by Sara Rosett
“What did the scarf look like?” Zoe asked. Nancy had been specific about the scarf.
“I don’t remember.”
“Not even a color?” Zoe asked, not wanting to mention any specific color or pattern—like plaid—that might influence Haley’s memory.
“I don’t know,” Haley said with a shrug.
“But you’re sure he had a scarf?”
“Yes.” The girl’s chin tilted up. “I know what I saw.”
A tall man wearing an overcoat and scarf matched Nancy’s description of the man who sold the painting. On the other hand, it could be two completely different men. There were probably tons of tall, thirtyish men wearing a coat and a scarf in Edinburgh. “I’m not doubting you. I just wanted to make sure. It’s important. Did you tell all this to the police?”
“Yeah, except the part about the scarf.”
“You or your mom should call them back and tell them about it.”
“Oh, I can do that. I’ll send that inspector-guy a text. He gave me his card.” She extracted a business card from the pocket of her skintight jeans then her fingers flew across the tiny keyboard of her phone.
“Anything else you remember?”
Haley paused and fixed her black-rimmed eyes on Zoe. “You sure are curious.”
“I think that guy you saw may be involved in a…business transaction that I was part of.” Zoe hoped that sounded important enough to justify her nosiness but vague enough not to give away anything important.
Haley raised her eyebrows. “Okay.” She drew out the last syllable as she raised her eyebrows, but she went back to her text.
“Thanks for talking to me, Haley. You’ve been helpful.”
“Sure. Whatever. Beats standing around here, waiting…or being dragged through another castle.”
“Can I give you my number, in case you think of anything else?”
“Yeah, I guess so,” Haley said as she finished her text and fingered her earbud.
They exchanged numbers. Haley’s mom seemed to be wrapping up her conversation, so Zoe thanked Haley again and was about to turn away, when Haley said, “Oh yeah. Since you’re so interested, I guess you’d want to know that when she yelled at the guy, she called him Theo.”
10
“BUT I THOUGHT YOU SAID you couldn’t understand what they were saying,” Zoe said to Haley.
“Well, yeah, once I went inside our room it was all garbled and just noise, but before, when I was in the hall, she yelled, ‘Go away, Theo.’ That was as clear as when my mom yells at me from the kitchen to come down for dinner.”
When Zoe emerged from the hotel a few minutes later, she spotted a sign pointing to the Royal Mile. It was only a few blocks away, so she decided to walk. The haze of disbelief and shock at being questioned by the police had worn off, and with the tidbits of information she had now, she felt rejuvenated. She wasn’t about to rely on the police to clear her of any involvement in Justine’s injuries. Sitting back and waiting for things to work out was never a good plan in her book. Things went better when she was proactive. She’d call in a few favors and see what she could find out on her own. As she strode along in the bracing cold air, she found Carla’s number.
A groggy voice answered. “What?”
“Carla, I’m sorry. I completely forgot about the time change.” Like Zoe, Carla hated early starts. She often worked late into the night then slept the morning away. She said she did her best work after nine at night.
“Zoe?”
“Yes. It’s me. I’m sorry. I’ll call back later. I’m in Edinburgh, and I’m so flustered that I didn’t think about the time change.”
“Edinburgh. Cool.” Carla sounded a bit more coherent. “What are you doing there?”
“I was supposed to be recovering a painting, but things have gotten a bit complicated. But don’t worry about it. Go back to sleep. I’ll call you later.”
“It’s no use now. I’m awake. I’ll just go to bed early tonight to make up for it—I’ll turn in at two a.m., instead of three. Let me get the coffee going.” Carla’s voice changed as she moved. “There, I’m up, and the coffee is brewing. No going back now. Besides, your life is always interesting…much more interesting than mine, which is unfair. I’m the hacker, after all.”
“I thought you were a reformed hacker.”
