The Craigslist Murders - Brenda Cullerton [53]
Rita was whining. “I’m just not sure, Diane. It has to be exactly right. This is the first time the Johnsons have invited us to the opera.” The clothing stylist reassured her client with a steady stream of quiet patter. It was a familiar technique. The patter eventually eroded away at the objections and a choice was made.
“Charlotte, come in here, please,” Rita begged. “I want to know what you think.”
Charlotte entered the dressing room. “You look lovely, Rita!” she said, winking at the stylist.
“Really?”
“Absolutely. The blue is the same color as your eyes. And I love the ruching.”
“Alright, Diane. Tell Oscar I’ll take it. Just make sure the alterations are done by Wednesday.”
As Diane unzipped the gown and Rita stepped out from its cocoon of foamy azure satin, she looked at Charlotte’s reflection in the wall of full-length mirrors.
“Why have you got a pin in her hand, Charlotte?”
“I’m going to show you how to tell the fake from the real thing, Rita. I’ll meet you in the bedroom.”
Rita’s eyes lit up. This was the thing about obsessive compulsives; they weren’t just perfectionists; they were always right. “But the desk you bought is downstairs in the library,” she said.
“I know,” Charlotte said, turning and heading out of the dressing room. “But the fake is in your bedroom.”
She was hauling the Venetian Baroque chest of drawers out from against the wall when Rita jogged into the room.
“What are you doing?” she squawked. “Caroline picked that out for me, Charlotte. It was owned by the same Italian family for three centuries.”
“Maybe,” Charlotte said, pushing her straight pin into a wormhole in the diamond patterned marquetry. Rita came over and huddled over the chest as Charlotte pulled out the pin.
“Go ahead, Rita. You do it.”
Rita stuck the pin in and out. “What’s your point, Charlotte?”
“The point is, Rita, the only worm at work here is Caroline. That little tunnel shouldn’t be straight. It should be sort of irregular. That’s how nature creates those holes. And let me show you something else,” Charlotte said, moving around towards the back of the chest of drawers.
Rita was following her, more curious than angry.
“Look at the wood. It’s walnut, the same as the rest of the piece, right?”
“Obviously,” Rita replied, smirking.
“It shouldn’t be,” Charlotte said. “It should be a cheaper wood.”
“What are you talking about?” Rita pouted, peering at the back.
“If this were three centuries old, the guy who made it would have used a cheaper wood for the back. Something like pine. Same for the inside. That’s how they did it then.”
“Oh my God!” Rita said, lurching back and leaning against the wall. “What else?”
“Do you really want to know?”
“Abe’ll murder me. That piece cost him more than the one you bought.”
Charlotte took Rita by the hand and circled towards the front of the chest.
“See these drawers?” she asked, kneeling down and pulling one of them out. “Feel the bottom.”
Rita ran her hands across the bottom.
“Smooth, right?”
Rita nodded.
“They should be rough. And again, the wood should be different than the outside. And cheaper.”
Rita pulled her hand away as if she had been burned. Which, of course, she had. By Caroline.
“Now check the keyhole.”
Rita’s whole body sagged.
“Do you see any trace of polish, any scrapes?”
“No.”
“After three centuries, don’t you think there should be some sign of somebody cleaning it?”
“Oh God, Charlotte! Don’t tell me any more, please!”
Sitting in a heap on the carpet, a mere shadow