The Carousel Painter

by Judith Miller

  I thought it a fancy choice to wear when calling in The Bottoms, but I didn’t say so. “Would you care to join us for supper? I’m certain Mrs. Wilson can set another place.”

  Augusta wrinkled her nose. “I haven’t forgotten that woman’s lack of culinary skill. You should know I’d never dine at her table. I’d likely be sick for a week.”

  “I’ve managed to survive, and you’ll hurt her feelings if you refuse.”

  “Then we shall take the carriage and go to the tearoom downtown. They serve a light evening meal. Run upstairs and freshen up. I’ll wait.”

  I didn’t argue. I wouldn’t win. Besides, I wanted to hear about the returned necklace. I performed my toilette as quickly as possible and stopped downstairs long enough to advise Mrs. Wilson of my plans.

  “But I’ve made cabbage rolls for supper, and you’re going to miss out.” She rubbed her hands together. “I know they’re one of Josef’s favorites, and I hope to cheer him.”

  I didn’t think Mrs. Wilson’s cabbage rolls were going to cheer Josef. Perhaps the ones his mother had made when he was a young boy had been a favorite—but not the ones prepared in Mrs. Wilson’s kitchen. “I hope you all enjoy them,” I said.

  “I’ll save one or two for your lunch pail tomorrow.”

  The thought of cold cabbage rolls, especially Mrs. Wilson’s cold cabbage rolls, was enough to send me skittering out the door without comment. Augusta hooked her arm through mine, and soon we were on our way. When I tried to quiz her about the necklace, she interrupted and said we’d discuss the necklace over supper.

  Once the waiter had delivered a cold chicken salad and warm rolls, I reiterated my question. “Who stole your mother’s necklace?” I bit into the warm roll, the fragrance reminding me of the bakery beneath our apartment back in France.

  “As I mentioned in my letter, the detective said he’s still in the process of investigating. I’m not supposed to be discussing this with you, but we are best friends. Besides, I don’t believe the detective.”

  The bite of roll stuck in my throat. “About what?” I croaked.

  “Well.” She whispered the drawn-out word and leaned across the table, her gaze darting around the room. Did she think Detective Lawton might peek out from beneath one of the linen-clad tables?

  I pictured the detective with one of the freshly starched tablecloths draped across his bald pate, his beady eyes trained upon us, and burst into a fit of giggles.

  “Oh, do stop, Carrie. This isn’t funny. If my parents discovered I was telling you any of this, I’d find myself in a great deal of trouble.”

  I thought Augusta’s parents had much more worrisome problems to focus upon, but her recrimination and thoughts of Mr. Galloway’s medical malady did bring my laughter under control. I covered my mouth with my fingers. “I won’t laugh. I promise.”

  Augusta fixed her lips in a prim, tight line that matched the ramrod frame of her shoulders. I realized that during the past two months she’d become the socialite daughter her mother so desperately desired. I knew we would never again walk barefoot in the grass or stroll down the sidewalk eating warm bread. My old friend had disappeared, just like my father’s paintings. Had the detective mentioned the missing paintings to Augusta or her family? I’d said nothing to Mr. Galloway, though Josef may have reported the theft to him.

  At my encouragement, Augusta finally continued. “This truly is an exciting happening. That’s why I wanted to tell you in person.” Once again she looked around the near-empty room. “At a recent party hosted at the home of—well, it doesn’t matter where it was hosted; you won’t know the people. Anyway, I was standing with some of my friends waiting for the orchestra to begin, and the butler announced Mr. and Mrs. Summerly, people I’d never before seen. They entered the room, and that’s when it happened.” She paused and stared at me.

  “What happened?” I asked, becoming increasingly annoyed by Augusta’s theatrics.

  “Mother screamed, and I went racing to her side. She appeared to be frozen with her outstretched index finger pointing at the woman who’d entered the room. Mrs. Summerly was wearing Mother’s necklace.” Augusta clasped her hand across her neckline.

