Murder Paints a Picture

by Thea Cambert

  “We’ll make extra,” Owen assured Franny.

  As soon as Franny began to ease Theo into his stroller, he let out a disgruntled wail.

  “That means he’s hungry,” said Franny. “I’ll just go sit on that park bench and feed him. It won’t take long. Then he’ll snooze all through Whitman’s.”

  “That’s perfect,” said Alice, looking toward the large exhibition tent a short walk away. “The artists are packing up to go home. I’d like to stop in the tent and say goodbye to Ella Page, and thank her again for our beautiful new lake painting.”

  “I’ll sit with Franny,” Owen called after Alice. “I want to go over my grocery list before we go into the store.”

  Before Alice got to the tent, Mia hurried up to her, arms loaded with art supplies and the rolled-up Memphis Masterpieces banner. “Goodbye, Alice!” Mia said, dropping a can of paintbrushes on the ground, which Alice quickly stooped to pick up. “Oops! Sorry about that.”

  “No problem,” said Alice, handing the can back to Mia. “Hope you all have a fun last night at Cozy Bear and safe travels tomorrow.”

  “Thank you!” said Mia, setting down and reorganizing her load. As she stacked some art books, she came across her copy of Sunday’s newspaper. “Ugh,” she said, unfolding it and showing Alice the front page article about Talbot shooting photos at Hemlock House. “Take this, please. I’d kept it because I was so afraid Lee had gone through with her plan to take that painting.” She took a closer look at the photo of Woman at Café with Book. “It is beautiful, isn’t it? I hope they get the original back to the Astors.”

  “As a matter of fact, they recovered it today,” said Alice.

  “Really? That’s fantastic!” said Mia, picking up the rest of her things, looking more organized this time.

  “Owen and Franny are over there on the bench,” said Alice, pointing. “You should go say goodbye to them, too.”

  “Thanks, Alice,” Mia said, and hurried off in that direction.

  The inside of the tent looked very different from before, when its canvas walls had been covered in artwork and strings of lights. Now, in the falling dusk, the walls were blank, and now and then would flap gently back and forth in the breeze. Alice pulled her sweater tighter around herself as she wound through the canvas corridors, hoping she hadn’t missed Ella. Then again, Ella had been friends with Ian, so perhaps she was with him at the police station.

  Alice grabbed her phone and shot a quick text to Luke. Is Ian in custody yet?

  This was met with a quick response. Yes—about to question him.

  “What a relief,” Alice said to herself.

  “What’s a relief?”

  Alice hadn’t realized she’d made it to the area where Ella Page had set up her exhibit in the tent. The area smelled strongly of paint and paint thinner, and Ella, wearing rubber gloves, was busy cleaning the brushes she’d used at her live demonstration that day. “Oh! Ella—I was just coming to find you.”

  “Hello, Alice! Glad you stopped by before I left.” She looked down at her work. “I’m getting my brushes clean, and then packing up. You can’t let your brushes sit too long when you’ve been using oil-based paint.”

  “I wanted to thank you for your beautiful perspective on Blue Valley. I hope you’ll come again next year if not sooner.”

  “Definitely,” said Ella with a smile. “There’s so much inspiration here. I have lots more to paint.” She looked down and saw the newspaper in Alice’s hand, and a frown crossed her face. “Did they ever recover that stolen painting?” she asked.

  “What?” Alice looked down at the newspaper. “Oh! Yes, as a matter of fact, they did.” She unfolded the paper and looked at the stock photo Jane had inserted of the painting. “I hope I’ll see the actual Toussaint in person someday.”

  “Oh, I hope you do, too,” said Ella.

  Alice paused, wondering just how close Ella was to Ian Foster. “I guess you heard—I mean . . . I believe they found the person who stole it.”

  Ella’s face hardened a little. “Ian,” she said.

  “You knew?” asked Alice, surprised.

  “I had a feeling,” said Ella. “But no proof, of course. I’m glad they figured it out.”

  “Me too,” said Alice. “Ian must’ve really wanted that Toussaint.”

  “He was obsessed,” said Ella. She chuckled. “Of course, people who love art but can’t paint at all themselves always covet the beautiful works.”

