The Stolen Canvas

by Marlene Chase

  At the whine of an approaching ambulance, Boomer sat up, and the dogs in their pens barked and brayed with renewed vigor. Relief flooded Tara as she ran to beckon them. She pulled Boomer back and wrapped her arms around him as the EMTs quickly attended to their patient.

  Tara answered their questions as best she could. They strapped Carla to a gurney and took her away. Someone would come to pick up the owl, they told her. It didn’t look quite right, and the bite might have something to do with Carla’s illness. Tara knew that wild birds carried organisms that could be potentially infectious to humans. A person could experience respiratory illness from flu-like symptoms to pneumonia. Some cases could have serious complications.

  Trembling, she dialed Annie’s number at Grey Gables. “I’m going to stay here,” she told Annie after briefly describing Carla’s condition. “Vanessa’s off today, and someone needs to see to the animals. I don’t know when they were fed; they’re making a terrible fuss.”

  “Thank God you went to the shelter today,” Annie told her. “I’ll call Vanessa and ask her to come out and help too.”

  Tara felt herself relax a little as she heard Annie’s quiet, confident voice. An honest heart. Strange, she thought, watching the ambulance dissolve into a tiny distant speck. Carla had treated her rather shabbily when they’d met, but in spite of it, Annie was quick to help when she was in trouble.

  Tara grabbed the sheets and blankets that had fallen from the bed. They would need laundering. She began tidying up the messy room, scooping up newspapers and soiled dishes, feeling the invasion of Carla’s privacy as her own. Too late for embarrassment, she told herself dismally. A copy of The New York Times on the crumpled bed lay opened to the daily crossword puzzle, which was nearly finished. Tara had tried one once, but found it too difficult. So Carla Calloway was something of a brain, she thought, opening a window to let in the fresh air. She straightened a curtain panel that had come loose from its mooring.

  As she bent to tuck Carla’s slippers under the bed, a bit of yellowed newspaper on the floor caught her eye. She was about to set it on the dresser when something fell out onto the floor. It was a small beaded ring that might have been handmade—tiny red, yellow, and blue beads strung onto plastic wire. Curiously, she opened the folded paper; it was brittle to the touch. Tucked inside was a swirl of black hair—one perfectly coiled tress.

  The clipping was no bigger than a postcard, and one short article had been circled in pencil: An unidentified teen arrested earlier this week after stealing H.T. Simmons’s automobile and crashing it into a tree on Ocean Drive remains in custody. The girl’s mother, sole parent and resident of Chelsea, Mass., near Boston, was killed in a traffic accident en route to Stony Point. The girl is being held by juvenile authorities pending contact with other family members. Authorities are not releasing further information at this time.

  Other brief articles accompanied the circled story: Lobster catch diminished by successive days of impenetrable fog. Meeting of the Stony Point Historical Society postponed during repairs. Tara searched the clipping, but the date was obscured. Feeling like a voyeur, she refolded the newspaper and tucked in the beaded ring and the swatch of hair. She nudged it gently under the bed near Carla’s slippers.

  So Carla was a bit of a romantic too. It was strange to think of the crusty old woman that way. Who did the hair belong to? And who was the teenager who had been arrested? Was it Carla herself who had stolen the car? How tragic to lose one’s mother like that. She pulled the newspaper out again and reread the paragraph, registering the details in her mind. Who was H.T. Simmons? Did he get his car back? What happened to the unidentified teenager whose mother was killed?

  But it was all none of her business; she shouldn’t even be reading it. Nerves quivering, Tara picked up the soiled laundry and closed the door to the bedroom. Whatever Carla Calloway’s secrets were, they were hers alone.

  Tara sighed, feeling desperately weary and at odds with herself. She didn’t think she could settle down enough to work on the website or to do the filing that waited in one of the wire baskets. Vanessa would arrive soon; together they’d make sure the animals were fed and watered, but then what?

  Boomer traipsed after her, whining softly.

  “I know, boy,” she consoled. “It’s been some day!”

