The Orkney Scroll

Chapter l

Of Trevor Wylie it was often said that he was a rogue and you should keep your hand firmly on your wallet when he was in the vicinity, but that you couldn’t be upset with him for long. Somebody, though, stayed angry long enough to kill him.

Trevor lost his life over a piece of furniture, at least that’s the way it looked, although it didn’t take long for any of us to figure out there was a lot to Trevor that wasn’t the way it appeared. The object in question was a desk, or rather more correctly a writing cabinet, and for a short time it belonged to a lawyer by the name of Blair Baldwin. Trevor was the antique dealer who sold it to him. In contrast to the charming Trevor, Baldwin was a difficult man to like. That was because he was arrogant and had a hellish temper which he unleashed at the slightest provocation, usually in front of a TV camera. At one point in time though, I think Blair considered me a friend.

I first met Blair in my early days as an antique dealer when he turned up in the doorway of McClintoch Swain with a piece of cameo glass carefully wrapped in tissue, a vase he’d spent a lot of money to acquire because he believed it to be by the master of Art Nouveau glass, Emile Galle. Blair’s law offices were down the street from my shop, and I expect he dropped by in part to show his acquisition off to someone who would appreciate it, but also looking to me to corroborate his find. Baldwin’s difficult reputation had preceded him, and so it was with some reluctance that I had to point out to him that somewhere between the factory in Romania where the vase had been manufactured and his hands, someone had managed to grind off the letters TIP which would have indicated that the piece was done in the style of Galle, but not by Galle.

It was a tense moment, but Baldwin took it with amazingly good grace. He paid close attention as I showed him what to watch for, had a careful look through the magnifying glass I offered, and asked if there were books on the subject I could recommend. At the end of his visit, it was no longer Mr. Baldwin and Ms. McClintoch, but rather Blair and Lara, and later, it became Blair and “babe.” Not that I was happy about the “babe,” mind you, but Blair was a really good customer. He’d suggested that first day that if I saw anything I thought he might like, I should give him a call. Baldwin was absolutely addicted to Art Nouveau, and for many years I was fortunate to feed his habit. I say fortunate because he had the wherewithal to buy pretty much whatever he fancied, having been hugely successful defending some pretty unsavory characters. He lived in a spectacular house, big enough to accommodate whatever he bought, and paid whatever he had to for something he fancied. Blair Bazillionaire, we called him at McClintoch Swain.

I’ve had mixed feelings over the years about Baldwin. I’d seen him way too often strutting his stuff for the cameras outside a courthouse, fingers hooked under his suspenders so that he looked as if he were about to take flight, and crowing about how he’d got some scum off on a technicality. Not that he called them scum, of course. That would be editorializing on my part. I believe “my wronged client” was the term he used.

Still, when business was slow at McClintoch Swain, slow here being used as a euphemism for on the verge of bankruptcy, Baldwin seemed to know it, and he always purchased something spectacular close to month end, whether he needed it or not. He recommended me to his wealthy pals, many of whom became regulars at the shop. When his wife Betsy left him, being the lawyer he was, he could have tied her up in knots forever, legally speaking, but he didn’t, and they seem to have parted reasonably amicably, at least from my perspective, she with what I’d call a small fortune to see her through. There was obviously more than one side to Blair Bazillionaire.

As for antiques, over the years he developed a pretty good eye. After that first unfortunate episode, he wasn’t often fooled. He’d expressed his displeasure over the Galle by tossing it into my wastebasket, which fortunately was full, allowing me to retrieve it in one piece after he’d left. I have it still. It’s lovely, really, no matter who made it, but then I didn’t pay a fortune for it as Baldwin had. He still relied on me for a second opinion on the big ticket items, and that is why I was called to Scot Free, Trevor Wylie’s antique shop to have a look at something special Blair was thinking of buying.

I was late, having spent an unexpected hour or two with the local police force. It turned out I was merely the latest victim of a rash of robberies of antique shops in my neighborhood, something the constable attributed to the opening of a Goth bar just down the street. I wasn’t so sure. For one thing, my sort-of stepdaughter Jennifer patronized the bar, and she said it was just a bunch of people who liked to wear black and talk about themselves. For another, this looked like theft to order to me: someone wanted a pair of eighteenth-century candlesticks and sent a rather professional crew to get it. The thieves had used glass cutters at the back door, bypassed all sorts of expensive merchandise and had taken only the candlesticks. They got out before the security company was able to respond. I was not in a good mood.

