Read Online The Wrong Stuff by Sharon Fiffer - Free Book Online Page A

added.
    He was right. Jane couldn’t make herself disturb the silence. Yes, it seemed a bit pretentious, but then again, Campbell and LaSalle seemed to have earned the right to set this stage. The property was magnificent. Jane gestured to a path and Tim nodded. They knew each other well enough to know that both would want to explore. Both would hope for the open door.
    No luck at the first cabin. WRENS’ NEST had blue shutters with cutouts of birds in flight and an inviting windowbox filled to overflowing with blooming fall pansies. A copper kettle filled with what appeared to be kindling sat next to the front door. Unfortunately, it was a closed front door.
    Jane and Tim saw similar still lifes on the front porches of BLUEBERRY HILL, LADYSLIPPER, TWO WINDOWS, and FRIENDS’ RETREAT . All had closed doors.
    At the end of the path was a large barn. A small sign at the entrance read THE WOODSHOP . The huge, garage-sized doors at one end were closed, but another smaller set of Dutch doors stood open.
    Jane headed for the open door and Tim followed.
    â€œIt’s more than a woodshop,” said Tim, “it’s practically Blake Campbell’s laboratory and emergency room. He sees each piece of furniture that comes in here like a patient. He does triage, research, and treatment here.”
    Jane saw immediately what Tim meant. One-half of the barn was a workshop: row upon row of woodworking tools all hanging or standing in place, including two large workbenches and power tools. A large, tented area looked like the private operating room of a mad scientist. Another wall of shelves held solvents and finishes and brushes. The upper gallery of the barn housed a library as large as that of a small liberal arts college.
    No one seemed to be around, but the door had been open. Jane walked up the open stairs to the gallery of books and noted that, for as many research volumes and histories, there were an equal number of art books and hundred-year-old magazines encased in protective plastic. The research library was not limited to academic art history but encompassed all the popular looks of the day, the year in question. On top of an oak library file was a framed card that said, “We at Campbell and LaSalle research the history of each precious object with our minds, our eyes, our touch, and our hearts.” Jane felt Tim behind her, breathing over her shoulder as he read the card.
    â€œâ€˜We at Campbell and LaSalle’ have a giant hand-carved hickory stick up our ass,” Tim whispered.
    â€œâ€˜We at Campbell and LaSalle’ could use a Grey Goose vodka on the rocks,” Jane whispered back.
    Jane noticed that one of the larger furniture volumes was open on top of a large partner’s desk. There was a small business card stuck in the page, and she could see pictures of chests with arrows and annotations. Maybe someone had been looking up Claire Oh’s Westman chest? As she moved around to the other side of the desk to get a better look, Tim called to her to come down with him.
    â€œI hear someone in the back office,” he said. “Let’s go introduce you to Blake.”
    Jane decided she could revisit the gallery later. It seemed much more interesting to meet half of the “we at” boys.
    When they entered the office, beautifully appointed as Jane knew it would be, they found it empty. What Tim had heard was music from the CD player. Mozart, of course. Jane felt certain that the Best of Motown or Willie Nelson’s Greatest Hits were rarely played at Campbell and LaSalle.
    A smaller door at the back of the office was open to the outside, and Jane walked out following a trail that led to a sparkling creek. Jane could see it shining like a ribbon at the end of the walk. The sun, the trees, the beauty of this place began to overwhelm her. Jane thought about the most recent nugget of Belinda St. Germain’s treatise that she had read.
    Does a tree need one more leaf