The Body In The Basement ff-6

by Katherine Hall Page

  “What kinds of things are being faked?" Pix asked in as idle a way as she could muster, aware that her mother had joined them, slipping quietly next to Sam.

  “You name it. Toys are big." Earl started to warm to his subject. He must have been a star pupil. "One way is to make them from scratch, putting cel uloid or bisque into molds from originals to imitate things that are popular col ectibles, like Mickey Mouse figures. The modern ones are easy to spot once you know how—different colors, obvious brushstrokes, but even dealers get fooled.

  Especial y if they're made by joining a new toy with an old one, it's cal ed `marrying.' "

  “What do you mean?" Pix was glad to hear the word introduced, yet this sort seemed more likely to be headed for divorce.

  “Wel , you might have a part missing from an original and you substitute a fake, but often these two never left the factory together. Like Mickey in a car becomes Minnie at the controls. That sort of thing. Then they even forge Steiff buttons and insert them in the ears of new stuffed bears or other animals that have been made to look worn. Another thing we learned is that both fake and genuine toys are put into òriginal' boxes printed by color laser to increase the values. The boxes are the easiest to detect. You just need a good magnifying glass, my dear Watsons. You should see dots, not the paral el lines the laser produces.”

  Pix remembered that Valerie had a whole battery of devices tucked into her jaunty Pierre Deux bag when they had gone off yesterday: a fancy kind of flashlight, a Swiss army knife with more than an extra blade and toothpick, plus a magnifying glass.

  “This is amazing," Ursula commented. "I had no idea things were so sophisticated. Tel us more.”

  Pix looked at her mother. Ursula's face showed nothing other than sincere interest, but it was almost as if she was in on the plot. Whatever the motive, Pix silently thanked her for keeping the conversation going.

  “Oh, I could talk al night about this," Earl said jovial y.

  "There's nothing I hate more than a fraud, and these crooks are accomplished ones”

  Jil , oddly enough, since antiques were a current and growing interest, did not seem as fascinated. "I'm sure we al do, but I think Louise is cutting the pies."

  “Oh, she's barely started, and I can't eat anything yet, anyway," Pix said quickly. "Do tel us some more, Earl"

  “Part of the problem is that some people pay such fool prices for things that even legitimate dealers get itchy. Take a painting, for instance. You might think it's old, but you get tempted to sweeten the pot a little by rubbing some dirt and grime on it, tucking it under the cobwebs you don't sweep away in the back of your shop for some tourist tòdiscover.'

  A real con man—or woman—takes what he or she knows is a new painting, maybe even painted it him or herself, and does the same thing. Just now, the unit is getting a lot of cal s about paintings—and photographs, fake tintypes and ambrotypes."

  “What's an ambrotype?" Sam asked. "Is that anything like a daguerreotype?"

  “Yup, daguerreotypes are older and they were more expensive. Ambrotypes used a glass plate to capture an image. And tintypes were obviously on metal. They were the most common, relatively cheap compared with the other two. The thing is that now al three methods can be duplicated using the old cameras or even doctoring a modern image with the right emulsions. So you get a friend to dress up as an Indian chief or a Civil War soldier—this is what people want—and lo and behold, in a few months you've made enough for that condo in Florida."

  “I had no idea you were learning so much at those seminars," Jil remarked a bit tartly. "Do you think it has much relevance for law and order on the island?”

  Earl frowned. Her tone was decidedly un-Jil -like.

  “Maybe not, although what with everyone and his uncle putting some thundermugs in the shed and cal ing it an antiques store, it wil probably pay off one of these days."

  “Are you by chance referring to my decision to carry antiques?”

  Pix was not happy with the turn the conversation was taking. Not only were they veering from the topic but it seemed that Jil and Earl were heading for a quarrel and about to topple off the top of the cake.

  “Of course he isn't!" she said in what she hoped was a lighthearted tone. "We're just gossiping. It's fun to hear about how other people get fooled, so long as you're not one of them."

  “Exactly." Ursula came to the rescue again. "Like the Pilgrim chair hoax."

  “What was that?" Earl asked eagerly, slipping his arm around Jil in an attempt to make up—for what, he knew not.

