We went upstairs, so Wes could drop off his bag in the guest room. It was tempting to shut the door behind us and call it a night. But Farrah still had her things spread out all over the room. Plus, I was dying to swap stories with her and analyze what we’d learned tonight.
“Are you hungry?” I asked as Wes and I left the guest room. “We can take the back stairs down to the kitchen and see what’s left of the party food.”
“Sounds good to me.”
When we reached the kitchen, the caterers were cleaning up. I intercepted Trevor, who was carrying a bag to a van parked in the driveway. He handed Wes a box of cheesy bacon crostini, which Wes noshed on as we moved on to the conservatory. The bartender was packing up there, too, but he gave Wes a beer and me a bottle of sparkling water. A few guests lingered at a table under the hanging ferns, but Farrah and Crenshaw were nowhere to be seen.
“They must be up front,” I said. We took the west hallway and passed the parlor, which was dark. As we rounded the corner into the great room, I heard voices saying good-night, and then the click of the front door. The formal sitting room was also empty, so we headed to the east hallway. Maybe our friends were in the library.
Wes had finished his snack and once again rested his arm lightly on my shoulders. As we crossed the great room, I halted suddenly, causing him to swing forward.
“Whoa, babe. You all right?”
I didn’t reply. I was staring at the wall, at a blank space between two paintings. There had been something in that space the last time I’d looked; I was sure of it.
“What’s the matter?” asked Wes.
“Something’s missing,” I said. Pulling Wes with me, I approached the velvet rope Crenshaw had borrowed from the museum. I pointed at the wall. “There should be a painting in this spot. A Grant Wood.”
Wes looked down. “Is that it?” He indicated the floor, where a painting leaned against the wall, facedown.
“What’s that doing there?” I asked. Something was definitely off.
“Maybe the hanger broke.” Wes leaned down and picked up the picture by the top of the frame.
“Be careful,” I said. “That’s a valuable—”
I broke off as he turned the object over. “Frame?” he asked, as if finishing my sentence. For that’s all it was. An empty frame. The canvas was gone.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
My first inclination was to yell for help and raise an alarm. But there was no alarm to pull, and hollering in the middle of the mansion seemed a little ridiculous. So, I pulled out my phone and called Crenshaw.
“Where are you?” I demanded when he picked up.
“Hello to you, too,” he said dryly. “I’m in the library with Farrah, Perry, and Gus. We’re discussing security matters. I’m working on a plan for Gus to remain on duty here for the next few weeks.”
“You might want to reconsider that plan.” At least, the part that involves Gus.
“Why do you say that?”
“Could you come to the great room, please? We have a problem.”
A few minutes later, he saw what I meant. “Good Lord! What happened here?”
“Oh, my gosh!” said Farrah, coming up behind him.
“You’ve been robbed, buddy,” said Wes, clapping Crenshaw on the shoulder.
Perry pushed past Crenshaw to get a closer look. “Oh, no,” he groaned. “Not the Grant Wood. That was a two-hundred-thousand-dollar painting. One of the best in the collection.”
Gus scratched his head, looking confused. Crenshaw took out his phone to call the police. The moment he hung up, we all stared at one another for a second of silence. Then, of one accord, we jumped into action. Crenshaw and Gus started yelling at each other: Crenshaw alternately accusing the guard of negligence and grilling him for information, and Gus making excuses and deflecting blame.
“Come on,” I said to Farrah, Wes, and Perry. “Let’s see who’s still here and direct everyone to gather in the great room.”
They nodded, and we all dashed off like players in a scavenger hunt. Perry took the front of the house, Farrah ran upstairs, and Wes jogged down the west wing. I hurried along the east wing, looking in each room along the way.
When I reached the kitchen, I heard more yelling. It was coming from right outside the kitchen door. I pulled it open and found Suzanne and Ernesto standing under the porch light, facing each other like boxers in a ring. Their fists weren’t raised, but their voices were. It sounded like Ernesto was denying some sort of wrongdoing, and Suzanne wasn’t buying it.
