"Who is Lieutenant Davidson?"
"I am," said Adam as he walked across the clearing towards her. "Who are you?"
"Tabitha Young. These boys are the ones you're looking for, and they're my nephews."
"How long have they been with you?"
"Since last night and before you ask, I have no phone.They were exhausted and needed rest and food."
"We need to talk to them, ma'am."
"Yes, you do, but not here. They're frightened and worried about their mother. I propose to take them to my house in town. You're welcome to come and speak to them there. Follow us in if you like."
"Kyle, do you and Mike want to stay with your aunt?" Adam said when she paused for breath.
"Yes, until Mom is better. Is she in the hospital?"
"Yes. Your sister is with her. Okay, Ms. Young, I'll follow you in."
Adam heard the fear in Kyle's voice when he asked about his mother and saw how he clung to the woman. Best to see him away from all the uniforms and that cabin.
Chapter Twenty-One
Today, thought Anne, as she huddled deeper under the pile of quilts. Today, she would try to draw the mill. With that, she got up and dressed, and followed the morning smells of coffee and bacon to the kitchen. She dropped her sketchbook and pencil case on the table and sank into the nearest chair. She watched the hummingbirds at the feeder in their aerial battles.
"Are you going to draw something?" Catherine asked. "I didn't know you sketched."
"It's a new hobby for me. My mother was an artist and one day she assured me I could draw and brought out a sketchbook and pencil and got me started. I'm a bit more serious about it and took some classes last winter."
"Where are you going today?"
"Down to the mill. I want to draw the scaffolding against the stone, with early morning shadows. I haven't done any drawing in public before, so I hope there aren't too many people around."
She sat on a bench in the chilly early morning, watching the mist rise from the weir. The stone wall that bordered the river braced her feet and her knees propped up her sketchbook as she drew. The bridge, the weir and the old mill formed an attractive composition.
Anne took several photographs so she could continue to work when she went home, but now she drew sketch after sketch, trying to get the relationships and mass of the building before the light changed.
Sketching silenced her thoughts as she concentrated on getting the shapes and shadows in front of her down on paper. She often wished she had known while she was still practicing medicine. Even gardening left plenty of room for worry and the pain of her husband's loss.
She didn't hear Catherine park the car behind her, walk over and sit down on the other end of the bench. Anne was rubbing her drawing with an eraser.
"Problems?" Catherine asked.
"Oh, no. The eraser is my best tool. I need to put down an incorrect line before I can see where the correct one should go."
"Is this your final drawing?"
"No. I'll finish from my sketches and photos. Thanks."
Catherine handed her a mug and a paper bag. "Mmm, muffins too. I was getting a bit hungry."
"Anyone by to speak to you?"
"Not so far. Not even a jogger. It's early, yet."
"Did you enjoy your dinner with Erin?"
"Yes, she's a lovely person. An odd thing happened, though."
"What?"
"When I was in the washroom, I overheard Mary having a conversation with someone, all about a mysterious offer for Evan's. For 300 thousand dollars, no less. Mary seemed to think that was far more than it was worth."
"Yes. Who was she talking to?"
"Mary came out, but I never did see anyone else. She came over to us and asked about our meal and so on. I suppose the other person went into the kitchen. I didn't recognize the voice."
"Did Erin say if the police were any closer to finding out who killed the man?"
"Oh, she didn't say. Those two little boys are still missing in the bush, she said."
"I bet she didn't say 'the bush'."
Catherine laughed at Anne's Canadian use of the word that expressed not only forest but the remote country to the north.
"No, I think she said woods. Another strange thing. A fire broke out, but Matilde discovered it and called the fire department before it got out of control. The dog didn't bark.
"Maybe it was an accident."
"The fire department thought arson, so why didn't the dog bark? This all revolves around Evan's: the pictures, Trevelyan's claims, the offer for the place, the fire. Do you know anything about Mary and Andre?"
"No, they're newcomers, three years or so."
Anne and Catherine hadn't noticed a walker who crept up behind them. Both jumped when she said hello.
"I'm sorry to startle you," she said. "I was interested in your drawing. I'm Janice Maynard by the way. I don't think we've met."
"I'm Catherine LaPorte, and the one with the dirty fingers is Anne McPhail," said Catherine, a bit astonished at the picture the other woman presented.
Janice's wild orange hair framed an elaborately (for early morning) made up face. She had been strolling the town wearing a paisley caftan, orange again and lavender. Purple sneakers peeked out beneath the hem.
"I'm sorry I can't offer you coffee."
"Thanks for the thought, but I make a morning trek out to Tim's before I open the shop. Odyssey Travel?"
"Oh, yes. I've enjoyed the displays in your front window. Not that travel is on my horizon."
"Too bad. I must be off," Janice said, turning to continue her colorful progress across the bridge.
"What's the matter?" Catherine said.
"Do you think she was listening to us? I didn't hear her walk up."
"Does it matter?"
"I'd like to know how much she overheard. Who is she?"
"Another newcomer. Her agency opened three years ago, at about the same time as Evans. Is there anything else about her?"
"No, but she makes me uneasy. I think I'll pack up, now."
