over some room-size hand-braided rugs that she had bought at an estate auction for just a few dollars. Most of the big dealers had gone to a more desirable sounding sale in Wisconsin, and Jane had stayed to the bitter end of this little under-advertised gem, picking up a lot of American primitive and country stuff, all hot now, and all at bargain prices. It had gotten her close to being able to actually pay some bills. She had also picked up a trunkful of old photographs, calendars, seed catalogues, and Elmira Selfridge's elementary schoolwork. The family had been pretty proud of Elmira, Jane thought, since it appeared that every spelling test, every composition, and every arithmetic assignment had been carefully saved in a University of Illinois Agricultural Extension binder. Naturally, Charley and Nick had asked more questions about the why of the trunk rather than the how of the truly profitable work of acquiring the rugs. Jane couldn't blame them. She couldn't explain to herself why she had to keep Elmira's colored maps and state capitals quiz. She couldn't explain her passion for purchasing the nonsensical things she often came home with that Miriam would not ever want to buy.
The best she could come up with was If I don't conserve Elmira's work, who will?
And that, she knew, was a tough sell.
* * *
Now, driving back to Evanston a few days ahead of schedule, she sifted through the events of the weekend. The thrill of finding Bateman's Shangri-La packed into boxes and hers for the picking seemed like centuries ago. Discovering Bateman's pickled finger also seemed like ancient history. Something about finding a dead body, or even, for that matter, a dead finger, threw off the mundane time schedule, the 24/7 of daily life. Everything slowed down because it was so important to sift through every minute, every second in order to piece together the why and how of the body, the death, the discovery. Or, if her hunch was right, the victim, the murder, the crime scene.
Jane called Oh on her cell phone and smiled when she heard his careful message. "This is Bruce Oh. Your call is important to me, so please say and spell your name, and repeat your phone number twice, slowly and carefully, and tell me, please, the best time to call you back."
"I'm on my way back to Evanston, so I'm on my cell; but I should be at home in, wait, did I say this is Jane, Jane Wheel, and my home phone, if you get this after an hour or so is, but wait, you have that, I'll give you the cell number first. It's new, I switched carriers, but I can't retrieve the voice mail on it yet, so…"
Oh's machine clicked off.
Jane had never gotten the hang of the succinct message. No matter. He would figure it out and call her back within five minutes of her arrival at home. Dropping her worn leather duffel on the floor by the back door when the phone rang, she hurried in and answered, "What took you so long, Detective Oh?"
"I am so sorry, I must've misdialed. Please forgive me," said a woman whose voice sounded familiar. "I hope there's no trouble?"
Jane recognized it on the second worried but curious remark.
"Is that you, Ollie? This is Jane Wheel speaking."
"Thank goodness. I thought I'd lost even more marbles and that I had copied down your numbers wrong. It was so teeny tiny on your card, I made a new listing for it in my big book. Now I've got this number and your portable one big enough so I can see them," Ollie said, clearly another one who hadn't gotten down the succinct, get-to-the-point telephone manner. "What? Oh, Dot says I'm rambling, and I shouldn't be bothering you."
Jane could picture Dot talking so quietly, her lips barely moving. She remembered giving them one of her old business cards and crossing out the firm's number, printing her home and cell phone number carefully under her name. Miriam was right. She did need to get some new cards, some cards that said Jane Wheel, picker or dealer or vintage items bought and sold or something that
The best she could come up with was If I don't conserve Elmira's work, who will?
And that, she knew, was a tough sell.
* * *
Now, driving back to Evanston a few days ahead of schedule, she sifted through the events of the weekend. The thrill of finding Bateman's Shangri-La packed into boxes and hers for the picking seemed like centuries ago. Discovering Bateman's pickled finger also seemed like ancient history. Something about finding a dead body, or even, for that matter, a dead finger, threw off the mundane time schedule, the 24/7 of daily life. Everything slowed down because it was so important to sift through every minute, every second in order to piece together the why and how of the body, the death, the discovery. Or, if her hunch was right, the victim, the murder, the crime scene.
Jane called Oh on her cell phone and smiled when she heard his careful message. "This is Bruce Oh. Your call is important to me, so please say and spell your name, and repeat your phone number twice, slowly and carefully, and tell me, please, the best time to call you back."
"I'm on my way back to Evanston, so I'm on my cell; but I should be at home in, wait, did I say this is Jane, Jane Wheel, and my home phone, if you get this after an hour or so is, but wait, you have that, I'll give you the cell number first. It's new, I switched carriers, but I can't retrieve the voice mail on it yet, so…"
Oh's machine clicked off.
Jane had never gotten the hang of the succinct message. No matter. He would figure it out and call her back within five minutes of her arrival at home. Dropping her worn leather duffel on the floor by the back door when the phone rang, she hurried in and answered, "What took you so long, Detective Oh?"
"I am so sorry, I must've misdialed. Please forgive me," said a woman whose voice sounded familiar. "I hope there's no trouble?"
Jane recognized it on the second worried but curious remark.
"Is that you, Ollie? This is Jane Wheel speaking."
"Thank goodness. I thought I'd lost even more marbles and that I had copied down your numbers wrong. It was so teeny tiny on your card, I made a new listing for it in my big book. Now I've got this number and your portable one big enough so I can see them," Ollie said, clearly another one who hadn't gotten down the succinct, get-to-the-point telephone manner. "What? Oh, Dot says I'm rambling, and I shouldn't be bothering you."
Jane could picture Dot talking so quietly, her lips barely moving. She remembered giving them one of her old business cards and crossing out the firm's number, printing her home and cell phone number carefully under her name. Miriam was right. She did need to get some new cards, some cards that said Jane Wheel, picker or dealer or vintage items bought and sold or something that
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