A Room with a Brew

by Joyce Tremel

  “A little,” I said. “That’s probably why it bothers me so much.”

  Rhonda pushed her cup aside. “Walter wasn’t flighty like Paisley. He wouldn’t call and not give you some idea of what he wanted.”

  She wasn’t going to give up. I could be as stubborn as she was. “I really wish he had.” I shrugged. “I guess we’ll never know.”

  She looked like she was going to press further, then changed her mind. She pushed herself out of her seat. “If you still want to see Walter’s paintings, come with me.”

  I followed Rhonda back through the foyer, up the stairs, and down a hallway. She opened the last door on the left, which opened up into a large room with windows on two sides. “My brother liked to paint in here because of all the natural light. Until he bought his own house, that is. He moved everything out—all his canvases, paints, easels, you name it—and most of his paintings. He only left a half-dozen here. Bruce has sold three of them so far.” She sighed. “I guess eventually I’ll have to go to Walter’s house and pick everything up.”

  “How many paintings did your brother take with him?”

  “Probably twenty or thirty. I don’t remember exactly how many.”

  If Doodle had taken that many paintings to his house, where were they? Surely he hadn’t sold them all. They weren’t in the room with the few art supplies I’d seen. I hadn’t gone upstairs, though. Maybe they were on the second floor.

  Rhonda opened a closet door on the other side of the room and pulled out two sixteen-by-twenty-inch canvases and leaned them against the wall.

  I picked up the first one to get a closer look. It must have been one I’d seen on Doodle’s website because it seemed vaguely familiar. I didn’t know a lot about art, but I knew this was done in the impressionist style. It was a landscape of rolling hills covered in purple flowers. “This is beautiful,” I said. “Your brother was very talented.”

  “Yes, he was,” Rhonda said. “I’m thinking about keeping that one and having it framed. Walter wasn’t happy with it, though.”

  “I don’t see anything wrong with it.”

  “He was very particular. Every detail had to be perfect.”

  “Just curious, but was he the same way with music?”

  “He was,” she said. “He could play almost any instrument from the piano to his ridiculous sousaphone.” She shook her head. “I told the police I never want to see that awful thing again. I hope they destroy it.”

  I didn’t know what to say to that so I put the painting down and picked up the other one. This one was done in some kind of modern style. It also looked familiar. And ugly.

  “Bruce thinks he can get a buyer for that one,” Rhonda said.

  “I know someone who owns an art gallery if you need help with that.” I told her about Philip Rittenhouse.

  “I’ve heard that name before,” she said. “I’ll keep it in mind. Thank you.” She took the painting from me and returned the two pieces to the closet. She opened an adjacent door and pulled out a much larger canvas—probably measuring about two feet by four feet. It was covered with a white sheet. “Walter was very proud of this one.” She leaned it against a wall and removed the sheet.

  I could see why he’d been proud of it. It was an excellent reproduction of Da Vinci’s famous Last Supper. When I lived in Germany, I’d taken a trip to Italy and had seen the original, which was huge, and painted directly on a convent wall. I remembered reading somewhere that it was the most reproduced painting in the world. I asked if her brother had been to see the original.

  She nodded. “He’d been to Europe many times over the last ten or fifteen years. He’d always return with new ideas. My deceased husband went with him on the last trip.”

  “Paisley mentioned you’d been married.”

  Rhonda covered the painting again and slid it into the closet. “I’m sure she told you all the sordid details as well—most of them fictitious. Despite what she thinks, I loved my husband.”

  “She didn’t say much, just that you’d had a big fight and he moved out.”

  “She loves to tell that story. And I’m sure she told you he was murdered when it was a simple fall down the steps. Our so-called big fight was a minor spat, and the separation was only temporary. He would have moved back in.”

  I wasn’t sure which of them to believe. Why would he move out if everything was hunky-dory?

  We went back downstairs, and I thanked her and went on my way. I was glad to have seen the paintings, but they didn’t get me any closer to figuring anything out. I still had no way to prove what Felix was up to. And I was beginning to think I never would.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  I got back to the brew house in time for the lunch hour. We had a steady crowd but it wasn’t terribly busy. Later that afternoon after I’d filled Jake in on my morning adventure, he was bent over helping me change out a keg when I heard the door open. I glanced up. “Crap.”

  “What?” Jake said, straightening up.

  Victoria sashayed into the pub.

  “I thought she went back to New York,” I said.

  “So did I.”

  She spotted us and came over to the bar. “Hello, you two,” she said. “My, what a glamorous job you have.”

  From her tone of voice I knew she didn’t mean that in a positive way, but I went along with it. “It’s the best job in the world.”

  “I’m sure it’s just perfect for you.”

  In other words, I was the lowest of the low and not fit to shine her imaginary tiara.

  All the seats at the bar were occupied, but one man noticed Victoria standing there and he jumped up and offered her a seat. She gave him a smile like he was the only man in the world. “Thank you so much,” she gushed. “You are so sweet.” She slid onto the empty stool. He asked if he could buy her a beer. She gave him another smile and told him she only drank champagne, “which they aren’t classy enough to serve here.” He didn’t quite know what to make of that, but I’d bet he was sorry he gave up his seat. He moved to the other end of the bar.

