by Lyn Hamilton
“You do that,” I said in as authoritative a manner as I could muster. Then I just hung in until the two had left before bursting into tears. Moira was horrified, of course. She thought they’d been badgering me, and maybe they had. I couldn’t tell her though.
Lizard. It was the man I’d rather facetiously called Lizard, the man who had dueled it out with my ex-husband for a jade snuff bottle at Molesworth & Cox.
Dead, burned, in my store. Was it another of Clive’s little pranks that had gone very wrong? Had he sent someone to steal the snuff bottle? He’d been prepared to pay enough for it. Top price, actually, and I’d refused. Lizard had wanted the box too, very, very badly. But if he’d broken into the shop, how had he been killed? Not by Alex. Even leaving aside the fact that he would never do such a thing, Alex was barely conscious. So who else was there?
More to the point, what had I done? Rather than helping the police with their investigation, I’d actually lied about knowing Lizard. Now what?
I called my lawyer. She was vacationing on Maui for a week.
I called Rob Luczka. “Answer the phone,” I ordered, as it rang and rang. I knew he and Barbara had been in Montreal visiting her sister, but I was praying they’d returned.
“Hello,” he said at last.
“You’re home,” I said, relieved.
“Just got in,” he said. “What’s up?”
“I really need your help. The most awful thing has happened.” I started to tell him about Alex, the body, and the fire.
“I’ll be right there,” he said, interrupting me. I heaved a sigh of relief. While Rob and I occasionally seem to inhabit different planets, I consider him to be a friend, and despite the occasional round of bickering from time to time, usually over what I see to be his rather black-and-white view of events, I hope he feels the same about me. It made me feel better knowing he was on his way over.
Less than half an hour later we were ensconced on my back deck with a pitcher of iced lemon tea. It was a beautiful warm summer evening, and more than anything else I just wanted to sit there and enjoy it and not think about what had happened. After discussions about the weather, Montreal, and the Blue Jays, Rob gently turned the conversation around to the subject at hand. He was very sympathetic until I got to the part about the photo of Lizard.
“I told Lewis that I didn’t know the person in the photo, but in fact, while I don’t know exactly who he was, I have seen him before, at an auction at Molesworth & Cox.” I hesitated, hearing his sharp intake of breath. “I thought they were accusing Alex of something awful, and me of arson, insurance fraud, and my hand hurt and I had a headache,” I rattled on. Even to my own ears, I sounded like a whiny brat.
“This is murder we’re talking about here, Lara. How do you think it will look for you and Alex if―make that when, not if―the police find out you had seen the victim, that you lied?”
“I was thinking maybe I could say I’d had a brain wave or something, a sudden return of memory. I was in shock, you know, after the event…”
Rob looked at me as if I’d just crawled out from under a rock. He was absolutely furious. His jaw was clenched so tightly I thought his teeth would crumble.
“So you’re planning to pile lies on top of lies, are you? You think this is quite all right to do?”
“Spare me the lecture, Rob,” I shot right back. “I made a mistake, okay? Most people do that from time to time. Maybe not you, of course. Maybe not that Ms. Perfect you live with. But most of us do. I don’t want a speech about ends never, ever justifying means, or on the duties and responsibilities of a citizen or whatever. I’m asking you for advice on what to do about this situation, how to help Alex and get out of this mess.”
After what seemed an eternity, he spoke very quietly. “I will have to tell them what you have told me.” I felt a sudden wave of sympathy for his daughter Jennifer, who I knew was subjected to this particular strain of morality a lot, and who suffered from it.
“Even if it looks bad for Alex too? Rob,” I pleaded, “I thought you were my friend. I asked you for help as a friend.”
He stood up. “I am a policeman, first and foremost,” he said. “If you didn’t want me to report it, then you shouldn’t have told me.” He started to walk away.
“Well, maybe you don’t have your priorities straight,” I said to his rigid back. He kept walking. “Maybe life is not quite as neat as you think it is,” I continued.
“Ask Jennifer what she thinks,” I called as he reached the gate. It was a low blow. I heard the gate latch firmly behind him.
