The Master’s Hand

by Diane Noble

  As Kate turned back to gaze at The Enchanted Garden, for some strange reason the strains of Julie Andrews singing “The Rain in Spain” from My Fair Lady on a CD of old Broadway hits popped into her head. She knew the story well and could almost see Eliza Doolittle, the lead character, attempting to lose her Cockney accent while learning upper-class English.

  She smiled at the notion. Why should that particular song come to mind? She supposed it was because of the beautiful, classy English Celine Diamante spoke.

  Kate leaned toward the painting to see if she could figure out why Celine had been so intensely focused on The Enchanted Garden. She reached into her handbag and pulled out a small magnifying glass, an item she kept handy for reading small print on menus and such; then she stepped closer to the painting and examined it with the magnifier.

  Curiously, there appeared to be a gap about the width of a penny’s edge between the frame and the canvas. A quick assessment confirmed that the gap ran around the entire painting.

  Frowning, Kate examined it again. Her gaze moved to the lower right-hand corner. No wonder the art expert was upset. There was a jagged scratch on the edge of the frame, as if someone had tried to force the painting into an ill-fitting frame. Not a very professional job for such a valuable painting.

  A very loud “ahem” came from the entrance. Kate’s heart skipped a beat. She dropped the magnifying glass, which clattered as it hit the floor.

  “Excuse me, but may I ask what you are doing?”

  Davis Carr stood in the doorway, blocking the sunlight.

  Then with the determined stride of a man used to getting his way, he moved toward her. A bear of a man whom Kate recognized immediately followed him into the room.

  The apprehension Kate had felt the entire morning revved up several notches. “I-I was just taking a closer lo—” she began.

  Clive Garfield interrupted. “Back away from the painting. That’s an order!”

  Chapter Ten

  In a flash, Davis Carr was in front of Kate—nearly in her face. And standing right behind him, Clive Garfield, cell phone to his ear, challenged her.

  “You’re standing too close to the painting,” he repeated. “Back away...now!”

  Kate smiled, attempting to disarm the men. “Really, I’m not a criminal. I’m just here to admire the artwork.” She nonchalantly stooped to retrieve her magnifying glass, dropped it into her handbag, and stood, attempting not to look the least bit flustered. “All three paintings are absolutely delightful, but I think this one is definitely my favorite.”

  The expression on Davis Carr’s face eased, but Garfield stepped closer, more menacing than before. “You seem to be making this museum a regular hangout. You mind telling us why you’ve been here so often, and why you’re here now?”

  Kate laughed. “I love art, and a friend from the board and I stopped by to look at the paintings again this morning. I didn’t know visiting a museum could cause such a stir.”

  He didn’t laugh. “You’ve been spotted here by several of my employees—and captured on tape.” He glanced at the Webcam. “When the museum isn’t open. That means you must have broken in.”

  “Like I said, I came with a friend,” she said easily.

  The two men exchanged disturbed looks.

  “Who’s this friend?” Garfield asked.

  “I came here originally to ask you more questions.”

  “Ah yes, the cub reporter,” Garfield said. There was no humor in his expression.

  “Not quite.”

  Davis wasn’t contributing to the conversation, but he crossed his arms, looking amused. For the life of her, Kate couldn’t fathom why.

  “I’m Kate Hanlon. My husband is the pastor of Faith Briar Church here in Copper Mill.”

  Now Garfield did laugh. “You mean I’ve been worried about a minister’s wife showing up on our live feed?”

  Kate shrugged. “See, you have nothing to worry about. I just love art and stopped by to get a better look.” She paused. “And to ask you more questions.”

  He rolled his eyes. “If you’re not a reporter, why the questions?”

  “Just call me curious,” Kate said. “I still want to know why your name doesn’t show up when I do an Internet search.”

  “That’s easy,” Garfield said. “I don’t need a Web site.” He cast a grateful look toward Davis Carr. “I have more than enough projects to handle because of Mr. Carr. Why should I invest in PR and advertising I don’t need?”