  Jake leaned on the bar. “What are you doing here, Victoria? I thought you went home.”

  “I know that would make you very happy,” she said. “I decided to stay another week and take my painting home with me. I don’t want to take any chances with it.”

  “Philip would make sure you got it,” I said.

  “That’s not the point. I paid a lot of money for that painting and I want to enjoy it. Besides, the Carnegie Museum of Art is bringing some dignitaries of some sort to see it on Thursday night. I thought it would be beneficial to me to be there. Come to think of it, Jake, you should come. Maybe one of them has a connection to a more prestigious restaurant. You don’t want to work in a beer joint the rest of your life.”

  Beer joint? My hands curled into fists. I began counting to ten but only made it to two before Jake spoke up.

  “You still don’t get it, do you?” His voice was dangerously low. “This is exactly where I want to be. You can take your prestigious events and upscale gala of the week and shove them right up your fancy—”

  “Now, now, old chap.” Tommy’s voice drowned out Jake’s last word. I hadn’t seen him come in. He stood behind Victoria and she spun around on her seat.

  “And who are you?” she snapped.

  He made a short bow. “Tommy Fleming. Former agent of the Queen herself. And who might you be?” He was going full throttle British on her.

  She put a hand out like she expected Tommy to kiss it. He obliged and Victoria introduced herself.

  “I should have known,” he said. “My lovely wife, Candace, told me all about you.”

  “Candace? I don’t believe I know anyone by that name.”

  I wasn’t about to tell her. Let her try and figure it out.

  “Anyway,” Tommy said. “I’ve been very much looki
ng forward to meeting you.” He took her by the elbow and helped her down from her seat. “I’m considering some kind of investment, and I would love to hear all about that painting of yours.” As he led her away, he turned to us and winked.

  “I wonder what the old chap is up to,” Jake said.

  “Old chap? You sound just like Tommy.” I watched as they sat down at a table by the window. “Whatever he’s up to, it’s got Miss Prissy Pants off your case.”

  Jake laughed. “Miss Prissy Pants?”

  I nodded. “It was the best I could come up with without having to go to confession.”

  He pulled me close and kissed me on the forehead. “That’s one more thing I like about you, O’Hara.”

  “What? Saving myself from having to say three Our Fathers and three Hail Marys?”

  “Nope. Making me laugh and saving me from choking someone.”

  • • •

  Nicole came in at four, and when the dinner hour turned out to be a little slow, I decided to head next door to Cupcakes N’at. Jake had left ten minutes earlier—he and Mike had gone to tonight’s hockey game. The Penguins were playing the Rangers—Jake’s former team. He was looking forward to seeing some of his old teammates, but he’d assured my brother he’d be rooting for the Pens.

  Candy was cleaning the inside of an empty bakery case. She straightened up. “Can you believe we sold out of almost everything today? I don’t think that’s ever happened before.”

  “That’s good, isn’t it?” I asked.

  “Good for the bank balance,” she said, “but not so good when I think about coming in at three in the morning and doing all that baking. Thank goodness Mary Louise is coming in to help.”

  “Do you want to take a break? I’ll buy the coffee.”

  She didn’t even stop to think about it. She whipped off her apron and quickly washed her hands. In minutes, she had locked up and we jaywalked across the street to Jump, Jive & Java. When we got inside, I was disappointed to see that Kristie wasn’t there. The part-time girl at the counter said she’d left an hour before. I ordered an iced mocha, and Candy wanted a pumpkin chai. We took our drinks to our usual table.

  “Tommy said he stopped in to the pub earlier,” Candy said.

  I spooned some whipped cream from the top of my mocha. “Yeah. He took Victoria off our hands. He started talking to her about that painting.”

  “He thought if he could find out more about it, it might help him figure out if Josef was at the gallery for a reason other than he’s an art aficionado.” She took a drink of her chai. “How is the security at that gallery?”

  “Fine, I guess. I really don’t know. I can’t imagine that it wouldn’t be state of the art, especially with the Vermeer. Are you thinking Felix is planning on stealing it?”

  “I’m not sure,” she said. “It doesn’t seem like something he would do, but it’s been many years since I knew him. Victoria invited us—well, Tommy anyway—to the gallery on Thursday night.”

  “She invited Jake, too. I’m not sure if it was extended to me, though. He pretty much told her where she could stuff the invitation.”

  Candy laughed. “Tommy told me about that. We’re planning to go—and you should, too. Josef may decide to show up if he’s really interested in that painting.”

  “I’ll try to convince Jake, although personally, I’d be ecstatic not to have to see her again. And speaking of paintings,” I said, “I saw some of Doodle’s.” I told her about what happened the previous night and that morning, then asked if she remembered seeing any paintings in Doodle’s house.

  “I didn’t see any at all—even upstairs. I may have missed a closet or two, but if he had twenty to thirty paintings, surely there would have been some evidence of them.”

  “I guess it’s possible he sold them.”

  Candy was skeptical. “That many? I doubt it.” She finished her chai. “We need to get back in that house.”

  “How do you propose we do that? We can’t exactly break in.”

