by Thea Cambert
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Alice asked, standing beside him and looking at the angel painting.
“A brilliant use of mixed media,” Ian said. “See how the artist added scraps of real linen to the gown? And the halo is definitely real gold leaf.”
“I see this painting fairly regularly,” said Alice. “And I never get tired of looking at it.”
Ian turned and seemed to see Alice for the first time. “Ah! I remember you,” he said, then noticed Owen and Franny, too. “We all met the other day at the bookstore.” His eyes moved back to Alice. “You reminded me of the girl in the Toussaint painting.”
“That’s right,” said Alice, feeling her cheeks getting warm. “Nice to see you again, Mr. Foster.”
“Please. Call me Ian.”
“So, Ian,” said Owen. “Did you have any luck convincing Bernard Astor to sell you that painting?”
“Nope,” said Ian. “But I did enjoy getting a look at it.”
“Too bad he wasn’t willing to part with it,” said Franny.
“Well, maybe it’s not so bad,” said Ian.
“But I thought you really wanted it for your gallery,” said Alice.
“I did—I do,” said Ian. He paused. “But only if the painting that hangs at the Astors’ house is, indeed, authentic.”
“What are you saying?” Owen blurted out. Then he lowered his voice. “That it’s a fake?”
Ian looked back at the angel painting. “Nothing of the kind,” he said, then turned back to Alice, Franny, and Owen, and gave a little wink. “The painting I looked at was perfect. A masterpiece. If it was a forgery, I didn’t spot it. But . . . Well, one hears rumors. I’ll say no more.”
Alice could tell by the finality in his voice that he meant it, so she changed the subject. “So, were you a friend of Talbot White?” she asked.
“I was on friendly terms with him, yes,” said Ian. “My gallery is in Chicago, but we’ve crossed paths on the art scene in New York. I’d been trying to book him to do a showing of his photographs at the Foster Gallery. I’d even arranged a coffee date with him the other day, and we were hashing out the details. But now . . .”
Alice felt a wave of dizzying energy wash over her. “Coffee?” she said. “I mean, when was that?”
“On Friday, shortly after I arrived here in Blue Valley,” said Ian. “Why do you ask?”
Alice felt her pulse steady a bit. “Oh, no reason. I just . . .” She picked up a service bulletin and waved it. “I still can’t believe Talbot is gone.”
“I know,” said Ian. “Cut down before his time.” He picked up a bulletin and walked toward the sanctuary. “Nice seeing you all.” He pushed open the wooden doors and went inside.
Alice, Owen, and Franny walked in behind him and looked around for a place to sit.
“Look, there’s Talbot’s friend Jean-Paul,” said Franny.
“He looks really upset,” said Alice. “Let’s sit next to him.”
They filed into the pew and took a seat. Alice laid a comforting hand on Jean-Paul’s arm. “We’re so sorry for your loss, Jean-Paul,” she said quietly. “Had you known Talbot long?”
“Oh yes,” Jean-Paul answered in his charming French accent. “For many years.” He sniffled and blew his nose.
“He was a good soul,” said Owen. “An amazing photographer.”
“And a good friend,” added Franny.
“The best,” Jean-Paul agreed, nodding. “He believed in me at a time when no one else did.”
“Jean-Paul,” Alice said quietly, “Do you have any idea who would have done this to Talbot?”
Jean-Paul looked down at his hands but said nothing.
“We think his death might have something to do with the Toussaint painting he was photographing at Hemlock House Saturday morning,” whispered Owen.
Jean-Paul still stayed silent, but finally nodded his head. “That painting,” he muttered, then looked at Alice. “There are those who desperately wanted it. And not just for its monetary value.”
Alice’s eyes widened. “What—”
The organ began to play the prelude at that moment, and Father Amos entered the church. The congregation stood and sang A Mighty Fortress Is Our God, and a short but lovely memorial service followed. At the end, Alice stood to leave, feeling happy that Talbot’s life had been so full of blessings, and that he’d had such a positive impact on his world.
