The Wrong Stuff by Sharon Fiffer Read Free Book Online Page A

know,” Jane said, “and his wife wouldn’t…”
    â€œHey, your husband Charley—remember him—is a wise and thoughtful man, and you do all sorts of irrational things. You buy truckloads of vintage junk that might make you some cash if you turned it around, but you adopt it and give it its own room.”
    Jane took a deep breath and looked around the room. She was drowning in stuff; her family was drowning in stuff; she was pulling them under. Yes, she was an irrational woman married to an intelligent, logical man. But she wouldn’t kill anyone. Claire was not what Jane had expected, not who she wanted her to be, but Jane didn’t think Claire would kill anyone either. But. But what? There was something.
    â€œClaire didn’t kill Horace Cutler, Tim. She’s…she’s not…”
    â€œYe-e-e-s?” said Tim, drawing the word out like a cartoon shrink.
    How could Jane explain this? Before she had met Claire Oh, she had had such a clear picture of her—and for the silliest of reasons. Detective Oh’s neckties. He wore these funny, gorgeous vintage ties that he always seemed vaguely embarrassed about. He’d wave away Jane’s compliments, explaining that his wife bought them and insisted he wear them. Jane had pictured her, had actually tried to pick her out at estate sales, and had thought of her as this plump, homey, funny collector, a bit more advanced than Jane, but lovely and warm. Claire Oh was supposed to be the counterpoint to Bruce Oh’s careful reserve. She was supposed to be the yin to his yang, the jazz to his classical, the Mrs. Columbo to his Peter Falk. No, that wasn’t quite it…but Tim was waiting.
    â€œClaire Oh did not murder Horace Cutler,” said Jane, “but I will admit this. I didn’t exactly warm up to her. There’s something about Claire that just rubbed me the wrong way, something…I don’t know, like she was a snotty cheerleader or something and I was the editor of the yearbook or…”
    â€œYou were the editor of the yearbook,” Tim reminded her.
    â€œYeah, but I chose that. I could have been a…” Jane stopped herself, remembering that she was a mature adult, a career woman, a wife and mother, and soon to be an organized, uncluttered detective and picker. Besides, Tim was the one person in her life who would know for sure that she couldn’t do the splits at age fifteen—or at any other age for that matter. She wasn’t going to convince Tim that she chose not to be a cheerleader.
    â€œThat’s all beside the point,” Jane said. “Maybe if it weren’t for Detective Oh, I wouldn’t want to do this, but…”
    â€œLet’s face it, honey, if it weren’t for Detective Oh, you would have drowned in Bakelite buttons by now. The fact that he sees your talent for finding things, your instincts for what’s valuable, as important job skills is what’s given you the confidence to move from junk collector to…” Tim stopped.
    â€œYes?” Jane asked, waiting to hear Tim use her new professional title of detective.
    â€œA junk collector who’s about to visit Campbell and LaSalle.”

4

    When someone asks you for a pen, do you rummage through your purse and come up empty-handed? Do you empty your bag later and find three pens and two pencils, ink dry, leads broken? Wouldn’t one working, well-placed writing instrument be enough?
    â€”B ELINDA S T. G ERMAIN, Overstuffed
    â€œIt’s in here someplace,” Jane said. She was searching for a small notebook that she always kept for jotting down items she was currently looking for at sales. She decided to take notes as Tim told her about Glen LaSalle and his partner, Blake Campbell. “Jingle Bells” sounded from somewhere in the bottom of her large, leather bag.
    â€œIsn’t it a little early to switch your ring to Christmas carols?”