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a vase, about six and a half inches high, and it is a reproduction
pre-Columbian ceramic made in Peru. It was quite lovely, actually. I got it in
a job lot at Molesworth & Cox, the auction house, a couple of weeks ago.
There, I d told him about the auction. Maybe he could take it from there.
But no. Fake, is it? Look again, he said. Can t imagine someone taking a
fake Peruvian pot and leaving the jewelry and money, can you? Unless, of
course, there was a reason other than robbery. It was the longest sentence
I d heard him utter, and I didn t like what he was implying any more than when
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he d hinted at it the first time.
After another hour of looking about, Lewis let me leave. PC Chu drove me
home. She told me I d be asked to come in to headquarters to sign a copy of my
statement.
My house seemed very quiet and very lonely. I checked my answering machine to
hear Moira telling me in a motherly way not to forget to take my pills and to
be sure to have something to eat. Sarah had called from a phone booth on the
edge of Algonquin Park to say she d been delayed and wouldn t be back for
another day. She apologized for calling me at home rather than the shop, but
she said she hadn t been able to get through to the store. Maybe there s a
problem with the phone, or maybe I dialed incorrectly, she said. There s a
problem with the phone, all right, I thought. It s been trashed, burned, and
doused. I was not looking forward to telling her about what had happened.
There was a message from a friend and colleague, Sam Feldman, telling me how
sorry he was to hear about the store, but no message from Rob.
It occurred to me that I hadn t heard from many of my colleagues and friends,
but perhaps I couldn t blame them under the circumstances. It was possible, of
course, that people were giving me time to recover. But I was more than a
little concerned that people, people I considered friends, were out there
wondering if indeed I had arranged for the fire at Greenhalgh and McClintoch.
The newspaper reports seemed a little ambiguous on the subject, I would have
to say.
I began having rather morose thoughts about the future, along the lines of
maybe if this doesn t get cleared up soon everybody will be crossing the
street to avoid having to talk to me. I knew if I stayed at home by myself I
would get really depressed, so I decided to pull myself together and go out.
I d imposed on Moira too much already, but Sam Feldman had been nice enough to
call, so I thought I d pay him a visit.
Sam and I had met years before when I d taken a conservation course he d
given at the University of Toronto. At the time he was a museum director, but
later he decided to go commercial, as he described it, and opened a gallery on
Queen Street West. His museum had specialized in eastern antiquities, and he d
been very helpful in sharing his contacts in that part of the world when I
branched out and started buying there. In return, I d given him advice on
setting up shop, and we d stayed in touch. I liked Sam: I always found him
funny and articulate, and I thought a visit with him would cheer me up.
I carefully eased myself behind the wheel of my car and headed down for Queen
Street. Sam was there, along with his young assistant. Hi, I said. Thanks
for your message. I m a bit at loose ends, so I thought I d see if you had
time for a coffee. Do you think you could drag yourself away?
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From what? he asked wryly, gesturing around the room. Do you see
customers? Do you see asingle customer? For this I left a low-paying but
steady job in a museum? Where shall we go?
We left his assistant Janie, he called her and headed for Starbucks. I guess
you were implying business is not exactly great, I said.
He laughed. Oh, it s okay. No fame and fortune, though. But I always thought
I d like working for myself, and I do. Sorry about your place. Dreadful thing.
Insured? I nodded. Good, he said. You ll let me know if there is anything
I can do. I smiled my thanks.
We chatted awhile, and then it struck me that Sam might indeed be able to
help with something, by way of information. Would the name A. J. Smythson and
the Smythson Gallery mean anything to you?
Oh, yes, he replied. Surely you remember too.
The name sounds familiar, but I can t really recall why, I said. So tell
me. I can tell from the expression on your face that there s a good story
here.
It s quite a tale, all right, but good isn t exactly the word, he replied.
In fact it is precisely the wrong word. Smythson, Anton James Smythson his
friends, I wasn t one of them, called him A. J. was an art dealer on King
Street West. He had his gallery in one of those industrial buildings that are
being converted in that old part of town. He lived in a fabulous loft over the
store.
He was very successful, in a way I am coming to realize I never will be. He
threw the most extravagant openings for his artists, and I attended several. A
little collegial schmoozing, you could say. His gallery was only a few blocks
from mine. Champagne, caviar, oysters. Only the best. But the parties in the
gallery were nothing compared to the private parties he threw in his loft.
These were unbelievable. I only got invited to one, but it was spectacular:
flowers everywhere, fabulous food, witty entertaining guests, movie stars,
politicians, all the glitterati.
Really, he had it all. Lovely stone cottage in the country, winter residence
in San Miguel de Allende. He also had good taste. Make that exceptional taste.
The paintings he owned personally in his loft were to die for. He paused.
Actually that is an entirely inappropriate expression considering what
happened, forgive me. But he had a couple of Rothkos in the dining area of the
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loft that I would have given my eyeteeth for.
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