  She sat stiffly but didn't shrug him off.

  “This al happened about twenty years ago and it was big news. Our forefathers and mothers didn't have dining sets—they were lucky to have a crude trestle table and a few stools; however there were exceptions. These few people, men, of course, had imposing throne like chairs with elaborately turned spindles at the back and below the rush seat. You can see the one said to have belonged to Elder Wil iam Brewster at the Pilgrim Hal down in Plymouth. Sometimes the chairs are cal ed `Brewster chairs,' and nobody had to remind you to sit up straight in one. It must have been pure torture for them, and perhaps why they always have such sour expressions in the paintings. Now, where was I? Oh yes, in the 1970s, a Rhode Island furniture restorer concocted one of these chairs and aged it by, among other things, putting it in a steel drum with a smoky fire to get the right patina, if that's the right word, on the wood. He then al owed the chair to surface on a porch here in Maine."

  “I do remember this story," Earl exclaimed. "Some museum bought it for a bundle, right? And now they have it on display as a fake next to one of the real ones."

  “Yes." Ursula nodded. "The hoax worked and the restorer always claimed it was not his intent to make money, merely to point out how easy it was to fool even the experts, and you can believe him or not." Ursula's stern expression made her own prejudice clear. "It's in the Ford Museum in Michigan. I don't know if it's next to a real one, but they do have it on display with a note tel ing the real story—that it was stil a tree in 1969.”

  Earl was off and running again. "Furniture can become an antique over night—a little ink spil ed in a drawer or table and chair legs rubbed with a brick on the bottoms to simulate wear. Old furniture isn't that difficult to duplicate for a master furniture builder. You can age wood by just throwing it into the woods for a winter, and period nails are available—people col ect those, too! But legitimate reproductions are marked as such, and they command a lot of money!"

  “Yet not as much as originals," Sam said.

  “There are stil bargains to be had," Jil asserted emphatical y.

  “I know"—Sam laughed—"just look at what my wife carts home!”

  Before they got back on the question of pie again Pix had noticed Sam's eye turning in that direction—she squeezed in her last question. "Who's doing the faking mostly, and what kind of crime is it?"

  “To answer your first question, we'd like to find out.

  Some of the rings have been broken up and they've included dealers, but it's also people who know nothing about antiques, except for the ones they're duplicating. It's a business to them, just not a legal one. Which answers the next part: Sel ing fakes is larceny. Transporting them across state lines is not a federal offense, however a phone cal to set up the transport is—fraud by wire—and we got some guys that way. I guess I get pretty worked up about the whole business, because people come to Maine trusting that they'l find some nice old things here and instead they get burned by a few selfish, crooked individuals. And we haven't even talked about al the traffic in stolen antiques!"

  “But we have talked enough about this business for one night. I for one want dessert." Jil jumped up and headed for the table with a seeming determination for pie that brooked no opposition.

  “Sure, honey, I want pie, too." Earl joined her and Pix could hear him asking, "Now what's going on? What did I ...

  " The rest of his remarks were inaudible, as was
Jil 's reply, but what al could see was that this time she did shake his arm away.

  Pix and her mother looked at each other. Ursula raised one eyebrow. Even Sam, normal y oblivious to the ins and outs of the relationships about him—his own was enough to keep track of—noticed and said, "I thought those two were an item. They don't seem very chummy tonight."

  “A lovers' quarrel—or more like a spat," Ursula said.

  “I expect they'l iron things out. You and Pix do.”

  “Oh, come on, Mother, Sam and I never fight.”

  “Then you probably should.”

  It was hard to get around Mother.

  With one accord, they al started walking toward the dessert table, discreetly waiting for Jil and Earl to get theirs and disappear in the darkness. At least, Pix thought Jil got a piece of pie. In the dim light, it was hard to see.

  “Did I hear you talking about antiques as I passed a while ago?" asked a voice at Pix's elbow. It was the Bainbridge's guest, Norman, and he was returning for seconds, or maybe thirds, judging from the crumbs that lingered on what Pix assumed was his normal y impeccable mouth.

