East Hampton did not provide public trash services. Residents either paid a private company or schlepped their own garbage and recycling to the processing center. As a result, the crowds there on weekends were a combination of some of the poorest and wealthiest people in town—those who couldn’t afford the alternative, and those who could, but took pleasure in the sense of self-reliance that came from taking out their own trash.

Knowing the physical setup of the local dump, Carter hadn’t understood exactly where the rug had been discovered. To his knowledge, once something was dropped in the dumpster, it was beyond access to the public.

“Oh no, trust me,” Mrs. Streeter said, “these aren’t our employees or officially sanctioned volunteers. It’s a small group of seniors who have taken it upon themselves to scour the dump for possible donations. To tell you the truth, though, most of what they bring to us ends up right back in the dumpster. You know that drop-off center next to the trash cans where you can leave things that others might be interested in?”

Carter nodded. He called it “zombie land.” Every weekend, crowds of people would linger in the area, hoping some multimillionaire would swing by with a truckload of lightly used luxury goods. If a Porsche SUV stopped at the curb, the crowd would swarm toward the fresh meat. A beat-up jalopy? The zombies might not bother to rise from their beach chairs.

“A couple of years ago,” Mrs. Streeter went on to explain, “a few folks began bringing in donations from the drop-off area. Then if they saw anyone tossing something salvageable, they’d ask if they could have it for us instead. But now one of them goes even further and hassles the workers to pull stuff from the dumpsters. I mean, it’s very sweet of them to try, but the other day, they brought in a laminate card table that was missing two legs. Give me a break.”

“So do you know where the rug came from?”

“Oh sure. Bob brought it in himself. Bob Taylor. I’ve got his number written down for you already and told him you’d likely be calling. I think he’s pretty excited about it, to tell you the truth. He’s a hoot, but also a Chatty Cathy, so prepare yourself. He was so proud when he brought in the rug. I got the impression he thought it was a real Persian carpet. He also thought it was a wine stain, but when I saw it for myself . . . well, I wasn’t going to risk it. Like I said, we weren’t real sure what to do with it, and then I saw the press conference playing on the TV.”

“Do you know when he found it?”