“But, Tim, I swear, we were just driving around and the car started making a funny noise and then it was acting really strange, like it was going to blow up or something, so I told Charli that she’d better pull over, so she did, and we started walking back toward town to find a phone since neither one of us could get a signal, you know how hard it is to get one down here in the Bottom, so, anyway, we were trying to find a phone so we could call a tow truck, but we didn’t see a phone anywhere and we remembered Art’s place and thought, maybe, he might still be there, but he wasn’t, and then this dog started chasing us, so we decided that we’d go back to the car and just take a chance that it was okay and drive it on home, and, well, here you are, thank God, so you can just take us back to the car and we’ll be on our merry little way. I mean you’ve got better things to do I’m sure, so, well, anyway, we left the car at Skunk’s Hollow so you’ll give us a ride. Won’t you?”
I don’t think he bought it. I don’t know why, either. I mean, I thought it was a good story. Charli chimed in at all the right places too. Of course, it didn’t explain the black gunk we had on our faces or exactly what we were doing hanging out around Skunk’s Hollow and the Bottom at ten-thirty on a Sunday night. But Tim didn’t ask and neither Charli nor I volunteered any additional explanations.
Tim clenched his jaw, shook his head, said “I can’t…” and “I don’t…” several times, but he loaded us into his squad car, drove us down to Skunk’s Hollow, pronounced Charli’s car drivable, and, then, followed us to her house.
“Charli,” Tim said when we arrived, “I think you best take your car in to have it checked tomorrow. I’ll pick you up at the dealership at eight-thirty.”
Charli opened her mouth to say something, but I elbowed her in the side and she clammed up, simply nodding to Tim.
He followed us inside, then turned his attention to me. “Come on, Marty, I’ll give you a lift home. I’ll be off duty shortly.”
“That’s okay,” I said. “I’ll just stay here with Charli. She doesn’t want to be alone.”
Tim checked his watch. “Okay, I’ll be back in about an hour and a half. I’ll be staying too. Wouldn’t want you two to have any more trouble, now would we?”
Charli fidgeted with the magazines on her coffee table and avoided Tim’s eyes. “No. Not at all,” she said. “You can camp out in the boy’s room. Marty can sleep in Jaelyn’s bed.”
Tim tipped his hat and gave us a brittle smile. “Okay, see you shortly. By the way, use cold cream. Lots and lots of cold cream.”
With that he popped out the door, climbed into the squad car, and was gone. Charli and I watched his taillights until they faded from view.
“So, you want to go over and check out Sam’s shop?” Charli asked.
“What, are you nuts? Tim really isn’t going anywhere. If I know him like I think I do, he’s sitting down at the end of the road just waiting for us to do something stupid. I’d say we best just bag it for tonight. We’ll check out the antique shop tomorrow. Besides, I’m hungry. That Albertino’s stuff is good, but they don’t give you nearly enough food.”
The rest of the night was uneventful. Tim was right, cold cream washed off most of the black stuff, although I still had a faint smudge on my left cheekbone that wouldn’t budge, no matter how hard I scrubbed. I drank one of John’s Heinekens, ate a tuna salad sandwich, and was sitting in the family room, contemplating another beer when Tim returned.
“You really don’t have to stay,” I said.
“Yes, Marty, I do have to stay.” He popped open a bottle of Heineken and slugged down about half of it. His eyes had a ‘don’t go there’ look, so I punched the TV on and flipped channels until I found a baseball game. We watched the game, had another beer each, ate potato chips, and managed to not talk to each other for about an hour. All that studied silence was killing me, so I finally just went on to bed.
The next morning, I heard Tim and Charli gabbing, but I didn’t get up until Charli returned from the garage.
“Can you believe he made me take the car in to have it checked out?” Charli said. She was dressed in exercise clothes and was doing yoga poses. “He knows there isn’t a thing in the world wrong with it and that the van’s in the body shop getting repainted this week. It’s like he wants us both to be without our vehicles.”
I stifled a yawn. “Well, you gotta remember, this is Tim we’re talking about. First of all, it’s a point of honor thing with him. He knows that we know he doesn’t believe us, but he’s still going to pretend like he does. Second, you’re probably right about him not wanting us to have wheels. Knowing Tim the way I do, his thinking is that if we don’t have transportation, we’ll be less likely to cause him trouble.”
