by Jane Tesh
“He’s at Tamara’s. Who’s meeting tonight?”
“The ASG and the newly formed SWS.”
ASG I knew was the Abductees Support Group. “SWS?”
“Sky Watchers Society. We’re going up to Coldcrag Mountain later in the month and check out the meteor shower. You want to come? We’ve started having monthly meetings. You’re always welcome. You, too, Kit. This week, we’re going to bathe our amethysts in the light of the full moon. You’d probably enjoy that.”
“Sounds super cool, Lily,” Kit said with a grin.
“I’m a little busy right now, but if things slow down, I’ll take you up on that,” I said.
“Okay, thanks. Tell Cam to come over if he wants to.”
Lily pushed back through the hedge. Kit watched her go, still grinning. “Now there’s somebody who embraces their oddness. ‘Embrace the Oddness.’ That would make a bitchin’ song.”
After Kit left, I sat in the gradually cooling shadows of the trees, listening to Kary play something complicated and melancholy. I didn’t recognize the tune, but it must have been one of the art songs. Having glanced at her sheet music, I imagined this cheery tune was called something along the lines of “My Love For You Has Withered and Died.” I prefer the more complex sound of a jazz band, but this, like everything Kary played, was beautiful. Occasionally, she’d stop and replay a section. I couldn’t hear anything wrong, but she’d go over the part until she was satisfied and then play on.
After a while, Tamara brought Camden home. I told him Lily had stopped by. He pushed through the hedge and returned a few minutes later to report the Sky Watchers Society was standing in Lily’s backyard doing what they do best. While they welcomed him, they didn’t need his help staring up. He ate a couple of cheeseburgers and said he was turning in, even though I mentioned that The Crawling Eye was on Channel 27 tonight.
“It can crawl without me. I’ve had a full day. Did Leo ever come back with another item? Not that I was going to touch it.”
I realized my theatrical client hadn’t returned with another piece from his collection. “Haven’t seen him. That’s odd. He was about to pop with excitement.”
“You haven’t seen any snakes, have you?”
“No snakes.”
He dragged himself up to bed. Speaking of popping, Ellin was next to come out to the backyard, bursting with questions about Graber.
I offered her a cheeseburger, but she waved it away. “Tell me what you found out.”
“Our undercover scheme is underway. Graber thinks I’m from the Herald, and I’m going to get the full story and pictures tomorrow.”
“What did Cam get?”
“Full-blown hysteria.”
“What? He didn’t have to go anywhere near those snakes.”
“But they wanted to be his BFFs. They’re planning to drop by later.”
She gave me a look. “I don’t know why I even bother talking with you, Randall.”
“Oh, and things might be a little damp in the hallway. I hope Camden told you about our plumbing crisis.”
I didn’t like the way she smiled. “I’ll take care of it.”
Normally I can’t see the future, but I knew Camden’s run-in with the pythons was going to be the least of his worries.
Chapter Nine
“Crabbed Age and Youth”
Saturday morning, I decided to visit Patricia Ashworthy. Ms. Piper said she hadn’t been at Pierson’s gathering, but I had a hunch she could be helpful. Let me tell you, she was one tough old bird. She lived in a large yellow Spanish-style house in the Forest Oaks section of town, also known as Cashville. The house took up three lots, a sprawling hacienda with a red tile roof, elaborate statuary, and rows of those skinny little trees that look like sticks.
Patricia Ashworthy met me at the door. She was covered with art: gaudy spiral gold earrings, a necklace made out of multicolored glass beads, jangling bracelets with hunks of colored stones. Rings clung to her stubby little fingers like brilliant barnacles. She was small and stooped and ornery as hell, but underneath all the bluster, I detected curiosity and a delight to have company.
She gestured with a knobby black-and-silver cane shaped like a tree branch. “Don’t just stand there, come in. I’m very busy today, but I can spare you a couple of minutes.”
