27. ~ Char ~
CHAPTER 27
~ Char ~
T he warehouse was coming down. The scrap workers had started removing the metal siding yesterday, but I’d begged so many favours, applied for so many grants, and asked so many local business to sponsor the park’s creation that I worried I was building more good karma for others than for my account due to their amazing generosity.
What if this didn’t work? What if I made a park, and the city declined the gift—even though they’d verbally told me they’d be excited to accept it—and I ended up with more debt?
It didn’t help that the scrap workers didn’t seem to have made much progress today. They knew the building’s frame was scheduled to be demolished next week, thanks to a favour from a backhoe company I once temped for. The owner was a great guy and, thankfully, still remembered how I’d filled in for his wife during part of her maternity leave as well as suggested he start his own backhoe school to train future employees. And he had done just that, and was now on the lookout for projects to use as training grounds for his students. Enter my warehouse, and we had a deal. I only had to pay for the gas to haul away the debris and the dumping fees.
There went my Greece trip savings. Oh, wait. No, I’d used them already to pay the property taxes for the next few months in the lawyer’s office during the land transfer. I guess it was a good thing I hadn’t told my dad about my hopeful travel plans, seeing as they were now on infinite delay.
At home I sprawled on the couch, wondering who might be interested in sponsoring my latest upcoming park costs involving the dumping of the warehouse frame. I propped a cushion under my head and let Felipe stand on my chest. I fed him Spitz, and he shelled the sunflower seeds with a hypnotic efficiency and speed. We were making a mess, but I was too tired to care. The last two weeks since getting the land grant had been a whirlwind of working all possible shifts for Joan to earn extra cash, signing endless paperwork around the park project’s land acquisition and sponsorships, studying Josie’s timelines and spreadsheets, and making pitches to sponsors. And of course, missing James this past week as he backpacked across Corsica.
The lucky duck. I admired that he was out there, exploring the world, but I was a tad jealous, too. I wanted that to be me. I wanted a job that paid better and allowed me time to travel. Because for the first time, temping had lost its glow, and I realized just how exhausting it was to be constantly learning new faces, new jobs and workplace nuances. But what else was I going to do? I hadn’t gone to college and my self-learned skills around pottery weren’t worth much to anyone unless it was ancient Grecian times trivia night and they wanted their team to win.
I was so wiped, I couldn’t even summon the energy to add my latest Grecian pottery purchase that I’d ordered before the whole Estelle debt thing to my display case. It was still sitting on top of its packaging on the coffee table.
It wasn’t a fake. Thank goodness. Seeing the number of reproductions in the museum’s gift shop had made me paranoid that my next online purchase would fall under a scam since I couldn’t verify the validity of the piece’s age until I had it in my hands, my money already in the sender’s. Swapping out originals, or selling fakes as though they were the real deal would be a brilliant scam since most people couldn’t tell the difference between a good fake and a genuine artifact.
Picking up my phone, while feeding Felipe another seed, I deleted the shopping app so I wouldn’t be tempted to order any new pottery. Right now, every extra dollar I could get my hands on was going toward the park, and the numerous, unanticipated extra costs that kept popping up around permits and paperwork fees. Soon, there’d also be landscaping and playground equipment costs, fencing for the two lots as well as basketball court costs. Those weren’t small. Yes, we’d gathered a few minor grants and sponsorships for those things, but Josie’s spreadsheets still had a thick red line at the bottom of the total column.
We were making progress, but we needed more money. Quite a bit more.
“What if asking for all this help negates what I’m creating with the park?” I asked Tamara when she joined me in the living room with a horse magazine.
Josie, overhearing us from the kitchen, came in and said, “A new car isn’t worth anything to the person who ordered and paid for it until it rolls out of the factory. Same with this park. Right now we’re in the cost phase.”
“We need to sit back and let things flow,” Tamara told me gently. “Have faith.”
“It’s hard. What if I’ve screwed up somewhere and don’t realize it?”
Gabby came up the stairs, home from work. She took one look at me, left the room and returned with a handheld battery-powered vacuum. Felipe spotted it and bolted.
