by Amy M. Reade
“Where was the junk shop?”
“In Edinburgh. I don’t remember the address off hand.”
“Do you know if the owner had any more paintings by Leitch?”
“If he had, I would have bought them.” I could tell from the tone of Seamus’s voice that he was tiring of the man’s questions. My husband needed to learn some patience.
The man’s steps echoed on the stone floor of the shop. He was taking his time looking at the artwork. I peeked in to offer tea, but he shook his head. I glanced at Seamus, who raised his eyebrows and shrugged. Neither of us knew what to make of this stranger.
I went to the gallery to work on stretching some canvas photos over wooden frames. Tourists went wild for canvas prints. I heard the shop bell jingle again, and Seamus came in a moment later.
“He’s gone. Another strange one,” he said.
“What was he looking for?”
“Anything by William Leighton Leitch, apparently. Believe me, I’d like nothing more than to find more of his lost paintings.”
“Do you think he was angry that Florian bought it?”
“I couldn’t tell.”
“Did he leave you his name and number?”
“Just his number. Wouldn’t tell me his name, but he did say he just drove up here from London. Got in the car when he realized there was another buyer, he said. He must really have wanted the painting.”
“I wonder why there’s so much interest in that painting all of a sudden,” I said.
“I’ve no clue.”
“A weird coincidence, I guess.”
“Hmm,” Seamus replied.
Throughout that day there were several visitors to the gallery and the shop. If we sold just one of Seamus’s paintings, it was a good week. Most of our income came from the shop and from my photography, but when Seamus sold a painting we always celebrated with champagne. At dinner that night Seamus pulled a bottle of bubbly from the fridge and twisted the cork with his beefy hands.
“When do we go to Edinburgh?” I asked.
“First things first,” he replied with a wide smile. The cork popped out and landed in the living room. Seamus laughed and held the bottle over the sink as bubbles poured out. “Get those glasses, quick!”
We drank a toast to finding more lost art from the Scottish masters and sat down to dinner.
While we were eating, Seamus’s mobile rang.
“Hello?” he answered, wiping his mouth. He listened, his eyebrows knit together, a frown forming.
“Yes, this is Seamus Carmichael.” He listened for a moment. “You’re kidding. I have no idea. Okay, thanks for letting me know. I’ll be in touch if I hear anything.” He hung up.
“Who was that?” I asked.
“Florian’s wife. He’s not home yet and he’s not answering his phone. Before he came up here he left her a note with my name and number, told her if she couldn’t reach him to call me.”
“Well, maybe he stopped somewhere to break up the trip. It must take eight or nine hours to drive to London. He could have been exhausted. He left here late, after all.”
“She said she’s been trying to reach him on his mobile phone since the middle of the night. At first he just didn’t answer, now it’s going right to voicemail.”
“Phone’s probably off.”
“Aye.”
“Why did he leave her your number? Why not the bed and breakfast?”
“I have no idea.” He turned back to his dinner, which was getting cold. We ate the rest of our meal in silence, both of us lost in thought.
The topic of Florian didn’t come up again until the next morning, when there was a pre-dawn knock at the kitchen door.
“You get it,” Seamus mumbled from his side of the bed.
“I’m not getting it. Who knows who’s out there in the dark?” I hissed back at him.
He stumbled out of the bedroom first and I followed a short step behind. Before he turned on the kitchen light, he turned on the outdoor light. It flickered to life. A police constable was there. Seamus went to open the door while I turned on the light and the heater.
“Sorry to bother you so early, sir, but we have to ask you a few questions,” the constable said.
My throat went dry. I had had dealings with the police in Edinburgh after my niece’s abduction and they had always been helpful, thorough, and courteous. I had also dealt with them after a break-in—and assault—at Bide-A-Wee. Again they had been helpful and kind, but seeing them brought back bad memories, and ever since I learned about Seamus’s criminal past I felt a cold prick of anxiety every time I saw a uniformed officer. It always seemed to me that Seamus would be a natural target if something went wrong in his vicinity. I know Seamus felt the same way, but he didn’t show it.
He opened the door for the constable to enter. The man took off his coat and hat while Seamus motioned him over to the kitchen table and I started tea.
The two of them sat down while I busied myself setting out cups, saucers, milk, lemon, sugar, and honey. I had to do something to keep my hands busy because they were trembling.
Finally the constable spoke. “Ma’am, I’d like to talk to you, too. Could you join us?”
I didn’t know whether to calm down or feel more edgy when I heard his words. Apparently he wasn’t here to pester Seamus, but now it sounded like I was somehow in trouble, too.
I glanced at Seamus for reassurance, but he was looking at the constable.
“How can we help you?” Seamus asked.
“There’s been an accident involving a man you know,” he said, glancing at his notes. “A Florian McDermott.”
Seamus looked at me. “What kind of accident?” he asked the constable.
“An automobile accident. Mr. McDermott was involved in a fatal crash the night before last, on a road not far from here.”
It took a moment for the information to sink in. Florian was dead? That explained the phone call from his wife. But how could Seamus know anything about it?
