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place,” said Jackie, “Besides, I want to know more about that pipe. We should take it to someone.”
    “You’re right,” I said. “Let’s go get that pipe and take it to an antiques dealer.”
    “And just where do we find one?” asked Jackie.
    I knew exactly who to call. “Tiny?”
    He answered on the first ring. “Oh, Mel!”
    “I need to find an antiques dealer.”
    “What for?”
    “Someone gave me a pipe that they claim is made from real ivory, but I’m not so certain about it. Anyway, I just want to know if it is.”
    “Sure, no problem. Meet me at 5 th and Weston in half an hour.”
    I hung up. “Let’s get that pipe and meet up with Tiny,” I said.
    “As long as we get lunch along the way.”
    I smiled at Jackie. Sometimes she had a one track mind.
    We met Tiny at the appraiser’s place after grabbing the pipe. He stood next to his bike wearing sunglasses and waiting for us.
    “Hey, Tiny,” I greeted as I strolled up the walk with Jackie.
    “That the thing you want appraised?”
    “Yes,” I said, handing over the pipe.
    Tiny looked it over. “Well, this guy’s the best appraiser I know. But be careful. He’ll try to sell you something for sure.”
    The bell above the glass door rang as we walked inside.
    “Hello,” greeted the bald man behind the counter.
    “Afternoon,” I replied, “I got this pipe here that appears to be made of ivory, but I want to be sure of its value.”
    “HMMM, let me see.”
    The man gingerly took the pipe. He put in an eye piece so he could study it more thoroughly. He twirled it around in his fingers examining every inch of it. I waited patiently while listening to Jackie drum her fingers on the counter.
    “I’m afraid you won’t get much for this.”
    “Why?” I asked.
    “These markings give it away,” the man pointed them out to me. Honestly, I never would have noticed it. “Also the weight is a bit off and—” he chipped some of the outer covering of the pipe “—this isn’t even ivory. It’s a good fake though.”
    “Isn’t ivory,” said Jackie.
    “Nope,” said the man, “it’s plaster. Most would never be able to tell the difference. Only those of us who know the trade can. It looks like this was a pipe that was coated in plaster and then carved to look like real ivory. A really good fake.”
    “Why would anyone do that?” I asked.
    “To make money,” replied the man. “People are always looking for some genuine something or other. If you’re good at forging things you can make a lot of money.”
    Well that answered that question. Mrs. Dayton bought a fake ivory pipe at a flea market antiques shop that specialized in items made from ivory. And somehow this was all connected with that property. I wondered who owned it now that Mr. Kellmore was dead.
    The man put the pipe under the counter; his eyes shifting as though he hoped no one saw him. Quickly, I snatched his wrist and yanked the pipe from him. “What are you doing? You trying to sneak off with it?”
    “No—I—No,” he stammered as Tiny rose to his full height and bulkiness.
    “I thought you said it was worthless,” said Tiny.
    “It is!” The man looked at all of us afraid of what we might do. “I just thought, since it is a fake you might not want it and I can—”
    “Con someone out of their hard earned money I bet,” finished Tiny.
    “A person has to make a living somehow,” said the man.
    “Dishonest buffoon,” murmured Tiny. “Let’s go before he tries to sell us something that isn’t real.”
    We left the store a bit disappointed. For Mrs. Dayton’s sake I had hoped the pipe was real ivory. Oh well. One thing was definitely for certain, the guy at the flea market knew that all of his items made from ivory were fakes. So where was he getting them from?
    “Thanks, Tiny,” I said. “I appreciate it.”
    “Anytime, Mel. Too bad someone gave you a fake. Where’d your friend get it anyway?’
    “She got it from some antique shop at the flea