The Wrong Stuff

by Sharon Fiffer

  “This is it, my work, my life, my heart,” she said.

  “Wow, all that in less than twenty pages?” asked Tim. “You are one hell of a concise writer, Martine. Been studying poetry with Silver?”

  Martine was a woman who had been withering people with a glance for years, and she was used to being able to do so at will. She narrowed her eyes into slits and directed all of her goddess/life coach/aquarian/new age/crone/coven power directly at him, but quickly found that it all bounced off his invisible, who-gives-a-shit protective shield.

  Martine had met her match with Tim. He was the most unwitherable person Jane had ever met, and she had spent several years in advertising. She had worked with actors and models and clients who could buy and sell her. Yet each and every one of them were the potential victims of their egos. Jane knew that if you attack the ego in just the right way, you can start a hairline crack that can become the Grand Canyon, splitting someone in two. Jane had seen many a client brought to his knees by a supermodel, many a supermodel brought to her knees by an actor, and many an actor brought to his/her knees by a less-than-enthusiastic response to a performance. She had never seen Tim Lowry brought to his knees by anyone.

  Jane watched Martine gather herself and prepare to hurl another thunderbolt at Tim. She half wanted to tell her to save her energy because Tim could not be cracked, at least not by Martine. And she half wanted to see Martine hurl herself at the brick wall of Tim’s confidence just for the sheer spectacle. Neither half engaged her quite enough.

  “I’d like to speak to Mr. Kuruma for a moment, if you would excuse us,” said Martine, wisely choosing frosty behavior over the wasted energy of taking on Tim.

  “Nope,” said Tim.

  “Pardonnez moi?” said Martine, reminding Jane of some actress. When Jane realized that the actress was actually the muppet Miss Piggy, she laughed out loud.

  Was it just twenty-four hours ago that they had sat mourning Rick Moore? More precisely, was it just twenty-four hours ago when they had sat drinking and listening to Martine talk about the concept of mourning Rick Moore?

  What a difference a day makes, Jane thought, taking out the printouts that Oh had given her earlier. She skimmed the stories of the Brewster chair from two different perspectives. One article was an interview with the artist, Armand LaMontagne. In it, he seemed to want to talk about his current sculpture but was unable to totally divorce himself from the Great Bewster Chair Hoax. Even though the story had broken over twenty years ago, LaMontagne was still asked about it all the time.

  Tim had told the story pretty well. There were a few more interesting details here. He had made the chair out of green wood so that as it dried, it would warp and shrink, mimicking the natural aging process of a real Great Brewster aging over time. He’d swabbed the joints of the chair with a homemade blend of glue, hair, and dirt. He’d even dreamed up a three-hundred-year history for the chair, taking out one of the chair rungs because he imagined one owner liked to lean back and put his feet up.

  The other printout that Oh had given her was an article by a professor on noteworthy hoaxes and forgeries. This author was far more damning of those who dared to fool the experts than the writer who had interviewed LaMontagne. Jane understood his point of view, since most of the forgeries and fakes had been fabricated for profit. But the Great Brewster Hoax was innocent enough, wasn’t it? Jane might have been less admiring herself if LaMontagne had been out for a buck, but he just wanted to make a point.

  The professor who authored this paper, though, thought it was reprehensible for an artist to devote that much time and energy and craft for deception. He maintained that the artist’s gratification in fooling the experts and destroying at least one curator’s career without committing any crime that could be proven in a court of law must have been pretty thin satisfaction. Jane wondered if perhaps the author of this paper was a museum curator himself.

  What had Charley said his speech was about? Hoaxes. The phone kept cutting out, but she had heard the term hoaxes; and this paper mentioned, in addition to the Brewster hoax, antique document forgery and paleontological hoaxes. Teams on digs salted the sites of their rivals with fake fossils. At best, it sent one team down the wrong path and slowed them down in their findings. At worst, it tricked a professor or scientist into publishing something that would ruin his or her career. Not necessarily illegal, but certainly not harmless either.

  Tim handed Jane a glass of orange juice, and she eyed it carefully.

  “What?” Tim asked, laughing. “What?”

