by Thea Cambert
“Hi, guys,” Jane said, looking up. “What brings you by? Oh—any leads in the investigation of Talbot’s death? Because I know you three are probably deep into your meddling by now.”
“Meddling? Us?” asked Owen, looking shocked. “No, Jane. I just stopped by to see if you’d like the photos I took of the glassblower just now. For the paper.”
“Darn. I was hoping you were meddling,” said Jane. “But I’d love the glassblower photos. Thanks, Owen.”
There was a pause, and Alice looked at Owen, then Franny, and sighed. “Okay, we might be meddling just the tiniest bit. But only to help the police out.”
“Ha! I knew it! How can I help?”
“Could we have a look at the photos you took at Hemlock House on Saturday?”
“Sure,” said Jane, turning to grab her bag which was slung over the back of her chair. “But fair warning: since we weren’t supposed to take our cameras, these aren’t the best quality.” She scrolled through the photos, found the ones from Saturday, and handed the phone to Alice.
“There’s the one of Astors . . .” said Alice.
“And there’s a nice one of the house,” said Franny, peering over Alice’s shoulder.
“I don’t see any of the painting—the Toussaint,” said Owen.
“Yeah. I deleted those,” said Jane. “They were awful. Grainy.”
“But the story you ran in Sunday’s paper,” said Alice, confused. “There was a photo of the painting.”
“That’s right,” said Jane, nodding. “It was a stock photo I bought online. I also searched news archives to find that photo I ran of Bernard, from back when he and his first wife bought the Toussaint.”
Alice handed Jane’s phone back to her. “It might be a good thing that you didn’t get a good shot of the painting,” she said.
“Really? Why?”
“Well, the only things missing from Shutter Bug’s after Talbot was killed were the photos and negatives from our morning at Hemlock House,” said Alice.
“Right . . .” said Jane thoughtfully. “So, someone killed Talbot for—hold on! Did Talbot’s death have something to do with that weird text message he sent us all? About the forgery?”
“That’s exactly what we’re wondering,” said Franny.
“And if someone didn’t want photos of the painting at Hemlock House floating around . . .” said Alice.
“Then maybe I could’ve been in danger,” said Jane, nodding in understanding. “Because I might’ve captured the same thing Talbot did—whatever that might be.”
“It’s a possibility,” said Alice. “But maybe the killer saw that you’d used a stock photo and so decided you weren’t a threat. It’s just conjecture, of course.”
“So, maybe I dodged a bullet by failing to get a decent photo of Woman at Café with Book? Crazy! Listen, let me know what you find out,” said Jane. “That’s front-page news, my friends.”
“We will,” said Alice. “See you later, Jane.”
They walked out of the office and back over to Main Street, where there was a squirt gun painting activity going on that had drawn a huge crowd—most of them families with young children. People were lining up to shoot squirt guns filled with paint at a huge canvas that had been erected along the street, and the result was quite beautiful. Swirls of watercolor in every hue dripped down the canvas to the delight of the children, who were taking turns with squirt guns and spray bottles filled with the paint. Alice spotted lots of familiar faces—and one of them was that of Blue Valley’s fire chief, Sam Watters, who stood with his wife Becky, watching their son, six-year-old Lucas, who was helping to create the Main Street masterpiece.
“You know, to me, it feels like this whole thing started with that gas leak at Hemlock House,” said Alice.
“The gas leak that never was?” asked Owen. “I guess that was sort of fishy, in light of all that’s happened since then.”
“I wonder if Sam got the call to go to Hemlock House from Smart-n-Safe . . .” said Franny slowly. “Or if it came from the 9-1-1 emergency dispatcher.”
“I wonder that too,” said Alice. “Let’s ask him.”
“Couldn’t hurt,” agreed Owen.
“Hey, Sam. Hi, Becky,” said Alice, as they approached.
“Well, hello all,” said Sam. “Isn’t this great?” He motioned toward the large canvas. “Lucas is over there with his best bud, Adam Tanger. They’re having the time of their lives.”
