A Dubious Delivery (A Seagrove Cozy Mystery Book 9)

by Leona Fox

  “Certainly,” he said.

  “Go on,” she said, holding back a laugh, “you can say it. Certainly…”

  “Certainly, Sadie,” he gave in.

  “Finally,” she said. “It’s a done deal, Professor. Uh, I mean Justin.

  She felt herself blush a little. “But we may have to forgive ourselves for slipups. So putting that aside, what do you think of my little painting problem? Oh, and one more thing, it’s got the most huge and hideous gold frame dwarfing it. It’s ghastly.”

  “And the painting is contemporary?” he asked.

  “I believe so. There were other works of his in the art co-op. I believe he has to be a member to have his paintings there.”

  She tried remembering the rules put in place when they had opened the store for artists who worked in the big abandoned building she’d helped to reimagine as a working studio for local artists. She was pretty sure you had to have a current membership to sell your work on Main Street.

  “Why would a contemporary artist paint a picture that was a clue to buried treasure?” Justin asked. “If he knew there was treasure was buried somewhere, wouldn’t he just dig it up and bank it?”

  “I don’t know,” Sadie said crossly, “It’s not my story. But maybe he was traveling and someone told him about it. You know, they heard he was from Seagrove and told him the legend of the treasure buried here?”

  “I suppose so,” he said. “But it seems unlikely at best. The bigger mystery, at least to me, is why it was packed into your crates. How did he even know you were having stuff shipped?”

  “I don’t know,” Sadie mused. “There is far too much about this that doesn’t make sense to me. We’ve started noticing missing pieces to this puzzle.”

  “What’s this I hear about a puzzle?” Tom said from behind Sadie.

  He grabbed a chair, flipped it around and straddled it, resting his forearms on the back.

  “I like a good puzzle,” he said. “Tell me about it.”

  So Sadie told him the story. Tom sat quietly and listened intently nodding on occasion but never interrupting. He sat quietly and when she finished, his eyebrows knit together in concentration.

  “I bet someone was lying to the old man,” Justin said.

  “It does all seem very improbable,” Tom said. “Like a setup of some sort. I’m going to keep thinking on this. I’ll let you know if I come up with anything.”

  Sadie was vaguely disappointed when she left The Bakery with Mr. Bradshaw. She’d had a fleeting hope something in the story would have sparked a memory of an historical happening here in Seagrove, but clearly it hadn’t. Tom was interested, too, but no solution had come to his mind, either. She walked into her shop to find Betty and Lucy chatting over a cup of tea.

  “Any new clues?” Betty asked.

  “Only that there are paintings by the same artist in the Artist Co-op. Actually, I’m thinking about buying one.”

  “Why?” Asked Lucy. “Are you going to take the paint off to see if there’s another painting underneath?”

  “No, I’m going to hang it on my wall because I like it,” Sadie said. “I didn’t notice how whimsical those paintings were until I took a really good look at them. Then again, it’s possible that painter left the whimsical details.”

  “What do you mean by whimsical?” Lucy asked.

  “Well, in one of them,” Sadie said, “there is a crab eating an ice cream cone and a seagull flying away with a woman’s purse. That’s kind of whimsical.”

  “They sound absurd,” Lucy said.

  “Yes, they have a lovely kind of absurdity to them. But they are so cheerful, and I loved discovering the crab eating ice cream.”

  Betty got up and came back with a white board on an easel. “Trying to chart the facts,” she said brandishing a dry erase marker.

  “What do we know about that painting?”

  “That none of us bought it,” Lucy said, and Betty wrote ‘mystery buyer’ on the board.

  “It’s of Seagrove,” Sadie said, “so it could’ve been painted locally.”

  Betty wrote down ‘Seagrove’ and then farther down on the board ‘painted locally?’ “What else?” she asked.

  “I hate to be contrary,” Lucy said, “but it also could have been painted from a photo, or from memory.”

  Betty wrote ‘or not’ after ‘painted locally.’

