The vase, I decided, would sell. I thought I’d try a price of $150—the drawing was exquisite, and it would make a very unusual decorative item for someone. I found a good place for it on a coffee table, where it could be seen all round for maximum effect, and propped the card, with my handwritten translation, against it. The peanut I decided to keep, to clean it up and thread it onto a very fine silver chain I had, to wear around my neck as a reminder of my impulsiveness. Perhaps next time I went to an auction, I should wear it, I thought. On a more positive note, it would make a very interesting piece of jewelry, a bit of a conversation piece.
The snuff bottle? I would have to decide what to do with that.
As I put the box away, I caught a glimpse of a piece of paper wedged between the packing material and the side of the box. I carefully extracted it and found a letter, written by an Edmund Edwards, proprietor of something called Ancient Ways in New York, to a gallery in Toronto I’d not heard of, although that didn’t mean anything. Toronto is a big place. It was called the Smythson Gallery, and the proprietor according to this letter was someone called, appropriately enough, A. J. Smythson. The letter was all very formal, befitting a gallery that had affiliates in London, Tokyo, Bonn, and Paris, as the letterhead discreetly informed you. Mr. Edwards sent his regards to Mr. Smythson, said that he hoped the merchandise had arrived in good order, and that, since many other objects were available, he also hoped to be of service in the future. The letter was dated just over two years earlier. On a whim, I looked up the Smythson Gallery in the phone book, but it wasn’t listed, nor was there an A. J. Smythson, although there was something familiar about the name, and the rather unusual spelling. Perhaps the gallery had closed, which would explain why the box was never picked up in customs. In any event, I decided, it was really no affair of mine, so I tossed the letter into the wastebasket.
The next few days more or less went back to normal, except for two things. One was that the security alarm took to going off in the middle of the night for no apparent reason. On two separate nights, and twice on one of them, I had to pull on jeans and a sweatshirt, and drive to the shop to meet the police. Neither time was there any indication of anything unusual. The following night, the alarm went off only once, but this time the policeman told me I’d be sent a bill for his services because there’d been one too many false alarms. I had the security company come to check out the system, but they told me it was operating just fine.
The other aspect of the week that made it a bit different from the norm was that I spent every spare minute dreaming up horrible things to do to Clive. These ranged from taking a hammer and smashing his beloved little jade bottle to powder right before his eyes, heaving a rock or two through his sophisticated front window display, or spray-painting his Armani suit. I did none of the things I imagined, of course.
Well, one: I called the police and had his spanking new BMW, which he persisted in parking illegally, towed. It was particularly satisfying to watch him sprinting down the street in a futile attempt to catch up to his car. It’s amazing, really, the depths to which we sink in dealing with an ex-spouse.
The trouble with this small victory, of course, was that while at the time it struck me as a masterful stroke, it merely escalated the conflict. He’d taken the goblets, I’d taken his snuff bottle. At that point we were more or less even. But I couldn’t let it alone, I was still so angry. In my heart I knew, of course, that there must still be something unresolved in that relationship, even though a few years and another love had gone by. It didn’t take a psychiatrist to figure that one out. But I kept going anyway, as petty as I knew it to be. And knowing only too well just how immature Clive was, I knew he’d figure out who had the car towed and would find a way to retaliate.
I didn’t have long to wait.
A few days after the car incident, Clive swept into the store. “Just coming to say hello to my neighbors,” he said. “The place looks very nice, Lara. And this must be your new partner. Sarah, is it?”‘ he said in his most charming voice.
Sarah murmured something polite, then disappeared in the back, wisely not wishing to be part of this little scene. I smiled weakly, then went to assist a customer in the second showroom. I heard Clive wandering around in the front room. In a few moments I heard him talking to an old customer of ours. “George!” he exclaimed. “How nice to see you again. Still collecting New World santos?” he asked. I heard George murmur a reply. “I have one you really must see, quite exceptional,” Clive went on. There was a pause. “Right across the road, George.” I could picture Clive pointing across the road, and I excused myself for a moment from my customer. But it was too late. Clive, his arm on the shoulder of one of our oldest clients, was steering him over to his shop. He’d stolen a good customer right from under my nose.
It was not until the next day that I noticed that the silver peanut was missing. I’d been working on it a bit in the shop, and I thought I’d left it either on the desk in the little office or in the small drawer behind the front counter. But it was in neither place and a search of the whole shop turned up nothing. There was, in my mind, only one possible explanation. I marched across the street.
“I didn’t think you’d stoop so low as to steal something, Clive,” I huffed. “An auction is one thing, but this petty theft—”
“What are you talking about, Lara?” Clive replied. “Surely taking a customer away is not theft. Why don’t we call it healthy competition?”
“I’m not talking about George. I’m talking about the peanut,” I replied, knowing as the words came out of my mouth that I sounded like an idiot.
“The peanut,” Clive sighed. “My God, Lara, you really are losing it. Take a vacation or a Valium or something. There’s nothing wrong with my setting up shop across the street. Why do you think the big shopping malls have competitors at either end? Why are whole streets lined with stores selling the same kind of merchandise? Because it’s good business, that’s why. With you and I both here, this could end up being the antiques center of the city. There’s business enough for both of us. So please stop this nonsense about peanuts!”
I just looked at him. “Come on,” he wheedled. “Let’s kiss and make up. Or shake hands at least. We were a good team once, weren’t we? We’re even on the auction, and I’ll forgive what you did to my car, if you’ll forgive the abduction of George.” He held out his hand. After a second or two, somewhat reluctantly, I took it.
“Welcome back to the neighborhood, Clive,” I said.
“That’s better,” he said. I mentally pictured myself spray-painting his lovely beige suit purple. It helped a lot.
There didn’t seem to be any more to be said, and so I turned to go. “I don’t suppose you’d sell me the snuff bottle?” he said.
“Sure,” I replied. “Eleven hundred dollars.”
He laughed. “Three,” he said to my retreating back. I kept going.
“Okay, okay,” he called after me as I crossed the street. “Four hundred, make that four fifty if you’ll throw in the rest of the stuff in the box.”
I ignored him.
The next few days were quiet, if you don’t count the arrival at our front door of the resident nutbar with his news of impending doom. In fact, his presence made the store so quiet that Sarah decided to take a few days vacation, right in the middle of tourist season, leaving the shop to the care of Alex and me. I heard nothing more from Clive. I still didn’t trust him, in fact I never would, but so far the cease-fire seemed to be holding. There was no sign of the peanut. Alex and I both looked for it, and I still was not entirely convinced Clive hadn’t taken it, holding it hostage for the snuff bottle or something. But Clive said no more on that subject, and finally I had to conclude it had been stolen. Shoplifting is a disagreeable fact of life when you own a store, and the peanut would be very easy to snatch, particularly if I had been careless enough to leave it out on the counter, which I supposed I must have done. Just in case, though, I took the little gold and turquoise ear ornament home with me while I decided what to do with it.