He looked at me. “I don’t suppose you can tell me why you were asking about Smythson.”
“I’m not sure exactly. Smythson was supposed to be the recipient of something that ended up in my shop and now has gone missing. I’m sure it’s a coincidence, but I was just wondering. The stuff wasn’t picked up in customs, which could have been because he was dead by the time it arrived. It was sent a little over two years ago if I recall.”
“He died around that time, I’d think,” Sam said. “Was it something old? An antiquity? I always thought he might be in the illegal antiquities market.”
I described the vase to him. “It was a replica,” I added.
“Are you sure?” he said.
“I think so. It had hecho en Peru etched in the clay on the bottom, and there was a card with it that clearly identified it as such.”
“Sounds fairly definitive,” he said. He looked at his watch. “My goodness, I have to run. I actually have a customer who made an appointment to come in. Can you imagine? A real customer.” He laughed and shook my hand, and we went our separate ways. He’d given me a lot to think about.
On my way back home I stopped in at the hospital to try to see Alex. This time I persuaded the nurse that I was Alex’s stepniece and should be allowed in to see him. They told me his condition was now considered stable, and while he had suffered some memory loss, he was reasonably alert. I edged past the policeman at the door and tiptoed into the room.
He was asleep, I thought, and for a minute or two I stood just watching him. He looked so pale, and frail, and small. Alex is not a large man, but he has always seemed larger than life to me. He’s not young; he retired a few years ago, but he has such energy and he is interested in absolutely everything. In the early days of my divorce, when I first moved into the neighborhood, he took me under his wing. He specializes in lost souls, I believe, and at the time I was clearly one of them. I hated to see him looking so frail and so old.
He stirred. “Lara,” he exclaimed. “How good of you to come!”
“I would have come sooner,” I said. “They wouldn’t let me in. I’ve told them I’m your stepniece,” I added.
He grinned. It was wonderful to see it. “I’ve always felt we were related in some way.”
“Alex,” I said. “What happened?”
“I’m not doing all that well at remembering,” he said slowly. “The police have been here. They asked me a lot of questions. I can recall locking the front door at eight, and then going into the office to close things up.” He paused for a moment, and I was afraid he was dozing off again.
“Your keys,” he said finally. “I can remember seeing your keys on the desk, and realizing you’d forgotten them. Then… what did I do then?” he asked softly, almost to himself.
“I phoned. I phoned Moira’s salon to see if they knew where you had gone, but it was closed. I thought you’d discover the keys soon enough, so I propped the back door open with the chair, so you could get in. I was afraid that I wouldn’t hear you in the office, and I thought it would be okay to leave the back door open.
“I was wrong,” he said. “I vaguely recall thinking I had heard something in the showroom, and I can recall getting up to take a look. I’m afraid,” he said very quietly, “I’m afraid I remember nothing after that, as hard as I try.”
“That’s okay, Alex. It explains how whoever it was got in.”
“Was a lot taken?”
“Hardly anything at all.”
“Then why?”
“Good question, Alex,” I said. “Perhaps something scared him or them off before they could take anything.” I wondered if he knew about the body. I was determined not to be the one to tell him, at least not while he was in such bad shape. He began to nod off again, and the nurse came and signaled to me that it was time to go.
As I turned to leave, he stirred again. “I’m afraid I have let you down very badly, Lara,” he said. “You entrusted the shop to my care, and I have let you down.” His hands trembled as he spoke.
“Alex!” I exclaimed. “Don’t you ever think that. Ever. It was not your fault. And I promise you we’ll be back in business in no time. We are not quitters, you and I. So get better and get out of this place, as fast as you can. We have lots to do.”
He smiled very slightly. “No, we’re not quitters. I’ll be back at work in no time,” he said.
I’d thought then of telling him about Lizard, of asking him if there was anything I should know about the events of that evening that he hadn’t already told me, whether or not he’d ever been in Peru. In the end, though, I decided that you have to trust both your friends and your instincts. I could not bring myself to consider that he was even remotely connected to any of the recent events.
“Need anything? Anything I can bring you?” was all I said, but he had already fallen asleep. I limped out of the room as quietly as I could.
I had much to think about that evening. Through a set of rather silly circumstances, I’d become the owner of a box of objects, sent in the first instance by someone by the name of Edmund Edwards in New York to A. J. Smythson in Toronto. Smythson hadn’t received it, perhaps because he was dead. And he was murdered, possibly because of his lifestyle, but also possibly because he may have dealt in the black market in antiquities.
The box had made its way to Molesworth Cox, where it went on the auction block. Two people went after it, had wanted it very, very badly: Lizard and Clive. I got it, they didn’t. Lizard, if I was reading Lewis’s questions correctly, was from Peru. Lizard might even, I surmised, be a customs agent, since Lewis had mentioned that as well. That meant it was not the snuff bottle he was after, but the replica pre-Columbian vase, now missing, and possibly the ear spool, also a replica, I had hidden away at home.
But Lizard was dead. Murdered. That left Clive. I knew he wanted the snuff bottle, but hadn’t he raised his offer considerably if I’d throw in the rest of the contents of the box? And hadn’t the peanut disappeared about the time Clive had been in the shop? I might not be prepared to think ill of Alex, but the same did not hold true about Clive.
I brooded on that for a while. The fact is, though, that in those moments when I’m being brutally honest with myself, which I have as infrequently as the next person, I know that Clive is not quite the ogre I make him out to be and that it is a lot easier to be angry with him than to think about why our marriage failed. I know that the reason he lost interest in the shop early in our marriage, the reason he fought me so fiercely for it during our divorce, and why he forced me to sell it to give him half the money, and maybe even why he’d set himself up in business right across the street was that he always felt I’d loved the shop more than I’d loved him. And maybe I had.
Clive might be up to stealing the odd customer away, but he would not have murdered to get something. Not ever. The fact that he had been interested in the box was, I decided, immaterial. Something much more sinister than Clive was capable of was going on.
On a more mundane level, even with Alex and Clive out of the equation, cleared of any wrongdoing as I was convinced they would be, as long as there was a police investigation under way, my insurance company was not going to pay up, and if they didn’t pay soon, we would go bankrupt.
If that happened, my dear friend Alex would never forgive himself, no matter what I said to him. I took the gold and turquoise ear ornament out of my bag and, unwrapping it carefully, turned it over and over again in my hand. It was the only lead I had, that and a letter from a gallery in New York written to a dead man.