“Did you buy it from her?”
“Not right then,” Liz said. “She was being oddly evasive. Finally I told her I could sell it for a lot more if I knew something about the piece’s history. I gave her my card and told her to come back when she had something on paper.”
“And did she?”
“Hargreaves came. The next day. He showed me the bill of sale from Beaulieu, and a photograph of the table standing in a living room with a lot of other period pieces. He said five thousand dollars was the rock bottom, and that if I didn’t take his price, he had other dealers lined up who would.”
“So you bit.”
“Wouldn’t you?”
“Sure,” I said. “In a minute. Do you happen to have a phone number or address for that couple in California? The ones who bought the table from you?”
“In the back,” she said. “But I’d prefer to call them myself.”
I sat in a dusty wing chair while she made the phone call.
When she’d finished, Liz Fuller poked her head around the door of her office. “They definitely haven’t sold the piece. They love it.”
“One of those tables is a very expensive fake,” I pointed out.
“God.” She groaned. “I should have stuck to Depression glass.”
“If it were me who’d been cheated like that,” I said slowly, “I’d be pissed. Really pissed.”
She lifted her chin. “What are you suggesting?”
“How pissed are you?”
Liz Fuller chewed her lower lip. “Very. I don’t enjoy being cheated. And I hate the idea that I might have accidentally cheated somebody else.”
I nodded agreement. “Would you be willing to tell somebody from the district attorney’s office about your transaction with Hargreaves?”
“I am not looking to get in a pissing match with somebody like Lewis Hargreaves.”
“It’ll be a royal pain in the ass,” I agreed.
“Who’d you say he sold the other table to?”
“She’s sort of a socialite, in Savannah. Hargreaves knew she’d be interested in the table, because she’s trying to raise money to buy Beaulieu for a museum. My friend paid fifteen thousand for her table.”
“The son of a bitch,” she said under her breath. “Guess he thought he’d pull one over on a couple of dumb dames.”
“How ’bout it, Liz? You feel like rattling Lewis Hargreaves’s cage?”
She straightened her shoulders and stood up. “Why not? What have I got to lose? I own this building, my husband’s got a great pension plan. And I don’t give a pee-diddly what Lewis Hargreaves thinks. Nobody messes with Liz Fuller.”
Chapter 66
“Absolutely not,” Merijoy said, looking from me to Liz Fuller and frowning.
“Please, Merijoy,” I said, pushing the photo of Liz’s “Beaulieu table” toward her. “If you don’t go to the district attorney’s office to complain about Lewis Hargreaves, he’ll go right on selling phony antiques. Is that what you want?”
“I want my Empire card table sitting in the parlor at Beaulieu,” Merijoy said. “If word gets out that I was stupid enough to let Lewis cheat me, nobody will give me a dime for my museum project. I’ll be the laughingstock of Savannah. And Randy Rucker will never let me live it down.”
We were sitting in the sunroom of Merijoy’s Ardsley Park house, sipping iced tea and nibbling on cheese straws. Her housekeeper was keeping most of the children at bay, although Merijoy did have an infant sucking contentedly under the top of her tennis outfit.
“Nobody will think you’re stupid,” I protested. “Hargreaves is really good at what he does. You weren’t the only one he fooled. There’s no telling how many fake copies he’s made. Or how long he’s been at it.”
“I’m in the business and he tricked me,” Liz Fuller said sympathetically. “But I don’t care what people think. This guy has got to be stopped.”
Merijoy stroked the top of the baby’s head. “Not by me. I’m sorry y’all, but I can’t do it. It’s too embarrassing. And it would wreck the Beaulieu project. I can’t stop you from going to the police, Liz, but I just will not get involved in this.”
“What if we left the police out of it?” I asked. “What if it was just between you and Liz and Hargreaves? And me, of course, since I’m the one who figured out what he was up to.”
“What good would that do?” Liz asked. “No offense, Weezie, but what makes you think Hargreaves would listen to you? It’s not like you’re the law.”
