Peach Clobbered

by Anna Gerard

  I didn’t need to make the offer twice. Harry promptly tucked the granola bar back into his shirt pocket and took his place at the end of the line. And somehow when we all were seated, he managed to grab the chair next to mine.

  A few minutes later, we were all making swift progress through Daniel’s tasty cooking. Even Mattie got a little sliver of quiche from Sister Mary Thomas, though only after she’d asked for my blessing.

  As with supper the previous night, adding Harry to the mix perked up the conversation level. This time, however, he was the one asking questions, drawing amusing stories about cheese-making and tourists from the nuns. Even Mother Superior deigned to share an anecdote—hers about the time when the sisters went head-to-head with a group of brash young priests from a New York seminary in a cheese competition.

  “You should have seen their faces when the old women brought home the blue ribbon,” she said in remembered triumph. “And the prize money came in handy for upgrading our kitchen.”

  Her grin at the memory made her look a decade younger and brought answering laughter from Harry and the other sisters. Except for one. As I glanced toward the end of the table, I noticed that Sister Mary George wasn’t smiling.

  In fact, she appeared downright perturbed as she stabbed at her quiche with her fork. Apparently not satisfied with mistreating the egg dish, she picked up an apple from the fruit basket along with a paring knife and began slicing the former with the latter. So vigorously did she wield the small knife that the sight set a frisson of alarm vibrating through me.

  I recalled our conversation the day before, and the way the nun had gone from the verge of tears to suppressed anger as we talked about what Bainbridge had done.

  Oh, he knew. And he didn’t care.

  From what Reverend Mother had said, Sister Mary George had known well before the nuns left the convent that their little religious family was going to be broken up as a result of Bainbridge’s foreclosure action. Her outrage at that had been genuine. Was it possible she could have run into Bainbridge at the ice cream parlor the day of the protest and impulsively decided to exact a little back-alley revenge?

  I shook my head, trying to settle my thoughts. When I’d made my statement to Sheriff Lamb, I had been disbelieving when she had implied Sister Mary George might be a suspect. But much as I hated the thought, I’d watched enough cop shows on television to know that a nice circumstantial case could be built against her.

  Motive, opportunity. And, most importantly, the fact that she’d been convicted of doing bad things with a knife once before.

  But even as I tried to counter the thought, the clanking of silverware against crystal glassware refocused my attention. Mother Superior set down her butter knife and waited for the chatter to quiet. Then, gaze stern, she said, “Sisters, I’ve received important news from the archdiocese.”

  I stared back in surprise. Surely she wasn’t going to announce the dissolution now!

  But to my relief, she instead said, “We have been asked by the late Mr. Bainbridge’s family to conduct a Rosary service for him at the convent chapel on Friday evening. I have told them we will be happy to do so. But this also means we’ll need to make a trip back to the convent tomorrow after breakfast to ready the chapel and public rooms. Mayor Green has the keys and will drive us there.”

  “Back to the convent, Reverend Mother?” Sister Mary Thomas echoed with a wide smile, while the other nuns murmured excitedly among themselves. “Why, that would be wonderful. Oh, not that we’re not enjoying our stay here, Nina,” she assured me, “but it would be lovely to see our old home once again. We left in such a hurry …”

  She trailed off, smile abruptly fading as her lips began to tremble. Sister Mary Julian gave her a comforting pat on the hand, while Mother Superior mildly said, “Enough of that, Mary Thomas. We won’t have time for moping while we’re there. We’ll have a lot of work to do. Apparently, a large crowd is expected.”

  “Probably wanting to make sure Bainbridge is really dead,” Harry muttered, presumably for my ears only.

  But when it was apparent from the disapproving gazes suddenly sent his way that he’d spoken loudly enough for the whole table to hear, he added, “What? All I said was, I think that’s a really fine way to pay respect to the dead.”

  “Then we’ll expect you to join us for the service, Mr. Westcott.”

  The nun’s declaration drew a faintly alarmed look from Harry, who obviously had had no intention of going and likely realized he couldn’t say no now.