  13

  Wally thanked Emmet Plait, Todd’s right-hand man, who signed out the dory he was to borrow for the day. The loaner was a muscular craft with deep gunwales and a high prow. He’d take her real easy on the trip back with the supplies he needed, but he looked forward to heading out onto the bay and feeling the wind through his hair. He might even have time to look for cliff sparrows or a tricolored heron with the binoculars he kept in his tackle box. He took a deep breath of sea air and felt his spirits lift.

  He needed a couple more three-foot oak boards to complete the job on Annie’s pantry. His truck was in the shop. Besides, it was more convenient to pick up what he needed by boat since the mill was located up the coast halfway to Petersgrove. Wally grinned at his rationalization as he prepared to launch the dory. Given the choice, he’d take travel by sea over land any day!

  When he was a kid, he had depended on the sea to provide some sanity in his life. When Pop was too drunk to navigate the sound and work his traps, Wally would take the boat out into the middle of the bay alone. Sometimes, idling there under the sky, he imagined his mother calling. He learned to listen for her accents in the keening of the gulls as a soft wind ruffled his hair and swept across his cheek like a caress.

  One day, he tried to tell Jem, “Listen! It’s like she’s here!”

  “It’s just the stupid gulls—rats with wings!” Jem only laughed and called him a baby. After that, Wally kept it to himself.

  He didn’t imagine he heard her voice anymore. Still, peace poured over him like a benediction when he glided through the water. He felt satisfied there, whole. But feeling that way had a lot to do with Peggy and God’s gift of their sweet Emily.

  Peggy would be at The Cup & Saucer, dashing about to fill orders, that smile of hers lighting up the diner like a strobe light. Something nagged at the back of his mind as he thought of her. Hearing how frequently Jem stopped in for coffee bothered him. He was staying in Petersgrove, said he had business there, but he showed up a lot in Stony Point.

  Peggy had never given him reason to be jealous, even though she often referred to her customers in that super-friendly way of many waitresses. More coffee, sweetie? What can I get for you, dearie? Anything for dessert, honey? Peggy loved everyone and rushed to the defense of the world, but she was his alone. Still, he knew how charming Jem could be. How he could wow the girls and get them to do anything he wanted. Just yesterday Peggy had told him, “Your brother left a five-dollar tip for a cup of coffee and a doughnut.”

  Well, if he can afford five-dollar tips, he didn’t need to swipe a hundred-dollar bill from the Gas N Go, Wally thought. So maybe he could put his mind to rest on that score. Maybe. Recalling the conversation between Ian and Annie brought a quick shudder of dread. He and Jem had been only two of the many customers visiting the station that Friday. Any of them could have done it. Why zero in on Jem? Why did he still see his brother as the unruly kid with a chip on his shoulder—a kid who lifted things from unsuspecting tourists and regulars who weren’t watching?

  Even after all these years, Wally could picture the watch Jem had stolen with uncanny accuracy. It was a two-toned Rolex—yellow gold and stainless steel—with a silver dial and shiny markers. Gold hour and minute hands glistened in its face with a date window at three o’clock. The gold band had flexed easily in Jem’s fingers. “Where’d you get that?”

  Jem had quickly stuffed the watch into his pocket and shrugged. “Got it off some guy I took on an all-day fishing trip. He needed a guide—somebody who knows the waters like the back of his hand.”

  A Rolex, even 20 years ago, cost a pretty penny, Wally knew. A lot more than the usual few bucks the summer people
would give for an afternoon jaunt, especially to a tadpole like Jem, whether he knew the area or not. He didn’t remember what had happened to the watch after that long-ago day. It surprised him now that the memory had come back so vividly.

  The trip to the mill wouldn’t take long, and it wasn’t even one o’clock yet. He had asked Peggy to have the ham-and-cheese sandwich ready for him when he stopped by the diner before picking up the boat. He half-expected Jem to be there and was relieved when he wasn’t.

  He climbed into the dory, dropping a folded canvas aft. After he picked up his supplies, he’d wrap the boards in it to protect them from water that might spray into the boat. The sudden storm that had come up an hour or so ago had vanished as quickly as it had come, and a weak sun bravely chased the clouds across the sky.