“Gabby!”
She took the vacuum to me and the couch. I stood up, pushing her away. She moved around me, continuing her clean up.
“I was going to take care of that, you know.”
“Why do you look so stressed?” Gabby asked, sucking up one last shell fragment from my shirt. She and Samantha still believed I was making the park out of the goodness of my heart. That meant they didn’t understand the pressure I felt to succeed by August 15 th . To them, that date was arbitrary and somewhat self-punishing.
“Fairy godmother debt?” I mumbled, giving her a cheesy smile, like I was laughing off my ridiculous claim from weeks ago that I had a fairy godmother. One of these days, she had to start believing, right? And how would I know when that was if I didn’t keep floating the idea past her?
“You are a ridiculous woman,” she said with a sigh. “Take a night off. You haven’t been to the museum to decompress in at least a week or two, and it shows.”
“Hey!”
“Isn’t it open until nine tonight?”
I sighed, acting put out even though she was right. Gazing at ancient pottery was a great way to decompress, and it always made life feel worth living again. Plus, I’d read an online article on my lunch break about glazes and I wanted to look at my favourite pieces in this new light of knowledge.
“Fine. I’ll go,” I grumbled without conviction. “Even though James won’t be there.”
I grabbed my membership card and jumped on the next bus heading toward the downtown. It was the middle of the night in France, and I was sure James would be sleeping. Having a seven-hour time difference sure didn’t help us stay in touch while he was away. Ditto with him not having an international texting or calling plan. He had to wait until he was somewhere with free Wi-Fi in order to message me.
Saying hi to Glenda at the admission desk, I caught some of the highlights of her recent bout with gout. It was flaring up again, and since I already felt I knew more about her health issues than a non-family member should, I scooted away as soon as was polite.
Once freed, I zipped straight to the pottery area, my shoulders loosening as I studied the first vase depicting a hunter drawing back an arrow, done in a burnt dark brown. Movement out of the corner of my eye caught my attention. Richard. The museum director. I flashed him a quick smile and tried to study the next piece through the glass despite the annoying reflections from the lighting placed high above it. I couldn’t see the cracking I’d read about. I confirmed the piece’s origin date on the card beside it.
Maybe my dad would have an insightful perspective on it. I’d sent him the article earlier. I shot him a quick text.
Dad
Sorry. That was a dry one. Didn’t finish it.
What? He’d had at least six hours to read it. Where was his passion?
I snapped a photo of the artifact and fired it off, but there were too many reflections in the image, thanks to the glass.
Dad
Sorry, I’m no use.
Me
np
Dad
What?
Me
NP is short for: No problem.
“Hey, Richard,” I called. “Why can’t we ever see these without glass? Do you have a key? I’d like to see the uniform cracking. Plus, I heard it varies on the inside of the piece, but I can’t see that when it’s locked up. And also? I’m pretty sure this is a reproduction.”
“It is not.”
“I think it might be.” He came closer, and I stepped back, giving him room. “You’ve swapped a bunch out lately. Are you selling them off or something?”
“We most certainly are not!” With an indignant huff, he bent over the glass case.
“Look! The cracks aren’t right, and the colouring is off. That could be this crappy lighting, though. But I bet if you weighed this vessel, it would be too light for its size.” The more I studied it, the more wrong it felt.
Richard wordlessly looked at the piece, then grabbed his keys and opened the case.
I gasped, hands outstretched to accept it. Even though it was a repro.
He hugged the handled vase-like vessel to his chest. “Come along.”
“Where?” I almost skipped alongside him, I was so delighted by the idea that I was about to go somewhere off limits and test one of the exhibit pieces for authenticity.
“To settle your mind and prove this is an original.”
Yes! “Except, it’s a fake.”
Now that it was out of the case, I could definitely see the colouring was off. I wished James was here so I could share the triumph with him. But he wouldn’t be back until later tonight, and anyway, I didn’t make wishes any longer.
* * *
It was a fake.
