Murder Paints a Picture

by Thea Cambert

  “Let’s go upstairs,” said Ben. “We’ll build a fire and order takeout from the Smiling Hound.”

  “Maybe I’m getting old,” said Alice. “But that sounds like the perfect Friday night to me.”

  “Me too,” said Luke, yawning as they all walked through the bookcase door and up the stairs.

  “Hey, speaking of getting old, isn’t it time you two set a date for your wedding?” asked Owen.

  “We do need to get around to that,” said Alice, smiling at Luke. “But right now, the biggest decision I’m prepared to make is whether to order onion rings or steak fries with my burger.”

  Chapter 2

  The drive to Hemlock House was both breathtaking and slightly horrifying. The mountain road twisted and turned, and at times, Alice, sitting in the front passenger’s seat, could look down and see the terrain falling steeply away just to the side.

  “No pressure or anything,” she said to Owen at the wheel, “but if you make one wrong move, we’re all going to die.”

  “Well then it’s a good thing I am an excellent driver,” said Owen, never taking his eyes off the narrowing lane. “Right, Franny?”

  “She’s out cold,” Martin whispered from the backseat, where Franny had slumped over onto her father-in-law’s shoulder, quiet snoring sounds emanating from her open mouth. “Ben told me Theo’s teething, and no one in the house is getting much sleep.”

  “That explains why Ben was already on his fourth cup of coffee when we left this morning,” said Owen with a laugh. He slowed the car as they approached a fork in the road. “We’re practically to Runesville.” He glanced at Alice. “Do you have the directions? Are we lost?”

  “Yeah, Alice,” Martin whispered from the backseat. “Did you read the map upside down or something? Seems like we should’ve been there by now.”

  “Thanks for that vote of confidence, Dad,” Alice said with a roll of her eyes. “Hmm . . .” She examined their copy of the rudimentary map Talbot had drawn and distributed to the class. She subtly turned it the other direction, hoping neither Owen nor her dad would notice that she had actually been holding it upside down. “I see where we are. Go right.”

  Owen took the right fork, and moments later, to their surprise and delight, they emerged out of the trees and then turned onto a lane marked with a large stone sign that read Hemlock House.

  “This is the place,” said Owen, driving slowly down the lane.

  “Here comes a car. Better move over,” said Alice, pointing to the red SUV headed toward them.

  Owen eased to one side of the lane, and the other vehicle did the same so that they passed each other narrowly.

  “Runesville Fire Department?” said Owen, reading the brassy letters that ran along the side of the SUV. “I sure hope the house didn’t burn down before we got to see it.”

  Alice glanced back at the retreating SUV. “That’s strange. Well, whatever’s going on, it must not be a big deal, since they’re leaving. And I don’t see any smoke up ahead.”

  The lane curved to the left, and as they rounded the bend, the house came into view. Sure enough, Alice saw a stand of hemlock trees on the grounds, with the house set among them, looking as if it belonged there. It was all stone and wood, set into the side of the mountain, respecting the natural slope of the land, the placement of the trees, and blending in almost seamlessly. As the car rolled to a stop, Alice marveled at the terrace that jutted off the house, complete with beautiful furniture arranged around a huge raised, rectangular fire pit. The house itself was scattered with great, gleaming windows, and the views from inside must have been nothing short of breathtaking.

  “Those trees around the house—some of them look unwell,” said Owen.

  “Those are the hemlock trees,” said Alice. “Here in Tennessee, we call them the redwoods of the east. There are even old-growth Hemlock forests in the Smokies that are over five hundred years old. Isn’t that amazing?” Alice leaned forward to get a better view. “Unfortunately, some are dying off because of a bothersome little insect called the hemlock woolly adelgid. I’m glad to see the Astors are taking good care of their trees.”

  “Isn’t hemlock fabulously poisonous?” asked Owen, a gleam in his eye.

  “There’s a hemlock plant that’s very toxic,” said Alice. “These, however, are eastern hemlock trees. They’re not poisonous at all, and efforts are being made all over the state to try to preserve them.”