  “Makes sense,” said Alice. But then something Ella had said caught in her thoughts like a tiny, bothersome grain of sand. “It’s an incredible painting, isn’t it?”

  “It’s amazing,” said Ella, a note of wistfulness in her voice. “It’s clarity and luminosity are impossible to capture in a photograph—even one by the late, great Talbot White.”

  “So, you’ve seen the Toussaint in person?”

  Ella hesitated for a beat. “Yes,” she said. “Many years ago, before Mr. Astor purchased it.”

  Alice looked down at the newspaper in her hands, her eyes stopping on the photo of Bernard Astor and his first wife at the bottom of the page.

  So that was why the woman in the photo—Bernard Astor’s first wife—had looked so familiar! The picture had been taken many years before. The hair was different, and the young Ainsley Lansford-Astor had looked softer, but there was no mistaking it now: Ella Page was Bernard Astor’s first wife.

  “You figured it out,” Ella said quietly.

  “What?” asked Alice, again going for the most casual tone she could muster.

  “Who I am,” said Ella. She released a deep sigh. “I changed my name and started a new life for myself. I—I didn’t want Bernard to even know I was here in town. I knew he owned a home here, but I didn’t want that to stop me from coming to this festival. I mean, I started painting under the name Ella Page years ago.”

  “Oh my gosh,” said Alice, suddenly having an idea. “Did Ian steal the painting because he knew you’d loved it so much? Didn’t Bernard buy it for you in the first place?” Alice scanned the article in the Post again.

  “Yes,” said Ella. “It was a birthday gift, actually.” She swished the brushes around in the jar of paint thinner. “But then when we divorced, he decided to keep it.” There was a bitter edge to her voice when she said this.

  “How horrible,” said Alice.

  “I certainly hope Ian didn’t steal it for me, though,” said Ella. “We hardly know each other. I mean, we just met a few days ago.”

  “Yeah, but he was pretty struck by you, and your talent,” said Alice. Suddenly, it dawned on her—the thing that was bothering her from what Ella had said a few moments before. “So, Ian can’t paint, huh?” she asked, trying for all the world to keep her tone light.

  “Not to save his life!” said Ella with a laugh.

  Alice tried to smile, but felt suddenly shaken.

  Her phone dinged. It was Luke. Alice quickly scanned his message.

  Looks like Ian didn’t steal the painting! And he didn’t return to Hemlock House—he’d never left! He’d parked outside the estate at Ella Page’s request. She was supposed to be painting the view of the valley. But when he returned to where he’d left her, she was gone. He went back to Hemlock House to search for her. Long story, but if you see Ella, tell us right away.

  Alice’s heart felt like it would pound out of her chest as she typed, Come to exhibition tent in park. NOW.

  She tucked her phone back into her pocket and smiled at Ella, who wasn’t smiling anymore.

  “Everything okay?” Ella asked.

  “Yes, it was just my fiancé, wondering about dinner,” Alice lied.

  “You looked like you’d seen a ghost just then.”

  “Did I?” Alice forced a laugh that came out sounding too uncomfortable to be convincing.

  “Oh, that’s too bad,” said Ella, her face turning entirely cold now. She stepped closer to Alice, the can of paint thinner poised in her hand.

  “W
hat are you talking about? What’s too bad?”

  “I blew it. I slipped and said Ian can’t paint.” Ella shook her head, a look of disgust on her face. “And you, little miss detective, knew that whoever switched the paintings had to be able to paint in order to flawlessly correct the mistake with the signature. How could I have been so careless?”

  “Well, I was thinking Ian could’ve commissioned the fake from someone else . . .” Alice said slowly. “But then the signatures—”

  “The signatures. Yes, the stupid signatures didn’t match. My bad. Yet another careless mistake. I mean, I once owned that painting! I’d looked at it a million times. But all I’ve had all these years is a crummy print of it and it had been so long since I’d seen the original, and I—I didn’t recall that it was a rare single signature from Toussaint’s early work.” She scoffed. “Bernard always did say I was in too much of a hurry.”

