Death as a Fine Art

by Gwendolyn Southin

  Maggie, who was thinking just that, jumped in quickly. “I’m only surprised that you’ve just remembered, that’s all, Adele.”

  “I’ve had a lot on my mind. Now what do we do about this?”

  “We can go to the police, but they’d want more information, and they wouldn’t search a place without a valid reason. After all, you don’t even know what it is that Jonathan’s hidden.”

  “I was thinking more on the lines that you and I should go and have a look.”

  “What? We can’t do that.” Maggie knew from experience that Nat would absolutely veto that suggestion. She’d been in too many unauthorized scrapes in the past.

  “I’ve still got my key,” Adele said quietly. “Of course, I could go on my own, but . . . two pairs of eyes and all that . . . and there’s never anyone there on a Friday night,” she added, as if that clinched it.

  “What about the people in that café next to the studio?”

  “They close at six. You pick me up around six-thirty?”

  “It’s not a good idea, Adele. Besides, I’m meeting Mr. Southby for dinner at seven-thirty.”

  “M-m-m. That would be a bit tight. Let me see, it’s five-thirty now. Make it six o’clock then. That’ll give you plenty of time to make your date. You have my address.”

  “I really don’t think this is a good idea . . .” But Adele had put her phone down. Maggie sat down hard on the nearest chair and buried her head in her hands. Her fellow artists are right—she’s batty. She considered calling Nat but decided it would be better after the deed was done, and then she and Nat could have a good laugh about it. Though somehow Maggie knew he wouldn’t consider it something to laugh about. I’ve got to call her back. But as usual, her curiosity got the better of her.

  Adele, a large tapestry bag slung over her shoulder, her body encased in black slacks and black shirt with a squashed black felt hat on her head, was waiting as Maggie drew up outside the shabby, paint-peeled house. Opening the passenger door, she slid in and smiled at Maggie.

  “Hard to hide this car. Whatever possessed you to buy a red one?” She settled herself down in the passenger seat and pulled her hat over her face. “We’ll just have to park a bit before the studio and walk. This is quite an adventure, isn’t it?”

  Maggie, surprised at the difference between the tearful woman she had last seen and this one eager for adventure, said, “This isn’t a very good idea, Adele. It’s still light and we could be seen by someone.”

  “And I had you pegged for the adventurous type! Don’t worry—just follow my lead. We’ll just ad lib if one of those buggers turn up.”

  Maggie was also surprised at the language of this new Adele.

  • • •

  AS ADELE SUGGESTED, Maggie pulled into the curb a few shops before the studio and waited until Adele had hauled herself out of the passenger seat.

  “Don’t worry. No one will be there.”

  “But there’s someone in there,” Maggie hissed as they came abreast of the café.

  “That’s only Cristobel Jennings. She’s the owner and I think she’s Swedish.”

  “You said they closed at six.”

  “They do, but they have to clear up, you know.” And to Maggie’s horror, Adele tapped on the window and waved to the apron-clad woman who immediately came to the door.

  “Thought you’d finished with that lot next door.” Topping six feet, Cristobel Jennings peered down at Adele. “I told you that you’d miss my baking.”

  “It’s your baking that’s caused this.” Adele laughed and patted her stomach. “This is my friend, Maggie, and we’ve come to collect the rest of my things. In case you think the noises next door are ghosts.”

  “It will be more like a herd of elephants,” she answered, glancing down at the lace-up boots Adele was wearing.

  “The others don’t need to know I’ve been back,” Adele said conspiratorially.

  “Okay by me.” Cristobel turned and re-entered the café, locking the door behind her.

  “She’s a good friend.” Adele slipped her key into the lock of the studio’s door.

  “I hope so.” Maggie had visions of the entire group of artists and the police arriving at the studio to find out what was going on.

  Maggie soon understood the reason for Adele’s large tapestry bag. First a coffee-stained misshapen mug disappeared into it, followed by tools, brushes, a pair of black wool socks, numerous pencils, pens and erasers, and, after scrutinizing the bookshelf, a couple of dog-eared books. “I wondered where they’d got to,” she exclaimed, stuffing them in the bag.

