Picture Imperfect

by Rickie Blair

  “I turn the painting over, then collect my percentage.”

  I pressed my lips together. This was a fascinating story. But while I wanted to hear more about art theft and fraud and all the tales this woman could tell, a crime had been committed, and it should be reported to the police.

  I was torn. It must have shown on my face.

  Dragon Lady downed her drink, then lowered the empty glass. “I know what you’re thinking, but I assure you the police are rarely interested in art fraud. A wealthy collector gets ripped off—who cares? They have more serious crimes to deal with.”

  “But—”

  “Look at it from their point of view. They charge Hemsworth with possessing stolen goods—not a serious charge, by the way. He says he didn’t know they were stolen. Lawyers get involved. Expensive legal wrangling results. The case takes years to get in front of a judge. And in the end, the whole thing is likely to be thrown out on a technicality—or dismissed for lack of evidence.”

  Rising to her feet, she padded over to the bureau to set the glass down. She picked up the gin bottle, gave it a long look, then replaced it on the bureau with a sigh and turned to face us.

  “And that’s only if the police actually haul ass to investigate it properly in the first place. Meanwhile”—she held up her hands—“that painting’s locked up in evidence and the insurers are out the claim money.”

  She paused, looking at each of us in turn before continuing. “Or, we do it my way.”

  I unfurled my arms. “Which is?”

  “My sources tell me when a special painting is being shopped around, no questions asked. I pretend to be a wealthy collector with no scruples about the origin of my acquisitions. That flushes out somebody like Hemsworth, who offers me that special painting under the table. No provenance. In this scenario, the original collector gets his artwork back, Nigel gets his cash, the insurer gets their refund—everybody’s happy.”

  “It’s still a crime.”

  She smiled. “Verity. Don’t be naive.”

  By this point, my father was so anxious to get out of there he was almost bouncing on the bed. I turned to the team. “Can I have a few minutes alone with this woman?”

  They filed out the door.

  “Leave the laptop,” said the former blonde.

  Lorne, who had tucked it under one arm, complied, looking sheepish.

  Once the door was closed, she turned to face me. “What do you want?”

  “Look,” I said. “Maybe your way is better. To be honest, I don’t care about a stolen painting. But a good friend of mine is about to be charged with a crime he didn’t commit, and I think Nigel Hemsworth knows something about it. It’s only a hunch, but I can’t ignore it.” I took a deep breath. “So—I will promise not to go to the police about your sting operation, if you’ll find out what Nigel knows—and then tell me.”

  She gave me a long look. I could see she was intrigued. Picking up the wrapped painting from the sofa, she walked over to the door with it. “What kind of crime?” she asked, propping the painting against the wall.

  “Murder.”

  Her eyebrows arched. “That’s a little out of my league.”

  “I doubt that. I’m willing to bet there’s a criminal justice background somewhere in your CV. Maybe you’re working for an insurance company now, but—”

  “Actually,” she broke in, “I’m a freelancer.”

  “Whatever. It wasn’t always about the money, was it? Doesn’t it gall you that the bad guys simply walk away after one of your jobs? I mean, you recover the goods, yes, but what about the perps?”

  Her lips twitched at my use of perps, but I suspected I’d hit a nerve. She stared a long while at the wrapped painting.

  I held my breath.

  Then she pulled over the armchair and sat, draping her arms over the sides and crossing her legs. “I’ll doubtless regret this, but—give me the details.”

  After I filled her in on Ryker’s predicament, she shook her head. “I admire your determination, but this friend of yours is probably guilty.”

  “He’s not. He can’t be. Those were brutal, horrible murders. One of those women he didn’t even know. And the other one he really liked.”

  “You only know that because he said so.”

  “I know it looks bad. But you don’t have to believe he’s innocent to help me. Don’t you think it’s suspicious that Nigel is involved with the sale of an inheritance that Ryker has no interest in?”

  “I hate to keep harping on about this, but you only know your friend is indifferent to his inheritance because he told you so.”