  Jane sniffed and sipped the tiniest taste. It was, after all, Tim who just yesterday had handed her iced water with olives. She shuddered thinking about it, drinking the juice and being thankful that Tim didn’t like to repeat himself.

  Okay, here was a profile of a prankster. Tim liked to play a trick or two, like changing the ring on her phone. What was the harm in that? It was all just for fun, to get a laugh. So what was the harm in any of that? Laughter was good. But there was a problem, too. When that laughter came as a result of embarrassing someone else, it no longer was innocent. There was harm done. Or at least, there was the potential for harm to be done.

  Blake was sitting near the fireplace to the left of Murkel, holding a brandy snifter, half full. That was Blake’s glass, never half empty. Rich, handsome, talented, it probably should have been enough for him. Blake’s glass was more than half full.

  Jane wondered how long he had been crafting these fake antiques? Had he read the book on Mathew Westman and decided that a Sunflower Chest would be the perfect project. How long had he been banging up those tables and chairs and sending them out on the back of flatbed trucks to swap meets? It would be like starting Internet jokes and chain letters, measuring the time it took for whatever he’d started to come back to him. How did he keep score? And who knew? Had Rick Moore worked on these pieces with Blake and gotten greedy? Had he decided there was a profit in these deceptions? Or had Rick Moore been fooled by Blake’s work, then embarrassed? Disappointed?

  Or even more dangerous, had Rick Moore been worried for his mentor? Had he thought Blake was about to be exposed, and had Rick decided that he had to protect Blake? Jane was fascinated, watching Blake. He was playing with a cigar and lighter. No one, not even Blake, smoked indoors here; but Blake seemed to be toying with the Cuban and vintage Zippo. He was flipping things back and forth, almost juggling them, along with his drink.

  “Ah,” said Jane aloud. Bruce Oh had pulled up a chair next to her and waited for her to explain what she had figured out.

  “He’s ambidexterous,” said Jane.

  Oh followed her look and saw that Blake had gotten out a pocket knife with several tools attached to it. He had flipped out the scissors and was snipping off the end of the cigar using his left hand. He then picked up his brandy with his right hand and drained the glass.

  “That explains the carving on the chest, anyway,” said Jane, “even though there are plenty more things left to explain.”

  Murkel cleared his throat and, uncharacteristically, the room fell silent. Jane had been correct last night at dinner when she’d noticed some shakiness on the part of the residents. These were people who ordinarily wouldn’t give a police officer the time of day, but enough events had unfolded here at Campbell and LaSalle that each of them seemed to be paying this visitor from the outside world a bit more attention than they had yesterday.

  “Our interviews are now concluded here, and except for some moonlight madness, everyone has been most cooperative,” said Murkel. Jane sat up a little straighter and waited for Murkel, to whom she had given her notebook, to point his finger at Blake and ask him what exactly had been going on here at Campbell and LaSalle. But Murkel was not pointing a finger, he was shaking hands with Blake, thanking him for laying the compound open to him and his people. The investigation seemed to support the preliminary findings of accidental death for Rick Moore. Then Murkel, who Jane was beginning to see had a wicked flair for the dramati
c, repeated the word “seemed” and looked over at Jane.

  “Seemed to be supported until Mrs. Wheel took on the case,” Murkel said.

  “What?” said Jane, thinking to herself at first that it seemed pretty loud for a silent self-directed question, then realizing it hadn’t been silent. She also wondered just what kind of information googling her, or whatever Murkel had done, had produced. “Took on the case?” What had Oh said about her on his police reports?

  Imagine that, Jane did say to herself, I managed to get all eyes on me even without my cell phone ringing.

  “Yes, Mrs. Wheel?” asked Murkel. “Did you have a question?”

  “Yes,” Jane said, “I do have a question.”

  Jane stood up and surveyed the room. “Well, it’s actually more of a comment,” she said, clearing her throat. “I don’t see how Rick Moore’s death could have been accidental. He hadn’t been working with chemicals, and if he were really trying to end it all, surely he wouldn’t have chosen a stream with only…”

  “How do you know Rick wasn’t working with chemicals?” asked Annie.