  “Aren’t we supposed to be looking for something?” Maggie asked as she watched the bag get fatter and fatter.

  “Quite forgot for the moment. You start that side.” She pointed to a row of pot-drying racks mounted on casters.

  “But I don’t know what I’m looking for.”

  Adele looked into the distance for a few moments. “Well, it can’t be very big or someone would have discovered it already.”

  “They probably have,” Maggie snapped back. “Sit down, Adele, and tell me again what Jonathan said to you.”

  Adele sat. “It was a long time ago, you know . . .”

  “And I haven’t got time to search a room without some idea what I’m looking for.”

  She looked at the row of racks absently. “He said—‘If something funny should happen to me, old girl’—I told you that’s what he called me—‘I’ve left something in the studio.’ Or perhaps he said he’d left a note in the studio . . . I told you, it was a long time ago.”

  “Oh! For God’s sake, think!”

  “No need to get all shirty. I think he said it was a note.”

  “And he was referring to this studio?”

  “I told you before he was.”

  “Okay.” Maggie took a firm hold of herself. “Where did he keep his things?”

  “Nowhere in particular. We sort of shared the space.” Then, seeing Maggie’s face, she quickly added, “He kept some of his things on that shelf over there.”

  “There’s nothing much on it now.”

  “There’s his tea caddy.” She pointed to a tin adorned with roses intertwined with the words LIPTON TEA, and then, looking wistfully at the tin, she grabbed a clay-stained rag from the table set under the shelf and wiped her eyes. “He only drank tea made with real tea leaves, you know.” When Maggie looked blankly at her, she clarified by saying, “Loose tea leaves.”

  Maggie reached for the tin and tried to pry off the lid but only succeeded in breaking one of her fingernails. “Damn!”

  “Give it to me.” Adele took the tin and then grabbed a screwdriver from a nearby shelf. “He kept it tightly sealed so the tea didn’t get stale.” She dug the blade into the groove. “There you go.”

  Maggie peered inside the tin. “There’s only tea,” she said, disappointed.

  “You sure?” Adele grabbed back the tin and pushed her plump hand down into the tea leaves and felt around. “You’re right. I guess we’ll have to look somewhere else.”

  “After you’ve picked up the tea you’ve spilled,” Maggie said firmly.

  “There’s a brush and dustpan in that closet.”

  “Adele, I’ll have to leave soon.” Maggie sat back on her heels after sweeping up the last of the tea.

  “Let’s give it a few more minutes.”

  Maggie glanced around the room. They had searched all of the shelves, pulled racks away from the walls, riffled through every art book and magazine. There was nothing left to search. “That’s it! We’ve exhausted all the hiding places in this godforsaken hole.” She couldn’t help sounding testy.

  Adele shrugged. “I guess one of the others must’ve found it.”

  “Or you misunderstood what Jonathan said to you.” After washing her dusty hands under the tap, Maggie looked around for a towel, but the only things available were the clay-smeared towels draped over drying sculptures. “Whose coat is that?” She nodded toward a c
orduroy jacket with leather elbows hanging on a hook by the door.

  Adele, who was standing precariously on a stool to search the top of a bookcase, looked down at Maggie, “That? Jonathan kept it here as a spare. The studio gets cold in winter. Nothing up here,” she added.

  “That’s it, then.” Maggie watched in trepidation as Adele clutched her way down the bookcase. She breathed a sigh of relief when the woman landed safely on her feet. All she needed was to have to call an ambulance for a broken limb. “Where did I put my purse? Ah! There it is. Come on, Adele, I really must be going.” She reached for the door handle and then stopped and looked at the jacket.

  “Well, go on then,” Adele said behind her.

  “Wait a sec.” Maggie plunged her hand into each of the jacket’s pockets, but apart from a few toffee wrappers, accumulated crumbs, and a book of matches advertising some restaurant, there was nothing. Maggie sighed, “Oh, well, just a thought. Nice lining,” she added as she started to return the jacket to its hook. “Ah!” There were two inside pockets and in one of them was a tightly folded piece of paper.

