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sometimes, some lucky times, saw across a room—the work of a master hand.
    â€œWhat I didn’t see right away was that the table was actually the top shelf of a chest. The top surface was narrow, but that could mean it was handmade and offsize, that’s all. It was only when I saw the chest that I put it together,” said Claire. “I guess I mean that literally as well as figuratively.” She smiled, almost apologetically, at Bruce Oh, who had barely spoken since Jane had entered the house.
    â€œIt’s beautiful,” said Jane, knowing that any word was inadequate when used to describe treasure. She felt the pull of the chest and continued to stroke one of the larger carvings on the drawer.
    Jane knew that wood could talk, tell stories. She believed that the carved chest had whispered just loud enough for the right person to hear, “Take me home, Claire. I’m something.”
    â€œYes,” said Claire, walking around to the back of the chest, turning and looking back at Jane and her husband. She was taller than the chest, tall enough to look across the top of it. Claire leaned her chin on the shelf, half closed her eyes, and sighed. “It’s a fake,” she said.

3

    How many pairs of shoes do you own? Don’t check yet. Got the number? Now go to your closet and count. Twice as many? Three times as many? Why do you own what you can’t even remember you have?
    â€”B ELINDA S T. G ERMAIN, Overstuffed
    â€œA beautiful fake,” said Claire, “but a fake nonetheless.”
    Jane looked back and forth from Claire’s eyes to the drawer pulls and the sunflower carvings and shook her head.
    â€œI’d bet my…,” Jane began to say.
    Claire stopped her. “Don’t. You’d lose it.” She came back around the front of the chest and pulled out the drawer. “You can see where they aged the wood, but it’s a little too even, too neat. Dovetails are all large and too perfect. Look how it fits.”
    Claire slid the drawer back in place.
    â€œPerfect, isn’t it?” asked Jane.
    â€œYes,” Claire said. “It shouldn’t be though. A drawer from an authentic piece wouldn’t go all the way in, wouldn’t be such a perfect fit. There would be more ventilation space left at the back. There are other clues, too….”
    Bruce Oh, who had quietly brought in a tray with coffee, set it down and motioned for Jane to come over and sit.
    â€œClaire rarely makes mistakes,” he said.
    â€œBut when I do…,” Claire said, letting the thought trail.
    â€œIf Mrs. Wheel is going to help…,” said Oh.
    Lost in the land of ellipses, thought Jane. Somebody better finish a sentence around here .
    â€œWhat is it you think I can…?” Jane began to ask.
    Claire cleared her throat and straightened herself to her full six plus feet. Jane had always mistrusted people that tall. The truth was, and she knew it, she was jealous. Jane worried that the tall were able to see everything she, as the smaller than average, missed: dust on top of the refrigerator, cobwebs on the ceiling, the frailties of the human heart. Right now, even though Claire Oh was clearly in distress, Jane was certain she would never lose her keys, mismatch her socks, or mislay a permission slip.
    â€œI called my helper, Stanley, to bring the truck over, and we loaded up the chest together. I kept it here, at home, in the garage. Horace came to see it. He agreed with me that it was a Westman—or the closest thing we were ever going to find. Wrote me a check for a deposit, and I told him I’d drive it up to Campbell and LaSalle myself for the cleaning and restoration.”
    Claire looked Jane over from top to bottom. “Do you know about Campbell and LaSalle?” she asked.
    Jane was surprised at how thoroughly she resented Claire Oh’s question. Yes, she was a picker not a dealer, and yes, she liked the old and