A Crossworder's Delight

by Nero Blanc

  As Rosco parked his Jeep and crossed the street, he almost believed he’d spot stagehands and a snow-making machine, or actors awaiting their cues while clad in Victorian cloaks; the men tipping tall glossy hats to the ladies in snow-dusted bonnets. The red Jeep, he decided, was a definite anomaly; a horse and carriage would have better fit the bill.

  He entered the shop and was greeted by the owner herself, a tall, broad-shouldered, exuberant woman with a booming voice, as well as a scattered manner that didn’t match her physical presence. Her French-English name mirrored the duality of her nature: Coco Barre; and she was well-known for being both a romantic idealist and an exacting businesswoman. If she didn’t consider a client worthy of a piece of art, she wouldn’t sell it no matter how much money was offered. However, those collectors who met with her approval could run up large tabs without fear of being cut off. What was all-important to Coco Barre was that the prints and drawings and manuscripts in her shop found appropriate homes.

  “Welcome! Welcome!” she called out, pushing strands of graying hair back into what was obviously a lopsided bun. The hair escaped; she shoved it into place again, and again lost the fight. “Are you looking for a gift? Or might you be here to choose something for yourself? I have a very handsome Charles-Lucien Bonaparte folio that just arrived only this week. It includes fifty-five hand-colored lithographed plates devoted to various species of pigeon.” Clearly Rosco had passed her acid-test on looks alone. Despite her age, she hadn’t lost an eye for members of the opposite sex.

  “Pigeons?” Rosco asked. All he could imagine were the annoying gray variety that made a mess of city streets and park benches and statues.

  “No, I see I’m mistaken about the Bonaparte, exceptional as it is. You’re not a bird enthusiast.… In fact, on second glance, you look like a collector of maritime works. Would a two-color lithograph concerning whale hunting be of interest? It’s a highly dramatic scene entitled The Capture and was published in 1862. It would make a very attractive addition to any office decor, but I would suggest a discreet frame so as not to detract from the bold vitality of the work, itself.… If not The Capture, I have many other nautical and marine—”

  “Actually,” Rosco interrupted before the gallery owner could roll out additional examples of pictures he couldn’t afford, “I’m here to solicit your expert opinion. Some say you’re the best in the business.”

  Coco Barre smiled, obviously flattered. Instead of turning coquettish as some women might, she seemed to grow in stature until she almost towered over Rosco. “Yes?”

  Rosco produced his business card, and she read it in silence. “Has something been stolen, Mr. Polycrates?” she asked. The dreamy side of her personality was nowhere in evidence; the woman was wholly professional now.

  Normally, Rosco would have questioned this quick assumption, wondering if the person he was interviewing had prior knowledge about the case, but the owner of the Olde Print Shoppe seemed far too forthright to be able to lie successfully. “The inn’s signed copy of Longfellow’s Paul Revere’s Ride.”

  “Oh, my goodness,” was her stunned reply, and her expression replicated the perplexed and astonished faces Rosco had encountered when he’d interviewed Mitchell and Morgan: a robbery at such a well-beloved spot couldn’t—and shouldn’t—happen. “But the Longfellow’s been hanging in that front parlor for decades.… The Marz twins’ grandparents renamed the inn for the poem when they purchased the property during the twenties.”

  “So it must be pretty valuable?” Rosco prompted.

  Coco frowned in thought as she fiddled ineffectually with her recalcitrant hair. “Valuable enough, surely, but hardly worth stealing.… Well, no, that’s not quite true. A theft can be for monetary gain; it can also be inspired by covetousness. Famous paintings go missing from museums on a regular basis. A case in point is The Scream by Edvard Munch, an incredibly well-known image that would likely bring seventy million dollars at auction. It was swiped in broad daylight in Norway and joined the list of over one hundred fifty thousand missing treasures: Picassos, Rembrandts, van Goghs, Renoirs, to mention some of the biggies. What happens to the pieces? Obviously, a criminal reaps a reward, but so does the collector who purchased it on the black market.… But then he or she must keep the object secret. It’s not my idea of displaying favorite artwork—where only one selfish person can gaze upon it.… There’s also the issue of theft for ransom … a form of extortion, really. I’m afraid the darker side of the art world is far more sinister than people imagine.”

