“Sure.” Terri led the way to the gallery and the two viewed the portraits in silence. All were by Maine artists, including several names Darby recognized.
“Alcott Bridges,” she read, stopping before a framed painting of an elderly man that seemed to loom over the room.
“Yes, probably his most famous work.” The two gazed up at the painting. Terri pointed to the man’s gnarled hands, clutching a wooden gavel. “Bridges is able to create such intricate details. The veins, the way the fingers curl … and look at the depth of emotion in the eyes. Just amazing.”
Darby read the printed description of the portrait. “This man was a judge in Manatuck—Edwin Collins. It says there was some controversy when the work was first exhibited.”
Terri nodded. “A few collectors claimed it was a forgery. The story went that Bridges had this big commission, but that his wife was gravely ill. Supposedly he paid another artist to complete the judge’s portrait.”
“Is that truly forgery?” Darby asked. She scrutinized the work once more, as if the answer lay in the judge’s stony countenance.
“You raise an excellent point.” A trim man with a silver goatee and blue-rimmed glasses had come up behind them. He extended his hand. “Eric Thompson, assistant curator.”
Darby juggled the bag of shoes and red box. “Darby Farr. And this is Terri—”
Eric Thompson laughed and gave Terri a hug. “We go back a long way. How are you, my dear?”
“Very well, Eric. Now back to Darby’s question. Assuming Alcott Bridges did have help in creating this work, does that make it a forgery?”
He shook his head. “Forgery is a type of fraud in which the artist claims his work was created by another person. That’s not the case here. If indeed Bridges had a helper—someone to fill in the minor details, for instance—he would be part of a long history, the tradition of the workshop. For example, Peter Paul Rubens used workshop assistants to complete his paintings. In modern times, look no further than Andy Warhol or Jeff Koons, both of whom had a studio approach to the creation of their art.” He leaned back on the heels of his shiny black loafers. “In my professional opinion, even if Bridges painted only a portion of this work, it would not be a forgery. Perhaps one could claim it isn’t as authentic as his other portraits, but for all we know, the story could merely be malicious gossip.” He turned and smiled at Darby. “My personal belief is that Alcott Bridges painted this portrait—the whole thing. It’s what he himself has always maintained. If you ask me, the man is unstoppable as an artist. Recently he’s relinquished portraiture and taken up landscapes. He’s in his early eighties but just keeps on creating.”
Darby took a last look at the judge before following Eric Thompson and Terri Ames Dodge back toward the offices.
“I’ll say goodbye here,” Terri said. “Give my sister a hug and tell her to relax. I’ll drive down this afternoon, before the worst of the storm.”
She waved and left Darby with the curator.
“Talk about your powerhouse women,” Eric Thompson commented, indicating Tina’s sister with a nod of his head. “Terri Dodge has done more for this community than anyone I know. She’s an avid fundraiser and networker—someone who cares about Westerly and the future of this museum.” He clapped his hands. “Well. Let’s see what treasures you have in that beautiful red box of yours. Come right into my office.”
He opened the door to a comfortable room with two leather chairs and a wide antique desk. Books lined one wall of the office, while exquisite paintings hung on the other. Eric followed Darby’s gaze as she beheld each of the artworks.
“A little perk of my job, I’m afraid,” he chuckled. “I enjoy a rotating display of our smaller works. My own private gallery, if you will.” He took a velvet cloth out of a desk drawer and spread it over the surface of the desk. “Let’s see what you’ve brought.”
Darby placed the box on one corner of the velvet and watched as Eric ran his fingers over the red lacquered surface, smiling.
“This is a jewelry box, as I’m sure you’ve surmised, made in the mid-1940s or so. These scenes of Mt. Fuji, the rice fields—they are all hand painted.” He undid the small brass clasp and opened the box. “Hand painted on the inside, on this mirrored glass, as well.” He nodded and pulled out the first item, the straw rope with its wisps of line.