  “We know a crazy old man claimed it was his,” Betty said, “but he’s not sure of his details.”

  “Not being sure his details just could be a function of being old,” Lucy said.

  Betty wrote ‘Ugh’ on the board.

  “Why ‘Ugh’?” asked Sadie.

  “Because this isn’t getting us anywhere,” Betty said. “None of it connects.”

  “We knew it was dwarfed by the ugliest frame I’ve ever seen,” Sadie said.

  “That doesn’t help either.” Betty took a paper towel and wiped off the board. “What’s important about that painting?”

  “Other than the fact it was found in Sadie’s stuff? Nothing,” Lucy said.

  Betty began doodling on the board. “So we’ve got this painting that’s entirely unremarkable other than the fact it appeared in Sadie’s crates. The painting itself has no importance?”

  “I don’t think so,” Lucy said, and Sadie shook her head.

  “I don’t know what its resale value is but based on the paintings at the co-op I’d say less than $100. It’s less than half the size of the paintings they were selling for $200-$250.”

  “And for all we know,” Betty said, “they could have been in the store for months, and nobody’s bought them.”

  “So there’s nothing remarkable about the painting,” Lucy said. “What does that tell us?”

  Betty drew a house with a stick figure of an old man outside of it. “As far as I can tell? Nothing,” Betty said.

  “An unremarkable painting with a hideous frame shows up unexpectedly. The old man who picks it up gets bashed on the head, and the painting goes missing. But why would anybody want an unremarkable painting so badly they’d injure an old man? He probably would’ve given it to him if the thief had asked.”

  “Or maybe not,” Sadie said, “if it’s really a clue to where treasure is hidden. Although Professor Ives says that is highly unlikely.”

  “Does Cyrus Dumville live by himself?” Lucy asked.

  Betty lifted her shoulders and hands, palms up.

  “I don’t know either,” Sadie said. “Maybe we should find out.”

  “How do we do that?” Lucy asked.

  “By visiting him,” Sadie said. “And if we don’t see anyone hanging out on the couch then we ask him.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Betty said, “but I can’t go. We still have a ton of stuff that needs to be priced and labeled.”

  “I’ll help with that,” Lucy said.

  “Me too, and then we all can go together,” Sadie said.

  Sadie carried the tea things up to her apartment above the store and left them in the sink. When she got back downstairs, Lucy and Betty were hard at work pricing and tagging. So Sadie took it upon herself to carry the items into the shop and shelve them. Normally this was one of her favorite things to do. She would relive the memories of the places where she’d found her treasures and give the new items the places of honor --those places most easily seen -- to her favorites. But today her mind was wrapped up in the conundrum of Mr. Dumville and his painting. So much so that she almost hid a beautiful Italian ceramic vase behind a stuffed monkey that she’d accidentally dislodged from the top shelf.

  So it came as a relief when the phone rang, and she could put the monkey down on the sales counter for a few minutes. She’d been moving that monkey around the shop for two years now, and she couldn’t remember why she’d wanted to buy the mangy thing to begin with.

  She dragged her cell phone from her back pocket and checked the caller ID. It was Zack, and her spirits lifted.

  “Hello, husband-to-be,�
� she said, “what news do you have to tell me?”

  “Not much. Old Man Dumville appears to be very confused about that painting. The longer I talked to him the less sure he became. I’m beginning to think that painting is a figment of his imagination.”

  “Except Lucy, Betty and I saw it,” Sadie said. “It was at the shop yesterday morning. And I now know who painted it.”

  “How’d you find out that?” Zack asked. “Not that I’m surprised, you always have had a way with getting to the bottom of things, but that’s a pretty good feat.”

  “There are other paintings by him in the co-op gallery,” she said. “I quite like them.”

  “So the question remains, ‘Why did Cy’s disappear?’ I’m sending Officer Wilson over there this afternoon to poke around,” Zack said.

  “Actually, I’m thinking of going over to find out if he lives alone. Why not let me poke around?” she asked.

