by Sara Rosett
11
A wall of fumes hit Zoe as she followed the woman through the front door. She removed her pink sun visor and dropped it on a chest, then unhooked the leash from the dog’s collar. “There you go, Pepper.”
The dog darted off, his nails clicking against the white ceramic tile. The woman turned back to Zoe. “Sorry about the smell. I didn’t realize he would start painting so early.”
She raised her voice and called out, “Artie, we have a guest.” She led the way across an open-plan living room that was furnished in dark rattan with cushions covered in a pastel tropical print. “I’m Pat, by the way.” She clicked on the overhead fan then opened the sliding glass door where Pepper waited, his short tail quivering.
A burly man entered from a hallway, carrying a square of cardboard with a mass of metal on top of it. He had a thatch of glossy white hair and a paunch that pressed against his oversized red polo shirt. A pair of denim shorts, tube socks, and tennis shoes completed his look. He balanced the piece of cardboard with one hand underneath it, like a waiter carrying a tray. He held out a beefy hand. “Hi there.”
“I’m Zoe.”
Pat handed him Zoe’s card. “Zoe Andrews. She’s an art recovery specialist. She wants to talk to us about Birdie.”
“Then come out here away from the fumes.” He pushed the sliding glass door open wider and maneuvered the flat piece of cardboard outside ahead of him to a screened-in covered patio. Zoe could now see that a dismantled vintage typewriter covered the cardboard.
“I can’t believe you’re painting in the house again,” Pat said to Artie, but looked at Zoe and shook her head.
“Just dibs and dabs,” he said. “Only a few touchups.”
An arrangement of the furniture sat in the middle of the screened-in patio. Artie hit a switch, and a ceiling fan as well as two fans mounted in the corners of the covered patio whirred. Pepper had been patrolling the borders of the yard but as soon as Artie stepped onto the patio, the dog raced for the doggie door placed in the screen door that separated the screened patio from the backyard.
With the dog pirouetting around the man’s gigantic feet, Artie deposited the square of cardboard with its dissected typewriter on a workbench on one side of the patio then reached down to pet the dog. Another vintage typewriter rested on the workbench, but this one looked like it had just been removed from the box. Zoe said, “That’s quite a contrast.”
He gave the dog’s ears a final rub and stood. “It’s just a matter of taking it all apart, a little oil, and a little elbow grease, a little paint, and then putting it all back together.”
“Easier said than done, I’m sure. This one looks brand-new. It’s in fantastic shape.” The paint on the typewriter glowed a glossy black and each circular key had the correct letter inside its glass-topped metal encasement.
“I just finished refurbishing that one. It’s one of the first portable Remington typewriters. Circa1920. I’m waiting for the paint to dry before I mail it back to its owner.”
Pat joined them, carrying three water bottles. “Don’t let Artie bore you, if you’re not into vintage typewriters. He can go on all day.”
“I’m not bored. I think the workmanship on these is amazing.”
“Have a seat over here by the fan.” Pat motioned to the wicker sofa. “It’s a pleasant breeze.” She offered Zoe a water bottle, and Zoe opened it as she took a seat. The cool air from the fan coursed over her. Pepper hopped up on the cushion beside Zoe and angled his face toward the fan, catching the breeze as if he were riding with his head out a car window.
“Pepper, down. Shoo.”
“It’s okay. I don’t mind.” Zoe ran her hand down Pepper’s lithe form. His lungs were working overtime, and he briefly favored her with a doggie grin as he panted, then returned his adoring gaze to the fan.
Pat transferred a tennis racket case and a package of tennis balls from a wicker chair to the ground, then sat down. “So why are you interested in Birdie? She wasn’t into art—only birds.”
Zoe set her water bottle down on a nearby table. “I’m looking for some artwork that she might have owned.”
“The neighborhood won’t be the same without Birdie.” Artie dropped onto a metal glider that creaked ominously under his weight. He wiped his palm across his forehead then drank his whole water bottle in two gulps.
