by Jennifer Joy
Angry Art Man’s name was Angel? It didn’t fit him at all.
“His last name is on the tip of my tongue,” Miss Patty pursed her lips together and scrunched her face, like if she tried hard enough, she’d squeeze it out of her brain.
“I can’t believe I forgot. It’s a name I was certain I’d remember,” she said, opening her eyes again to look apologetically at Gus.
“If you think of it, give me a call. I’d like to check him out.” Gus tucked his notepad back in his pocket.
“I will,” Miss Patty promised. “He showed up at my gallery when I opened this morning. He’s a most unpleasant fellow. Absolutely no appreciation for art whatsoever.”
So he was still in town. Maybe he had broken into my apartment.
“All the more reason for me to send Jess’ painting to our inspectors and get to the bottom of this as quickly as we can,” said Gus, adding when he noted Miss Patty’s horrified expression, “They’re professionals and will take good care of the piece.”
“They’d better,” she demanded in unison with me.
The framer, who had been standing behind his counter listening in on our conversation, went into the back of his shop and retrieved my Incan princess.
It physically hurt to hand her over to Gus. “Take good care of her, will you?”
I held her out, but Gus had to tug to free her from my grasp.
Miss Patty draped her arm around my shoulders. “I know how it feels, sweety. But Gus has promised, and we’re going to hold him to it, aren’t we?”
Gus recoiled at her passive aggressive threat.
Once again, he reassured us that my princess would be safe.
My desire to catch the thief pronto kicked my mind into overdrive. I wanted my painting back.
An idea struck me. “Miss Patty, you should look through your ledger for the other purchasers. You could call and warn them that their paintings are in danger of being stolen.” My idea brightened, lending strength to my limbs as I added, “Or even better, we could set a trap to catch the thief!” I happened to know which ladies to ask for help. They were experts.
Gus didn’t much like my turn of thought and subsequent change in mood. “Leave the policing to the police, Jess,” he warned, departing from the frame shop with my painting.
As soon as the door swung shut, Miss Patty grabbed my hand, squeezing it as her eyes filled up for another round of tears. “I can’t find my ledger. And what’s worse, Eduardo didn’t show up for his class Monday night. He never misses.” Worry etched her face.
“Do you know where Eduardo lives? Or maybe where he works? We could go check on him,” I suggested. Miss Patty was as peaceful as my dad, and it pained me to see her so concerned.
She did know where Eduardo worked, explaining how his inspiration was fueled by his trade as we hit the pavement. After a quick stop at my place for Lady, we walked to the outskirts of town. A large gravel drive opened up to a cheerful building with planters hanging on either side of the porch stairs leading to its entrance and surrounded by plastic greenhouses. It was my gardener’s place of business — Patricio’s Garden Center.
Surprised, I said, “This is Patricio’s. He’s on my terrace right now. Why have I never seen Eduardo before?”
“Eduardo prefers to stay in the background, working with the plants instead of the customers. He’s very shy.”
We walked past a row of pots marked as sold lining the flowerbed in front of the porch. One had a hydrangea bush in it, the same color as the ones in the house I grew up in. It would match my painting perfectly. I asked one of the men coming out of a greenhouse about it.
He spoke way too fast. I only caught a few words.
I smiled and nodded, then turned to Miss Patty, hoping I’d strung the words I’d heard together correctly. “Did he say those are sold, but that they could get me another one?”
“That’s exactly what he said. Well done,” she said, continuing down a row between two greenhouses.
I’d have to ask about the hydrangea another day. Miss Patty was on a mission, and I wasn’t about to slow her down.
At the end of the row was a small shack with its large, glass doors open. I stopped to knock, but Miss Patty charged forward.
I stayed near the door, looking past my intrepid, artsy friend to see a large work table filled with pots and dusted with clumps of dirt. There were orchids and bushy ferns lining the shelves to our right and left.