  He took his time launching the dory, his binoculars slung around his neck. A month ago he’d seen a flock of lingering Bohemian waxwings. Not much chance they’d still be around now, but he might spot a snow goose or a coot. He cruised slowly near the shoreline, feeling the worries begin to ebb as the water rocked beneath him. He liked to take Emily around the bay in his peapod. Sometimes they’d fish or look for birds along the bank; those were the best times, and once again he sensed the goodness of his life in Stony Point. Binoculars poised, he scanned the wooded bluff, alert for a blur of wings or a craning neck.

  But what came suddenly into his sights had two legs. A man walked slowly along the bluff, hands shoved deeply into his pockets, eyes downcast. The man’s gait was familiar. In a flash Wally recognized his brother. What was he doing so far from Petersgrove and a good two miles from Stony Point’s town center? Carla Calloway’s spread, with her menagerie of abandoned pets, lay just beyond the wooded rise.

  Thoughtfully, Wally dropped the binoculars and stared at Jem. And then he saw someone else. A girl ran in the opposite direction along a footpath toward the animal shelter. He raised the lenses once again and notched up the power. The girl was thin, not very tall, and had a wild bush of dark hair. She was running very fast. Even from three hundred yards off shore he recognized Tara, Annie’s houseguest, whom he and Jem had met last week at Grey Gables.

  That is, he thought Jem and Tara were meeting for the first time. What were the chances that Tara and Jem would just happen to be in this wooded area at the same time? And why was Tara running like the devil himself was after her? Had they met by chance, and had Jem tried to make a pass at her? She was pretty, but she hadn’t seemed to appreciate Jem’s charming ways the afternoon they’d met; in fact she’d been downright cold toward him. Had he said something, done something to her?

  Wally didn’t want to pursue that thought. He stashed his binoculars in the tackle box and revved up the motor. When he caught up to Jem, he cut the motor and drifted in toward shore. As he approached, he saw Jem pause along the rocky ledge above him.

  “Hey, Jem!” Wally called. He flung the cast rope around a tree stump protruding from the shoal. “Come on down. I’ll give you a ride back to town.”

  Panting with exertion, Jem maneuvered the rocky decline. He grabbed hold of Wally’s hand and dropped down unsteadily into the boat.

  “Well, little brother, I’m glad you happened along. I hitched a ride in from Petersgrove, but the guy only took me as far as the junction.” Jem smiled amiably, but he looked worn and tired. His hair looked like a blown haystack, and his fine silk shirt was wrinkled and smudged. “My rental blew a gasket—probably won’t get a replacement until tomorrow.”

  Wally headed out onto the bay at a mild rate of speed, troubled by what he’d seen. What was important enough to bring Jem to Stony Point today, and why did he look like three miles of bad road? “You OK, Jem?”

  “Of course. Just got caught in that little thunderstorm we had.” He jabbed at the front of his shirt and smoothed his rumpled hair. “Say, where’d you get this sweet little dory?”

  “Todd loaned it to me for the afternoon. I’m on the way to the mill to pick up some lumber for Annie. It’ll only take a half hour or so, and we’ll head back into town. Were you—uh—going somewhere special?”

  “Just to see the old digs. Thought I might kick back with you for a bit, but I don’t want to make a bore of myself. If you’re busy—” Jem left the sentence unfinished.

  “I’m picking up some supplies for the job I’m doing. Glad to have you ride along.” Wally eased the dory out into the open but kept the pace slow and steady.

  Suspicions nagged at him. Jem wasn’t booked into either of the hotels in Petersgrove. Wally had checked, having gone himself to the Schooner’s Rest Inn. The clerk had said that Jem had been there but had checked out. He was headed back home when he passed the trailer park and saw Jem getting into an old camper or some kind of van. Jem always came to Stony Point in a fancy sedan. What was he doing in that old rig that looked like it was on its last legs? If he asked Jem about it, he’d be mad as all get out, accuse him of spying on him, which was—after all—the truth.

  Wally drew in his breath and let it out slowly. “We did a lot of fishing in these waters,” he said awkwardly, focusing on happier times so long ago.

