He nodded and lifted the frame from the wall. “I want this back up here today.”
“Understood,” I said.
He kissed the edge of the frame and handed it to me. I shook my head, knowing he was more attached to the fishing rod and creel painting than he was to the Turner.
“How’s Sharon?” I asked.
“Not bad. We’re staying home tonight. She’s cooking lasagna.”
“Sounds good.”
“I’ve got another case for your unit, if you can handle it. Or are you too busy on this art thing?”
“What is it?”
“Rich guy thinks someone’s trying to kill him. I was going to have Ron send a detective to talk some sense into him.”
“And?”
“While we were on the phone, someone shot the guy’s living room windows out. A marked unit’s there now, but they need a detective or two. Your guys or Ron’s?”
“Why don’t you take Arnie and go yourself?” I asked. “My men are all deep in the art thing, but I can spare Arnie for a few of hours.”
Mike jumped at it, and came downstairs with us to look for Arnie, his old partner from his detective days. Eddie was back with the wrapping paper, and he said Arnie was eating at the diner with Clyde. Mike went down the stairs two at a time.
*****
“This is a fine print,” Nicholas Dore said, examining the Turner carefully. “It’s been in this frame for some time?”
“At least twenty-five years,” I said.
“It’s been kept in a good environment,” he said. “No water stains. We often see them on prints of this age.”
“Is it worth anything?” Jennifer asked timidly.
“Not a lot, but a modest amount. If you’d like to look around for a few minutes, I’ll check my sources.” He disappeared into another room.
We looked at the dozen paintings mounted in the showroom.
“I like that,” said Jennifer, pointing to an oil of autumn foliage.
“You ought to,” I said, after checking the price tag.
“Do I want to know?” she asked.
“You could buy it with the money in your software account.” She had about fifteen thousand dollars now.
She walked on to the next exhibit, a watercolor portrait of a baby in a yellow hat, laughing and reaching for the sky.
“It’s not that good, but it’s a happy picture,” she said.
“Only twelve hundred bucks.”
“No thanks. I’ll wait for a picture of our baby.”
Next was an oil of a little girl in pigtails, standing on the bottom rail of a weathered fence, looking off over a field of grass and milkweed. Her face was sweet and hopeful.
“It’s you,” I said.
“No.”
“Yes. It could be. It’s really well done!” I checked the price. “Only two grand. It’s a bargain.”
“Don’t be silly.”
“I love it.”
“Harvey, it’s worth more than the Turner.”
“Who’s the artist?” I checked the tag and wrote it in my notebook. “Cecile Caron.”
“Cecile Caron? She lives in Skowhegan,” Jennifer said. “There’s an art school there. She might be one of the instructors.”
I looked at her, and my jaw must have dropped.
“Jenny, it is you.”
“Oh, come off it. It’s not me.” She looked at the painting again. “Although, that does resemble the fence in my dad’s lower pasture.”
Dore came back smiling. “Well, your print is valued at about eight hundred dollars,” he said. “It might bring slightly more in some markets. If you’re interested in selling it, I have a client who would probably pay that amount.”
“Right now?” I looked at Jennifer, startled.
“Oh, let’s think about it,” she said. “I know you’re partial to it.”
Dore pressed me just a little, then gave me his card and said, “If you decide to sell it…”
“What’s the commission?” I asked.
“Fifteen percent.”
He wrapped the framed print and handed it to me.
“Thanks. That Caron painting over there …” I nodded toward the girl on the fence.
“A delightful piece,” he said.
“Do you have any information about it?”
“We occasionally have works of Mrs. Caron’s to sell. That is one of the best I’ve seen yet. It will no doubt increase in value.”
“What about the subject? Was it painted from a model?”
“I have no idea.”
In the Explorer, I kissed Jennifer and said, “You get bonus points for undercover work, gorgeous. You’re right—I am partial to this print. So’s Mike. Of course, I could be more partial to that painting of you.”
“It’s not me.”
“I don’t care. I still love it.”
“Harvey, Cecile Caron is a living artist, and she’s not that well known.”
“I’m not talking about buying it as an investment. As something to enjoy.”
She shook her head. “If you want to drop two thousand dollars, let’s buy a piece of equipment for Jeff’s ambulance or something.”
I sighed. She had a point. But I was always good at logic, and I cast about for a new argument. “You’ve got your Van Gogh print.”
“It cost me five dollars, and twenty more for the frame.”
“I don’t suppose the poster of me is comparable?”
“That was only eight bucks, and it’s really you, wearing the vest that saved your life. It’s priceless.”
“Okay, okay. But you’re much better at this game than you think you are. You might want to consider doing some investigative work.”
We took Mike’s print back, and he was sober.
“Terry’s going to Fairfield,” he said.
“Wow.” I shot Jennifer a look. “That was fast.”
“They want someone quick. I told them he’ll be excellent.”
“How did your field work go?” I asked.
Mike smiled. “Clyde and Arnie are setting up protection for the gentleman and looking into it. It was good to get out of here for a while.”
“Your print is now worth eight hundred bucks.” I hung it carefully on the nail in the wall.
“The price is rising.”