“Oh—Adam who was our own Tiny Tim in A Christmas Carol the past few years?” said Owen. “Looks like he’s getting too tall for the role.”
Sam laughed. “Yep. The boys are both in second grade now—and not all that tiny anymore.” He nodded at Franny. “But one day, maybe baby Theo can take over the part.”
Everyone laughed at this, and with the ice broken, Alice decided to see if they could get a little bit of information from Sam before they went home.
“Sam, remember Saturday, when you went up to Hemlock House?”
“Sure,” said Sam. “I was certainly relieved when it turned out to be a false alarm.”
“Just curious,” said Alice. “Did Bernard call you to come, or—”
“The emergency dispatcher called,” said Sam. “Bernard had called 9-1-1 after he heard from Blue Valley Smart-n-Safe.”
Just then, Lucas ran up to Sam. “Come see, Daddy!”
Sam smiled apologetically at Alice. “Duty calls,” he said with a smile.
“Have fun!” Alice called as Sam and Becky went with their son.
“So,” said Owen, as they walked on toward the middle of Main, and their respective shops. “Bernard called 9-1-1 about his gas leak, and they called the Blue Valley Fire Department.”
“And apparently also the Runesville Fire Department,” said Franny.
“I have an idea,” said Owen, taking out his cell phone and looking up a number. A moment later, he was on the phone with the Runesville Fire Department. He had a brief conversation with the person who answered that involved Owen saying, “I just want to commend the fire department vehicle you sent out to Hemlock House Saturday morning. Very careful driving—you know, a lot of these emergency vehicles have the sticker that says, ‘How’s my driving?’ So, I was just calling to say—Wait. What’s that?” There was a pause while the person on the other end talked. “Oh. They don’t put those stickers on fire department vehicles? Well, this was an SUV, and I can definitely confirm that the car you sent to Hemlock House on Saturday morning—” There was another long pause before Owen thanked the person and hung up. He looked at Alice and Franny, a gleam in his eyes.
“Well?” said Alice.
“Come on, Owen. Tell us!” said Franny.
“The Runesville Fire Department did not dispatch a car to Hemlock House on Saturday morning. And all of their cars were accounted for all day.”
“Get out!” said Franny.
“I’ll do you one better,” said Alice, whipping out her phone. Within a couple of minutes, after a short conversation, she’d hung up. “The plot thickens. Smart-n-Safe never called the Astors in the first place.”
Chapter 9
“It smells amazing in your apartment, Alice,” said Luke, walking out into the rooftop garden that evening.
“She’s practicing for the big day,” said Owen, setting a basket filled with napkins and silverware onto the café table.
“Practicing on a chicken,” said Franny, giggling.
“A chicken is her guinea pig,” snorted Owen.
“I just want to make sure my Thanksgiving turkey is perfect,” said Alice, lighting a candle in the center of the table. “So, I’ve made roast chicken and mashed potatoes for dinner tonight. I mean, roasting a chicken is the same in principle as roasting a turkey. It’s just smaller. Right?”
Ben emerged from his and Franny’s apartment, lugging Theo in his baby carrier with one hand, and balancing a big salad with the other.
“I’ll put this in your apartment with the other food,” s
aid Franny, hurrying over to grab the salad. “The chicken smells so good!”
“What about my rolls?” Owen called after her. “Everyone knows there’s nothing like the smell of fresh yeast rolls,” he added with a sniff.
“I ordered a fresh ten-pound turkey from Mr. Whitman,” said Alice. “I’m supposed to pick it up on Tuesday evening, along with all of the other things we’ll need.”
Whitman’s Grocery, a staple in Blue Valley for more years than anyone knew, prided itself around the holidays on its fresh hams and turkeys, not to mention the occasional salmon and geese for those wanting to try something different. The owner, George Whitman, took special care to select the best of the best for his customers.
