by Sara Rosett
An hour later, Ivan sat at a card table, which sloped steeply toward him, removing one dusty book from the cardboard box at a time. A bell chimed as a customer entered the store, and the pimply kid who’d shown him to the table in the back room after getting the owner’s approval via a phone call disappeared through the green velvet curtain into the front of the shop.
Ivan breathed a sigh of relief. The constant chimes, bells, and other miscellaneous clanging sounds from the kid’s phone had been so distracting that Ivan had to look through one stack twice to make sure he hadn’t missed a gem. Stuart was out of the shop, and Ivan decided to always make sure the owner was in, if he returned to check a shipment.
Ivan reached back into the box for the next book. These were all run-of-the-mill. Average. Yes, they were old books, but that wasn’t enough to tempt him. He had found a nice manuscript of medieval poetry in this shop not too long ago—that was why Stuart had called him with the offer to look through the books—but Ivan had a feeling that lightning wasn’t going to strike today in the form of an overlooked rare book.
Ivan heaved the last box onto the table. The kid returned to the back room and began banging things about on a little counter. “Like a cuppa?”
“No.” Ivan flung the flaps of the box back, and dust spun into the air.
“Sure?”
Ivan gripped the edge of the box, his head tilted to the side as he cut his gaze toward the teen’s back. “Yes. Quite sure.”
The teen shrugged and slapped a cabinet door closed.
Ivan let out a bellow-like sigh, but the teen didn’t take the hint. Ivan pressed his eyes closed and gave a tiny shake of his head, wishing he’d brought his earbuds. He could have plugged them in and lost himself in something soothing, like Mendelssohn’s Andante from his Violin Concerto. Even that ham-fisted ignoramus of a kid would have understood to leave him alone if he saw the cords trailing down from earbuds. It was probably the only thing he would understand since Ivan’s sharp, one-syllable replies had not been enough to stem the continual flow of words aimed in his direction.
More words eddied around him, but Ivan ignored them, working his way through the box. Down at the bottom, he found what looked like a rather promising weathered leather cover, and he thought for a second it might be a Jansenist binding, but it was only a trick of the light. The volume turned out to be a group of proceedings from a forgotten building society that had been bound together. Ivan tossed the book back in the box then began to carelessly pitch in the other books that he’d already removed, humming the Mendelssonh’s music under his breath.
The uncoordinated youth had finally succeed in making his tea and had now seated himself only inches away from Ivan, his words running on, despite the warm tea in the cup he held. A few words penetrated through Ivan’s humming and thud of books falling into the box.
“…stolen painting…Annabel Foley—”
Ivan’s hands stilled for a second as he ran the name around in his mind. Annabel. Yes, that had been the name. One of them anyway, that Poppy had nattered on about all those summers ago. Annabel Foley. Not exactly a common name. Memories stirred of a summer spent searching every nook and cranny at Frampton. Ivan picked up a book and slowly placed it in the box. “A painting, you said?”
The kid had been about to sip his tea, but he immediately lowered his cup. “Yes. Very important.” He dug in his pocket and removed his phone. “Here, would you like to see?”
Ivan took the phone and stared at the small image, a landscape of Edinburgh. He didn’t recognize it, but then again, Frampton had been covered in art, and at that point in his life, he’d paid little attention to it. He was about to hand the phone back when he noticed the line of text under the image, “A View of Edinburgh by Annabel Foley, ca. 1850.”
The words he and Robbie had repeated over and over echoed around in his mind. They had peeked behind pictures, looked behind all the books in the library, and opened every door to every wardrobe until the housekeeper ordered them outside in frustration. Surely the answer to the riddle couldn’t be that simple…could it?
“And this was stolen? From Frampton?” he asked. Why would inquiries about this painting be going out all the way up here in Edinburgh?
“Frampton? No, mate, it was stolen from a house in one of the closes off the Royal Mile. Stair something.”
Perhaps it was that simple, after all. He’d need to find his notes, to see if it was possible, but it might just be. He felt a bubble of elation he got when he spied an especially nice book that had been overlooked and left forgotten on a shelf, and he was able to pluck it from among the inconsequential rabble.
It could be true. He would have to check, but that was easily done. He still had all his notes, all the research. It would be fittingly poetic if he actually found it, considering it was that object that had launched him into his current career. Yes, very fitting indeed.
He handed the phone back. “Has it been found?” he asked, interrupting the youth, who was rambling on again about some other nonsense.
He shrugged. “Don’t know. I suppose not, or I would have heard.”
“Well, can you find out?” Ivan gestured impatiently at the phone.
“Ah, I guess so.”
“Then get on with it.”
The kid frowned at him, but tapped out a text as Ivan worked his arms into the sleeves of his coat and wrapped his scarf around his neck. The phone let out a stream of music, which the kid cut off as he clicked to the text. “Nope, still missing.”
“Excellent,” Ivan murmured. “If it comes in, call me,” he said, and began dictating his phone number.
“Why?”
“So I can buy it,” Ivan said, spacing out each word.
“Oh, right.” But the kid looked uncertain. “You heard me say that it’s stolen, right?”