Charli spread her legs apart and bent way over, so far that her nose almost touched the floor. “Guess he forgot about John’s truck.”
“Guess he did.” I spread my legs apart and bent over too. My back rebelled and I had to use the coffee table to boost myself back up. “Crap, that hurts.”
Charli stood up and offered me a full-blown smile. “No it doesn’t. You’re just it lousy shape. You really ought to take a class. Or I could loan you a video. I guarantee that within a few days of steady yoga practice you’ll feel like a new woman. It’s the best…”
I hobbled off, headed for the shower. Charli was twisted up like a pretzel, still yapping away about how great yoga was for you, when I closed the bathroom door. After that we spent about an hour cleaning Charli’s immaculate house and then decided we’d head over to Sam’s antique shop since I didn’t have to be at the police station until two.
We went out to the garage and climbed into John’s broken down monster of a truck; it’s ugly as sin, but the thing is his pride and joy. It’s about twenty-five years old, looks like it’s held together by rust and bondo, and, of course, it refused to start for us at first. It’s a three-on-the-tree so I had to drive. Charli is too little. She has to stand up to push in the clutch and shift and even then it’s a little iffy about whether or not she’ll find the gears. Her straight shift driving theory is from the grind ‘em ‘til you find ‘em school.
The truck finally started with a pop and a bang and a few hisses. Charli cranked the radio up really loud so we didn’t have to listen to all the funky, worrisome noises the engine made. Tooling along in the truck, the wind (busted out driver’s side window) breezing through my hair, listening to Hank William’s Junior sing about his rowdy friends was actually sort of fun. Before long we were rolling into the parking lot beside Sam’s antique shop.
“Okay, here’s the plan,” Charli said. “I’ll keep Sam busy. You ask him to use the restroom. It’s in the back, next to his storage room and the office. You snoop around and see if you can find anything that tells you what they’re up to.”
I wasn’t especially keen on the idea of my being the one to have to do all the sneaking around, but Charli knows way more about antiques and stuff, so she could keep Sam busy yakking for hours.
The antique shop was in an old white Victorian style house, you know, the sort with tons of gingerbread on it. There was a big porch across the front with lots of old wicker and pots of geraniums and other flowers sitting around. I suppose it was charming, in that shabby, chic sort of way, but it wasn’t my taste.
We opened the front door and a little bell tinkled out a welcome. Sam had the place set up so that it resembled a real house, an eccentrically decorated and overly ostentatious one, perhaps, but still fairly homey. Dark oak-trimmed archways to the left and right of the foyer led to a living room and a dining room. Charli hung a left into the living room and gazed longingly at the ivory velvet covered antique parlor set Sam had showcased in the room.
I followed her, trying unsuccessfully to stifle a sneeze. To cover up the musty smell bowls of thick smelling potpourri were stuck everywhere. It smelled like a cross between a funeral home and the perfume counter down at ‘Doggie O’Day’s Poochie Parlor’ pet grooming.
Sam breezed in through a doorway at the rear of the room that was marked ‘private’. Charli gave a slight nod toward the doorway. I took it to mean that was the place I was supposed to check out.
If Sam was upset over his friend being dead, he sure didn’t show it. He flitted toward us, his hands outstretched. “Martina! Charlene! What a lovely, delightfully delicious surprise. I’ll bet I know why you’re here. You want to look at this divine little parlor set again, don’t you, Charlene, dear?” He pronounced it ‘Shah-lane’.
He twittered around us, getting much too close to me for my tastes. Twice he brushed against my chest, which totally grossed me out. Much more and I really would have to use his restroom. I listened to him prattle on and on about ‘Shah-lane’s exquisitely divine taste’ until I thought I was going to gag.
“Excuse me, Sam, may I use your restroom?” No use wasting time, I figured.
“Why certainly, Martina, dear. It’s right through there.” He waved me toward the doorway Charli had indicated.
Right past the door there was a bathroom and what once was a bedroom or something but now served as Sam’s office. Opposite was a small, dark kitchen. Before I went into the office I cautiously opened the door that led to Sam’s storage area, which was an addition to the rear of the house. It was entirely different from the front. The storage room was stacked wall to wall with stuff. It was so jam-packed you could hardly get through.