  “I know that. But there are other coincidences. His half-sister showing up, asking about the painting. The mysterious addition to his cousin’s will that stipulates Spirit of the North has to stay in Leafy Hollow. And now—because of you—we know Nigel’s a fraud artist. He has to be up to something.”

  She tapped her fingers on the arm of the chair. “Maybe so, but there’s nothing to indicate that it’s murder.” She regarded the painting by the door for a moment before adding, “I agree it looks suspicious, but I’m not sure how I can help you.”

  “You can set up another meeting with Nigel. Tell him you’re interested in the Lawren Harris painting.”

  “That one’s not stolen.”

  “As far as we know.” I raised my eyebrows.

  She shook her head. “It’s never been on my radar.”

  “It’s never been on anybody’s radar—because it’s been locked away in Perry Otis’s collection for decades. Hardly anybody’s seen it. That’s suspicious, don’t you think?”

  “Not really. Obsessed collectors are often eccentric. Besides, it was displayed at the open house. Everybody saw it then.”

  “Only people from the village. There were no art experts in the crowd—no one who might recognize it as having been stolen years ago.”

  With her lips pursed, she rose to retrieve her handbag from the bed. After rummaging around, she pulled out a pair of leather driving moccasins and slipped them on. Then she tossed the red-soled pumps, the platinum wig, and the laptop into her bag and lifted it onto her shoulder.

  “Wait. That laptop is—”

  “Mine. Yes. Thanks for that, by the way. I’ve been wondering how to get it out of your father’s room. I’ll come back later for the camera.”

  “Did you record any other transactions on it?”

  She strolled over to the closet to retrieve her silk wrap, then flung it around her shoulders. “Of course. I find it keeps everybody honest.” At the expression on my face, she smiled. “Don’t worry. I’ll call off Birdie.”

  “Thanks. So—are you going to help me?”

  She shrugged. “I’ll talk to Nigel. Then I’ll ask around to see what I can find out. Call it professional curiosity.”

  “You can call it whatever you like, but I’m calling it a really big favor for which I will be forever grateful.”

  She handed me a business card. “Don’t thank me yet. There may be nothing I can do for your friend.”

  I scanned the card. It read simply,

  Cayenne Cole

  Followed by a phone number.

  Cayenne hoisted the painting under her arm, then opened the motel room door and stepped through.

  “Wait,” I said, looking up from her card. “That Ferrari outside? Is it really yours?”

  She grinned, gave me a wink, and closed the door.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Nigel had barely squirreled away his takings in the strongbox in the basement of his shop when Cayenne contacted him again.

  “You know, Nigel,” she purred on the phone. “Our transaction went so fluidly it left me with quite an appetite.”

  “Really?” He pitched his voice low to cover a sudden quaver. “We’ll have to do something about that.” Tucking a finger under his shirt collar, he pulled it away from his neck.

  “Silly man.” She chuckled smoothly. “I meant an appetite for more art. In
particular, that spectacular Group of Seven. Despite your denials, I’ve heard that you might be persuaded to sell it.” She paused. “For the right price.”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  “Is it true?”

  “Maybe,” he replied, thinking fast. No reason to scare her off. Of course, he couldn’t let her have Spirit of the North, but Cayenne Cole was a solid buyer. He could always use one of those. Especially given her other attributes. He tugged at his collar again. “There are a few difficulties, but you never know. Difficulties can be overcome.”

  “Good to hear. Meanwhile, can I take a closer look at it?”

  “I don’t see why not.” He smiled to himself, picturing her curves. “It’s at the farmhouse. Are you still in the village?”

  “I am, as it happens.”

  “Meet me there in fifteen minutes.”

  He gave her the address before hanging up. Hopefully he’d have time to set out a few drinks before she arrived.

  Once at the house, he left the front door slightly ajar.

  In the kitchen, he double-checked that the latch on the counter window was closed. Can’t be too careful, he thought, chuckling.