  Rosco considered this information as he made notes of what she’d said. “What do you mean by ‘valuable enough,’ Ms. Barre?”

  “I’m ashamed to say I haven’t given the poem more than a cursory glance for some time, so I can’t attest to what kind of shape the paper’s in, how well the signature has survived, if there’s light damage, etc.… There certainly has been a lot of traffic through that room over the years; and as I recall the parlor was designed as a gentlemen’s smoking area up until the 1960s, which doesn’t make for an ideal climate. Who knows how well the display was sealed, and so forth …? But I can tell you that we’re not talking about a framed manuscript. For instance, I have a poem here by A.A. Milne, handwritten and signed, that sells for ten thousand dollars. Milne’s English, of course; Longfellow’s quintessentially American, but both authors have achieved a kind of cult status. If the print at the inn had been a hand-penned manuscript, it would be worth a good deal of money.” Her frown deepened. “I’m sure Mitchell Marz would have had the piece insured with other fine arts at the inn; the policy would require an appraisal performed by someone certified in the field.”

  Rosco nodded. “Obviously, you didn’t appraise it.”

  “Despite the antiquarian look of this shop, I’m not as old as that, Mr. Polycrates. The Longfellow poem was purchased by the Marz twins’ grandparents long before I arrived in the world.” Coco laughed. Then she again grew serious. “So … if the monetary value is fairly simple to assess—which it should be once you factor in the date of the last appraisal, add for inflation and shifts in market appeal, etc.—”

  “The Marz brothers have it insured for twelve thousand dollars.”

  Coco Barre looked astonished. “That amount seems extraordinarily high. Admittedly, I haven’t seen the piece in quite a while, but twelve grand … Wow …” She shook her head. “If the Marz twins don’t have a bona fide appraisal by a legit house, their insurer isn’t likely to pay off on some fictional figure. As a PI, I’m sure you’ve had numerous dealings concerning fraudulent or inflated claims.”

  Rosco could only nod as he remembered the paperwork from his last case sitting abandoned on his desk. “I believe Mitchell Marz is more concerned with recovery than insurance money.”

  “So you say. Be careful; art thieves are better actors than anybody on Broadway. But what you’re here to ask me is how a thief unloads the goods, correct? And do I know a likely fence?”

  Rosco smiled. There was something very appealing in a person who could rattle off details about the art world as well as talk in common vernacular. “I’d appreciate whatever insight you can provide, Ms. Barre.”

  “Well, obviously, no one’s going to be stupid enough to bring it here, Mr. Polycrates, and Boston’s proximity makes it equally off-limits. Then again, given the Internet and how quickly dealers in any type of antique receive word about stolen objects, I’m not sure where any criminal takes hot material anymore. Those Rembrandts and so forth I just mentioned didn’t simply vanish into a black hole … which brings me back to a type of insider situation. Someone wanted that particular print … either a Longfellow aficionado or a history buff. I doubt it would be simply collector of autographs or manuscripts. There are too many other sources to tap. My hunch is that you’ve got semi-kook on your hands. Someone who was willing to remove a large and highly visible item—and from a place that’s got a lot of traffic, albeit not much security—and then hide it away like a squirrel burying a n
ut.”

  “A nut with a nut …”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t think of that line first, Mr. Polycrates.”

  Eight

  DUAL pyramids fashioned from sacks of rock salt stood beside two weathered wooden barrels containing shiny, new snow shovels: a winter-is-really-here display that welcomed patrons to Hatch’s Hardware Store. Behind this salt-and-shovel extravaganza, the shop windows bracketing the door were cluttered with forty-pound sacks of bird seed, gallon containers of lamp oil, antifreeze, windshield deicer, and the occasional boxed and beribboned chain saw, electric drill, or work boots. It was a vintage Martha Stewart-type moment for those who believed that household improvement was a matter of penny nails, claw hammers, and galvanized deck screws; and the place was bustling with the good cheer that accompanied any change of weather. Autumn’s leaves had been raked and bagged—or burned, for those could get away with it. Now it was time for snowplows, extra weight in the truck bed for traction, and emergency tire chains: all the elements of wholesome New England living.