The appointment with Blair and Trevor did not start out well. First, I had to push my way past a very large Dober-man in Trevor’s doorway: by large I mean we were almost eyeball to eyeball, a somewhat intimidating way to start. The dog’s owner, who was about as wide as he was high and would have looked more at home keeping the riffraff at bay at the door of the aforementioned Goth bar than in an antique shop, was admiring a not particularly appealing bronze lamppost, and obviously eavesdropping at the same time.

Blair was impatiently tapping his fingers on Trevor’s front counter and looked as if he were about to tear my face off for my tardiness. Trevor, on the other hand, resembled the proverbial cat that swallowed the canary, and I just knew he was going to lord his find, whatever it was, over me.

“You’re late, babe,” Baldwin said, through clenched teeth, as a rather scruffy looking individual in a rumpled beige suit with bicycle clips holding his pant legs edged past the Doberman and into the shop. The new visitor didn’t look as if he belonged there any more than the bouncer did. Given the time I’d just spent with the police on the subject of robberies, I viewed him with some suspicion.

“This is going to blow you away, hen,” Trevor said, kissing me on both cheeks. Trevor was from Scotland and looked and sounded a little like a young Sean Connery, which is probably why I tolerated him. “Hen” is, I believe, Glasgow slang for any female. All this hen and babe stuff was making me nauseous. “This way,” he said, indicating the back room. The man with the bicycle clips, trying to look nonchalant, tripped over a pair of flatirons and almost fell down.

“Are we ready to be impressed?” Trevor asked, hand on a sheet that covered a fairly substantial object of some kind, maybe four feet high and three wide. Baldwin swallowed hard and nodded.

“Lara?” Trevor said.

All this drama was getting on my nerves. “Get on with it, Trevor,” I said. “Although maybe you want to close the door?” I could see both Mr. Doberman and Mr. Bicycle Clips edging toward the office. When Trevor went to the doorway, Bicycle Clips clomped up the stairs to the shop’s second floor.

“No one to guard the merchandise, I’m afraid. So… lights,” he said, flicking a switch that turned a little spotlight on the object. “Gloves,” he added handing both Blair and me a pair.

“Ta dah!” Trevor exclaimed, as he swept the covering away.

After all this, I didn’t expect to be impressed, but this piece just blew me away. Standing under the spotlight was a single piece of furniture, a writing desk, or rather a writing cabinet. It was exquisite, ebonized wood, mahogany, and when you opened the doors, which Trevor did with a flourish, there was a lovely leaded glass panel, and some perfect inlaid woodwork. There were slots, pigeonholes for papers, and drawers that opened beautifully. Beside me, Baldwin made little squeaking sounds.

“It can’t be, can it?” I said, turning to Trevor.

“I wasn’t sure when I found it,” he replied. “I took a chance, but I’m convinced it is.”

“Babe?” Baldwin managed to say.

“It looks to be the right age,” I said carefully. “The style is definitely Glasgow School. I’d have to do some research.”

“I’ve done it already,” Trevor said, handing me a file. “Be my guest.” Baldwin impatiently leaned over my shoulder as I opened it.

There was only one sheet of paper in the file. It was a drawing of the desk in question, complete with exact specifications. And it was initialed: CRM/MMM.

“Good lord,” Baldwin gasped and sank into a chair.

“Charles Rennie Mackintosh,” Trevor said. “Margaret Macdonald Mackintosh.”

“Are you all right, Blair?” I said. “You aren’t going into shock or anything, are you?”

“I’ll make tea,” Trevor said. “And perk it up a bit with this.” This was a bottle of rather fine single malt scotch. Trevor was feeling pretty cocky.

“I know this looks convincing,” I said. “But it isn’t definitive.”

“There’s more,” Trevor said, bringing a book down from a shelf above his desk and opening it. “Here’s something similar. Take your time.”

“How much?” Baldwin said.

