First Gravedigger

by Barbara Paul

  Buzz, buzz. “Mr. Wightman would like to see you.”

  “Tell him I’m in Tibet.”

  Door open. “Ah, there you are, dear boy.” And he’d be off and running.

  Every day it was something different. I was sure Wightman stayed up late at night making lists of things to complain about. I knew damn well he never did this to Speer; what I couldn’t figure out was what he hoped to accomplish with his constant needling. Didn’t the fool realize I was the boss now?

  One day he came in to report on a quick trip he’d just made to the west coast. Our San Francisco branch had rather excitedly notified me they’d acquired a small lot of original Canton ware, the kind made for “home” consumption rather than the inferior porcelain turned out for export. They’d wanted Wightman to come out and authenticate it, and I’d okayed the trip mostly to get rid of him for a few days.

  Now he was back, bristling with equal measures of indignation and self-importance. He sat down without being invited and spread some glossy eight-by-tens on the cherrywood table.

  “Chinese export,” Wightman snapped. “Shipped by the thousands to Europe and America for the last two centuries. Not without value, of course—this particular lot has the not-at-all unique distinction of having been produced in the late eighteenth century. I’d say our enterprising San Francisco cousins have an excellent chance of selling the lot for almost as much as they paid for it. But why they should have mistaken it for true Canton ware is beyond my not inconsiderable powers of comprehension. The quality is so dreadfully inferior—if it were only a little inferior, perhaps one could forgive them.”

  He paused for breath. I waited for the rest of it.

  “Every piece in the lot has that grayish body you find in all Chinese export porcelain. And this export porcelain was shipped without decoration—so the importing country could have it ornamented to suit local notions of what oriental porcelain ought to look like. Look at this one.”

  “This one” was a color photo of a blue and white plate. The border was decorated with that everlasting willow pattern. The center showed a teahouse, a bridge with two people on it, birds, more willow trees.

  Wightman leaned forward and stabbed at the photo with his forefinger. “True Canton ware never pictured people on the bridge. Never. Sommers, not one of those brilliant people out there noticed that! They are incredibly unobservant—or abysmally educated, I can’t decide which. When I pointed out the figures on the bridge, one overaged teeny-bopper said, ‘Oh yeah, hahn, I forgot about that.’” Wightman spoke the last sentence through his nose.

  He was waiting for me to say something. “Incredible,” I murmured.

  “And that’s not all. They simply have no feel for quality in porcelain. They have some truly exquisite pieces—but they show them side by side with overpriced modern reproductions. And Sommers,” his voice dropped to a secrets-sharing level, “they’re even displaying three pieces of 1930 Satsuma.”

  Wightman looked shocked, and he had every right. Satsuma made in the twenties and thirties was chop suey porcelain—gaudy, gilded stuff manufactured in Nagasaki strictly for the tourist trade. It’s the kind of thing that gave “Made in Japan” its bad name in the first place. I’d seen my first piece of Satsuma when I was five or six years old—a large vase somebody was using as an umbrella stand. Even then I’d known it was junk.

  “Who’s in charge of porcelain out there?” I asked.

  “That’s just the problem—no one’s in charge. Our highly paid San Francisco agents scatter their energies wherever their whimsy leads them. No one directs them, no one checks up on them. The branch manager is a businessman who I’m sure does a marvelous job of seeing the rent’s paid on time, but he doesn’t know Celadon from Imari. Those people need someone to organize them, to teach them a professional approach. The opportunities we’re missing out there are enough to make you weep.”

  Aahhh, that was it. Now it was clear. Wightman wanted to run the San Francisco branch. I told him the situation definitely warranted looking into and I’d see to it myself. That seemed to satisfy him for the moment; he gathered up his photos and left.

  Had I misread an earlier situation? I’d thought it was the directorship of the galleries Wightman had been after—but maybe his goals had been smaller all along. Wightman’s lusting after the San Francisco branch manager’s job would explain the stepped-up needling I’d been getting from him lately. He probably figured if he made himself obnoxious enough, I’d give him the job just to get him out of my hair. I leaned back in my leather chair and laughed. That was so like Wightman.