Like Mrs. Ashworthy herself, every square inch of the house was covered with art. I couldn’t see the walls for the paintings. Rugs of all kinds carpeted the floors, some on top of others, Navajo, Persian, patchwork, animal skin, all layered like international sandwiches. The antique tables had antique vases, plates, figurines, and photos. There wasn’t a chair in sight that looked safe enough to sit in. I followed Patricia Ashworthy through this gallery to an enclosed back porch. She indicated a fairly sturdy-looking wicker chair and plopped herself down on a velvet sofa.
“Now then. This is about Leo Pierson’s missing collection, is it? The man was a fool to mention it in such company. We’re all vultures, you know, waiting to swoop down and grab a tasty piece of art.” She laughed at her joke, and her earrings dangled like modern art yo-yos.
“Who else knew about his artwork? I can’t imagine it being common knowledge outside the art world.”
“You can’t sell it here, that’s for certain. Everyone knows the pieces. It’d be like trying to unload the Mona Lisa. Has any of it been located?”
“One spoon was found with Samuel Gallant’s body.”
She cocked her head. “Really? I hadn’t heard about the spoon. I saw the news about Gallant, of course. It’s a shame, but he did have heart problems, same as me. His pacemaker must have gone out.” She patted her chest protectively. “I’m having mine checked tomorrow. Oh, as for who has the artwork, it’s obvious Chance Baseford’s your man.”
I was surprised. “Baseford? Any particular reason?”
She looked at me as if I’d dropped her favorite vase. “Every-one knows he hates any sort of artist or collector.”
I took a moment to change gears. “You’re telling me Chance Baseford collects Art Nouveau?”
“No, no. But he can’t stand to see Pierson or anyone get any sort of attention, especially for art. Haven’t you talked to him? You know how he is. Arrogant beast.”
I recalled the look of glee in Baseford’s hard little eyes. What was the deal here? Baseford was pompous and superior. Somewhere along the line, had his artistic ambitions been thwarted, forcing him to settle for the position of art and theater critic for the Parkland Herald? But he couldn’t blame Pierson for that, could he? Aside from having an art collection, no one had heard of Leo Pierson. He wasn’t mounting a new production of Hamlet, or trying to fund the ballet.
Patricia Ashworthy leaned forward. “And if you ask me, Baseford had something to do with Samuel Gallant’s death.”
She was determined to blame Baseford for something. “Why do you say that?”
“Well, it’s obvious the man can’t stand competition. Gallant must have threatened him on some level.”
“From what I understand, Gallant collected modern art. I don’t think Baseford’s into that.”
“Humph! You keep digging, young man. You’ll find out he’s responsible.”
For everything, her tone implied, including global warming. “What can you tell me about Samuel Gallant?”
She waved a hand dismissively. “Flip-flopped on every decision the board made! I don’t know how he ever dressed himself in the mornings. I imagine it took him hours to choose which tie to wear.”
“I’ve met his niece, Rainbow. Does he have any other family? Friends?”
“No family to speak of, except that niece, and as for friends, I suppose we were the closest he had. Always wanted us in on his silly money-making schemes that never went anywhere. Always scrounging for money.” Talking about Samuel Gallant had Patricia Ashworthy all wound up.
I wanted to get back to the crime. “What did Lawrence Stein think about Pierson’s artwork?”
“Lawrence Stein has more money than he knows what to do with. He wouldn’t be interested in taking anyone else’s artwork.”
“Richard Mason?”
“Known him for years. A straight-shooter. Creates his own art, and certainly doesn’t get the recognition he deserves. He’s been very kind to me. When my last husband died and I needed help to keep up my house—well, you can see it’s quite extensive—Richard found this fine young man to assist me. I couldn’t do without Flynn.”
“What about Nancy Piper?”
“A nice enough young woman. Hired to handle museum finances and doing very well.”
“You weren’t able to attend Pierson’s luncheon and viewing. Had you seen his Art Nouveau before?”
“Yes, I’d been out to his house. As I recall, he had those pieces arranged exactly as they were in Isabelle Duvall’s parlor. Made a nice picture.”
It occurred to me if Patricia Ashworthy knew of Isabelle Duvall, she might know more about the feud. “Are you familiar with the Pierson/Duvall feud and the mystery surrounding those pieces?”