  “But your name,” Kate persisted. “Why doesn’t it come up at all?”

  He laughed. “Not everyone comes up on the Internet. Do a search for your neighbor down the street. Will he come up? Probably not. If you’re really curious, pay some money and go through a people-search program. I’ll come up on that site, and you’ll see that my background is clean as a whistle.” He shrugged. “I hope you do it. I’m getting a little tired of you, a minister’s wife or not, trying to wheedle information out of me.”

  Davis stepped forward to calm him down. “Clive, take it easy on the little lady. She means no harm, I’m sure.” He smiled at Kate. She noticed the smile didn’t reach his eyes and fought to suppress a shiver that threatened her spine.

  “If you’re this curious, you might try a search under his full name, Clive Davis Garfield.”

  Kate blinked in surprise. “Davis, as in your first name?”

  “We’re cousins.”

  The questions came faster than ever. “So it’s your family Davis stayed with in 1949?” Kate asked, looking at Garfield.

  The man shrugged. “You shouldn’t have told her,” he said to Davis. “You should never reward nosy people with the truth.” Then he turned to Kate. “Speaking of questions, you didn’t answer mine.”

  “About getting in?”

  “Yes.”

  “The back door was open when I got here. Dr. Diamante was here examining one of the paintings when I stepped inside.”

  Garfield frowned. “I’m quite aware of that.”

  Of course he was aware. How could he not be with the ever faithful, unblinking Webcams trained on anyone who stepped in front of the paintings? Kate just smiled, and then turned back to Davis Carr. “Now, you were saying...?”

  He moved his gaze to the painting as he stepped to Kate’s side. “Waterhouse painted this in 1916, technically not during the true Victorian era—that ended with the death of Queen Victoria in 1901—but he’s still known as a Victorian artist. Much of his work, you see, was done before the turn of the century.

  “Look at the vivid colors Waterhouse uses to accentuate the beauty of the flowers, and even the details in the women’s clothing. It’s a unique color of bright sienna, almost coral in some lights, that’s not seen in paintings other than his. Artists have found it difficult to duplicate. His work is truly ingenious.”

  Clive Garfield apparently wasn’t interested in the painting or in Davis’ opinion of it. He lumbered across the floor and disappeared out the front door. Kate couldn’t help thinking about this house once belonging to Garfield’s family. That certainly was a twist she hadn’t expected.

  Davis promptly steered Kate toward the other two paintings. The Tempest hung directly above a settee. Davis leaned closer to Kate and, with great care and attention to detail, pointed out the unique brush strokes Waterhouse used to highlight the roiling waves. Without hesitation, he guided Kate up the staircase to the landing, where once again he expounded knowledgeably on the detail in Gather Ye Rosebuds While Ye May.

  After the minitour, Kate sensed that Davis was anxious to hurry her out of the museum. But just inside the front door, she halted almost midstep and turned to him.

  “May I show you something on one of the canvases?”

  He frowned. “Which one?” Though even as the words left his mouth, his eyes drifted over her shoulder to The Enchanted Garden.

  Kate ignored the question and moved across the room to where the painting hung. “I find it curious that there’s a spa
ce between the canvas on this painting and the frame. Is there a reason for that?”

  He followed her, then squinted at the edge of the painting. “Ah yes,” he said. “You’re very observant, very observant indeed. A gap of that nature is left deliberately when valuable paintings are hung in regions of high humidity. It has to do with air flow and other—”

  They were interrupted by Garfield, whose shadow fell across the room from the open doorway. “You’re needed outside,” he said to Davis. “The exterminators are here with some news.”

  Davis brightened considerably and, with a quick nod to Kate, said, “I think we’ll have to continue our conversation another time.” He laughed lightly. “Once you get me talking about Waterhouse, it’s hard to get me to stop. Feel free to browse to your heart’s content,” he said. Then he turned to follow Garfield through the doorway.

  “Oh dear,” she called out, almost apologetically. “I have one more question.”

  Both men turned, Garfield looking annoyed.