  Another sign of the season was a large wooden barrel that sat just inside the entryway, a repository for holiday toys, games, books, fuzzy creatures, and dolls that were collected each year by Newcastle’s merchants for children who were less fortunate than others. Rosco was part of the team that wrapped and distributed the gifts, although that wasn’t what had brought him here today. Not that he didn’t have plenty of excuses for why he absolutely, positively needed to stop by Hatch’s. For one thing, conversation was always lively—more so during heated political contests, which thankfully had become ancient history by Thanksgiving—and old friends were bound to be there just to talk. Plus, there was all that neat stuff. Not that Rosco had any idea how to use an electric planer or joiner or router, but it sure looked as if he should own one just in case the need arose.

  But on this particular Saturday, it was E.T. who had influenced his decision. Rock salt, Rosco had thought, surely we’ll be needing more rock salt.

  As he joined the line of customers standing alongside the counter waiting to pay for their various supplies and home-repair gizmos, he lifted a screwdriver from a display box and studied it. This particular tool could be converted for use with flat-head or Phillips-head screws by simply changing the tips neatly stored in a removable handle. It was a nifty item, compact and discreet; and Rosco was in the midst of examining it when Al Lever, Newcastle’s chief homicide detective, approached from behind.

  “It’s a screwdriver, Poly—Crates,” he said facetiously. Al’s exaggerated and butchered pronunciation of Rosco’s last name had been a part of his lexicon since the two had been joined up as partners in the NPD more than fifteen years prior. Their friendship had continued long after Rosco had left the department: Lever, in his forties, balding, often irascible, forever losing his battle with a weight problem, and plagued by an eternal smoker’s cough, versus the athletic and even-tempered Rosco. No wonder the jibes flew fast and furiously. “A screwdriver, buddy-boy; it’s used by those dexterous folks in the auto repair and carpentry trades for setting, or removing, screws. Would you like me to show you how one works?”

  Rosco laughed. “No, no, I’m going to figure this one out on my own, Big Al. Screwdriver, huh? Well, I’ll be … I thought that had something to do with orange juice?” He then extended his hand to Lever. “Day off, I take it?”

  “Even public servants get one every now and then.”

  An ancient collie by the name of Ace, companion to the store’s owner, Stanley, and a permanent fixture at Hatch’s, ambled up, sat beside Rosco, and leaned his weight against Rosco’s leg. Rosco reached down and gave him an affectionate pat. “Sorry, Ace old man, neither Gabby or Kit are with me today. They’re kind of weather-wimps; curled up on heated beds at home.”

  “It’s a dog, Poly-crates, not a person. I wouldn’t put too much stock in Ace’s ability to comprehend compound sentences.”

  Rosco gave Al a sideways glance. “So I gather your pal, Skippy, is the only dog in Newcastle that understands human speech?”

  “Yeah … well … Skippy’s a different story,” Lever blustered. “See, a stray like The Skipper needed to gauge people’s lingo in order to survive. It’s remarkable how bright he is.”

  “For a dog …”

  “Well … yeah.”

  “I see. And I assume Skippy shared all this information with you—which is why you’re so free and easy with the compound sentences while yakking with him in the park.”

  Lever seemed to have no response to this statement. Ace’s reaction to the exchange was to stand and head toward the rear of the store, walking heavily across Lever’s shoes as he passed.

  “I think that beast’s going blind,” Lever groused as he tried to move his feet out of the way.

  “Don’t count on it,” Rosco laughed.

  “Anyway, Poly—Crates, Buck Fuller tells me you’ve been brought in by the Marz brothers.”

  “Yep. Confidence in the good Sergeant Fuller seems to be low at the Paul Revere Inn. I don’t suppose any interesting theories or tidbits have popped up over at NPD?”

  Lever raised his beefy arms. “Please, don’t get me involved with more work than I need. I’m Homicide, remember? If someone turns up dead, give me a call. Otherwise I don’t want to know from nothin’.”

  “What brings you two out on this snowy morning?” Stanley Hatch asked as approached, giving Lever a friendly thwack on his back and shaking Rosco’s hand.