“He knows I’m in the business,” I said. “And if all three of us confront him with what we know, maybe that’ll carry some weight.”
“And?” Merijoy asked skeptically.
“At best, we’ll get him to give you both your money back and own up about whether either of your tables is the real thing. And maybe I’ll find out something one way or the other about the Moses Weed cupboard.”
“And at worst?”
“He’ll laugh his ass off and lie like a rug,” I said. “Either way, it’s better than nothing. Wouldn’t you say?”
“I guess,” Liz said.
“You swear Randy Rucker won’t hear a word about this?” Merijoy asked.
“Not from me,” I promised.
We arranged to meet at L. Hargreaves at four o’clock. Merijoy called and set up an appointment with Hargreaves, telling him that she was interested in looking at more pieces from Beaulieu.
“He couldn’t have been sweeter,” Merijoy said after she hung up. “He even said he’s got a painting I might be interested in. Of Anna Ruby’s great-uncle.”
“Right,” Liz said. “A Mullinax heir. How handy, since there’s no living family members around to say whether or not it’s legitimate.”
“It could be legitimate,” I pointed out.
“Or it could be another doggone phony,” Merijoy said. “I’ve got to admit, Weezie, this is all starting to get under my skin. I can’t wait to hear what Lewis has to say when we confront him with what we’ve figured out.”
“Now you’re talking,” I told her.
Liz and I got to L. Hargreaves five minutes before Merijoy. We sat in my van and stared at the showroom window. Hargreaves had it decorated for fall, with a simple plank-top table with original pumpkin-colored paint, six mule-ear chairs and a jelly cupboard with punched tin insets.
Liz sighed. “There’s no denying it. The man has an eye. I could search for a year and never find a set of six chairs like that.”
“Or a table in original paint,” I added. “I hate his guts.”
“Me too,” Liz said. “Wonder what he paid for the stuff?”
“Maybe they’re copies,” I said.
“By God, if they are, they’re still magnificent.”
Merijoy pulled up in her Suburban and parked behind us at the curb. When she got out, I saw she was dressed for bear, wearing a sage-colored raw silk pantsuit, Ferragamo pumps, and gold coin earrings.
We got out of my truck, Liz in her floral cotton jumper and me in my black capri pants and white poplin shirt. We looked like country cousins come to town.
Merijoy gave us a brief hug and a big smile. “I just had me a big old gin and tonic for courage,” she said, winking. “Let’s go get the bastard.”
Zoe, the long-haired assistant, looked up and then, when Merijoy walked into the showroom, stood up.
“Hello,” she said. “Mrs. Rucker?”
“That’s right,” Merijoy said coolly. “Is Lewis around?”
“I’ll let him know you’re here,” she said, reaching for a phone on her desk. She noticed Liz and me for the first time and frowned.
“Yes?”
“We’re with Mrs. Rucker,” I said, hoping to sound as dismissive as I felt.
“It’ll just be a moment,” the girl said, after hanging up the phone.
I circled the showroom and looked at the goods while we waited.
A pair of oil portraits in the style of Peale looked down from a spotlit wall above
a Chinese Chippendale curio cabinet. The sitters in both were sober-looking men dressed in eighteenth-century garb.
Liz gestured at the portraits. She raised a questioning eyebrow. I shrugged. They looked real to me.
I was running my hand over the front panel of the curio cabinet when Lewis Hargreaves materialized.
“Merijoy!” he said happily, reaching for her hands.
“Lewis,” she said, taking a half step backward, neatly avoiding his embrace.
“Hello,” he said, nodding curtly at me.
I reached out my hand to shake his. “Eloise Foley,” I said. “We met at Anna Ruby Mullinax’s memorial service.”
“Oh yes,” he said, waiting for more of an explanation.
I put my hand on Liz’s arm. “This is Liz Fuller. You’ve met Liz too.”
He pursed his lips. “I’m sorry. I don’t remember. Perhaps you could arrange with Zoe here to make an appointment. As you can see, I have business this afternoon with Ms. Rucker.”