  “Because you are not an officer of the law.” He was laughing at her.

  “But hey, give it a try. If you come up with nothing I’ll send Wilson over later. Just don’t break the law while you are there.”

  “I’m very law abiding, as you well know,” she said. “I’ll call you when I get back.”

  “You’re not going by yourself, are you?” he asked. “You should at least take Mr. Bradshaw with you.”

  “Lucy and Betty are coming, too,” she said.

  “They are just as curious as I am about this. We want to know the story behind that painting. It’s too much of a puzzle to ignore.”

  “Well, remember that it’s a puzzle that got Cyrus bashed on the back of his head and keep your eyes open. I’d hate it if the same happened to you.”

  “I promise to do my best to avoid getting bashed on the back of the head. I also promise Mr. Bradshaw will bite anyone who tries. Is that good enough?” she asked.

  She was smiling, bantering with Zack made her happy, especially when there was a mystery involved.

  “You said you knew who painted the picture,” Zack said. “Who is it?”

  “Roger Orwin,” Sadie said, picking up the mangy monkey and looking around the room. Not seeing a likely place for him, she set him back down on the sales counter.

  “Do you know anyone who could use a stuffed monkey? I’ve got one I’d let go cheap.”

  “We always can use toys down at the station,” he said. “Do you want me to pick it up next time I’m there?”

  “Oh, no. He’s not that kind of stuffed. Taxidermied is what I should have said. This thing would terrorize the average child. It has its teeth bared in an awful grin and, on top of that, it looks like it had mange when it died.”

  “Why in the world did you buy that?” Zack asked incredulously. “Sounds like it should go in the trash.”

  “I can’t put what used to be a live animal in the trash,” Sadie said. “It would give me nightmares.”

  “The one who should get nightmares is the person who stuffed it,” Zack said. “Can you give it a decent burial?”

  “I don’t know. It seems too alive to be buried.” Sadie squinted at the monkey.

  “And malevolent. Too bad the circus isn’t in town. It would be right at home in one of the games.”

  She thought about it for a minute. “Well, not the games, it would scare away the players, but maybe in one of the sideshows.”

  “Do you know where the circus went?” Zack asked. “I bet Betty’s boyfriend keeps in touch. He can tell you where to send it.”

  “Yeah, maybe,” Sadie said.

  She heard Betty and Lucy calling her name from the back room. “I’ve got to go,” she said. “I’m not keeping up with my part of the production line.”

  “All right then,” he said. “But be careful, and don’t go snooping alone.”

  “Yes, Chief,” she said, grinning inwardly. He pretended he didn’t like it when she called him that.

  “Zack, Sadie. My name is Zack.”

  “Yes, dear.” She hung up the phone and joined the other two in the back room.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I got distracted. Anybody want a mangy monkey?”

  “I told you not to buy that monkey,” Lucy said. “But would you listen to me? No, you would not.”

  She took the monkey from Sadie and reached up to put it on a high shelf in the work room. “There, that’ll teach you not to listen to me.”

  Mr. Bradshaw trotted into the room to see what the ruckus was and began barking at the monkey.

  “I’d forgotten. This is why he was hidden on a high shelf in the shop. Mr. Bradshaw doesn’t like him.” Sadie bent down to pick up the agitated terrier, but he scooted under the table.

  “I’ll fix this,” Betty said. She climbed on a chair, grabbed the monkey and put him in the big cupboard at the end of the room.

  Mr. Bradshaw stopped barking and allowed himself to be caught.

  “Come on,” Sadie said. “The rest of this stuff can wait. I want to show you the other paintings on the way to Cyrus’ place.”

  3

  “Here’s what I don’t understand,” Lucy said as they were standing in the co-op gallery looking at Roger Orwin’s paintings.

  “If he paints here in town why did he have to ship a painting from Italy? Couldn’t he just have given Cyrus one of these paintings?”

  “Cyrus’ painting supposedly has a clue to treasure,” Sadie said.

