by Melissa Tagg
She looked puzzled at the question. “I don’t know, really. I think even if Garrett hadn’t happened, I was ready to be done nannying, but I didn’t know what would come next. A lot of my life’s been that way.”
We sat quietly for a moment, like we did often. When we could feel the atmosphere changing. When there was a heart conversation to be had.
Finally, she spoke up again. “If I’m really honest with myself, I think when I was running from Garrett, I may have been running from myself, too—from disappointment at nothing in my life turning out the way I’d ever envisioned. I never really had this big career ambition or anything, but I thought eventually I’d develop one. Or at least . . . I’d have a family. Marriage, kids, a house. I thought I’d get to a point where I felt settled. Instead, it’s like I’ve been out in the hallway all this time, waiting for . . . for some feeling of this is it.”
“Life’s hallways can be good, Mara. That’s where we’re prepped and stretched and matured into the people we need to be for whatever comes next.” I leaned forward in the loveseat. “There are good things in the hallway.”
“But what if it feels like the hallway is just stretching on and on forever. And none of the doors you expected to open actually do?”
I couldn’t help but smile. I loved it when she asked me these questions. “Then maybe you start looking for another door. And if it’s not open yet, maybe you push it open. There comes a point, my girl, when you have to just stand up and move and take the next step even if it’s the only step you see.”
“What if you take a wrong step?”
“That’s where faith and trust in God comes in. If you’re walking with Him, He’s not going to let you wander through a trapdoor.”
She gave me a sidelong glance. “Except I don’t know that I have as deep of a faith as you.”
I lifted my eyebrows. “So, maybe that’s the first door you choose. Choose to look for Him, Mara. When you do, I think you’ll see He’s been with you all along . . . even in the hallway. His love is an always and everywhere kind of love.”
Mara’s pensive expression reminded me of George’s in that moment. Thoughtful, reflective George. Sometimes I think if not for me, he would’ve chosen to settle down and raise a passel of kids. I was the impulsive one but he loved me enough to come along for the ride.
He would’ve come with me to the Everwood, I’m sure of it. He would’ve loved the den. He would’ve been just as concerned as Mara was about the trees. He would’ve—
Trees.
Mara had said something about trees with vibrant blossoms and . . .
Pillows tumbled to the floor as I bounded to my feet.
“What is it, Lenora?”
The lines of a fuzzy image in my mind had begun to sharpen. A flowering tree on a scenic landscape. The painting in the fireplace room. The one that used to hang on the wall. And my parents’ hurled arguments over something left behind on the day we fled the Everwood . . .
I had a lead.
14
They’d waited all day Monday for the art professor to call back or email. Then Tuesday. Finally this morning, Marshall had gone into full police mode, deciding enough was enough and declaring his plan to make the four-hour drive up to Minneapolis and get answers.
So here Mara was, sitting beside him in a cramped office on the campus of the University of Minnesota. It smelled of stale coffee and leather. A series of framed watercolors ornamented one wall, and the shelves lining another were crammed with textbooks and sculptures.
Professor Anthony Hodgkins had yet to return after showing them into the space and promising he’d return soon.
“He probably thinks we’re crazy, landing on his doorstep out of the blue like this,” she whispered.
Marshall had his chin on his fist and a faraway look in his eyes. The vinyl-covered chair he sat in was way too small for him and he shifted. His height and breadth made the few college kids they’d passed in the art department hallway look like gangly teens. “It’s not exactly out of the blue considering how many times we tried to contact him.” His tone held the gruffness of a police officer on the trail of a suspect.
But then he lightened just enough to cast her a teasing look. “I showed up on your doorstep unexpectedly and that turned out all well and good, yeah?”
It simply wasn’t fair that such a brief dimpled grin—yes, she’d finally decided those lines under his stubble were dimples—and a wink could turn her palms sweaty and her cheeks warm. “I don’t know if finding a porcelain doll in my bed at night and my shower the next morning counts as ‘well and good.’”
“Sure does to me.” It was practically a drawl.
It’d been like this ever since Sunday. One minute he seemed lost in his own thoughts, distant, focused on work around the Everwood or putting the pieces of Lenora and her parents’ disappearances together. The next, he was lighthearted, even playful. He’d mused endlessly about that hidden room behind the fireplace while they worked—coming up with one entertaining story after another as to why it might be there.
Honestly, he’d begun to remind her a little of Jenessa, a busy bee intent on staying distracted. And it was clear enough now what he was trying to keep from thinking about—a wife who’d walked away, a child who’d died. How did a man ever recover from that?
Maybe he didn’t.
Once or twice on the way to Minnesota she’d started to ask about Laney, but like the intuitive detective he was, he’d seen her questions coming and deflected them with ease.
“I hope we get something out of this trip,” she said now. “We’re giving up a whole day of work.”
“Yeah, but the pest control people are taking care of the carpenter ants today. It’s probably easier to do that without us underfoot anyway.”
He wasn’t wrong. And at least it was only carpenter ants they were dealing with, not termites. With that good news, they’d been able to hire Drew Renwycke to come out later this week to work on the new porch. Mara was pretty sure the man had quoted them a ridiculously low price for the project, but even so, her grant dollars were beginning to dwindle dangerously low.