The congregation trickled down the aisle, through the narthex, and back out into the sunlight. Alice, Owen, and Franny stayed close to Jean-Paul, hoping to continue their conversation with him after what he’d said earlier. But waiting just outside the church doors was Luke.
“Luke! What are you doing here?” Alice hurried up to him, frowning at the serious expression on his face.
“Sorry,” he said quietly. “I’m here for work.” Alice followed his eyes as he looked past her to Jean-Paul. “Louis Margot?” he said, using the French pronunciation of the name.
Alice, confused, looked back at Jean-Paul, whose face had fallen.
“Yes,” he said simply.
“I’m so sorry,” said Luke, walking over to Jean-Paul. Luke introduced himself, then added, “I need you to come with me to the station, Mr. Margot.”
Jean-Paul’s shoulders slumped and he let out a long sigh. “I’m finished,” he whispered so quietly that Alice was sure she’d been the only one to hear. Then Jean-Paul nodded at Luke and went with him.
Luke glanced back at Alice, an apology and regret in his eyes.
“What just happened here?” asked Owen.
“Luke called Jean-Paul Louis Margot?” asked Alice.
“And clearly, Jean-Paul answered to that name,” said Franny.
“Owen, look up Louis Margot,” said Alice.
“Already on top of it,” said Owen, who’d taken out his phone and was furiously tapping and scrolling. Then he froze. “Oh, this is big,” he said.
“What?” asked Alice, and she and Franny both immediately took their places at Owen’s side, leaning close to see what he was looking at on the phone.
“Louis Margot was an art thief,” said Owen.
Alice felt her stomach turn over. “An art thief? Jean-Paul?”
“I can’t believe it,” said Franny.
“There’s more,” said Owen. “He served his time, changed his name, and now owns a gallery in New York.”
“We knew that last part,” said Franny.
“Specializing in the impressionists,” said Owen, still intently reading his phone. “The gallery’s crowning glory is its collection of works by the artist Gabriel Toussaint.”
“But even if Jean-Paul is a known art thief—” Alice started to say.
“—and lover of Toussaint—” added Owen.
“Does that mean he could’ve stolen the painting?” Alice finished.
“He was there Saturday morning,” said Franny. “He and Talbot arrived there shortly after we did.”
“But he was never alone with the painting, was he?” asked Alice.
“Could he have been working with Lee—or whoever was driving the phony firetruck?” wondered Owen.
Just then, Mia Bly walked up, dabbing red, swollen eyes with a tissue and sniffling.
“Mia,” said Owen. “What brings you here?” He took a closer look at her. “And what’s wrong?”
“I’m here to pay my respects,” Mia managed to say. “I’m late because I was at the—at the police station.” She blew her nose loudly. “I’m always late, aren’t I?”
“Mia, take a few deep breaths,” said Owen, putting an arm around her.
Mia looked up at the church, its steeple rising up toward a blue sky. Her eyes filled with tears that dribbled down her cheeks. She looked back at Owen. “Oh, Owen, what a mess.” Then she looked at Alice and Franny and sighed. “I never should have lied.”
Chapter 13
The Parkview Café was the ideal place for a comforting brunch, so Alice, Owen, and Franny walked Mia there and
found a quiet table outside where they could look across Trillium Street and see children playing and festival-goers walking about, looking at art exhibits in Town Park.
“Now,” said Owen, once they’d placed an order for buttermilk pancakes and hot tea all around, “what’s this about you lying, Mia?”
“I said I overslept. Saturday morning, when I was late getting to Hemlock House? I said I overslept, but I didn’t.”
Magnolia Anderson, owner of the café, stopped by the table carrying a tray loaded with a teapot and cups, along with cream and sugar.
“Sweet tea,” said Owen, pouring a steaming cup for Mia. “That’s what you need.”
“Go on, Mia,” Alice coaxed.
Mia nodded and took a sip of tea. “I’d been up late with Lee the night before, trying to talk some sense into her. She gets so angry about anything she perceives as an injustice.” Mia looked at the others with worried eyes. “And to Lee, to hang a glorious painting on a wall in a house that no one even lives in most of the year is akin to a criminal action. She’s a great lover of Toussaint’s work, and thinks they should hang in museums, where people from all walks of life can enjoy them.”
