by Sara Rosett
“Yes, I can give you a list of approximate costs. In fact…” he paused and murmured something in French, then said, “I must check, but it may be possible to have the tests carried out here.”
“That would be perfect.”
She wrapped up the call with Masard, telling him she would call him when she arrived in Salzburg tomorrow and called Poppy, who answered right away. Zoe explained that she needed to travel to Salzburg instead of Paris.
“Fine. It’s funny that you’re going there. The aunts went there a lot.”
“The aunts?” Zoe asked, then mentally caught up with Poppy. “Oh, you mean Annabel and Agatha.” The way Poppy spoke of her Victorian aunts, as if she knew them personally, had thrown Zoe for a moment.
“Yes. They had a cousin, Eleanor, who married a wealthy Austrian. They often stopped to visit her on their travels. It’s all in the books I gave you.” Her voice turned thoughtful. “I read those books as a little girl and wanted to visit all the places they described. I always meant to go to Salzburg, but never have. There’s always something more pressing, you know? Well, anyway,” she said, getting back to her former brisk tones. “How many days do you think it will take?”
“At least two or three. Possibly more. I may be able to have the tests run there in Salzburg. My contact is checking on that. If I have to go somewhere else, it may take a few more days.” Laid out like that, it did sound like a lot of trouble and expense. Poppy didn’t reply and the silence stretched. Zoe wondered if Poppy was about to call the whole thing off now that they were talking about actually spending money to research the painting.
But when Poppy spoke again, she sounded matter-of-fact, not outraged at the potential costs. “Sorry. I’m in traffic. Keep me updated.”
Zoe’s phone beeped with an incoming call. She assured Poppy she would keep her informed then switched to the other call. It was Carla on the line.
“Okay,” Carla said, getting straight to business. “I have something for you.”
“Wonderful.” Zoe reached for the pen and notepad on the nightstand.
“Theodore Cooke wasn’t part of Justine Price’s life until recently. And when I say recently, I mean weeks, not months. He doesn’t show up until about three weeks ago.”
Zoe made a note. “I’m not going to ask how you know this.”
“Mostly from poking around Justine’s Facebook page, which is public, by the way, and a few other places I won’t tell you about. Anyway, up until three weeks ago, no mention of Theo, then his name pops up in an exchange of comments on a photo. Justine suddenly reached out to a friend from nursing school. During their back and forth, Justine asked if the friend was still seeing Theo. She wasn’t. Then Justine asked if she could get his number. She needed some repair work done.”
“So Theo is a contractor?”
“I wouldn’t call it that. I was able to track him down through the phone number that Justine got from the friend. He’s moved around a lot. Lived in Leeds and York as well as Dublin for a while. His current address is somewhere named Corby. He works on-and-off, it seems, installing doors and windows.”
“Okay. That’s all interesting…”
“But not relevant. I get that,” Carla said. “Here’s what you’ll be interested in. It looks like he has a sideline in stealing things. He’s got a few convictions and several arrests.”
“Wow.”
“All public records. Once I had his name, it was easy to track them down,” Carla said.
“What did he steal? Artwork?”
“No. Mostly computers, it looks like.”
“Hmm. That’s kind of…weird.”
“That he would go from laptops to fine art? Yeah, I agree. Anyway, a week ago, he dropped off the job-site in Corby. Lots of calls from his boss, which he doesn’t return.”
“Hmm…Does Justine have a record?” Zoe asked.
“No, nothing came up at all.”
“That is interesting,” Zoe said. If Justine believed Mr. Foley’s ramblings about the value of the painting and decided to steal it, it appeared she’d searched through her acquaintances for a shady character. Zoe didn’t know as much about the black market in fine art as Harrington did, but she did know that Justine would need a way to sell a valuable painting. If she didn’t have a connection to a fence, she’d have to find someone who did— someone like Theo.
“How did you find out all this?” Zoe asked. “Not from his Facebook, surely?”
“Not entirely from Facebook, no. I have my ways.”
