“Perhaps he thought, given his gambling problem, that he should do you a favor?”
“There you go again, patronizing me,” she said. “He was a rat.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry. He pulled the wool over my eyes, too, in a different way of course.”
“He convinced you it was the real deal?” she said. “That desk thing?”
“Writing cabinet,” I said. “Why does everybody have so much trouble with the name? Come on, let’s get out of here. The police have been all through the place. There is no stash of cash here.”
“If it is, I can’t find it,” she said. “But if not here, where?”
“I’m trying to tell you there may not be any.”
“There is,” she insisted.
“Look, Blair Baldwin claims to have paid eight hundred thousand dollars for the writing cabinet. The police say that’s pretty much what Trevor owed his bookie. He took the cash, paid the bookie, and that’s it. If he was leaving, he was leaving broke.”
“I don’t believe it,” she said. “We only have Baldwin’s word for the eight hundred thousand. What if he paid more than that? A lot more than that?”
“Possible,” I said.
“Exactly. That thing, the writing cabinet, was worth more than eight hundred grand, wasn’t it? I mean if it had been real?”
“Yes.”
“So where’s the rest of the money?”
“But Baldwin said…”
“He’s an axe murderer,” she interrupted. “Why would we believe him?”
“Good point. We don’t know he’s the murderer for sure, and I rather think maybe he isn’t. However, I’ve been thinking… Could we discuss this upstairs? This place is creeping me out. In fact, could we discuss this at the all-night coffee shop down the street?”
“What have you been thinking?”
“I’ll tell you when we are out of here. How did you get in?”
“Key,” she said. “If it weren’t for that yellow police stuff across the door, it would almost be legal.”
“Almost,” I agreed, as we locked up the store and headed back to the street.
With a couple of decaf cappuccinos in front of us, we went back to our chat. “I’ve had the feeling, and I may be rationalizing, that there were two writing cabinets,” I said.
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“There was a real Mackintosh writing cabinet, shown to me and to Baldwin. And there was another one, a forgery that was delivered to Baldwin, the one he chopped up at the party.”
“So we’re looking not for money, but for a second writing cabinet?” she said. “I’m still not getting this.”
“Maybe Trevor sold the Mackintosh twice,” I said. “Maybe he showed the real one to two different people, sold it to both of them, and shipped the fake to Baldwin, and the real one to someone else.”
“Like who?” she said.
“I don’t know. I realize thinking that there is someone out there forging Charles Rennie Mackintosh furniture is a little far-fetched, but no more so than a huge amount of cash hidden in the basement.” The person who was most likely to have the cabinet was, of course, Desmond Crane. I’d been to Crane’s home several times lately and hadn’t seen it, but then it would be rather foolish of him to have it on display while I was present.
“And the reason you think there were two is?”
“Percy was convinced it was real. I’m not the only one who thought so.”
“Who is Percy?”
“Percy’s grandmother once owned the cabinet. Percy or Arthur, that is.”
“Who is Arthur?”
“He’s Percy. He told me his name was Percy and he told Rendall at the Stane his name was Arthur.”
“Two different names? He sounds about as reliable as an axe murderer,” she said. “Wouldn’t it be difficult to make an exact copy? Wouldn’t you have to completely dismantle the original in order to do so?”
“Very difficult, but a lot easier if you had the complete drawings and specifications, which Trevor did, and if you’d seen the original, also possible in this case. That and a few photographs, and some paint chips that matched and you’d be away. The color wouldn’t have to be absolutely exact anyway, because you would never see the two pieces together.”
“I knew it!” she said. “There is money somewhere. Lots of it.”
“It isn’t in the shop. As my partner the RCMP officer has pointed out, that kind of cash takes up a fair amount of space. And for sure it isn’t in Trevor’s bank account. I think it was irresponsible of him to not have a will, but I know the landlord, and he’s told me he is going to auction off Trevor’s merchandise for back payment of rent as soon as the police and the courts will let him.”
“I lent Trevor rent money from time to time,” she said. “Quite often, now that I think about it. The creep owes me quite a fair chunk of cash, and I’d like it back. No chance of that, I guess. I have no record of it. I mean we practically lived together. Why would I ask him for a receipt? I tried approaching the lawyer the court appointed, but it doesn’t look good. He went on about when people die without a will, the money would go first to a spouse, and if there isn’t one, and I guess I don’t qualify, then they look down first, by which I think he meant children, then up to parents, and then out almost indefinitely to relatives, you know siblings, then cousins.”
“Did Trevor have siblings or close relatives?”
“He’s never mentioned any, but they’ll probably come up with somebody. Still, I figured I was played for a fool, and at the very least, I’d like my money back. I suppose I could plead my case with whomever they find out there to give the money to. I mean you never know: unlikely as it is, I might find a decent human being. That would make them quite unlike Trevor. So I’m thinking if I find the money it would make my life simpler.”
“If you found the money, you’d have to turn it over to the police,” I said.
“I know, but it might be about ten thousand short when I did,” she said. “I was saving that money for a down payment on a house. You probably think that’s terrible of me to even contemplate keeping some of it.”
“No. If I could find some way of salvaging my reputation as an antique dealer at the expense of Trevor, I’d do it in a flash.”
She smiled at last. “He had a way with women, didn’t he? I thought he looked and sounded a little like Sean Connery.”
“I did, too. I think that’s why I let him get away with stuff.”
“Like what?”
“Stealing good customers right from under my nose.”
“Do you have a card?” she asked. “I’d like to stay in touch if I may.”
“Of course. Give me yours as well. Is your name really Willow by the way?”
“Yes, it is. I don’t have a card,” she said. “I’m a dental hygienist. You don’t need a card for that. But I’ll give you my number. I’m thinking we might collaborate.”
“On what?”
“Salvaging your reputation and recovering my cash. I figure there would have to be at least a reward for its return, don’t you? Where do we start?”
“I wouldn’t mind a chance to visit Scotland, to go to John A. Macdonald Antiques on George Square in Glasgow and see what they have to say for themselves. Maybe even go to Orkney. You can’t generalize, of course, but if a piece of furniture is forged, it does tend to have been in the country of origin of the authentic piece. I’ll be in the general area anyway, so maybe I’ll just pop up there and talk to them.”
The tiny part of my rational brain that was still functioning, the part that had been banished to a position floating somewhere near the unpleasantly bright neon light fixture in that coffee shop, looked down on two sadly deluded, if not delusional, women and wept.
Chapter 4