She was watching me, turned on her side on the fold-out bed. "You love them," she said.
I sighed theatrically. "Don't come that soul stuff."
"It's obvious you do."
"It's also obvious that going all misty-eyed because we had it off is pretty corny."
She laughed again when she ought to have been put out. "Have you had breakfast, Lovejoy?"
"Yes, thanks."
"What time were you up?"
"Seven."
"Did you notice the bruise?"
"What bruise?" I felt guilty.
"When you belted me in the bathroom the other day."
"Oh. About that, love." I didn't look at her. "I've been meaning to say sorry. It was important, you see."
"A phone call?"
"Well, yes." I forced justification into my voice. "It turned out to be vital. I admit I was a wee bit on the nasty side—"
"Come here, Lovejoy," she said. I could tell she was smiling.
"No," I said, concentrating.
"Come here," she said again, so I did.
See what I mean about women, never giving up?
Muriel answered the door, still jumpy and drawn but as stylish as before.
"I'm sorry to bother you again so soon," I apologized.
"Why, Mr. Lovejoy."
"I just called—"
"Come in please."
"No, thank you." There was no sound of cutlery in the background this time. A gardener was shifting little plants from pots into a flower bed. "I thought they only did that on Easter Mon-day," I said. She looked and I saw her smile for the first time. It was enough to unsettle an honest dealer.
"Wait. I'll get my coat."
She emerged, putting a head scarf on over her coat collar.
"You'll remember me for ruining your day if nothing else." I shut the door behind her and we strolled to watch the gardener at work.
"These days I welcome an interruption," she said.
"Mrs. Field—"
"Muriel." She put her arm through mine. "Come this way and I'll show you the pond." We left the house path and went between a setting of shrubberies.
"I wish I could return the compliment." A woman's arm linked with yours does wonders for your ego. I felt like the local squire.
"Compliment?"
"Nobody calls me anything but Lovejoy."
She smiled and seemed glad to do it. "Me too?"
"You too. Oh, one thing more."
She looked at me, worried. "Yes?"
"Cheer up, love. Nothing's the end of the world."
"I suppose not." She was about to say more, but we came upon another elderly gardener tying those mysterious strings around plant stems. I must have looked exasperated, because she asked me what was wrong.
"Beats me why they do it," I said in an undertone.
"Do you mean the gardener?" she whispered back.
"Yes," I muttered. "Why can't they leave the blinking plants alone?" I was glad I'd said it, because it gave her a laugh.
The pond was a small lake, complete with steps and a boat. A heron, gray and contemplative, stood in the distance. I shivered.
"Cold?" she asked.
"No. Those things." I nodded to where the heron waited. "It's fishing, isn't it?"
"Why, yes." She seemed surprised.
"Can't you give it some bread instead?" I suggested, which made her laugh again and pull me around to see my face.
"Aren't you… soft!" she exclaimed.
"I'd like the countryside, but it's so bloody… vicious."
"Don't you like my garden, Lovejoy?"
I stared around accusingly. "It's a county, not a garden." I flapped my hand but the heron wouldn't go. "Does it all belong to the house?"
"Of course. Eighty acres."
"It's lovely," I agreed. "But everything in it's hunting everything else. Either that or trying to escape."
She shivered this time and raised her head scarf. "You mustn't talk like that."
"It's true."
I watched her hands tidy her hair beneath the scarfs edge. They had a natural grace to set off their own gestures, doing hair, pulling on stockings, or smoking a cigarette. She saw me gaping at her. I looked back at the water.
"Lovejoy, what do you really do?"
"Oh, very little. I'm an antique dealer, really." I paused to let her load. Where the hell was all this kindness coming from? I wondered irritably. She said nothing. "I'm your actual scavenger. Nobody's sacred. I even winkled out your priestly collector friend, and he lives miles away."
"Reverend Lagrange?"
"Yes."
"He's been a good friend. He and Eric met years ago. I don't think he collects the same things Eric did."
Nobody else does, either, I thought enviously. We moved along a flowered walk with those trellises against a wall.
"I wasn't telling the truth the other day." Own up, Lovejoy. Never be only half stupid. Go broke. "You probably guessed."
"Yes."
I eyed her carefully. "Aren't you mad at me?"
"No." She pulled a leaf from some thorny plant that hadn't done her any harm. "You're not the first to have tried the same… thing."
"Trick," I said. "Be honest. We call it the box gambit in the trade."
"Box gambit?"
"I wish I hadn't started this," I said.
She put the leaf idly between her teeth and saw me wince. "What's the matter?"
"You wouldn't like it if you were that leaf." She looked at it and dropped it on the path. "It's not dead."
"But how on earth do you eat, Lovejoy?" she asked me.
"Like us all, but that's an essential."
"What's the box gambit?"
I told her, feeling rotten. Box as in coffin. Anybody dying leaves a house and antiques, if he's wealthy enough to get his name reported in the papers. Those who are missed by our ever-vigilant press are listed in the "Deceased" column by sorrowing relatives anxious to do the local antique dealers a favor. We read up the facts of the case. Within seconds, usually, and before the poor deceased is cold in his grave, we kindly dealers are around visiting the bereaved, claiming whatever we think we can get away with. And you'd be surprised how much that is.
"And do… widows fall for it?" She stopped, fascinated.
"More often than not."
"Do you really mean that?"
"Of course," I snapped, harshly. "Over ninety per cent of the time you come away with a snip, nothing less than useful information."
She seemed intrigued by the idea, part horrified and partly drawn to it. "But it's like… being…" She hesitated and looked back. The heron was still there.
I said it for her. "Predators."
"Well…"
"You mean yes," I said. "Which is what we are."
"But why do the wives give you—?"
"Sell. Not give. Never leave a box gambit unpaid." I quoted the trade's unwritten rule. "It's what makes it legal."
"And what if you're caught?"
She drew me to a bench seat and we sat. From there we faced the house beyond the water, trailing trees and sweeping grass studded with bushes. It was as charming as any scene on earth and made me draw breath.
"You think it's lovely," she said.
"Wonderful. They had a sense of elegance we've lost," I said. "It all comes down to judgment. They had it. Whatever shape or design or pattern was exactly right, they recognized it. You have to love it, don't you?"
"I know what you mean, Lovejoy." Her tone was cold. "I used to feel the same until Eric died."
"Will you stay here?"
"No, not now."
"Where will you go, Muriel?"
"Oh." She shrugged.
The heron stabbed, was erect and still before the drops fell from his beak.
"What if you are caught in the box gambit?" She shook my arm until I relaxed.
"You lie," I said. The ripples were extending toward us. "Lie like a trooper. You say that you, in all innocence, called at her house. The widow asks you in to see some heirloom because you'd asked particularly about antiques. You say she bargained like an old hand, and anyway you'd given her money for the object, hadn't you? She won't deny it."
"How do you know?"
I gazed into her eyes. "They never do."
"Have you done it, Lovejoy?" she asked as the first ripple lapped on the bank below us. I nodded.