Free The Wrong Stuff by Sharon Fiffer

Hollywood-style ruggedness to Blake Campbell’s face, made this man look unclean, unkempt, and vaguely unhealthy—more like someone who had been in bed with the flu for a few days. He had an I-must-cope look in his eyes as well, but it was more of an I’ve-always-had-to-clean-up-the-messes-haven’t-I stare.
    A third man entered and Jane recognized him as Glen LaSalle. She had heard him give booth lectures at several antique shows. He’d appeared on several of the shelter and appraisal programs that had sprung up on television, following in the well-made footprints of the Antiques Roadshow . Average height, thinning hair, and serious glasses, he had the professorial look of the expert. Most recently Jane had encountered him when he’d pushed her aside and took over the CPR for the plaid-shirted man down by the stream.
    â€œFunny how Glen LaSalle is the spokesman of Campbell and LaSalle. You’d think Blake would be the figurehead,” said Jane.
    â€œToo pretty. I told you, no one takes him seriously, even though he’s just as much the brains. He’s certainly the chemist in the operation,” said Tim.
    Although Blake and the scruffy man were in front of the crowd of anxious residents, artists, and clients who had assembled when the “gathering bell” had rung, it was Glen LaSalle who began addressing the group from his position by the side door.
    â€œSorry to disturb quiet time, but we have some terrible news,” Glen began. Two uniformed policeman came into the room through the side door opposite LaSalle. Jane, as she watched the faces of the listeners, saw worry turn to fear in an instant.
    â€œOne of our guests has had an accident,” Glen said, then stopped. He looked like he wasn’t sure what or how much to say now that he had started this whole thing and looked first at Blake, who gave the slightest shrug, then at the man next to Blake.
    â€œI’m Sergeant Murkel and I apologize for my appearance. I was off duty when I responded to this call. I’m afraid that one of the resident artists here, Mr. Rick Moore, was found dead at approximately three-ten P.M. ” Murkel went on to explain that although it was much too early to say anything definitively, Mr. Moore appeared to have drowned.
    Jane watched the jaws drop, the fidgeting hands still, the eyes blink, the breathing quiet as the eleven people in the room took in the news. One woman, age thirty-something to fifty-something with straight hair hanging to her waist, took the hands of the woman and man on either side of her on the leather couch and bowed her head, as if leading them in prayer.
    â€œDrowned?” Tim whispered to Jane. “The creek is only ten inches deep.”
    â€œHe was lying facedown in it. I didn’t really get a good look, but he didn’t look banged up and the bushes and plants weren’t trampled like there had been a fight or anything. No blood. His clothes weren’t torn. The only thing at all…”
    â€œJeez, what are you like when you do get a good look?” Tim asked. “You scoped out that scene like it was the flea market table at the St. Stan’s rummage sale.”
    â€œâ€¦strange,” Jane continued, paying no attention to Tim’s interruption, “was that he didn’t have shoes on, just big, thick walking socks, the kind padded on the bottom and the instep, but no shoes. In fact, one of the socks had snagged and was practically off. His left foot was bare.”
    Sergeant Murkel had said that he and the other officers would like to speak with everyone. They were going to set up an office of sorts in Blake Campbell’s studio, which was located between the barn woodshop and the gallery, which was directly behind the lodge. Jane took out the Campbell and LaSalle booklet Tim had given her earlier and studied the map on the back. Although it wasn’t to scale—every building and landmark was more spread out