  Adele peered excitedly over Maggie’s shoulder. “Silly me. He must’ve have said ‘coat,’ not ‘note.’ What does it say?”

  “It seems to be a list,” Maggie replied, as she carefully spread it open. “But it doesn’t seem to make much sense.” She handed it over to Adele. “What do you make of it?”

  “I’ve no idea.” She sounded so disappointed. “I thought it might tell us who murdered him.”

  Maggie smiled. “He’d hardly know that in advance. Would you mind if I took it with me?”

  “Why not? Perhaps your partner will be able to help you unravel it.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  “And that’s why I’m late.”

  Maggie waited until they’d ordered—sole stuffed with baby shrimp in a creamy wine sauce for her, and fish and chips for Nat—before filling him in on her “adventure” with Adele. She waited for the explosion.

  “You could have called me,” he said quietly.

  She would rather have had the explosion. “I know. Anyway, here’s the piece of paper.”

  “It’s probably his laundry list,” Nat commented dryly, not even glancing at it.

  Maggie knew he was very miffed, but she wasn’t about to let it spoil her appetite. She was starved and the food looked wonderful. She let the list lay between them while they ate.

  Finally Nat pushed his empty plate away, reached for his coffee, and picked up the piece of paper. “This doesn’t mean I’m happy about you going off with that crazy woman without telling me. Just a phone call, Maggie—that’s all it takes.”

  “You would have said no.”

  “Maybe. But it’s because I love you and I’m so scared of you getting hurt again.” He leaned over the table and covered her hand with his. “Now let’s look at that piece of paper.”

  Jonathan—Some suggestions that I think might be going on.

  SW—paintings, probably copies.

  CB?—IB?

  Adele—No.

  TF—small stuff: miniatures, inlaid snuff boxes, paper weights, etc.

  AS—keeps accounts, finds buyers.

  The three CKs you found (Have them safe but want them out of my place ASAP.)

  SW

  “What do you make of it?” she asked

  “I have absolutely no idea. Obviously, peoples’ initials and works of art.” He sat looking at it for a few more moments. “Off hand I’d say that SW could be either Sheldon White or Saul Wingate, TF could be Tricia Forbes, CB Chris Barfield. And all of them use the Quebec Street studio.”

  “I don’t recall an AS there.”

  “Me either. Whoever AS is, he or she kept the books and moved the stuff.”

  “Moved! This could be a list of stolen stuff, Nat.”

  “Or it could all be legitimate. The group could be buying from people who want to sell their art and other valuables. Or,” Nat said quietly, “you’re right and they are stealing the stuff.”

  “But how? I can’t imagine any of them being cat burglars like Raffles. But perhaps this explains Jonathan’s murder. Maybe he found out.”

  “And AS could be Alice Standish, though I have a job seeing her mixed up in art theft.”

  “And I can’t see her murdering Jonathan,” Maggie answered. “Jane told me she really loved him.”

  Nat sat thinking for a moment before answering. “I’ll put my money on the SW being Sheldon White. Perhaps he will be able to answer some pertinent questions on this note. What about first thing in the morning?”

  “Can’t. It’s Saturday tomorrow and I’m meeting with the caterers and having a final fitting for my dress.”

  “Oh, the wedding! But I thought you said you’d already bought a dress.”

  “I did. But it was too long and it had to be altered to fit properly. Anyway,” she added, “it would be better to see Sheldon at his house on Monday.”

  “You could be right.” He looked up as the waiter deftly removed their empty plates and placed the dessert menu in front of them. “Dessert?” he asked.

  “Of course. Raspberry swirl cheesecake—we can share.”

  They left the restaurant feeling well fed—or in Maggie’s case, a bit overstuffed—and walked to the rear car park.

  “My place for coffee?” Maggie asked as she climbed into the ancient Chevy.

  “Where else?” Nat put the car into gear.

  • • •

  MAGGIE WAS UP, showered, dressed, and making breakfast when Nat made his appearance the next morning. “You look like you’ve had a night on the tiles,” she commented, grinning.