  Then he got down two crystal glasses, tossed ice cubes into a makeshift bucket—after removing a potted plant—and retrieved the vodka he’d stashed in the freezer after the open house. The booze had already been charged to Perry’s estate. No reason to waste it.

  Now—where best to place the beverages?

  He walked through the great room, assessing the furniture placement, all the while thinking about the way Cayenne filled out that silk dress. And her long legs in those killer heels. Wait—he paused—what about the other paintings? The ones on the second floor? Wouldn’t she want to see those, too?

  He smirked. She certainly would—especially the small Rembrandt in Perry’s opulent bedroom. And if the drinks happened to be close by, well—

  He tucked the vodka bottle under one arm, picked up the glasses, then bounded up the stairs, whistling.

  Whapp.

  A blow struck the side of his head.

  Nigel stumbled backward, shrieking in pain, then tumbled to the bottom of the stairs. The vodka bottle and crystal glasses flew out of his hands, smashing against the wall.

  For several seconds, he lay there, bewildered. Groggily, he rose to his feet. The side of his head was on fire. He raised a hand to his ear, then winced in pain and pulled his hand away. Numbly, he stared at it. It was covered in blood. Stunned, he looked around. There was blood everywhere, mingling with the vodka dripping down the stairs.

  He raised his eyes, then gasped.

  A knife hung in the stairwell, attached to the ceiling with a wire.

  Nigel stared dumbly at it.

  Slowly, he pulled his cell phone from his pocket and jabbed 9-1-1.

  Rrring-rrring-rrring.

  Holding the phone to his good ear, he closed his eyes. Blood dripped down his neck.

  Please answer, he thought.

  Rrring-rrring-rrring.

  Please.

  A voice crackled in his ear. “This is—”

  “Someone tried to murder me,” Nigel wailed.

  “Calm down, please, sir. Tell me what happened.”

  “My ear,” he roared. “There’s blood everywhere.”

  “Do you need medical attention?”

  “Of course I need damned medical attention,” he screamed. “Are you an idiot?”

  “Calm down, please, sir. I’m sending an ambulance to your location. Are you alone in the house? Is there an intruder?”

  “Yes. I mean—no, I’m alone.”

  “Are you able to answer the door?”

  “Of course I can answer the damned door. What’s keeping them?”

  “They’ll be there shortly, sir. Do you know who assaulted you?”

  Nigel hesitated. Now that help was on the way, he was less panicky. He looked up at the kitchen knife hanging from a wire above the staircase, its blade dripping with blood. Glancing down at the baseboard, he saw a much tinier wire—the one he must have triggered when he bounded up the stairs.

  He sucked in a breath through clenched teeth. This is what happens when you don’t keep your mind in the game.

  “Sir? Do you know who assaulted you? Are they still in the house?”

  After taking a deep breath, he spoke calmly into the phone. “Whoever set it up is gone. It was a booby trap.”

  “A what, sir?”

  “A booby trap. A knife rigged to swoop down on anyone who went up the staircase and tripped the wire.” Feeling weak, he studied the blood sprayed on the stairwell’s white wall. His blood. Willing himself to speak calmly, he added, “It was an accident.”

  “Please wait in the house, sir.”

  Nigel grunted a reply. Then, after dropping his cell phone on the hall table, he leaned toward the mirror and removed his hand from his ear.

  The pain was excruciating. He bent over, vomiting violently onto the floor. Then he straightened up and stared in the mirror, his eyes wide and his stomach churning.

  Half his ear had been ripped away.

  And it could easily have been worse. He could have been killed. If he’d strayed a few inches off center as he ran up the stairs… A chill gripped his spine.

  Followed by rage.

  Somebody’s dead, he vowed.

  Shakily, he made a brief inspection of the staircase.

  On the bottom step lay a bloodied lump of flesh.

  Nigel keeled over in a dead faint. He did not hear the whirr-whirr-whirr of the police siren. Or the ambulance.