“How do you know Mr. McDermott?” the constable asked Seamus.
“He was a customer. I’d never met him until two days ago, when he came in looking for a painting.”
“How did he come to find your shop?”
“He said he had seen my work in a gallery in London. It looked like the type of painting he was looking for, and the gallery owner told him I own an antique art shop, too. He figured I would sell the same type of art I paint, so he came up to see what I had for sale. Florian wanted to buy artwork that had a history.”
“Do you know why?”
“He said he was looking for something that reminded him of his childhood.”
“We’ve talked to his wife, and she said he gave her your name if she wasn’t able to contact him.”
“Yes,” Seamus said, “I talked to her last night on the phone. She hadn’t been able to reach him, so she called to ask if we knew where he was. Of course, we had no idea.”
The constable turned his attention to me. “Did you talk to Mrs. McDermott last night?”
“No, she called Seamus’s mobile. He talked to her.”
“Did you speak with Mr. McDermott when he was here?”
“Yes.”
“What did you two talk about?”
“I wondered about his childhood, since he wanted a painting that reminded him of it. I asked him what it had been like and said it was nice that he wanted to remember it with a painting.”
“And what did he say?”
“That his childhood was awful.”
“Did you ask him anything else?”
“No. I thought he was strange. I didn’t really know what to say after that.”
“Mr. Carmichael? What did you discuss with Mr. McDermott?”
“We discussed the history of the painting he wanted to buy. We talked about the price, the painting’s condition, other works by the same artist, some of the other paintings I have in my shop, and why he wanted to buy that particular painting.”
/> “Tell me about the painting he wanted to buy.”
“It’s an old painting by the Scottish master William Leighton Leitch. Normally you find Leitch’s paintings in museums, but this particular one wasn’t in great shape. It had a tear in the corner and it was faded. It obviously hadn’t been taken care of over the years.”
“Can I see the painting?”
“Florian bought it,” Seamus replied, his eyebrows furrowing.
“He bought the painting you’ve been describing?”
“Aye, he did.”
“Did he leave it here to be shipped?”
“No. He took it with him. It was wrapped in heavy brown paper. Wasn’t it in Florian’s car?”
The constable shook his head, scribbling something down and then flipping through his notes. “There was no painting in the car.”
“Maybe it was in the boot.”
“The officers on the scene checked the boot. It was empty.”
“I don’t know what to say,” Seamus said.
“How much did Mr. McDermott pay for the painting?”
“Three thousand pounds.”
The constable had been writing in his notebook again, but he jerked his head up at the price Seamus quoted. “Three thousand pounds?”
“Yes. I told you, it was painted by one of the old Scottish masters.”
“But you said it wasn’t in good condition.”
“It was still by William Leighton Leitch. That makes it very valuable.”
“Valuable enough to steal?”
“I suppose so.”
“What else can you tell me about the painting?”
“Not much. Well, wait—there was another man who drove up from London once he found out I had another buyer.”
“Who was this man?”
“I don’t know his name. He left me his number, though.”
“What’s the number?”
Seamus looked at me. “Where did I leave that piece of paper?”
“Check the desk in the shop. It’s probably there.”
Seamus excused himself and was gone for just a moment. I offered the constable a cup of tea, but he declined. When Seamus returned he was holding a slip of paper. “Here it is,” he said.
The constable wrote down the number. “Can I take this paper?” he asked.
“That would be fine. Just let me write down the number in case I need to get in touch with him again.”
“Why would you need to get in touch with him?”
“I told him I’d call if I ever ran across another William Leighton Leitch painting.”
“Oh.” Seamus copied the number and slid the paper across the table. The constable placed it in a small plastic bag.
“Now,” the constable continued, “tell me more about this man.”
Seamus recounted his dealings with the second man from London, the constable writing the entire time. “Did this man seem angry that Mr. McDermott had left with the painting?”
“No, he didn’t seem angry,” Seamus answered.
“Tell me a little bit about yourself,” the constable said. “I understand you’re out of prison seven or eight years now. What were you in for?”
Here it comes, I thought.
“Assault. Self-defense. It was an accident. The guy came at me first, and I was just trying to defend myself.”
The constable scratched his chin. “I see. Any other past trouble with the law?”
“I got in trouble for vandalism when I was a bairn, that’s all.”
“But you were never charged.” It was a statement, not a question.
“No, sir.”
“What did you vandalize?”
“A school.”
“What happened exactly?”
“Me and a group of my friends splashed paint on the side of our school. We had to clean it off as punishment.”
“How about robbery?”
Seamus cocked his head and looked at the constable. “No. Nothing like that.”
“The painting you had in your store sounds valuable enough to steal.”
Seamus studied the constable for a long moment, then said in a measured voice, “Perhaps, but I don’t know who would have done that. Maybe Florian left the painting somewhere before continuing on his trip. If you’re suggesting that I stole it, why would I? I had the painting before Florian did. I could have just kept it.”
The constable gave Seamus a hard look, then turned to me. “Mrs. Carmichael, was your husband here last night?”