“That niece has a charity truck over there now, clearing out the last bits and pieces from the garage,” Pat said to Artie.
“The niece, Rochelle, has gotten rid of almost everything that was in the house within a week,” Artie said to Zoe.
Zoe raised her eyebrows. “That’s quick work for a house that size.”
“She’s a fast worker, that one.” Pat sniffed. Pat and Artie exchanged another look of what Zoe thought was mutual disapproval. “She hardly showed up when Birdie was alive. But now that Birdie’s gone, she can’t turn that house over quick enough. It’s all about the money, of course. First thing she did was sell Birdie’s car then she had dealers in looking over the furniture the next day.”
“Well, it sounds as if she might have missed something important, if that makes you feel any better,” Zoe said. “I don’t know anything for sure, though. That’s what I’m here trying to confirm. Do you know if Birdie had a piece of artwork with a hummingbird and a butterfly?”
“You mean her blue butterfly painting?” Pat tapped her hand against the arm of her chair. “I knew that painting was special.”
Zoe’s heart kicked a bit at Pat’s casual description of the color of the butterfly, which Zoe had intentionally not mentioned. She didn’t want to prompt any responses, and she felt the best way to go about this would be to let Pat and Artie fill in the blanks. “That might be what I’m looking for.”
“It was one of her favorites. She had it right behind her chair in the living room, where she could see it every day,” Pat said. “She inherited it from a relative, she said.”
Artie cut a glance toward Pat. “But she had lots of artwork of hummingbirds.” He shifted his gaze to Zoe, his tone dampening. “Pretty much everything in that house had a bird or butterfly on it, including the wallpaper.”
“That’s true, which might impact the time it spends on the market,” Pat said with what Zoe thought was satisfaction. “But Birdie only had one painting of a blue butterfly.”
“You’re sure it was a painting, not a print?”
“Oh, yes. It was an oil,” Pat said.
“Could you draw a sketch of it for me?”
“I can do better than that.” Artie hitched himself up off the glider and slipped his phone out of one of his shorts pockets. After sliding his fingers across the phone a few times, he handed it to Zoe. “How about a photo?”
Zoe couldn’t keep the excitement out of her voice. “This is wonderful.” It was an informal snapshot of two women. Pat was one of the women, and the other one must have been Birdie. She favored her nickname with her small build and delicate features. Birdie sat in a chair, and Pat leaned over the arm so that their faces were on the same level as they smiled. A painting of a blue butterfly and hummingbird hung on the wall behind them.
“I think that’s one of the last pictures we took of her,” Artie said.
Pat had moved around to look over Zoe’s shoulder. “Yes. It wasn’t long after Artie took this photo that she had to go into long-term care. Birdie liked to sit in that chair and watch for the birds. With the retention pond behind her house, she got a lot more wildlife over there than we do here.”
Zoe reached into her back pocket and pulled out the small leather notebook she found in the garage. “Would you like this? I found it in the garage at Birdie’s house, but her niece wasn’t interested in it.” Pat took the notebook, but she didn’t have to open it to know what it was. “Her Life List.” She cleared her throat. “Yes, I’ll take care of it. Thank you.”
Zoe looked away to give Pat a moment to compose herself. Zoe asked Artie, “Can you send me that photograph?”
“Of course.” He tapped on his phone, and after they had exchanged phone numbers, the image popped up on Zoe’s phone.
“I’d have bought that painting myself, but I wasn’t quick enough,” Pat said, returning to her wicker chair. She balanced Birdie’s notebook on her knee.
Artie looked at Pat. “You would have? I thought you didn’t want to give any money to her.”
“I didn’t. But for something like the butterfly painting, I might’ve made an exception. That nice Indian lady from the antique store beat me to it. I told Rochelle I wanted that painting, but she said it was already sold. But the Indian lady didn’t get it either.”
“I don’t understand.”