  On the other side of Tulip Crescent, a red Ferrari slowed slightly as it came abreast of the flashing lights. Then it sped off, headed for the highway.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  I was at the bakery the next morning, raising a still-warm butternut scone to my lips while vowing to forget about the crooked art world, when Emy filled me in on the shocking events of the previous evening.

  “You can’t be serious.” Dropping the uneaten pastry on my plate, I stared at her in astonishment. “Nigel lost half his ear? How could that happen?”

  “It was the weirdest thing. A knife fell from the ceiling.”

  I tried to take this in. “I don’t understand. Why would there be a knife on the ceiling? Was it attached in some way?”

  “Supposedly.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “Are you sure this really happened?”

  “Nigel’s shop is closed today. He’s in his apartment recovering from ‘a traumatic injury,’ according to a note on the door.”

  I snorted. “He could have made the whole thing up. How did you hear about it?”

  “One of the emergency room nurses likes to pick up freshly baked scones after her night shift. She said the police brought in half an ear, packed on ice. A plastic surgeon sewed it back on. While they were working on Nigel, she overheard the police talking. They said his ear had been sliced off by a knife that fell from the ceiling.”

  “That can’t be right.” Shaking my head, I picked up the scone. “Nigel must have made that up. He either had an accident and doesn’t want to admit it, or somebody used that knife on him deliberately.” I gave an involuntary shudder. “The more I learn about Nigel Hemsworth, the more he gives me the creeps.”

  Holding the scone in one hand, I dipped a knife into the butter dish. It was gilding the lily, but I’d had a tough week.

  Immediately, I dialed back that assessment. Tough, yes, but not as tough as Nigel and his ear. Then I giggled. Which probably meant I was a horrible human being. How could anybody laugh at a thing like that? After buttering my scone, I took a healthy bite, chewed thoughtfully, and decided I could live with it.

  “I agree with you,” Emy was saying, “but that’s what she heard.”

  “Where did this happen?” I reached for my coffee.

  “At Perry Otis’s place. Nigel must have been checking up on it.”

  “Could a workman have taped a knife t
o the ceiling, intending to use it, and then forgotten about it?”

  “Maybe. I’ve never seen anyone do that though, have you?”

  “No. It would be too dangerous,” I said solemnly. “Somebody could lose an ear.”

  At Emy’s horrified expression, I clapped a hand to my mouth to hide my giggles. “Sorry,” I said, lowering my hand in embarrassment. “It’s not funny.”

  “No,” she agreed, stifling a giggle of her own. “Not at all.”

  We exchanged stern looks.

  “Well, it’s a lawsuit waiting to happen, that’s for sure,” I said. “Do they know who’s responsible?”

  “The nurse said Nigel insisted to the police that it was an accident.”

  “Did this nurse say anything else?”

  “Just that the police didn’t seem to believe him. They thought it was done on purpose.”

  “Then why would Nigel call it an accident?”

  “I don’t know.” She leaned in. “But there’s a rumor going around that it was the work of a disgruntled client. Someone that Nigel ripped off.”

  “Really? Are art buyers that violent?” I recalled the genteel crowd of well-heeled patrons at the open house. “It’s hard to believe. It’s not like Nigel’s selling drugs at Fine Art and Collectibles. Although—” I narrowed my eyes, thinking it over. “Nah. That’s unlikely. You know what I think?”

  I polished off the last of my scone and coffee.

  “What?” Emy asked impatiently.

  “Well, think about it. We saw Nigel in action, selling a stolen painting to Cayenne Cole. That can’t be the first time. He’s a crook. It’s not surprising he got his fingers burned.” I reconsidered. “I mean—his ears clipped.”

  “Stop it,” Emy said, stifling a chuckle.

  The bell jangled over the front door.

  I turned to see Shelby Wynne standing in the entrance, giving me a long look. She maintained her grip on the door handle, almost as if she was reconsidering her choice of eatery, given the unsavory characters it obviously attracted.

  “Shelby,” I called. “How are you?”

  “Fine,” she mumbled, letting the door go, then approaching the counter. “Turkey-brie sandwich. To go.”