As were the number of days left before the open house and the city council’s review of their progress. But they were making progress. In just two days, they’d painted all eight guestrooms. Mara had ordered new mattresses and bedding. She’d stuck with neutral colors and simple décor rather than coming up with themes for each room. The house already had plenty of unique features as well as large windows that displayed the outdoor beauty all around. She’d rather skip the kitsch and keep things simple so the Everwood’s natural charm could shine.
Still, for every task they’d accomplished, another three or four popped up. And now that Jenessa’s newspaper article had drummed up local interest, they’d booked a few rooms for early May. Which made everything seem all the more real.
But with the computer from the front desk still in police custody, Mara had been forced to take down reservations by hand and have people mail their deposit checks. Not an effective way to do business. She’d likely need to dip into what meager funds were left to buy a new computer, and she might as well upgrade the system they were using while she was at it and—
“Mara, I can hear the wheels in your brain spinning.” Marshall reached over and squeezed her hand. “Stop worrying. We still have a week and a half until the open house.”
“I should’ve stayed back at the Everwood today. I could’ve gone to the library and worked on our website and Facebook page.”
He gave her a look she couldn’t read. “You said ‘our.’”
Heat traveled up her neck. “I didn’t mean to imply . . . I know you’re not staying indefinitely. But you’ve done so much work. None of it would be possible without you. We’re partners. It’s our project. That’s all I meant. Not, you know, anything else.” Where was the mental spigot to turn off her sputtering words?
“Partners,” he repeated, expression still indecipherable. Still h
olding her hand.
Which he released a moment later when Anthony Hodgkins reentered the room. The professor looked to be barely thirty, if that. He wore a faded jean jacket over his tee and tan pants. Only the flecks of gray in his goatee kept him from fully fitting in with the students they’d seen spilling from his classroom a few minutes ago.
“Sorry for the wait. I’ve got office hours on Wednesdays after class, so I needed to make sure my TA could cover for me.” He flopped into the chair behind his desk, its wheels spinning him backward until he hit the wall.
“Sorry to show up unannounced—” Mara began.
“But if you’d returned any of our calls, this wouldn’t be necessary,” Marshall finished.
Okay, so they were playing polite cop, crotchety cop.
But the professor was unfazed. “Dude, I haven’t listened to a voicemail in probably five years.”
Mara put her palm on Marshall’s knee before his rolled eyes could lead to a curt retort. “We have some questions about a painting. And a woman who we think may have come to you asking about the same painting.”
He rolled forward. “No way. The Jameson piece?” He slapped the top of his desk with his palms. “Has to be. Only other time someone has randomly shown up at my office to ask about a painting, she wanted to know about The Crabapple Tree, too.”
Mara’s hope rose. “So you did see Lenora.”
“Sweet older lady with silver hair and glasses? Looks like a grandma? I don’t remember her name, but that’s only ‘cause I’ve got sixty-some kids in Art History 101 this term and my brain is maxed.”
Marshall leaned forward. “But she was here around Christmas?”
The professor nodded. “She must’ve found my name online somewhere. I did my thesis on Henry Jameson. Early 1900s artist. Never very widely known outside art critic circles, but he had a few renowned pieces, including a two-piece painting called The Crabapple Tree. She told me this crazy story about remembering the Jameson from when she was a kid. Well, the story itself isn’t crazy—all it consisted of is a faint memory of seeing the painting on the wall of her childhood home. Which, I mean, come on. She looked like she could be seventy. She probably just remembers seeing a picture of it somewhere.”
Now Marshall was the one restraining Mara. He’d placed his hand over hers on top of his knee. He spoke through gritted teeth. “And why is it so crazy to think she’d have a memory like that?”
“Because that painting’s been missing since the 1940s. It was one half of a pair, both part of a prized collection belonging to Argo Spinelli. Think Al Capone, but just slightly less machine-gun-happy.” The professor reached for a mini-fridge near his desk and pulled out an energy drink. “Thirsty?”
They both shook their heads.
“Spinelli’s an interesting guy. He’s worth a thesis of his own. Got his start during Prohibition, like a lot of mob types. And like a lot of them, he had his fingers into Hollywood too. His daughter was even an actress for a short while.” He shrugged. “Anyhow, when both canvasses went missing, Spinelli took out ads in newspapers across the country, pleading for the return of the Jameson, bemoaning the loss of his ‘greatest treasure.’”
He took a swig of his drink before continuing. “One canvas turned up in 1960. Some art collector in Europe got his hands on it. And then, crazily enough, he was found dead in an alley. Police were eventually able to link the murder back to Spinelli, which is how he finally ended up behind bars. But apparently, even from prison he continued his quest for the other half of the painting. Never found it, though. Died in the late eighties.”
Mara dropped back in her chair. She couldn’t have imagined such a wild story. But Marshall’s hunch had proven correct. Lenora had been looking for the painting. Surely that’s what accounted for all those nighttime searches in the attic. It hadn’t been some fanciful, impulsive hunt either. She’d gone far enough to research, to travel and consult with an expert.