“Yes, and the dealer didn’t ask for proof of ownership or question the print’s past.”
“Winfield’s not in your unit. How does he figure into it again?”
“The computer class. I assigned him to try to find out how the department got it.”
“Oh, right. Look at this.” He picked up a framed, black-and-white, eight-by-ten photograph from the top of a file cabinet. I took it and held it so Jennifer could see. In it were two men in suits at the old police station. At the bottom was handwritten, ‘Mayor John Carleton and Police Chief Edward Brewer, 1954.” Behind them on the wall was the Turner print.
I gaped at Mike. “It sure has been around for a while. Where did you get this?”
“Spotted it in Mayor Weymouth’s office. There are lots of old pictures along the hallway there, mostly former mayors. She let me borrow this one, but we have to take it back.”
“I guess you checked to see if the Turner was in any of the other pictures.”
“It wasn’t.”
“This is a great find, Mike.”
I took Jennifer down to the parking garage and sent her home in her car, then went up to Priority. I told Tony about the photo Mike had discovered and sent him to the Press Herald with a handwritten note for John Russell, the managing editor, authorizing Tony to spend the afternoon in their morgue, searching for a news item about the redecoration of the chief’s office in or before 1954.
I looked for Cecile Caron in the Waterville-Skowhegan telephone directory and got the number, but no response. Next, I dug around for the name of the art school Jennifer had mentioned and located her there.
“Mrs. Caron, I’ve been looking at a painting of yours. ‘View fr
om the Fence.’ Can you tell me about it?”
“Oh, that’s at the Dore gallery,” she said.
“Yes. I live here in Portland, and I saw it today. I’m interested in it. When was it painted?”
“I did it earlier this year.”
“Oh, so it’s not old?”
“Oh, no. It’s one of my latest works.”
“I liked it very much.”
“Thank you.”
“It reminded me of my wife. She lived in your area, and I had this crazy idea it might have been her.”
“Your wife? What’s her name?”
“Her maiden name was Jennifer Wainthrop.”
“How old is she?”
“Twenty-five.”
“Well, Mr. Larson, anything is possible. I did that painting from an old photograph. I was painting a barn years ago, and a little girl came and climbed on the fence near me. I thought I’d like to paint her, but I was in the middle of this other project, so I snapped her picture. It sat in a box for years. Then last winter I was cleaning house, and I came across it again. I sat down and started to paint.”
My pulse was pretty rapid by then. “Do you still have the photograph?”
“Yes.”
“My wife and I are coming to Skowhegan in a couple of weeks. We’d love to meet you. And could I see the photograph when we come?”
“Why, I guess you can.”
Progress on all fronts. I was feeling pretty good.
Tony came back at five minutes to five with a poor copy of a document made from old microfilm.
“The city bought the Turner from a local dealer in ’51,” he said. “Paid twenty-five bucks. The dealer’s long gone.”
“Fantastic. You get an A on provenance, Tony.”
I called Mike and told him, and he laughed. “Give that boy a gold star, Harvey. And make sure I get a copy of his report. I knew this class was a good idea.”
Chapter 14
Wednesday, October 13
Nate, Eddie, and I kept at the art case all week. Arnie and Clyde split their shifts to work on the attempted murder, with Mike consulting. Patrolmen stayed at the man’s house at night. They had a short list of suspects, and were eliminating them one by one.
The computer class worked the cyber fraud reports and the child molesting case. I let the students help each other on the last one. Emily, posing as an eleven-year-old girl, had been contacted by a man. At first she thought it was another youngster, but when he started e-mailing her, she knew it was an adult. The other officers helped her word her responses to keep him interested without tipping him off.
“He’s asking really offensive questions,” she told me, horror darkening her eyes.
I looked at the latest e-mail on her screen. She was right. No child should get messages like that.
“Okay,” I said. “You want to go through with this?”
“Well, I sure don’t want him out there preying on other little girls. I mean real little girls. You know what I mean.”
“So when he asks you to see him, set up a meeting in a neutral place.”
“A park?”
“No, an enclosed space. How about the public library? Or even someone’s house. We can have several officers on hand.”
Emily went back to work and set it up for Saturday.
“You were right,” she told me, aghast. “He told me he’ll bring me a present. He even told me what to wear.”
I talked to Ron Legere, and he said he would handle it with Emily and two of his other detectives.
*****
On Thursday, night Beth and Jeff came over, and we invited Bud and Janice Parker over for coffee. I had told Bud earlier to be mindful of his Nutting prints, and he asked me if we’d caught the art thieves yet.
“Not yet. Don’t go broadcasting to anyone what you’ve got there.” Bud loved woodworking, and I showed him my meager assortment of tools.
“I could help you with a project,” he said eagerly.
“Yeah? Like what?”
“Maybe an end table, or a bookcase?”
“That sounds interesting. I think Abby could use a bookcase in her room.”
“I’d love one,” Abby said.
Eddie had become almost a permanent fixture at our house, and he sat next to Abby that night when we all settled in the living room to chat. While he was attentive to her, I didn’t think he had the same look Jeff had when he looked at Beth.