  “What kind of poison did the exterminators use this morning?”

  Garfield frowned. “What difference could that possibly make?”

  She held out her hand, and a tiny red ladybug flew from it toward the open door. “It couldn’t have been very strong if this little creature lived through it.”

  “You probably brought it with you,” Garfield said.

  The men left, presumably to check something outside, Kate thought, as their shadows seemed to hover near the window near where she stood. They seemed to be arguing, but she couldn’t make out the words.

  Kate turned again to study the painting, especially the unique sienna and coral hue. She pulled her penlight from her handbag and shone the beam on the clothing. It did seem to turn from sienna to coral. And as someone who studied color and light when working with her stained-glass art, she had to admit that it was truly beautiful. And unique.

  She put away the penlight, wondering about the scratch on the inner edge of the frame. A professional framer, especially someone working on a painting this valuable, would certainly not allow a tool to slip and come so dangerously close to the canvas.

  She headed for the door, smiling. She loved it when something the size of a ladybug gave her just the clue she was looking for.

  Chapter Eleven

  It was not yet light out when Kate got up for her quiet time with God. She padded into the kitchen to start a pot of coffee, then moved to the living room to sit in her favorite rocker. As she sat back and closed her eyes, her thoughts went to Sunday’s sermon.

  “God help me,” she prayed, “to be the kind of neighbor Nehemiah talked about.”

  She opened her Bible to the Beatitudes and reread them, letting them soak into her soul. She meditated on the words for a few minutes and prayed again for God’s help to live out these beautiful blessings.

  She prayed for their children and, as she did so, thought about James, adding a special prayer for him—and for Livvy. Which brought her thoughts back to the mysterious goings-on at the museum. And that little ladybug, perfectly healthy after the fumigation.

  What if the exterminators weren’t exterminators at all? There had been the single rat that Livvy told her about, but no one else that she knew of had mentioned evidence of rats, mice, or any other living critters.

  And what about this sense of camaraderie between the exterminators and Clive Garfield? What was that all about?

  She was still mulling that over when Paul and Nehemiah came into the room—Paul showered and dressed for the day, Nehemiah in his exercise clothes. Paul was in a hurry to get to church for a meeting, and Nehemiah said he wanted to get a walk in before breakfast—and told Kate not to fix anything for him. He’d have a piece of toast later.

  The men had barely closed the door when Renee called.

  “I didn’t have a chance to tell you yesterday the details of my meeting with Nehemiah and about the ladies’ club I’m organizing, so I’d like to stop by for tea and tell you more about it.” She sounded breathless. “Also, I hope you don’t mind babysitting Kisses this morning.”

  Before Kate could answer, she added, “So put on the kettle and pull out the tin of Earl Grey.”

  Kate had just pulled on her Capri pants and an embellished sleeveless top when the doorbell rang. When Kate opened the door, Kisses trotted straight into the living room, hopped up on the sofa, and within seconds, began snoring.

  The women headed into the kitchen just as the timer’s chime announced that the tea was done brewing.

  “Thank you so much,” Renee said. “I really needed this to kick off the busy day I have ahead of me.” She took her first sip, swilled it carefully in her mouth, and said, “I hope you’ve kept the tea covered tightly, dear. It tastes like it may be a tiny bit past its prime.”

  Kate smiled sweetly and shrugged. She’d heard variations of the same theme before and had long ago decided it was simply part of Renee’s nature and not worth becoming annoyed over.

  “Of course,” Renee continued, “I wouldn’t say anything if we weren’t such good friends.” She reached for Kate’s hand and patted it.

  “I must tell you about my idea for the ladies’ club I mentioned yesterday. I had been thinking about something Pastor Nehemiah said Sunday in his sermon, and when I met with him yesterday morning, the whole thing came together. I was giving him some pointers about his sermon delivery. You see, I’d read this article in Ladies’ Home Journal about public speaking, and I wanted to share some of the ideas with him. Which I did. And he did seem very appreciative.