Alice set the food out buffet-style in her little kitchen, and everyone loaded up their plates and came out to eat dinner in the garden. It was a beautiful autumn evening—sweater weather, but not yet coat weather—and the sun was just setting behind the mountains. Down on Main Street, the art festival had pretty well wound down for the day, but festival-goers were still strolling around, looking for dinner and window shopping, enjoying the nip in the air.
As soon as everyone was seated with their plates, Alice told Ben and Luke about what they’d learned that day.
“We’re checking the phone records,” said Ben, nodding. “We’ll find out who actually called Bernard Saturday morning. Because it definitely wasn’t Smart-n-Safe.”
“This is one of our strangest cases yet,” said Luke. “A bogus gas leak. An art theft that happens a day later. A murder. All of them seemingly connected by the Astor family and that painting with the girl in the café.”
“You know, the cash drawer at Shutter Bug’s was full. And there was a lot of expensive camera equipment in the shop. None of that was touched,” said Ben. “Talbot had clearly been developing photos. Nick Lopez, who owns the studio, carefully checked everything. Someone wanted those particular photos and negatives.”
“And to keep Talbot from talking,” added Alice. “So, who was in that fake Runesville Fire Department vehicle?”
“You said it was a red SUV, right?” asked Luke.
“Yep. With Runesville Fire Department written on the side,” said Alice.
“So, someone went to great lengths to get everyone to leave Hemlock House on Saturday morning,” said Owen. “But nothing was stolen and no harm was done.”
“Right,” said Ben. “Nothing was stolen until Sunday morning, when the painting went missing.”
“Talbot apparently believed the painting you all saw on Saturday at Hemlock House was a forgery,” said Luke.
“We compared the print you gave me with the Astors’ painting today, and saw no difference—well, except that the very bottom of the original doesn’t show in my print,” said Alice. “Like you said, it had been trimmed off a tiny bit.”
“About your impromptu visit to Hemlock House,” said Ben, giving Alice, Owen, and Franny a stern look. “Weren’t you all supposed to stay out of this investigation?”
“I thought I might’ve left my scarf there,” said Alice.
“Sure, you did,” said Ben, looking at his sister skeptically.
“Hold on,” said Owen, running into his apartment and coming back outside with his laptop. “I took a photo of the painting at Hemlock House when we went back there today. I’ve downloaded it to my computer. We can compare it to a photo from the internet.”
They gathered around Owen’s computer and looked carefully between his photo and the original Toussaint, but saw no difference.
“What we need is a photo of the painting as it was when you were at Hemlock House on Saturday,” said Ben. “Before it was stolen and returned.”
“And Talbot’s photos are all missing,” said Luke.
“And Jane’s photos from that day turned out grainy, so she deleted them,” said Alice.
“You talked to Jane, too?” asked Ben. “You three are most definitely meddling!”
“We can’t help ourselves!” said Franny.
“Oh, my gosh,” said Owen. “We do actually have a picture of the painting from Saturday. Alice, remember—I snapped that picture of you with the painting on Saturday morning!”
“That’s right!” said Alice excitedly. She turned to Luke and Ben. “We weren’t supposed to take photos that day. Only Talbot. But of course, Owen slipped his camera in. We went back inside right before we left to take one last look at the painting. And Owen took a photo of me standing next to it.”
“Owen, for once, I’m glad you’re a rebel,” said Luke, leaning forward as Owen downloaded the photo from his camera to his computer.
“It still looks identical to the original . . .” said Owen, flipping back and forth between the two.
“Hold on,” said Alice suddenly. “Go back to the one of me and the painting.”
Owen flipped back.
“Zoom in on the bottom right corner,” said Alice, moving closer to the computer screen.
“OMG!” shouted Owen. “The signature! It’s all about the signature!”
“Go back to the one you took at Hemlock House today,” said Alice.
“Sure enough . . .” said Owen, zooming in on the bottom right-hand corner of that day’s shot. “The signature has changed since Saturday. Everything else is exactly the same. But that one tiny detail is different.”
“And we couldn’t see that when we compared Alice’s print to the painting today, because the signature portion of the painting has been trimmed off,” said Franny.
Ben and Luke looked at each other.