“The Indian saleslady was one of the dealers Rochelle called in. I know she was with the store because her car had one of those advertising panels on the door with the store’s logo, World Décor Bazaar, and she’s the one who helped me when I bought a lamp there. But back to the point, Rochelle said the woman from the store bought the hutch in the dining room, one of the bedroom suits, and a couple of the paintings, including the one with the butterfly.”
“But something happened?” Zoe asked
Pat said, “It disappeared.”
12
The metal glider creaked as Artie dropped back onto it. “It was stolen, is what Pat means.”
“What?” Zoe inched forward in her seat. Her hopes, which had begun to swing upward, plummeted.
Pat nodded. “That’s what we think happened. The woman from World Décor Bazaar send a truck the next day to pick up the items she wanted, but when they got here the painting was gone. I was walking Pepper, and saw the whole thing play out. Rochelle came over and asked if I’d seen anything suspicious, but I hadn’t noticed anyone creeping around. The crew sent to load the truck checked the whole house. The sliding glass door at the back of the house had been forced open, and the painting was gone. It was the only thing that was missing.”
“What did the police say?” Zoe asked, her spirits plummeting even more. She knew the odds of recovering the painting would be low.
“Rochelle didn’t care enough to call the police,” Pat said, exasperation in her tone. “Can you believe it? Shortsighted, that’s what she is. All she can think about is how much money she’ll be able to get once she sells the house.”
“But if the woman from the store had purchased it, then she could call… ” Zoe trailed off because Pat was shaking her head.
“She hadn’t actually paid for it yet. She’d only told Rochelle which pieces she wanted. Once Rochelle realized it was just the single painting that was gone, she waved away the idea of calling the police. Said she didn’t want to get involved in an investigation.”
“You actually found a picture of the painting? That’s great,” Jack said.
Zoe moved the phone to her other ear and looked out the coffee shop’s window, keeping an eye on the store that was located across the shopping center parking lot. “Not really. I have a picture, that’s all.” Zoe explained that the painting was missing. “So all I have is a photograph, and it’s not clear when I zoom in. The painting wasn’t the focus of the photograph, the two women were, so I can’t see the fine details of the painting.”
“But even a blurry picture is progress.”
Zoe sighed. “I suppose so. And I did get some details on the history of the painting.” Zoe had asked Pat if Birdie had ever talked about where she got the painting. Birdie had said she inherited it from a relative whose father bought the painting from an artist in London around the time of the American Civil War. “I won’t go into the details, but the dates are right for a Martin Johnson Heade painting. So that’s something, except I’m at a dead end on what to do next.” If Rochelle had filed a police report, there would at least be a record that the painting was stolen, and Zoe could have gone in that direction.
“Won’t the fact that it’s stolen, even if the owner didn’t report it, complicate matters? When you eventually find it—because I know you will—couldn’t the niece claim it was hers?” Jack asked.
“I asked Kaz about that, and he said to keep looking. He said Thacker’s legal team will sort out any disputes, if any come up. I’m sure Thacker has more than enough money to make little details like that go away. Kaz said my job is to find the painting and not to worry about anything else.” She had been told to call Kaz with her updates, and he’d pass the news on to Thacker. She’d just gotten off the phone with him.
“Where are you now?”
“I’m sitting in a Starbucks, waiting for World Décor Bazaar to open.” She looked at her watch. “Only about ten minutes to go. I figured I better check it out. It’s all I can think to do now besides to wait for a call from the art dealers. They know I’m looking for a blue butterfly painting and will call if they hear about one. It looks like the store is opening a little early,” Zoe said as she watched a short muscular man with a shaved head inside the store walk to the front doors and unlock them. “I’ll call you later.”
She tossed her cup in the trash and left the coffee shop, walking into the wall of heat and humidity. When she approached World Décor Bazaar the double doors swished open, and a rush of frigid air flowed over her.
