Found Art (Maine Justice Book 3)

by Susan Page Davis

  “I’ve been looking at a painting by Cecile Caron,” I said tentatively.

  “Oh, I know Cecile.” Lucille, drained her wine glass and looked around for the waiter.

  “I like her style,” I said.

  “Traditional,” Lucille shrugged. “Redwall’s more exciting.”

  “Do you have any original Carons?” asked Eric.

  Jennifer’s hand snatched at mine.

  “No, not yet. I’ve sort of got my eye on one. We’re thinking about some art for our new home.”

  “Where do you folks live?”

  Jennifer’s fingernails dug into my palm.

  “Here in Portland,” I said.

  Lucille spotted the waiter and went after another glass of wine.

  “Do you paint?” Jennifer said to Eric.

  “No, I work for a gallery in Manchester, New Hampshire. I just came up for the showing. Lucille invited me. We’re old friends.”

  I judged him to be about Jennifer’s age, and so I thought their friendship couldn’t be too old. A waiter came around with crackers and cheese, and we took some. Jennifer moved me toward another painting.

  “That guy gives me the creeps,” she whispered.

  “I wasn’t especially taken by him,” I agreed.

  “He’s nosy. It was like he wanted to get our address.”

  “Yes. I’ll try to get his last name so I can check up on him.”

  “Maybe I can get Lucille alone and ask her.” Jennifer’s gaze tracked the older woman in the red dress.

  We made the rounds of the exhibit and chatted with a few more people. The gallery owner, Roger Blaisdell, was effusive and tried hard to sell me a Redwall.

  “Maybe,” I said, watching Jennifer chase Lucille, as Lucille chased another waiter. “I don’t have the right decorations for my office, and I’d really like something special for the bedroom at home, too.”

  “Something by a local artist for the office?” he suggested. “It’s good p.r.”

  “Do you ever have Landers watercolors?” I asked. Landers was one of the Maine artists we’d studied up on. One of his paintings was on our stolen list.

  “I had one last spring. Occasionally one comes my way. Would you like to leave your card?”

  My card had “Portland Police Department Priority Unit” on it. In the old days, I’d have given him a dummy business card that said I was an optometrist or an engineer. I said, “Perhaps my wife and I can come in one day when it’s not so crowded.”

  He drifted off to find someone more eager to buy Redwalls. Jennifer came back, eyes glittering. “Eric Stanley. He interned at the Portland Art Museum. That’s how she met him.”

  “Good work.”

  “Isn’t it Captain Larson?” I turned to face the inquirer. It was Thelma Blake, the widow of a famous author. Eddie and I had solved her husband’s murder earlier that year.

  “Mrs. Blake!” I shook her hand warmly. She wore a platinum wig, a sweeping lavender top over black chiffon trousers, and sequined high heels.

  Jennifer clasped her hand, smiling. “So good to see you.”

  “How have you been since the wedding?” Thelma asked.

  “Wonderful,” said Jenny.

  I looked around and then leaned toward Thelma. “Mrs. Blake, we’re here incognito tonight.”

  “Oh, dear, I hope I didn’t” –She leaned forward and whispered loudly—“blow your cover.”

  I said, “No, we’re using our real names, but I’d just prefer no one knew my profession, if you get me.”

  “Oh, right, right.” She smiled and looked quickly from side to side. “You can trust me.”

  I wasn’t sure we could. Time to change the subject. “We’re expecting a baby,” I said with a big smile.

  “How delightful!” She scrutinized Jennifer’s figure. “Not for a while, I’d say.”

  Jennifer blushed. “Next April.”

  “My Ellen was born in April.”

  “How is she?” I asked, wondering how we could get away.

  “Oh, fine. You know, Martin’s book has been published. It will be in the stores next week.” Her husband’s last novel was being published posthumously. “They’re coming out with an entire new paperback line of his earlier works, too. It’s very exciting. I was on television in Boston a week ago.”

  We got home, exhausted, about midnight. I was supposed to get up and run at six the next morning, and I knew I’d be tired.

  My phone rang at five. I rolled over and fumbled for it.

