The Coloring Crook

by Krista Davis

Happily, Veronica discovered the purse behind a chair in the parlor.

  “We have it. Veronica can bring it up to the tea room.”

  “That’s a relief. But don’t bother bringing it up here. Zsazsa is picking up the tab today. We’re having champagne to celebrate! Would you mind dropping it off at my house on your way home?”

  “Not at all.” I was still on the phone with Dolly when Ms. Dumont entered the store and marched up to the desk where I stood.

  I smiled at Ms. Dumont, and said to Dolly, “We’ll see you then.” I hung up.

  “May I help you?” I asked Ms. Dumont.

  She wore the same earpiece she’d had on in the morning. “That’s not funny.” She paused and stared at me. “I saw you earlier today.”

  “Yes. At the yard sale.”

  “Estate sale,” she corrected. She looked straight at me and shouted, “Kansas! What’s it doing in Kansas? Call them right back and tell them I expect them to hire a courier at their own expense and deliver it to New York today. I don’t care what time it is. So help me, if they don’t get it to New York, I will have their jobs. Get their names. I would like the address of one Dolly Cavanaugh.”

  I assumed she was now speaking to me. “I’m sorry but I can’t give out customer information.”

  “Why is everyone so difficult? Look, on very poor advice, I hired a colossal idiot to run the sale of my grandfather’s estate. He assured me that there was nothing of value, but it turns out that my grandfather was in possession of a valuable coloring book which the idiot sold by mistake.”

  How could she know that already? There were so many things I wanted to say to her. After all, she was the one who had hired Percy. In my opinion she most certainly had a legitimate beef with him. But that was something she should take up with Percy. She may have wished she had kept the book and sold it privately, but Dolly had bought it fair and square. Dolly had rescued the book. If Dolly hadn’t recognized it as valuable, it would have landed in the trash and been lost forever.

  Most of all, though, it really wasn’t my problem. I wasn’t responsible for Percy, or Dolly, or anything that had happened.

  I said simply, “I don’t think you would like it if I handed out your address to strangers.”

  “You don’t have my address. And I am not a stranger. I am Lucianne Dumont. Perhaps you have heard of me.”

  Since her grandfather had been an ambassador, I assumed she was related to the infamous Dumonts. But I didn’t really care who she thought she was. “I’m sorry. I can’t help you, Ms. Dumont.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You know where the book is, don’t you?”

  I didn’t respond.

  “Apparently you don’t realize that I have connections in very high places. Am I making myself clear? The most important people in this country take my phone calls. I can have you fired from this store in two seconds.”

  I was beginning to understand why the professor loathed confrontations so much. She was acting like a bully. It was mean of me, but I couldn’t help saying it. “Good luck getting that package to New York.”

  “I demand to speak to your superior.”

  I was fairly certain the professor was not upstairs in his office. But that didn’t matter. Ms. Dumont’s problems weren’t his concern, either. “I’m sorry. He’s not here at the moment.”

  “Angie, take this down,” she spat. “What’s his name?”

  “John Maxwell.”

  “Maxwell?” She looked around. “This is Maxwell’s bookstore? I had no idea. Well, I’ll be having a word with him about you. I am a very close friend of Maxwell’s.” Her eyes narrowed. “Miss . . . ?”

  I couldn’t help grinning. It was tempting to give her a fake name. But at that moment, Helen barreled through the front door, asking, “Florrie, can I switch days with you?”

  Ms. Dumont, for whom I no longer felt sorry, even if she did appear to be exhausted again, said in an evilly smooth tone, “Florrie. Did you get that? How would I know how to spell it? Can’t you do anything on your own?” She turned and left the store, still muttering to poor Angie.

  Helen’s mouth dropped open. “Was that Lucianne Dumont?” she whispered.

  I nodded.

  “What did she want here? I would love to work for her.”

  I seriously doubted that but kept my opinion to myself. I pulled out the work schedule to see if I could accommodate Helen’s changes when the phone rang.

  “Good afternoon,” said a voice with a British accent. “This is Frederic van den Teuvel. Have I reached Florrie Fox?”

  Who on earth? “Yes. Speaking.”

