“He is a charming man,” she said again.
“I hate to tell you this, Pearl, but you may have some competition from the Benson sisters. They’re having him to brunch.”
She smirked. “Oh, Rudley, I have so much more to offer than crumpets.”
Aunt Pearl headed toward the kitchen. Rudley considered the situation. The chief, he concluded, won’t know what hit him.
Tibor was sitting at the table, glancing occasionally at Leonard, who had fallen asleep in his chair. He was about to get Luther to make him an omelet when he heard a motor outside. He went to the window and watched as a boat drew alongside the pier. A man stepped out, tied the boat and reached into it for a bag.
And who should be strolling down the dock at that very moment?
Tibor gritted his teeth. “Cerise,” he hissed.
Chapter Eight
“What’s the matter?” Leonard asked as Tibor stepped back from the window, cursing.
“We’ve got a visitor.”
Leonard smiled. “Well, I guess we should be hospitable. Luther,” he called over his shoulder. “Would you put together a tray?” he asked when Luther appeared. “We have someone for elevenses.”
Luther nodded. Elevenses meant a selection of small sandwiches, fruits and, of course, petit fours and assorted pastries. Leonard was well schooled in the customs of St. Napoli.
“I don’t know what that’s for,” Tibor sniffed. “This is a business transaction. And not a civilized one at that.”
“A gentleman is a gentleman even if he’s up to his neck in it,” Leonard murmured. He affected confusion. “Who did you say we had invited?”
Tibor flicked his uncle an exasperated glance. Was he about to go on one of his walkabouts? He took three quick steps to Leonard’s side, knelt down and said, “This is not the time to go queer on me, Leonard. This man is here to seal the deal on the Cartwrights.”
Leonard feigned surprise. “Oh,” he said, “I didn’t know.” He winked. “I’ll try to behave.”
“And is that damn parrot locked up? We don’t need her in here shitting in the watercress.”
“Mind your language, Tweek,” Leonard said solemnly.
Tibor gritted his teeth in disgust but the door was opening. Cerise entered, a slight man with dark circles under his eyes in tow. The man was wearing khakis and a windbreaker over a sport shirt. He carried a backpack over his shoulder. He introduced himself to Tibor as William Evans, then turned his attention to Leonard.
“Mr. Anderson,” he said to Leonard, “I believe we have some business to conduct.”
“Indeed,” said Leonard, “but perhaps we could have some refreshments first.”
Evans nodded and took a seat as Luther wheeled in a tea trolley topped with a pitcher of lemonade. He poured two glasses. Leonard took one of them and raised it. “To business.”
Evans smiled.
Tibor cursed inwardly as he hurried to find a glass of his own.
Rudley was at the desk, balancing himself on one crutch while he worked a plastic ruler down the side of his cast. He hadn’t tried such a manoeuvre since the toothbrush incident, but the itching was driving him crazy. Margaret would be appalled if she saw him, but what could he do? His guests needed not only his undivided attention but also his customary unfailing good humour and grace. As he concentrated on gripping the slippery ruler between his middle and index fingers so he could stretch and get to the desired spot, he wondered why these boobs couldn’t design a cast with a little brush built right in or, at least, allow enough room to get a hand down when necessary. That’s the problem with the health care system, he ruminated, no spirit for adventure and innovation. He had barely reached the spot when Lloyd appeared without warning — as he was wont to do — and startled him.
“Damn,” said Rudley as the ruler slid from his fingers. He lost his balance and lurched forward on to the desk.
“I guess I was supposed to say yoo hoo,” said Lloyd.
“Now you’ve done it,” said Rudley, red-faced. “Now you’ll have to help me get this ruler out of here.”
“Is it the metal one?”
“No, it isn’t,” Rudley growled.
“ ’Cause if it was the metal one, I could scoot a little magnet down on a string and fetch it back.”
“It’s the plastic one.”