  “Sorry, Harvey,” Mike said, “but you’d better get downtown. An orthopedist’s office was broken into. Guess what’s missing.”

  “Not drugs?”

  “Nope. Art off his office walls. A patrolman responded to the alarm, and the doctor’s down there, but so far they can’t tell that anything’s missing except two original watercolors and four prints.”

  I rolled out of bed. Jennifer opened one eye.

  “What’s up?”

  “Art theft, from a doctor’s office this time.”

  “Not Carl and Margaret’s?”

  “No. Go back to sleep.”

  I called Eddie. “Ed, it’s me. No running today. We’ve got an art theft. Meet me as soon as you can.” I gave him the address.

  The lock had been picked, too easily. I could see that as soon as we got there and looked at the door.

  “You need better security here,” I told the doctor.

  “The building owner is supposed to take care of those things.” He sat unhappily on the corner of the receptionist’s desk while we looked around. “We had the alarm, and the drug cupboard has a double lock. Still, I suppose I should have insisted on better door locks.”

  I scanned the patrolman’s notes. “Art worth over ten thousand dollars.”

  “I never thought anyone would break in here. Can you get the pictures back?”

  “Doubtful. They’re probably over the state line by now.”

  He groaned and shook his head.

  “Call your insurance agent.”

  “Harv,” said Eddie, “Looks like they broke something.”

  “The prints in the waiting room had glass,” said the doctor. There were several shards on the floor below the bare spot where one print had hung.

  “Must have dropped the frame.” Eddie used tweezers to carefully pick up each piece of glass and drop it into a plastic bag. “Hey!”

  “What?” I was right there, looking over his shoulder.

  “Blood, maybe?” He held up a sliver of glass with the tweezers.

  I whipped out another evidence bag and opened it. “This may be our break.” I couldn’t help remembering what Abby had said the night before—that we needed another crime to give us some evidence in the case.

  Eddie and Nate spent most of the morning at the doctor’s office while I went to the police station. There were no fingerprints, but they found two tiny drops of blood on the rug, and a smear on a piece of glass in the hallway.

  I ate lunch with them at the café, and we went over the limited clues.

  “Why did they pick an office this time, not a house?” asked Eddie.

  “Must have heard the doctor had nice pictures,” I said. “Maybe one of the thieves is a patient of his.”

  Nate stirred his coffee thoughtfully. “They’ve nearly been caught twice in homes. Maybe they picked an office because it was empty at night.”

  “Or maybe this is a different bunch of burglars,” I said.

  I flagged Eric Stanley’s name on my computer and did a thorough background check that afternoon. He was young in the art field, and there wasn’t much, but he did have a bad check record and had hopped from employer to employer.

  A shadow fell across my screen, and I looked up.

  “Human blood on the glass, Harv,” Eddie reported.

  I’d expected that. “Great. Send it to Augusta.” The state was building a DNA database and required blood tests from felons. “If we arrest anyone on this thing, they have to g
ive us a sample.”

  *****

  Saturday was circus day. I took Jennifer to the matinee, and Eddie brought Rachel Trueworthy. I didn’t know her well, had only seen her around at church. She had curly brown hair and a nice smile, and she conversed well without chattering.

  Jennifer loved the circus. All right, I loved the circus, too. We all did. It was one of those things that made me feel young. Jennifer in pigtails and striped shirt over jeans, face lit up as she watched the tigers pace and the costumed horses leap. She looked like the little girl on the fence in Cecile Caron’s painting. Cotton candy and clowns and Jenny squeezing my hand. For once I was able to completely forget the age difference. It was part of the magic she pulled on me.

  We went home laughing, and Eddie and Rachel stayed to supper. Peter arrived with the boys at four-thirty, and we sat down at five. The two boys, Andy and Gary, were quiet at first, but grew more and more excited as we told them about the show that afternoon. They couldn’t wait to see it themselves.

  When the Hobarts whisked Abby away, leaving us with the dishes, Eddie manfully grabbed a dish cloth. I couldn’t weasel out of it then, so I helped, too, scrubbing out a few pans. Rachel cleared the table, and Jennifer loaded the dishwasher.