She took a few brisk steps into the store and then slowed as she took in the merchandise. Much of it was oversized. Zoe stepped around a massive king-size bed with posters the size of small tree trunks, feeling like she’d reached the top of the beanstalk. An antique gilt framed mirror that was twice her height and in such an ornate style it would have looked right at home at Versailles reflected her image. A chandelier made of intertwined antlers hung overhead. She threaded through the furnishings toward a granite-topped counter at one side that seemed to be the checkout counter.
An Indian woman was rearranging a display of amber beside the counter. The guy with the shaved head must have gone into a back room. Zoe didn’t see him anywhere.
“Excuse me,” Zoe said to the woman. “I’m looking for a painting of a blue butterfly. I spoke to a resident in the Blue Haven Preserve neighborhood, and they said that a woman from this store tried to buy the painting of the blue butterfly from the estate of one of their neighbors. Was that you?”
The woman held three boxes, which she slotted into position on the shelf. “Yes, I tried to buy it.” She was in her thirties and had a manner of quiet efficiency as she continued to arrange the boxes. Her glossy black hair was pulled back into a ponytail, which slid across her shoulders as she shook her head. “But it didn’t happen.”
Zoe took out her phone and zoomed in on the picture of the painting that Artie had sent her. “Is this the painting that you wanted?”
The woman paused. “Yes, that’s it. It was so lovely. But we have other paintings,” she said. “They’re nice as well.” A phone on the counter rang. The man with the shaved head emerged from an open door behind the counter and answered it.
“No, the blue butterfly painting is the one that I was after,” Zoe said. “I heard what happened—that it was stolen.” Zoe felt the man’s gaze on her. He spoke into the phone but was watching her. She pulled her attention back to the woman. “Have you heard anything about it? About where it might be?”
“Of course not.” Her chest swelled as she drew in a breath. “We don’t have contacts with those sorts of people or deal in that kind of merchandise.” Her tone indicated that kind of merchandise was slimy and that she’d never touch it.
The man put his hand over the phone. “Irene, it’s for you. You want me to take a message?”
“No, I’ll take it,” she said to him, then turned back to Zoe. “I’m sorry I can’t help you with that painting. Have a look around. We have some wonderful art. Or if you like, give your contact information to Barry. We’ll let you know if we find anything similar.”
Irene went behind the desk and took the phone from Barry. Zoe turned and headed for the doors, thinking about how she’d phrase her update when she spoke to Kaz.
She was ab
out halfway across the store when Barry caught up with her. “Hey, you said something about a blue butterfly painting?”
“Yes, that’s right, but your coworker says it never made it to the store.”
“That’s true,” Barry said slowly, his tone implying the exact opposite of what his words said.
Zoe tilted her head. “You know where the painting is?”
“No, nothing for sure,” he said quickly, “but certain…information…might be available. If you’re curious. I might be able to make a call or two and, uh, point you in the right direction. If it’s worth my time, you know, for me to hunt around for it,” he said casually, but his gaze was sharp and speculating.
Zoe stared at him for a moment. He apparently didn’t have the same scruples as the woman he worked with and did have some contacts of the shady sort. Zoe didn’t like to do things this way, but if she had a chance—even a slim one—to get back on the trail of the painting, she would take it. “I’m interested.”
Barry stood straighter.
“Okay, then. His gaze raked over the antler chandelier then came back to Zoe. “Two hundred dollars,” he said in a firm voice, but only after another quick glance at Irene, who was still on the phone.
“Done.”
His eyebrows flared. “Oh, in that case—”
“And not a penny more. That’s all I’ll pay,” Zoe said swiftly to cut off any attempt from him to renegotiate the deal. “When will you have it for me?”
“When will you have the money?”
“I can give it to you now, if you can get the info.”
The man ran his hand over his shaved scalp. “Give me about ten minutes. Meet me in the Starbucks across the parking lot.”
Zoe left the store and popped the trunk of her car. A lot of the transactions that Throckmorton Enquiries dealt with involved people who insisted on cash payments, so Harrington made it a policy that if he or Zoe were meeting with anyone about purchasing artwork, then they had access to a fairly significant amount of cash.