  “You are amazingly fast at—”

  “It was my painting!” Ella yelled. “Mine! I was the one who loved it! Bernard bought it for me. Me! Not Seraphina! And now it hangs there in that dark house ninety-nine percent of the time.” She sloshed the paint thinner a bit. “Those idiots didn’t even notice that I’d made the switch. And they probably never would have if Talbot hadn’t figured it out,” she spat. “They would’ve walked past the forgery for years and never really stopped to look at it. What kind of senseless waste is that?”

  “A t—terrible waste,” said Alice, easing in the direction of the door.

  “Talbot was going to ruin everything. I couldn’t let him do that.” Ella’s eyes focused on Alice as she raised the jar of paint thinner. “And I can’t let you do that either. Not another step, Alice.”

  Suddenly, a wind swept through the park, ruffling the canvas walls of the tent—and making enough noise to hide the sound of approaching footsteps.

  “Alice? Are you here?” When Jean-Paul emerged from the corridor, Ella, startled, shrieked and flung the paint thinner in his face. Jean-Paul screamed in agony, hands over his eyes, and in the moment of chaos, Alice lunged forward, knocking Ella to the ground.

  Between Alice’s calls for help, Jean-Paul’s cries of pain, and Ella’s enraged shrieks, Luke, Ben, and Dewey—with Owen and Franny at their heels—had no trouble locating Alice. In fact, no one within a two-block radius would’ve had any trouble locating Alice. Within seconds, Ella was handcuffed and Officer Dewey had been dispatched to rush Jean-Paul to the ER. Ben walked Ella out to the second squad car and locked her inside, then turned back to his sister.

  “Why do these things keep happening to you?” he asked, ruffling her red hair.

  “I swear, I wasn’t even investigating. I just came to say goodbye to Ella—or Ainsley, I should say.” Alice shuddered. “I hope Jean-Paul is okay. If his eyes are damaged, he’d never be able to see the art he loves so much again. I’m so lucky he walked in when he did.”

  “No luck about it,” said Luke, walking up and putting his arm around Alice. “Jean-Paul had it all figured out. He knew that was a fake you all saw on Saturday, but it took him a while to make a guess at what had happened. He was coming looking for Ella, to see if he could somehow coax the truth out of her.”

  “He knew it was her? Not Ian?”

  “That’s what he told us when we asked him for his best guess this morning after the funeral,” said Ben. “He knew that to steal that painting would be about more than its monetary value. He said it would be about passion. And then tonight, he called us the minute he figured out that Ella was actually Ainsley.”

  “Me too. Just a few minutes ago,” said Alice. “And if she’d actually managed to steal the Toussaint, she never would’ve made a dime off of it, because she never would have sold it. She just loved it.”

  Ben shook his head and got into the car.

  “And I just love you,” said Luke, kissing Alice. He stroked an errant curl out of her face. “You’re the only work of art I need to look at every day.” He walked around to get into the passenger side of the squad car. “See you later?”

  “I’ll be dropping off a giant load of groceries at the cabin in about an hour—including a ten-pound turkey,” said Alice. “After that, you can find me baking pie at Owen’s house.”

  Chapter 17

  The whole house smelled of roasting turkey, green bean and potato casseroles, yeast rolls . . . Luke came into the kitchen, where Alice was standing at the kitchen sink, looking out the window at the lake—a turkey baster in her hand.

  “It smells like home in this house,” he said, coming up behind her and kissing the side of her neck. “And it feels like home whenever you’re around.”

  Alice turned and kissed him. “You know you’re at the top of the list of things I’m thankful for, don’t you?” she said with a grin.

  “Then marry me,” Luke smiled. “Marry me, Alice Maguire, and we’ll always be home together.”

  “I’m wearing the ring, aren’t I?” Alice waved her left hand in the air.

  “Ah—but I’m not,” said Luke, waving his own left hand.

  He smiled and started to turn away, but Alice stopped him. “Christmas,” she said.

  “You—”

  “I’d love to get married at Christmastime.”

  “As in, this Christmas? Next month?”

  Alice nodded, her cheeks growing warm. “I mean—not on Christmas day. But around it. It’s such a beautiful season.”

  Luke took her into his arms and held her tight. “You’re on,” he said into her ear.