  It was cooling off, so I lit the fireplace, and we drank hot cocoa and played Rook. I was warming up to Rachel, but still at the back of my mind was the image of dark-haired Leeanne, watching Eddie silently, wistfully. She was so young, but I found I had picked my favorite for Eddie. Maybe, in time, two of my favorite people would find each other. I smiled, remembering how she’d watched us with binoculars while Eddie heroically took a dive in the ocean at Fort Point last summer.

  He and Rachel headed out soon after nine, and Eddie said to me low, in the breezeway, “Thanks, Harv. Nice first date. I’ve had worse.”

  “Anytime, Ed.”

  Jennifer and I sat companionably in front of the fire until Abby came in. Peter had left her at the door, with two sleepy boys in his car. She meandered into the living room, wailing, “Now what do I do? I love those little kids!”

  “Think long and hard,” I said. “That’s a big job, being an instant mom.”

  “That Andy is so cute! Trying to be tough, but the tigers scared him. And Peter was such a good daddy!”

  “He might have been on his best behavior tonight,” I said cynically.

  “And maybe not, too,” said Jennifer. “He’s a nice guy, and he has nice kids, and he’s been through a lot.”

  “True,” I said. “And don’t get me wrong. I like Peter. How does he stack up against your other suitors?”

  “Suitors, plural?” Abby flopped down into an armchair.

  “Well, there’s Greg and Eddie and Charlie…”

  “I don’t think Charlie qualifies as a suitor,” said Jennifer. “He asked her for a date, and she said no.”

  “And Eddie doesn’t really like me.” Abby shook her head. “I mean, he does, but not that way.”

  “You sure?” I asked.

  “He flirts with other girls right under my nose. “He brought another girl here tonight. What does that tell you?”

  I said, “Well, you don’t seem too broken up about it.”

  Abby pursed her lips. “I think Eddie and I will always be good friends.” I was glad to hear that.

  “So that leaves the fly boy,” said Jennifer.

  “Yeah.” Abby looked very somber.

  “Make two lists,” Jennifer suggested. “Car dealer versus navigator. Sporadic income versus huge salary. Instant family versus babies of your own.”

  Abby cried, “You mean, two adorable boys plus babies of my own versus just babies of my own. You’re slanting things. And I think Peter has a pretty good income. He’d be home every night, too, which is more than I can say for Greg.”

  Jennifer threw up her hands. “It’s your decision. Maybe neither of them’s right for you.”

  “Take your time, Abby,” I said. “Give them both a fair chance, and don’t rule out anything yet.”

  Chapter 16

  Sunday, October 24

  Jennifer was impatient for our trip to Skowhegan. Six men from our department were going for the Integrated Ballistics Identification System training, and all would stay in the dorm at the Criminal Justice Academy in Vassalboro, except Eddie and me. On Sunday, Jennifer began packing. We would leave Tuesday when I got home from work.

  Beth and Jeff came for lunch after church, and it seemed quiet. Abby, who had sat with Peter and the boys during the service that morning, went right to bed after lunch. Beth and Jeff sat on the wicker settee in the sunroom, and Jeff kept his arm around her shoulders. Yes, things were looking cozy in that direction.

  While Jennifer showed Beth the new boots she’d bought, I had a chance to speak to Jeff in private.

  “Did you talk to the pastor last week?” I asked him.

  “Yeah. Thanks for helping me, Harvey. You were right—Pastor Rowland was a big comfort to me.”

  “What did he say about telling people?”

  “He pretty much agreed with you. He said if it would help catch a criminal or ease grief, then do it, but the guy’s incarcerated and … Well, you said it. Knowing what I told you would probably cause more hurt.”

  I nodded. “What about Beth?”

  Jeff got the dog-who-fetched-the stick look. “Yeah. Beth.”

  “You two are getting close,” I said.

  “Uh-huh. I told her, I’ve settled things with God. If she wants to know about the worst night of my life, I’ll tell her someday. But right now, I don’t think we need that between us. I’m okay.”