“Blair!” I cautioned. The book in question was a very good text on Art Nouveau, an international style that emerged about 1890 and was highly popular until it burned itself out in about 1904, but which had names associated with it—like Tiffany and Lalique—that remain famous today. Several brilliant individuals were part of this movement, of which Glasgow’s Charles Rennie Mackintosh was one. Mackintosh, while not terribly favored in Britain at the time, was a huge influence on European designers like Josef Hoffman and the Weiner Werkstatte. His work, like the Art Nouveau movement itself, was something of a flash in the pan, but after some decades of neglect is now much sought-after. Very occasionally a piece comes on the market. Trevor had marked a page in the book with a yellow sticky and there was a photograph of a writing cabinet similar, but not absolutely identical to the one in front of me, in the book.

“I think Mackintosh made two to this design,” Trevor said. “That is not, after all, unprecedented. He sometimes made a second piece for himself when he’d been commissioned to design something for a client.”

“Where did you find it?” I said, nodding toward the cabinet.

“I was on my regular trip in Scotland,” Trevor said. “One of my pickers told me that an old lady was holding a contents sale on the weekend and might have some interesting stuff. I went over early, and had a look, and charmed her into selling the piece to me, a couple of pieces, actually. The other one didn’t pan out. This one did. Lucky for me. If it hadn’t, I’d have been royally screwed. I paid a lot for it, way too much if my hunch wasn’t right. But that’s the business we’re in, eh, hen?”

“I suppose. Where’d you find the drawing?”

“In the right-hand drawer! Can you believe it? It was under about a hundred years’ worth of liner paper. I didn’t find it until later.”

“It could still be a copy,” I said. Trevor’s exuberance was trying, or maybe I was just jealous.

“It could, but it isn’t,” Trevor said. “I’m convinced of it. Charles designed and built the furniture. His wife Margaret did the stained glass. It has her stamp all over it. You’ll notice it’s in remarkable condition, just a bit of wear on one of the drawers and the legs.”

“How much?” Baldwin repeated.

“One very similar sold at auction in the late nineteen-nineties for something in the neighborhood of one-point-five million U.S.,” Trevor said. “But I’m prepared to negotiate.” As he said one-point-five million, there was a crash upstairs and some scuffling. Mr. Bicycle Clips had apparently tripped over something else. I would have been up the stairs in a flash. Trevor ignored it.

“Babe?” Baldwin said.

“I don’t know, Blair,” I said. “All I can say at this moment is that I can’t find anything wrong with it.”

“I’m sure we can work something out,” Trevor said, winking at me. At that very moment the phone rang. “Sorry,” Trevor said. “I should take this. You two can chat. Dez!” he said into the phone. “You got my message?” Blair paled. There may be a lot of Dez’s in the world, but only one who would be calling Trevor right at this minute. Desmond Crane was also a lawyer, and Crane and Baldwin often found themselves on the opposite sides of various lawsuits. Word was the antipathy they displayed toward each other in court was absolutely genuine: they disliked one another intensely. It did strike me as a little overly convenient that Dez had chosen this very moment to call, but perhaps Trevor had suggested the time, all part of the plan to entice Blair to buy on the spot.

“Do you think it’s genuine?” Blair asked quietly.

“I think it could be,” I said, albeit reluctantly. I really wanted more time.

“It may still be available,” Trevor said, looking right at Baldwin. “I’m talking to Blair right now.”

“I’ll take it!” Blair said.

Trevor nodded and smiled in our general direction. “Call you back, Dez,” he said. “Sorry.”

“I’m off,” I said. I didn’t want to know what Blair was going to pay for this passion of his, and I sure didn’t want to find myself in the middle of a dustup between Baldwin and Crane. After all, both were customers.

“I’ll be at the Stane later,” Trevor called as I dodged past the Doberman again. “If you’ll join me, hen, I’ll stand you to a single malt or three.”

I didn’t take up Trevor’s offer of a scotch at the Stane, or rather The Dwarfie Stane, his favorite bar, there being only so much gloating I can stand in one day. I did see him a few days later, however. Baldwin, never one to quietly enjoy a victory over a competitor, held a rather grand cocktail party in his Rosedale mansion to show off his purchase. Trevor came with his latest girlfriend, Willow somebody or other. There was no point trying to remember her last name. If the relationship followed the normal course, she wouldn’t be around long enough for it to matter. She had the standard Trevor girlfriend look, long dark hair and even longer legs, a certain innocence of expression. Like most of them, she had an unusual name. McClintoch Swain was represented by both me and my business partner—and ex-husband—Clive Swain. I brought my life partner, Rob Luczka, as my date, and Clive brought his, my best friend Moira Meller.

