Oh, dear. I hope I didn’t wake you. I came over to see Laura. Is she home?”

  “Yeah. She’s in the john or something, but she’ll be right out. Come on in.”

  “Thanks.” I closed the door behind me as I entered the foyer. To my frustration, Dave, who was at least six foot two, was standing so close to me that he was blocking my view into the house.

  He rocked on his heels a little and crossed and then re-crossed his arms. “I’d offer you something to drink, but it’d take me forever. My glasses seem to have disappeared. My eyeglasses, I mean, not the drinking glasses. Anyway, point is, I’m as blind as a bat without them.”

  “Jeez. That’s got to be really unpleasant. Don’t you have any backup glasses, or contact lenses?”

  “Yeah, but I seem to have misplaced those, as well. All I’ve got are my prescription sunglasses, but I feel like an idiot wearing those indoors. Anyway, I’ve been meaning to tell you, Laura’s still loving all these hoity-toity old antiques you pulled together for us. Hardly a day goes by when she doesn’t mention how much she likes this thing or the other.” He stepped back and leaned against the doorjamb.

  “That’s great to hear. I’m always . . .” My voice drifted as my attention was captured by the Louis XV mirror in the foyer. Something was terribly wrong.

  “You’re always what?” Dave prompted.

  Stunned into silence, I walked over to the giltwood mirror and gently touched the frame. This was a cheap copy of the astonishing circa 1760 piece that I’d helped them purchase for twenty thousand dollars! And I’d had to dicker hard to get the antiques dealer to sell it at that price.

  Dave squinted at me. “Is something the matter with the mirror? Or with your face?”

  “The mirror was hanging a little crooked.” Inwardly, I was shaking. Because Laura was my friend but I barely knew Dave, I wanted to discuss this with her first.

  Had my clients been swindled? Had someone managed to swap this mirror with the expensive one that I’d installed? But how would that be possible? Laura’s knowledge of antiques was comparable to my own. The inferiority of the scrollwork on the gold spray-painted frame was blatant.

  I took a calming breath. Surely I was panicking over nothing. Dave or Laura must have simply decided that twenty grand for a mirror was too much, so they’d returned it.

  “Grab a seat,” Dave suggested as he ushered me into their front room. “I’ll go see where she is.”

  My knees nearly buckled, but I managed to sputter “Thank you” as he wandered away to look for Laura. Though horror-struck, I remained standing. This room had been my personal masterpiece—my chance to work with an unlimited budget and a sophisticated client whose tastes mirrored my own. The results had been glorious, a radiant ensemble of unparalleled beauty in these irreplaceable handcrafted pieces that brought such serenity and warmth to the space, a household that conjured images of less-harried times when one-of-a-kind quality was celebrated and attention to detail mattered. Now just the dressings remained. The subtle peach hues on the ethereal lofted walls were the same, as were the vibrant window treatments, the to-die-for accessories, and even the spectacular Oriental area rug with its rich classic royal reds and blues. All unchanged. But the antiques, the very heart and soul of the room and which I’d poured my own heart and soul into to find,
had been replaced with fakes.

  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 u
nlocked 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.