  “I'm Norman Osgood, by the way. I came with Adelaide and Rebecca Bainbridge.”

  The Mil ers introduced themselves in turn and while doing so, Pix reflected that it was never Rebecca and Adelaide, always the other way around. Was it Pix and Sam Mil er? Or Sam and Pix? She thought they were getting roughly equal time.

  “We were talking about antiques, or rather, fake antiques."

  “Fakes. So unpleasant when one has been burned. I'm in the antique business myself and have been total y tricked on several occasions—once by a nice Russian lady from New Jersey who one would have sworn was directly related to the Romanovs, but in fact, al her trinkets might as wel have been prizes from a penny arcade. Has one of you come across such artifice lately?”

  Pix wondered whether it was her imagination at work again, but his query seemed to be couched in a rather probing tone. Why was he so interested? Merely because it was his business?

  “No—at least not to our knowledge," she added. "But al of us are interested in antiques and we like to know what to guard against."

  “Stick to reputable dealers and beware of bargains, that's my advice," Norman said.

  Pix thought of her quilt with a twinge. It was too gorgeous. It had to be real. The pile had been in a dusty corner with more than a few cobwebs, but the whole barn had been like that.

  “Of course, one does sometimes come across a steal.

  But that's pretty rare these days."

  “What kind of antiques do you sel ?" Pix asked. "Early American furniture, some European; paintings before 1900; and clocks. I adore clocks."

  “My mother was just tel ing us about the Pilgrim chair hoax. You must have heard about it."

  “Oh, indeed. Such a scandal. Now I must rejoin my lovely hostesses. I believe Adelaide is getting tired. It's been quite a day.”

  Pix watched his elegant back retreat into the darkness.

  Up close, she could see some extremely attractive muscles of the rippling variety under his thin silk shirt. The man kept himself in good shape. It was hard to say whether he knew the story of the hoax or not. A real dealer would, no doubt.

  And he was a real dealer, wasn't he?

  “It has been quite a day," Sam said contentedly, tucking into an enormous slab of strawberry-rhubarb pie. "I wouldn't miss this clambake for the world. Thank goodness we had a sensible jury."

  “Obviously, since they found in favor of your client.”

  “That's what sensible means—and they did it quickly.”

  Pix looked at her own pie. She real y wasn't hungry, but she began to eat it in a mechanical fashion that became less so as her taste buds awoke. It had been quite a day, and night. There had been that scene with the Athertons, then the talk with Earl and his tiff with Jil . She looked about the beach at the shadowy figures. Then there were al the things that might have gone on at the party that she didn't even know about.

  “Let's get Samantha and start packing up ourselves. I want to check on the dogs." Dusty, Artie, and Henry tended to run amok at gatherings like this and so had regretful y been left at home. "I don't know why having this much fun should be so tiring, but it is," she added.

  Sam nodded. "Something about the combination of sand, sun, and beer, I think. Where is Samantha, by the way?"

  “I saw her with a group of kids by the bonfire a while ago. She was eating her lobster. I think I can stil make her out. They're al singing old Everly Brothers songs with John Eggleston. That man has talents we've never suspected."

  “I'l make them sing À Real Nice Clambake.' Louise always likes that. I think that Carousel was the sum total of her knowledge about Maine before she arrived here. It must have been a shock to find out that bait smel ed and people didn't dance on the wharf.”

  Sam went off down the beach in the direction of the fire and Pix started to assemble the stuff they'd brought. She knew the Fraziers hired some of the local kids to help clean up each year, so she didn't feel she had to stay any longer.

  Ursula cal ed out to her as she was making the first trip to the car.

  “Pix, are you leaving? May I beg a ride? Then I won't have to trouble the Moores"

  “Of course you can have a ride. I was planning to look for you. Sam is getting Samantha and they'l start back in his car." As she spoke, husband and daughter came up the path with the rest of the Mil ers' belongings. Sam's song suggestion had been successful and he was singing along from afar: "The vittles we et were good, you bet! The company was the same." His energetic performance contrasted with his daughter's lagging footsteps. She wasn't joining in, not even at her favorite part: "Fitten fer an angel's choir!" Pix was immediately concerned.