  “Wonderful. I hope I have not phoned you at an inconvenient time, but I felt the need to reach you as soon as possible. It is my understanding that you have a copy of The Florist?”

  “Actually, I am not in possession of the book.”

  “No? Oh my! I apologize. I was told that you have a newly discovered copy.”

  “It . . .” For absolutely no good reason, my wariness antennae shot up. I felt like they were glowing red with alarm. “How may I help you?”

  “Now I am confused. Do you have the book?”

  “Not in my possession. Are you interested in acquiring The Florist?”

  “Very much so. What is the price which you are asking?”

  Why did I feel so suspicious? “May I have your name again?”

  I grabbed a periwinkle-blue pencil and a notepad. I wrote as he spoke. Frederic van den Teuvel.

  “Your phone number, please?”

  He gave me his number as well as an address in Aachen, Germany. “I am representing an interested party.”

  “I see. You are an antiques dealer?”

  “Something like that. When can I see the book?”

  “It hasn’t been authenticated yet, but I will be happy to call you when the owner is ready to sell it.”

  After a long moment of silence, Frederic said, “I shall only be in Washington for a matter of days. Perhaps we can arrange a time for me to view the book?”

  Why did I feel pressured? I didn’t like this Frederic guy, but that wasn’t fair to Dolly. For all I knew he was representing someone who would pay more than our wildest dreams. “Perhaps you could telephone me tomorrow. At this point, I am not able to schedule a viewing.”

  His tone grew testy. “But you do have the book? It seems that you are unsure.”

  Hadn’t I already explained that? Maybe his English wasn’t as good as it sounded. “I do not have it in my possession. I am not the seller of the book, so I cannot make any representations at this time.”

  “Very well. I shall phone you in the morning to arrange a viewing of the book.”

  He hung up, and I was confused. I stared at the book a customer handed to me. How had Ms. Dumont and Frederic van den Teuvel already heard about The Florist? Was it a more valuable commodity than I had imagined?

  I forced myself to concentrate on customers. Saturday night diners, moviegoers, and revelers kept us busy through the dinner hour and beyond.

  It was after ten by the time we had rung up the last sales of the day and shooed everyone out of the store. Veronica and I split the floors, each of us doing one last sweep, to make sure no one lingered behind. We turned off lights as we went. We finally flipped the sign on the front door to Closed, set the alarm, and locked up.

  It was a beautiful summer night. Veronica and I admired the gorgeous historic homes as we walked. Lights shone in Victorian-style turrets and bay windows, depending on the architecture of the house.

  Dolly lived in a brownstone, a tall old building that stood out by virtue of its unusual shade of cream. The front door was recessed. The first and second floors, as well as the basement, were built out a few feet in a rather boxy construction. Light beamed from the large arched window that graced the first floor. The matching glass arch over the front door shone, too. Outdoor lights on each side of the front door illuminated the concrete steps that led up to the stoop.

  A wrought iron
picket fence and ornate gate marked the tiny front yard of the property. The leaves on the tree just inside the fence were completely still in the balmy night. The second floor, where the Beauton sisters lived, didn’t appear to be quite as glamorous, but lights shone in a sizable square window that faced the street, where I imagined their parlor must be.

  The top floor was actually an attic, and the roof took a steep angle. The blue slate fish scale tiles appeared to be black in the dark of night. I had noted before that they interestingly matched the roofs on several homes on the street as though they had all been installed at the same time. The tall dormer window at the top of Dolly’s house was dark.

  The gate swung open easily. I carried Dolly’s purse up the stairs. While I knew that the front door was generally unlocked during the day, I expected it to be locked given the late hour. I rang the bell, but Veronica tried the doorknob. The door swung open.

  I cringed. “I hope the doorbell didn’t wake anyone.”

  A narrow passage was now the foyer of what had once been a single-family home. Four robin’s egg blue mailboxes that resembled tall birdhouses were mounted on the wall in a row over a narrow table. An old-fashioned chandelier with sparkling prisms added a touch of glamour. Matching well-worn red oriental runners covered the floor. One ran from the entrance to the foot of steep stairs. The other ran alongside the stairs to the door of Dolly’s apartment on the first floor.