4
It took me a while to figure out what was missing, in part because the shop was such a mess, but also because it was not what I expected.
Constable Chu was back on duty the next morning and drove me to the shop. I was grateful for the lift, because I hurt even worse that day than I had the day before. I felt as if it would take a shoehorn to get me behind the wheel of my own car.
I had been dreading this moment, not just because I was frightened at what I would find, but also because I was worried about what to say to Sergeant Lewis. The question was, had Rob told him about Lizard or not? If he hadn’t, then perhaps I could try my memory-coming-back-to-me story, but if he had, then saying that would only make it worse.
I was feeling terrible about Rob. I knew that I had done to a friend something that one should never do: put him in an unconscionable position. I wanted to call and apologize, but he had been so angry I was afraid to. I had thought a lot in the wee small hours of the morning about why I had been acting so childish of late. I am no spring chicken after all. In fact I am old enough to have grown children of my own instead of behaving like an infant. I could operate a business reasonably efficiently, travel all over the world without a qualm, but when my ex-husband moves in across the road, I go slightly nuts. Clive was right. It was time for me to get a grip.
But how, exactly?
A mixture of smells greeted my nostrils as I stepped in the door: part doused campfire, part wet dog, and partly, to my hyperactive imagination, the odor of death. I pointed out the spot where I’d found Alex to Constable Chu, then looked around as she made notes.
The fire itself had done surprisingly little damage. The storage room door had blown out, and it and the frame were badly singed, the walls in that area marked by smoke stains. The sprinkler system had done what it should and put out the blaze very quickly.
The water damage was something else, however. Already the paint on some of the antique wood pieces was beginning to peel away, and watermarks were showing up on everything. The sofas were absolutely sodden, and the carpets on the floor, some really lovely old kilims I’d picked up on a hair-raising trip through Pakistan a few months earlier, squelched as I walked over them. I desperately wanted to get an industrial cleaner in, but the doors were still barred by yellow police tape. If we weren’t allowed in soon, nothing would be salvageable. I could have cried.
Lewis arrived. “Anything missing?” he said in his usual succinct manner.
I looked around. The store is a bit of a barn really, just one large room with a teeny office behind the front desk, the storage room at the back, and another small showroom off to the right. In order to make the merchandise look more inviting, we had room arrangements in several areas of the shop: a dining table and chairs with places set, a candelabra hanging from the ceiling above; a living room arrangement against one wall, with a sofa, side chairs, end tables, coffee table with accent pieces on it, and perhaps a wall hanging or a carved mirror behind the sofa.
When someone bought an item, we rearranged the setting so that it wouldn’t look bare. In other words, our merchandise was constantly in motion. Alex would have known exactly where everything was, but it would take me days to make a complete inventory. In any event, I did my best to have a careful look around.
I started with the office where I had left the jade snuff bottle. Much to my relief, and somewhat to my surprise, it was still there. It ha
d been tossed into a comer along with the contents of the three drawers in the desk, but it was not damaged in any way that I could see. The safe was still locked. The place was a mess, but I couldn't see anything missing.
I forced myself to go and look in the storage room. That room was pretty well a write-off. I could see the chalk outline on the floor where Lizard had been found.
“There’s nothing missing in the office that I can find,” I said to Lewis, giving him a progress report. I looked toward the storage room. “Did he burn to death?” I asked, my voice shaking, and thinking what a really horrible way that was to die.
“Garroted. Wire pulled so tight, it cut into his neck. Burned too, and locked in just to make sure. Somebody wanted him dead.” Lewis paused. “Your keys too. In the storeroom door. Locking him in. Not necessary. Wasn’t going anywhere.” Before I could respond to that implied accusation, he concluded, “Keep looking.”
Horrified, I carried on as instructed. A jewelry case at the front desk had been opened and the contents jumbled up. There were a few nice pieces in there, but as far as I could tell, nothing was missing there either.
