The Moche Warrior by Lyn Hamilton Page B

going over the place, in case Alex had moved it while I was out, but it was the only thing I could find that was gone.
    I was afraid to tell Lewis that only a strange-looking vase from Peru was missing. If it wasn’t robbery, then he’d go immediately to some other theory, one I was certain I wouldn’t like, and one that would not be good for Alex. Remembering my commitment to myself of the night before, I decided I had to tell him regardless. It occurred to me that if I did it right, I might be able to set him on the right track in his investigation.
    “There’s only one object that I can see that is missing,” I told him. “It is a vase, about six and a half inches high, and it is a reproduction pre-Columbian ceramic made in Peru. It was quite lovely, actually. I got it in a job lot at Molesworth & Cox, the auction house, a couple of weeks ago.” There, I’d told him about the auction. Maybe he could take it from there.
    But no.
“Fake,
is it? Look again,” he said. “Can’t imagine someone taking a fake Peruvian pot and leaving the jewelry and money, can you? Unless, of course, there was a reason other than robbery.” It was the longest sentence I’d heard him utter, and I didn’t like what he was implying any more than when he’d hinted at it the first time.
    After another hour of looking about, Lewis let me leave. PC Chu drove me home. She told me I’d be asked to come in to headquarters to sign a copy of my statement.
    My house seemed very quiet and very lonely. I checked my answering machine to hear Moira telling me in a motherly way not to forget to take my pills and to be sure to have something to eat. Sarah had called from a phone booth on the edge of Algonquin Park to say she’d been delayed and wouldn’t be back for another day. She apologized for calling me at home rather than the shop, but she said she hadn’t been able to get through to the store. “Maybe there’s a problem with the phone, or maybe I dialed incorrectly,” she said. There’s a problem with the phone, all right, I thought. It’s been trashed, burned, and doused. I was not looking forward to telling her about what had happened. There was a message from a friend and colleague, Sam Feldman, telling me how sorry he was to hear about the store, but no message from Rob.
    It occurred to me that I hadn’t heard from many of my colleagues and friends, but perhaps I couldn’t blame them under the circumstances. It was possible, of course, that people were giving me time to recover. But I was more than a little concerned that people, people I considered friends, were out there wondering if indeed I had arranged for the fire at Greenhalgh and McClintoch. The newspaper reports seemed a little ambiguous on the subject, I would have to say.
    I began having rather morose thoughts about the future, along the lines of maybe if this doesn’t get cleared up soon everybody will be crossing the street to avoid having to talk to me. I knew if I stayed at home by myself I would get really depressed, so I decided to pull myself together and go out. I’d imposed on Moira too much already, but Sam Feldman had been nice enough to call, so I thought I’d pay him a visit.
    Sam and I had met years before when I’d taken a conservation course he’d given at the University of Toronto. At the time he was a museum director, but later he decided to go commercial, as he described it, and opened a gallery on Queen Street West. His museum had specialized in eastern antiquities, and he’d been very helpful in sharing his contacts in that part of the world when I branched out and started buying there. In return, I’d given him advice on setting up shop, and we’d stayed in touch. I liked Sam: I always found him funny and articulate, and I thought a visit with him would cheer me up.
    I carefully eased myself behind the wheel of my car and headed down for Queen Street. Sam was there, along with his young assistant. “Hi,” I said. “Thanks for your