Anne stuffed her sketch pad and pencil away in her backpack.
"I would like to see inside the mill someday."
"Oh, I can arrange that. When?"
"Tomorrow?"
"Sure."
Anne's thoughts tumbled around Evan's and Trevelyan. Why would anyone want the old house so much? Restaurants didn't make much money, and the land was just a lot in town, surrounded by single-family homes and an occasional multi-unit building. She hadn't heard of any development plans, and neither had Catherine. She should ask Peg.
Trevelyan wanted the house the way a child wants a toy because he thought it was his. It might be his. She had seen wills and traced the ownership down through the generations. Perhaps other cousins had an equal claim. She would ask Adam to let her see his papers again. She wondered if the contents went with the house, perhaps something valuable.
"Anne, are you with me? Do you want to go home now or do you have something else to do?"
"Oh, I'm sorry. I was thinking. I'm going to drop in at the station and have lunch at Lil's. Thank you for the snack."
Catherine left, and Anne continued towards the square and the police station. She met Adam in the parking lot and heard the news about the boys.
"Adam," Anne said as she paced his office. "This doesn't make sense to me. I don't understand why, if this guy who was killed was an international art thief—you did say international?"
Adam nodded, and she went on. "Why was he bothering with such a little job. A hundred thousand at most. Why would someone make an outrageous offer for Evan's? That was three times what the pictures were worth. And killing for that."
Anne paused for breath and Adam took the opportunity to say, "Slow down and try to sit down. We'll find them and the answers. Are you afraid, they, whoever they are, will attack you again?"
"No, not really. Well, yes, some." Anne sat. "Mr. Trevelyan is almost dead, and that poor woman is in the hospita
l, and now her children are homeless. I can't stop thinking and trying to understand. What if the pictures are clues to something else or if something is hidden in them?"
"Hidden in them?"
"A more valuable painting underneath?"
"The curator would have noticed a fake. She's a sharp lady. Everything you mentioned is possible, but there isn't anything to suggest any of them."
"Why did Bassett run? Do you think it was because of the attack on Trevelyan?"
"He did assault his wife, and we don't know for sure he was involved at the library. I'm going to talk to his kids."
"You mean question them about their dad's activities?"
Anne was appalled.
"Yes."
"They must be traumatized."
"I don't know.They're with their aunt."
Adam went on to tell Anne about Tabitha Young.
"How is their mother?"
"Bad. She's going to need reconstructive surgery, and the doctor is afraid she's suffered major brain damage.
"I bet Bassett didn't hit me."
"Why?"
"If he hit his wife like that, I think he would have hit me that hard too, and I would be dead. It wasn't that strong a blow."
"You were out."
"Yes, but I had two head injuries the last time I was in this town. These things add up."
"Someone less vicious?"
"Or not so strong. A woman?"
"A woman? Do you have anyone in mind?"
"It was the strange reaction I had at the antique show."
"What was it?"
"A sort of flashback to the event. It was triggered by a smell. Someone's perfume, I think."
"Did you recognize anyone?"
"By the time I looked around, there was no one near me I recognized."
"Tell me if it happens again."
"Will the little boys receive some therapy? How old are they?"
"Ten and eleven. They're tough kids, bullies at school."
"All the more reason. A therapist might be able to interrupt the cycle of violent behavior. Will you mention it to their aunt?"
"Sure."
"Could I have my papers and computer? I want to dig further into Mr. Trevelyan's genealogy. Perhaps, there are other relatives with a claim. His work didn't mention any cousins, but you never know."
"Okay."
After she left, Adam sat for a while staring at a list of women's names associated with the case. Some, like Erin, he crossed off. Others, like Andrew's wife he put a question mark beside. Time to talk to those kids, he thought. He didn't notice the small car that followed him out of the station parking lot.
Tabitha's old Victorian house stood back from the street, the foundation shrubs hidden by a lawn-full of tall weeds. Paint curled on the window sills and peeled from the once-white columns of the front porch. The windows shone though, and the front walk was swept clear. Not house- proud, but clean, Adam guessed.
The interior confirmed his impression. Piles of books, stacks of canvases and old magazines filled every corner of the living room. No dust. The boys' wary eyes followed him as he walked across to an armchair near where they sat close together, playing some electronic game.
"How ya doin' guys?"
"Okay," said Kyle, while Mike huddled back behind his brother.
Tabitha sat down on the couch, a little distant, but close enough to reassure the boys they weren't alone.
"Kyle, you're the oldest. Can you tell me what happened at your house?"
"I don't want to get my dad in trouble."
"Kyle, I told you the truth will help now," Tabitha said.
"Mom and Dad had a fight."
"What happened?"
"Dad hit her, and she fell down."
"And then he kicked her, and her mouth was bleeding, and she didn't get up."
"Then he took us to Grandma's old house and then out to the camp," Kyle said.
"Where is Grandma's old house?"
"In the country."
"Which Grandma, Kyle? Grandma Bassett?" Tabitha asked.
"Yes."
"It's out the Grass Lake Road," Tabitha told Adam. "It's been derelict for years."
