Trees were green, streets were black, the sky blue, and tucked between, in signs and flower boxes and cars, were red and orange and purple and white. There was no need for more yellow.
He set off with a brisk pace, passing large houses, fenced yards, aged trees. As the distance between him and Lucy increased, the dignity of the neighborhood decreased. It was a very nice day for a walk.
Charles tacked across Reservoir Road to Wisconsin Avenue and let the wind take him to M Street. The yards narrowed, then disappeared, and took the trees and gardens with them. The townhouses of Georgetown started.
Thirty minutes from the ruins of Derek’s world to the oddities of Norman Highberg’s.
“Mr. Highberg, please.” Charles waited, for not too long. An amethyst horse that had been in the front window Tuesday had galloped away to greener pastures. Now there was a stained-glass, framed mirror.
“Charles? What are you doing here?”
“I have every right to be,” he answered.
“Not around here,” Norman said. “Nobody’s got any rights. You want to put up an awning? You don’t have the right; you’ve got to get permission. You want to put up a bigger sign? You would never get permission.”
“Do you want an awning?”
“I want an awning. Too much sun in the front window. So I’ve spent the whole morning on the phone with city hall. The sun’s going to burn out before I can get enough permits to do anything. I should move to Montana or someplace.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Fifteen years. I bet they don’t have architectural review boards in Montana.”
“You wouldn’t have many customers either.”
“I could sell antiques and cow food. What do they feed cows, anyway?”
“I think you should stay here,” Charles said. “I was in the neighborhood and I thought of another question for you.”
“Everybody’s got questions. Cane’s got questions, the FBI guy has questions, now you’ve got more questions. Why is everybody asking questions?”
“It sounds like you have questions, too.”
“It must be contagious. So what’s your question this time?”
“You said there was a man who had been sitting beside you at the auction Monday, and he left just before I arrived.”
“It wasn’t because of you. What, you know him?”
“I don’t even know who it was,” Charles said.
“Galen Jones. What about him? I don’t think he left because you got there. I figured you might come, but I didn’t tell him to leave.”
“Who is he?”
“Galen Jones. I just said it.”
“But, Norman, who is he? How do you know him?”
“He’s a matchmaker. You’ve got to know them in this business.”
“A matchmaker.”
“Yeah, sure. You have three antique chairs and you need one more for your table? He makes you a match.”
“Oh, of course. I know what you mean. He makes replicas.”
“Replicas, replacements. Yeah, people ask me all the time. I’ve got to know a few in this business for people who ask. I don’t do furniture, but he does other work, too. And”-he narrowed his eyes-“I’ve got to know them to keep an eye on them.” He tapped his eye.
“And why is that?”
“You know, somebody like Jones, if I find out he’s had anything to do with a piece, I look at it real close.”
“I see-it might be a fake.”
“But I can tell. I know the real stuff, I can see it.”
“Was he there when you arrived?”
“Yeah, I sat next to him to be sociable. And Jones, I never heard specific, but if you ask around, there’s something back there, if you know what I mean.”
“Not really,” Charles said.
“Somewhere he got in trouble. I never heard specific, but if you ask around-”
“He tried to pass something he’d made as an antique?”
“Well, I don’t know, I never heard specific-”
“That’s very interesting, Norman.”
“Anyway, his work’s good and you’d have to look close to tell.”
“Why would he have been at Derek Bastien’s auction?”
“Oh, he did some work for him once. At least once, I don’t know how much. Bastien, he asked me once if I knew someone who was good and I told him to call Galen Jones.”
“What did he do for Derek?”
“I don’t know. Probably made him an extra chair. That’s what he does, if you have three chairs and you-”
“That’s very interesting, Norman.”
“Now if he did, it better not have been at the auction, or at least it should have said it was replica. That was all supposed to be real stuff. But I don’t do furniture, so what do I know.”
“And did you say an FBI person was asking questions?”
“That guy, what’s his name. The antiquities guy. Nice guy, whatever his name is. Yeah, he called me, back when there were all those burglaries up in Foxhall. I mean, just the usual stuff. He always calls me. I keep an eye out for stuff for him. Once in a while I see something he’s looking for. If I see it, I remember it. I remember a lot.”
“You certainly do, Norman.”
“And he called me yesterday. Checking in. I guess he was at the auction.” Norman took off his glasses to wipe the smudges more evenly over the lenses. “I told him he should find that blonde.”
“Sensible. I wonder, how would you look for her, Norman?”
“Why do I want to look for her?”