A young man I guessed to be in his late teens or early twenties waved at Miss Patty from behind the table. He had dark, wavy hair and wide-set almond-shaped eyes. He looked at me cautiously, grunting as he waved his hands around.
Miss Patty calmed him with a few gestures, and I understood why she hadn’t bothered to knock. Eduardo was deaf.
Chapter 10
Eduardo relaxed as Miss Patty signed to him. Her earlier comments about how he thought in images made more sense now.
I waved when she appeared to introduce me, and I instantly liked Eduardo when he knelt down to Lady’s level and ruffled her ears. She rolled her head back with a big doggy smile.
“She likes you,” I said, feeling bad when Eduardo clearly didn’t understand me.
“He can read lips, but you’ll have to speak in Spanish,” Miss Patty told me.
Well, that didn’t help me much. What Spanish I knew escaped me as the pressure to communicate what should have been a simple thought complicated everything. Miss Patty wasn’t in a hurry to help — the stinker — and I didn’t want Eduardo to feel that he wasn’t worth the effort at an attempt to help him understand.
Forming my hands into a heart, I pointed at Lady, then at him.
To my delight (and relief), he mimicked my handmade heart, pointing first to himself, then to Lady.
“He likes Lady, too,” I said aloud, overjoyed to have been not only understood but to have him repeat my rustic gestures. They must not have been too bad.
I laughed when he gave me a thumbs up, but he lost me completely when he moved his hands in what looked like a flurry of fingers to me.
Thankfully, Miss Patty stepped in. “He’s asking if you’re the artist who draws the Jungle Jane comics,” she translated, shuffling her feet and blushing. To me, she added, “I showed him some of your earlier sketches. I wanted him to see the variety of artistic expression available to him, and I feel that your drawings are a fantastic example.”
So long as they weren’t used as an example of what not to do, I supposed I didn’t care. There was no judgment in his expression, only open interest. Miss Patty knew my drawings were never meant to be taken too seriously, them being strictly a hobby. “It’s okay. They’re not the best, but if they’re helpful for your students, I don’t mind. What does he think of my comics?”
Eduardo’s opinion did matter to me, so I was thrilled when Miss Patty interpreted, “He says that he’s often wondered what it felt like to be able to read a book like people do without a hearing impairment. While he understands written words here and there, he thinks of language differently, so reading a book is something he’ll never really be able to enjoy like you do.” As an aside, she added, “They have schools for the deaf here, but they’re not as advanced as they are in other countries where their students read and write fluently.”
She scrambled to catch up when Eduardo continued, “He says that he sees a story in your sketches just like a reader must see a story in their minds when they read, and he hopes that you continue creating more story drawings. He thanks you.”
Miss Patty’s eyes got misty. “Aw, Jess, do you realize how important your art is for others? Your comics, the few I showed him, communicate to him in a way he can appreciate and truly understand. He felt like he was reading a book just like we do.” She fanned her hand in front of her eyes, blinking rapidly and adding in a choked voice, “We take so much for granted, don’t we?”
I had never thought of my comics as anything more than an entertaining way to record my Ecuadorian adventures in a
manner that encouraged others to think they were simply an amusing work of fiction. (Little did they know how very real they were.) That Eduardo saw something in my pencil strokes that I hadn’t even seen was both humbling and inspiring. It made me want to hurry and have another adventure so I’d have something new to sketch.
Miss Patty and Eduardo signed back and forth, and I was as lost with their conversation as I had been my first day in Ecuador. It was sensory overload, only made worse when I heard voices coming in our direction from behind me.
Eduardo tensed again, hiding behind a lovely purple orchid as two police officers I didn’t know showed up in front of the shed. Lady sat protectively in front of him.
“What are you doing here?” Miss Patty asked the policemen. They must have been rookies or transfers from the city. None of the Baños policemen were so well starched and rigid.
The taller one said, “We have some questions for Eduardo. He’s the artist of the stolen paintings, isn’t he?”
“Yes. But he won’t be able to speak with you—”
He interrupted, holding up his hand. “It’s okay, ma’am. Our interpreter is on his way. He should be here any minute.”