“And I should stop asking.”
“Yes,” Carla said. “Theo arrived in Edinburgh and checked into a budget hotel on the outskirts of the city, then spent two days traveling back and forth between his hotel and someplace called the Royal Mile.”
“It’s a historic street with lots of tourist attractions. The house where the painting was stolen is located just off the Royal Mile.”
“Well, there you go. But I have more,” Carla said.
“You sound like one of those infomercials, ‘But wait—there’s more.’”
“You do realize that you are comparing my highly specialized skill set to people who sell plastic food containers that no one needs and adult-size onesies.”
“Not what I meant at all,” Zoe said. “You’re just a bit of a showman.”
“Which is also known as keeping the best for last, which I did. Shortly after Justine got his number from her friend, she called him. Their conversation lasted sixteen minutes. Three days later, Justine went to Corby. I just love cell phone records. It’s like having a tracker on someone.”
“Only if you have someone like you who can get to the records.”
“Or the government. Don’t get me started on that subject,” Carla said. “Okay, back to Justine. No phone calls between them, but they were both in the area—I checked the cell phone tower data. I assume they met, because the next day is when Theo skipped out on work, left Corby, and headed for Edinburgh. There’s one text message that I found. Justine sent Theo a message earlier this week, on Sunday. It read, ‘Delayed. Change our reservation to Monday.’
“So they were supposed to meet, but something happened, and she couldn’t make it. I bet she’d planned to let Theo in Staircase House or give him the keys so he could get in.”
Carla continued, “Justine’s cell phone records show she drove to Edinburgh and arrived Monday.”
Zoe pulled opened her laptop and brought up the calendar. She was in that traveler’s fog that comes when you are out of your normal routine, and she wasn’t even sure what day it was. She studied the calendar. “Monday? This Monday, you mean?”
“Yes, just a couple of days ago.”
“Carla, you’re amazing. Monday was the day Justine called Harrington, pretending to be Poppy, to ask him to find the stolen painting.”
Zoe tucked the phone under her chin and jotted down the dates, her mind racing. “So Justine was delayed. Theo was already here. Carla, in all your snooping, did you run across any mention of a window repair?”
“Umm, I think so. Let me check. Yes, Justine made two calls to glass repair companies on Monday night.”
Zoe stood and paced around the bed to the hotel room window. “So Theo was here on Sunday, waiting for Justine, who I’m pretty sure had the keys to get into the house, but Justine was delayed. He decided not to wait, broke in through the window, and took the painting. Justine arrived on Monday and found the broken window. The painting was gone. She had the window repaired and called in Harrington to help her find the painting. That actually makes sense. Thanks, Carla, you’ve been really helpful.” Zoe felt as if she fitted together one tiny corner of a huge jigsaw puzzle. There was still a lot to go, but at least it seemed she’d made some progress. “Send me an invoice for your time.”
“Just take me out to lunch when you’re back in town. That’s payment enough.”
“Right. I get it. You don’t want any records of this exchange.”
“I never said th
at, but it sounds like a great plan.”
Zoe hung up and went through the motions of notifying Poppy and Harrington of her plans to fly to Salzburg. Then she made flight reservations for herself and Jack because he would have arrived by then. But the whole time, her mind was occupied. Carla’s info answered a few questions, but it still didn’t explain why Justine wanted the painting in the first place. And why did Theo double-cross her to get the painting for himself?
Inspector Homes found Justine sitting up in her hospital bed, sipping a drink through a straw. He had stopped at the hospital on his way home from work last night, but Justine had been asleep, and when the nurse tried to wake her, Justine had been too groggy to talk. This morning, Justine’s face was pale, almost as pale as the thick bandage that covered one ear. Wide white gauze wrapped around her head, fixing the thicker bandage in place. Monitors beeped and glowed from her bedside, and an IV line trailed from her arm over the edge of the bed to a stand with a hanging bag filled with clear liquid. Homes introduced himself, and Justine put the cup down on a rolling tray positioned by her bed. He took down her name and contact information then handed her a large paper bag. “Your purse. I brought it from the station.”
