intercom.
Dan Finley answered in the other room. “Yeah, Chief?”
“Dan, you got the file on the Wilbur case?”
“Excuse me?”
“Yeah. The Wilbur file. Could you bring that in here?”
“Are you kidding me?”
“Thanks, Dan.” Chief Harper hung up the phone.
“What’s the Wilbur case?” Cora demanded.
“You wanna look into something, this is it.”
Dan Finley came in the door. “You sure you want the Wilbur case?”
“Don’t oversell it, Dan. Your skepticism is noted.”
“What’s the case?” Cora asked.
“Unsolved robbery. Been kicking around for a year now.”
“It’s still open?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“I don’t understand.”
“The thing that keeps this case open, instead of sinking into the depths of the great unsolved, every month or two Mr. Wilbur comes in and refiles the complaint.”
“Can he do that?”
“I have no idea. But short of arresting him or throwing him out of my office, I don’t know how to stop him.”
“Who is he?”
“Antiques dealer. Has a shop just out of town. With the broken wagon wheel sign.”
“Oh, him. So what does he claim was stolen?”
“His chairs.”
“What chairs?”
“He bought some chairs at auction. Had ’em delivered to his shop.”
“And?”
“Someone stole ’em.”
“When?”
“If I knew that, I might be able to solve this crime.”
“He doesn’t know when the robbery took place?”
“He has a barn out back. He stores stuff not immediately for sale.”
“The chairs weren’t immediately for sale?”
“Stick with me here. No, they weren’t. They were rattan, wicker-back chairs. Needed refinishing. Wilbur intended to get ’em done, never got to it. Next time he looked for ’em, they were gone.”
“And that period of time would be?”
“Anybody’s guess. The best we can tell, the auction was in April, Wilbur filed his first complaint in May.”
“A month later?”
“Thirteen months later.”
Cora cocked her head. “I can’t see why you haven’t solved this case, Chief.”
Dan Finley’s smile was enormous. “You giving it to her? He’s due to come in any day now. Can I say we gave it to her?”
“You can say we consulted an expert. Not that it will matter.” Chief Harper picked up his coffee cup, smiled with satisfaction. “I imagine by then he and Cora will have become good friends.”
T HE BROKEN WAGON wheel sign was the only thing Cora remembered about Wilbur’s Antiques. This was not surprising. The white, two-story frame building looked exactly like ninety percent of the houses on the main street of Bakerhaven, which differed from each other only in their choice of black or green shutters. Wilbur had opted for green, the same color as the paint on his sign, which was short and to the point: ANTIQUES , it declared, in upper- and lower-case script. The
A
had a pointed top rather than round. The sign was rectangular, about a third wider than it was high.
The sign perched on the broken wagon wheel, which was missing at least two of its spokes. Any missing from the top half would have been hidden by thesign. The wagon wheel was held up by two-by-fours, which kept it at a slight angle from the perpendicular.
Cora pulled up next to the curb and stopped. Her red Toyota was the only car on the block. Apparently, the sign was not packing them in. Cora walked over and peered at the back of the sign, noted that the top spokes were all there. She continued along the front of the house until she could see the barn behind. It was white with green trim. The scene of the crime.
Cora reined herself in. Mustn’t make fun. This was important to the gentleman, needed to be treated seriously.
Cora went up the front steps. The windows on either side were not promising. One held a rather ratty Christmas wreath. The other a green vase. Neither instilled in Cora the desire to buy anything.
The front door was wood, not glass, allowing no view of the treasures within. It was also locked.