“Yeah, yeah. Details. I have to keep my hand in,” Carla said. “Stay current. I wear a white hat now. Mostly. So what’s up? What’s complicated?”
“Ah, something that might require a hat of a different color.”
“Better and better. Is the painting still missing?”
“No. It’s been returned,” Zoe said.
“But isn’t that problem solved?” Carla actually sounded disappointed.
“No. I’ve just been interviewed by the police.”
“Oh, this was so worth waking up for.”
Zoe summarized what had happened since she arrived in Edinburgh. By the time she finished, Carla was noisily sipping coffee and asking questions. “So you think this Theo guy is the same person who sold the painting to the art dealer?”
“Possibly.”
“And if he sold it, then he probably stole it.”
“Again, possibly.”
“When did you get so cautious and thoughtful?” Carla said.
“Chatting with the police makes you that way.”
“I suppose so. Okay, so you probably want me to see if I can find a link between the woman who was hurt and this Theo guy.”
“Do you think that’s possible?”
“Yes, my dear, I’m not as wishy-washy as you. I’m sure I can find something. Give me all the info you’ve got on them.”
“It’s not much. Her name is Justine Price. She’s a nurse. She went to school with Poppy Foley, but I don’t know the name of the school. She worked for Poppy’s family, nursing Poppy’s father. I’m not sure what his name was. He recently died.”
“Excellent.”
Zoe wasn’t sure she’d heard Carla’s words correctly. “Excellent?”
“Records, Zoe. Public records are a gold mine of information.”
“Oh. See, that’s why I called you.” Zoe continued, “Let’s see, what else? Poppy’s family owns Staircase House in Edinburgh and an estate in Devon. Frampton Downs, I think it was called.”
“More public records. You’re making this too easy for me.”
“Okay, I’ll stop. That’s all I’ve got anyway, except for the guy’s first name. Theo.”
“Don’t worry about that. If there’s a link between Justine and Theo, I’ll find it. What about this painting you were hired to find?”
“It’s called A View of Edinburgh. One of the Foley ancestors painted it, Annabel Foley. She’s famous for her botanicals, but this is a landscape, one of her early works. But that’s not the main issue right now.”
“Right. I’ll concentrate on Justine and Theo, but I’ll nose around a bit and check out the painting. It’s always good to have all the information you can get.”
“Yes.” Zoe was about to thank her and hang up, but instead she said, “Carla, don’t do anything that you feel uncomfortable with.” Zoe was fine with pushing the boundaries herself, but she didn’t want to be the one to push Carla out of her comfort zone.
Carla made a raspberry noise. “This will be easy peasy, as my niece says.”
“You won’t have to go back to the dark side?”
“No, only the gray zone. I’ll call you back soon.”
When she hung up, Zoe realized she was starving and made a detour into the next restaurant she came to, a Thai place with a buffet. Zoe loaded up her plate and thought about her next move as she ate. Carla’s words about how it was good to have all the information possible came back to her. Jack said that, too, and it was something she’d learned the hard way over the last few years. A gap in knowledge could lead to a huge mess in the future.
She pressed her napkin to her lips and dialed another phone number.
She hadn’t heard back from Henri Masard, which wasn’t surprising. She and Jack had been in touch with him a few times since their adventure in Paris, and each time he’d been lackadaisical about returning their calls.
This time, he answered her call, all but singing her name in his French-accented English. “Zoe Andrews, how are you?” He didn’t wait for her to answer, but went on. “I was so happy to hear your message. I am traveling and everything is up in the air, as you would say, so I was not able to call you back. What can I help you with? You mentioned a painting by Annabel Foley?”
“Yes. I’m working with Harrington Throckmorton.”
“Yes, of course. Very good at what he does. I heard he has created his own enterprise. “
“Yes. I hope you can help us. We were hired to find an Annabel Foley landscape.”
“Not a botanical?”
“No. One of her early pieces, A View of Edinburgh.”
