A Dubious Delivery (A Seagrove Cozy Mystery Book 9)

by Leona Fox

  “I have a few questions about the artist who painted these,” Sadie said. “I actually do want to buy one, but I need to wait until I can show them to my fiancé. I don’t want to put something on the wall he hates.”

  “Completely understandable,” Mary said. “What would you like to know?”

  “We are curious,” Sadie said, wondering how much to tell this woman. As little as possible for the time being, she decided.

  “If Roger Orwin doesn’t have a studio anymore why are you still selling his paintings? I thought artists had to be actively creating to sell here.”

  She kept her voice light, she didn’t want this woman on the defensive, especially now that Lucy and Betty had moved to hear her answer.

  “His studio fees are paid through the end of the year,” Mary said. “And we do have provisions for artists who want to travel. It’s perfectly within our by-laws.”

  “Where do you send his checks?” Sadie asked, doubting the woman would tell her. She certainly would not divulge that kind of information.

  “Direct deposit into his local bank account.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Anything else?”

  “Can you put a hold on this painting for me?” Sadie walked over to one of Roger’s paintings she hadn’t examined yet.

  “I thought this was your favorite,” Betty said, pointing to the one they had been examining.

  “When I figured out they were hidden picture paintings I stayed away from the one that attracted me the most,” Sadie said. “I want to save some of the fun for Zack too.”

  “Well, aren’t you tricky?” Lucy said. “Would’ve never guessed that one is your favorite. To guess on buying you one, I would have bought the wrong one.”

  “I’m sneaky like that,” Sadie said.

  “I’ll bring Zack by in the next day or two,” she said to Mary. “Is that soon enough?”

  “Considering we haven’t sold one of his in at least two months, I think you’ll be fine,” Mary said.

  She walked to the sales desk and made a note on a sheet, and then brought a little yellow sticker back and placed it on the wall label.

  “There,” she said, “it’s all yours. Just please remember to let us know if you change your mind.”

  “I will,” Sadie said.

  “Come on ladies, we have work to do. Mr. Bradshaw, let’s go.”

  And Mr. Bradshaw, who’d been curled up on the floor in a sunny spot, jumped up and headed for the door.

  While on the sidewalk, she said, “Let’s go to the bank before we go to Cyrus’ house. I want to see if they will give me his address.”

  “Surely not,” Lucy said. “That has to be against policy.”

  “If anybody can talk them into it, it will be Sadie,” Betty said. “But I’m not putting money on it this time.”

  “Only one way to find out,” Sadie said and pointed in the direction of town hall, which was just this side of the only bank in town.

  “To the bank, to the bank, to the bank, bank, bank,” she sang.

  On the way, Lucy and Betty ducked into a boutique, saying they would catch up with Sadie on her way back from the bank. Sadie left them to it, knowing they still would be there hours later if she didn’t come to collect them.

  At the bank, one of the tellers gave Mr. Bradshaw a dirty look so Sadie picked him up and carried him to the information desk. Sadie had known the woman behind the desk, Sally Picket, her whole life. She was rather like Mrs. Claus, round, white-haired and twinkling. She had the reputation of giving out the best candy at Halloween, and tipping the carolers rather well at Christmas.

  “What can I do for you, Sadie dear?” Sally asked.

  “It’s a bit, uh, unusual, Sally,” Sadie said. “Roger Orwin has an account here. He’s been out of town for a while, and I wondered if you had an address for him.”

  Sally opened a drawer and pulled out a dog biscuit for Mr. Bradshaw, and he curled up in Sadie’s lap to crunch it up. Sally tapped a few keys on her computer keyboard and knitted her eyebrows together.

  “I cannot give you his address. However, it’s within my power to forward a note from you. Would that be helpful?”

  “Perhaps,” Sadie said. “I’ll have to think about what I’m going to say. What do you do when you need to get hold of him?”

  “He has a local contact, dear. A joint signature on the account, as it were,” Sally said.

  “And are you allowed to tell me who that is?” Sadie asked.

  “Unfortunately, no. In fact, it has to be a dire emergency before we are allowed to contact her, I mean that person.”