“Jenny and I are going to Skowhegan the twenty-seventh and twenty-eighth,” I told Jeff. “I’ve got two days of training at the Academy, and we’re staying at your folks’.”
“Bring the boys back,” he said. “I’ll be off that weekend.” His younger brothers, Travis and Randy, had begged for weeks to come and visit in Portland.
“Eddie, you’re staying chez Wainthrop, too,” said Jennifer.
Eddie grinned. “Oh, boy. Apple pie.”
“And I get to stay here alone and work,” Abby pouted.
“Sorry,” said Jennifer. “Maybe Leeanne can come back with us, too, for a consolation prize.”
Nate turned in his essay on Friday, and I couldn’t think of anything I’d want done differently. I faxed it to the commissioner of education in Augusta. The computer training wrapped up that day. I showed my class how to set up accounts and communicate electronically with state law enforcement agencies they might not have used before. The last thing I did was to demonstrate some sophisticated programs that allowed me to network with the FBI, Interpol, and other agencies. They wouldn’t have access to it all without special training and authorization, but it whetted their appetites and showed them the capabilities we had.
“Good job, everyone,” I said. “You don’t get a diploma, but I’ll send a commendation to each of your supervisors and ask them to bring you in on any cyber cases that come their way. You can always come to me for pointers.”
“I’ll miss the class,” Cheryl said.
Emily nodded. “Me, too. Thanks so much for doing it, Captain Larson.”
“One more thing.” I opened a box on my desk. Jennifer had managed a rush order for six mugs that read “Certified Techie” on the side. I handed them out, and everyone seemed to like them.
Overall, I felt positive about a venture I’d thought began as punishment.
I took my lunch hour late and met Jennifer at Margaret’s office. Everything looked great. Jennifer still hadn’t gained any weight, but she was holding steady. The morning sickness seemed to be gone. Margaret measured Jenny’s stomach and seemed happy with her progress, so I was happy, too.
*****
Saturday dawned raw and rainy, and we stayed home. Eddie had vacillated so long he hadn’t lined up a date anyway.
I sat in front of the fireplace that afternoon, reading and feeling lazy. Jennifer worked at her cross stitching, and Abby wrote letters. After a while, Jennifer put her stitching aside with a sigh and picked up the Baby Names book.
“What’s the matter, gorgeous?” I asked.
“You were right. My cross-stitch horse looks like a moose with a saddle.”
“So tell people it’s supposed to look that way.”
“I’ll know it’s not.” She leafed through the book. “What do you think of Christopher?” Of course that made me think of Chris Towne, my old partner. I wasn’t sure how I felt about naming a child after him.
The doorbell rang, and I went to the entry. Peter Hobart, from our church, stood on the doorstep in the breezeway. He owned a car dealership on the edge of town.
“Peter, what brings you out in this weather?” The rain was pounding down, and the wind had risen.
“I was wondering if I could ask you a legal question.”
“I’m a cop, not a lawyer, but come on in.”
We had a pot of coffee staying warm, and I offered him a cup. Sitting at the kitchen table, he said, “Um, this bike helmet law. Do both my boys need those all the time?”
“Yup. Any time they go out of the yard, anyway.”
> “Oh. Well, thanks.” He poured milk into his coffee and sipped it.
“That’s it?” I asked.
He looked as if he’d say something else, then nodded. “That’s it.”
“Well, have a cookie at least.” I got them off the top of the refrigerator. I hadn’t had a chance to get to know Peter, but he was in Jennifer’s and my Sunday school class, and I had a feeling he wasn’t really at my house to ask about bike helmets.
“Homemade cookies.” He sounded like me when I was single, and it suddenly hit me that Peter was a widower. His boys were six and nine. Not many homemade cookies around his house.
“Hello, Mr. Hobart,” Jennifer said, from the sunroom doorway.
He started to rise.
“Don’t get up.” She sat down, too.
“How are you feeling, Mrs. Larson?”
“It’s Jennifer. I’m much better, thank you.”
“Glad to hear it. You’ve had someone helping you while you were ill?”
“Yes, my sister came to stay with us.”
“Oh,” said Peter. “Has she gone back now?”
“No, she’s still with us. She’s got a job at the hospital.”
“Ah.”
The light was breaking. The helmets were an excuse. It was Abby he was there for. I got up and walked through the sunroom to the living room door.
“Abby, you want some coffee?”
She laid aside her stationery box and followed me to the kitchen. This time, Peter did stand up.
“Hello, Miss Wainthrop.”
So, he knew her name and pronounced it correctly.
“Well, hello, Mr. Hobart. Nice weather we’re having,” Abby said.
He chuckled. “Nice for ducks.” I’m not sure what it was exactly, but his whole face looked more animated when she entered the room, less uncertain, and more hopeful.
Abby got a coffee mug and fixed herself a cup. “What brings you out today?”
I said, “Peter was asking me about the bike helmet law. For his boys.” I wondered if she knew Mrs. Hobart was dead. “How’s business?” I asked him.
“Fair to middling. I sold a couple of cars this week.”
“Good. Do you have any of those ones with the built-in car seats?”
“Yes, they’re very convenient for parents. When will you need the car seat?”
Found Art (Maine Justice Book 3) Page 16