Justine opened the bag and looked inside. “I don’t understand…why would you have my purse?”
Homes frowned at her. “Because of the attack. We were called in to investigate it. The purse was found in your hotel room. I need to get some information from you about what happened there.”
Justine put the bag on the tray then dropped her hands into her lap. “All right, but I don’t remember much,” she said in a soft voice as she fixed her gaze on her interlocked fingers.
Avoiding the cords and monitors, Homes drew a chair away from another bed in the room, which was empty, and sat down beside Justine. “Do you remember a knock at your door?” He pulled out a notepad and pen.
Justine shook her head quickly. The brown frizzy curls sticking out around the bandage trembled with the movement, but almost as soon as she moved, she stopped and winced. She put a hand to her forehead. “Must remember not to do that,” she muttered to herself.
Homes smiled sympathetically. “What do you remember about the hotel?”
She refastened her hands together in her lap and lifted her shoulders slightly. “Nothing, really. It’s all…” she shrugged, “blank.”
“All right.” Homes leaned forward. “Let’s start with something basic, like the name of the hotel.”
“I don’t know.” She shot a quick glance toward his notebook, then shifted, snuggling deeper into the bed.
“Well, why are you in Edinburgh?” He glanced at his notes. “Your address is in London. Are you visiting a friend or your family, or is it business, perhaps?”
Her lower lip trembled as she sucked in a deep breath. “I don’t know,” she said, still looking at her hands.
“What is the last thing you do remember?” Homes asked.
Still addressing her hands, she said, “I remember going through some temporary job offers. I’m a nurse, you see. I do quite a bit of home care, so I go where the job is. Maybe that’s why I’m here.”
Homes watched her silently for a moment. She stole a look at him out of the corner of her eye then looked away. “I’m sorry. I wish I could remember, I really do.”
“Does the name Theodore Cooke ring a bell?”
“No,” she said and started to shake her head, but stopped herself.
“What about a painting called A View of Edinburgh?”
Her eyebrows crinkled together. “A painting? No,” she paused as she fought off a yawn, then said, “why would you ask about a painting?” She blinked several times and seemed to have to work to keep her eyes open. “I think the meds are kicking in. I want to sleep now.” She nestled back into the pillow and closed her eyes. Within moments, her breathing was steady and deep.
Homes continued to sit in the chair, watching her. She didn’t move. Finally, he put his pen and notebook away and left the room. In the hallway, he caught the doctor and asked about Justine’s condition.
“The blow to the head was severe, but it doesn’t appear that there is any permanent damage. Within a few days, she should be back to normal.”
“What about the memory loss?”
“It’s called retrograde amnesia. Memory loss of the incidents prior to her fall. It’s not that unusual. Most likely, that portion of her memory will return as she recovers.”
“Could she be faking it?”
A nurse down the hall, who was gesturing for the doctor, had his attention, but at Homes’s words, he shifted to look directly at Homes. “Why would you ask that, Inspector?”
“It’s just convenient that she can’t remember. Saves her having to answer a lot of bothersome questions. You’ll contact me if the situation changes?”
“Of course.”
Inside the hospital room, Justine listened for the door to close behind Inspector Homes, then waited a few seconds more for good measure, then she slitted one eyelid open. The room was indeed empty, but she could see the inspector’s dark-suited back outside the small window fitted in the door. He was speaking to her doctor. She stayed in the same position, watching the men through her barely open eyes. She was glad she hadn’t moved because Homes turned away from talking to the doctor then peered in through the window for one last look inside her room before he left.
Justine closed her eyes and held her position, but if he knew anything about the monitors he would be able to tell her heart rate had jumped up to a new level. After a few seconds, she peeked again. His face was gone from the window.
She forced herself to count to one hundred, then sat up experimentally. She felt a bit light-headed, but the room didn’t spin. Keeping an eye on the window in the door, she swung her legs off the side of the bed and stood, keeping a firm grip on the railing that ran around the edge of the bed. She felt wobbly, but not too bad, considering how hard she’d hit the stairs after Theo shoved her in the back.