“I could put something hot down and melt it and it would catch on,” said Lloyd.
Rudley bit down hard on his lip to keep himself from hitting Lloyd with a crutch. “You aren’t putting anything hot down my cast,” he seethed. “Now what in hell do you want?”
“The chief wants to talk to you.”
“Tell the chief to drag his ass up here if he wants to talk to me.”
“Can’t do. Says you need to come there seeing as how he’s had a vision and doesn’t want it to get away.”
Rudley crossed his eyes.
They finished their lunch.
“Could I interest you in a liqueur and perhaps a fine cigar?” Leonard asked.
Evans gave him a short smile. “No, thank you.” He checked his watch. “I’d really like to get down to business.”
“Oh,” said Leonard. He put on a befuddled expression, aware of Tibor cringing as he added, “What business?”
The visitor stared. “The paintings.”
“Oh, yes,” Leonard said amiably. “I’m always happy to talk about the paintings.” He put a hand on the arm of his chair to rise.
“I’ll get them,” said Tibor. He left, returning with the suitcase.
“Perhaps you’d like to see them at my desk,” Leonard suggested. “The light’s good there. We’ll wait here,” he added, as Tibor seemed ready to hover over the man.
Cerise drifted over to the window overlooking the back lawn. Tibor stood at the far wall, hands behind his back, his eyes glued on the appraiser bent over the desk. Leonard sipped at the remains of his tea, smiling, gazing myopically at the far wall. For a time all that could be heard was the light tinkle of china as Luther cleaned up the kitchen.
Evans straightened, paused, then bent again and moved his magnifying glass over the paintings. Finally, he turned back to them. He tucked the magnifying glass back into its case, put his case into his bag and zipped it up. His face wore a perplexed expression.
“These paintings are reproductions,” he said.
Cerise snickered.
The muscles in Tibor’s face tightened. “What are you trying to get away with?”
Evans shrugged. “I’m not trying to get away with anything. I came here to recommend the purchase of some early Cartwrights. These are reproductions. Good ones but still reproductions.”
“Reproductions?” Leonard asked innocently.
“It’s the signature,” Evans said. “I’ve studied Cartwright extensively. “The bar on the first t in his signature is always off centre.” He shrugged and continued, “I suppose you could get a few dollars for these at a garage sale,” adding with a sniff, “We’ll probably be seeing them someday on Antiques Roadshow where the experts would point out that very same thing.”
Tibor took a step toward Evans, controlling himself with difficulty. “I don’t know what kind of scam this is,” he rasped.
“I don’t know how this could happen,” Leonard murmured.
“My client will be disappointed,” Evans said, lifting his backpack over this shoulder, “but at least he won’t be the victim of fraud.”
Tibor stared after him as he returned to his boat.
Leonard called toward the kitchen. “Luther, Luther. Do we have any more tea?” he asked when Luther appeared in the doorway. “Perhaps some more of those little cakes?”
Luther smiled and ducked back into the kitchen. Leonard noted Cerise had disappeared.
Tibor bounded across the room and hovered over Leonard. “What in hell h
appened? You’re the one who authenticated them in the first place.”
Leonard looked at him, puzzled.
“Listen to me,” Tibor commanded. “I know you’ve been a little squirrelly lately, but you remember what went on with the Cartwrights. You bought them for Luella.”
“Yes, I did.”
“And you verified they were the Cartwrights.”
“Yes.”
“And now they’re not.”
Leonard put a hand on his forehead.
Luther came out of the kitchen with a plate of desserts. Tibor grabbed the plate, plunked it down on the table behind him, and shooed Luther away.
“I don’t know,” Leonard said. “Maybe they were the wrong ones.”
“We know they were the wrong ones,” Tibor said, gesturing impatiently at the paintings.
“I must have returned the wrong ones to Luella.”
Tibor’s forehead crimped.