Blair’s home was a shrine to Art Nouveau. It was a little over the top, but far be it for me to criticize, given I’d helped him to acquire a lot of it. Even the powder room walls had been covered in genuine Art Nouveau fabric. Not a copy, the real thing. Every room was a little museum, decorated to the point of excess and beyond. He had pieces from many of the masters of Art Nouveau, including some lovely furnishings by Josef Hoffmann, Carlos Bugatti, Henry van de Velde, and Victor Horta among others, and now of course he had a Charles Rennie Mackintosh. In the smaller items, he had much from Steuben and Tiffany, Sevres and Meissen and many lesser known but still important pieces dating to the period, and of course, determined as Blair was to erase his first mistake, a few genuine pieces of Galle glass. All were carefully placed, and artfully lit, none more so than the Mackintosh writing cabinet which was on a raised platform in an alcove off the living room all by itself. It was, to continue the shrine analogy, the holy of holies in Blair’s residence, the spot where he placed his prized possession of the moment.

I idly wondered what had happened to the objects previously displayed there. At one time the alcove had held a Josef Hoffman walnut-veneered sideboard, another time a rather unusual carved wood chair by Antoni Gaudi no less. I hadn’t seen either of those pieces in awhile. I wondered if he sold stuff he got tired of, or simply stored it in the basement, which would be unfortunate. Blair had paid just over a hundred thousand for that one chair, which was a deal considering how unique it was. He’d got it for a few tens of thousands less than the going rate because it had a very small cigarette burn on the seat. A shame really, which is perhaps why the chair was nowhere to be seen anymore. The Mackintosh writing cabinet was, if not his proudest acquisition, then perhaps his most extravagant. Blair was a Collector, with a capital C.

“Do you like this stuff?” Rob asked as we wandered from room to room. “All these swirls on everything?”

“I do, but not all in one place. I prefer a home to be a little more relaxed,” I replied. “Consistency can be a virtue of course, but rigid adherence to one particular design aesthetic may not be an entirely good idea if you have to live with it. There comes a point where it’s just too much, and with Art Nouveau, that point may come sooner rather than later. I haven’t told Blair that, of course. I’m not that stupid. Actually maybe I am. I did tell him once early on that he might consider mixing stuff up a little. I believe all he said was ‘babe’ in a pained tone.”

“Personally, I believe a home decorated entirely in one style is the product of a diseased mind,” Clive said. He does, too. A house like this makes Clive, who is the designer of our team, nauseous. Given his surroundings, on this particular occasion, he was holding up rather well.

“I think I’d have to agree with you there, Clive,” Rob said. This was something. Rob and Clive agreed about once every year or so. “The desk thing is nice, though. It seems cleaner in design.”

“Yes, Mackintosh’s furniture is more pleasingly geometric than most of the pieces from that period.”

“It’s the bugs on everything I wonder about,” Moira said.

“But that’s the point, you see,” I interjected. “Art Nouveau appeared in the late nineteenth century as a reaction to industrialization, the mass production of everything. The people who espoused it believed objects should be made by hand, by artists and real craftspeople, and the motifs went back to nature, tendrils, leaves, insects and crustaceans, organic designs really.”

“Okay, but who wants to eat off platters with bugs on them?” Rob said.

“Just about everybody, apparently,” Clive said. “Have you seen the way people are attacking the mounds of shrimps and oysters and lobster, to say nothing of the gallons of real champagne being swilled? You can fault Blair’s design sense, but you can’t complain about the food.”

He was right. The party was an extravagant event. Blair didn’t seem to know how to do anything in a quiet way. I confess I do not enjoy parties like this, but both Blair and Trevor were so excited about the Mackintosh it would have been churlish to refuse to attend, and furthermore, as Clive is always pointing out, it is good for business for us to be seen in such company. Everybody, but everybody was there: media types, film stars, the usual hangers-on, titans of industry, various civic leaders, including the mayor, and even the chief of police, which was a bit of a surprise, considering how a fair number of Blair’s legal successes must have galled him and how many of Blair’s clients, some of whom looked to be auditioning for a part in The Sopranos, were also in attendance.