“There’s a certain amount of logic in that,” said Owen. “I mean, people should be free to buy things that they love, including works of art, if they can afford them. And no one appreciates the beauty of that painting more than Bernard Astor, I don’t think. But it does seem a shame that the family only comes to their Tennessee house occasionally, and so the painting usually just hangs there in a dark room, unseen and unappreciated.”
“Lee had hatched this scheme to steal the painting and anonymously leave it at Jean-Paul Margot’s gallery. He has a fantastic collection of Toussaints, you know. Probably the best in the world.” Mia took another sip of her tea, and her shoulders seemed to relax a bit. “Of course, Lee knew that Jean-Paul would return the painting to the Astors. But she was going to leave a note, explaining her actions in the hopes that she would at least have made her point. She thought maybe Mr. Astor would think about it and let the museum keep the painting—at least when he’s away from home. This whole thing was Lee’s way of rebelling. She really is a good person—and a wonderful artist. She’s just impetuous.”
“So, Lee had been planning this for some time, I take it,” said Alice.
Mia nodded. “Apparently since we made plans to come to Blue Valley for the Fall Into Art Festival. She knew we’d be close to the painting. But none of our group knew anything about it until I was looking for my cell phone Friday night. I thought I might’ve left it in Lee’s SUV. I searched the car and found that magnet rolled up and hidden underneath the driver’s seat.”
“The Runesville Fire Department magnet,” said Franny, nodding.
“Yep. Lee did a little research and drove by Hemlock House the first chance she got after arriving in town. She knew she was going to make a phony phone call, but when she saw the Blue Valley Smart-n-Safe sign at the gate, she worked out the details. She called, alerted the family of a fake gas leak, waited for everyone to clear out, then went to the house. The fire truck idea had come to her some time ago because her SUV is red and she knew Runesville was a tiny nearby town . . . It really was surprisingly easy.”
“Even breaking into the house?” asked Owen.
“She didn’t break in. The housekeeper, Elsa, eventually let her in,” said Mia. “She had stayed behind but was apparently out in the garden or something. Anyway, Elsa thought Lee was checking for the gas leak.”
“Of course,” said Alice.
“Is Lee in jail, then?” asked Franny.
“No.” Mia shook her head and paused when Magnolia returned with plates full of fluffy, steaming pancakes with pats of butter melting into them and warm maple syrup on the side. Once Magnolia went back inside, Mia continued. “She lost her nerve.”
“Lee? After all that plotting and planning?” asked Alice.
“Yep,” said Mia. “She got to the house, found the painting, but then changed her mind.” She drizzled syrup over her pancakes and picked up her fork. “I got up early this morning after a sleepless night to try one more time to talk her out of the whole thing. Maybe she was listening after all.”
“Wow,” said Owen, unfolding his napkin and placing it in his lap. “So, Lee didn’t steal the painting.”
“Or murder Talbot White, either,” said Mia, chewing. She looked down at her pancakes. “Man, these are good.”
“Mia, did Lee see anyone else at the house while she was there? Anyone at all?” asked Alice.
“Other than Elsa?” said Mia through a mouthful of pancake. “Oh—she saw a man there too.”
At this pronouncement, everyone sat up a little straighter and leaned a little closer to Mia.
“So, when Lee arrived at the house, she parked off to the side. She could see Elsa a good distance away, in the garden,” said Mia. “And Lee was sort of hiding behind a bush, trying to decide if she should go through with her plan. And this man showed up and knocked on the door, but of course, no one answered.” Mia thought for a moment. “I’m really thankful for that guy,” she said. “With him standing there, Lee couldn’t just forge ahead. And the extra time made her really think about what she was doing.”
“So, what happened with the man?” asked Owen. “Did Lee see him go inside?”