  “Tim and I had gone into the barn before I found him. There weren’t any jars or cans opened. There weren’t any projects on the floor. There was a row of solvents and a fan below the gallery loft, where I believe he had been sitting with a book,” Jane said, making a mental note to take his Birkenstocks out of her closet where she had stashed them.

  “Mrs. Wheel, I’m sure you’re an observant woman, but you and Mr. Lowry probably didn’t go into the mixing room, next to the office. Rick told me he was going to work there that afternoon,” said Glen.

  This was getting exciting. Maybe this is how The Mousetrap ends? thought Jane.

  “You really think he was overcome, Glen?” asked Blake. “Rick knew better than that….”

  The look Glen LaSalle shot Blake Campbell vibrated in its intensity. Blake seemed not to notice, but Murkel and everyone else in the room felt the reverberation.

  “I mean if anybody understood the safety procedures, it was Rick,” said Blake, totally oblivious.

  “Mr. LaSalle, didn’t you say at dinner that you thought Rick committed suicide?” asked Oh.

  “I said it was a possibility, but…,” Glen began, but was interrupted by Blake.

  “That doesn’t make sense either, Glen. Rick was a sonofabitch, but he wasn’t stupid,” said Blake.

  “Christ, Blake, shut the hell up,” said Glen.

  By this time, the residents of Campbell and LaSalle were dumbstruck. No one had heard these two raise their voices above a murmur for twenty years, and now they were publicly squabbling in front of guests and the local police. “We at Campbell and LaSalle”—the whole lot of we—were shocked.

  “But, Glen…”

  “I’m trying to save your ass, you idiot. You and your damn tribute pieces. I told you this would ruin us, but no, you wouldn’t listen. You were just having a bit of fun with it, proving your genius and all,” said Glen. “You arrogant ass-hole! Are you satisfied now?”

  Not only was Blake unsatisfied; he seemed totally clueless. “Are you talking about my fakes?” he asked. “Oh, Glen, no one cares about those. Just hobbies, right, Officer Murkel?”

  Glen looked like someone had bashed him in the face with a hand-turned, green-ash spindle. What was Blake doing talking to the policeman about this?

  Murkel held up his hand and asked that everyone calm down for a moment.

  “Mr. Campbell explained his copies of fine antiques, and he showed us his storage area earlier today. Nothing illegal going on that I can see, although I guess I’d be pretty mad if I was one of those dealers who thought I had a real one on my hands.”

  Blake smiled and nodded at Murkel. The sight of that, the two of them grinning at each other, seemed to cause something in Glen LaSalle to explode.

  “You dumb fuck! I’m trying to save your life here!” Glen shouted. Roxanne had stood up and motioned to Annie, and the two of them were trying to get Glen to sit down, but he would have none of it. “That ungrateful little shit, Rick Moore, was blackmailing you—I saw the letters. Do you really think you’re above the law? Just because this guy hasn’t put two and two together yet doesn’t mean he won’t.”

  “I’m thinking with that mouth he might not be guesting on the Antiques Roadshow next season,” whispered Tim. “Can you imagine if he disagreed with one of the Keno brothers?”

  Jane looked down at the objects removed from her purse—her own feng shui compass or map. Then she looked around the room. Everything had clicked into place. She knew Blake had been making the masterful copies of museum-quality furniture, then banging them up, aging them to have a little fun with dealers who thought they had found the treasure of a lifetime. And now she knew who had killed Rick Moore. If she could get Glen LaSalle to shut up for a minute before he got himself arrested for murdering Blake Campbell in front of several interested witnesses, she could end this high drama. She caught Oh’s eye, and he seemed to be giving her an encouraging look. Either that, or a discouraging look. She made a mental note to ask him later how she was supposed to read his expressions to know what to do and when—that is, if they were going to be partners.

  “I think I can answer some…,” Jane began, then realized no one was listening to her. Glen was shouting. Roxanne was trying to get him to drink a glass of water. Scott was pouring mimosas all around. Annie was looking through her purse, claiming to have some St. John’s Wort to give Glen. Mickey looked like he wanted to make a break for the door and head right up a tree, and Martine was trying to lead everyone in a series of deep breaths. Only Silver seemed not to notice what was going on. He had found a whole tray of untouched chocolate pots du crème on the dining room table and was knocking them back like Jell-O shots, lined up on a campus bar.