I’d never seen a grown man grow pale so quickly.
Richard had let me into the back rooms of the museum, and I trailed slowly, sucking in the old-world vibes that surrounded us as we passed crated artifacts on our way to his office and the stored artifact records.
Richard must have weighed that vase about eight times before bolting back to the pottery exhibit, demanding I point out all of the fakes. We’d spent a blissful hour carting pieces to his office and weighing them, and then comparing them to his meticulous records. I couldn’t have been happier.
Richard, however, was losing his mind. I think he’d pulled out about half his hair before he finally dismissed me, looking like a shell of a man.
I’d asked him what he planned to do, but by that point he was beyond speech, and I’d quietly let myself out, eager for James’s plane to land so I could fill him in on the drama.
* * *
The next morning, having a blessedly later start to my A.M. shift, I waited for James outside the museum. I was excited to see him before we both started work. We’d talked on the phone last night, but with his jet lag and us both working this morning, it had been short.
“Hey,” I said to Greg, one of the museum’s guides, as he poked his head out the front doors. I still hadn’t quite forgiven him for his lack of support over making a park in Everstone.
“We’re not opening today.”
The change in the museum’s hours tweaked my interest. Had Richard found more issues with the artifacts? “Why not?”
Greg slipped outside to join me. “Some pottery got stolen.”
I stared at him, trying to figure out if this was related to Richard’s discovery of the fake pieces last night. Richard had planned to do a sweep of the back rooms after I left. Greg’s choice of words made it sound as though Richard hadn’t found the originals.
I mentally smacked myself. In all of the excitement last night, I’d forgotten to tell Richard about the fakes I’d spotted in the gift shop. This whole thing was starting to feel pretty big and pretty real. What else was being secretly stolen from the museum?
“I can’t believe it.”
Greg looked left and right, then leaned in. “They were big pieces from the exhibit rooms. But Richard says they were found.”
“That’s a relief.”
“It took the police over a day to trace the pieces back to us. It hasn’t even hit the news yet.”
“Wait. What?” My mind struggled with the timeline discrepancies between the reported theft and the found items.
Had I accidentally made a wish, and Estelle had gone back in time to change things so it all happened for me? But why would I have wished for this?
Quite plainly, I hadn’t. I was sure of it. This was my happy place, and I wouldn’t wish it any harm.
“Are you saying the theft wasn’t reported by the museum?” I asked Greg. “And that the police discovered the stolen items on their own?”
Greg nodded.
That made no sense. I’d been sure Richard planned to report the fakes last night if he couldn’t find the originals. Was this all some big inside job and Richard was connected to it, so he had merely gone through the motions last night to take any suspicion off himself?
No, he wasn’t that great of an actor. Unless his panic had been over me spotting the artifact discrepancies, and not over the missing originals.
Either way, this was starting to sound like a real heist-type situation. I took in the museum’s sand and limestone exterior anew, almost expecting to see yellow police tape or other physical signs that a robbery had taken place. I wanted to go inside and look for lasers. Ropes dangling from ceiling vents. Something. Anything.
But everything seemed perfectly normal, just like it had last night. There wasn’t even a police car in sight.
* * *
A police car came while I was talking to James.
Shortly after Greg had ducked back inside, I’d spotted James making his way to the front steps, forsaking the staff entrance to meet up with me. I’d peppered the poor man with kisses, which were quite happily returned.
“How was your trip?” I asked, barely releasing him so he could reply with a quick ‘good’ before kissing me again. “You look so tired.”
“Jet lag is real.” He gave me another squeeze, his arms feeling so good around me. “I missed you.”
“I missed you too,” I said shyly.
James had sent a few images and texts from the hostel’s Wi-Fi, but for the most part, due to the time difference and our mutual busyness, we hadn’t had much of a chance to stay caught up with each other. I was itching to see all of his photos and hear every detail of his whirlwind trip.
“Next time I leave you, I’m springing for the international phone plan, no matter how expensive.” He buried his nose in my hair and I felt a surge of happiness.