  “Reckon we did have some good times,” Jem said, “but I don’t have much time for fishing anymore.” He ran a hand along the gunwale. “Nice of old Todd to loan you his boat.” He gave Wally a sly smile. “You’re in pretty tight with the good citizens of Stony Point.” It sounded like an accusation, and Wally was puzzled. The chip Jem had carried as a boy seemed to have grown into a boulder.

  “They’re good neighbors,” Wally said, “and they’ve been good to me.”

  Jem said nothing to this, but just stretched back against the seat and peered into some distance Wally couldn’t see.

  Actually, they’d been generous to Jem, too, when they could have arrested him after he burned down Homer Swenson’s barn. He’d gone in there to smoke a cigarette. He’d had to work off some of the damages by hauling hay for Swenson all summer.

  “It’s good to have friends, Jem,” Wally said thoughtfully. He paused. “That was Annie’s friend running along the path a few minutes ago, wasn’t it?” He hoped for an offhand manner as he steered, his hand steady on the tiller.

  Jem looked up, startled.

  Wally knew he was surprised that someone had seen them. “She was running like a mad woman.” Wally jerked a thumb toward his open tackle box. “Binoculars. I keep them for bird-watching.” He waited for a sarcastic comment about bird-watching, which his brother was likely to think wasn’t manly.

  “I ran across her on the footpath, but she was too busy to say hello. She—uh—said she was late for work. So much for friendly citizens.” Jem gave a nervous laugh. “Then again, maybe I’m losing my touch.”

  Wally negotiated a bend in the coastline, and they rode in silence for a while. It was hard to figure Jem out when they were kids, and he was a long way from understanding him now. “How come you never came back all those years?” Wally was surprised at the sad sound of his own voice. In spite of everything, he’d loved Jem. “Didn’t you ever think about me?”

  A frown darkened the handsome face. “’Course I did. I told you, I just got busy. You know how life is. Things pile up on a person; time gets away.” After a brooding pause, he leaned over and gave Wally a slap on the shoulder. “Plenty of water’s been washing over the bridge for you too, man. You’re married and got a kid and all.” His voice trailed off, and he squinted up at the sky. “Yeah,” he said, stroking his jaw thoughtfully, “a lot of time has passed, but we did have some good times back in the day.”

  Wally saw that the trousers of Jem’s pants were frayed at the hem; there was a break in the sole of his left shoe. Real-estate bonanzas and five-dollar tips aside, maybe he wasn’t the tycoon he pretended to be. Mister, can you spare a dime? This view of his brother startled and saddened him. Jem wasn’t the brightest bulb in the pack, but he must have learned how to make a decent living. Still, times were hard; jobs were scarce.

  “You know,” h
e began tentatively, “we don’t have much, Peggy and me, but if you need anything …” Wally hesitated, frustrated by his thoughts and not knowing how to express them. Then he heard himself say flatly, “Jem, tell me you didn’t lift that hundred-dollar bill from the Gas N Go last week!”

  Several seconds of silence passed; then a gull screamed overhead. He waited, expecting an angry retort or a punch on the arm. Instead he heard low laughter. “Do I look like I need a handout, bro?”

  “Well,” Wally stammered, “you used to have some pretty sticky fingers, and then when I heard about the missing money, I just …” Wally floundered, apologetic and angry at the same time. “You were there with me that day. You went inside the station while I was filling up, and …”

  “So, they got a posse out for a puny hundred bucks from a cash register?” Jem’s laughter grew, but there was no humor in it. “Man, this really is a two-bit town.”

  Jem’s casual attitude fueled Wally’s anger. He blurted out, “The kid working there is being blamed; he might lose his job, and his mother is sick and depends on him.” That the money had been in a cash register hadn’t been mentioned. Jem had supplied that bit of information. Wally felt his throat thicken, not so much out of sympathy for Scooter, but out of fear that Jem could very well have stolen the money.

  The mill’s loading dock lay dead ahead. Wally cut the engine and headed in, grasping the tiller so hard he felt his knuckles stiffen. He cast the rope over a bleached post and climbed onto the dock, feeling Jem directly behind him, eager to get out of the boat. He turned back to his brother. “The folks in our town are good people,” he said. “I don’t want to see them hurt.”