I squeezed between a metal shelf full of boxes of pool chemicals, brake fluid, lighter fluid, and drain cleaner, and a stack of shipping cartons to see what else was back there. Just more boxes and a couple of pieces of furniture. I peeked at the labels on several of the crates and saw that they had originated in Hong Kong, Singapore, and some other Asian places.
That struck me as odd since I had been under the impression that Sam dealt only in high-quality American antiques with a few French and British things thrown in for good measure. I squeezed back through to the door and left the storage room for Sam’s frilly office where I quickly leafed through the sales slips on top of his desk. One was made out in Dicey’s name and was for an eight thousand dollar primitive cabinet. I was going to have to re-evaluate my interest in the legal profession. Or in antiquing. Eight grand would buy a lot of cat food.
There wasn’t much else on the desk, only a few invoices from a wholesale company out of Boca Raton, Florida. They looked legit to me, but what do I know? I pulled open the top drawer of his file cabinet and was thumbing through the files when something interesting caught my eye. I pulled the file out and leafed through it. It was filled with clippings. The one on top was about some guy named Joe Redmond who was caught bilking an elderly neighbor in Greenwich, Ct. out of a small fortune in antiques about eight years ago.
Before I could see what else was in the file, I heard Charli’s voice growing louder and louder. I shoved the file back into its spot, slammed the drawer closed, and darted over to the desk. Charli appeared in the office doorway. “There you are,” she said. Her voice was normal, but her face screamed out a warning.
I yanked up the phone receiver and said, “Okay, thanks. I’ll check back with you later,” into the mouthpiece just as Sam entered the office.
I dropped the receiver into the cradle. “Sorry about that. I just remembered that I was supposed to call Dicey. It had completely slipped my mind. I hope that it’s okay I used your phone without asking, Sam. I tried, but couldn’t get a signal.”
His eyes were unreadable. “No problem, Martina, dear. I wanted to show darling Charlene a photo of the fabulous Fenton lamp a dear friend of mine has for sale. It’s practically a steal at only two hundred dollars.”
He perched on his plush, purple velvet desk chair and pulled open one of the desk drawers. Charli took the photo and studied it, remarking about how lovely the lamp was. I could tell she was forcing it, that she couldn’t give a flip about the dumb lamp.
The whole time she was studying the picture Sam’s eyes were scanning his desktop, scanning the room, scanning my face. I tried to look relaxed and honest. Not like someone who’d been snooping around. Sam’s eyes lingered on the file cabinet and on the stack of invoices lying on top of the desk.
“Sam, much as I love the lamp, I’ll have to think about it,” Charli said. She handed the picture back to him. “It would be so gorgeous in the dining room, but I’ve been thinking about redecorating and I’m just not sure. Well, Marty, we’d best be going. We don’t want to keep Sam, now do we? Sam, dear, thanks so much for your time. I’ll be sure to talk to John about the parlor set. It’s simply wonderful. I’ll get back to you one way or another. Thanks for your time, oh, I’ve already said that.” She gave a chuckle that sounded more like someone choking.
She’d probably have kept on babbling, but I grabbed her arm, said ‘bye’, and practically dragged her out of the shop.
I didn’t stop trembling until we were three blocks down the street. “That was too close for comfort,” I said. “I thought you were going to keep him busy out front.”
“I tried. I talked about every stupid thing he has in the whole stupid place, but he just couldn’t wait to show me that stupid lamp. You know, Marty, you might have gone about it a little bit quicker.”
We huffed and puffed at each other for a few minutes until I, being way more mature than Mom gives me credit for, said, “Okay. This is nuts. It’s not getting us anywhere. We’re forgetting the whole reason we did this in the first place.”
“You’re right,” Charli said. “I’m sorry. So, what did you find out?”
I told her about the boxes of stuff from Asia. About the wholesaler invoice papers and about Dicey’s purchase. “Other than that, nothing. I was just starting to look in the file cabinet when you two came back.”
Charli seemed very concerned. “What would he be doing with boxes of stuff from Asia? That makes no sense at all. Unless he’s got some sort of sideline going. No. That can’t be it. You don’t suppose he’s importing fakes do you? No. No way. Sam’s too hung up on his reputation to do something sleazy like that.”