  Mother Superior, meanwhile, was continuing, “Apparently, Mr. Bainbridge had a large extended family and a good number of business acquaintances, many of whom have said they will attend. Oh, and there is a catered wine-and-cheese reception planned in the convent dining hall immediately following the service.”

  Which explained the expected turnout, I thought, learning from Harry’s mistake and saying that silently to myself.

  Breakfast ended shortly afterward. With help from the sisters, the dishes and leftovers were cleared away. I saw Sister Mary Paul sneak a large square of cobbler onto a plate and hand it off to Harry, and I pretended not to notice as he beat a hasty retreat with his prize.

  It was closing in on nine AM by the time everything was back in place. The nuns, meanwhile, had moved to the back gardens for what Sister Mary George had told me was a meditative walk along the brick paths.

  “Rather like a labyrinth walk,” she’d explained with a smile. “That nice circular walkway around your lovely fountain will serve a similar purpose.”

  I had nodded in interest, trying not to remember that half an hour earlier I was thinking of her as a possible murder suspect.

  “I’ve got a couple of errands to run on the square,” I’d told her instead, “so please spend as much time out there as you like. And, remember, there is lemonade and iced tea in the refrigerator.”

  I’d considered taking Mattie with me—Mason didn’t mind well-behaved dogs in the store—but a glance now out the back window showed her placidly watching from the pavilion as the nuns walked in a measured gait around the fountain. Leaving the pup in charge of the guests, I went back to my room to grab my keys and purse.

  I slung the latter over my shoulder; then, after a moment’s hesitation, I went to my desk and retrieved the little spiral journal where yesterday I’d jotted the names of my suspects. Feeling somewhat foolish, I stuffed the notebook inside the handbag.

  Just in case I need to scribble a few names or numbers after talking with Mason, I assured myself. Then, going to the linen closet to grab the painting that was my excuse for this little excursion, I headed out the door.

  As I reached the square a short while later, I saw that the nearby parking lot and spaces around the shops weren’t nearly as full as they had been in the past few days. No network satellite trucks were in evidence, either, though I spied a logo van from Reporter Dave’s news station parked at the corner where the boiled-peanut guy had his cart. The square activity was almost back to its usual weekday summer self—a few locals, and about twice that many obvious tourists.

  Apparently, with no new leads or suspects in the offing, the media had begun to lose interest in the Penguin Suit Murder.

  “Whew,” a woman’s voice behind me spoke up. “I think we’re getting back to normal again here.”

  I glanced behind me and jumped a little when I saw that the speaker was Becca Gleason. Hers happened to be one of the names on my list … in the first, longer column. I’d put her there because I recalled her reaction the day of the protest while the nuns and I were picking up the protest signs. It had been a few years since her father and his neighbors had been cheated out of their property by Bainbridge, but she was still furious on Travis’s behalf. Definitely a motive … and with her printing shop nearby, she’d certainly had the opportunity to do it.

  Possibly more damning was Travis’s reaction yesterday. Maybe he had his own suspicions. Maybe he feared his daughter could be considered a sus
pect, and he’d been trying to protect Becca by warning me away.

  But right now, the woman was looking at me expectantly. Realizing I had dropped the conversational ball, I pulled myself back to the present.

  “Yeah, normal,” I agreed with the best smile I could muster. “I was just thinking to myself that all the media folks seem to have left town. I guess since the sheriff doesn’t have a firm suspect in the stabbing that they’re getting bored and moving on to something more juicy somewhere else.”

  “Well, I hope so. I know it’s only been a couple of days, but it feels like this has been hanging over us forever.”

  She paused and gave me—or rather, the bundle I was carrying—a curious look. “It’s probably none of my business, but what are you hauling around in a pillowcase this early in the morning? It’s the wrong shape for laundry.”

  I chuckled and rolled down the cloth to reveal a bit of the painting.

  “Check it out. I found this masterpiece in a closet … something left over from when Mrs. Lathrop owned the place. I wanted to have Mason Denman take a look in case it’s actually worth something.”