Miss Patty didn’t like that, and I couldn’t blame her. Eduardo looked terrified. She signed to him, but the officer asked her to stop.
“Please, ma’am, I must ask you to step aside.” The policeman’s words were respectful, but his manners were inflexible. Yeah, he was definitely an out-of-towner. The shorter officer seemed to be content to stand silently at attention beside him.
“I know Sign language. I can help you,” she offered.
“We’re here on official business. We need to wait for our interpreter.”
“Official business? Eduardo isn’t under arrest, is he?” she gasped.
“I’m not at liberty to say,” Officer “By-the-Book” said, his posture so stiff, my back got sore just looking at him. I bet he ironed the parts of his shirt his jacket didn’t cover.
Why hadn’t Gus come? He had enough of the human touch, he wouldn’t have intimidated Eduardo like these guys did.
Miss Patty widened her stance and crossed her arms. She wasn’t going anywhere unless they made her. I leaned against the worktable, prepared to stay for a while. Maybe our presence would help ease Eduardo’s tension.
“Ma’am. Miss. I’m sorry, but I must ask you to leave,” said Officer “Uptight.”
Miss Patty raised her hands to say something to Eduardo but had to simply wave a goodbye when that earned her a stern look from the officers.
She grabbed my arm, pulling me past the greenhouses out to the gravel drive. “Jess, I’m worried. Eduardo won’t understand, and their manners will only set him on edge and make him defensive.”
I had to ask the obvious question. “You don’t think he knows anything about the missing paintings, do you?”
“No!” she exclaimed, instantly peeved at me.
“Why else would the police be here, do you think?” I pressed.
“I have no idea.”
“Seller’s remorse?” I asked, risking her ire.
“He was thrilled with the money he earned from his work. Why would he steal his own paintings when he could produce another one? Besides, he’s noisy. He doesn’t know what it means to sneak anywhere.”
“You don’t have to convince me, Miss Patty. I like Eduardo. I’m just trying to figure out why the police are here.”
“Jess, you’ve got to help him. If anyone can get to the bottom of this, it’s you. Eduardo has only recently found his artistic voice, and I would hate for this to prevent his Muse from paying him another visit.”
For a split second, I was in Dad’s studio. He mumbled to himself, gently tracing his fingers over a sculpture he worked on in an attempt to invoke his Muse. He and Mom fought over it all the time. To her, inspiration was found in the actual act of producing art. Dad, however, insisted that his best work was produced when his Muse tapped him on the shoulder and breathed new wonder into his eyes. I wanted to believe they were both right.
I blinked to clear my head. Miss Patty squeezed my hands between hers. “Will you help Eduardo, Jess?” she repeated.
I wanted to tell her what she wanted to hear, I really did. But unless I cloned myself, I didn’t see how I reasonably could. “Mammy traveled all the way here, and I want to show her around. My shop is opening this weekend.” I could have listed more reasons for me not to get involved (like Gus telling me not to…), but one look at her downcast face changed my mind. Maybe it was time for another adventure. Mammy would enjoy that more than hiking through the bug-infested rain forest. We’d be a team — like Holmes and Watson.
Squeezing Miss Patty’s hands back, I said in an upbeat tone, “I’ll do what I can.”
Miss Patty pulled me into an embrace. “Of course, sweety. Family first. I know you’re busy, but anything you can do to help Eduardo would mean the world to me … and, I’m certain, to him, too. I know you can figure out what’s going on. You always do.”
I wasn’t as confident in my capabilities as Miss Patty was, but that wouldn’t stop me from trying.
Chapter 11
These were the facts as I knew them: two of Eduardo’s ten paintings had been stolen, and my piece had been sequestered for examination. It wasn’t a whole lot to go on. Where to start?
“Miss Patty, can I see the pictures of the other paintings? If we look at them together, we might see why someone has targeted Eduardo’s art,” I suggested.