  “Rock salt,” Al and Rosco answered in unison, and also laughed as a team. Then Lever pointed to the doorway. “Well, well, here comes Mr. Casanova, the Good Doctor Jones … Since his condo’s on the eleventh floor, I’d venture to say he’s not here for salt.”

  Abe Jones was the Newcastle Police Department’s chief forensics expert; a tall, exceptionally good-looking African American who’d been more than instrumental in helping both Al and Rosco solve a plethora of crimes. He approached the three men and all exchanged greetings.

  “We’re taking bet’s here, Abe,” Stanley said with a smile, “on what brings you into Hatch’s Hardware today.”

  “Rock salt.”

  This brought on another round of laughter, followed by a lengthy coughing fit by Al. “Dang allergies follow me year round,” he wheezed.

  “Dang Camels follow you year round, is more like it,” Abe jested. “You oughta start your own desert caravan.… It’s never too late to quit, you know?”

  “Yeah, yeah, thank you for the advice Doctor Jones. It’s nothing I haven’t heard before.… And what’s with you and the rock salt? Maintenance guys at your spiffy condo on strike?”

  “No. I was with this new lady-friend of mine last night. She just bought a house near yours, Rosco.… Anyway, you guys know how it is; next thing you know they’ve got you roped into doing the domestic thing.”

  Lever again raised his hands. “Please, spare us the gory details of your love life, Don Juan.”

  Abe glanced at his watch. “Well, I’d sure like to hang around and gab, but I’ve got to scoot.” He poked Al in the belly and winked. “See, we weren’t quite finished up with what we got started last night, if you know what I mean.”

  He stepped around the others, paid for his rock salt, and grabbed a sack on his way out the door.

  “Who knew the way to a woman’s heart was through a sack of salt?” Stanley mused. “Welcome to Massachusetts, I guess.”

  “I suspect that my wife won’t be moved to any lustful fantasies when she sees me walk in with the stuff.”

  “One never knows, Al. Maybe you should buy two sacks; make an evening of it,” Stanley chortled. “Not to change the subject, but that’s a real shame about the poem being stolen. Martha phoned me about it a little while ago. Any leads, Rosco?”

  Rosco shook his head. “Not a one.”

  “Well, old man Marz couldn’t have paid too much for it back in the twenties, or whenever the heck it was,” Stan continued. “At least, that’s what my dad said. N
ot that it wasn’t a really nice addition to the place—whatever the price.”

  “So your father knew the family?” Rosco asked.

  “Oh, yeah, the old man and his son, Mike, too. They were all members of the same VFW post. It was old Milton who bought that poem and decided to change the name of the inn. He died in the late thirties, if I remember correctly. A genuine kook, according to my dad.… Kept the place just like it was when he bought it, insisted folks wanted authenticity in a historic building: no electricity, only candles and oil or gas lamps, gas stoves, working fireplaces. It wasn’t wired for juice until Mike—that’s the twins’ father—took over the business. And then when Pearl Harbor was bombed, and he enlisted in the Army and left his wife to run the show. The twins must have been pretty young then. Probably wasn’t easy on her, either, keeping the old place going with two little kids and all. Plus worrying about the hubby.”

  “Uh … huh,” Lever nodded in thought as he reached for a cigarette.

  “Sorry, Al, can’t smoke in here.”

  “Come on, it’s a hardware store, Stan. Smoking’s part of the … tradition. Mano-a-mano. Cigars. Pipes—”

  “Not in the twenty-first century, it isn’t.”

  Al begrudgingly slipped his Camels back into his shirt and Rosco said, “The twins’ father died pretty soon after returning from the war, didn’t he?”

  “Yep. Something tells me it was around 1948, or maybe 1949? Just before I arrived on the scene, anyway.… It was a hunting accident; Mike was accidentally shot by another hunter. I remember my dad saying what a shock the whole thing was for the community.” Stan shook his head, reminiscing. “Newcastle was a smaller place back then; everybody cared about everyone else.…” Then Stanley Hatch’s expression changed, turning into a quiet, reflective smile. “Another thing my dad told me was that the guys at the post loved to tease Mike Marz about screwing old Henry Wadsworth Longfellow to the parlor wall—like someone was going to steal him.… Apparently, Mike didn’t appreciate all the ribbing.”