“Didn’t I arrest that guy for something?” Rob said. He’s a Mountie, an officer in the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, so he can ask questions like that.

“Arrest whom?”

“The guy on the far side of the buffet table scarfing down all the shrimp. What is he doing here? I’m sure I arrested him for something.”

“If you didn’t, you should have. Anyone who wears a green suit like that deserves to languish in a dungeon forever,” Clive said.

“You are such a design snob, Clive,” Moira said.

“Yes, I am. Someone has to try to set some aesthetic standards for this great city of ours. Tough job, I’ll grant you. Ah, Trevor, there you are. Nice sale. We at McClintoch and Swain are consumed with envy.”

“What? Oh, thank you, Clive,” Trevor said, before he hastily moved on to the next room.

“What’s eating him, I wonder?” Clive asked. “It’s not every day I hand out a compliment. I expected him to be revoltingly cheerful, if not downright triumphant about the whole thing, and he just looks kind of nervous. Maybe he’s having a fight with his girlfriend. Attractive one, that. What’s her name? Balsam or something?”

“Willow, you twit,” Moira said, giving him a dig in the ribs.

“Well, I knew it was a tree.”

“Is that Desmond Crane?” Rob said. “The lawyer who competes with Baldwin to get the most slime off on technicalities? It is Crane, isn’t it?”

It was. On Dez’s arm was his wife Leanna, who was tipsy as usual. The two lawyers’ dislike for each other both in court and out didn’t stop Blair from inviting him and Dez from showing up.

“I can’t believe you’ve brought me here,” Rob said. Usually he is very amiable about the social events I ask him to accompany me to, finding something interesting in all of them to talk about later. Now he sounded grumpy.

“I came to that Christmas party at one of your police pal’s home, you know, the one where the host looked down the front of my dress the whole time, and some young kid drank so much he almost puked on my suede shoes. You were perhaps thinking I would accompany you again this year?”

“Great party,” he said, giving my waist a little squeeze. “I think I’ll go and have some shrimp if that sleazeball left any for the rest of us.”

Dez steered his wife over to the writing cabinet, where they both looked at it carefully, or at least he did. “Nice,” he said to Trevor, sending a cheery wave in my direction. For some reason I expected more than that, Dez being almost as competitive and arrogant as Blair. Perhaps he was determined not to show his disappointment at being bested by Baldwin. So unperturbed by the Mackintosh being in his rival’s hands was Dez that I found myself wondering if the telephone call to Trevor at the very moment Blair was deciding whether or not to purchase the cabinet had been faked, with someone else entirely on the line. Faked or not it had had the desired effect on Blair. There didn’t seem to be any way that I could ask Dez, and it didn’t really make any difference anyway. Blair was going to buy the cabinet that day no matter what it cost. I was also very curious to know what Blair had paid for it, but I didn’t know how to ask that question directly either, and my subtle attempts to find out from both Trevor and Blair had been roundly ignored.

In truth, most people paid the writing cabinet scant attention, being more interested in the food, drink, and company. It caught my eye often, though. There was something about it that bothered me, a feeling that I put down to my ambivalence on the subject of ownership of such a beautiful piece. While I’d love to sell just about anybody an antique for any reason at all, should my advice be asked, it will always be to buy something you like and something you’ll use. You wouldn’t catch me slapping my laptop and coffee mug down on a one-point-five million writing cabinet, believe me. Perhaps more importantly, while Blair was obviously enthralled and that was nice, I always feel that something of this quality, created by the hand of a master like Mackintosh, really belongs to everyone, not just one bazillionaire. I was hoping that after he’d had it for a while, Blair could be persuaded to donate it to an art museum. I was sure there would be many who would prize it.

One who clearly was not only interested but also covetous was the curator of the furniture galleries at the Cottingham Museum. Blair was either rubbing Stanfield Roberts’s nose in it, since the Cottingham was probably eager to have such a piece in its collection, or he was genuinely pleased to show off his acquisition to a man who would certainly agree with me that the Mackintosh belonged in a museum. Stanfield had barely had time to blurt out the required social niceties in the entrance hall before he rocketed right over to the writing cabinet. He posed, there is no other word for it, looking very artistic and interested, his chin resting on his left hand, while the elbow was supported by his right. Finally, after a few minutes of contemplation, he approached the cabinet and had a much closer look. After examining it carefully, he stepped back with a very slight smile on his face. I didn’t know whether this meant he was thrilled to be in the presence of such a wonderful piece, or something else. I do know that Trevor watched his every move and gesture.