  “Beautiful old trees,” said Martin, shifting slightly in his seat and inadvertently waking Franny.

  “Five more minutes,” Franny sleepily mumbled.

  “Time to wake up, sweetie. We’re here,” Owen said brightly.

  “Huh?” Franny sat up. “Oh! Already?”

  “You’ve been asleep for half an hour,” said Alice.

  “I have?” said Franny. She looked at Martin. “Oh gosh. Sorry if I drooled on your shoulder, Martin.”

  Martin smiled. “Don’t you worry about it,” he said. “You need all the rest you can get with a baby at home.”

  “Looks like we’re the first ones here,” said Owen, tucking his camera into his backpack and looking around the large gravel parking area. “No other cars.”

  “Hey, you said no cameras except for Talbot,” said Martin. “What gives?”

  “I just sort of accidentally picked it up when we left,” said Owen. “Force of habit.”

  “And now you’re accidentally bringing it into the house?” asked Franny.

  “I won’t use it,” said Owen. “Probably.”

  When this met with a raised brow from Alice, he added, “I’ll just take a few quick photos of this glorious view.”

  “Good idea,” Alice conceded, walking to look down at the valley beneath them. “But I don’t think pictures will be able to do it justice.”

  “Agreed,” said Franny. “This is amazing.” She looked back at the house. “If I owned this house, I’d want to live here all year long.”

  “Except when there’s ice,” said Owen. “I wouldn’t want to have to drive down the mountain in the dead of winter.”

  “Where is everybody?” asked Martin.

  “Good question,” said Owen, walking toward the large wooden entry doors set with beveled glass windows and hung with huge wreaths made of colorful autumn leaves.

  Somewhere in the distance, perhaps from the other side of the huge house, a door slammed.

  “Someone must be here.” Martin stepped forward and rang the bell, and they all waited in silence. When no one answered, they peered through the wreaths into the windows. The place looked quiet and empty.

  “Could we have gotten the time wrong?” asked Alice, looking at her watch.

  “Talbot said to be here at ten,” said Owen shaking his head.

  Just then, they heard the crunch of gravel as another car rolled up the lane.

  “Oh good,” said Owen. “There’s Talbot.”

  “Sorry I’m late,” said Talbot, jumping out of his car and jogging around to open his trunk. He began taking his equipment out as another man got out of the passenger side of the front seat. “Everyone, meet Jean-Paul Margot. He’s a good friend of mine and a gallery owner in from New York for the festival. I invited him here because he’s a collector of the works of Toussaint.”

  “Hello,” said Jean-Paul, nodding cordially.

  “Jean-Paul, this is Owen and Martin—they’re in my photography class,” said Talbot.

  “And this is my daughter Alice and my daughter-in-law Franny,” said Martin.

  “Very pleased to make your acquaintance,” said Jean-Paul in a lovely French accent.

  “So, you’re a fan of Toussaint,” said Alice, shaking Jean-Paul’s extended hand. “So am I.”

  “Ah! A fellow enthusiast,” answered Jean-Paul. “Which of his paintings is your favorite?”

  “The one we’re seeing today,” said Alice.

  “Yes, it is one of his best, in my opinion.”

  “So, you’re a collector of his
work?”

  “I am,” said Jean-Paul with a chuckle. “Especially his early pieces. And if Mr. Astor would ever part with Woman at Café with Book, I would be very happy to take it off his hands and hang it in my gallery’s permanent collection.”

  Norman, Jane, and Ethel pulled into the parking area next.

  “Sorry we’re late,” said Norman. “Ethel here was holding the map upside down.”

  Martin elbowed Alice and gave her a smirk.

  “No problem,” said Talbot. “I got a text message from Bernard as Jean-Paul and I were arriving. The family is running late as well, so it all works out just fine.”

  “The whole family is away?” asked Franny.

  “Not by choice,” said Talbot. “They got a call from Blue Valley Smart-n-Safe—the company that monitors this place. You know, smoke alarms, gas alarms, broken windows . . . Anyway, they got a call about an hour ago telling them to evacuate the house because there was a possible gas leak. The family only got into town yesterday, and the gas had been cut off for quite some time. Anyway, hopefully everything checked out okay.”