I was perplexed. I’d thought that Lizard was interested in the snuff bottle: It was the only thing of any value in the box from the auction. But it was still there. So what else could it be? On the assumption that it was no coincidence that I’d taken the objects he’d wanted at Molesworth & Cox, I thought about the contents of the box.
I turned back to the main room. The vase, the reproduction pre-Columbian piece with the lovely serpents on the rim, was missing. I spent almost an hour going over the place, in case Alex had moved it while I was out, but it was the only thing I could find that was gone.
I was afraid to tell Lewis that only a strange-looking vase from Peru was missing. If it wasn’t robbery, then he’d go immediately to some other theory, one I was certain I wouldn’t like, and one that would not be good for Alex. Remembering my commitment to myself of the night before, I decided I had to tell him regardless. It occurred to me that if I did it right, I might be able to set him on the right track in his investigation.
“There’s only one object that I can see that is missing,” I told him. “It is a vase, about six and a half inches high, and it is a reproduction pre-Columbian ceramic made in Peru. It was quite lovely, actually. I got it in a job lot at Molesworth & Cox, the auction house, a couple of weeks ago.” There, I’d told him about the auction. Maybe he could take it from there.
But no. “Fake, is it? Look again,” he said. “Can’t imagine someone taking a fake Peruvian pot and leaving the jewelry and money, can you? Unless, of course, there was a reason other than robbery." It was the longest sentence I’d heard him utter, and I didn’t like what he was implying any more than when he’d hinted at it the first time.
After another hour of looking about, Lewis let me leave. PC Chu drove me home. She told me I’d be asked to come in to headquarters to sign a copy of my statement.
My house seemed very quiet and very lonely. I checked my answering machine to hear Moira telling me in a motherly way not to forget to take my pills and to be sure to have something to eat. Sarah had called from a phone booth on the edge of Algonquin Park to say she’d been delayed and wouldn’t be back for another day. She apologized for calling me at home rather than the shop, but she said she hadn’t been able to get through to the store. “Maybe there’s a problem with the phone, or maybe I dialed incorrectly,” she said. There’s a problem with the phone, all right, I thought. It’s been trashed, burned, and doused. I was not looking forward to telling her about what had happened. There was a message from a friend and colleague, Sam Feldman, telling me how sorry he was to hear about the store, but no message from Rob.
It occurred to me that I hadn’t heard from many of my colleagues and friends, but perhaps I couldn’t blame them under the circumstances. It was possible, of course, that people were giving me time to recover. But I was more than a little concerned that people, people I considered friends, were out there wondering if indeed I had arranged for the fire at Greenhalgh and McClintoch. The newspaper reports seemed a little ambiguous on the subject, I would have to say.
I began having rather morose thoughts about the future, along the lines of maybe if this doesn’t get cleared up soon everybody will be crossing the street to avoid having to talk to me. I knew if I stayed at home by myself I would get really depressed, so I decided to pull myself together and go out. I’d imposed on Moira too much already, but Sam Feldman had been nice enough to call, so I thought I’d pay him a visit.
Sam and I had met years before when I’d taken a conservation course he’d given at the University of Toronto. At the time he was a museum director, but later he decided to go commercial, as he described it, and opened a gallery on Queen Street West. His museum had specialized in eastern antiquities, and he’d been very helpful in sharing his contacts in that part of the world when I branched out and started buying there. In return, I’d given him advice on setting up shop, and we’d stayed in touch. I liked Sam: I always found him funny and articulate, and I thought a visit with him would cheer me up.
I carefully eased myself behind the wheel of my car and headed down for Queen Street. Sam was there, along with his young assistant. “Hi,” I said. “Thanks for your message. I’m a bit at loose ends, so I thought I’d see if you had time for a coffee. Do you think you could drag yourself away?''
“From what?” he asked wryly, gesturing around the room. “Do you see customers? Do you see a single customer? For this I left a low-paying but steady job in a museum? Where shall we go?”
We left his assistant―Janie, he called her―and headed for Starbucks. “I guess you were implying business is not exactly great,” I said.