  Jane climbed up on the seat of her chair and gave an ear-splitting whistle. Somehow she was certain that she had veered away from The Mousetrap. Agatha Christie would never have made Poirot or Miss Marple climb on top of a vintage Stickley chair to get the crowd’s attention.

  “I know what happened,” Jane said, “and if you’ll give me your attention, I’ll tell the rest of you.”

  Glen stopped sputtering, and Jane took advantage of the lull.

  “Blake Campbell crafted what might be taken for a Westman chest, a priceless antique,” she began, and Blake nodded, almost as if he were taking a bow. “And although he usually made his simpler fake antiques here and allowed them to be carted off by junk dealers to be sold at flea markets, then possibly make their way back for restoration, he wanted a better showcase for the fake Westman,” Jane said.

  Jane reached into her right pocket and pulled out her small notebook, flipped to a page and nodded, and looked to Blake.

  “Was McDougal your uncle?”

  Blake nodded. “Uncle Mac. I was his only relative.”

  “Blake hired a company to dispose of his uncle’s estate by having a sale, but before they came on the scene, he split his Westman fake in two and planted the pieces among his uncle’s belongings. He buried the bottom half of the chest in the basement under tools and boxes, so when someone spotted it, it was unpriced. He insisted that it be given away so no one could accuse him of taking any money for it.

  “The dealer who discovered it, Claire Oh, brought it here for restoration and authentication, and checked it in with Glen LaSalle, then discussed it with Rick Moore,” said Jane, gesturing to Claire who was sitting next to Tim, devouring a scone. “He started to research it, and in snooping around found the evidence that Blake had made it in his private shop….”

  Blake held up a hand. “Very good, Mrs. Wheel, but one thing. Rick knew it was made here; he helped with it. I just don’t think he liked the game. He felt that there was money to be made. He wanted to sell the Westman as a real Westman, you see, and…”

  “That’s why Rick switched drawers, right? To make Claire Oh’s Westman an obvious fake when it was returned, so it couldn’t be sold a
s the real deal?” Jane asked.

  Blake nodded. “This was a long project, and Rick had become a real Westman carver. He could do the sunflowers in his sleep, but he could do the faces and all the other motifs, too. He had built his own Westman chest. I never dreamed he’d try to sell it as a real one…when I saw what he was up to, I got mine out. Whether it was considered a fake or a genuine one, it would muddy the waters for anything Rick tried to do.”

  Jane looked over at Claire. “That’s what puzzled you, right? It seemed so authentic when you first found it, then, when you saw the drawers Rick had put in, so obviously fake, you couldn’t figure out why you had been so sure in the first place?” Claire nodded and Jane continued.

  “Rick realized that he had to stop any talk about a fake Westman on the market if he wanted to pass off the one he had made as real and drive up the auction price. He went into Chicago to silence Claire Oh and maybe even reclaim the chest. He probably figured she’d have it at the antique mall and he could steal it back or destroy it. Instead he found Horace Cutler, whom he realized also knew about it. That’s why he killed Horace.”

  “So he really did that,” said Blake. “I didn’t want to believe it.”

  “Yes, you arrogant dumb ass, and he had a letter from you offering him money to do it,” said Glen.

  Blake, finally, was speechless. He had no answer for that. Roxanne left Glen to go minister to Blake, but he shook his head at her offer of a glass of water.

  “That’s what you mean about him blackmailing me?” said Blake, finally. “You didn’t mean about the Westman; you meant about the murder?”

  Glen didn’t even dignify the question with a reply. He actually looked relieved that he didn’t have to shout in Blake Campbell’s ear anymore. When Blake realized that his silence looked like he was agreeing that he had hired Rick to commit murder, he stood up.

  “No, I didn’t do that. I didn’t ask Rick to do anything of the sort.”

  “I saw the letter, dear,” Roxanne said, trying to pat his shoulder as he strode away from her. “I didn’t believe it at first, but Rick insisted. He said some ugly things about what he’d do to you, to this place…”