“My copies were good,” Leonard insisted. “They were every bit as good as the originals. I had studied the Cartwrights so painstakingly. I knew every brushstroke, every nuance of colour. I knew that man’s soul better than I knew my own.” His mouth fell open. “I must have given Luella the originals.”
“You had me burn down Luella’s house with the originals in it?”
“I could have. I don’t know,” Leonard dithered. “Mine were incredibly good,” he protested. “I must have made a mistake.” He paused. “Or maybe the ones I authenticated for Luella were also reproductions.”
“You were the expert, Leonard,” Tibor rasped. “You had to know what you had.”
“You would think so, wouldn’t you? Would you pass me those cakes, please?”
Tibor grabbed the plate and thrust it toward him. It landed in Leonard’s lap, but, fortunately, right side up. Leonard selected a petit four, bit into it and smiled with pleasure. Luther certainly knew how to cook.
Tibor was down at the dock when Frankes finally returned from Middleton.
“What kept you so long?” Tibor demanded.
“I got the stuff,” Frankes responded petulantly. “I just wanted to look around a bit. We’ve been holed up here for a week.”
“So you got lost in the big city.”
“It wasn’t very big. Just a main street and a dock. But it was better than hanging around here.”
Tibor was prepared to harangue him further, but decided it wasn’t worth it. “Doesn’t matter,” he muttered.
Frankes hauled the bags out of the boat. “I got beer.”
“Good, good,” said Tibor without interest.
“Did that guy come yet?” Frankes asked. “About the paintings?”
“Yeah,” Tibor snapped. “He did. He said they were fakes and he wouldn’t give us anything.”
Frankes eyes widened. “You’re kidding.”
“No.”
Frankes narrowed his eyes. “Are you trying to pull one on me? You’re just saying this so I don’t get my share.”
“Nobody’s getting anything.” Tibor grabbed one of the bags as it started to slip from Frankes’s arm.
“How do I know that?”
“Because the goddamned things are still here. He wouldn’t take them because they weren’t any good.”
He listened as Frankes cursed, though he didn’t know why the man cared. It wasn’t as if Frankes’s share was going to be very much.
Tibor’s thoughts coursed. Maybe, given the state of his mind, Leonard had brought the wrong ones. Maybe he had made copies. He’d done that before, after all. Maybe he’d never had the originals. He thought of Cerise’s little smirk as she had turned away. Maybe the real ones were still on St. Napoli. Maybe Cerise had filched them. Maybe she had made her own deal with the buyer when she’d had that little conversation with him down at the dock. Maybe she and Leonard were pulling a trick on him so he wouldn’t get his share. Cerise always could wrap Leonard around her little finger. Tibor gritted his teeth. Nobody was going to cheat him.
Rudley made his way to the pup tent on his crutches, his arms pumping furiously. Lloyd loped along beside him, telling him to slow down or he would fall and break his cast.
“Mrs. Rudley will be real mad,” Lloyd persisted.
“Mr. Rudley is even madder,” Rudley grumbled.
The chief was sitting outside his tent, cross-legged, smoking something and gazing dreamily into the lake. Rudley drew to a halt in front of him, leaned forward, gripping the crutches so tightly his knuckles turned white.
“You wanted to talk to me?”
The chief smiled. “Yes.”
“Lloyd said you had a vision.”
“Well, sort of.”
“Did it come from what you’re smoking?”
The chief regarded him with surprise. “No, this is just a little pot.” He took a toke. “I wasn’t talking about a supernatural vision, Mr. Rudley. More of a vision of the future. It seemed to me we could share this land. In the meantime, I would like the boathouse. And later on, when the weather turns colder” — he paused, eyes twinkling — “I’ve been looking around a bit in my spare time. I noticed you have a nice little place up on the hill that would do quite well.”
“The High Birches.”
The chief shrugged. “If that’s what you’ve traditionally called it. By the names these cottages have, I really have to say you don’t know your trees.”