  I knew he was exaggerating the inefficiency of the San Francisco agents; I’d seen the books. Most of their profit came from porcelain—they handled pieces in the two-hundred-thousand-dollar range. Wightman must have been waiting for them to make a big goof. Their mistake about the Canton ware was the opportunity he’d been watching for.

  That night I told Nedda—waiting until après, of course—what Wightman had said about the San Francisco branch.

  She rolled over on her back and laughed. “He’s wanted to run that gallery for years. Wightman’s convinced the west coast is just loaded with undiscovered porcelain that only his sensitive nose can sniff out.”

  I nuzzled her stomach. “Why didn’t Amos let him do it?”

  “Because European porcelain is Wightman’s forte—Orientalia’s a recently acquired taste, Amos said. But I suspect the real reason was he just wanted to keep him here. Amos always had him check out a piece before he bought it for his personal collection.”

  Including the brown-eyed Meissen Leda that had caused me so much trouble, no doubt. “What do you want to do about that collection?” I asked lazily. “Sell it or keep it?”

  “I thought I’d keep it.” Nedda raised herself up on one elbow. “That’s not going to bother you, is it?” There was a hint of laughter in her voice.

  I lay back and closed my eyes. “It would bother me only if you said sell it.” Suddenly I felt a warm body on top of mine, and we both forgot about porcelain for a while.

  The next day Robin Coulter called me from New York. Before she left Pittsburgh we’d gone over the preliminary listings of the imported furniture Mercer’s was putting up for auction; now that she’d had a chance to examine the pieces she identified the ones she thought we should bid on. It was the same ritual I’d gone through with Amos Speer.

  But when we’d agreed on which pieces and how high she should go, Robin had one more thing to tell me. “Earl, they have something not in the preliminary listings you might want to know about for yourself. It’s a box-shaped armchair that’s been dated first half of the sixteenth century. English, made of oak. The side panels are plain, but the chair back and the front covering are carved—nice, clean lines, nothing ornate. All the original pegs are there, but no cushion. You know more about chairs than I do,” she finished innocently. “Do you think it sounds like a good one?”

  “What about the grain?”

  “Gorgeous. And the patina’s great.”

  My mouth was watering. In all my time of illicitly buying and selling Hepplewhites and Duncan Phyfes I’d never even come close to a chair like the one Robin was describing. I knew the kind she was talking about; owning one was a little like having your own throne. Robin would be bidding against museums for it—my god, it’d cost a small fortune. I was sweating as I thought about committing myself to that much; I didn’t have Nedda’s money yet. Should I gamble?

  “Go for it,” I told Robin. “No limit.”

  “It’s going to go high, Earl,” she cautioned.

  “I know that, damn it. Get it for me.”

  “Right,” she said and hung up.

  I was so excited it took me a good ten minutes to settle down. I hoped Robin wouldn’t chicken out when the figures started climbing; I didn’t really know how good she was at an auction. If she got the chair for me, I’d give her a bonus. I was pleased with Robin for another reason. The innocent way she’d asked
my opinion told me she’d decided to play neophyte to my wise man. That suited me just fine. I wanted Bedroom Eyes to stick around for a while.

  Later in the day she called back to say the chair was mine.

  One loose end tied itself up with only minimal effort from me. Peg McAllister had been explaining some new tax regulations to me. When we’d finished, she said, “Earl, Lieutenant D’Elia said something that surprised me. He said you’d told him that I said there was an agent here Amos Speer couldn’t stand. I don’t remember telling you that—it was private knowledge I shouldn’t have passed on. When did I tell you?”

  She didn’t remember! I wrinkled my forehead. “Oh, four or five months ago. It was one of those days I’d let Wightman get my goat—I think I was muttering about how some people were impossible to get along with.” A subtle change in Peg’s facial expression told me something. “It was Wightman? Wightman was the one Speer couldn’t stand?” I laughed: wonderful.

  Peg smiled. “I guess it doesn’t matter now. But Speer disliked him even more than you do. Once he said he thought if he had to listen to that affected talk or smile back at that wolfish grin just one more day, he might commit an act of violence.”