She tottered over to the cabinet near the bed and found a bag she’d hoped would be there. It contained the clothes she’d been wearing when they brought her in, which didn’t look too bad, considering she’d had a head wound. Apparently, she had bled all over the stairs, but the blood had only spattered one shoulder of her sweater. Dragging the IV stand and the monitor, she moved to the tiny mirror over the sink. “Don’t you look a fright,” she muttered as she carefully unwound the gauze from around her head then gently probed the square bandage behind her ear before she arranged her hair so that it covered the bandage.
After a little work with the comb provided in the hospital kit and a splash of water on her face, she felt better and looked at least presentable. She was moving better and that light-headed feeling was gone. She peeled off the tape holding the tubes in place, then removed them from her body. The machines immediately registered their disapproval, but Justine had worked in health care long enough to know that even in a hospital a beeping machine wouldn’t usually get an immediate response. She removed her purse from the paper bag, slipped out the door, grabbed a brown trench coat off the back of a chair at the nurses’ station, then walked down the hall at a pace that wouldn’t catch anyone’s attention.
She stepped out the door of the hospital into the biting air and signaled for a cab. “The Royal Mile,” she said then sat back against the seat, temporarily winded. This wasn’t going to be easy. She felt weak and shaky, like she’d just emerged from a bout with a severe flu virus, but there was no way she was going to stay in the hospital, meekly waiting for that inspector to visit her again with more questions about Theo and the painting. Theo was wrong. No matter what he’d yelled in the heat of his anger, he was wrong. The painting wasn’t worthless. There was no way an inspector would be asking questions about a painting if it wasn’t worth something. No, Mr. Foley had been absolutely sure about the painting. It was valuable and that idiot Theo had been too hasty. Justine wasn’t going to let the painting slip
out of her hands again. She would go to Staircase House. She still had her key, so she could get in as long as Poppy wasn’t there. Justine’s hand tightened into a fist. She could not believe that Poppy had shown up early and ruined everything. Poppy had never been on time, much less early for anything in her life. She was the queen of the late entrance, so the fact that she’d arrived in Edinburgh before she was scheduled still grated on Justine’s nerves.
Her heartbeat sped up again, but this time it was anger, not fear, that made her pulse pound. It had been such a shock yesterday when she saw Poppy unlocking the door to Staircase House. Justine had been walking across the close, returning to Staircase House after nipping out for a quick lunch. Her racing pulse made the wound behind her ear throb. Justine drew in a deep breath and opened her hand, spreading out her fingers and flexing them. But it was okay. Poppy hadn’t seen her. And, thankfully, Justine hadn’t left any of her belongings in Staircase House. She had set up in the Pinnacle Hotel nearby. Justine hadn’t wanted to stay at the house for an extended time, just in case any neighbors were too curious.
She looked out the window of the taxi at the storefronts, restaurants, and pedestrians. She should have changed hotels, though, so Theo wouldn’t have known where to find her. If only the ringer on her phone had been turned up, she wouldn’t have missed that call from Zoe. She could have arranged to meet Zoe somewhere else, somewhere away from Staircase House to get the painting. And she would have been gone from the hotel when Theo showed up.
The cab slowed and edged to the curb. Justine would check Staircase House. She didn’t even have to go inside. She could brave that rickety fire escape and get a look at the upstairs. If the painting was still gone…well, it was a good thing she’d trailed Zoe after their first meeting. She knew where to find her.
The questions about Theo, Justine, and the painting were still rolling around in Zoe’s mind as she went down to the lobby where the hotel served what was billed as a continental breakfast, but was just a selection of cereals, a basket of fruit, and carafes of coffee. Zoe finished off her bowl of cereal quickly then chose a green apple and headed back to her room. She had just enough time to grab her messenger bag and coat before she left to meet Jack at the airport. His plane was supposed to arrive at nine.