  “No!” I could barely contain my excitement. My ravenous appetite had completely disappeared, and I pushed aside all thoughts of my earlier exasperation. Had we not been in the tearoom, I would have jumped to my feet and danced with delight.

  “Indeed!” Augusta’s eyes shone with excitement. “Isn’t that the most amazing thing you’ve ever heard?”

  Who could argue? The news was more than amazing—it was very strange. Why would a woman wear a stolen necklace to a party where she might encounter the owner? My enthusiasm dissipated. “There’s more to this, isn’t there?”

  “Yes, of course. Mrs. Summerly didn’t steal the necklace—nor did her husband. Though I must admit he was served a giant slice of humble pie.”

  “How so?”

  “He had presented the necklace to his wife for her birthday and said it had cost him a fortune.” Augusta winked. “He purchased it at a pawnshop in Cincinnati.”

  Realization dawned like a blazing sunrise. “So the thief pawned the necklace, and the detective still hasn’t been able to discover the identity of the actual thief.”

  “This is the part he doesn’t want you to know.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “The owner of the pawnshop said a woman brought the necklace and two rings to him. He gave a description, and the detective thinks it is you.”

  “What? That’s ridiculous! He needs to do his job and find the true thief. From the very start, he’s been determined to make me the guilty party. Surely you know I would never do such a thing, Augusta. I’ve never even been to Cincinnati.”

  She patted my hand. “Of course I know you didn’t take the necklace. And my parents continue to believe it is someone else, as well. As far as we’re concerned, all is well. Fortunately for Mother, the couple agreed to return the necklace without a fuss, though I think Mr. Summerly will now be out even more money.” Augusta took a sip of her water before she continued. “His wife insisted upon a new necklace—and this time she said she would accompany him to the jeweler. Isn’t that delicious?” After taking a bite of chicken salad, Augusta grinned. “Almost as delicious as this chicken salad.”

  The chicken salad held little appeal now that I knew the detective still held me in his sights. “Do you think Detective Lawton will search for the real thief, or do you think he’s going to appear one day soon and take me off to jail?”

  Augusta giggled. “Father would never permit such a thing. He wouldn’t bring charges against you.” She spread a teaspoon of jam on a bite of her roll and popped it into her mouth.

  “From what the detective told me in one of our earlier conversations, the charges are filed by the attorney who represents this district in Ohio. Your father’s consent isn’t needed.”

  “Why, that’s absolutely dreadful. I’m going to have Father talk to that detective and set things aright.”

  Mr. Galloway had more pressing problems to contend with at the moment, yet I didn’t discourage Augusta. I feared she would question why I wouldn’t want Mr. Galloway’s help, and I might misspeak about her father’s health. In truth, I wanted any help I could get, and I’d let Mr. Galloway decide if he was physically able to meet with Detective Lawton.

  “Tell me what has been happening where you and Tyson are concerned.” Had the two of them become engaged, Augusta would have immediately shown me her ring. Besides, I’d looked the moment she removed her gloves. Her ring finger remained bare.

  She feigned a look of indifference and batted her lashes. “He has become somewhat a bore of late. I thought he’d be the perfect companion while in the islands, but his business interests keep him much more occupied than I’d realized.” Holding her little finger at the perfect angle, she sipped her tea.

  “So you’re seeing other gentlemen?”

  Augusta settled the cup on the matchin
g saucer. “No one in particular. Tyson remains my favorite suitor, but he is most difficult to figure out. One minute I believe I know him quite well, and the next he’s a stranger. Have you ever known anyone like that?”

  “Only you.” I chuckled. “You’ve become a bit of a stranger over the summer.”

  Augusta’s eyebrows dipped low, and she tightened her lips into a pout. “That isn’t kind at all, Carrie. After I’ve gone against my parents’ wishes and told you about the necklace, how can you say I’ve become a stranger?”

  I reached across the table and patted her arm. “You’re right. I am deeply indebted that you’ve taken me into your confidence. It’s just that you act so different—so proper and refined.”