“And taken the trouble to steal them,” Miss Patty added, wringing her hands and spinning her turquoise ring around her finger.
“We need to find your ledger. I’ll help you look,” I suggested.
Miss Patty’s shoulders slumped in defeat. “I’ve looked everywhere. But I do have a tendency of misplacing things.”
That was an understatement, but I didn’t say it out loud. She already felt bad enough.
Back at the gallery, Miss Patty searched for her phone while I snooped around for the missing ledger.
“When was the last time you remember seeing it?” I asked, looking over by the sink where an open bottle of Sprite was left beside a towel with brushes laying out to dry. I sniffed the bottle, the sweet, lemony smell reminding me of a summertime picnic.
Miss Patty crossed the room, looking flustered. “I put it in my desk drawer so Angel What’s-His-Name couldn’t see it.”
I remembered that. But when I checked the drawer, it most decidedly wasn’t there.
“Jess, I think we have another problem. I can’t find my cell phone with the pictures either.” She raised her hands to her head. “I would lose my head if it wasn’t attached!”
We started at one end of the gallery and moved meticulously to the other. I even looked inside the mini refrigerator she kept by her sink. There was another bottle of Sprite. Out of curiosity, I twisted the top off and smelled, coughing at the overwhelming odor of paint thinner.
I picked up a brush from the towel over by the sink, the bristles clumping and sticking to my fingers, and realized what Miss Patty had done. And it didn’t give me much confidence we’d find her ledger or her phone.
“Miss Patty, you switched your Sprite and paint thinner.” I put the lid back on the thinner and placed it behind the sink by the brushes and held the Sprite out to her.
After a reassuring sniff of the bottle, she took a swig of her pop, smacking her forehead when she saw the brushes. “No wonder they were so difficult to clean.”
“Miss Patty, you need to be more careful. What if you had taken a drink of the thinner?”
“Oh, I’ve done that before, and it’s not something I wish to repeat. I try to be more organized, but the more involved I am in my art and that of my students’, the more scatterbrained I become.”
It was time to think of alternatives. Who knew if the ledger or her phone with all the pictures of the paintings would ever show up? She kept her ringer on silent, so calling her phone wouldn’t help.
We were running out of options.
“Okay, then. Something else. Do you remember the other paintings? Can you sketch them with as much detail as you recall?”
Miss Patty latched onto the idea with enthusiasm. “Now that, I can do!” She opened a desk drawer and counted out ten sheets of paper, handing one to me. “Here, you can sketch yours while I do the others.”
I could have reminded her that I had a picture of my painting on my phone, which was in the pocket of the 501s I wore. But drawing would give me something relaxing to do while she sketched the other paintings.
It took a couple of hours. Miss Patty insisted on getting the details as correctly as she remembered them, using colored pencils to add the right pigments to the papers.
When we were done, we spread them over the only uncluttered surface in the gallery — the floor — to compare.
Each drawing had indigenous women with braided hair. The only differences were in their positioning and the jewelry and flowers which accented them. It was a lovely set, and I would gladly have filled my walls with them.
“I can see why Angry Art Man wants all the paintings. They’re so lively and enchanting,” I admitted.
“Angry Art Man?”
“That’s what I call him. Angel doesn’t suit.”
Miss Patty raised her hands to the heavens. “That’s it! I knew I’d remember. This is the real kicker. Can you guess what his last name is?”
I looked at her blankly, hoping she wouldn’t really make me guess.
She continued, “Flores.”
“Flores,” I repeated. “Like flowers?”
Angel Flowers? That couldn’t be a real name.
“Yep. Angel Flowers is his name … or so he says. I remember thinking at the time that he was making it up, but he paid in full with cash, so who was I to question him if he felt the need to use a pseudonym? Oh! I need to call Gus.” She tapped me with her finger. “Please remind me to call Gus before you have to leave.”
In my mind, I’d still think of Angel Flores as Angry Art Man. “Which one did he buy?” I asked.