  Owen, who was in charge of the dessert buffet, had already set out an impressive array of pies and cookies, along with dessert plates and paper napkins that bore the words, “Gobble, Gobble.” He came into the kitchen and caught Alice and Luke beaming into each other’s eyes.

  “What’s this about? You’re both aglow,” he said.

  “We’re getting married,” said Alice with a smile.

  “Next month,” added Luke.

  “That’s the best news I’ve heard all day!” said Owen. “This calls for a celebration.” He went back into the dining area and returned with a bakery box from Sourdough.

  “What’s this?” asked Alice.

  “Your favorite New York treat,” said Owen. “I had to throw out a few batches before I got the recipe just right, but let me tell you—as a kid who grew up in the City—these are the real deal.”

  Alice opened the lid to reveal a stack of thick, cakey black-and-white cookies. “Owen! You remembered!” She lifted out one of the cookies and took a bite. “Delicious!” she said through a mouthful of crumbs.

  “Tomorrow, we start planning the wedding,” said Owen. “Today, we’ll stuff ourselves and be thankful.”

  The doorbell rang, and Luke grabbed a cookie and went out to answer it.

  “That’ll be Michael and Dewey,” said Owen.

  “Oh good,” said Alice, attempting to stifle a huge yawn.

  “You’re pooped!” said Owen.

  “You would be too if you’d started prepping a turkey at five in the morning!” said Alice. “I still can’t believe Mr. Whitman thought he was doing me a favor by giving me a twenty-three pound turkey instead of the ten-pounder I ordered.”

  “He knows the leftovers are the best part,” said Owen. “Turkey sandwiches. Turkey salad. Turkey kebabs.”

  “Turkey kebabs?”

  “Well,” Owen gave a one-shouldered shrug. “How about turkey nachos?”

  “Or turkey lasagna,” said Franny, coming into the kitchen with a dish of cranberry sauce in the shape of a can.

  “That looks . . . very . . . cylindrical,” said Owen, eyeing the glistening blob.

  “This is the kind I grew up with,” said Franny. “My mom would let me dump it out of the can, and it would make that slurpy sound, and then we’d slice it into disks.” She sighed. “Even though this is going to be a wonderful day, I’m missing my parents.”

  “Me too,” said Alice. “I can’t believe they all went off on a ri
ver cruise on Thanksgiving.”

  “Knock-knock!” Bea Maguire burst through the kitchen door.

  “Mom! What are you doing here?” Alice ran into her mother’s outstretched arms.

  “We were halfway to Nashville when we made a pitstop and Pippa and I looked at each other and said, ‘What are we doing here?’” Bea laughed. “We called the cruise line and told them we weren’t coming, then we turned right around and came home.”

  “But your tickets,” said Alice. “They must’ve cost a lot.”

  “Pippa laid the sob story on pretty thick,” said Bea with a giggle. “They’re letting us reschedule with only a small penalty.” She turned to the oven. “Now. How’s your turkey doing?”

  “As luck would have it, it’s huge,” said Alice. “We’ll have enough to feed a small army.”

  “Good,” said Bea, a twinkle in her eye. “Because your father is starving after all that driving.” She gathered Alice, Franny, and Owen into a hug. “I love you kids.”

  “We love you too,” said Owen, smiling widely as Bea bustled back into the living room.

  “We’d better get in there and set some more places at the table,” said Alice.

  “Good thing we made five pies,” said Owen. “Because everyone knows dessert is the most important part of the meal.”

  The long oak dining table stood on one side of the large main room of the cabin. A built-in buffet lined the corner nearest the table, and on the opposite wall was the beautiful stone fireplace, where a toasty fire was crackling and popping away. Cozy couches and chairs were arranged around the fireplace, and the men had settled themselves in front of the television.

  “Are they watching football?” asked Franny as she took Theo’s bottle out of the diaper bag.

  “No. They’re watching the international dog show,” said Alice.

  “Yippee!” said Owen, hurrying over and planting himself on the couch between Luke and Martin.

  The turkey was a little late coming out of the oven, but Alice’s early-morning start had definitely worked, and by the time late afternoon rolled around, everyone was sacked out comfortably in front of the fire, with Christmas in Connecticut on the television in the background.