When we finally broke apart, he started showing me photos of the archaeological dig tour he’d taken for me, even though we both knew we didn’t have enough time before work.
It was around then that the police showed up. And within minutes, we were both being asked to come down to the local detachment for questioning. We were put in separate rooms, and I wondered if they thought we were suspects. Or maybe they got better info if people were raked over the coals on their own. In my case, there would definitely be significantly fewer distractions if James wasn’t in the room.
As Officer Beddoe asked me more and more ridiculous questions about my interest in pottery, I got the sensation that a snare was slowly closing around me. His questions made me sound so guilty. What if I ended up in jail? What would happen when I failed to pay off my fairy godmother debt?
Maybe this was a smart time to make a wish.
Although, if I was in jail, that would be a great place to create good karma, seeing as it was likely a karmic black hole.
I closed my eyes and focused on what I wanted. Out of here. Innocence quickly proven for both James and me.
The officer began asking me about being in the security room with James last week. I could almost see him thinking that because I loved pottery, we’d planned the whole heist. Watching the museums cameras just before the theft was clearly a stake out by two idiots who deserved to be in jail.
Then he shifted gears.
“Richard says you identified the fakes?”
I nodded.
“Why?”
“What do you mean?”
“Why would you bring it to his attention?”
“He’s the director.”
“You recently purchased a warehouse in Everstone.”
I nodded, unable to follow his jumping around topic-wise, and what it meant for me.
“You and James were inside.”
“The warehouse? Yes. And Samantha came with us, too, but she didn’t go in. We needed to see what was in there before demolition.”
Officer Beddoe cleared his throat and checked his notebook. “James was recently in Corsica, at an excavation site. He has an interest in artifacts?”
“Not really. That was for me.” I was still a bit taken by how, in the middle of his short trip, he’d gone out of his way to check out the site for me.
“Does he have dealer contacts in the world of artifacts or pottery?”
“No. Not that I know of.”
“So, this trip? Has he expressed interest in dealing in the past?”
“No. Not to me. I don’t think he stole this stuff. He didn’t even know the pieces in the gift shop are fake.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I forgot to tell Richard last night, but yeah. There are reproductions in the gift shop being sold as original pieces.”
“How long ago did you spot the first reproduction in the museum’s collection?”
“The mummies? I didn’t. James told me they were fake. I should have known, though.” I thought back to my Meet Cute with James when the kid had been on the wrong side of the rope and trying to climb a mummy. The memory brought up a swell of warmth that travelled all the way down to my toes. And look where the two of us were now. All happy and kissing.
And being questioned by the police.
“The mummies are reproductions?”
“Yes, James made them.” Realizing how bad that sounded, I added hastily, “In high school. As part of a student work thing at the museum. Those aren’t real ones on display.”
“Okay, how about more recently? Have other items in the museum’s collection been swapped out for reproductions? Or is it limited to the pottery items?”
“Only the pottery, as far as I know. But I’m not an expert.”
“I’d like you to think hard. What day did you first notice the swapped-out items?”
“Maybe two or three weeks ago. Around May long weekend?”
He made a note in his pad. “Tell me about the scrap metal workers working on your warehouse.”
“They’re taking the siding off to recycle it.”
“Are you paying them?”
“No. They get to keep the siding. The reclaimers pay them something for it.”
“Do you know the workers?” He listed some names, and I shook my head. He studied me for a long moment. “They discovered something of value in your warehouse while stripping the siding off the one side.”
“They did?” I perked up. Gold? Finally, some gold! What if it was a treasure map? Or something hidden in a rafter that had been lost for years and was culturally significant?
“The crates.”
Crates? I shook my head. In the small office where James had broken down the door, there had only been one crate along with the cardboard box. Both empty. I hadn’t spotted crates anywhere else and, thinking over the floorpan, there was nowhere to hide them.
“There was only one crate when we went inside. There was nothing in it.”
Officer Beddoe looked grave. “The scrap workers discovered three wooden crates in your warehouse.”
“Three?”
“And they were filled with the missing artifacts.”