  “Wolfish?” I said. “Wightman always seemed horse-faced to me.”

  Peg laughed, long and hearty. “We’re going to have to get our animal imagery straightened out,” she gasped. “He’s always reminded me of a bird—a vulture, to be exact.”

  So that part was all right too. Peg had not told Lieutenant D’Elia that Speer had been on the verge of firing me, and my indiscreet mention of personal animosities to the Lieutenant had not reminded her. So Peg and I were still buddies; we could sit around and poke fun at Wightman and no harm done.

  It was only two or three days after that that Nedda told me the board of directors had confirmed my appointment as permanent director of Speer Galleries.

  I took the news with all the George Sanders aplomb I could muster. “So isn’t it about time we were getting married?” I asked her.

  The wedding took place in the house in Fox Chapel. I thought it a bit tacky to get hitched in the same room where old Amos had kicked the bucket, but that’s the way Nedda wanted it. She’d dug up a swinging Episcopalian priest to perform the ceremony. He’d driven up in his black Jag, downed three martinis before starting on Dearly beloved, and managed to say the word “God” only once in the religious rites he pronounced.

  The house was packed with guests: Nedda’s numerous acquaintances, most of the staff from the gallery, and a few people I’d invited to keep it from looking as if all our friends were Nedda’s. Wightman was there—oh boy was he there. Louder and more Oxbridge than ever. Peg McAllister kept trying to shush him, but he just wouldn’t shush.

  The other guests were more subdued. All these furtive little glances kept darting my way, as well as a smirk or two. We probably should have waited a little longer, but I had a feeling these people were going to smirk no matter what. Nedda and I were going to France for our wedding trip, and the limousine to take us to the airport was waiting outside with our luggage already in the trunk. I was thinking it was time to make our move when Wightman proposed a toast. No one had asked him to, but he wasn’t going to let a little thing like that stand in his way.

  “To the happy couple,” he neighed. “Long may they wave! May their lives be free of controversy”—he pronounced it conTRAvassy—“and may the great tradition of Speer Galleries continue unabated in its winning ways. Continuity is all. The king is dead—long live the king!”

  Awkward, embarrassed silence.

  Wightman’s eyes grew large. “My word, did I say something? Profuse apologies, one and all.”

  “It’s time to go,” I said to Nedda.

  The goodbyes started. Peg McAllister gave me a restrained hug and a tight little smile while every man in the place was taking advantage of the opportunity to kiss Nedda.

  June Murray came up to me. “Do I get to kiss the groom?”

  “Lightly,” Nedda called over her shoulder.

  June’s kiss was warm and quick. “I’m happy for you, Earl. I really am. I hope you get everything you want.”

  Strange way of putting it, but I thanked her and looked around to see if Robin Coulter was planning to follow June’s lead. No such luck. But Wightman was advancing toward me, a determined look in his eye. I knew what he was going to say; he’d been saying it every day for the last month. I was ready for him.

  “Now look, old chap,” he started out, “I hate to bring business into the nuptial festivities, but I must. Do you seriously intend to leave this San Francisco matter dangling while you’re off cavorting around the South of France? I seem to have failed miserably in my earnest attempts to impress upon you the need for immediate, heroic action.”

  “Wightman, I’m sorry—I must have forgotten to tell you. Distractions of the wedding and all. I did look into the San Francisco matter, and I’m afraid you didn’t see the total picture. They have some rather unusual problems out there.” I was careful not to specify what they were. “The branch manager is doing an excellent job handling them—he’s done so well, in fact, that I’ve raised his salary. Don’t want to lose a good man like that,” I smiled.

  Wightman’s mouth didn’t exactly drop open, but it came close. “But the porcelain!” he whinnied. “They aren’t handling the porcelain right! They don’t know anything about porcelain!”

  “Again I have to disagree. We have a man named Holstein out there who is well on his way to becoming the authority in the field.” I was sure Wightman knew Holstein was fresh out of college and still learning. “As a matter of fact, I’m thinking about transferring him to Pittsburgh. Take some of the burden off your shoulders. You wouldn’t mind a little help, would you, Wightman?”