  Sally did not look at all embarrassed about her slip of the tongue. In fact, she may even have winked at Sadie.

  “You know,” Sally said, “it’s not unusual for clients who travel to put their significant others on their accounts. That way they always can access money if something comes up, like a home repair or being short on the rent. I suppose if you were going away for a while, you’d put Lucy, Betty or Zack on your account.” She emphasized the name Zack just slightly.

  “Yes,” Sadie said, “if I were going away I would put Zack on my account so he could take care of things,” Sadie emphasized Zack just the way Sally had.

  Sally nodded. “Well dear, if you decide you want to send Roger a note, just bring it to me and I will send it on.”

  She stood up and scratched Mr. Bradshaw behind the ears. “Good boy,” she said.

  Mr. Bradshaw licked her hand in thanks for the biscuit and jumped down from Sadie’s lap. Sadie thought it was probably safe to let him walk out of the bank, and he was a perfect gentleman, staying right by her side. She resisted the urge to turn around and stick her tongue out at the cashier who’d given them a dirty look. She really did not understand people who were anti-dog. Mr. Bradshaw was better behaved than most children she knew.

  Sadie dropped back into the boutique where Lucy and Betty were still shopping, to let them know she was going to visit Zack for a few minutes. Betty was just coming out of the dressing room in the most bohemian looking caftan that Sadie ever had seen. Lucy was giggling hysterically, and when Sadie told them what she was doing, they happily waved her away.

  Zack had his reading glasses perched on his nose and a file folder open on his desk when Sadie and Mr. Bradshaw walked in. He had the look of a man who was concentrating on a difficult algebra problem, and Sadie turned around and started to slip back out of his office.

  “Sadie,” he said from behind her, “come back.”

  “You looked so deep into that file that I didn’t think you’d noticed I was here,” Sadie said. “I don’t want to disturb you.”

  “I need a break,” he said, slipping off his glasses and rubbing the bridge of his nose.

  “Have you made any progress on the case of the missing painting? Or, more correctly, the case of the assault on the person of Cyrus Dumville? Actually, I’ve never seen the painting.”

  Sadie sat in one of the chairs across from Zack, and Mr. Bradshaw jumped into the other. “I can show you what it looks like,” she said.

  “The co-op has a bunch more by the same artist, Roger Orwin. He’s no longer in town, but his studio rental is all paid up so they still are selling his work. I want you to come look at his work with me.”

  “Why? Is there a clue as to who bashed Mr. Dumville?” Zack said, looking puzzled.

  “No. Because I want to buy one, and I’m not going to do it if you don’t like his work. I don’t want to have something on the wall that you hate to look at,” Sadie said.

  “If you like it, you should buy it,” he said. “If you like it, I can learn to live with it.”

  “Would you at least Google him and take a look?” Sadie said.

  “He does this hidden picture thing, where the longer you look at the painting, the more little details you see. I thought it would be fun for us to discover them together.”

  Zack obediently clicked his mouse and typed on his keyboard. He chuckled.

>   “There’s a crab eating ice cream,” he said.

  “That’s my kind of crab.” He clicked through a few more pages.

  “Very cheerful,” he said. “I approve. And I’m even game for playing find the picture if its means spending time with you.”

  He looked up and smiled wearily at Sadie. “Have you learned anything about Cyrus?” he asked.

  “I sent Wilson over to look for evidence, but she didn’t find anything germane. Not that she did an exhaustive search of the premises, we are horribly slammed at the moment.”

  Sadie thought it was too bad that Zack was shorthanded, especially because Sylvester, Betty’s boyfriend, would have loved to work in Seagrove. There was a hiring freeze until the town budget passed. The drawback to a small town, New England living; the yearly budget vote.

  “I’ll let you know if I see anything I think should be investigated,” Sadie said. “Did they do photos and whatnot at the hospital?”

  “Yes, we took evidence and pictures. And Wilson took pictures at his home – not that there was anything to see. So unless he fell and hit his head outside somewhere, someone cleaned the scene.”