“Why would someone steal one of her landscapes? They are not valuable at all, in comparison to her later works.”
“That’s exactly my question. Two of her botanical paintings were on either side of the landscape that was stolen. I’m not an expert, but they were beautiful. Even I could tell they were special.”
“Curious. And the painting is still missing?”
“No, it has been found, but other things have happened that make me wonder if it’s more valuable than we realize.” Zoe went on to describe the attack on Justine and the police’s involvement.
A few seconds of silence filled the line. Then Masard said, “It puzzles me. I would like to see the painting. Would that be possible?”
“No, I returned it to the owner, but despite that, she’s not happy with me.”
“Well, without seeing it, I cannot tell you much,” he said, and Zoe could picture his Gallic shrug that would accompany the statement. “And even then, to be complete in your investigation, you would need certain tests…infrared reflectography and other scans. X-rays…things of that nature. There could be any number of reasons that painting might be more valuable than anyone realizes. My first thought is that it might be a recycled canvas. If Foley painted over another work—perhaps not her own since it is from early in her career—then it could be valuable. I cannot remember, did she move in any artistic circles with other famous painters?”
“I don’t know,” Zoe said, making notes on her paper napkin. “But if there was a valuable painting under the Foley landscape, how would anyone know about it? And if it’s there, why would the thief sell it to a dealer?”
Masard said, “All astute questions. Of course, it could be that the value is not in the painting itself.”
“You mean in the frame? Something might be hidden in it?”
“It is possible. I do not see why someone would take a Foley landscape when they had the choice of two of her botanicals.”
“They were gorgeous paintings, Henri. I only had time to glance at them, but the colors were vivid and the artwork was so detailed. I wanted to look at them longer.”
“And you saw the landscape painting when you returned it?”
“Yes,” Zoe said, kicking herself for not examining it more closely. “I had a local dealer verify it for me. She seems knowledgeable about Foley’s paintings, and Harrington trusts her.”
“Well, that is an impeccable recommendation, if Harrington trusts her. She didn’t notice anything unusual about the painting?”
“No, but she was specifically looking at it to make sure it was the Foley landscape. I wish I’d looked more closely at the frame or even the back of the painting.”
“You did not look at the back?” Masard said in tones of astonishment.
“No,” Zoe said, miserably. “I should have. I should have remembered.” During their previous adventure with Masard, the back of a painting had proved to be as critical as the front.
“Ah, well. Do not be too hard on yourself,” Masard said. “You will not forget now.”
“Doesn’t do me a lot of good now, though.”
“You could not ask to see it again?”
Zoe blew out a breath. “Yes, I could ask.”
Poppy could only say no.
Sergeant Malone moved the video forward another few seconds, made a note, then repeated the process. He’d been doing it for hours.
“How is it going?” A voice asked from over his shoulder.
Sergeant Malone spun his chair away from the monitor to speak to Homes. “Same. Nothing, except the ginger-haired bloke outside her hotel door.”
“Nothing interesting from the lobby cameras?” Homes asked. He stood as he always did when thinking, the elbow of one arm propped on the other arm, which was folded across his chest. His chin rested on the fingers of his bent arm—sort of a standing version of Rodin’s The Thinker.
“Nothing but a headache.” Sergeant Malone waved to his notepad, which was covered with printed notes. “Tour bus unloaded around the time we estimate the attack took place, but I haven’t seen our ginger fellow, so I don’t think he was with the tour. I’m almost through all of the footage. I don’t think he’s going to show up.”
“Perhaps he came in the side entrance that isn’t covered by the cameras. Can you bring up the footage from the hallway? I haven’t seen it yet.”
Sergeant Malone clicked a few keys and the image changed to a hallway lined with doors on either side. “I’ll get it to the relevant bit.” He fast-forwarded until a tall man with a broad-shouldered build in an overcoat and scarf exited the elevator. The color on the recording wasn’t strong, but his reddish hair was clear enough to add it to the list of identifying characteristics, which also included a height of at least two meters. Only his back was visible, but his walk spoke volumes. He was agitated. He marched down the corridor and hammered on the Price woman’s door. The video didn’t record sound, so they had no idea what he said.
