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”
“Legault felt they were nineteenth century?”
“Yes.”
“She’s right.”
My heart plummeted.
Mousseau crossed to me, held up her palm, and manipulated two buttons with the tip of her pen.
“These are sterling silver, produced by a jeweler and watchmaker named R. L. Christie.”
“Where?”
“Edinburgh, Scotland.”
“When?”
“Sometime between 1890 and 1900.”
“You’re certain?”
“I was pretty sure I recognized Christie’s work, but I looked them up just to be sure.”
I nodded, too deflated to think of something to say.
“But this”—Mousseau flipped the third button with her pen—“is a copy, and a poor copy at that.
I stared at her blankly.
Mousseau handed me the lens. “Compare this one,” she indicated one of the Christie buttons, “to this one.” The pen moved to the forgery.
Under magnification, details of the Christie woman’s face were clear. Eyes. Nose. Curls. In contrast, the silhouette on the fake was a featureless outline.
Mousseau flipped the buttons. “Notice the initials etched beside the eyelet.”
Even to an amateur, the difference was obvious.
I was perplexed and somewhat taken aback.
But not as taken aback as I would be come Monday morning.
16
MY CONDO IS A GROUND-FLOOR UNIT IN A FOUR-STORY LOW-RISE wrapping a central courtyard. Two bedrooms. Two baths. Living and dining rooms. Narrow-gauge kitchen. Foyer.
From the long hall running between the front entrance and the dining room, just opposite the kitchen, French doors open onto a patio bordering the central courtyard.
In summer, I plant herbs along the edge of the grass. In winter, I watch snow build on the redwood fence, and on the boughs of the pine within its confines. Five square yards. Acreage extraordinaire in a downtown flat.
That night, the dark little yard triggered feelings of exposure and vulnerability.
After a quick meal of carry-out Thai, Anne and I cleaned. Anger wormed inside me as I swept and vacuumed.
Again, I fell asleep with my thoughts brawling.