  “You think he fell?” she asked.

  “If you hadn’t actually seen the missing painting, I would have put money on it,” Zack said. “His facts are very fuzzy.”

  “Could that be because he was hit on the head?” Sadie asked.

  “Maybe, but did he seem clear of his facts when he picked up the painting, or was he vague then, too?” Zack asked.

  “I don’t know,” Sadie said. “I wasn’t paying that much attention. He seemed fuzzy, but then a lot of older people seem unsure of their facts. I don’t know what to think.”

  “Me either,” Zack said. “And until that painting surfaces, we don’t have much to go on.”

  “I’ll keep my eyes open for it,” Sadie said and got up.

  “Come on, Mr. Bradshaw, The Chief has work to do.” Mr. Bradshaw jumped down from his chair and trotted around the desk to say goodbye to Zack.

  “My name is Zack, Sadie. Zack.” He rubbed his eyes again.

  “I call you Zack,” Sadie said, “But Mr. B knows you as The Chief. You can’t expect him just to switch over like that. We have to introduce the new name gradually.”

  She was talking through her hat, and they both knew it, but it made him smile so she felt justified. She walked around the desk and kissed him on the cheek before leaving him to his headache-inducing file.

  Lucy and Betty were sitting on a bench eating ice cream cones when Sadie and Mr. Bradshaw arrived back on Main Street.

  “I bought one for Mr. Bradshaw,” Betty said, indicating a small dish of mostly melted ice cream sitting in the shade on the bench.

  “But I didn’t know what flavor you wanted.”

  “I said she couldn’t go wrong with chocolate,” Lucy said and shrugged, “but Betty didn’t want to make a mistake.”

  “Like any flavor of ice cream would be a mistake!” Sadie said.

  “But I like my mine unmelted, so I’m fine with buying my own. Here, hold Mr. B for me, I don’t think he’d be happy if I dragged him away from his treat.”

  Mr. Bradshaw was nose-down in the vanilla ice cream and wasn’t interested in following her into the creamery anyway. Betty tucked the end of his leash under her thigh, and Sadie sauntered into Frozen Paradise. She was back less than five minutes later with orange cream sandwiched between two scoops of chocolate. More Heaven than Paradise, she thought.

  Twenty minutes later they were back in the Artist Co-op, and Sadie’s new painting was being wrapped in brown paper and tape. Sadie wrote out a check for the amount due – slightly more than she was anticipating because she had purchased the largest of the paintings, but she had no regrets. It was always worth it to buy something you loved.

  Mary Marconi was handing the picture across the counter to Sadie when a man with slightly ginger dreadlocks stormed into the shop. He glared at Sadie and headed straight for her.

  “Sam,” Mary said, the warning thick in her voice.

  “Is that a Roger Orwin painting?” he asked, hostility thick in his voice.

  “Yes,” Sadie said, glaring back at him with her best ‘So what are you going to make of it?’ look on her face.

  “Another sucker takes the bait,” he said.

  He looked as if he might spit, but seemed to recall where he was and didn’t. Sadie was relieved about that. Spit was among her least favorite things.

  "Why am I a sucker for buying a painting I enjoy?" she asked, hoping she wasn't going to regret the question.

  "Because he's a fake, and probably a forger, too. He stole those paintings from me."

  The man gestured to the wall of paintings where Roger Orwin's work hung. "They are direct copies."

  Mary, who was standing behind the young man by this time, rolled her eyes, and Sadie wondered what she knew. Maybe he was a prima donna who thought everyone was stealing his stuff?

  “What is your name?” she asked.

  He looked startled, as though being asked his name had put him off his game. “Sam Cone,” he said.

  “Well, Sam,” she said, “history is filled with a long line of artists that started out by copying the masters. I don’t think it’s like music. Do you?”

  “How do you mean?” he asked. He looked genuinely confused.

  “If a musician is overly influenced by a contemporary’s work and uses a melody that is too much like the original, they can lose a lawsuit. But I don’ think that works with paintings, at least not if the artist signs his own name to his work. Roger didn’t claim to be you,” Sadie said.