Chapter Nine
“Now, Mr. Rudley” — the emergency room physician looked at him, shaking his head — “I believe we cautioned you about putting things down your cast.”
“It was itchy,” Rudley grumbled.
“You were advised to seek medical advice if you were having problems.”
“The last advice I got was that I would have to put up with it.”
“Nurse Hammerstone tends to be a stoic,” the doctor murmured. “Now, I want you to lie still while I remove the cast. As before, this device is designed to cut hard objects only. It will stop when it contacts flesh.” He added briskly, “Just let me know if you feel any discomfort.”
“You won’t need to worry about that,” said Margaret, who was quite fed up with her husband.
The doctor picked up the cast cutter. “When exactly did he do this?”
“This morning,” said Margaret.
“That’s good,” the doctor murmured. “At least the object won’t have had time to create too deep an ulcer.”
“Thankfully,” said Margaret.
“You’d think he could find something with a longer handle than a toothbrush or a ruler,” said the doctor.
“Stop talking about him as if he weren’t here,” said Rudley.
The doctor cut the cast in two neat lines. “Now, Mr. Rudley, after I remove the ruler, I’ll have the nurse clean up the edges of the cast and secure the two pieces with a tensor bandage. That way, if you’re careful, you can remove the top part to scratch whatever you want to with whatever you want to.”
“What would you recommend, doctor?” Margaret asked.
The doctor put down the cast cutter. “How about one of those hedgehog boot scrapers?”
“Well, I never,” Rudley spluttered.
“I think the doctor is fed up with you too,” said Margaret.
The next two days were uneventful on Hiram’s island. Tibor and Frankes prowled around the property, watched movies or sat in the solarium, Frankes bored, but otherwise contented, Tibor quietly brooding, constantly smoothing his incipient moustache.
“You’re going to discourage that thing’s growth if you keep rubbing it,” Frankes remarked.
“Shut up,” said Tibor.
“You’re in a lousy mood.”
“I’m trying to think,” Tibor shot back. “Do you know what that is?”
Frankes shrugged.
Tibor had decided to
share with Frankes only on a need-to-know basis — that is, if he needed his help or, at least, needed him to keep quiet. He wasn’t worried about Leonard; the old man had so many senior moments it was easy to convince him he was being forgetful or that he had misunderstood something. Cerise worried him. She should have been more upset about the way the deal had fallen through. She might have just decided she could separate Leonard from the rest of his money by charm alone. Maybe she could. Leonard showed a hell of a lot more affection for her than he ever had for him. Not that he cared so much, except it afforded her more influence.
That night, as he lay in bed obsessing about the paintings, Tibor became convinced that Leonard had simply brought the wrong ones. The more he thought, the more confident he became that this was the case. The question was, where were the real McCoys and did Cerise know? He was hoping to get some clues from Leonard, but the old man seemed steadfast in his explanation that he had either destroyed the originals or made an error in his original authentication. He was sure the Cartwrights were on St. Napoli.
It was almost three and he was still awake. His thoughts turned to what would happen to him once Leonard’s money ran out. He’d never had a real job in his life, apart from answering the old man’s beck and call. And that was unfair. It seemed to him he had been working for the old man for years — looking after the boat, working on things around the house. He was good with his hands but he got bored.
He was totting up the value of his work when he heard the front door open, jingling a strip of sleigh bells someone had mounted on the top rail. He got up, crept to his window and looked down. At first he saw nothing, then he noticed a beam of light bobbing away into the night. He dressed quickly, grabbed his knife, then stole across the hall and shook Frankes awake.
“Bugger off,” Frankes mumbled.
“Somebody just left the house.” Tibor switched on the bedside lamp and tilted the light directly into Frankes’s eyes.
Frankes squinted. “Yeah?”
“Get dressed,” Tibor barked, tossing clothes at him. “Cerise just snuck out. I think she’s up to something.”
A Most Unpleasant Picture Page 7