“I think I do.” Charles frowned, thinking. “Say you wanted to bid on the desk, but you didn’t want anyone to know who you were.”
“Why should I want that desk?” Norman was fuddled. “I don’t do furniture.”
“How would you find an agent to bid for you?”
“I don’t need an agent. I’d do my own bidding.”
“But if you did want to find an agent?”
“There are agents all over the place. I used to do that myself. I’m too busy now.”
Charles was lost in thought. “Maybe you don’t even know how auctions work…”
“I’ve been to a million auctions. Where do you think I get my stuff?”
“First,” Charles said, “you’d call the auction house.”
“You’re losing your mind,” Norman said. “What are you talking about?”
“I need to call the auction house.”
“So call them.” Norman had found his place in the conversation.
“What?”
“You want to call Capital Auction? Call them.”
“I will when I get back to the shop,” Charles said.
“Why wait? Here’s a phone. You should get yourself one of these.”
Charles found a little cell phone in his hand. “I don’t know the number.”
“Give me that.” Norman took the phone back, pushed numbers, and returned it to Charles.
“You have the number memorized?”
“I remember a lot. Anyway, it’s only been a couple months since I called it last time.”
“Capital Auction?” the phone said.
“Oh-yes, hello. I have a question.”
“Yes, sir?”
“I would like to participate in one of your auctions, but I won’t be in town. Is it possible to bid by telephone?”
“I’m sorry, sir, but we require bidding in person.”
“Oh. I see. What do people do if they can’t be there in person?”
“It’s common to use an agent.”
“An agent? How does that work?”
“You would have to make your own arrangement.”
“Can you recommend anyone?”
“We can’t recommend agents, sir. We do have a list for agents who have registered with us, but we can’t specifically recommend any of them. That would have to be between you and that agent.”
“I would like to get that list. Can you send it to me? Or is it on your website?”
“You would have to come here for it.”
“Very good. Thank you.”
He handed the phone back to Norman.
“Thank you.”
“What are you, losing your mind? You know all that. And where are you going out of town?”
“Nowhere, and I was just asking.”
“I could have told you any of that, anyway.”
“But you don’t like me asking you questions,” Charles said. “Perhaps, Norman, the woman is somewhere on that list. Oh, and I do have one more question for you. Did you end up getting anything back that you sold to Derek?”
“Yeah, a chess set. Wood inlay. Real nice. It’s the real thing, you know? You can tell. Austrian, 1890s. It’s out of my range here in the shop, but I got it anyway. Somebody’ll buy it.”
“How much is it?”
“Four thousand. I paid thirty-one. You want it? I’ll sell it to you for thirty-four. That’s a deal. You try to find something this good.”
“I don’t think so. But my fondest memory of Derek is playing chess on that board.”
“Thirty-four. Okay, thirty-three. Thirty-two seventy-five, and that’s between friends. You’re not going to turn around and sell it again? Because it’ll go for four, and I’ll sell it for that if somebody does.”
“No, I wouldn’t sell it. But three thousand is a little rich for my blood. I’ll pass.”
“Okay, but it’ll be here if you want it. Until somebody else grabs it.”
“Thank you, Norman. Thanks for everything.”
The walk to downtown would have been as long as the walk to Georgetown. Charles took the Metro. The first train coming in from Arlington was too crowded and he had to wait for the next. Presently, though, he was back on the pavement and then at the same building where he’d been Monday.
The lobby oozed discretion and prosperity; the thickest concentration had solidified into the receptionist. “Good afternoon,” he said. “I called a little earlier. I understand that you have a list of agents available to represent buyers in your auctions?”
“Yes, sir. I remember your call. I have one here for you.”
“Thank you so much.” The dark doors to the blue auction room were open. The rows of chairs were empty. “I wonder…”
“Yes, sir?”
“A friend of mine was at an auction here Monday, and he noticed an agent-he assumed it was an agent, anyway, a young woman about your age.”
The woman at the desk was not very young. Her smile tightened.
“Sir, I don’t know who that woman was, and if I did, I still wouldn’t be able to tell you. I also don’t know who else is looking for her, or why. I also can’t give you any information about what she bought or what she did with anything that she did buy.”
“I’m sorry,” Charles said, “I didn’t mean…”
“Yes, sir. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“No. You’ve been very helpful. Thank you.”
He hurried from the room, and from the building. On the sidewalk he looked at the paper; it had dozens of listings. He folded it and slid it into his pocket.
“Have we sold anything, Alice?” he asked.
Alice’s dresses were invariably smart and new; but they were always the color of old things. “A volume of Robert Browning,” she said.