  Dolly’s door stood open a few inches, as though she expected us. I rapped a knuckle against the door and called out, “Dolly! It’s Florrie and Veronica with your purse.”

  She didn’t respond, but I peeked inside anyway. “Dolly?”

  And then I saw her. She lay on her side on an oriental carpet, one hand outstretched.

  Chapter 5

  “Dolly!” I shouted. I dropped her purse and rushed to her. Kneeling, I bent over her. “Dolly, what happened? Are you okay?”

  I could hear Veronica calling 911 behind me.

  Dolly’s lovely face was contorted as if she was in pain. Her eyes were open, but they didn’t appear to see anything.

  While Veronica spoke to the dispatcher, I gently massaged Dolly’s arm, unsure whether she could feel my hand.

  “They want to know if she’s breathing,” said Veronica.

  I watched Dolly’s chest but couldn’t tell if it was moving. “Dolly! Dolly, can you hear me?” I grasped the hand close to her chest. “Squeeze my hand if you can hear me.”

  Her fingers twitched so imperceptibly that I wondered if I had imagined it. “Veronica, I think she moved.”

  “They want me to stay on the line with them,” said Veronica. “No, I don’t see any blood.”

  I watched her chest for any sign of movement. “I can’t tell. Dolly? Can you give me a sign? Can you blink?”

  Veronica spoke softly but there was an urgency in her tone. “The door. It’s open!”

  The French door leading to the backyard was open and moved gently in a breeze. Beyond it, a lantern flickered on a table on the enclosed patio.

  I jumped up and looked outside. I didn’t see anyone. The romantic light from the lantern revealed three champagne glasses and a bottle of bubbly. I stepped out and checked the latch on the gate. I opened it and by the light of the moon, I could see the dark shadow of a figure running in the alley.

  I was not a runner at all, but I tried. As I loped along, I knew full well that I wouldn’t make it to the street in time to see the person before he disappeared into the night. Veronica, who thought sports involving running were fun, might have been able to catch up to the person. Panting like a worn-out dog, I stopped when I reached the sidewalk. I looked to the left. The street lay peaceful and quiet. Shade trees lined the sidewalks and beautiful old homes stood in a stately row.

  Still trying to catch my breath, I stumbled back to Dolly’s house in haste. I banged my knee on the gate and limped into Dolly’s living room. She hadn’t moved.

  Veronica crouched beside her, murmuring comforting words of encouragement. I kneeled on the other side of Dolly.

  Veronica whispered to me, “I saw her eyelids flutter. I know I did.”

  I didn’t want to, but I slid my hand under the collar of her blouse and felt for a pulse. I didn’t find one. “Her skin is warm,” I uttered hopefully.

  I leaned toward her. “Dolly? Dolly!” Ever so gently, I shook her shoulder.

  A commotion at the front door caused me to look up. Three emergency medical technicians strode in. Veronica and I rose and moved away from Dolly, making room for the two EMTs that immediately assessed her.

  The third one asked us what happened. I was explaining when I heard my name. “Florrie?” Even without seeing him, I knew immediately who it was. My relationship with Sergeant Eric Jonquille was still new enough for me to tingle at the sound of his voice. I turned in haste.

  The first time I had seen Eric, I was certain he was out of my league. After all, I was sort of mousey, not a bombshell like Veronica. But for some reason, I had gotten lucky with Eric. His chestnut hair tumbled in loose curls, and he had the most vibrant blue eyes I had ever seen. They were truly the shade of delphinium flowers.

  “Eric!” I explained to both of them how we happened to be there and that we had found Dolly.

  Eric and the EMT looked over at the purse I had dropped, and I realized that a tiny thing like that verified our story.

  One of the EMTs on the floor was doing CPR on Dolly.

  Eric coaxed Veronica and me out of the way of the EMTs. “Are you two okay?” Eric asked.

  Tears welled in my eyes. “We will be if Dolly is all right. What on earth could have happened to her?” I wiped my tears away ferociously but more sprang up in their place. I sniffled, and Eric wrapped an arm around me. He slung his other arm around Veronica.