“Yes, every minute,” I said. The words came out of my mouth in a rush, almost before he had finished the question. I didn’t want this to become an investigation of Seamus. He had paid his debt to society and been perfectly behaved since then. There was no reason for anyone to suspect that Seamus had done something wrong.
“I’m sure I’ll be back to talk to you both,” the constable said, pushing his chair back and gathering his coat and hat from the table. “Don’t go too far until I’ve had a chance to talk to you again.” He left without a backward glance.
“Should we call the solicitor?” I asked as soon as the door was closed.
“What for? Neither one of us has done anything wrong. I’m an easy target, that’s all,” Seamus answered, smiling down at me. I knew what he was doing—trying to get me to believe he wasn’t shaken up by the constable’s words, that he was in full control of the situation. But I knew better. I saw him put too much sugar in his tea out of the corner of my eye, and later that morning I saw him pacing the floor in the shop. I saw him pick up his phone, then put it down again, as if undecided about something. He was nervous.
I was relieved when Callum rang up late in the afternoon and asked Seamus to go to the pub. Seamus closed the shop early, something he rarely did, and left. As soon as he did I phoned Mr. Howe, our solicitor, and told him the story. He told me he would demand to be notified the next time the constable wished to speak to either of us. The constable was probably just covering his bases, Mr. Howe said, but he advised me to let him know right away if I heard from him again.
Instead of waiting for Seamus to come home, I walked over to Eilidh’s house. She put on the teakettle and we sat in her kitchen and discussed the same things I was sure Seamus and Callum were talking about—Florian’s car crash, the second man from London, and the constable’s visit.
“Too bad I couldn’t meet this Florian—he sounds like a hoot,” she said dryly, pouring me a second cup. I slowly drizzled honey into the tea, swirling it with my spoon.
“There was something about him that I just can’t put my finger on,” I said. “He was pale and scrawny, but he had big brown eyes that seemed out of place on his face. His handshake was limp and cold, but you should have seen the way he looked at Seamus when Seamus wondered if Florian always carried so much cash with him….” I trailed off, wondering if that was information we should have shared with the constable.
“He paid in cash?” Eilidh sounded surprised.
“Yes. The painting was three thousand pounds, and he just handed Seamus a huge wad of money. Most people pay for big purchases with a credit card.”
“Sounds like Seamus ought to be more careful about who he does business with,” Eilidh cautioned.
“It’s not realistic for him to do a background check on everyone who comes through the door. Even if he could, he wouldn’t. That would be bad for business, to say the least.” I smiled at the thought of Seamus checking customers at the door, searching their names on the internet.
“But he knew this guy Florian was strange. Maybe he should have sold the painting to the man on the phone instead.”
I was getting annoyed. I knew Eilidh was trying to help, but she was being unreasonable and, I thought, rather stupid.
“Seamus wouldn’t refuse to sell someone a painting just because they’re strange. He’s not exactly qualified to judge others. He’s been in jail, for God’s sake.” I knew I sounded testy, but I couldn’t help it.
“It was just a though
t,” Eilidh said in a quiet voice. I was sorry I had spoken to her that way.
“Well, he sold the painting, so what’s done is done,” I said. “We’ll have to be more aware next time.”
The front door opened and we could hear loud voices from where we sat in the kitchen.
“We’re out here!” Eilidh called.
“Shh! Don’t tell them. Maybe they’ll go back to the pub,” I said with a smile. “It was so quiet until they came in.” Eilidh laughed, her high voice tinkling.
Callum came into the kitchen, followed closely by Seamus. They both sat down at the kitchen table. “What are you ladies talking about?” Seamus asked.
“What else? Florian and the problems he left in his wake,” I said.
“Seamus told me all about it,” Callum said. “Want me to tell the constable to leave Seamus alone?” Callum was employed part-time in the historic preservation office of a nearby village. He knew all the local constables personally.
“No, but thanks anyway,” I said. “We don’t want to draw more attention to Seamus. He draws enough himself,” I said, looking at him with a grin. My big, burly husband, with his fiery red hair and beard, his huge tattooed arms and his loud voice, tilted his head back and laughed a hearty laugh.
“Callum,” he said, “I needed that trip to the pub. I feel much better.” He turned to me. “Sylvie, I’ve decided we should call Mr. Howe.”
“I’m glad to hear that, because I already did.”
He looked at me in surprise. “You sneak! You already called? What did he say?”
“He said he would tell the constable to notify his office before visiting us again. He also said we’re not to worry, but to let him know if the constable comes around asking more questions. He thinks he’s just covering his bases.”
“See, Callum? I told you I didn’t need to worry.” Seamus winked at Callum.
“Sylvie, your man here was being a nutter at the pub, wondering what to do about this whole thing.”
“What is there to do?” I asked. “We don’t know anything about it. We’ll just have to wait to see if the constable comes back.”
Seamus and I walked home in the dark. Spring wasn’t far away, but the days were short this far north. Later, while Seamus was putting a pot pie in the oven, his phone rang. He answered it, and with a quick glance at me took the phone with him into the shop. I heard him raise the cover of the roll-top desk.