“They did it again,” said Ben.
“Yep,” said Luke, starting to chuckle. “They did it again.”
“So, what does this mean . . .”Alice said, rubbing her chin.
“I’ve got some information right here,” said Owen, scrolling through an article on his phone. “And as it happens, both of those signatures look authentic.” He held up his phone. “See, Gabriel Toussaint signed his early works—like Woman at Café with Book—with his last name. Just Toussaint. But his later works—the ones more commonly seen in museums and such—he signed with his first initial and his last name. So, G. Toussaint. It seems another artist with the same last name had arisen sometime in the 1880s, and our Gabriel didn’t want them getting mixed up.”
“Well how about that,” said Luke. “So, whoever created the forgery you all saw on Saturday was looking at the wrong signature.”
“Maybe they were recreating the painting based on a print, like mine,” said Alice. “And just looked up Toussaint’s signature to add that part at the end—but made the mistake of signing it wrong. The G was definitely there on Saturday. But it was gone today.”
“Ben, give Bernard a call,” said Luke. “When we interviewed him, he said one of his children, his oldest daughter, I believe, is an art authenticator. They’re all in for Thanksgiving. Maybe she can check the painting.”
Ben quickly got up and went inside his and Franny’s apartment.
“That Astor family is sure nuts about art!” said Owen.
“They are,” agreed Luke. “The one daughter is in authentication. The other is a working artist. And their son is a curator for a museum.”
“Not to mention Bernard’s first wife,” said Franny. “She was an artist, right?”
“That’s right,” said Alice. “Ainsley Lansford-Astor. We saw that photo of her in Jane’s article.”
“Julia Astor, Bernard’s daughter, checked the painting,” said Ben, coming back out into the garden a few minutes later.
“And?” asked Alice, setting down the plates she’d been clearing.
“It’s a fake. The signature’s right—now, at least. But the canvas is wrong. You wouldn’t know it to look at it, but she says it’s clearly not old enough to be the real thing.”
“So, maybe the thief stole the painting and replaced it with a forgery on Saturday morning,” reasoned Alice.
“Then Sunday morning, they saw Jane’s article with the photo
of the actual painting,” said Owen. “And noticed their mistake.”
“So, they went back to Hemlock House, and stole the fake,” said Franny.
“Then fixed the signature and returned the fake on Monday,” said Alice. “And once the thief found out that Talbot knew about the forgery, he had to be silenced.”
Ben let out a long sigh and looked at Luke, who sat, shaking his head in bewilderment.
“They did it again,” said Ben.
Luke smiled at Alice. “Yep. They did it again.”
Chapter 10
“I cannot believe how you’ve transformed this place!” Franny opened one of Owen’s cardboard moving boxes, reached inside, and pulled out a framed wooden sign that read Life is Better at the Lake. “Owen, where did this come from?” she asked.
“Oh, I’ve had most of this stuff in storage for years,” answered Owen, glancing at the sign. “The apartments above our shops are tiny, you know.”
“So, you’ve been planning to move to the lake since . . .”
“Since forever ago,” said Owen, nodding. He looked out the huge bank of windows that lined the far end of his cozy living room and overlooked the water. “This lake is one of the things that drew me to Blue Valley. Well, that and the perfect location for my bakery.”
It had been almost eight years since Owen had opened Sourdough on Main Street and become fast friends with Alice and Franny. He’d moved to Blue Valley after graduating from culinary school in Nashville. The lake house he’d renovated was just around the shore from Luke’s cabin—which was just down from Ben and Franny’s. The three friends were quite content being neighbors on Main Street, and over the moon that they’d also be neighbors out on the lake as well.
“I love it that you wanted a movie night for your housewarming party,” said Alice, walking in from the bedroom, where she’d been unpacking boxes. “I just heard from Luke. He and Ben will be over shortly.”
After the roast chicken dinner in the rooftop garden, everyone had planned to head straight to Owen’s lake house for popcorn and a movie, but Ben and Luke had gotten a message from the station and had taken a slight detour.