The earrings bobbed as she nodded. “I’d heard some story about a treasure hunt. You see, the blue peacock vase would have an ‘L’ on the bottom to denote Lalique. So would the dragonfly. The silverware, I believe, is by Hoffman, and the poster was created by Mucha. What else was there?”
“An ashtray.”
She gave the ashtray a moment’s thought. “I don’t know about that one. Anyway, you rearrange the letters, including some off the poster, and supposedly you have a clue to vast riches. A tall tale, as far as I’m concerned.”
So Pierson’s guests would’ve seen the items together, and if any one of them knew about the treasure, would have recognized this clue. But would they need the actual items to figure it out? Two Ls, an H, an M, whoever made the ashtray, and words off a poster they could take a picture of. No need to steal the actual artwork.
I asked Patricia Ashworthy the same question.
“I have no idea,” she said.
“What about the feud?”
“Oh, a Pierson killed a Duvall. Or a Duvall killed a Pierson. I can’t remember. Whatever it was, it was a horrible tragedy. It happened a long time ago.” She returned to her favorite subject. “Now if you ask me, Baseford hired Gallant to steal Pierson’s artwork and promised him a cut of the profits. Gallant was certainly foolish enough to go along with that kind of scheme. Baseford has all those Art Nouveau trinkets, I’ll bet you anything.”
She was determined Baseford was the culprit, and nothing was going to change her mind.
I stood. “I appreciate your help, Mrs. Ashworthy. I’ve taken up enough of your time. Thank you.”
“Oh, come take a little tour of my house.” With the help of the cane, she hoisted herself off the sofa, and curled one of her ring-heavy little hands around my arm. “There won’t be any Art Nouveau, I assure you. Hate the stuff. Too fussy. I like my art bright and strong.” She leered at me. “Like my men.”
It was all I could do to keep a straight face. I escorted her around her hacienda and learned more about art than I ever wanted to know.
Once I was able to pry myself free from Patricia Ashworthy, I got back into the Fury and gave Leo Pierson a call. “Thought you were coming back yesterday with something else for Camden to try.”
“My apologies. I got so caught up trying to decide on the right piece to bring, I completely forgot the time and by then, it was too late to call you. Besides, Cam looked as if he might need a break before handling something else. What a remarkable talent! But not without its disadvantages, I see.”
“We can both save Camden a lot of trouble if you’ll let me find your missing items without having to resort to using his psychic visions.”
“Yes, but you have to admit that calling upon the powers of the supernatural is fascinating. It’s exactly like a scene from Forbidden Contact where a young Spiritualist makes an actual connection to the spirit world. ‘Knock again, and I shall answer! I realize now without hesitation that your voice is real!’”
I don’t know where in the world Pierson got these plays of his, but they all sounded like cheesy melodramas from the turn of the nineteenth century. “I’ve just been visiting with Patricia Ashworthy.”
He laughed. “She’s a caution, isn’t she? Who’s her choice for villain?”
“Chance Baseford.”
“Of course. She hates him and that’s understandable. Everything we put up, he tears down. But I can’t see him stooping to common burglary.”
“Tell me more about Patricia. Would she be interested in your artwork?”
“Where on earth would she display my pieces? Her house is so crowded you’d never see them.”
“I’m going to talk to Lawrence Stein on Monday. What do you know about him?”
“Not very much, but I enjoyed the parties on his yacht. He’s really proud of that boat. He must have every kind of gadget: electric fishing lure, electronic fish-scaler, the latest fish-finder technology—you name it.”
So would he have any use for a glass dragonfly? I listened as Pierson continued to sing the praises of Stein’s boat toys. Finally Pierson paused for breath and I could ask a question. “I need to know more about your family and the Duvalls. If the feud’s still on, a Duvall might be responsible.”
“But I inherited my artwork from my father, who inherited them from Isabelle Duvall. Doesn’t that suggest someone along the line made peace with my family?”
“I want you to check out your family tree and ask any living relatives what they know about this.”