  This time his mouth did drop open. I left him standing there agape while I went to collect my bride. We’d be gone for a month or two; let him stew.

  I pried Nedda loose from the arms of a man whose name I couldn’t remember and steered her out the door. The caterers would clean up and the security guards would lock up. All we had to do was make our getaway.

  “What on earth did you say to Wightman?” Nedda laughed as the limousine pulled away from the house. “He looked as if you’d dropped a bomb on his head.”

  “Just gave him a little bad news I’d been saving until the last possible moment.”

  “Oh? Like what?”

  “Like don’t be too sure of your job, old bean.”

  “You’re going to sack him?”

  “The minute we get back.”

  Nedda looked thoughtful. “You really think you should? I know he’s a horse’s ass, but the man is an expert.”

  I put my arm around her and drew her close. “So are a lot of other people I know. Nedda, don’t worry. I know what I’m doing. Now for god’s sake let’s stop talking business—I’ve got other things in mind.”

  She grinned. “You’d better.”

  At Pittsburgh International the collapsible tunnel you walk through from the waiting area to the plane wasn’t working or something, and we had to go outside to board. I had my foot on the bottom step when a movement off to my left caught my eye. I looked toward the observation platform—and got the shock of my life.

  For there on the platform, leaning against the safety rail, stood the last man in the world I wanted to see—none other than Charlie Bates himself. Waving his arms, bobbing his head, mouthing Good luck at me. Grinning, happy, carefree.

  Good old Charlie Bates.

  CHAPTER 6

  Hell of a way to start a honeymoon.

  Nedda knew immediately something was wrong. I pleaded a slight indisposition and retreated to one of the rest rooms the minute we were airborne. When I got back to the seat, Nedda handed me some Dramamine. I took it; it gave me an excuse to lie back quietly with my eyes closed.

  Just when everything was coming to fruition for me—that’s the moment my old buddy Charlie had chosen to make hi
s reappearance. He’d been smiling and wishing me luck—his intentions seemed benevolent. That wasn’t the problem. It was his loose lip I was worried about. Charlie Bates’s mouth would always be a threat.

  What the hell did he think he was doing, showing up like that? Charlie was such an ass he could have thought I’d been worrying about him and would be glad to see he was alive and well. That was the last thing I wanted to see. Where had he been all this time? He hadn’t gone back to his apartment; I’d checked. Somehow he’d avoided both his creditors and his own self-destructive impulses. Or maybe I’d misread the situation. Yes, that must be it. All that bullshit about killing himself—it had been just another Charlie Bates play for sympathy and I’d fallen for it. I’d believed him because it suited my plans to believe him.

  But then why had he gone through with the murder of Amos Speer? It didn’t make sense. If it had all been nothing but talk, Charlie would never have pulled that trigger—he would have ducked out the minute he was out of my sight. So that meant I was right the first time: he had reached the end of his rope and had fully intended to kill himself.

  But something had happened to change his mind, and that something could only have been the sight of Amos Speer lying there with his brains pouring out. Charlie had gotten scared, it was that simple. It was nothing more than sheer wishywashyness that had made Charlie rewrite the ending. And put me squarely behind the eight ball.

  If I had to name the one person in the world who could never be trusted to hold his tongue, I would say Charlie Bates without a moment’s hesitation. Charlie was a compulsive talker, afraid to let a silence develop, afraid not to use every available second to sell himself. He’d say anything to hold your attention—like threatening suicide when he thought that would do the trick. And this was the man who carried my secret around with him. This was one punch I couldn’t roll with; something was going to have to be done. Charlie wouldn’t want to talk, he’d even try hard not to. But he’d never manage it. Sooner or later he’d shoot off his mouth and that would be the end of Earl Sommers. No, as long as Charlie Bates was alive, I was in danger of losing everything—Speer Galleries, the Duprée chair, Nedda’s money. Nothing was safe. The more I thought about it the clearer it became there was only one solution: I was going to have to kill Charlie.