“He hung around, and Elsa spotted him and walked back over to the house. She told him there was a possible gas leak and when he insisted on speaking to Mr. Astor, she showed him to a garden bench and told him he’d have to wait until the fire department arrived and did their inspection and the family was allowed to return. That was when she spotted Lee’s SUV.” Mia paused and shook her head. “At that point, Lee had no choice but to present herself. She was in way over her head, but she managed to say she was with the fire department. Elsa let her into the house and went back out to the garden. Of course, Lee had made up the gas-leak story, so it was easy enough for her to come back outside, give the all-clear, and drive away.”
“And that’s when we saw her,” said Owen.
Mia looked at her watch. “Oh gosh, I’ve got to get back over to the police station,” she said, digging through her bag and pulling out her wallet. “They’re releasing Lee, but she’ll still have to face the music for the phony call and impersonating a fire fighter. But with enough community service and cooperation, they say she should be able to avoid any time in jail.”
“We’ve got this,” said Owen, putting up a hand when Mia tried to pay for her pancakes.
She thanked them and hurried up Main Street, looking like she felt better.
“Glad she was able to unload that whole story,” said Franny, watching Mia go.
“While loading up on carbs,” said Owen, taking a big bite of his pancakes.
“So, here’s what I’m wondering,” said Alice, taking a sip of tea. “We know Bernard said that Ian Foster had been to Hemlock House earlier Saturday morning and had tried to buy the painting from him.”
“That’s right,” said Franny.
“So, who was the man who came to the house while Lee was there?” Alice wondered. “And why didn’t we see him when we arrived? Had he already gone?”
“Maybe Ian Foster had returned to make another offer?” said Owen.
“We need to talk to the only person who stayed at Hemlock House that whole morning,” said Alice. “We need to call Elsa.”
Chapter 14
A quick call to Hemlock House revealed that Elsa had gone down the mountain to do her Thanksgiving grocery shopping.
“She’ll be there a while,” Alice predicted. “I’m picking up our turkey and almost everything else this evening after the festival ends, and let me tell you, the list is long.”
“We’ll go with you to Whitman’s tonight,” said Owen. “We can divide and conquer.”
Whitman’s Grocery store, owned by George Whitman, and his father before him, and his father before him, was an institution in Blue Valley—and the
only grocery store. It was on the corner of Main and Trillium, on the same block as Blue Valley Fit, Shutter Bug’s Photo Studio, and the health food store.
Alice, Owen, and Franny, since they weren’t doing any real shopping until that evening, walked over from the café, which was just across the street. It didn’t take long to locate Elsa, who was pushing a cart piled high with groceries. At the moment, she was struggling to find room in the cart for a very large turkey.
“Allow me,” said Owen, hurrying over and adjusting the items in Elsa’s cart to make room.
“Thank you,” said Elsa. She looked up from the cart and saw that Alice and Franny were there, too. “Hello again,” she said with a smile.
“Hi, Elsa,” said Alice. “Looks like you’re all set for Thanksgiving.”
“And that you’ve got a lot of cooking to do,” added Owen.
“I do,” said Elsa. “We’re baking cookies today, pies tomorrow, and will get started roasting this beauty early Thursday morning.” She nodded at the turkey. “Thank you for helping me fit it in. This cart is about to explode!”
“We’d be glad to help you get everything unloaded at the checkout,” said Franny, as they trailed along behind Elsa, who had managed to turn the cart around and was starting toward the front of the store.
“Would you? That would be wonderful. Thank you!”
When they got into line, Alice cleared her throat. “Um, Elsa? We’ve been looking into the theft of the Toussaint painting at Hemlock House—sort of helping the police. My brother, who’s also Franny’s husband, is the chief, and my fiancé is head detective. Well, only detective, technically.”
“Then you both have very handsome husbands,” said Elsa, smiling at Franny and Alice. “We met them when they came up to the house to investigate. Very kind.”
“Thank you,” said Alice. “We’re pretty proud of those two.”
“Terrible—how the painting turned out to be a forgery. Julia, Mr. and Mrs. Astor’s daughter, authenticates art professionally. It only took her a moment to see that the painting on the wall wasn’t the painting that usually hangs there. She said at a glance, you’d never know, but once she checked the canvas and the paint itself, it was very obvious.”
