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worn more than the old and precious, and yes, she was wearing a boxy, vintage wool jacket over a pair of skinny jeans instead of the slim, gray Armani skirt and silk blouse that Claire was wearing. Yes, even after some jail time, Claire Oh had the dealer look, the I-know-the-value-of-everything-you’ve-ever-touched look, and yes, she had on Manolo Blahnik heels, too, but did that give her the right to assume Jane would not know that Campbell and LaSalle were the premiere restorers/refinishers/rebuilders in the country? Just because the jewelry Jane was sporting was a Bakelite pin with dangling butterscotch cherries instead of the forties Cartier diamond watch that Claire wore on her left wrist? Jane reminded herself that she really liked Bruce Oh, and he had asked her to come and talk to Claire.
    â€œWho is Horace?” Jane asked.
    â€œHorace Cutler’s a dealer in fine European antiques. This wasn’t his cup of tea, but he had a buyer. Everyone was going to make something on this,” Claire said, patting the surface of the chest.
    Everyone but the owner, Jane thought, but didn’t say anything out loud. After all, would she refuse if someone running an estate sale gave her something? Just asked her to haul it away? No. But what if she thought the something was something? Would she tell?
    â€œI checked it in with one of the carpenters at Campbell and LaSalle and told him I wanted the minimum amount of work done. Clean it up, put it back together, save the age, you know, the patina,” Claire said.
    Jane nodded. She and her pal, Tim, when out of earshot and sight of Charley and Nick, played a pretend game. Tim would link his arm though Jane’s at a flea market, and they would discuss their imaginary daughter, little Patina. “Would Patina like a little dressing table for her room?” “Is Patina still collecting poodles?”
    Tim always said that as soon as he met the right man, they’d get themselves a poodle and name it Patina just to satisfy all of his Kankakee flower shop customers who weren’t happy having a gay florist unless he made them laugh and sang them show tunes. Tim often used Jane, not as his beard to pretend he was straight, but rather as his foil for outragious behavior. Jane was stuck playing Cher to his Elton.
    â€œThey want me drooling over Liza and nibbling quiche,” Tim had said the last time Jane was in the store. “If they saw me with you, eating a pizza, drinking a beer, and not ratcheting my voice up to an octave above Q for queen, they’d go back to buying their flowers at the Jewel.”
    â€œI drove up to Michigan and picked up the chest myself,” Claire said. “I just glanced at it, and it looked gorgeous. I delivered it to Horace’s gallery. His assistant signed for it. I came home and changed for the Hospital Auxiliary antique show at the Community House and when I got there, Horace was already waiting for me at my designated space, screaming at my assistant that the chest delivered to him was a fake and he wanted his deposit back immediately. He said he had already sent it back to the house.” Claire continued rubbing the wood as she talked. “He went even crazier when he saw me. Called me lots of names. Screamed at everyone passing by that I was a liar and a cheat.”
    Bruce Oh, silent for so long, went over to his wife and patted her hand, which, Jane realized, was moving a bit obsessively over the carving. He led her over to the couch, and when she had sat, Oh took up the story.
    â€œMrs. Wheel, you’ve been at shows like that. The first night is a benefit. Well-dressed people, drinking champagne, an elegant evening. Mr. Cutler’s screaming cut through the crowd like a knife.”
    â€œWhat happened?” asked Jane.
    â€œSecurity came and escorted him out,” said Claire. “Here was this elegant little man, dressed in an impeccable suit, yelling like a crazy person. Said his