  “Why not?”

  “The first reason would be that it’s illegal. That about does it for me.”

  She tapped her fingernails on the table. “Maybe we could ask Paisley to let us in. We don’t have to tell her why. We can say we know someone who might want to buy the house. Something like that.”

  “I suppose.” I wasn’t thrilled with the thought of being with Paisley again—or even talking to her for that matter. I’d rather deal with Rhonda, but unless she was willing to meet us at Doodle’s, I’d have to make the trek to Mount Lebanon again. Then again, maybe Paisley would just give us a key and we could let ourselves in. “I’ll give Paisley a call first thing in the morning.”

  “How about now? I’m done for the day. Your pub is in good hands. We could check out the house and be back here in a couple of hours.”

  She had a point so I made the call. Paisley answered on the first ring and said she was on her way out, but had to go past the house. She’d unlock it and we could lock it back up when we left. I went back to the pub and told Nicole where I’d be and to call me if there were any problems.

  • • •

  Doodle’s house hadn’t been vacant very long but it already had that musty, closed-up odor to it. Paisley had left the door unlocked as promised. The living room was mostly as I remembered it, other than the fact that the spot where the TV had been was now vacant. Since Rhonda hadn’t been here since Doodle’s death, Paisley must have taken it—or maybe she’d given it to one of the other band members.

  I followed Candy into the next room, which in most of these types of homes was the dining room. The papers and sheet music were still strewn all over the floor. Some empty canvases, brushes, and tubes of paint were still there as well. I tried to remember what else had been in the room, but nothing came to mind. There were no finished paintings anywhere. The kitchen was in the same condition.

  “Should we try upstairs?” I asked.

  “Might as well.”

  I led the way up the stairs. The second floor was an odd configuration that was common in some older homes—one where you had to go through the first bedroom to get to the second. I took a peek into the third room, which was separate from the other two. It was a bathroom. And not a neat one by any means. The pink 1950s-style tub looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in this century. The rest of the room wasn’t any better. I backed out quickly before I inhaled any of the mold spores.

  Candy was already through the first bedroom and into the second. The first bedroom contained an unmade bed and not much else. I opened the closet, where all I found were some clothes and shoes. I joined Candy in the next room. This one had a large bay window and a lot of natural light. There were two empty easels, a couple of empty canvases, and a half-started painting leaning against a wall. There was a light sketch of a few figures on the canvas, but I couldn’t make out exactly what they were. It almost looked like a biblical scene. An assortment of musical instruments—a guitar, a trumpet, a clarinet, and a trombone cluttered one corner of the room. I remembered Rhonda saying he was proficient on many instruments.

  I opened the door to a small closet. It held towels, bed linens, and a few cleaning items that apparently Doodle hadn’t known how to use. There were some paint supplies including some brushes that were marked Badger Hair, and a container of varnish.

  But there were no paintings in sight. “I wonder where they are,” I said.

  “He probably sold them or gave them away,” Candy said as we went back downstairs. “Why are you so gung-ho to find them anyway?”

  “The truth is, I don’t know. The paintings might not have anything at all to do with Doodle’s murder. It just seems like there’s a piece of a puzzle missing. I know the police think his murder was the result of a break-in, but I still have a feeling it has something to do with Felix. I’ve been thinking a lot about why Doodle ca
lled and wanted to see me. I believe he found out whatever it is that Felix is up to and wanted me to warn you.”

  Candy smiled. “Maybe you should go to work with your dad. You’re turning into quite a detective.”

  “Far from it,” I said. “I just like things to make sense, and nothing about any of this makes any sense at all.”

  “We’ll figure it out.”

  The one place neither one of us had checked yet was the basement, so at my suggestion, we headed to the kitchen. The door to the basement creaked on its hinges when I opened it. I found the light switch on the wall easily, flicked it on, and the stairs and basement were flooded with light. Candy followed me down the old wooden staircase. Doodle’s cellar was surprisingly neat and clean—much more so than the rest of his house. The cement floor was a little bit dusty, but the cinder block walls were clean and painted a bright white. There was a folding banquet table near one wall with pieces of some type of cloth on top. On the floor beside the table were strips of wood. “What do you make of these?” I asked Candy.

  She touched the cloth. “Between this and the wood, it looks like maybe he was making his own canvases.”

  That made sense. “Maybe it’s cheaper than buying the manufactured ones. Seems like a lot more work to me.”

  Several gray metal shelving units lined an adjacent wall. One unit was filled with canned goods and another held labeled plastic containers. I moved closer to read the labels. Lead white. Red ochre. Vermilion. Ultramarine. I picked up a container and shook it. It was a powder. “Are these paints?” I asked. “I thought they came in tubes.”

  Candy checked out one of the containers. “I guess he used homemade paints to go on his homemade canvases.” She pointed to another container on the shelf marked Linseed oil. “Maybe he mixed them with that.”

  “Don’t you think that’s a little weird?”

  She shrugged. “Maybe. You should ask your gallery owner friend.”

  That was a good idea. The other shelves contained a couple of heat lamps and a container of varnish similar to what I’d seen upstairs. Once again, there were no finished paintings anywhere.