  “If that’s true, then none of these would do. Unless they all have that information coded into them.” She frowned at the painting in front of her. If it had secrets, it wasn’t giving them up.

  “But it’s unlikely any treasure is buried here, isn’t it?” Betty asked. “I think the whole thing is a hoax.”

  “Could be,” Sadie said, “but why would anyone bash an old man over the head for a hoax? That’s taking it a little far, don’t you think?”

  “Maybe the basher didn’t know it was a hoax?” Lucy said. “Maybe they bought into the hoax and now busily are trying to figure out where the treasure is?”

  “But if that were the case, wouldn’t we be seeing holes popping up in people’s yards as the basher tries different places?” Betty asked.

  “There has to be some logic behind this somewhere,” Sadie said. “We just don’t know what it is. Personally, I think it has something to do with the ginormous frame around Cyrus’ painting.”

  The shop attendant, who still had been on the phone when the women came in, apparently had ended his call. He drifted over to where the women were standing.

  “Can I help?” he asked in a bored voice.

  “Do you know this artist?” Sadie asked, gesturing to one of the Roger Orwin paintings.

  “Roger, sure I know him.” Bored boy sounded surprised.

  “I know all the artists. We all have studios in the building by the train tracks. You should know, Ms. Barnett, you helped get it funded.”

  Sadie smiled in what she hoped was a Madonna-like manner. It didn’t pay to be too cocky.

  “I do know,” she said.

  Part of what had come with converting that building was that every artist in three counties knew who she was.

  “Is Roger still around?” she asked.

  “Oh, no. There was some scandal a while back, and he left pretty abruptly. One day he was there, painting, the next his studio was cleaned out. I never heard what happened.” He looked her directly in the face for the first time.

  “Do you know?”

  “Sorry,” Sadie said, shaking her head.

  But she wasn’t really sorry, and she wouldn’t have told him even if she did know. She didn’t like the glint in his eye.

  “But why are you still selling his paintings if he isn’t at the studio anymore?” Lucy asked. “Isn’t that part of the agreement, you can’t sell your work here unless you are active in your studio?”

  “You’d have to ask the boss,” he said, looking bored again.

  “I don’t know why these are still here.” His phone rang, and he wa
ndered off to answer it.

  “You have to be quick and to the point if you want to buy anything from that boy,” Betty said. “If his phone rings you’re out of luck.”

  “Truth,” Lucy said.

  Sadie went back to examining the paintings. She’d given up trying to work out if they held the clue to some buried treasure, but she was delighted by them and wanted to see if she could spot any more hidden purses or ice cream cones.

  “This is better than one of those I Spy books,” she said.

  “Look, there’s a dolphin in the waves I didn’t see before. Looks like it’s pushing a doll through the water with its nose.”

  “Looks like a homunculus to me,” Lucy said. “Like it’s alive.”

  “I think that’s Ken,” Betty said. “As in Barbie and.”

  “I guess it could be,” Sadie said, “but I kind of like the idea of it being a homunculus.”

  She only knew what a homunculus was from the story Dragon Rider, by Cornelia Funke, and wondered how the others knew.

  “Okay, give,” Betty said, “what is a homunculus?”

  “It’s like a Pinocchio,” Lucy said, “only it has been animated by a sorcerer instead of a wish. Didn’t Pinocchio’s maker wish he had a son? I never liked that story so I’m fuzzy on the details.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Betty said. “I get the idea.”

  “I think a homunculus uses the life force of another living thing to animate itself,” Sadie said. “Like a flea or a spider.”

  The shop door opened and a tall woman swept in. The shop assistant ended his call and put his phone away with amazing alacrity. Sadie surmised this was the co-op manager. She planned to wait until the woman had put her coat away and was settled in before she approached her, but the manager divested herself of her coat and bags and came directly over to them.

  “I am Mary Marconi; can I help you?” she asked.

  Sadie was impressed that she didn’t apologize for her shop assistant. The urge to put him down a notch must have been very strong. At least that’s what Sadie would be longing to do.