According to Their Deeds by Paul Robertson

pass.”
    “Okay, but it’ll be here if you want it. Until somebody else grabs it.”
    “Thank you, Norman. Thanks for everything.”
    The walk to downtown would have been as long as the walk to Georgetown. Charles took the Metro. The first train coming in from Arlington was too crowded and he had to wait for the next. Presently, though, he was back on the pavement and then at the same building where he’d been Monday.
    The lobby oozed discretion and prosperity; the thickest concentration had solidified into the receptionist. “Good afternoon,” he said. “I called a little earlier. I understand that you have a list of agents available to represent buyers in your auctions?”
    “Yes, sir. I remember your call. I have one here for you.”
    “Thank you so much.” The dark doors to the blue auction room were open. The rows of chairs were empty. “I wonder . . .”
    “Yes, sir?”
    “A friend of mine was at an auction here Monday, and he noticed an agent—he assumed it was an agent, anyway, a young woman about your age.”
    The woman at the desk was not very young. Her smile tightened.
    “Sir, I don’t know who that woman was, and if I did, I still wouldn’t be able to tell you. I also don’t know who else is looking for her, or why. I also can’t give you any information about what she bought or what she did with anything that she did buy.”
    “I’m sorry,” Charles said, “I didn’t mean . . .”
    “Yes, sir. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
    “No. You’ve been very helpful. Thank you.”
    He hurried from the room, and from the building. On the sidewalk he looked at the paper; it had dozens of listings. He folded it and slid it into his pocket.
    “Have we sold anything, Alice?” he asked.
    Alice’s dresses were invariably smart and new; but they were always the color of old things. “A volume of Robert Browning,” she said.
    “Not my favorite poet. Sometimes he seems to me rather overdone.”
    “If he were overdone, Mr. Beale, he would be Robert Burns.”
    Charles stopped in his tracks. “That’s a terrible pun, Alice.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “He is not some frozen turkey to put in the oven.”
    “Certainly not, sir.”
    “Because that would be Robert Frost.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “There you are,” Dorothy said, gliding down the stairs. “That was a long visit.”
    “I made a few other stops, including Norman.”
    She had a stack of envelopes, which she set on the counter. “Has the mailman already come?”
    “No, Mrs. Beale,” Alice said.
    “Give him these.” Charles and Dorothy climbed back up the steps to the office. “And what was Lucy like?”
    “She was in the sky with diamonds.”
    The office had once been the master bedroom, and the other second-floor bedroom was now storage. The two closets had been combined, and then given their own door to the hall, and then they had been given Morgan.
    “I have a search for you,” Charles said.
    “Yes, sir?”
    “See if you can find the telephone number of a Galen Jones, somewhere local.”
    “Yes, sir. Just a second. Uh . . . it doesn’t come up right away. There’s thousands of Joneses. Any other clues?”
    “He makes furniture.”
    “Oh. Okay. Yeah, here. Maybe this is it.”
    Charles copied the number from the computer screen. “Thank you, Morgan. And can you tell me the secret of life?”
    “I could query Google.”
    “Never mind.”
    “Hello?” A tired female voice.
    Charles settled into his own chair. “Hello. I’m calling for Mr. Galen Jones?”
    “He’s not home.”
    “My name is Charles Beale, and I’m trying to get hold of him.”
    “Give me your phone number, and I’ll let him know.”
    Dorothy was quite settled into her own chair. “And who is Galen Jones?” she asked.
    “A matchmaker.”
    “A what?”
    “I am trying to find a wife for Angelo,” Charles said.
    “Get one who doesn’t need lots of communication.”
    “A good point, dear. A matchmaker is a maker of replica antique