  “Seriously?” Becca wrinkled her nose and echoed my laugh. “You’re an optimist, Nina. I’ll admit I’m not much on abstract art, but that’s pretty awful. And I think I see three hands on that woman.”

  “No, it’s only two. The third one belongs to an unseen person standing behind her,” I cheerily assured her, and wrapped the painting back up again.

  Then, deciding I might as well take advantage of having one of my “listees” standing in front of me, I added in a casual tone, “So, uh, is there any gossip going around town about who might have stabbed Greg Bainbridge? I mean, I keep hearing that lots of people held a grudge against him, but is there anyone who’d actually stoop to murder? You know, since the sheriff already released her only suspect so far.”

  Becca’s smile vanished, her manner turning suddenly frosty. “Why do you ask? I don’t know anything about any gossip. Why should I? Because I don’t.”

  I took a reflexive step back. Her tone had been low but oddly vehement for someone who claimed not to be in the gossip loop. Or maybe she simply was inordinately sensitive about being thought to be a busybody. Either way, my questioning technique obviously left something to be desired, since she’d shut down after only a single casual query.

  I gave myself a mental kick in the pants. Good going, Nina. If Becca knew something, chances were she wasn’t going to share with me now.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” I hurried to assure her. “I wasn’t implying you were a gossip. I just thought … you know, as fellow business owners … that we should know what people are saying. Because something like this murder can hurt our bottom line. I’m not just talking the tourists, but the locals. Folks can get pretty testy with all the hoopla, and everybody being suspicious of everyone else. And like they say, forewarned is forearmed.”

  I was afraid for a moment that I’d overdone the apology. To my relief, however, her expression thawed slightly.

  “Yeah, I see what you’re saying. Between the press hanging around and those news conferences on the square, my regulars have been keeping their distance. And I’m guessing no one wants to book a B&B in a town where there’s an unsolved murder, either.” She paused and gave a thoughtful nod. “You’re right, it probably wouldn’t hurt to head off any rumors at the pass.”

  “Agreed. So I guess let’s both keep our ears open.”

  I hefted my pillowcase and added, “I’d best go see if Mason is going to tell me that I’m sitting on a cool couple of million here.”

  Becca’s smile returned. “Good luck. If you win the oil painting lottery, don’t forget your friends here in Cymbeline.”

  We parted on that friendly note, and I took the catty-corner route across the square toward Weary Bones. Since my first attempt at cross-examination hadn’t gone so well, I’d need to up my game when I talked with Mason. As in, ease into mentioning subjects like stabbing and murder rather than rushing right in.

  Fortunately for my cover story, I was the only customer in the shop when I walked in, an electronic bell discreetly announcing my arrival. I made my way down the main aisle, waiting for his pompadoured self to pop out from behind the register. When he didn’t, I called out, “Mason, it’s Nina Fleet. Are you here?”

  Just as I’d begun to worry, picturing the antique shop owner sprawled in the alley like Bainbridge, I heard some shuffling from the back of the store. A moment later, Mason came walking up.

  “Sorry, Nina. I was inventorying some ephemera and I didn’t want to lose count.”

  He wore navy dress slacks and a white dress shirt topped by the usual vest, this time made of pale-blue summer wool, which held his signature hankie. He halted before me and plucked out that cloth square, patting his forehead with it while I observed him in concern.

  The man’s dyed-black pompadour had lost much of its usual pouf, and the dark circles under his eyes were even more noticeable because of the pallor of his face. As for his signature handkerchief, rather than the usual vintage square, this day’s example was run-of-the-mill white cotton without even a monogram to distinguish it.

  “Mason, are you all right? Are you coming down with something?”

  He tucked away the hankie again and waved me off with a faint smile. “I’m fine, Nina, just not sleeping well. This whole situation with Greg—well, you know.”

  His voice broke a little on those last words before he rallied and went on in a stronger tone, “So, what brings you by this morning? Should I deduce there’s something interesting in that pillowcase you’re clutching?”