Personally, I wasn’t so sure. “I don’t know, sis. I mean, what do we really know about Sam? He hasn’t lived here all that long. And there is that accent of his. Where did he come from? How can you be sure he’s legit?”
Charli’s face colored. “I trusted him because Mom did. And Dicey. They both know tons more about antiques than I do. They’d recognize a fake.”
“Are you sure about that?” I said it quietly.
Charli shook her head slowly from side to side. “I guess it depends on how good the stuff is.”
“How are we going to find out?” I said as I pulled the truck into Charli’s driveway.
My sister pushed the garage door opener. “Maybe Mom can use her newspaper sources and…”
I eased John’s truck into its parking spot, careful not to overshoot and smack into the garage wall. “No! I don’t want Mom involved. She’ll do her reporter thing, you know, go right up to Sam and ask him about it. I can hear her now.”
“Wait, I’ve got a great idea,” Charli said. “We can talk to Ginger Murphy. All we have to do is ask her some general questions without mentioning Sam’s name.”
Ginger is a pal of Charli’s. She works as an auctioneer and she’s a really nice person.
“That is a great idea.” I checked my watch. “If she’s available we can go talk to her right now and still get back in plenty of time for my police interview.”
Charli pulled her cell phone out of her purse. “I’ll call her and check.”
Ginger works out of her home and since she was about to break for lunch, invited us to eat with her while we talked. I backed the truck out of the garage again and within five minutes we were pulling into the driveway of Ginger’s beautiful stone cottage.
She met us at the door. “Lord a’mighty, but it’s hotter than a tamale out here.” She pulled her glorious mane of red curls up off her neck and fanned herself. “Y’all come on in the kitchen where it’s cool. Food’s almost ready.
Ginger’s about thirty-five, with a china doll complexion to go with the red hair, and she has a lusty laugh that makes telling her jokes tons of fun. She’s dated the assistant police chief off and on since her husband cleaned out their bank accounts and ran off with a Hooter’s girl. She’s one of the kindest people I know, and, since she’s a gourmet cook, I was anxiously awaiting what was certain to be an awesome meal. I wasn’t disappointed.
We made chit chat at the antique pine farm table while Ginger served us a delicious pasta salad, fragrant bowls of cold gazpacho soup, and fresh from the oven homemade yeast rolls. I must admit I almost made a pig of myself with those rolls. After a few bites, Charli told Ginger that we were doing some research on fake antiques.
“I’ll try to help you,” Ginger said, “but keep in mind that my expertise is limited. I know more about furniture because that’s where my interest lies. Other things, like art, jewelry, porcelain, I don’t have as much knowledge of. I can tell you that I’ve personally been rooked a couple of times. I’d say that most everybody in the business has, and the ones who say different either haven’t realized it yet, or they’re lying.”
I helped myself to another glass of the fresh brewed peach tea and a fourth roll. “If the experts can get fooled then how’s a regular person like say, Charli, how’s she supposed to know if she’s been ripped off?”
“First, you’ve got to educate yourself,” Ginger said. “Learn as much about the area you’re interested in as possible. It helps to be a specialist since there’s so much to know. For example, I know a little about antiques, more about furniture, and the most about American made furniture of the eighteen hundreds. My friend Paul knows a little about art and a lot about Georgia O’Keefe.”
My sister looked worried. “But that could take years. What if you see something you love, something beautiful that makes your heart sing?”
Ginger’s face lit up. “If you find something you love, and it’s at a price you can live with, you should buy it if you can. That’s the best reason to buy something, Charli. The main thing you should do is to go to a reputable dealer, one who has a contract that states that if the item is found out to be not as represented, you can return it. Also, it’s not a bad idea to have your purchases appraised. A lot of folks skip that step because it costs them money. But if it saves you from getting ripped off, it’s worth every penny.”
Ginger tapped her teeth and clicked her tongue like she was thinking. “Let’s see. What else was I going to say? That’s right, auctions. If you buy at auction, realize that most of the time, for less expensive stuff like I usually sell, it’s ‘caveat emptor’, let the buyer beware. I never represent something to be authentic unless I have the documentation to back it up.”
Charli dabbed at her mouth with the green linen napkin. “How do you know if your dealer is reputable?”
“Check him or her out,” Ginger said. “Ask around, check with the better business bureau, stuff like that. Most of the dealers around here are honest and reputable.”