“Yes, I remember this. It’s called shimenawa. You find it at the entrances of holy Shinto places to ward off evil spirits, or marking the boundaries of sacred grounds or shrines. In Japan’s small towns and cities, merchants and businesses, as well as private individuals, often hang the shimenawa on their front doors at special times of the year. Similar to our tradition of a Christmas wreath.” He reached inside the box for the seated Buddha and grinned.
“Don’t you just love him?” He smiled fondly at the little statue.
“There is writing on the underside.”
“Oh, I know,” Eric Thompson said, chuckling. “And I can predict what it says: Great Western Buddha.” He flipped it over, peered through his blue-rimmed glasses, and nodded. “Bingo!” His voice dropped to a conspiratorial level. “These little guys are sold at temples throughout the country as souvenirs. Nowadays they are made of plastic. The fact that this one is metal means it is probably from the 1950s or ’60s.”
Darby nodded. She pulled the photo of her mother in the kimono out of the box and gazed down at the smiling little girl.
“May I?” Eric took the image in his hands. “What a lovely child. Your mother, am I correct?”
“Yes. I’m sure these were her things. She must have brought them with her from Japan.”
He looked from the photo to Darby’s face. “You bear a marked resemblance.”
Darby pulled the blue sash from the box. “I think this belonged to my mother as well, but I’m not sure.”
Eric Thompson fingered the soft silk of the sash. “This is a hand-made obi. The butterflies are actually sewn into the fabric, not printed.” He folded the blue material gently. “The kimono that this belonged to was probably worth thousands of dollars. The obi itself is quite a treasure.”
Darby took the folded blue silk from Eric Thompson with care, thinking of Jada Farr’s graceful beauty and adventuresome personality. She’d nodded eagerly on the day her husband proposed an afternoon sail, laughed and climbed into the sleek vessel without any sense that the wave she’d tossed to her young daughter would be her last.
Darby was about to set the obi back in the box when she spotted the notebook.
“I nearly forgot—there’s a journal as well,” she said, handing it to Eric Thompson.
He opened the leather cover and scanned the contents. “I read Japanese fairly well, but I’m having a hard time deciphering these characters.” He turned a few pages. “It’s a diary, I can tell that much, although I think it predates your mother. Perhaps it belonged to her parents?”
“I suppose it could have. My mom was their only child.”
Eric Thompson shook his head. “There appears to be a lot of numbers in the back of the book.” He handed the notebook to Darby. “I’m afraid I can’t be of much assistance.”
“That’s fine. You’ve been so helpful with the other items.” She packed up the box, her gaze lingering on the photograph. “I’m sure I can find someone in Southern California who can translate the journal.”
“Yes, I suppose you can. Let me know what you find out, will you?”
“I’d be happy to. Thank you, Eric.”
“My pleasure.”
Darby tucked the small box under her arm and started out of his office. A snapping of fingers made her pause.
“I nearly forgot. I met a Japanese man at a cocktail party just a few nights ago. He seemed like a smart young guy, said he was going to be in Maine for a bit. Perhaps he might shed some light on your journal.” He fished around on his desktop. “I’ve got his business card right here.” He lifted a few papers, pushed his glasses back on his nose. “Someplace …” Fi
nally he gave a sigh. “How about if I call you with his name?”
“Sure.” Darby scribbled down her number and handed it to Eric. “Thanks again.”
Clutching the box and the bag of shoes, Darby headed out of the museum and back to her Jeep.
_____
The blueberry muffin was soft and moist, with a sugar-crusted top that crunched as Donny bit into it. He sighed with pleasure. Of course, these were frozen blueberries from last July, and yet they retained a hint of summer, a tang enhanced by the cinnamon sprinkled liberally on the top.
Tina stared at him with an expectant face.
“Well, are you going to accept my apology or not?” She twirled her hair with her index finger—a dead giveaway that she was uncomfortable.
Good, Donny thought. Let her squirm a little. He chewed carefully and seemed to ponder her question.
“Let me just make sure I’ve got it straight. You’ll come with me to Mexico?” He took another bite as she considered.
“Yes, for two weeks.”
He shook his head. “Four.”
She bit her lip. “Three?”