“Gimme a break!” she shouted, her voice shrill with emotion. “I know you’re hiding—” She broke off abruptly when she saw me.
“What is he hiding?” I asked.
“Never mind,” said Suzanne, looking away. Ernesto looked like he was about to flee again.
“Could you two please come with me?” I watched them closely to gauge their reactions. “A painting has been stolen, and the police are on their way.”
Suzanne gasped theatrically, and Ernesto clenched his jaw. They came along without argument, Suzanne sputtering questions I couldn’t answer. We reached the great room just as Farrah was coming downstairs with Celia. Wes had rounded up Ray, the bartender, and two very tipsy council members. Perry reported that there were no other cars parked outside, so we knew we had found everyone.
For a moment, everyone fell into a shocked silence as they stared at the empty frame. Then the police arrived, and we all began speaking at once.
“Who would do such a thing?”
“How could this happen?”
“I never saw this coming.”
“Who was in charge of security, anyway?”
Crenshaw flushed at the last question, which had come from Ray. I could tell my buddy felt responsible, and I felt bad for him. I stepped forward to give my statement first, as much to deflect attention from him as to get the investigation started. After introducing myself to the two patrol officers, I explained how I’d discovered the theft. The cops then spoke to each person in turn, while Crenshaw and Perry worked on putting together a list of all the gala attendees, from the guests and the staff, to the caterers and the entertainment.
I was pacing up and down the great room when Detective Rhinehardt arrived. I took him aside and filled him in. He seemed more curious than concerned.
“Somebody walked off with a painting worth two hundred grand?” he asked. “Right out the front door?”
“I don’t know if they used the front door. There are three doors to the outside, and people were using all three this evening.” I tilted my head as I looked around the spacious room. “Actually, we don’t even know if it was taken out. It could have been hidden somewhere in the mansion.”
I snapped my fingers. “We need to search the house! And all the guesthouses! The thief could have stashed the painting anywhere.”
He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “The residents here are like tenants, even if they don’t pay rent. Without a warrant, I can’t search their personal space unless I have probable cause to believe they committed a crime. I’m not seeing PC here.”
“You don’t need PC if they consent. I’ll ask.”
I rejoined the group and clapped my hands for attention. “Hey, everybody! I have a special request.”
Driven by a sense of urgency, I laid out my proposal. There was no time to waste. If the painting was hidden on the premises, I doubted it would remain so for long.
The occupants of Turnbull Manor looked at one another with a mixture of discomfort and distrust. I was sure they understood that to object would only make them look suspicious.
Ray was the first to speak up. “I don’t see the point. The painting is probably long gone. And nobody could’ve entered my cottage anyway. The doors are locked and Barney would’ve raised a ruckus.” Scowling, he shook his head like a martyr. “But I’ve got nothing to hide. Let’s get this over with.”
Suzanne laughed nervously. “I have nothing to hide either, of course.
But my room is a bit of a mess.” I shifted uncomfortably at that and carefully avoided meeting Ernesto’s eyes. Evidently, he hadn’t told Suzanne I was in her room.
Crenshaw stepped forward. “As executor of this estate, I hereby grant permission for the authorities to search all common areas in the mansion, as well as my own room. Will everyone else voluntarily grant consent?”
“By all means,” said Perry. “The painting could be suffering damage as we speak. Let’s do all we can to try to find it.”
Ernesto nodded slowly, but Celia seemed the most reluctant when she said a grudging “okay.” Or maybe she was just tired.
At that point, the non-residents were allowed to leave, with the bartender offering to give a ride to the straggling guests. Gus wished us luck, clearly happy the mansion was no longer his problem. Then the two patrol officers began a search of the main floor, while the rest of us trooped, en masse, from one guest accommodation to another.