“I’d love to have a closer look, privately,” Stanfield said to Blair who approached him. “I wouldn’t dream of doing it now, with everyone here, but might I come over some time this week?”

“Of course,” Blair said. “You and your colleagues at the Cottingham are always welcome to study my collection.” For a man who had pulled himself up by his bootstraps, this must have been a rather important moment for Blair.

“I look forward to it,” Stanfield said, but for some reason he looked amused rather than pleased.

As the evening wore on, Leanna, who by this time was really plastered, managed to weave her way over to Blair and immediately spilled some champagne on his jacket, which clearly annoyed him. I can’t say I’ve ever seen Leanna completely sober, but then I only ran into her at events like this. It may well be that she is sober on numerous occasions, but this wasn’t one of them. Clive liked to call her Leanna the Lush—not to her face of course.

As Blair tried to sponge his jacket off with a cocktail napkin, Leanna leaned over and whispered something in his ear, then started pulling on his arm. Blair shook his head, but she persisted, finally leading him over to the writing cabinet. She peered at everything, opening and closing the doors and the drawers before Dez came and dragged her away. After she left, Blair stood stock-still staring at the cabinet for a full minute, I’d say, and then, his face dark as thunder, he went over to speak to Stanfield Roberts of the Cottingham. Both men went over to the cabinet for a brief consultation, before Blair quickly left the room, as the party rolled on without him.

I was standing with Rob, Clive, and Moira in the crowd not far from the cabinet when Blair returned. He was carrying an axe. He walked up to the writing cabinet, swung the blade, and in a few short seconds had hacked it into several pieces. Jaws dropped, hands flew to mouths, and several people started heading for the door. “Wylie!” Blair shouted, looking around the room. “Where are you, you bastard?”

But Trevor was nowhere to be seen. Blair then turned his attention elsewhere. “You!”—he pointed right at me—“are either a crook, too, or incompetent. Either way, you’re finished, babe!” He looked for a moment as if he were going to come right over waving the axe, but Rob stepped between us. Instead, Blair picked up the biggest piece of the furniture, walked to the French doors that opened on to a patio and began to throw the furniture out piece by piece.

“Outta here!” Clive said.

“I’m with you,” Rob replied.

“Just a minute…” I said, looking at the furniture as it flew out the door, but Clive grabbed one arm and Rob the other, and together they hustled me out the front door.

One thing we all agreed on, as we sat around my dining room table eating the lovely dinner Rob had cooked, was that as parties went, that one was a dud. All of them, Rob, Moira and even Clive tried to cheer me up, being the lovely people they are. They were very solicitous, but in a rather irritating way. “You can’t be right every time, hon,” Rob said in a soothing tone, after I’d gone on and on about it. What bothered me most, as I told them at least a hundred times, was that several of our customers were at the party. What, I asked, would they think?

“He didn’t give you the time you needed to make a proper assessment,” Moira said. “You told him it wasn’t definite.”

Surprisingly only Clive, who is usually the bane of my existence even if I’m still in business with him, and who spends most of his time, I’m convinced, trying to come up with ways to annoy me, said anything remotely comforting. “I’d like to see a piece of that wood,” he said after a couple of glasses of wine.

“Why would you want to do that?” Moira asked.

“I didn’t get a chance to get close to it at the party, what with everybody else drooling over it. I’m just wondering,” he said.

“Wondering what?” Moira said. “And no one was drooling over the furniture. They were drooling over the oysters and champagne, and jockeying for position with the celebs, just as you were.”

“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.

“I’m not,” I said. “And I’m sorry about your grandmother. The truth is, though, that she may have done as well as she could on the deal. It was a fake. I suppose you know that.”

“A fake?” he said. “It is not.”

“Yes,” I said. “It was.”

“It is!” he said. “What do you mean by was? Don’t you mean is?”

“I mean it’s gone. It has been destroyed. Whatever it was, it is no longer.”

“No!” he exclaimed. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m afraid I am. I’m sorry about your grandmother. Trevor shouldn’t have done that, but it wasn’t the genuine article.”

