Cora turned, went down the front steps.

Wilbur was caught off-guard. "Hey! Hey!"

He stumbled out on the stoop after her.

The door slammed.

Wilbur stopped dead, let out a string of invectives that would have befitted a drill sergeant welcoming the raw recruits.

Cora smiled up at him from the foot of the steps. "I take it you don't have your keys?"

Wilbur compared her to creatures of limited intelligence but impressive sexual prowess.

Cora waited for him to sputter to a halt, then suggested, "How about a back window? You got a ladder?"

Wilbur seemed on the verge of suggesting unorthodox uses for the ladder. Instead he muttered, "In the barn." He clomped down the steps and trudged in that direction.

Cora tagged along behind.

Wilbur reached the barn door, picked up a rock. He turned back to Cora. "You planning on robbing me?"

"It wasn't on my agenda."

Wilbur smashed a pane of glass with the rock, reached in, and unlocked the door.

"Is that how they stole your chairs?"

"Didn't you read the report?"

Wilbur disappeared inside the barn, was back a moment later with a metal extension ladder.

"I read the report," Cora said.

"Then you know."

Wilbur dragged the ladder over to the house. It was built on a slope, so the back windows were higher than the front. Unopened, the ladder barely reached. He leaned it against the side of the house, climbed up, took a crescent wrench out of his pocket, and smashed one of the windowpanes. He reached in, unlatched the window, pushed it up, and clambered over the sill.

Cora went around to the front door. She wasn't sure if Wilbur would let her in, but figured he had to move the ladder.

After a few minutes he came out.

"Got your keys?" Cora needled him.

He gave her a look, trudged to the back of the house, took down the ladder, and stowed it noisily in the barn. He emerged with a hammer, nails, and some plywood. He tacked one sheet over the broken window, and locked the barn door.

"You're gonna patch the other window from inside," Cora said. "I know that because I'm a trained investigator. And I saw you put away the ladder."

"You ever solve a case?" Wilbur asked her.

"How long have you lived here?"

"Too damn long."

He went up the front steps into the store. Cora followed, found herself in a room full of junk. Granted, what Cora knew of antiques couldn't have furnished your average breakfast nook; still, the stuff in Wilbur's shop looked more likely to be piled up on curbside next to the recyclables than adorning anyone's home or office. The demand, for instance, for a two-wheeled tricycle with no seat couldn't be high.

As for the furniture, while it was certainly old, it was also cracked and covered with dust. Tables, dressers, desks, sideboards, etc., in various periods, styles, and materials were thrown haphazardly together. The desk with the missing drawer was grouped with the director's chair with no back. Cora managed to restrain herself from buying them. She wasn't sure how long she could hold out against the allure of the ripped vinyl settee.

Wilbur shuffled behind what turned out to pass for a desk, though Cora wouldn't have known it. He flipped open an appointment book, took out a pen, and wrote laboriously, moving his lips.

"Police... send... inspector. Refuses... to... inspect."

"That's hardly fair," Cora protested. "I'm here. What do you want inspected?"

"You read the file?"

Cora took a breath. "Of course I read the file. You bought some chairs. You reported them stolen. From the barn out back. Under interrogation, you admitted you might have left the door open."

Wilbur dismissed that with a brief, exceptionally pungent comment.

"You didn't admit you might have left the door open?"

"If you knew that, when I broke the window, why'd you ask me if that was how the robber got in?"

So. The guy was sharper than she'd thought. "Why are the chairs important?" Cora asked.

"What?"

"Are these valuable chairs? How much did you pay for them?"

"Isn't it in the file?"

"Is the file accurate?"

"You first."

Cora flipped open the file. "It says you bought the chairs for fifty bucks apiece, but you claim they're worth closer to a hundred."

"They are."

"Is that why you bought them? Because they were cheap?"

"Sure."

"You were looking to make a profit on the chairs?"

Wilbur said nothing.

"That's a hundred percent profit. If you sell 'em at a hundred bucks apiece. You report the loss to your insurance company?"

"What's that got to do with it?"

"I assume you want to get your money back. Of course, you couldn't get a hundred bucks a chair."

"What the hell are you talking about? I don't want the damn money. I want my chairs."

"I understand. How's that working out for you so far?"

Wilbur opened his mouth to retort, closed it again. Tugged at the sleeves of his sweater. Peered at her with crafty eyes. "Okay, lady. You wanna help, I'm glad to have you. Not that I'm letting Harper off the hook. It's a police matter, and you ain't police. If Harper thinks sending you out here takes care of it, he's dead wrong. Now, do I gotta tell him that in person, or will you communicate it to him?"

"I can promise you it will come up in conversation."

Cora had the impression she might have detected a smile at the corner of Wilbur's mouth.

"All right, lady. Find my chairs."

"How?"

"You're the detective. You tell me."

"Let's look at the scene of the crime."

"Why?"

"That's how crimes are solved."

"Not this time. I had chairs. They're gone."

"Can I see where they were?"

"Not gonna help you much."

"So whaddya expect me to do?"

"Find them."

"With nothing to go on?"

"There's a picture in the file."

"You took a picture of the chairs?"

"No. It was in the auction catalogue."

Cora pulled out the photo of a chair. It was a wooden straight-back chair, with curved arms and a woven seat. It looked decidedly uncomfortable. Cora wouldn't have given ten bucks for it, let alone fifty. "They all look like this?"

"More or less. Some needed repair."

"But they all went for fifty bucks?"

"It was a single lot. They all went together."

"All right. You bought 'em at auction. You brought 'em home, you locked 'em in the barn."

"That's right."

"When was the next time you looked for 'em?"

"It was a while."

"Why?"

"I was busy. I bought 'em to sell."

"Did you put 'em on the market?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"They needed work. I didn't get around to it."

"And then you did. The chairs were gone. There was no sign of a break-in. You reported this to the police."

"That's right."

"Who would have wanted to steal your chairs?"

He shrugged. "I dunno. Antiques dealer."

"Why would an antiques dealer take those chairs and leave everything else?"

"I have no idea."

"You have any enemies? Anyone out to get you? Any rival like to see you fail?"

"Don't be silly."

"Why is that silly?"

"I fail because of a few chairs?"

"That was a generalization. How about it? Anyone you got a blood feud with looking to give you trouble?"

"No."

"The chairs were stolen when?"

"It's in the file."