We started at Ray’s place. Detective Rhinehardt asked everyone but Ray and me to wait outside. I was allowed in because I could identify the painting—and, maybe, I liked to think, because Rhinehardt liked and trusted me, and knew I’d be keeping an eye out for clues to the other unsolved mysteries. Crenshaw was asked to ensure that no one left the group. Rhinehardt wasn’t going to take any chances that somebody might slip off to hide things they’d left in their rooms.
True to form, Barney barked furiously the instant we entered the cottage. Ray held him back while Rhinehardt looked in closets and under beds. We assumed the canvas had been rolled, but it would still be approximately twenty-four inches long. This limited the range of possible hiding places—which meant I had no excuse to go rifling through small drawers, pockets, or cubbyholes. Darn it.
From what we could see, there was nothing obviously incriminating among Ray’s things. The same was true for Perry’s. He had even fewer possessions, since he hadn’t been there as long. In fact, while we were perusing his tidy living room, he mentioned he had begun packing things up. “As soon as my work here is done,” he said, “I plan to move to an urban area, someplace where the art market is bigger.”
Next we went to Ernesto’s apartment. Finally, I’ll get a peek into this guy’s private life. Ernesto unlocked the door and went in first—and somehow managed to knock a metal box fan off of an end table. It fell to the floor with a crash.
“Lo siento. Sorry, sorry.” Scrambling to pick up the fan, he bumped into a broom, which hit the floor with another clatter. Rhinehardt and I exchanged a glance. Why was Ernesto so nervous?
As we moved from room to room, Ernesto rushed ahead to open closets and cupboards for us. I couldn’t tell if he was just trying to be helpful, or if he was purposefully steering our attention. In case it was the latter, I made a point of walking through every room twice. But there wasn’t much to see. If anything, the place was surprisingly neat, especially for a young guy who lived by himself.
Back at the house, we started on the top floor and searched all the bedrooms, including Celia’s. When we were in the maid’s room, I couldn’t help noticing how her eyes kept darting to the top drawer of an antique dresser. She did it so many times, I felt she was practically begging me to have a peek. While Rhinehardt pulled back the curtain on the room’s only window, I made a pretense of looking behind the dresser—and subtly pulled open the top drawer.
“Stop!” Celia cried angrily. “You’re not supposed to look in small places. Those are my personal things.”
“I’m sorry,” I mumbled, as I closed the drawer. I’d only gotten a brief glimpse of the drawer’s contents, but it was enough to see what Celia was hiding. Not a painting or a diary, but a pile of jewelry. And I’d bet any amount of money the jewelry had belonged to Elaine. I decided I’d tell Crenshaw and let him decide what to do.
“I think we’re finished here,” said Rhinehardt. “Let’s move along.” He gave me a significant look as he ushered me ahead of him. I took the hint and kept my mouth shut. We’d discuss our findings and theories later.
In Suzanne’s room, she did all the talking. She apologized for the clutter, complained about Celia’s neglect of her cleaning duties, and bragged about how full her social calendar was. Rhinehardt and I largely ignored her as we conducted our search. When Rhinehardt reached to open the closet door, I winced involuntarily and stepped back. Sure enough, a jumble of shoes and tennis rackets came tumbling out. Undaunted, the detective pulled out a flashlight and shined it in every corner of the closet. There were no stolen paintings—or lockboxes.
After a perfunctory walk through Crenshaw’s room, we ended our search in the room Farrah and I had shared. Rhinehardt took a look at the doorknob, no doubt remembering the break-in I’d told him about. “Easy enough to pick,” he noted. Josie jumped onto the windowsill to watch as we made a quick search of the room.
We reconvened with the other police officers in the gallery at the top of the stairs. They reported that their sweep of both the basement and the first floor had turned up nothing.
“I told you this would be a waste of time,” groused Ray.
“Can I go to bed now?” asked Celia.
“You’re all free to go,” said Rhinehardt. “Thank you for your cooperation.”
Farrah squeezed my arm. “Keli, I’m gonna get my stuff and go on home tonight. I’ll check in with you tomorrow.” She was talking to me, but her eyes were on Crenshaw. Creases of worry seemed to be permanently etched between his eyebrows.