“Not my favorite poet. Sometimes he seems to me rather overdone.”
“If he were overdone, Mr. Beale, he would be Robert Burns.”
Charles stopped in his tracks. “That’s a terrible pun, Alice.”
“Yes, sir.”
“He is not some frozen turkey to put in the oven.”
“Certainly not, sir.”
“Because that would be Robert Frost.”
“Yes, sir.”
“There you are,” Dorothy said, gliding down the stairs. “That was a long visit.”
“I made a few other stops, including Norman.”
She had a stack of envelopes, which she set on the counter. “Has the mailman already come?”
“No, Mrs. Beale,” Alice said.
“Give him these.” Charles and Dorothy climbed back up the steps to the office. “And what was Lucy like?”
“She was in the sky with diamonds.”
The office had once been the master bedroom, and the other second-floor bedroom was now storage. The two closets had been combined, and then given their own door to the hall, and then they had been given Morgan.
“I have a search for you,” Charles said.
“Yes, sir?”
“See if you can find the telephone number of a Galen Jones, somewhere local.”
“Yes, sir. Just a second. Uh… it doesn’t come up right away. There’s thousands of Joneses. Any other clues?”
“He makes furniture.”
“Oh. Okay. Yeah, here. Maybe this is it.”
Charles copied the number from the computer screen. “Thank you, Morgan. And can you tell me the secret of life?”
“I could query Google.”
“Never mind.”
“Hello?” A tired female voice.
Charles settled into his own chair. “Hello. I’m calling for Mr. Galen Jones?”
“He’s not home.”
“My name is Charles Beale, and I’m trying to get hold of him.”
“Give me your phone number, and I’ll let him know.”
Dorothy was quite settled into her own chair. “And who is Galen Jones?” she asked.
“A matchmaker.”
“A what?”
“I am trying to find a wife for Angelo,” Charles said.
“Get one who doesn’t need lots of communication.”
“A good point, dear. A matchmaker is a maker of replica antique furniture. He was at the auction Monday.”
“Is this another gust of wind?”
“It’s the one that blew me past Norman. And there was another breeze, too, that I think I’ll send Angelo after. But first, I have to check up on my judge scandal.”
“The man in the newspaper? And why are you interested in that?”
“I’m not sure. There is just something about him. Ah, he’s only page six now.” He skimmed paragraphs.
“Anything?”
“No. The reporter just wants to keep the story alive. Maybe he gets paid by the sneer.”
“There’s obviously some audience.”
“Who would read this?”
“You are.”
“I mean, besides me.”
“Which brings up my original question. Why are you reading it?”
“Because… because… because it is a man who has been ruined by a piece of paper.”
“What piece of paper?”
“Someone told the Washington Post about this cheating back in law school. I don’t know if it was really a piece of paper or what, but that one little piece of information has destroyed him.”
“There wouldn’t have been a piece of paper if he hadn’t done anything.”
“But who hasn’t?” He smiled. “Besides you, I mean.”
“I’m not perfect, Charles, but I don’t think I have any scandals hidden away.”
“Then you are the exception, and besides, I think you are perfect. But just think what would happen if that paper about Karen Liu were sent to the Post?”
“The same thing that happened to the judge.”
“At least. That is why I am reading about what has happened to him. It seems important to know.”
“I wouldn’t have thought of that.”
“Because you are perfect, dear, and I would think of it because I am not.”
“I never know how to answer when you say things like that,” Dorothy said.
“That’s why I do it. When you recover, I want to tell you about Lucy.”
“When I recover, I will need to go out for the rest of the afternoon. However, I will look forward to another cup of coffee sometime very soon.”
Charles knocked. Voices muttered from within. There was a scream, and a crash, then gunshots. Then silence.
The door opened with a sinister creak.
“Hey, boss,” Angelo said. “What do you want?”
“I have a job for you.”
Angelo turned off the tiny television and sat on his bed. “Okay, what is it?”
“It is a little complicated. May I come in?”
“It’s your house.”
Angelo’s room was perfectly neat, although it would have been difficult to make a mess with the few possessions he had.
“It’s your room, though,” Charles said. He sat on the one chair.
“What job do you have?”
“I would like to find that woman I’ve asked you about.”
Angelo shook his head. “Hey, boss, you start looking for people, they hear about it and you get lots of trouble.”
“I only want to know who she is.”
“There is something she has that you want?”
“I just want to find her, that’s all.”
Angelo shrugged and offered no further advice. “Where’s she hang out?”