  “But he copied my style, my strokes, my compositions,” Sam said. “And now he’s making money from them.”

  “Can I see your work?” Sadie asked. “I’d like to compare them.” He looked surprised.

  “You want to see my work?” He asked. “Now?”

  “Sure, why not?” Sadie said. “No time like the present.”

  She turned to Lucy and Betty. “Want to come?”

  The women said, ‘Why not?’, and then left Sadie’s new painting behind the counter at the shop and followed Sam Cone out the back and over the railroad tracks to his studio.

  Sam threw the door open with a flourish. It was flooded with light, like all the studios in the building, with skylights overhead, and big floor to ceiling windows along one wall. Against the other walls, canvases sat propped three or four deep. Sadie was confused.

  “But these are nothing like Roger Orwin’s work,” she said.

  The paintings stacked along the wall were abstract, and nothing about them reminded Sadie of Seagrove’s bay.

  “Well not these,” Sam said,” my earlier work.

  He went to a corner and flipped through some canvases pulling out four from the back. “These are the ones he copied.” Sam placed them along the wall.

  She could tell these were of the ocean, but other than that they weren’t significantly more like Roger’s work than the others. She looked at Sam with her eyebrows raised.

  “No. Look”, he said.

  “See the brushstrokes and the color? He’s using the exact same palette. And all those hidden animals… Look here, and here, and here,” He said.

  Sadie bent down to examine paintings. The problem was, they were so impressionistic that it was hard to see detail close-up. She stood up and backed away. If she squinted, it was possible to see that there might be a crab or a Piper secreted somewhere in the painting. But there was so little detail, so little resemblance to the painting she bought, that she was having trouble understanding where Sam was coming from.

  “You’re going to have to help me out here Sam,” she said glancing over at Betty and Lucy, who were shaking their heads.

  “What I bought, was a whimsical, almost folk art painting of what is clearly Seagrove Harbor Beach. The crab is holding an ice cream cone for heaven sake. What you have here,” she waved her hand to indicate his paintings, “is
clearly abstract, barely makes reference to the ocean and the hidden animals you say are there could be crabs or birds were seaweed or just variations in color. I see nothing in your style that makes me believe Roger copied your work.”

  “Well, of course, I had to go in a different direction,” Sam said, “once Roger started copying my work. Otherwise, people would say I was copying him. Wouldn’t they?” He stood back, crossed his arms over his chest and surveyed his paintings with a critical eye.

  “So instead of pursuing realism I went for the abstract. If I didn’t, I ran the risk of having my work be identical to Roger’s.” He flipped his head causing his dreads to swing around and flop in his face.

  Betty was trying hard not to giggle, and Sadie wasn’t sure if she was laughing because of the head toss or if it was what Sam had said. It was all pretty giggle-worthy as far as Sadie was concerned.

  “I’m sorry Sam,” she said, “abstract art really isn’t my taste. Had it been more like Roger’s work, I might’ve bought one.”

  She looked at the paintings and shook her head. “I’ll tell you what, though, I have a friend who likes abstract art and the ocean, I’ll tell him about you.”

  “I’m telling you,” Sam’s voice raised as they walked from the room, “he copied my work. I could bring some older stuff from home and prove it to you.”

  Sadie turned back around. “I’m sorry if you feel your career has suffered, but I really don’t see the connection between your work and Roger’s work. Maybe you should spend more time on your craft and less time worrying about spying Roger’s paintings. Just a thought.”

  Sadie turned and the three women made their way back to the shop where Sadie picked up her painting.

  “That was truly bizarre,” she said to Mary Marconi.

  “How did Sam even know I was buying one of Roger’s paintings?”

  The young man who’d been tending shop, or rather talking on the phone and not tending shop, looked sheepish. Well, there’s that mystery solved, she thought.

  Mary caught her looking, “oh don’t blame this young man,” she said.

  “Sam pays them to call when a customer’s buying. And not just Roger’s work, he’s got fifty reasons why none of these artists are any good. I can’t kick him out, he has every right to come in here, and he seems positively determined to make a fool out of himself.”