“Lewis,” Merijoy said, “Liz and Eloise are here with me. We would like to speak to you. Together.”
“I don’t understand,” Lewis said, nibbling at the cuticle around his thumbnail.
Merijoy laid one hand on his forearm. “Oh, don’t worry. You will.”
He led the way to the back of the showroom and into a small private office. The room was workmanlike: sisal carpet, a long pine farmhouse table used as a desk, some file cabinets, and three extra chairs. We all sat down and faced Hargreaves.
His face was long and narrow, with a high forehead and wisps of sparse blondish hair covering a balding dome. Hargreaves had thick black-rimmed bifocals balanced at the tip of his nose, the nose he was currently looking down at us from with a worried frown.
“What’s this about, Merijoy?” he asked, drumming the desktop with his fingertips. “I don’t particularly care for surprises, you know.”
Merijoy glanced over at me, and I nodded in silent encouragement.
“We don’t like surprises either, Lewis,” she said quietly. “And I had a particularly nasty one earlier today, when I showed Weezie the card table I bought from you.”
He raised an eyebrow. “She’s jealous. The woman broke into the house to try to steal furnishings before the estate sale. She’s obviously unbalanced.”
“I don’t think so,” Merijoy said. She opened her crocodile Kelly bag and extracted the Polaroid photograph of the table Hargreaves had sold to Liz Fuller. “Recognize that?” she asked.
Hargreaves flipped it backward and forward on his desk. “It’s apparently the table I sold you.”
“It’s apparently the table you sold me,” Liz Fuller said, leaning forward.
“And it’s an exact copy of the one I bought,” Merijoy added, picking the photo up from the desktop. “So you see, we have a dilemma.”
“Hard to believe there might be two Empire card tables made on the property at Beaulieu,” I couldn’t resist pointing out. “You blew it, Lewis.”
He slid back in his chair and closed his eyes, sighing the sigh of a thousand martyred men who’d grown weary of dealing with hysterical women.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said, gazing calmly at Merijoy. “I’ve never seen this Fuller person in my life. And I certainly did not sell her anything like an Empire card table.”
“You did though,” I said. “I saw it myself. In her shop in Bluffton. The day after you sold it to her. I recognized it as the same one I’d seen at Beaulieu during the memorial service.”
Liz reached into the pocket of her jumper and pulled out a carefully folded piece of paper, which she placed neatly in front of Hargreaves. She sat back then and folded her arms across her chest. “That’s the bill of sale. Your handwriting, on L. Hargreaves stationery.”
Merijoy leaned over and examined the bill with interest, totally feigned, since she’d already seen it earlier in the day. She went again to the pocketbook, as we’d rehearsed, and pulled out her own bill of sale, which she slapped on top of Liz’s.
“Busted,” I said lightly.
“This is absurd,” Hargreaves said. “Merijoy, are you honestly accusing me of selling forgeries?”
“I’m accusing you of dishonestly selling forgeries,” Merijoy said.
“Me too,” Liz added.
“Ditto,” I said.
“And do you want to know what really steams me, Lewis?” Merijoy asked, crossing her legs. “I am just really, really annoyed that you charged me three times as much for that table as you charged Liz.”
“I told you, I’ve never seen her before,” Lewis cried, his face reddening. “You know my reputation, Merijoy. I would never do anything as unscrupulous as what you’ve described. And I’ll tell you something else. This is slander.”
He pointed a finger at me. “And I know just who’s stirring it up. You! A third-rate burglar.”
“Careful,” I said. “The original charge against me was criminal trespass. But even that was dropped. So if you want to find out about slander, just try calling me a burglar again. I’ll slap a lawsuit on you so fast your head will spin.”
“It’s all ridiculous,” Lewis said, reaching into his desk drawer. He pulled out a checkbook and started writing. “But Merijoy, if you’re dissatisfied with the table, I’ll be more than happy to refund your money and take the table back.”
“Oh no you don’t,” Merijoy said. “You think I’m that big a fool? There’s a museum conservator from Jacksonville headed up here today. He’s going to take a look at my table and tell me what he thinks.”
