Picture Imperfect

by Rickie Blair

  All eyes swiveled to me. Jeff squeezed my shoulders. I crossed an arm across my chest to clasp his hand.

  Cayenne continued. “Your insistence that Ryker was innocent—and that Nigel was up to something—convinced me to take another look at that painting I bought from him at the motel. It seemed…off somehow. So I asked Nigel to let me take a closer look at the Lawren Harris.”

  “And? What did you think of it?”

  All eyes swiveled back to Cayenne, who preened a bit under the attention.

  “Nothing, because when I drove past the farmhouse that night, there were two police cars and an ambulance outside, lights flashing. I kept going. I thought maybe Nigel was being arrested.” A smile played about her mouth. “I heard about his ear later. But I still had the other painting, the one I bought from him at the motel. I took it to an expert for a complete forensic rundown. The report came back this morning.”

  She pulled a manila envelope out of her bag and held it aloft. “It’s a fake.”

  Cayenne placed the envelope on the table. The Interpol Liaison reached for it, then slid out a sheaf of papers. She leaned toward the man on her left, and they leafed through the report, heads together.

  “But that picture was stolen,” I said.

  Cayenne smiled. “It was.”

  “Oh. I get it. The owners forgot to mention it was a forgery when they filed the insurance claim.”

  “They’re claiming they had no idea it was a fake.”

  “Can you prove otherwise?”

  “Probably not. To be fair, they could be telling the truth. Not many collectors can spot a counterfeit. They simply took the dealer’s word for it that the provenance they’d been shown was genuine. They are extremely embarrassed. They have paid back the insurance claim—plus interest and expenses—and asked the insurer to keep quiet about it.”

  “Which I assume is also in the insurer’s best interests.”

  “You assume correctly.”

  The Interpol Liaison pointed out something in the papers to her companion. He nodded in agreement.

  “But maybe that Lawren Harris was the exception,” I said. “Maybe it was genuine.”

  Cayenne shook her head. “Not a chance. I’ve done a lot of digging, and there’s no record anywhere of that painting. The Group of Seven has been exhaustively documented. The chances that a work like that would have escaped cataloguing—” She shook her head. “Not possible.” She frowned. “Plus—did you see it?”

  “Yes,” I said slowly, not willing to commit myself.

  “It was hideous.”

  I let out a breath. “It certainly was.”

  Smiling, she glanced around the room. “I’m sure the authorities will allow experts to examine the fragments and perform the standard tests, but I’m confident it was a forgery. Now—” She smiled benignly at the onlookers. “Are we done?”

  “Thank you for coming in, Ms. Cole,” the officer said, rising to his feet. “We’ll be in touch.”

  “We need to leave, too,” Jeff said. “Verity has to rest.” The three of us headed for the exit.

  No one watched us go. As mingled voices rose around the conference table, Jeff firmly closed the door on them.

  “What about Ryker?” I asked.

  “He’s back home, after a brief visit to the urgent care center. He’ll be fine. There are questions to answer, naturally, but he’s no longer a murder suspect.” Jeff paused. “He’s very grateful to you, Verity.”

  I smiled. “I’m sure he’ll send flowers.”

  While Jeff went outside to bring the car around, I cornered Cayenne in the lobby.

  “Why would Perry Otis forge the work of such a famous artist?” I asked. “It was certain to be discovered.”

  She shrugged. “I’m sure he regretted it many times over the years. But half a century ago, no one could have predicted Lawren Harris paintings would one day sell for millions of dollars. And once everyone knew Perry owned that painting, he couldn’t destroy it.”

  “What did he intend to do with it?”

  “He may have meant to give it to Isaac Damien to sell in Europe, like his other forged works. Perry must have sold quite a few to pay for that renovation.”

  “Wait a minute—what about Molly Maxwell?”

  “Who?”

  “My landscaping client. Isaac Damien tried to scare her into selling her home, because…” I hesitated, not wanting to implicate Ethan. “I think he was after something in her house.”