“Take this list.” Charles spoke slowly. “Somebody hired that woman to be at the auction on Monday.”
“Okay.”
“Maybe, they got her name from this list.”
“This doesn’t have any name of a lady.”
“No. It is a list of agents. Some of them are just individuals. Some of them are partnerships. Some of them are dealers who have regular businesses.”
“Dealers. You want to be looking for dealers? That’s not good, boss.”
“They aren’t that kind of dealer. They’re antiques dealers or jewelers or art dealers.”
“They’re dealers,” Angelo said. “Dealers you should stay away.”
“I’m a dealer, Angelo. I can handle them. Now this is what I want you to do. I want you to go to each of these businesses that you can and look for that woman.”
“You want me looking? I told that judge I wouldn’t do any of that.”
“This is not criminal, Angelo. You’re just looking for her.”
“You tell me to, so it’s okay?”
“It’s okay.”
“How do I look? Look in a window? Look how?”
“This is where you get to practice your manners. Mrs. Beale and I think you need to learn proper professional behavior. Go to each place and go inside. Talk to the people. Look around and ask questions. See if this woman works there.”
Angelo was processing. “These people in buildings, they don’t talk to me. You they talk to, they don’t talk to me.”
“I think you can do it. Wear your good clothes. Be polite.”
Again he shrugged. “But you don’t want her to know you’re looking?”
“That’s right. Good. You understand.”
“So for why do I say I’m asking them?”
“We’ll think of something. We’ll try the first one together tomorrow.”
“Mr. Beale?” Angelo’s door had just closed. “You have a telephone call. A Mr. Galen Jones.”
“Oh, good! Thank you, Alice. I’ll be right there.”
He hurried back down to the office. “Yes, hello, this is Charles Beale.”
“Right.” A deep voice, gravelly, but it didn’t sound like a big person. “I got a message you called?”
“Yes, I did. Thank you for calling back. Mr. Jones, I was a friend of a man named Derek Bastien. I’ve heard you may have known him?”
Charles waited.
“What do you want?” the voice asked.
“Well, to talk. Either on the phone, or to meet with you.”
“Right.” Another wait. “Who are you?”
“I sell books. Antique books. I sold some to Derek. That’s really all. And I heard your name, and a little more than that about you, and I wanted to talk.”
“Talk about what? Look, do you want some work done?”
“No. I just want to talk. About Derek Bastien.”
A long wait. “Okay, I’ll talk. I’ll come see you. Where are you?”
“At my shop right now. In Alexandria. I’ll give you the address.”
“I’ll be there this afternoon.”
Charles had only set the telephone down when it rang again. By reflex, he picked it up again, without waiting for Alice to get it.
“Alexandria Rare Books, this is Charles Beale.”
“Answering your own phone?”
“Oh, hello, Jacob. How are you?”
The rusted, squeaking hinge of a voice answered, “Better than you are if you’ve lost all your help there.”
“I haven’t. I just had a feeling who it was, and I didn’t want to inflict them with you.”
“Someday you’ll learn respect for your elders.”
“You’re about the only one, Jacob. What can I do for you?”
“It’s what I can’t do for you. I’m not going to that auction here, so you’ll have to do your own bidding if you want anything.”
“Oh, that’s fine,” Charles said. “There wasn’t anything I wanted.”
“So you would have had me go for nothing?”
“You’re not going.”
“Then it’s a good thing I’m not.”
“I would have told you. But I do have another question.”
“Go ahead,” Jacob said. “Run up my telephone bill.”
“Thank you, I will. It is about the man at the auction Monday, who you saw bidding on that desk.”
“What about him? I don’t know anything but what I saw.”
“I’ve found out that man’s name. It’s Galen Jones.”
“Never heard of him.”
“I’m not surprised. Even you, Jacob, have not heard of every person.”
“Just most.”
“Just most. This man, Galen Jones, is a maker of replica antique furniture.”
“Oh, is he?” A conspiratorial tone entered Jacob Leatherman’s voice. “Matchmaker? Bidding on the desk?”
“Exactly. Now, this is what I’ve pieced together. He was sitting in the back row. Norman Highberg came in and sat next to him. Norman is an antiques dealer and knows Mr. Jones. Then, when the bidding on the desk began, Mr. Jones went to where Norman wouldn’t see him bid. And then, when the bidding escalated, Mr. Jones gave up and left. Would you say that was accurate by what you saw?”
“That’s just what I saw, Charles.” Jacob chuckled. “Are you after something?”
“I am, a little bit. I’m not sure what, it’s actually rather complicated. But I just wanted to compare my guesses with what you saw.”