  Coming up behind her, he slipped his arms around her waist and pulled her tightly against him. “Can’t you forget your dress fitting and come back to bed?”

  Turning to face him, she kissed him gently on the lips before pulling away. “Love to, but the wedding is only a couple of weeks away.”

  “Will you be seeing Harry at the caterers, too?” he asked just a trifle petulantly.

  “No. Just me. So you can take that jealous look off your face,” she answered with a laugh. “I have to give them the final count and the printed cards for the seating arrangements—after that, it will be in the lap of the gods. Now sit and enjoy the breakfast I’ve made you.”

  “You’ve seen a lot of Harry lately. Has he been getting on to you about going back to him?”

  “Oh, Nat dear, he gave up a long time ago. Now pass the marmalade.”

  “Harry will never give up. I love your daughter Midge, but I’ll be damn glad when she’s safely married to Jason and we can get back to normal.”

  Taking a last sip of her coffee, Maggie swept up her dishes and walked to the sink. “I want her day to be wonderful and it will be over so quickly, and if that means putting up with Harry and his detestable mother to achieve that, then so be it.”

  “I’m sorry to be so . . .”

  “. . . Jealous?” she finished the sentence for him. “But you’ve no need to feel jealous. Now,” she added, “to change the subject, don’t forget we’re going to see Swan Lake at the Queen Elizabeth tonight.”

  “How could I forget?” Ballet wasn’t really Nat’s thing, but he knew that Maggie adored it. She had even managed to drag him to several performances since the big theatre had been built just three years earlier.

  “Oh, blast, look at the time. Be a dear and take Oscar for a run before you leave, okay?”

  Oscar, hearing his name, looked expectantly from one to the other.

  “By the way, I might go and see Sheldon myself,” he called to her as she stepped out the back door.

  “Okay. But be careful.”

  • • •

  NAT’S CLEANING LADY was in his apartment and washing the kitchen floor when he arrived home.

  “I’ve stripped and put clean sheets on your bed, Mr. Southby,” she greeted him. “You need a new can of Vim and washing-up soap. I’ve told you already it’s time you
bought yourself some new towels—the ones you got are a disgrace, and your tea towels . . .”

  “I’ll try and remember, Mrs. Waters,” he answered as he skirted around the metal bucket. “Next time I shop,” he added making a dash for his bedroom to change his clothes.

  “You said that the last time,” she called after him.

  “Oh, you do look smart,” she commented when Nat reappeared a short time later wearing a grey pinstriped suit, white shirt, and blue tie. “You going somewhere nice with your lady friend?”

  “To the ballet this evening.”

  “How nice. Didn’t think you were the ballet type.”

  “I’ve left your money on the table. Don’t forget to lock up,” he added, making his escape.

  • • •

  SHELDON WHITE’S HOUSE on William Street looked just as drab as the first time he and Maggie had called there and found the body. It was late afternoon, a bit later than Nat had intended, and he sincerely hoped there wouldn’t be any unpleasant surprises on this visit. Slamming and locking his car door, he walked up the cracked concrete path and rang the bell several times before he decided to try the back.

  Sheldon, paintbrush in his hand and wearing a long-sleeved paint-daubed shirt, opened the studio door to Nat’s repeated knocking. It was obvious he was not at all pleased to see his visitor.

  “What is it this time . . . another dead body?”

  “Just want you to look at something.”

  “Can’t it wait until Monday? I’m very busy . . .”

  “This won’t take a minute.” Nat pushed his way into Sheldon’s studio.

  “What is it?” Sheldon demanded.

  Nat withdrew the paper from his pocket and handed it to him. “Did you write this?”

  “No,” he said, barely glancing at it before thrusting the list back into Nat’s hands. “Now get out of my . . .”

  “Look again,” Nat said through gritted teeth.

  “Where did it come from?”

  “Came to light among Jonathan’s things.”

  “It did? Gimme. I’ll have another look. No, never seen it before.”

  “You’re saying that the SW who signed it isn’t you?”

  “I keep telling you and the cops that I had nothing to do with Jonathan or Alex’s murders.”