  “The doors were open,” Veronica said, pointing toward the French door. “The front door was open and the door to the garden was open.”

  “I ran outside and saw someone running along the alley. He turned the corner at the end of the alley.”

  “Did you recognize the person?”

  “I couldn’t even tell if it was a man or a woman. Whoever it was turned left.”

  Eric frowned at me. “Did you see him leaving Dolly’s garden?”

  “No. He was pretty far away.”

  “So you don’t really know that he had been here?”

  The EMT who had been doing CPR looked up at us and shook his head. “It was probably a heart attack.”

  Another EMT rose to his feet and handed something to Eric. “She was holding this in the fingers of her outstretched hand.”

  It was a brittle scrap of paper that was yellowed with age.

  Eric shrugged.

  “May I see?” I asked.

  He pulled a tissue from his pocket, laid it on his palm, and placed the scrap of paper on top of it.

  It was a tiny triangle, maybe two inches on the longest side. It appeared to be the bottom corner of a page that had torn off. I knew instantly what it was—a corner of a page from The Florist. I sucked in a sharp breath and peered at it more closely to be sure.

  “Does this mean something to you?” asked Eric.

  I told him about the valuable coloring book Dolly had scored at the Dumont yard sale.

  “Published in 1700? Are you kidding me?” His brow furrowed, and he gazed around. “Do you see it? Is anything out of place?”

  He was scanning the room, taking in every little detail.

  Dolly’s apartment was decorated to the hilt. A stranger might have called it fussy. But I knew the truth. The items that cluttered the room so that the eye didn’t know where to land were all Dolly’s treasures. Louis the fifteenth and sixteenth chairs bore mismatched upholstery, yet they seemed to fit together in Dolly’s eclectic style.

  Bookshelves lined two walls. Books packed the shelves, standing and in piles. More books stood in stacks on the floor. Paintings hung all the way to the high ceiling and even on the woodwork betwee
n the bookshelves. The zebra pattern settee was where I usually sat when she insisted I stay a few minutes for a cup of tea and a pastry. She used a round tufted ottoman as a coffee table, moving it about as needed. The ivory velvet fabric of the ottoman was a calm oasis in the middle of the cacophony of colors and patterns in the room.

  As far as I could tell, it didn’t look any different than it usually did. That didn’t mean a book or some other new tchotchke that I didn’t know she had acquired wasn’t missing. She had amassed an astounding number of objects, but the only two I knew much about were the rare coloring book and the piece of coral. “Veronica, do you have the coral?”

  “It’s in my bag.” Veronica sounded defensive. “She gave it to us, remember?”

  I tried to smile at my sister. “I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m just making sure that no one stole it.”

  To Eric, I said, “Maybe her daughter would be able to tell you. Nothing jumps out at me.”

  “I’m sure she was a nice woman,” said Eric, “but her shelves are so cluttered with stuff that it would be nearly impossible to tell if a piece were missing here or there.”

  “Dust,” Veronica uttered.

  “What?” he asked.

  “I’m just guessing that she probably doesn’t dust those shelves constantly,” Veronica clarified. “You could tell if there were a spot that wasn’t dusty.”

  “Eric”—I looked up into his lovely eyes—“I have a bad feeling that the missing item is The Florist. She posted about it on Facebook earlier today. In fact, we had an odd call from a Frederic van den Teuvel who . . . gave me the creeps. I didn’t know what to think of him. He was quite insistent about wanting to see the book.”

  Eric shook his head like a wet dog. “Why do people blab on Facebook about valuables or vacations? It’s like sending an invitation to burglars. Not a good idea.”

  “Do you think someone attacked her for the book?” Veronica asked.

  It seemed obvious to me. “That makes perfect sense. Someone tore the book away from her and caused her to have a heart attack.”

  “Not so fast, ladies,” Eric said in a kind tone. “Except for the paper, which could have torn because she fell, there’s no outward sign of an attack on her. We’ll know more after the medical examiner has a look. Of course, it’s worth noting that she had that piece of paper in her hand.” He cocked his head sympathetically and looked at me. “But the book could still be around here somewhere. This might just be a scrap of paper.”