He laughed. “Oh, it’s okay. No fame and fortune, though. But I always thought I’d like working for myself, and I do. Sorry about your place. Dreadful thing. Insured?” I nodded. “Good,” he said. “You’ll let me know if there is anything I can do.” I smiled my thanks.
We chatted awhile, and then it struck me that Sam might indeed be able to help with something, by way of information. “Would the name A. J. Smythson and the Smythson Gallery mean anything to you?”
“Oh, yes,” he replied. “Surely you remember too.”
“The name sounds familiar, but I can’t really recall why,” I said. “So tell me. I can tell from the expression on your face that there’s a good story here.”
“It’s quite a tale, all right, but good isn’t exactly the word,” he replied. “In fact it is precisely the wrong word. Smythson, Anton James Smythson―his friends, I wasn’t one of them, called him A. J.―was an art dealer on King Street West. He had his gallery in one of those industrial buildings that are being converted in that old part of town. He lived in a fabulous loft over the store.
“He was very successful, in a way I am coming to realize I never will be. He threw the most extravagant openings for his artists, and I attended several. A little collegial schmoozing, you could say. His gallery was only a few blocks from mine. Champagne, caviar, oysters. Only the best. But the parties in the gallery were nothing compared to the private parties he threw in his loft. These were unbelievable. I only got invited to one, but it was spectacular: flowers everywhere, fabulous food, witty entertaining guests, movie stars, politicians, all the glitterati.
“Really, he had it all. Lovely stone cottage in the country, winter residence in San Miguel de Allende. He also had good taste. Make that exceptional taste. The paintings he owned personally in his loft were to die for.” He paused. “Actually that is an entirely inappropriate expression considering what happened, forgive me. But he had a couple of Rothkos in the dining area of the loft that I would have given my eyeteeth for.
“Unfortunately he also had a few weaknesses. One in my mind was that he was just a little too successful. This may sound like sour grapes; I mean no one is ever likely to call my gallery a huge success, but when you’re in the business we are, you have
to be careful not to accept stolen goods. It’s easy enough to do, and it is done. You and I both know that. You know that when you’re buying antiques in the East, for example, you have to make sure that they are not national treasures, that they have an export permit.” I nodded.
“It’s easy enough to be fooled, of course. I recall when I was collecting for the museum, someone brought me some very exceptional silver pieces. Very old, Persian, about thirteenth century. I was desperate to add them to the collection. You know the rules as well as I do. Canada is a signatory to various UNESCO conventions on trade in art and artifacts, and particular agreements with various countries, and it was therefore necessary for me to ensure that these objects had left Persia, or Iran, before Canada signed the agreement with that country.
“I asked the person who had brought the objects for that proof. The person was not asking for money, incidentally, which is just as well because the museum, in fact most museums, have no acquisitions budgets anymore, and they rely on donations. The person merely wanted a tax receipt for them. Easy enough to do. This person―who shall remain nameless―showed me some documents that indicated that the pieces had been in New York in the late 1950s, which technically meant that we could accept them. But you and I both know that all kinds of stuff came out of Iran when the Shah was deposed, and a lot of the old, wealthy families hightailed it out of the country with the family treasures. I decided in all conscience I had to do some more checking. I did, and in a way I’ll forever regret it, because I found that the objects had been in Iran until after the Shah left in 1979, and that the New York documentation was false. I could have accepted the counterfeit proof. If it ever came out, which it probably wouldn’t, anyone would have thought I’d just been fooled. But I didn’t. I know I did the right thing, but it was not an easy thing to do.
“I tell you all this only by way of saying that I always had the impression that Smythson wouldn’t have gone that extra mile to check. That’s all I’m saying. Maybe it went further than that, and he knowingly handled illegal goods, but I have absolutely no firsthand knowledge that this was the case. When I went to his apartment for that party, some of the objects I saw there―really, really exquisite―were things I wasn’t sure he should have had. I couldn’t prove anything, of course, and I didn’t even try. Live and let live, you know. But after that evening, whenever I shook his hand, I had the feeling I’d been slimed.