“But it was!” he said again.

“Several people were fooled by it,” I said. “Several of us,” I added. I was going to have to learn to live with this.

“We won’t know now, will we? Who destroyed it?” he said.

“A man by the name of Blair Baldwin. Trevor sold it to him, and I guess he was a little peeved when he found out it was a fake.”

“I’ll kill him,” the man said.

“Kill whom?” I said. Like Trevor, his’s‘s sounded more like sh, which reminded me of Sean Connery once again, but there the resemblance stopped. He was neither old nor young, maybe forty, rather thin and pale, and in his khaki pants complete with bicycle clips, which added a comical twist, he looked kind of harmless. I didn’t think he was the killing sort.

“Maybe both of them,” he said. “Or maybe not.” He looked completely dejected.

“I’m Lara,” I said. “I really am sorry about your grandmother and this whole business.” You have no idea how sorry, I thought.

“Percy,” he said after a moment’s hesitation. “Are you going to open it?” he asked pointing at the envelope.

There was a note inside scribbled on lined paper. Hen— the note began. I was liking this hen business less and less all the time. I know you’re mad at me. But I’ve had a spot of bother lately, and lo and behold there’s a way out. I’m not going to let this opportunity pass me by. Don’t bother looking for me. I’ve too much of a head start. Cheers, Trev

“What does he say?” Percy asked.

“I have no idea what he’s talking about,” I said. “But it is very irritating. I think we need to find him. Did you look closely upstairs?”

“He’s not there. Nobody’s here. Can I read it?” he asked, pointing at the letter.

“Be my guest.”

“Is this all there is?” he asked when he’d finished. “Nothing else in the envelope?”

“Nothing,” I said. “He’s here somewhere you know. How carefully did you look upstairs?”

“There’s nobody up there,” he replied. “Anyway, that letter sounds as if he’s taken off to parts unknown.”

“He’s here,” I repeated. “Unless you broke in here.”

“I did not!” Percy said indignantly. “The door was unlocked.”

“So he’s here,” I said. “Believe me, antique dealers do not leave their stores unattended, even for two minutes. I mean stuff gets stolen even when we’re there.”

“Maybe he wanted it to look as if he were coming right back,” Percy said.

“He hasn’t left,” I said, pointing to the envelope with my name on it. “See, no stamps. He’d have mailed this first.”

“I thought you said he asked you to pick it up,” Percy said.

I hate it when I trip over my own lies. “Neither of us is exactly innocent. Come on,” I said. Percy looked chagrined and meekly followed me up the stairs. There we opened every seaman’s chest and blanket box, armoire and credenza, or at least I did. I peered behind the large pieces, under the beds. No Trevor.

While I was doing this, Percy kept opening and closing drawers in a most annoying way, and then rechecking every place I looked. “He’s not hiding in a drawer, Percy,” I said.

“Oh,” he said. “I know. I was just checking for clues.”

“Downstairs,” I sighed. We did the same search on the main floor. Still no Trevor.

“I told you,” Percy said. “He’s not here.”

“I expect there’s a basement,” I said.

“Okay,” he sighed. “I’m game if you are.”

The door that led to the basement was locked, but it didn’t take long to find the key in Trevor’s desk. A nasty open staircase with no railing led down to a rather dark and dingy place. I was a woman on a mission, though, so down I went, followed closely by Percy. The place was just generally unpleasant, damp and vaguely sewerlike, and it looked pretty empty except for a worktable with a broken chair on it, several mousetraps in the corners and cobwebs here and there. I was regretting this excursion very much, but wasn’t going to admit it. There was nothing of interest in the first room, nor in the second, even behind the furnace. In the third room, the light switch didn’t work.

“I don’t want to go any farther,” Percy whined. “I don’t think he’d stay down here. Anyway, it smells bad. Let’s go back.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Percy, it’s just a basement. There was a flashlight on the shelf in the first room. Go and get it.” He did what he was told. The flashlight wasn’t much to speak of, but I stepped into the room anyway and swung the beam around.

Trevor was there, not that I got any satisfaction from being right. I may not have known what that self-serving gibberish in Trevor’s letter was all about, but I was reasonably sure that having an axe buried in what was left of his skull was not what he’d meant by head start.