As they watched the video, Sergeant Malone said, “I ran her cell phone records. Normal stuff, take-out services, a relative in Derbyshire—an aunt. But she did make several calls within the last few weeks to a Theodore Cooke.” Sergeant Malone froze the video and opened a new window on his computer. “This is his current driving license.”
“Looks like the same man,” Homes said, his gaze bouncing back and forth between the two images on the screen. “Similar hair color and height. What’s his connection to Justine Price?”
“Can’t find one. Not yet, anyway. Doesn’t live near her. She has a flat in London. He lives in Manchester. She’s a nurse. He’s…well, he seems to prefer to make his living in less legitimate ways. A couple of convictions—burglary. Homes, no cars. Nothing high-end.”
“Let’s locate him.”
Sergeant Malone nodded and set the video in motion again. “There’s the young girl. Video confirms her version.” On the video, a teen with long dark hair came down the hallway from the elevator, her attention focused on her phone until the man raised his arm and pounded on the door, which drew an immediate reaction from her. She looked up, increased her pace, and skirted around him before slipping into the room next door to the door he was repeatedly hitting. After a few seconds, the door in front of the man opened an inch, and he shoved inside.
Homes shook his head. “Why did she open the door? All she had to do was call the front desk. They would have him removed.”
Sergeant Malone didn’t answer the rhetorical question. It was one of the hardest parts of the job—looking at things after the fact and seeing how one small decision turned a person’s life upside down. He sighed and fast-forwarded. “Less than a minute later.”
The door opened. A woman emerged, her eyes wide with fright as she looked toward the elevator momentarily. She must have decided she didn’t want to wait for the elevator. She sprinted for the stairs. Another of those split-second decisions, Sergeant Malone thought. One that almost cost the woman her life.
The man in the overcoat raced out of the room after her. Only a few steps behind, he reached the stairwel
l door seconds after the woman. “That’s it.” Sergeant Malone hit a key and the monitor went back to the lobby recording. “No cameras on the stairs.”
“And no record of the man leaving?” Homes asked.
“No. He must have slipped out the same way he came in. The side door, I bet, like you said.”
“And what about the red-headed American woman, Zoe Andrews?”
“Not a trace. If she was in a disguise—say a wig or something like that—it’s possible that she could have come in with the tour group, but she did not arrive looking like we saw her.”
Homes massaged his chin. “And you haven’t seen her on the fourth floor video?”
“No. And she didn’t show up on any of the other video from the other floors either.” Homes chuckled, and Sergeant Malone said, “I knew you’d ask. I think she’s clear.”
Homes shifted to sit on the edge of a near-by desk, but kept his chin cradled in his hand. “Then that would mean she was telling us the truth.”
“Apparently so.” Sergeant Malone’s gaze shifted to his notebook of ideas. He’d have to write this one up. Good fodder for his future book.
“Her story checks out,” Homes continued, thinking aloud. “She wasn’t near Justine Price at the time of the attack, and her employer confirmed her assignment in Edinburgh was to recover the painting, which Poppy Foley says she did return. So we have two separate people—Justine Price and Zoe Hunter—connected to the Victorian painting, which isn’t worth that much.”
Sergeant Malone raised his eyebrows.
“Yes,” Homes said. “I checked it out with a few experts. Worth a few hundred euro on the open market. Nothing extravagant.”
“Odd.”
Homes was silent a moment, then said, “Any connection between the American woman and this Theodore Cooke?”
“Haven’t checked.” Sergeant Malone made a note. “But I will.”
Homes’s phone buzzed. He removed it from his pocket and read a text. “I’ll be at the hospital, if you need me. Justine Price is awake.”