  Her shoulders drooped into a slump. “Mother insists. She says if she hears even a whisper that I’m not behaving in a genteel manner, she’ll force me to attend Mrs. Bogart’s Finishing School again in the fall. I couldn’t bear another three months of classes with Mrs. Bogart.”

  I remembered Augusta’s description of the classes she’d been required to complete before coming to France. “Then I’ll forgive you,” I said.

  “Good!” She lifted a strawberry from the plate of fruit the waiter had recently placed on the table. “I’m surprised you’ve said nothing about your father’s artwork. Weren’t you excited? I think Father could find a buyer for your pieces, and at a handsome price.”

  Apparently no one had mentioned the missing paintings to Augusta. It took only a moment to explain the loss. “Thankfully the one of me on the carousel horse remains in my bedroom. I doubt I’ll ever locate the others. Detective Lawton is working on that case, as well.”

  “Mmm. You may be right. That man’s ability to solve crimes hasn’t been stellar thus far. I’m surprised he worked for the Pinkerton Agency.

  Let’s hope your paintings will be found. With money from those paintings, you could quit your job at the factory. Wouldn’t that be grand?”

  “You believe they would fetch that much?”

  “Father said there were art dealers in New York City clamoring for them. Two dealers went to France hoping to locate some of them.”

  Such furor. And to think that only a year ago, the money from one of Father’s paintings would barely cover our rent for a month. How did people decide art was worthless one day and worth a fortune the next? Who made these judgments? And why did others abide by their decisions? Such a mystery.

  “They may find several pieces hanging in Madame Leclair’s bakery,” I said. “I’m sure she would rather have money than the paintings. Maybe she’d use a few coins to purchase Stormy a nice piece of fish at the market.” I smiled, remembering the fat silver-gray cat I’d left with Madame Leclair. Had he ever missed me? He was an independent sort, but I liked to think that on occasion he wondered where I’d gone.

  “I don’t know if you’d ever consider selling the carousel painting, but I’m sure it would fetch a huge price. I think the art dealers would find it the most beautiful of all.”

  “My father painted that when I was a young girl.” I shook my head. “It brings back fond memories of my childhood. I could never sell it.”

  Augusta forked a piece of melon onto her plate and sliced it into small pieces. “If you change your mind, you need only tell me or Father. He will see to the arrangements.”

  I couldn’t meet her gaze. Augusta took for granted her father would live forever, yet his death lurked around the next corner.

  Josef was nowhere in sight when I returned home, but a note on the foyer table stated that Mrs. Wilson and Mr. Lundgren had gone down the street to visit with the neighbors. I waited on the porch for a short time but finally went upstairs. No light shone beneath Josef’s door. He’d either gone to bed or returned to the factory to finish his paper work.

  I’d been excited to tell him that Mrs. Galloway’s necklace had been recovered. In retrospect, it was probably better to keep that news to myself. Had the thief been apprehended, there would be no reason to withhold the news. But I was still considered a suspect—and Josef would ask far too many questions.

  I prepared for bed and then opened my Bible. I’d been reading it every night. Mrs. Wilson said reading the Bible every day was a good habit and the best way to learn what God wanted us to know. I didn’t doubt her word, but I figured I’d forget what I had read in Genesis by the time I finished Revelation. She said not to worry about that because when I finished, I should start all over again. Apparently Mrs. Wilson had high hopes for how much I’d accomplish each evening.

  I continued to read until the sound of Mrs. Wilson’s chattering voice drifted up from the sidewalk below. Mr. Lundgren laughed at something she said, and soon the front door opened and closed. I placed my Bible on the small table and stared at the painting hanging on the opposite wall. A little girl sitting on a beautiful carousel horse. What was more important: a painting hanging on the wall, or a factory that crafted carousel animals? Which would my father choose, I wondered.

  CHAPTER

  27

  Two days later Detective Lawton met me outside the factory at lunchtime. Had he come to arrest me? I looked over my shoulder, hoping to catch sight of Josef, but I remembered he’d gone to the train station to check on a shipment of lumber. My mouth felt like a drought-ridden prairie. When I tried to swallow, a dry breath of air caught in my throat. I coughed until tears trickled down my cheeks.