After everyone left, Wes and I helped Crenshaw turn off lights throughout the mansion and make sure all the doors and windows were locked. When we finally settled into our room, Wes’s face took on a worried expression that almost matched Crenshaw’s.
“What’s going on here anyway?” he asked. “Why do things keep disappearing?”
I scratched Josie under her chin as I shook my head. “I’m not sure yet. But I’m going to figure it out.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
I slept in late on Saturday morning. When I awoke, snuggled up next to Wes, I could almost forget where we were. The bedroom was quiet and warm from the filtered sunlight shining through the window. I could hear Josie nosing through the backpack Wes had left on the floor. My little family, together again. I sighed with contentment.
Then the memories came trickling in. The tension the night before had been so thick I could’ve cut it with my athame. Everyone was on edge after the painting was stolen, and no one was happy about having their rooms searched. It was one thing after another in this house. What would happen next?
Reluctantly, I crawled out of bed and took a shower. By the time I got out, Wes was up and texting someone on his phone. “I need to go into the newspaper office for a little while today,” he said. “I have to turn in the photos I took in Chicago and pick up my next assignment. Do you want to stay here again tonight?”
I rummaged through my suitcase and found my last clean sweater and a pair of jeans I’d already worn at least once before. “Yeah, I think so. One more night, at least.”
After Wes left, I made my way to the kitchen, where I found Crenshaw making cream of wheat. “This place feels deserted,” I said, as I poured myself a cup of coffee.
“Celia is visiting friends today,” he said. “I believe Suzanne is still in her room. I don’t know where everyone else is.”
We sat across from each other at the kitchen table, quiet with our own thoughts. Then Crenshaw set his cup down with a thud. “I hate to do it, but I think I had better ask everyone to leave. I’m going to have to shutter the mansion.”
I looked up in dismay. “You mean let all the suspects go?”
“Suspects? Perhaps. But keeping them here hasn’t brought us any closer to resolving anything. My responsibility is the estate. I had thought it would be best to keep the place open and functioning, rather than closed up to grow dusty and decayed.”
“That makes sense.”
“I thought so,” he continued. “Everyone who lives here i
s on the payroll, so to speak, helping with the upkeep of the mansion in one way or another. That is, everyone but Suzanne. It will be difficult to ask her to leave, considering this is her home. I don’t know if she has anyplace else to go.”
We fell silent once more. The future of the mansion and its occupants seemed to hang in the air like a giant question mark. I sipped my coffee thoughtfully, as my mind whirred. I didn’t like unanswered questions.
“What are you thinking?” asked Crenshaw. I hadn’t realized he’d been watching me.
I gave him a slight smile. “I was thinking about the naturalist John Muir. He once said, ‘When one tugs at a single thing in nature, he finds it attached to the rest of the world.’”
Crenshaw raised one eyebrow. Usually he was the one to spout a quotation or two.
“In other words,” I went on, “all things are connected. Native Americans, and others, call it the ‘web of life.’ I think what we have here is one great big web. Tangled, for sure, but not impossible to follow.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning everything that has happened here is connected. The missing diaries, the false alibis, the stolen painting—even Lana’s disappearance.” Not to mention, the strange sounds I keep hearing and the weird vibes I keep picking up. And Elaine’s death.
Crenshaw seemed to ponder this for a moment, then shook his head. “It’s beyond me. All I know is that this matter has taken up far too much of my time. I’ve tried to do my best to honor Elaine’s wishes and properly manage the estate, but things are getting out of hand.” He pushed his coffee cup away. “And now I need to file an insurance claim for nearly a quarter million dollars.”
I clucked sympathetically, but my mind was still occupied with my tangled-web analogy. I wanted to find some paper and a pen and draw a great big diagram.
Crenshaw pushed back from the table and reached for my empty bowl. “I’m going into the office this morning, and then I have a dress rehearsal this afternoon. You might as well go home.”
Autumn Alibi Page 21