  In my concern for him, I’d almost forgotten the painting. Now, with a surprised little laugh, I admitted, “Interesting is probably putting a good face on it. I found this painting stuck in a closet and hoped you might take a look. It probably should go in a garage sale, but I thought just in case I should show it to you first.”

  More carefully than I probably needed to, I pulled the painting from its makeshift wrapping and handed it to him.

  Including the carved wooden frame, the oil was about ten by twelve inches. Even my untrained eyes identified the style as cubism, given that the painted figure’s head, limbs, and torso were broken into distinct blocks of line and color and then rearranged out of order. The color palette was mostly shades of browns mixed with black, with a bit of dark rusty red and a few splotches of white to relieve the gloom.

  Ugly as sin had been my first thought when I’d found it. And then I had glimpsed a bit of painted signature at the bottom of the small canvas that the frame hadn’t quite covered.

  The letters PIC.

  Mason, meanwhile, was hmming and ahing as he studied the painting from various angles. Then he asked, “Do you mind if I remove the painting from the frame?”

  “Be my guest.”

  He gestured me to follow him, and we walked over to the counter where the cash register was situated. Mason set the painting facedown on a section of countertop that had been padded for such purposes and pulled on the pair of white cotton gloves lying there. While I watched in anticipation, he used a small screwdriver and pliers to remove the various screws and staples that held canvas to frame. That accomplished, he turned the painting upright again.

  Flipping on the extendable lighted magnifying lamp clamped to the counter’s edge, he began his examination. Just as I’d started mentally composing the Sotheby’s auction catalog listing, Mason smiled and looked back up at me, shaking his pompadoured head.

  “I’m afraid what we have here is a nice effort by a hobbyist painter attempting to emulate the cubist style.”

  “What about the signature?” I asked, holding on to one last bit of hope.

  His smile broadened—obviously, he knew what I’d been thinking—and he pointed to the fully revealed signature. “Sorry, Nina. It’s Picardie, not Picasso,”

  I leaned in and confirmed his assertion, my sigh one of equal parts amusement and disappointm
ent. But Mason offered a consolation prize.

  “It’s not a total loss,” he replied. “The painting might be crap, but you’ve got yourself a lovely nineteenth-century Italian frame wrapped around it. The wood carving is exquisite, and the gilding is real. I’d give you a hundred dollars right now, just for the frame, but you could put it up on eBay and probably get two or three times that, if you’re lucky.”

  “Oh, I think I’ll hang onto it. The painting’s kind of growing on me,” I told him, smothering a grin. I would do a little checking at Cymbeline’s historical society. If this Picardie turned out to be a long-lost relative of Mrs. Lathrop, I’d give the painting to Harry as a goodbye present when his weeklong stay ended.

  Mason, meanwhile, nodded and stripped off the gloves. “Hey, whatever floats your boat. If you like it, it’s good art. Let me run to the storeroom for some new fasteners, and I’ll put that back together for you in a jiffy.”

  Leaving me at the counter, he headed toward the rear of the shop. I was studying a small glass case filled with mourning jewelry on the other side of the register when I heard a muffled exclamation.

  I straightened. “Mason, what’s wrong?”

  Then, when he didn’t immediately reply, I hurried in the same direction he’d gone. I spied him bent over a heavy wooden box sitting on a display shelf. “Is everything all right?”

  He straightened, his expression one of distress. The box in question was a vintage flatware box, stained a deep brown with a strip of lighter inlaid wood along its edges. It was open, and I could see its purple velvet interior. The box held a set of antique silver serving utensils: oversized forks, various spoons, and a couple of knives. Nice, but hardly unique.

  I was still puzzled by why he was making a big deal over it when Mason pointed to the one slot in the velvet that was empty.

  “I don’t believe it. Look. Some miscreant stole my carving knife right out from under my nose!”

  Chapter Nineteen

  A stolen knife? My thoughts instinctively flashed to the memory of an oversized carving knife sticking out of Gregory Bainbridge’s chest. Could that murder weapon have come from the shelves of Weary Bones?