He gave a long sigh. “Fine. We’ll go for three weeks.” She didn’t need to know that the owner of Beach Lady had called that very morning and said the fourth week was unavailable.
“And you’ll think about what I said? That selling houses shouldn’t come between us and the things we want to do?”
Tina nodded contritely. She touched his arm with a red-painted fingernail. “I’m glad we’ve survived our first fight.” She scrunched up her nose. “Do you have time to kiss and make up?”
Donny blushed to the roots of what remained of his hair. “Lord, girl, you are something. I’ll make an honest woman out of you yet.”
She laughed. “I know. But until then … ”
He put down the blueberry muffin and followed his bride from the kitchen to his bedroom.
SIX
A WRINKLED COPY OF the Manatuck Gazette lay next to Darby. She was seated on the ferry, on her way back to Hurricane Harbor, and had decided to come out of her car and into the ferry’s warm cabin for the half-hour voyage. Holding a cardboard cup of coffee more for warmth than sustenance, she scanned the front page. Sure enough, a long story about Lorraine Delvecchio’s death dominated the news.
Ms. Delvecchio was employed by the Hurricane Harbor Police Department before leaving to join the Manatuck Police Department, where colleagues say she was dedicated to her job. “She was well suited to our department,” said Manatuck Chief of Police Lawrence Eisner. “Attention to detail and confidentiality were the hallmarks of Lorraine’s demeanor.”
Darby continued reading. The article described how the avid walker had apparently slipped at the end of the Manatuck Breakwater and plunged to her death. It quoted the state medical examiner as saying she’d died from drowning, although hypothermia had also been a factor. “It’s almost impossible to survive in water this cold,” the doctor was quoted as saying.
Darby refolded the paper and frowned. The story did not mention anyone else on the Breakwater, nor did it ask for information to identify the unknown walker. Perhaps the police were still working out the details of Alison Dyer’s account? She glanced out the window, streaked with sea spray. The island loomed before her, its seaweed-choked rocks gray and forbidding. Time to head back to the Jeep.
The ferry docked and Darby started her engine. It chugged a little in the cold and Darby shivered as she blasted the heat. Perhaps Chief Dupont knows the status of the investigation, she thought. I’ll stop by the police department and see what he can tell me.
Darby resisted the temptation to bring the Chief a pastry from the Hurricane Harbor Café, remembering his love of sweets and his newly trim waistline. If I give him anything, it should be a Tarte Aux Pommes, she thought, smiling at his fondness for the apple pie. Instead, she drove by the restaurant, bar, and The Hurricane Harbor Inn. After heading up the hill, she followed the winding island road to the town’s municipal building.
A tall, reed-thin man with a toothy smile introduced himself when she entered. “I’m Deputy Tom Allen,” he said. “Chief Dupont’s here, but he’s not alone.” He grinned and rapped loudly on the Chief’s office door.
“Chief Dupont? Someone here to see you.”
“Come in.”
A compact woman with frosted blonde hair stood by the Chief’s cluttered desk. She turned an expectant face their way, and Darby felt a stab of recognition. The traveler with the zebra suitcases. Could this be Bitsy Carmichael?
As if reading her mind, Charles Dupont waved his hand in the blonde’s direction. “Hi Darby, this is Bitsy, my, er, wife.” He blushed and looked down at his desk.
Darby felt for the guy. He was obviously uncomfortable with the whole situation. She smiled at Bitsy and shook her small hand. “Welcome back to Maine.”
“Why, thank you,” Bitsy said, seeming genuinely pleased by the welcome. She lowered her voice as if sharing a secret. “I understand you’re the island’s other famous runaway.” She waggled her eyebrows in a suggestive manner.
“I suppose so,” Darby said, knowing that Bitsy was right, that the story of her teenage escape from Hurricane Harbor was a local legend. Old-timers loved to describe how she’d stolen her Aunt Jane’s truck and driven it clear across the country, blasting through the miles of highway until there was no more pavement left to drive. Her home for the past ten years had been the laid-back surf town of Mission Beach, California; her ocean, the Pacific.