“Very well. I’ll do my best. ‘For what can be so caring in a desperate world than the love of one’s family, the harbor that shelters from the strongest blast this cruel world has to offer?’ That’s from The Endless Hours, act three.”
I didn’t have endless hours to figure this out.
I called Kary and asked if she’d like to meet me at Baxter’s Barbecue for lunch. Turbo, the neon green Ford Festiva, pulled into the parking lot a few minutes after I’d arrived and she got out, swinging her large pocketbook onto her shoulder.
“Hi, David. I’ve got some information for you.”
We went into the little brick building and took seats in a booth near the front windows. Baxter’s doesn’t have much in the way of atmosphere—plain brown tables and chairs, plastic red-and-white checkerboard tablecloths and booths with red plastic seats, but the restaurant more than makes up for lack of ambiance with its food. “Succulent” is the word I’d use. I ordered a barbecue sandwich, fries, and an order of onion rings. Kary ordered from the lighter side of the menu, plain barbecue and a salad. We compared notes.
Kary took out her phone and checked her information. “Lawrence Stein’s pride and joy is his yacht, The Wall Street Wanderer, equipped with every shining little device known to modern man. Patricia Ashworthy is from one of Parkland’s wealthiest families. She was married five times and inherited all her husbands’ fortunes. Richard Mason is curator and director of the Little Gallery.” She glanced up from her notes. “Anything useful?”
“That’s what I found out, too, plus Mrs. Ashworthy thinks Baseford is the cause of all evil in the world, and Gallant’s pacemaker may have given out.”
“Hmm, or someone tampered with it. Criminal mastermind Chance Baseford, perhaps, or techno-wizard Lawrence Stein?”
“Where’d you get such a devious mind?”
“Hanging around with you.”
Our food arrived, my barbecue spilling from a fat white bun and a pile of steaming fries heaped with crispy onion rings, Kary’s leafy little salad and a smaller heap of barbecue on a wheat bun. For the next few minutes, we were occupied with deliciousness.
Kary set her f
ork down and wiped her mouth with a napkin. “Did you see Cam this morning?”
“I left before he was up. Did Ellin drag him off to the station?”
“She left before I did. I think he was still in bed. Have you noticed him taking a lot of aspirin lately?”
“It’s the Curse of the Dragonfly.”
“I’ve got to have one French fry.” She took one from my plate and dipped it into a pool of ketchup. “He’s had headaches before and said aspirin didn’t help that much.”
“Maybe it isn’t aspirin.”
Her fry paused in mid-dip. “What do you think he’s taking?”
“Have you seen the walking pharmacy that is Vermillion?”
Kary got her Teacher Look. “I’ll have a word with him.”
“Speaking of words, are Rufus and Angie home?”
“Yes, they are, and they left Mary Rose with Angie’s sister. Rufus told me he knew I was in a swivet, and I’d better not get my tail in a crack, or he’d cut my water off.”
“Three bizarre Southernisms in one sentence.”
She pointed the fry at me. “I told him if he thought I couldn’t handle his decision, his cornbread wasn’t cooked in the middle.”
“Dueling Southernisms. Even better.”
“I’m truly fine with them leaving the baby where she can get the best care. I know I had my moments, but if I let every baby reduce me to tears, I’m going to need serious therapy, which I can’t afford.”
“Not if you plan to become a counselor.”
“Exactly. Then I can counsel myself.”
The waitress stopped by to refill our drinks. When she’d gone, I asked Kary what she planned to do the rest of the day besides spar with Rufus. “Help you solve the murder,” she said. “Maybe there’s somewhere else Gallant used to go.”
“I’m not sure where he liked to gamble. Do you feel like checking every casino?”
Kary set her sandwich down, wiped her hands on several napkins, and picked up her phone. “Maybe he belonged to a gym or another organization.” Her fingers darted over the surface. “Is there a club for artists? Or a bar? You know, like the Blue Moon where all the PSN folks go to wind down. Oh, here we are. The Artists’ Club. Can’t get any plainer than that. Why don’t I give them a try? Someone there might know him.”