  “Looks like the fire department has arrived,” said Jean-Paul, pointing down the lane to where a Blue Valley fire utility vehicle was lumbering around the bend.

  “Again?” asked Owen. “Didn’t we just see—”

  “We did,” said Alice, puzzled.

  “It’s Sam,” said Franny brightly as their friend and Blue Valley’s fire chief, Sam Watters, hopped out of the vehicle and walked swiftly toward them, another fire fighter trailing behind him.

  “Hey!” said Sam with a friendly wave. “What are you all doing up here?”

  Just then, the Astors pulled into the drive. A distinguished-looking man who looked to be in his early sixties got out of a sleek black Jeep along with a beautiful, willowy woman of about the same age.

  “We heard the coast was clear,” the man said, walking briskly up to Sam. “I’m Bernard Astor, and this is my wife, Seraphina. Thanks for coming, Chief.”

  “You heard the coast was clear?” Sam asked, his brow furrowing. “But we haven’t even checked the house yet.”

  “I got a call from Smart-n-Safe,” said Bernard, looking confused. “They said there was no leak.”

  “We’ll head in and double check, if that’s all right with you, sir,” said Sam.

  “Of course. Please do,” said Seraphina, taking her husband’s arm.

  “All of you stay outside, well away from the house, until we come out,” said Sam, and he turned to Bernard. “Is the front door unlocked?”

  “I believe so,” Bernard answered. “We were in a rush to get out, and one of our staff stayed here—but she’s out in the garden somewhere.” He motioned toward the other side of the house.

  With a nod, Sam and the other fire fighter headed into the house.

  “That’s strange,” said Bernard, watching them go. “There must’ve been some mix-up with the security agency.”

  “I think we might know what happened,” Alice volunteered, raising her hand. “When we arrived, a Runesville Fire Department vehicle was just leaving. They must’ve already checked the house and alerted Smart-n-Safe that everything was okay.”

  “You’re about halfway between Blue Valley and Runesville here,” added Martin. “If you called 9-1-1 it makes sense that either of those fire departments would’ve been alerted—or maybe both of them.”

  “Everything looks good inside,” said Sam, coming back out of the house a few minutes later. “We found no gas leak.”

  “Good, good,” said Bernard, nodding. “False alarm, then.”

  He shook Sam’s hand and escorted the group into the house. Just as they were going inside, one more car pulled into the drive.

  “There’s Mia,” said Owen, giving a wave to a harried-looking Mia, who hurried to join the group.

  “So sorry I’m late!” she said, her face flushed. “I got a little lost.”

  “Don’t feel bad. We did too,” said Norman, patting Mia on the shoulder.

  “Not a problem,” said Bernard. “Now. If you’ll all come with me, I would be very proud to show you our collection.”

  Chapter 3

  As she walked through the doors, Alice was amazed to find Hemlock House to be even more beautiful on the inside. The group walked from one room to the next, admiring everything from the décor to the impressive collection of art work. Bernard talked about how and when he had acquired each piece, and what factors determine the value of works of art.

  “Of course, you have to start with the question of authenticity,” he said as they entered the most beautiful living room Alice had ever seen. A huge fireplace was flanked by floor-to-ceiling windows looking out into the mountains and the valley below. Currently, one of the windows was swiveled open on an invisible vertical line, letting in the fresh fall air. The wall opposite the fireplace was lined with bookshelves that went high enough that a wooden ladder fixed on a brass track was required to reach the top shelves. Alice’s eyes scanned the book spines rapidly, taking in a wonderful collection of fiction and nonfiction, classics and contemporaries, books for all ages.

  And there, in an open square space in the center of the shelves, was the painting Alice had come to see. Everyone stopped in their tracks.

  “They were right,” Alice whispered.

  “What?” Owen said, turning to her.

  “Everyone says Toussaint’s paintings are more beautiful in person,” said Alice. “They were right.”

  “That’s why it’s nice if you can afford to own an original,” said Jean-Paul, giving Alice a little wink. He leaned slightly close to the painting, and Alice thought she saw a troubled look crossing his expression.