  “Samantha, are you al right? You look a little wan. I hope you haven't picked up something from one of the campers, al those smal children just loaded with germs.”

  Samantha was quick to squelch any notions her mother might have of bed rest and herb tea.

  “Mother! I'm fine. There's absolutely nothing wrong No bugs, no microbes of any sort whatsoever.”

  But she wasn't fine. Duncan's words continued to haunt her. She hadn't seen him come back to the bead and would be happy never to see him again. She needed to talk to Arlene. If she wasn't home, she might be a Fred's house.

  The last thing Samantha wanted was he mother's eagle eye on her. She'd made plans for the evening while she sat staring into the flames of the bon fire, listening to everybody sing. Samantha didn't wan to be watched at al .

  Ursula came straight to the point as usual. "What an you up to, darling? Al those questions to Earl about phony antiques. And Mitch sold antiques, among hi other trades.

  You're trying to find the answer to his murder, aren't you?”

  It was the time-honored parental ploy for asking questions—trapping one's offspring in the car. Short o turning the wheel over to her mother and walking home there was no way for Pix to escape.

  “Don't be ridiculous," she lied. "I'm just interested the antiques business. You yourself said it was al àmazing,' if I recal correctly."

  “Hmmmm," her mother replied, which left the conversation hanging until Pix could stand it no longer am started talking again—another trick, and one Pix herself had used occasional y to her advantage with her own children.

  “Anyway, I don't see how asking a few questions that may or may not relate to Mitchel Pierce's death can hurt anything."

  “But it can hurt something—you, or dear Samantha or Sam. We have al assumed the person who did this left the island after the terrible deed, yet it may not be so. I think you need to exercise some caution."

  “Stop worrying, Mother. I'm not going to do anything foolish."

  “I believe I've heard that before.”

  Mother could, in fact, be very irritating. Pix saw her into the house, kissed her good night, and then took great pleasure in driving as fast as she dared up and down the h
il s across the island to her own cottage.

  Sam was groggily reading the latest issue of The Island Crier by an unlighted hearth.

  “Honey," Pix asked immediately, "why don't you go up to bed? And where's Samantha? In her room?"

  “Arlene and that pimply-faced boyfriend of hers came to get her for some kind of bonfire at his parents' camp.

  You know, where the Ames' are—down near the bridge.

  Bert Ames is taking everyone in turns in his outboard to look at the underneath of the bridge by moonlight, al very safe and sound. I said yes and reminded her when curfew rang.”

  Sam was feeling mel ow and happy. Pix hated to destroy his mood. She ventured a tentative, "But Samantha did seem tired .. "

  “So she'l go to bed early tomorrow night or the night after. Besides, my little chickadee, this gives us a few precious moments alone, a rare thing, you may recal , these last twenty-plus years”

  There was something to what the man said. Samantha was young and healthy. And so were her parents.

  An hour later, Pix was stretched out next to her sleeping husband. The only sounds she could hear were his heavy breathing, the soft wind in the trees, a far-off bul frog, and her own heart pounding insistently in her ears as she lay in bed wide awake.

  Samantha Mil er was not at Fred Ames's parents'

  camp. Neither was Arlene or Fred himself. They had put in a brief appearance for appearance's sake—not long enough for a boat ride, to Samantha's regret. She loved seeing the long arch spanning the Reach from al vantage points, especial y gliding underneath through the water, looking straight up. The bridge—Sanpere's connection to the mainland. To the outside world. There were stil some people on the island who wished it had never been built and blamed it for everything from teenage rowdiness to the increase in traffic on Route 17.

  “I can't believe he actual y said that!" Arlene was nestled close to Fred in the front of his pickup. Like his nestled close to Fred in the front of his pickup. Like his father, Fred planned to be a fisherman as soon as he graduated from high school next June. Also like his father, he planned to marry his high school sweetheart shortly thereafter. Things looked good. He and Arlene had been king and queen of the junior prom, which virtual y ensured a long and happy life together, Fred believed. If she stil wanted to go to col ege, fine. He didn't care just so long as she went as Mrs. Fred Ames.