“Stanfield Roberts was drooling. I’m thinking Lara doesn’t make a lot of bad calls, except perhaps divorcing me. I’d just like to see the wood for myself.” Considering Clive stood to lose as much as I did if our customers were put off by Baldwin’s accusation, I thought this comment was very generous of him.
“Do you think Baldwin destroyed the real deal thinking it was a fake?” Rob said. “That would be a bad mistake to make, wouldn’t it? I mean, I don’t know anything about antique furniture, but it looked good to me.”
“It was a beautiful piece of furniture, and even if it was a fake. Blair shouldn’t have done that. And if it was real Charles Rennie Mackintosh, he should be charged with something for destroying it, shouldn’t he?” Moira asked. She directed her question to Rob, who as a Mountie is supposed to know this kind of thing.
“I’m not sure,” Rob said. “He owned it, and I don’t know of any heritage legislation that would protect it under the circumstances. He sure could be made a fool of, though, and Lara would be exonerated. We would make certain of that. But is that what you’re saying, Clive?”
“I don’t know what I’m saying,” Clive said. “I guess I’m thinking maybe we were a little hasty in dragging Lara out of there before she could get a closer look. I’d just like to see a piece of that thing for myself.”
I decided that it was still a good idea to have a look at a piece of wood, which is why I found myself early the next morning hiding out in a hole in the cedar hedge surrounding Blair Baldwin’s home. I’d been there when Baldwin had chosen one of his six cars for the day. He had this turntable device in his huge garage, so that he pressed a button until the right car was facing out. It made me think of an aircraft carrier, and I can’t even imagine how much this all cost. In any event, he’d chosen a silver Porsche and driven off in a spray of gravel. A few minutes later the maid had swept the patio where large chunks of furniture had been tossed the previous night. They weren’t there now. The yard was the picture of good gardening practice. There wasn’t a blade of grass out of place, and just about no chance the gardener had missed a piece of furniture.
There was, however, a large dumpster at the back, and I was formulating a plan that entailed a dash across the yard, or perhaps a dodge up from the laneway behind, followed by an athletic scaling of the dumpster, whereupon I would find a piece of writing cabinet right on top and make my getaway. It was a ridiculous idea, I know, and I felt like a complete idiot hunched over in the hedge. I also had no idea what I would say if someone in the house saw me and called the police.
While I stood there gamely trying to convince myself I could do this, a large disposal truck came up the drive, picked up the dumpster, and emptied it into the back. I heard the compactor come on, and despaired. Trevor’s writing cabinet might or might not be a fake. I would never know. I could have cried. Instead, I stood there, crouched over in the branches, watching as the dumpster backed down the drive.
And then there it was: a chunk of wood, thrown free, perhaps as the dumpster had been tipped. I crashed through the hedge, sprinted to the driveway, grabbed the wood and within minutes was coming through the back door to McClintoch Swain.
“Is that new perfume? You smell like a Christmas tree,” Clive said. “And did you know you have scratches on your face?”
“Writing cabinet,” I said, holding my treasure aloft.
“Well done!” he said. “A good-sized piece, too, with the lock, no less. Turn on that light!”
“Mahogany,” I said.
“Yes,” he agreed. “Old wood. Beautiful finish. All hand work. Rather well done.”
“Yes. Master craftsman, for sure.”
“Too bad about that lock,” he said.
“It is,” I agreed.
“When do you figure it was manufactured? Maybe fifteen minutes ago?”
“Something like that.” I was trying to keep my tone light, but in truth I was absolutely mortified.
“Amazed you’d not see that,” he said. “You must have been feeling really pressured by Blair Bazillionaire, or was it charmed by Trevor the Rogue?”
“I checked the lock,” I replied. “I don’t know how I missed it.”
Clive was silent for a moment. “It’s okay,” he said finally, patting my shoulder. “We’ll survive.”
I really hate it when Clive is nice to me, and the only person I could think to take it out on was Trevor, who surely deserved it. “Trevor had lots of time to look at the lock. I’m going to take this over to Scot Free for a little chat.”
“Are you going to hit him with it?”
“Maybe. After that I am going to get Blair his money back, on the assumption Trevor won’t do it willingly, and that Blair will be too proud to ask.”
“Be careful,” he said. “This is bad enough as it is.”
The door to Scot Free was open, and the bell jangled, but Trevor did not show his face. Perhaps he’d seen me coming and quite correctly surmised that I wasn’t happy. I went partway up the stairs to the second floor and called his name, but silence greeted me.
I headed straight for the office, had a quick look around to make sure I was alone and then started through Trevor’s desk. There had to be something there that would tell me what I needed to know. You would never call Trevor a tidy person, nor a particularly efficient record-keeper, but he at least kept his customs forms and shipping documents in one file and his diary seemed up-to-date. By referencing the dates of his trip to Scotland, and some bills of lading later, I was able to find the documents for a large shipment from Glasgow. There were dozens of items listed, and I was just making my way through them, when I noticed an envelope, unstamped, addressed to me. I was about to open it when I heard a creak in the ceiling over my head.
“Trevor, you little worm!” I said, heading for the stairs. But it wasn’t Trevor. It was Mr. Bicycle Clips peering over the railing, his glasses now held together at the bridge of his nose with what looked to be duct tape. “What are you doing here creeping about?” I demanded.
“The same thing you are,” he replied belligerently.
“And what might that be?” I said.
“Snooping around,” he said. “I could see you from up here, going through the stuff in the desk.”
“I was looking for this,” I said, holding up the envelope. “It’s addressed to me. I told Trevor I’d pick it up.”
The man had the good graces at least to look embarrassed. “You took a long time finding it,” he said, finally.
“That’s because Trevor didn’t leave it where he said he would,” I replied, compounding my lie without so much as a qualm. “Now where is Trevor and why are you snooping around?”
“I have no idea where he is,” the man said. “I’m just looking around. I like this shop.”
“You were eavesdropping when I was here last,” I said. “I don’t believe you.”
“I don’t believe you either,” he said.
“I’m calling the police,” I said, turning and walking toward the office.
“I’m just trying to help my grandmother,” he said.
“Your grandmother?” I said, my voice dripping with disbelief.
“Honest,” he said. “It belonged—belongs!—to my grandmother. See,” he added, pulling out his wallet. “I have a photo of her with it.” I looked at the picture he proffered. It was the Mackintosh, and there was a very nice looking older woman standing beside it. “She wasn’t completely, you know—she suffered from dementia, and that slime Trevor Wylie sweet-talked her into selling it to him before anyone could stop her. She wasn’t ready to sell and didn’t remember what she had. Trevor had a truck backed up to her door within an hour. He knew exactly what he had, and he paid her much, much less than it was worth. She didn’t have a receipt or anything, and he paid cash, but she thought he was from Toronto, even though he sounded Scottish, and she knew his name was Trevor. We can’t afford a private investigator, so I flew over and here I am. I thought if I explained about my grandmother he’d reconsider. She needs the money. It was to pay for her care. I don’t know whether you are in this scam with Wylie, but if you are…” He looked as if he were about to cry.