“Most of them?” I asked, my ears perking up.
Ginger hesitated. “I don’t want to repeat unfounded gossip. Let’s leave it at this: I’ve heard rumors that a couple of local dealers are buying new merchandise manufactured in Asia and passing it off as true antiques.”
“Who are they? Is Sam English one of them?” Charli asked.
Ginger looked pained. “No. I’m really sorry, Charli, but I can’t, I won’t tell you who they are. I don’t know if it’s true. I don’t want to be responsible for ruining someone’s business if the rumors turn out to be just that. I probably shouldn’t even have mentioned it.”
I appreciated her decision. “No, we’re glad you did. We understand about your not wanting to mention any names. What I’d like to know, though, is more about the ‘new’ antiques that they’re selling and about fake stuff in general.”
Ginger served us each a crepe filled with chocolate mousse and topped with real whipped cream and slivered almonds. “Well, first of all with furniture you’re usually talking about stuff that’s been over-restored rather than out and out fakes. Sometimes it does happen that a person thinks they’ve got a valuable antique because that’s what their grandmother told them before she died, but it’ll turn out to be a reproduction.
“With glassware, porcelain, stuff like that, that’s where you get into the more out and out fakes, items manufactured for the purpose of deceiving people. They’ll say that’s not true, but it is. There are factories located in several Asian countries that crank out these items and sell them to wholesalers in the US. They use techniques to make the items appear old; they use old molds with real hallmarks, stuff like that. It’s a surprisingly big industry. The wholesalers have catalogues available that you can order things from.”
“And they can get away with this?” Charli said.
“Yes. Because the only thing that’s required by import laws is that the items be labeled with country of origin. When the wholesalers sell to the dealers the items have labels showing ‘made in China’ for example, but most of the labels are just paper stickers and are really easy to scrape off.”
“That’s unbelievable,” Charli said to her friend. “But isn’t it easy to tell that the stuff isn’t real?”
“To experts and serious collectors, sure,” Ginger replied. “But most of the dealers who do this sort of thing can tell if a customer is knowledgeable or not. They pawn the stuff off on people who’re new to the game or who don’t do their homework.”
Ginger answered a few more questions for us and walked us to the door after we thanked her for the wonderful lunch.
“It was my pleasure,” she said. “If you have any more questions, just call. I can get you some more in-depth info, too, if you’re interested.”
“That would be great,” I said.
Ginger hugged us each again. “I’ll e-mail Charli a couple of articles I’ve downloaded tomorrow. I’d do it this afternoon, but I’m going to an auction over in Charlottesville tonight and I have to leave in about thirty minutes.”
On the way home Charli and I discussed what Ginger had said. “I’ll bet Sam is one of the people Ginger heard rumors about,” I said. “She had such a look on her face when you asked her about him.”
“I know. Plus, it sure explains all those boxes you saw in his back room.”
I pulled the truck into the garage just as the trouble lights all came on. “Uh oh,” I said. “Looks like the truck isn’t feeling well.”
“Good thing I’m getting the Mercedes back after while.”
That reminded me. “Did I tell you that Tim’s going with me to buy tires for the Mustang tomorrow morning? I decided that I’m going to cash in those bonds Gramma gave me for high school graduation. I’d completely forgotten about them. So I won’t need that loan you offered. At least right now, anyway. Thanks, though.”
“No, hon, don’t cash in your bonds. Gramma wanted you to use the money for college or for when you got married.”
I had a sudden vision of Ricky Ray and Paula Dombroski laying on a sugary white beach in St. Maarten. “Who wants to go to crappy old St. Maarten anyway? Besides, by the time I get married, the bonds will probably be worthless.”
Charli looked at me quizzically. “What does St. Maarten have to do with…Oh, that’s right. Never mind. I guess now that I think about it, you might as well use the money for tires as for anything else.”
Dicey picked me up a few minutes later, drove me to the police station for my interview, which was basically no fun, and then drove me home. Tim had already left for work and Charli didn’t answer her phone, so I sat on the sofa, petting Delbert, and feeling very, very sorry for myself.
At seven, I stuck my empty wallet in my back pocket, and trudged the half-mile down to Pilazzo’s, hoping Dave would take pity on me and let me wait a few tables, or in the event he didn’t need me to do that, at least let me put a sandwich and a root beer on a tab.