“After the legalities are worked out, of course,” Ivan said.
Once Ivan was sure the kid had his phone number, and he’d impressed on him that there would be an ample reward for calling him first before he called Stuart should the painting turn up, he left the shop. He had memorized the number that the image had been texted from, and as he walked down the street, he dialed the number.
“The Blue Door, how may I help you?”
Ivan smiled and hung up without speaking. He knew the place. He’d go there, but first he needed to go home and dig a box out of the back corner of a closet.
4
ZOE WALKED SLOWLY ACROSS JOHN’S Close, studying the surrounding buildings. The one immediately next door to Staircase House did indeed have a sign in the window proclaiming it was “To Let.”
Zoe walked on, thinking about the minuscule differences there were between American English and British English. In America, that sign would have read, “To Rent.” She’d also noticed on the drive from the airport that the words “Give Way” instead of “Yield” were printed on a triangular road sign. As interesting as it was to think about the points where a common language branched and split, vocabulary wasn’t her top concern right now.
She turned and looked at the next closest building. Scaffolding lined one side, and swaths of plastic covered the upper floors. The main entrance was firmly shut. Zoe didn’t see any workmen. So, no one to chat with, which was probably a good thing since she had promised Poppy she wouldn’t talk to anyone around John’s Close. If the art dealers were a dead end, she would ask Poppy to reconsider her ban on talking to the people in the neighborhood.
She turned to the buildings on the other side of the close, the taller stuccoed buildings of five- and six-stories. That would be a job, knocking on doors in those apartments and offices, but she wouldn’t attempt it today. Zoe walked through the little tunnel, emerged onto the Royal Mile, and headed back to the hotel. It was time to have that conversation with Harrington and do some Internet research of her own.
She returned to the hotel, and checked the safe. The cash was still tucked away in the envelope. She closed the thick door and decided to
do her Internet searches first. She spent about an hour combing through search results, looking for any mention of the painting. Harrington preferred to do things the old-fashioned way, like the handwritten note and paper currency, and she wanted to make sure she had all the bases covered, like the possibility that the Internet could be a sales point.
The search term of the painting’s name turned up a few other paintings, but most of those had some sort of extra identification tagged onto the title, like “from the West” or “Castle.” Zoe did find one painting online with the exact title, but it was a completely different painting attributed to another artist, and currently located in a museum collection, to boot. Violet would have been happy to see that the female artist was credited in the description of the painting.
Zoe found mentions of and quite a few links to Annabel’s later works, her botanical studies, but the Internet only had a few links to the landscapes painted early in her career, and none of those were of the painting Zoe was interested in. Annabel’s sister Agatha, who was also a great traveler, came up in the searches. Later in her life, Annabel had accompanied her sister on some international trips, using the opportunity to paint flora in places like the Mediterranean and Africa.
Zoe stood and paced around the room, rolling her head to stretch her neck as she picked up her phone.
Harrington answered on the second ring. “Zoe, my dear, how are you? Do you have everything you need? Is your room comfortable?”
“Yes, everything is fine.”
“You received my package?”
“Yes. It’s in the safe at the moment. Unfortunately, I don’t know if I’ll need it. Violet is a lovely woman, but I’m not sure she has the sort of connections we need…”
“Oh don’t let that polished exterior fool you. Violet knows her stuff. It has only been a few days.”
“But the longer we wait, the colder the trail gets.”
“Very true. Is there something there, some lead you discovered that you can follow up on immediately?”
“No.” Zoe sighed. “The next logical thing to do is talk to people in and around John’s Close, but when I met with Poppy, she insisted that I not talk to anyone around John’s Close, in case word somehow got back to her mother.”
“Then we have to respect her wishes…for now.”
Zoe smiled. “So wait then bring up the subject again, if we don’t have anything else to go on?”
“Yes, that’s how I would handle it.”
Zoe was glad to hear those words. Harrington was good at this, and if her instincts were matching up with his, then she was probably doing okay. Buoyed by this confirmation, Zoe said, “I’ve thought of someone else who may be able to help us, an art dealer in Paris, Henry Masard.”
Harrington said slowly, “Yes, Masard might be useful.”
“You know him?” Zoe asked. It wasn’t surprising when she thought about it. Harrington’s work had taken him all over the world. She should have assumed Harrington and Masard would know each other.
“Years ago,” Harrington said. “He helped me recover a nice little Degas bronze. I’ve kept in touch. Yes, that might be a good idea. I’ll leave it up to you.”
He asked a few more details about the meeting with Poppy, but his questions focused more on Poppy’s state of mind than how Zoe had handled the interview. He simply wanted to make sure the daughter of his old friend was doing okay.
“She was a little nervous at first,” Zoe said, “but that’s understandable after a robbery.”
“Yes. And some people are uncomfortable with the idea of hiring a recovery consultant. It’s not something people do every day. Well, it sounds as if you’re off to a good start. Call me if you need me. Shall we talk again tomorrow? Is this a good time?”
They arranged the time for the call the next day and hung-up. Zoe found Masard’s number in her contact list—Harrington wasn’t the only person who kept up with old acquaintances. The call went straight to voicemail where she listened to a stream of French that she didn’t understand. At the sound of the beep, she left him a message in English.