  “I take it this woman is elderly?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, think about it. If she sold her home, she’d move somewhere smaller, which wouldn’t hold all her belongings. She’d have to give away or sell many of them.”

  “Such as her paintings,” I said.

  “Correct.”

  “Molly’s husband must have bought one of Perry’s forged paintings from Nigel years ago. And Nigel and Isaac hoped to buy it back before anyone noticed it was a forgery.”

  Cayenne nodded. “Probably.”

  “Why didn’t they sell the Lawren Harris forgery in Europe?”

  “They would have, if Shelby Wynne hadn’t arrived in the village to screw everything up. They couldn’t let her have it. Better to destroy it.”

  I nodded. “Nigel saw a way to get rid of the painting and Shelby at the same time. But how was he planning to explain the explosion in the Silo?”

  Cayenne shrugged. “He could have said it was an anti-burglary device that malfunctioned. He could have claimed Perry set it up, and he knew nothing about it.”

  “Which means—if Nigel were still alive, he’d be submitting a substantial insurance claim on behalf of Perry’s estate right about now.”

  We shared a smirk.

  Although, I did feel a twinge of guilt about it. I mean, the poor man was dead.

  As Jeff walked through the front doors and came toward us, Cayenne placed a hand on my arm. “Verity, no one would have suspected anything if you hadn’t decided to investigate. I could use someone like you. If you’re ever looking for a career change—” She fished a card out of her purse and handed it to me. “Call me.”

  With a wink at Jeff, she walked out.

  Epilogue

  TWO WEEKS LATER…

  I could have sworn I’d seen a jeweler’s box in Jeff’s sock drawer. But that morning, when I went back to check—it was gone. My stomach twisted as I studied the empty cubbyhole. Nothing but lint.

  Was I too late?

  I closed the drawer with a sigh.

  Back in the living room, I took stock.

  I was wearing Jeff’s favorite black dress.

  Chinese takeout was warming in the oven.

  General Chang was perched on the back of the sofa, tail gently swishing. An adorable kitty necktie lay beside him, which was as close as he would allow. Suggestions that he might actually wear the necktie had been met with disdain.

  Boomer was on standby, tail quivering. Unlike the General, he was perfectly happy to dress up like an idiot.

  And four dozen white candles were positioned throughout the room.

  I waited, alternately puffing air out my cheeks and pacing. Sometimes both at once. Boomer watched me nervously. Eventually, he settled onto the floor, still watching me. For the umpteenth time, I checked that the lighter had enough fluid, then wondered why I hadn’t bought two.

  At the sound of Jeff’s pickup in the driveway, I snatched up the lighter and raced around to each of the candles in turn.

  Then I took up my post by the wall, facing the door.

  The door opened, and Jeff walked in. He turned to close it. “That was quite a shift. I’ll be glad when vacations are over. You know, they’re still talking about you at…” With one hand on the handle, he paused, his gaze sweeping the room to take in the candles, the pets, and me. “…The station.”

  Boomer lifted a paw.

  “What’s all this?” Jeff asked, with a wary half-grin.

  “Boomer—now,” I said,
pulling one end of a ribbon attached to a rolled length of fabric hanging on the wall. Boomer tugged on the other end.

  The fabric unrolled down the wall, revealing huge red letters.

  Will You Marry Me?

  Jeff stared at the sign, but said nothing.

  I held my breath.

  Boomer—his red cape trailing on the floor, and a Cupid’s arrow quivering on his head—whimpered.

  Jeff swiveled his dark eyes to meet mine.

  My heart skipped a beat.

  He broke into a grin. “You bet I will.”

  I fell into his arms. As Jeff picked me up and twirled me around the room, the candles blurred until we were enveloped in a cocoon of white.

  Jeff stopped twirling, without releasing his hold on me. I slid down till my feet were on the floor.

  “Verity,” he said softly.