As I got closer I heard music. It turned out to be a band playing out on the back patio. They sounded pretty good, playing a cover of Robert Cray’s ‘I Was Warned’, and it certainly explained why the place was so packed on a Monday night, usually the slowest. I slipped through the door and made my way to the bar.
“Hey, Dave,” I said when he finally had a free second. “Great tunes out there. Y’all need any help?”
“Hey, Marty. You must have read my mind. I thought we’d try something new; see if we could pull in a bigger crowd. Didn’t count on it going over this big. These guys really bring a horde. Bette’s about ready to walk out, she’s so overwhelmed. You mind waiting tables?”
I quickly got into the swing of things, delivering pitchers of beer and baskets of food to the overcrowded patio. I’d been at it for about two hours when the band quit playing and there was a lull in the action. Bette told me to take five. I slipped into the kitchen, nabbed a corned beef on rye and a root beer, and went into the office to eat.
I scarfed down my food and headed back out to the bar. Kyle Zagle was sitting at a table in the rear of the front room nursing a beer and a meatball sub and studying some papers. Most of the other patrons were either out on the patio or crammed into the poolroom.
I walked up behind him and put my hands on his shoulders. “Hey, you. How’s it going?”
He looked up and around at me and smiled warily, his body tensing under my fingers. Something clenched at my heart and I thought I was going to fall right through the floor. I jerked my hands away and backed up a couple of steps. Obviously the man hated me. I’d really blown it.
He jammed his papers inside a canvas and leather brief case and snapped it shut. “Hey, yourself. Have a seat.”
I shook my head. “Wish I could, but I’m working. Helping Dave and Bette out since there are so many customers.”
He appeared relieved. I swiped my bar cloth across his table and straightened the salt and pepper shakers, trying to think of something else to say. Nothing came to mind. “Well, I better scoot. Bette’s not had a break yet,” I said. “I’ll talk to you later.”
He picked up his brief case and stood up. “Sure. Later.” He plunked down a five and two ones. “Tell Bette thanks for the great service. I’ll see you.”
I watched him walk out the door, wishing I could make him like me again, but knowing that the chances of that happening were slim and none. Oh well, chalk another one up to the Mavens of Misfortune.
The band cranked up for another set and I went back to work, rushing around like a crazed person until my feet were killing me. I stayed at it until about twelve-thirty, thankful that I was too busy to think about Kyle Zagle or murder or much of anything. By the time the place started clearing out I felt like I’d been run over by a freight train. Not that I’m complaining or anything. After all, I racked up sixty-eight dollars in tips, not too shabby for six hours work. Bette and I helped Dave clean up and then she gave me a lift home.
Tim was sitting on the steps of my building when we pulled up. “Hey. Where you been?”
“Pilazzo’s.” I waved my tip money. “Dave had an awesome new blues band playing. The place was hopping so I waited tables. What are you up to?”
“Nothing. Just checking to see if you’d managed to get yourself into any more trouble.”
I grinned at him and gave him a chin chuck. “Nope. Not yet, anyway. Of course, the night’s still young, so you never know.”
Tim didn’t seem to think it was funny. He followed me up to my apartment, yapping that he sure hoped I was kidding because he was dog-tired and wasn’t about to bail me out, not tonight, that’s for dad gummed sure. When I opened the door, I heard what sounded like running water coming from the kitchen. Surely I hadn’t left the tap on, had I?
I dashed through the living room and as soon as my feet hit the beige linoleum, I went down with a thud, dropping my money into the inch of water that covered the floor. Tim was right behind me, but he didn’t fall.
I just looked up at him and shook my head. “Why me? Why is it always me?”
Tim shrugged and stuck his head under the sink. “Busted pipe,” he said. “I’ll go get a wrench and turn the water off.”
It took us almost an hour to mop up the floor. Some of the water, a bunch of it actually, had made its way out of the kitchen and the carpeting was totally soaked. Tim stayed until the last towel was wrung out. After he left, I called and left a message on the complex manager’s voice mail, took a quick shower to wash the second hand smoke out of my hair and then fell into the bed, dreaming about floods, bad luck, and Kyle Zagle’s heartache of a smile.