Which begged the question—had Lenora purchased the Everwood solely because of the possibility of finding the painting?
If so, then why all the talk about bringing it back to life? Why go through with a kitchen renovation or let Mara fill a notebook full of ideas for the rest of the house if she planned to leave once she found what she came for? If nothing else, why hadn’t she asked Mara to help search the house if she thought the painting might be there?
“It’s a great little mystery, that missing painting,” the professor said. “But trust me, neither half of The Crabapple Tree was ever tucked away at a bed and breakfast in Iowa. It would’ve taken a first-class criminal to get that thing away from Argo Spinelli.”
He leaned back, propping his feet on his desk. “And what kind of criminal hangs up a stolen piece of artwork worth millions in a rural bed and breakfast, anyway?”
“She found the painting, didn’t she?”
Marshall plucked his sunglasses from the cup holder in between his seat and Mara’s and dropped them over his eyes. Vivid sunlight reflected off pastures quilted in white. The sky was a stunning blue today, the rolling landscape of farmland making the drive back to Maple Valley a pleasant one.
If not for the tension radiating from the seat next to him.
The professor had told a riveting story, and it’d seemed to settle things in Mara’s mind: Lenora Worthington had never intended to stay at the Everwood. She’d come searching for something specific and when she’d found it, she’d left.
If she’d found it.
So Mara conjectured, anyway.
Didn’t feel exactly right to Marshall, though. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but something didn’t line up. “Mara, we don’t know—”
“It makes sense. It explains why she was always puttering around in the attic. It explains why she’d just up and leave. She knew the painting was worth a boatload of money and she didn’t want to wait around to offload it and make a fortune.” She reached forward to turn up the heater.
It still wasn’t toasty enough in here for her? He’d started overheating twenty minutes into the drive. “But she bought the B&B last June, right? It wouldn’t take more than half a year to search the attic or even the whole house.”
Mara shrugged. “Okay, then maybe she didn’t find it and she was just sick of looking and gave up. Or after talking to Hodgkins, she got another lead that took her away from the Everwood and it was simply too much bother to let anyone know where she was going or that, oh, by the way, she wasn’t coming back.”
Marshall closed the vents nearest him. “Or you’re not being fair.”
She twisted in her seat to pin him with a glare.
“I’m just saying, you’re assigning motives to her that could be way off mark. You told me that when you came to the Everwood last summer, Lenora made you feel safe and welcome. You said she took you under her wing and gave you a home. Does that really sound like a woman who has tunnel vision over a piece of artwork to the point that she cares more about it than someone she spent months building a friendship with?”
He could see his argument take effect in the way she slumped against her seat.
“I never met Lenora, so maybe I don’t know what I’m talking about,” he conceded. “But last week you felt bad for assuming she’d abandoned the Everwood. I’m just trying to save you from another round of guilt if it turns out her disappearance has nothing to do with this painting.”
“Do you really think that’s the case?”
He didn’t know what he thought yet. Only that his gut protested the idea that a woman Mara and Sam had described as sweet and gentle would be hardened enough to leave someone worrying about her indefinitely, painting or no. And that even if this whole thing was about some missing painting, they still should’ve been able to track her down.
But the last activity on her credit card was a gas station in Davenport and she could’ve gone anywhere from there. Sam had an officer looking through camera footage from tollbooths in a six-state radius, on the lookout for her license
plate number, but so far . . . nothing. Gruesome as it sounded, a serious car accident would make sense, especially one that landed her in a hospital and unable to communicate. But they’d scoured accident reports with no leads.
Now their only lead was a canvas that’d been missing for almost eighty years and a high-profile criminal family that’d surely scattered and died out decades ago.
Mara propped her feet on the dash and leaned against the headrest, eyes closed, lashes curling against her cheek. She looked peaceful despite the questions he was sure still swarmed inside her mind.
“Hey, Mara? Random question. I’ve never really asked how you ended up at the Everwood.”
She opened her eyes and rolled her head his direction. “I was on the road. I saw a brochure in a rest stop. An old brochure, as it turns out. Made the Everwood look pristine and new. I thought it looked pretty, and I needed a place to stay for awhile, so I sought it out.”
“But weren’t you on your way somewhere? Were you looking for a new job at the time? Waiting to start a new nannying position?”
She visibly shuddered. Which made him both curious and concerned. And worried she’d turn the heat up even higher.
“Uh, no. I was done nannying. Actually, I’d wanted to be done for a long time.” She dropped her feet from the dashboard and sat up straighter. “I love kids and some of the families I worked for were really nice. But I was sick of feeling like an add-on, you know? It would’ve been different if I’d had family to go home to on holidays or days off. Or if I’d stayed in one place long enough to make close friends.”
He passed a dawdling RV. “So you gave it up and hit the road.”
He could feel her watching him, and he glanced away from the interstate to see the uncertainty in her eyes. There was more to the story, and she was trying to decide whether to share it.
The cop in him wanted to prod her on. Instead, he gave her time to decide as he shrugged out of his coat.
“Are you hot?”
“Uh, more like boiling.”
