“Fascinating.” Every utterance owned an exclamation point. “Let’s take a look.”
I dug out and handed her the Ziploc.
Mousseau slid the Harry Potters onto her nose and examined the buttons, turning the baggie over and over in her hands. A full minute passed. Then another.
Mousseau’s face took on a puzzled expression.
Anne and I looked at each other.
Mousseau raised round lenses toward me.
“May I remove them?”
“Of course.”
Unzipping the baggie, Mousseau shook the buttons onto her palm, crossed to the cart, and studied each with the magnifying glass. Using a fingertip, she rolled the buttons, observed, righted them, and observed some more. With each move the perplexed expression deepened.
Anne and I exchanged another glance.
Mousseau’s examination seemed to go on forever. Then, “Will you excuse me one moment?”
I nodded.
Mousseau hurried off, leaving two of the three buttons on her cart.
Around us, an eerie silence. Outside, the occasional honking of a horn.
The waiting played hell with my nerves. Why the confusion? What was Mousseau seeing?
A lifetime later the archaeologist returned, picked up the abandoned buttons, and resumed her inspection. Finally, she looked up, eyes enormous behind their lenses.
“Antoinette Legault looked at these?”
“A detective showed them to her at the McCord.”
“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. Christie had engraved his letters with smooth, flowing motions. On the forgery, the S had been gouged as a series of intersecting cuts.
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. From the living room, another set of French doors gives access to a tiny patch of lawn.
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