  I will never forget the look on his face.

  Then he kissed me.

  After a while, he drew back, looking offended. “Weren’t you supposed to get down on one knee?”

  I giggled. “Not in this dress. No ring, either, I’m afraid.”

  With a soft smile, he reached into his pocket to slip out a jeweler’s box.

  I must have looked astonished, because he added, “I knew you’d come around,” before flicking the box open. “Give me your finger.”

  Jeff slipped a ruby-and-diamond ring on my hand.

  I held it up, admiring the stones’ sparkle in the glow of the nearest candles. “I love it. Thank you.” Then I winced.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s only…I can’t wear a ring like this when I’m cutting lawns.”

  He held up the open box. “Check the bottom.”

  After shooting him a puzzled look, I tugged out the velvet-lined base. A platinum chain was tucked underneath. I drew it out, trailing it from my fingers.

  “You can wear the ring around your neck when you’re at work,” he said. “Good idea?”

  Tears welled in my eyes. “It’s brilliant. And so are you.” I fell into his arms again.

  Eventually, Jeff pulled back to glance around, brow furrowed.

  Forty-eight candles produce quite a glow. Normally, even one candle would give my safety-conscious soon-to-be-husband cause for concern.

  “This is a fire hazard,” he said, looking alarmed.

  “Don’t worry.” I patted his chest. “I disconnected all the smoke alarms.”

  I was jerked awake by a strange sound. For a second, I couldn’t tell where I was. Then I turned my head to face my familiar bedroom window, where glimmers of light behind the shutters meant dawn was breaking. Blinking in the semi-darkness, I identified the noise.

  It was the sound of a key rattling in a lock, and it was coming from the kitchen. But who had a key to Rose Cottage’s back door?

  Oh. Right.

  Swearing under my breath, I swung my legs over the side of the bed, then reached for my robe. The back door opened, sending a current of air through the house. Then it closed.

  By the time I’d shut the bedroom door on the soundly sleeping Jeff and crept through the living room and into the kitchen, the basement stairs had started to creak.

  Tightening the belt of my robe, I followed, pausing at the top of the worn wooden staircase.

  Voices came from below.

  I descended the steps, then flicked on the overhead light.

  Adeline jerked her head around. “Did I wake you?”

  “Oh, no. I always do a perimeter check in the middle of the night.”

  A sleepy-eyed Boomer trotted down the stairs behind me, perhaps realizing he’d fallen down on the job. When he saw Adeline, he darted over for an ear rub.

  “Good work on the burglar alert, mutt,” I grumbled. Then, to my aunt, “How come you still have a key? We talked about this.”

  “There’s no time for that now. Where’s Jeff?”

  “He’s sleeping.”

  “We have to be quiet, then.”

  “Verity Hawkes?” A mechanical voice boomed through the basement. A row of dusty electronic monitors on the far wall sprang to life, each displaying an identical, grinning puppet head. “Nice to see you again,” the heads chimed in unison.

  “Shut up,” I hissed. “You’ll wake Jeff.”

  I narrowed my eyes, regretting my decision not to rip Control’s irritating artificial-intelligence unit out of the basement. Whatever made me think I could trust them?

  “You promised never to contact me again,” I said accusingly.

  “It wasn’t an actual promise, was it, boys?” The heads swiveled back and forth as if they were looking at each other. “Wasn’t it more of a suggestion?” They chattered amongst themselves, swirling in and out of focus.

  Adeline stepped forward. “Stop fooling around.”

  The faces snapped to attention—as much as faces can. Red berets with stiff maple leaves materialized on their heads.

  “Adeline,” they snapped, the maple leaves flapping over their foreheads in a synchronized salute. “Welcome back.”

  “Count me out of this,” I said. “You’re all nuts.”

  Before I could reach the stairs, Adeline yanked me back by my arm. “Control needs our help.” She assumed a mournful expression—which I almost fell for.