She plopped down on the bed and drew the laptop toward her. Zoe couldn’t sit around and wait. Waiting was not her strong suit. Jack was the one with all the patience. Zoe pulled up a map of Edinburgh and searched for antique stores and art galleries. She would visit as many of these herself as she could before jet lag got to her, then she’d hit the remainder in the morning.
She had her list and was putting on her knit cap in preparation to leave—the sun, behind the wall of mist and thin clouds, was completely down, and the temperature would have dropped—when her phone rang.
She recognized Violet’s number.
“Good news, Zoe.” The excitement in her tone brought out more of Violet’s Scottish brogue. “We’ve found it.”
5
VIOLET CONTINUED, “I JUST GOT off the phone with a dealer—a good friend of mine. She’s actually in Glasgow. Her daughter ran her shop for her today and didn’t know about the painting. Nancy only found out about it a few minutes ago when her daughter mentioned it.”
“Wonderful. What’s the address? I’ll go pick it up right now.”
“Oh no, you can’t do that. Her daughter’s already closed up the shop and gone home. She has two little ones, you see. But Nancy has an appointment here in Edinburgh tomorrow. She’ll drop it off with me first thing tomorrow.”
“Umm…I don’t know about that. I don’t like the idea of it sitting in a shop all night.” Now that she knew where it was, Zoe wanted the painting in her possession. “I don’t mind going to get it now. How far is Glasgow? This Nancy might have left a key with a neighbor or another shopkeeper. Could you ask her?”
“No, I don’t think she does that. She’s quite particular about her shop, and she wants to see it as well as bring it to you herself. And I can see why, too. It’s a stolen painting, don’t you know. She wants to be exactly sure of who she’s turning it over to.”
“And you’ll vouch for me, I get it,” Zoe said.
“Don’t worry. It will be safe as houses overnight. You’ll have it first thing tomorrow.”
Zoe thought, what did that even mean? Safe as houses? Houses weren’t always safe…Staircase House was a recent prime example of that. But it didn’t appear that she’d be able to do anything about getting the painting tonight. She’d have to trust Violet, who had been as good as her word. She’d had the contacts to find the painting, so Zoe decided not to press.
“Okay. What time should I come by in the morning?”
“Eight too early?”
“No, I’d be there at five, if you said that was the best time.”
Violet laughed. “Five is far too early for me. Now you can relax and enjoy your evening. Have you seen the castle? You must do that.”
They said good-bye, and Zoe folded the list of galleries and antique shops in half then tossed it in the wastepaper basket, feeling a bit…let down, she realized. After all the worry and venting to Jack about what she would do to find the painting, what resources she could bring to the table, what innovative ways she could come up with to find the painting…and all she had needed to do was come to Edinburgh, and wait for it to be handed to her. Oh well, nothing like a little lesson in humility, Zoe thought.
She brought up Poppy’s phone number, but hesitated before typing a text or calling. She closed the screen. Zoe decided to wait until she had the painting in hand before she got in touch with Poppy. Instead, she called Harrington. Text messages were not his thing. He didn’t answer, so she left him a voice message, updating him on what had happened. “I’ll have Violet look at it,” Zoe said. “I think she’s as close to an expert as we’re going to get with Annabel Foley’s paintings.” During the last few months, she and Harrington had developed a protocol for dealing with recovered items. Once they recovered an item, their next step was to verify that the item was actually authentic, a step which might prove difficult as there was so little known about Annabel Fol
ey’s early work, but Violet had seemed extremely knowledgeable. “Let me know if there is someone else you’d rather I use for the verification,” Zoe said. “I’ll get in touch with you tomorrow after I have the painting.”
She grabbed her room keycard and headed for the rainbow elevator. She had time on her hands and a foreign city to explore. Might as well see the castle before jet lag forced her to sleep.
Ivan dragged another box from the recess of his closet and checked the contents. Finally, he thought, spotting a notebook wedged deep in a corner. He added it to the pile of books on the table beside his laptop. It had taken him longer to find what he was looking for than he’d anticipated. All his research was not in the same box. At some point, he’d moved things around, and it had taken him several hours to sort through his cluttered closet. But he had it all spread out in front of him now. He sat down, opened the notebook, and set to work, going back and forth between his old research notes and the goldmine of information that was the Internet.
After two hours, he fell back in his chair, disgusted. He was on the right track. He knew it. He could feel it. The information was lining up in a way it never had before, but he needed that painting. He couldn’t believe that there wasn’t a photo of it anywhere on the Web. How could that be? He understood it wasn’t one of Annabel Foley’s famous botanicals, but it was part of her body of work.
He picked up his phone again. He knew he hadn’t received a message from the kid at the antique store. He couldn’t have missed an incoming call or a text. The phone had been within arm’s reach, volume turned up as high as it would go. He sent another text then pushed away from the table. It was too late to go to the Blue Door. It would probably be closed now, but he could go anyway, see if the owner was working late. Maybe charm his way into some more information about the painting.