  I didn’t detect any compassion in the detective’s eyes. I swiped away the tears and tried to calm my escalating fear. I didn’t want to go to jail, especially for something I hadn’t done. But it seemed Detective Lawton was determined someone must be punished. I didn’t think he cared if he had the proper person or not—just so someone paid the price for committing the crime.

  He waved me toward the tree where Josef and I usually sat. “Good afternoon, Miss Brouwer.”

  “Detective.” That was as much as I could manage without suffering another coughing spasm.

  “I find myself in need of your assistance, Miss Brouwer.”

  I sat down on the bench and told myself to breathe.

  The detective was staring at me. I opened my mouth, but my voice refused to cooperate. I signaled for him to continue.

  He sat down beside me and finger-pressed the brim of his hat between his fingers. “I don’t know how much information Miss Galloway has divulged.” When I didn’t comment, he continued. “I know the two of you enjoyed a lengthy dinner at the tearoom a couple of nights ago.” He waited.

  “We did.” I hoped he didn’t notice my surprise—or fear. My hands remained steady, but my insides quivered like Mrs. Wilson’s grape jelly.

  He’d obviously been unable to hear our conversation or he wouldn’t be quizzing me.

  I didn’t want to betray Augusta’s confidence. Now I wished I’d stopped her before she’d divulged the secrets. Instead, I’d clung to every minute detail and even longed for more. I massaged my throat with my fingertips and hoped the detective would take the cue. If he wanted to talk, I’d listen. Otherwise, I had nothing more to say.

  “Sorry you’re having problems with your voice,” he said. “I’m going to tell you what I need from you, and if you still haven’t regained your voice, you can just shake your head to let me know if you agree or disagree.” He grinned. “Unless you have a speedy recovery. In that case please don’t hesitate to use a verbal response.”

  Almost word for word, the detective’s information matched what I’d heard from Augusta. He rested his forearms across his thighs and looked over his shoulder at me. “I need your help, Miss Brouwer.”

  I touched the tip of my index finger to my chest. “Me?”

  “Yes. If I’m to absolve you of the crime, I’ll need the owner of the pawnshop to see you. He says he can identify the young woman who brought him the necklace and rings.”

  I stared at him, stupefied by the request. “You want me to travel to Cincinnati so this man can look at me?”

  “Not exactly. Do you by
any chance have a recent photograph or drawing of yourself?”

  I shook my head. Sending a photograph certainly made more sense than traveling to Cincinnati, but photographs had been an unknown luxury in our home. Other than the painting of me on the carousel horse, I had nothing to offer. And that picture would be of no help in making a proper identification.

  Detective Lawton tented his fingers beneath his chin. “Would you object to having a likeness drawn? We have a policeman who does an excellent job. And since you’re an artist yourself, you could help with any changes before I’d send it off.”

  The proposal held little appeal, but if I objected, the detective would think I had something to hide. “If this man says I’m not the woman, will you then eliminate me from your list of suspects?”

  He smiled and gave a firm nod. “I know this isn’t pleasant, but I’m required to follow every lead.”

  “I hope you’ve followed the leads I’ve mentioned as closely as you’ve followed me, Detective. When am I required to sit for this drawing? It must not interfere with my employment.”

  Before the detective departed, we agreed to meet outside the police station the following evening.

  Time dragged the next day. While working on the carousel animals, I considered how I would react to seeing my likeness drawn by someone other than my father. I’d painted portraits of others. But except for the painting hanging in my bedroom, no one had ever drawn or painted me. Until now I’d not given the matter much thought, but it did seem somewhat strange—much like the cobbler’s children needing their shoes repaired. By the end of the workday, I’d begun to look forward to seeing the completed drawing.

  After supper Josef excused himself and returned to the factory. He’d been following this same routine each day, determined he would leave everything in perfect order for the new owners. My pleas that Josef continue to seek financial backing had fallen on deaf ears. He’d accepted defeat. And though he’d not mentioned moving to Philadelphia again, I worried he might make plans that didn’t include me.