“If it’s a fake, he’ll figure it out,” I said. “His name’s Bennett Campos. An authority on nineteenth-century Southern furniture, and a vicious gossip.”
“Benny Campos?” Hargreaves looked slightly ill. “The man hates me. He’d do anything to cast aspersions on my reputation.”
“Too bad,” I said.
Hargreaves chewed his bottom lip. “Your table is real, Merijoy. You can have it looked at up and down, but it’s the genuine article. I wouldn’t have dared try to pass off a copy if it was going into a museum.”
“And mine?” Liz asked.
“A skillfully made modern representation,” Hargreaves whispered.
“A phony,” Liz said. She pounded the desktop with her fist. “I knew it.”
Hargreaves was scratching away at his checkbook again. He finished with a flourish, ripped the check out, and handed it across to Liz.
“This was all an unfortunate misunderstanding,” he said. “I honestly believed you would realize that certainly nobody would sell an antique of that quality for as little as five thousand dollars. It would be absurd. I just assumed you knew your table was a reproduction.”
“Bullshit,” Liz said, looking down at the check. “Ten thousand dollars. Twice what I paid for it. Is this what you’d consider hush money?”
Hargreaves winced. “I’d like the table back. So that there can be no further misunderstandings. The money will pay for the inconvenience of contacting your clients and having the piece shipped back to me.”
“No way,” Liz said. “I’m not letting you off the hook that easy.”
“What do you people want from me?” Hargreaves whined. “This is all so ludicrous. I can’t believe what you’re accusing me of doing.”
“Just so you know,” I said. “I’ve seen your little phony furniture factory. The one down by the Port Authority?”
His eyes widened.
“Yeah,” I said. “Cute little setup you’ve got over there. How long have you been at it, Lewis?”
“You’re crazy,” he sputtered. “A ragpicker. A junk monger. You’re nothing.”
“I’m not a millionaire antique dealer like you,” I admitted. “But I know what I saw, and I saw that workshop. And I saw that fake table you sold Liz here, as well as the original while it was sitting in Anna Ruby Mullinax’s house. And I know all about your arrangement with Gerry Blankenship to skim the best pieces from the estat
e, as well as to strip Beaulieu of its original woodwork and moldings.”
“Nonsense,” Hargreaves said weakly.
“Did you have to pay Blankenship a franchise fee—for the copies you made of the Beaulieu pieces?” I asked.
He looked up sharply.
“Oh,” I said. “Blankenship didn’t know, did he? Or he would have demanded a piece of the pie, for certain, the greedy pig.”
Hargreaves stood up. “Are we done here, Merijoy? Do you intend to keep the table?”
“I’ll keep it,” Merijoy said. “And I’ll let you know what Bennett Campos says. But I think you still have some private business with Weezie.”
“And with me,” Liz said, tearing up the check he’d given her. “I’ll have to do some fancy explaining to Peg Follachio when I call her and ask her to ship that table back to me. I don’t think this piddly little old check of yours will come even close to what it’ll cost me in time and inconvenience.”
“Tell her you’ve discovered the table was infested with powder-post beetles,” I suggested. “State law says it has to be burned, to keep the infestation from spreading.”
“Good idea,” Liz said. She looked at Hargreaves and stuck out her hand. “Twenty thousand ought to about cover it.”
“Outrageous,” he muttered, but he started scribbling in the checkbook again.
He slapped the check on his desk, ignoring Liz’s hand. “Are we done here? I have a screaming headache.”
“I’m done,” Merijoy said, standing up and smoothing her skirt.
“I’m going to the bank to cash this check,” Liz said, following Merijoy to the door. “And if it’s no good, I’m going right from the bank to the police department.”
“It’s good,” Hargreaves said, pressing his fingertips to his temples.
Chapter 67
Hargreaves sat back in his desk chair and gave me an appraising look. His colorless lips twisted into a smirk. “What’s your interest in this whole affair?”
Savannah Blues Page 42