  Almost. “Forget it.” Shaking my arm free, I whirled to face the door.

  “I’ll do it without you if I have to.”

  That halted me in my tracks. I expelled an exasperated breath before turning to face her. “You said you were retired.”

  “I am, but our country needs us.”

  “There is no us. I told you that at the gym.”

  Adeline shrugged sadly.

  The electronic faces expanded until they were only eyes, peering curiously at me. “Verity does not seem ready for this.”

  “She’s ready,” Adeline said.

  “I’m not, though.” I held up my hands in a gesture of defeat. “Look how Shelby got the jump on me. I never saw it coming. Isn’t that proof I’m not fit for…whatever this is?”

  “Analytical abilities are every bit as important as physical combat skills,” Adeline said. “More so, even.”

  The faces nodded. “She has a point.”

  Ignoring Control, I said, “You’re never going to let this go, are you?”

  My aunt adopted a pained expression. “Not until you agree to help me.”

  The electronic eyes continued to peer at me.

  What was it I’d said to Jeff? Adeline’s work always sounded interesting. I puffed out another breath, thinking it over.

  “Okay,” I said reluctantly. “But the minute you’re in any real danger, we abandon the mission. Promise me.”

  “Absolutely.” She crossed her heart.

  “Don’t do that,” I said.

  The monitors clicked off one by one. I heaved a sigh. “When do we start?”

  On the kitchen landing above us, Jeff cleared his throat.

  I jerked my head around. He was standing on the landing, in pajama bottoms and bare feet, looking down at us.

  “Did you hear all that?” I asked.

  He nodded. “When were you going to tell me?”

  “The minute I got back upstairs.” At his raised eyebrows, I added, “Honestly.”

  Jeff turned on his heels. “I’m going back to bed.” Halting, he added over his shoulder, “Does this mean the wedding’s off?”

  I bounded up the staircase to plant a quick kiss on his cheek. “Definitely not. You can’t get out of it that easily.” I reached up, wrapping my arms around his neck for a real kiss.

  “I’ll be on my way,” my aunt said, brushing past us.

  Jeff lifted his head long enough to nod—without taking his eyes from mine. “Lock up when you leave, Adeline.” Then his arms tightened around me.

  We didn’t even notice the back door closing.

  * * *

  THE END

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  Also by Rickie Blair

  THE LEAFY HOLLOW MYSTERIES

  Picture Imperfect is the seventh book in this cozy mystery series. If you like lovably quirky characters, deceptively idyllic Canadian villages, and twists you won’t see coming, then you’ll love The Leafy Hollow Mysteries.

  From Garden To Grave, Book 1

  Verity Hawkes is a shut-in. After two years bunkered in her apartment, the only thing that gets her out is the disappearance of her beloved but eccentric aunt. As she takes over her aunt’s landscaping shop, she’ll need to go from hoarder to horticulturist in a hurry…

  Her new home of Leafy Hollow is quaint, except for her most obnoxious client. When a series of freak accidents kills the customer, all signs point to Verity as the killer.

  The hunt for answers is on, and Verity must question a tipsy carpenter, a bacon-peddling vegan baker, and her dreamy landscaping competitor to keep her new life afloat. Failure to find the truth could put her back in a confined space for much more than two years…

  Digging Up Trouble, Book 2

  Verity Hawkes misses her recluse lifestyle, but she’s finally starting to settle in as Leafy Hollow’s resident landscaper. At least until a village-wide cupcake battle helps turn one new visitor from a skeptic to a corpse in record time. When her friend’s crush shockingly confesses to the crime, Verity is once again asked to investigate…

  Potential clues come in as fast as the suspects: a documentary film director, a wacky artist, and a feral-cat enthusiast, to name a few. It turns out everyone in town has skeletons in their closet… even her new friends. If Verity doesn’t find out the truth soon, then the next local legend buried in the ground… could be her.

  A Branch Too Far, Book 3