  “What is it?” she whispered. “Not as beautiful as you’d imagined it would be?”

  “What? Yes—I mean, no,” said Jean-Paul, his smile returning. “It is lovely.”

  “Are you going to try to buy it from the Astors?”

  Jean-Paul hesitated. “No . . . I think it is where it belongs, and it clearly gives a great deal of pleasure to the family.”

  “So, what are some other qualities that make paintings valuable?” Bernard mused. “Well, one thing is condition. What condition is the painting in? As you can see, this Toussaint is in perfect condition. My eldest daughter is an authenticator and works in restoration for a large museum. She’ll actually be arriving soon for the holiday. Before purchasing a painting, you must have it authenticated and the condition carefully checked. Believe it or not, there are plenty of forgeries floating around out there. If the painting is not authentic, or if it’s damaged, that affects its worth.”

  The group nodded and asked a few questions as Talbot began setting up his camera equipment.

  “And of course, there are other factors that determine worth. Is the painting typical of what made that particular artist famous? Did the artist have an interesting backstory? What medium did he employ? What is the subject matter?” Bernard’s smiling eyes scanned the group and stopped on Alice. “Is the painting relatable? Can you see yourself in it?”

  “Don’t forget provenance,” said Jean-Paul. “That, certainly, impacts value as well.”

  “Yes! Provenance!” said Talbot. “That’s what the article I’m shooting for is all about.”

  “What’s Provenance?” asked Norman.

  “It is the story of who has owned a painting,” said Jean-Paul, nodding at the Toussaint. “Woman at Café with Book, for instance, has hung in the Musee du Louvre in Paris and the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York. It was sold at auction at the turn of the century, and has passed through only a few hands since then. It’s valued at over a million dollars, but you never know. It could go for far more at auction.”

  “In fact,” said Bernard, “I had a visit from a man this morning who was very set on purchasing this painting from me.”

  Owen gave Alice an elbow. “I bet it was that guy we met yesterday at the bookshop!”

  Bernard, hearing this,
asked, “Was his name Foster? Ian Foster?”

  “That’s him!” said Alice. “He told us he was going to give you a call.”

  “He wasn’t too happy when I told him I wouldn’t consider selling this particular painting,” said Bernard. Alice noticed his eyes turning to Jean-Paul when he added, “not for any price.”

  Alice looked at Jean-Paul, who had simply smiled and looked at the floor.

  “Now, class,” Talbot said, clearing his throat. “Let’s talk about how we photograph works of art.”

  An interesting lesson followed, with Talbot explaining the downfalls of digital cameras when it came to such subject matter, and how he always used real film and developed important photos in a darkroom. He brought in lights and a tripod and had the class help to block some of the light coming into the room using screens. He said that when photographing paintings, an overcast day was really preferable to the bright, sunny day outside, and talked about how to recreate natural light that works with the painting you’re shooting. Talbot rounded out the session by taking photos of the Astors—a few of just them, and a few of them standing next to the painting.

  Jane Elkin was allowed to snap a few quick photos with her phone, of both the painting and of Talbot in his element for an article she planned to run in the next morning’s edition of the Blue Valley Post.

  When Talbot was satisfied with his work, everyone helped to move the equipment back outside and put it into Talbot’s trunk, and then Seraphina welcomed everyone to the terrace for a light lunch of tea sandwiches, hard sausages, and a selection of cheeses, fruit, cookies, and delicate pastries. When the housekeeper and main cook, Elsa, came in to refill a plate of delectable cinnamon-sugar scones, Seraphina introduced her to the group and after visiting with her a while, Owen managed to secure her recipe.

  While the group stood about on the terrace, talking about art and photography, Alice slipped back into the house to take one last look at Woman at Café with Book before they left.

  “What is it about this painting?” Owen walked in behind Alice and stood, looking.

  “Its luminosity, I think,” said Alice. “See there, where the woman’s hand is touching the book, and again in the glass of the café window, and finally, in that little spot in the sky. It looks like the light is literally coming out of the painting.”