“I’m glad you came by, Darby,” the Chief said, assuming his customary attitude of control. “I need to speak with you. Bitsy, honey, can you skedaddle for a minute while I talk to Darby? Then we’ll go out for lunch, I promise.”
“Okay, Charlie. I’ll be in the hallway, waiting on you.” She rose and flounced out of the room, wearing a mischievous little smile.
The Chief chuckled uncomfortably as Bitsy closed the door. “Kind of a strange situation,” he muttered.
Darby kept her face neutral. “I’m sure.” She resisted the urge to shake him by the shoulder. Had he actually just called Bitsy “honey”? And since when was Charles Dupont nicknamed “Charlie”?
Instead she sat down in one of the plastic chairs in front of his cluttered desk. “Any news on the investigation into Lorraine Delvecchio’s death?”
“That’s exactly what I wanted to talk to you about.” He shook his head. “I had a call this morning from Detective Dave Robichaud. He said they interviewed that woman Dyer, the one you spoke to, and didn’t find her story compelling enough to rule that Lorraine’s death was anything but an accident.”
“Didn’t they believe Alison?”
“No problems with her credibility, but her story’s not as solid as it seemed. She did leave the window to answer the phone and use her washroom. Apparently they checked her telephone record and she was on the line with the telemarketer much longer than the few minutes she described. In fact, she must have been intrigued by the idea of a stay in a timeshare, ’cause she spoke to the guy for ten minutes.” He frowned. “And there’s no telling how long she was in the washroom.”
“But that doesn’t change the fact that she saw a person in a ski mask walking down the Breakwater.”
“No, but as Detective Robichaud pointed out, people are allowed to walk there wearing any damn thing they want.”
Darby nodded. “Because Alison didn’t actually see someone push Lorraine, they’re unwilling to go down that path, is that right?”
“Correct.” He ran a hand through his short gray hair, even more thinly distributed than Darby recalled from the summer. “Listen, Robichaud is a good detective, but I know that girl didn’t slip off that seawall. There’s no way on this earth she fell accidentally. She was pushed, Darby. Every cop instinct I’ve got tells me that.”
“I believe you, Chief. But what I keep wondering is this: why would anyone want Lorraine dead? Who in the world had a motive to kill her?”
Charles
Dupont gave an unhappy grunt. “More than one person, for all I know.” He scribbled something on a piece of yellow legal paper and tore it from the pad. “Here’s some homework for you.”
Darby read the single word. “Hyperthymesia. What is it?”
“I believe it’s what got poor Lorraine Delvecchio killed,” he said, and his voice had the sound of total certitude. “I’ve gotta go have lunch with the prodigal wife, but you see what you can find out about that condition. Mark my words, Darby. That word right there is what signed her death warrant.”
_____
Darby walked back to the Jeep, thinking about her conversation with the Chief. Could something called hyperthymesia have led to a woman’s death? Before starting her car, she pulled out her phone and punched in the term.
A superior type of memory, she read. She thought a moment. Had Lorraine been burdened—or blessed—with such a condition?
There was much more information, but she’d look into it later. Instead, she called Near & Farr Realty and heard Tina’s brisk voice say hello.
“Shoe delivery for Ms. Ames,” Darby intoned.
“Wahoo! Are they just spectacular, or what?”
“Truthfully, I haven’t even looked at them. They’re heavier than flip-flops, I can tell you that.”
“Those shoes are Manolo Blahnik! They probably cost Terri close to a thousand bucks. Do you want me to come pick them up?”
“No, I thought I’d stop by the office. Can I bring you a sandwich from the Café?”
“Nah. I’m watching my waistline until after the wedding. But any kind of soup is great, as long as it isn’t chowder.”
“Gotcha.” Darby hung up and drove to the center of town. She parked beside the Café, leaving the shoes and box on the passenger seat.
The Jeep’s thermometer said the temperature had risen to twenty-five degrees, but Darby shivered as she walked. The air was cold, cold and damp. Above the tops of Hurricane Harbor’s wooden buildings, large gray clouds were massing together. It’s the moisture bound up in those clouds that’s causing the bone-penetrating chill, Darby thought.
Final Settlement Page 8