  “His comment about the Beatitudes and gossip had me thinking about starting a women’s club that has only one rule: You can’t say anything negative about anybody.”

  “As in no gossip?” Kate sat back, incredulous.

  “That’s right. If anyone is caught talking behind someone else’s back—or even in front of them—they’re kicked out of the club. Don’t you love it?”

  She lifted her chin with pride. “As I mentioned before, I’ve already decided on a name: Bee Attitudes.” Then a softer look crossed her face, the same look Kate had noticed the day before. “I just hope I’m up to it,” she said solemnly. “As founder and president of the club, I’m worried I might be the first one kicked out.”

  This time Kate reached for Renee’s hand. “I think it’s a great idea. And I’d imagine that everyone who joins will have the same worry about being the first one to slip up.” She paused. “That’s where a lot of grace may be needed.”

  “Can you join us?...Not that you need to.”

  They talked about the women who might be interested in joining, and Renee pulled a pink notepad and matching pen from her handbag to take notes. After a few minutes, she stood to head for the door.

  Kate walked with her to the entry hall. “You have a great plan. I wish I could be part of it, but I’m so involved with other things I don’t think I could do you justice. You’ll do great without me. But please keep me posted about how things are going. I can provide a listening ear if you ever need one.”

  Renee laughed. “Maybe that’s what I don’t need. That might make it too easy to spill those beans.”

  Kate laughed with her and reached to open the door. “Depends on what kinds of beans there are to spill.”

  “And knowing the difference,” Renee said, tootling her fingers to Kate as she headed to her car.

  A few minutes later, Nehemiah came in from his walk and headed to his room to change. “Feel free to use the computer,” he called to Kate from the hallway. “It’s on the kitchen table. I found some interesting sites last night. I’ll show you later...”

  Kate smiled. No time like the present. She booted up the machine, connected to the Internet, then clicked on the Google bar and typed in “epidemic history, Copper Mill, TN,” hoping that this time her search wouldn’t be interrupted. Pages and pages of hits popped up. Carefully she checked each entry but couldn’t find any that mentioned the year she was looking for. The influe
nza epidemic of 1918 was there. Polio epidemics of various years were mentioned. There were even references to the few years the Tennessee River flooded.

  Going back to the Google bar, this time she typed in “epidemic, 1949, Copper Mill, TN.” Scrutinizing the entries one by one, Kate finally saw something. Tennessee was hit by a statewide diphtheria epidemic in the summer of 1949. But there was no mention of Copper Mill.

  Feeling she’d exhausted that avenue, Kate decided to do another search: “environmental reasons for leaving space between frames and oil paintings.” Nothing came up. She tried again, this time adding the word scientific to the beginning of the phrase. Once more, nothing.

  Taking a moment to think it through, she finally typed in “correct framing of antique oil paintings.” Leaning forward to see more clearly, she was intrigued to find a Wikipedia entry. She clicked on it and found an article about framing pictures—even extensive sections on special treatment of museum pieces. But there was no mention whatsoever of the concept of leaving a space between frame and canvas.

  “So,” Nehemiah said when he came through the doorway a few minutes later, “have you been able to uncover anything about the summer of forty-nine epidemic?”

  “I’d hoped to find specific articles about Copper Mill—maybe names of individuals who’d been taken ill, or if I got lucky, actually trace Davis Carr’s family history. But so far, nothing.”

  “I’ll tell you what,” Nehemiah said. “I’ll stir up a little something in the kitchen and keep an eye on Kisses while I’m doing it, if you want to run to the library.”

  Kate grinned. She knew about Nehemiah’s culinary talents, and she was delighted that he felt comfortable enough to take charge of the kitchen even though it wasn’t his anymore.

  “Mi casa es su casa,” she said with a sweep of her hand. “Especially the fridge and the stove.”

  It was too early for the library to open to the public, but a call to the head librarian, Livvy, who always arrived at least an hour before it opened, would get her in the door. She grabbed her cell phone and dropped it and her headset in her handbag. She’d call Livvy on her way.