“Now you tell me the whole story when you know it.”
“Are you intrigued?”
“I’m young and foolish,” Jacob said.
“Young, anyway,” Charles said. “And you like puzzles, and so do I. I’ll let you know.”
He glanced across the room to Dorothy’s empty desk, and then he opened his newspaper.
The newspaper was wrinkled and in the wastebasket. Charles was in his chair, pensively watching the street below his window.
He stood for a better view and hurried down the stairs to the showroom.
The front door opened and a long, drooping, gray mustache looked in. A long gray ponytail followed, and long wiry arms with long hands, and long, worn blue jeans, and a loose gray flannel shirt. And very sharp eyes.
“Mr. Jones?” Charles said.
“You’re Beale?”
“I am.”
“Right.” The eyes swept the room. “Where do you want to talk?”
“Down here. Just follow me.”
Galen Jones showed no hesitation, but loped right on behind Charles. But Charles hesitated. “Alice? Could you have Angelo come down to the basement for a moment?”
“Yes, Mr. Beale.”
Then they went down the stairs.
Mr. Jones dropped into a chair like a bag of coat hangers.
“So, what can I do for you, Mr. Beale?”
Charles sat across the desk from him. “I really just have some questions.”
“Okay. Go ahead.”
“Of course. I think you must have some interesting customers, Mr. Jones?”
The eyes were power drills. “Once in a while. Most of them are pretty normal.”
Charles nodded. “And you must have some interesting requests.”
“So, Beale, where are we going with this?”
“Nowhere, Mr. Jones.” Charles smiled, very openly. “I’m not accusing you of anything. I think I know what you do-you’re a very skilled craftsman and you’ve made some beautiful things.”
“That’s what I tell people. You have a job you want done? We could skip all the talking.”
“No, just questions.”
“Hey, boss?”
Jones didn’t move, but no one could have heard Angelo on the stairs.
“Oh, yes, Angelo.”
“You wanted me?”
“Actually, not. I changed my mind.”
“So you don’t want anything.”
“No, I’m sorry. Never mind.”
“Whatever you say.”
“Get on with it,” Mr. Jones said, when Angelo was gone. “I don’t like lots of questions.”
“I was wondering about Derek Bastien’s desk.”
No reaction. “What are you wondering about it?”
“I wonder… if maybe there was something questionable about it.”
Galen Jones shifted his position in the chair; he seemed to have hinges rather than joints. “Now, you think I’d answer a question like that?”
“I have been thinking about how you would answer it, Mr. Jones. You might not. But Derek is dead, and whoever owns the desk now may not even know about you.”
“It doesn’t matter to me who knows what.”
“Did you know Derek at all?”
For the first time, the sharp eyes dulled. “I got to, a little.”
“I knew him, too.”
“So what are you saying?”
Charles sighed. “You tried to buy the desk at the auction Monday.”
“You know a lot.”
“I was there.”
“It was a nice desk,” Galen Jones said. “I liked it.”
“I’m sure. You even moved away from Norman Highberg so he wouldn’t see you bid on it.”
“He talks too much.”
“He does, but he didn’t see anything, and he didn’t say anything to me.”
“I didn’t get it, anyway.”
“It went for over a hundred thousand dollars,” Charles said.
“A lot more than I could pay for it.”
“I think it was quite a surprise. Do you have any idea, Mr. Jones, why anyone might have been bidding so much for that desk? Was it a real antique? Or was it a clever copy? And if it was, I’d wonder what happened to the real desk. I assume there was a real desk. Do you know?”
“Now you’re trying to be tricky, Beale.”
“I’m not trying to be. I’m sorry.”
“Well, you’re barking up the wrong tree, anyway. So forget about the desk. There’s nothing I have to say to you about it.”
“I see.”
They were both quiet, but neither seemed ready to be finished.
“What did you think of him?” Jones said at last.
“He was an interesting friend,” Charles said. “And I’m learning quite a bit about him that I hadn’t known.”
“He got me talking, a lot better than you are. Too bad he got himself killed.”
“Got himself killed? It wasn’t his fault. It was a burglar.”
“Then he shouldn’t have had so much in his house worth stealing.”
“I’ll remember that for myself,” Charles said. “Well-thank you, Mr. Jones. It’s been very interesting to meet you. I might find another tree to bark at.”
“You’ve got my number, Beale.”
“Hey, boss.”
Charles turned from the just closing front door. “Yes, Angelo, let me guess. You saw that man at the auction.”
“He went out before you went out.”
“I just wanted to check.”