"Why did you go there? Do you know, Kyle?"
"Dad had some stuff to put there. He keeps stuff in the house. Can we see our mom?"
"I want to see Chrissy," Mike said.
"Why? You know she hates us. She hates Dad, and she hates us."
"I want to. She helps me when I have bad dreams."
"Did you have a bad dream last night?" Adam asked.
"Yes, I have lots of them."
"He talks in his sleep, too. Do we have to talk any more?"
"No. Thanks, fellows."
Adam shook hands with each child and shrugged his head towards the door, asking Tabitha to follow him. "I think you need to get these kids some therapy. Can you do that?"
"Yes, I can."
Adam turned at the intersection and a small blue-grey car, a Honda passed him. Adam hadn't noticed anything more about the driver except he was male and slight.
The Honda parked in Tabitha's driveway where the driver sat for a moment watching the street behind him. Convinced the policeman hadn't followed, he got out and up the porch stairs to ring the doorbell.
"Yes?" Tabitha said.
"I need to talk to the boys."
"Certainly not. Who are you?"
"Someone with a gun aimed at you. Open the door."
Tabitha backed away as he followed her down the hall to the living room. The boys looked up from their play. Only Kyle saw the gun.
"Aunt Tabby, what's he doing?"
"Kid, where's your dad?"
"The cops lost him on the lake."
"Where'd he put the stuff?"
"What stuff?"
"Don't be smart, or your aunt here will get hurt. Where'd he take the big box?"
"To the old Bassett house on Grass Lake Road."
"Aunt Tabby, no."
"Whatever it is, it isn't worth our lives, Kyle."
"Now get out of my house."
"Did the kid tell the cop?"
"Yes."
At that, the slight man turned and left after uttering one profane word.
"Aunt Tabby, now he'll take Dad's stuff. Dad'll be even madder at us," said Mike.
Tabitha wasn't listening. She dialed the police and left a message for Adam.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Hungry customers filled the stools and booths of the diner, but Erin saw Anne come in and waved to her from the tiny two-person table she occupied at the back of the restaurant.
"Hi, Anne. Join me. There isn't breathing room anywhere else."
"Thanks. I'll tell Peg what I want."
Western sandwich and fries had been Anne's weakness since university. She still remembered Sunday mornings in the Student's Union, studying and breakfast with her boyfriend. Peg's version took her back to those days.
She slid into the booth, and Erin asked if she felt better.
"Oh, much, thanks."
"What are you up to now?"
"Sketching. I attempted the old mill this morning."
"May I see?"
"Sure, but I warn you, I'm a beginner."
Anne took the big sketch pad from her backpack and handed it to Erin.
"Yes, you are, but you have a good strong line, the perspective is excellent, and you are beginning to be able to suggest volume and texture. I say keep at it. You do enjoy it?"
"Oh, yes. Thanks for the input. Catherine is going to take me inside the mill tomorrow. I've been in one other old mill, but it was a different type, wood, not stone, and it was a sawmill, not a gristmill. I understand this one is to be renovated and put to alternative use?"
"Yes, a theatre, workshop, gallery and restaurant complex."
"Perhaps it will help increase tourism here."
"That's the idea."
"Would you move?"
"No. The square is already on the must-see list, so I
'll stay here."
"I was at the courthouse. Did you know the little boys have been found?"
"Peg told me. That's wonderful. I'm sure Adam will be so relieved. What did they do with the boys?"
"They are going to stay with their aunt, an artist called Tabitha Young. I think all this is connected: the library thefts, the murder, the attacks on Mr. Trevelyan and me—too much crime for one little place in too short a time. I think something, some piece of the puzzle is missing."
"Missing?"
"Yes. An additional motive. Something worth a lot more money than that Belknap would bring."
"Yes, I agree. The Belknap and the sampler together would be one hundred thousand maximum and likely a lot less."
"The dead man was an art thief. I wonder what type of works he stole and if anything similar is missing here. Is his wife still here?"
"I think she's the woman sitting in the window seat."
Erin nodded towards the other end of the diner where Alisse Bertrand sat, pushing food around on her plate and staring out at the fall day.
"What are you thinking?"
"Couldn't you hide a more valuable painting behind another?"
"Not in a modern frame."
"The frames of the Belknap and the sampler would be old."
"Maybe but aren't you inventing a crime and a criminal if you think his widow is waiting around to get the goods?"
"I suppose so. No data, you mean."
"Yes, no data."
Their food had arrived, and conversation stopped. The customer in the booth behind them got up, leaving a bill on the table and a scent in the air.
As the scent reached Anne, she felt a sudden rush of nausea and clutched the table. As soon as she could, she looked around but saw only the closing door. Everyone in the diner was familiar to her from previous visits. Alisse Bertrand was gone.
"Anne, what's the matter?"
She reached across the table to touch Anne's hand.
"It's a flashback thing that's been happening to me. When I smell a particular fragrance, I get nauseated and panic. The last time I flashed back to the assault at Trevelyan's. Did you notice a woman sitting behind me? Did the Bertrand woman come over near here?"
The Facepainter Murders Page 11