  “I’m glad.” I, too, had a worst night ever to look back on—my partner Chris’s death, and Carrie walking out on me. It wasn’t something I wanted to talk about and depress my loved ones. The people who had to know knew.

  Jeff smiled again, the sweet but slightly sorrowful look Jennifer got sometimes. “Everything’s forgiven. I didn’t think it could be this way.”

  A huge weight rolled off me. “It can. We’ll keep praying for you, Jeff. This will make Jennifer very happy, you know. Well, it does me, too, but she’s been very concerned about you.”

  “I’ll talk to her,” he said. “I know she’s been wondering if I believed or not. I’ll tell her she can stop wondering.”

  *****

  When I got home on Tuesday, Jennifer and Abby had supper ready, and we ate quickly, so we could hit the road.

  “Be careful while we’re gone, Abby,” Jennifer said. She warned her about taking safety precautions when leaving the house at night and coming home early in the morning. Abby had been granted her request to change shifts, but had to work through Sunday on her old schedule. After that, she would leave for work in the afternoon and come home at eleven. She would sleep when we slept and be there for Jennifer during the day.

  “We’ll call you when we get to your parents’ house,” I said, “and you call us when you get home tomorrow morning, all right?”

  Jennifer frowned at her. “We should have asked Beth to come stay with you.”

  “I’d hardly see her. She’d be here alone at night sleeping, and I’d be here alone during the day sleeping.”

  She was right, and there wasn’t much we could do about it. We both hugged Abby and got into my vehicle. I picked Eddie up at his apartment, and we drove north, arriving at the Wainthrops’ house in Skowhegan about eight o’clock. Jennifer was tired. She called Abby, and I encouraged her to go to bed early. When I’d tucked her in, I sought out my mother-in-law.

  “Marilyn, I have to run an errand. Would you come with me?”

  “This late?”

  “Yes, I have an appointment, and it’s not far.”

  “You’re so mysterious!”

  Eddie was playing a game with Leeanne, Travis, and Randy in the living room. Jennifer’s father, George, had the TV on. Marilyn went in and told them we were going on an errand, then joined me in my Explorer.

  “Where are we going
?” she asked, pulling on knit gloves.

  “To see Cecile Caron, the artist.” I told her about the painting Jennifer and I had seen in the gallery in Portland.

  “How exciting,” Marilyn said.

  “I was going to take Jennifer with me, but I decided to let it be a surprise.” I was already planning how I would present the painting to her.

  We found the house, and Mrs. Caron let us in. I apologized for being so late.

  “That’s all right. You told me it might be late evening.”

  I introduced Marilyn. Mrs. Caron sat us down in her pleasant living room. Nothing matched in her décor, but the mix of bright fabrics, shelves of books, and serene paintings was soothing. She brought a five-by seven photograph to me and said, “I think this is what you want to see.”

  I looked at it. The little girl was definitely the one from the painting. She had the pixie face, the pigtails, and Jennifer’s gray-blue eyes. I held it out to Marilyn, and she caught her breath.

  “That’s Jennifer, all right!”

  “Your daughter?” asked Mrs. Caron.

  “Yes.” Marilyn turned it over and read, “Little girl at Wainthrop farm,” and a date.

  “Could it be Abby?” I asked.

  “No, no, it’s too early, and anyway, Abby and Leeanne had short hair when they were little. We kept Jennifer’s long, but it was so much trouble I made the other girls wait until they were older to grow theirs out.”

  “I painted the old barn, from the back, that year,” said Mrs. Caron.

  Marilyn nodded eagerly. “I remember you setting up down there. Jeff and Jennifer wanted to go down and watch you. I tried to keep them from bothering you.”

  “They didn’t bother me. I used to take a lot of pictures, when I saw something I might want to paint later. Your little girl looked so wistful, I took her picture. I don’t know if she knew I took it at the time.”

  “She didn’t seem to remember anything about it,” I said. “She told me it couldn’t be her in the painting.”

  “She was pretty young,” said Marilyn.

  I looked at Mrs. Caron. “I want that painting. I’ll give you the money right now.”