by Nic Saint
“It’s still there,” he announced. “They didn’t take it.”
“Of course it’s still there,” she said. “Who would want to steal that thing?”
He wasn’t entirely sure, but he thought he detected in her tone of voice a slight diminution of the kind of appreciation he expected people to award his new acquisition.
“When Ida told me about her Picasso being stolen, I feared the worst,” he explained, figuring it wasn’t fair of him to criticize one who wasn’t fully informed about the dangers that lurked out there for owners of works of art like his precious Big Gnome #21.
“Don’t worry, honey,” said Marge, placing a soothing hand on his arm. “No one in his right mind would steal the painting of your gnome.” And with a smile, she left the room.
He stared after her, a little puzzled. What exactly did she mean by that? Everyone in their right mind would steal a masterpiece of the first order like this, and he now wondered if he shouldn’t give it another, safer place. Only question was: where?
The basement was too humid, and might cause damage to Jerome Metzgall’s work of genius. The attic was too dusty, the kitchen too greasy, the family room too busy. Then he remembered watching something on TV not so long ago, about a couple who’d kept a very expensive stolen painting in their bedroom for years, hidden behind the bedroom door. So that when the door to the bedroom was closed they enjoyed its full splendor.
His face lit up with a smile. He didn’t often get brainwaves like this, but when he did, it was a doozy.
By all accounts the hunt for Johnny and Jerry had proven successful, and the two crooks were now in custody and presumably being grilled over a slow fire by Uncle Alec and Chase.
I just hoped they’d be able to retrieve the stolen Picasso, and the other works of art the two thieves had snatched.
Unfortunately my attention wasn’t really focused on the crooks, but on the strange contraption that awaited us when we walked through the door and into our home.
The four of us halted in our tracks the moment we saw it.
“What is it, Max?” asked Dooley.
“It’s a toaster,” said Brutus.
“Don’t be silly,” said Harriet. “Who in their right mind would put a toaster on the floor?”
“It’s a humidifier,” I ventured. “Remember how Odelia often complains how the air in here is too dry? I’ll bet she bought herself a humidifier.”
“It doesn’t look like a humidifier,” said Harriet. “Oh, I know what it is. An air freshener.”
Whatever it was, it simply sat there, on the floor of the living room, looking very ominous indeed. It was round, a little over a foot in diameter, and about four inches high.
The thing took Odelia by surprise, too, or at least that’s what her first words seemed to indicate: “What the heck is that thing doing here?”
Just then, the kitchen door opened and closed and Marge walked in.
“Oh, you saw my surprise, did you?” she said. “And? Aren’t you going to thank me?”
“What is it?” asked Odelia.
“What do you think it is? A Roomba, of course. Thank you, Mom. Thank you for saving my sanity and hours of my precious time.”
“Thank you, Mom,” murmured Odelia, still staring at the thing. “How does it work?”
“Well, you simply switch it on and it takes care of the rest.” And to show us she wasn’t all talk but action, too, she pressed a button on the contraption and immediately it whirred to life, making one hell of a noise and moving—moving straight at me!
I yelped and jumped in the air, then sprinted in the direction of the nearest couch and burrowed underneath. It wasn’t the best idea, though, for the thing—whatever it was—hit the wall, then did a slow ricocheting movement and came zooming at me again!
“Heeeeelp!” I cried. “It’s coming for me!”
“Save yourselves!” Brutus screamed. “Women and children first!”
“It’s just a vacuum cleaner,” Marge said. “It’s not going to hurt you.”
I wasn’t too sure about that. My friends had scattered to the four winds, and were hiding wherever they could. But it soon became clear that there was no hiding from this machine from hell!
So I wormed myself from underneath the couch again, and jumped up onto the couch instead. I had a feeling—call it survival instinct—that it might be able to kill anything on the ground level, but wasn’t able to take off and fly.
I was right, for as I watched on, the machine did its terrible devious work on the floor, but never made any attempts to have liftoff.
“I found its fatal flaw, you guys!” I shouted to all who would listen. “It can’t fly! So better hide where it can’t get at you! Aim high! The higher the better!”
Marge and Odelia were laughing their asses off, which was very rude, I thought. But that’s humans for you. They love nothing better than to watch their pets suffer indignation.
“What is it, Max?!” Dooley yelled from the second shelf of the bookcase, where he had somehow managed to worm himself between a copy of John Grisham’s The Firm and Deepak Chopra’s latest bestseller.
“It’s a vacuum cleaner!” I yelled back.
“But it moves all by itself! How is that possible?!”
“It has wheels,” I said, for even in those scary moments when the machine had almost caught me and devoured me whole, I’d noticed the tiny wheels it operated on, and the essential mechanics behind this contraption had immediately become clear to me.
“I don’t think the cats like the Roomba,” said Marge.
“I don’t think so either,” said Odelia. “Which is strange, for some cats love vacuum cleaners.”
“Did you notice I cleaned your entire house this morning, missy?” asked her mother.
“Thanks, Mom,” said Odelia, and gave her mother a kiss on the cheek. “I would have done it… eventually.”
“You work too hard,” said Marge. “Maybe you should get a maid.”
“On my salary? No way.”
“Better a maid than to live in a pigsty.”
“My house is not a pigsty!” said Odelia, laughing.
“Have you seen your bathroom lately?”
“I was going to clean it last weekend, but then Dan called and asked me to cover that new farmer’s market…”
“You need a maid,” said Marge decidedly.
From my vantage point I was hoping and praying that Marge wouldn’t get her way. I mean, first this Roomba and then a stranger taking over the household? I mean, yikes!
20
The doorbell rang and since Marge had stepped out to visit their daughter next door, and Vesta hadn’t arrived home yet, Tex opened the door. He found two women on the doorstep, one tall, one short, who were beaming at him.
“Dr. Poole?” asked the short one. “Doctor Tex Poole?”
“Yes,” he said cautiously. Patients sometimes had a tendency to show up unannounced at the house, drop their pants and show him a suspicious spot on their buttocks. It had already caused some hilarity amongst the neighbors, and not a small measure of embarrassment for Tex himself.
The tallest of the twosome stuck out a hand and showed him a card. “My name is Iris Johnson. And this is my sister Mira. We’re insurance brokers. We specialize in art. Are you an art collector, Dr. Poole?”
“Well, yes, I am,” he said.
“May we come in for a moment? Many art collectors neglect to insure their precious collections until it is too late.”
“What my esteemed colleague means to say is that a private home is often less than ideal for storing valuable works of art,” explained Mira Johnson.
“A fire, a burglary, a water leak… They can all have devastating effects on your collection. And that’s where we come in.”
“Johnson and Johnson will insure your collection at a reasonable price.”
“A very reasonable price.”
“So you don’t have to lose sleep over any contingency that could occur
.”
It all sounded very plausible to Tex, and he found himself nodding along as the two insurance brokers explained to him the ins and outs of their unique offer.
“Come in,” he said. “I hadn’t really thought of insurance, but you’re absolutely right.”
“Thank you, Dr. Poole,” said Mira as they accepted his invitation and entered the house.
And as they stepped into the living room, Iris caught sight of Big Gnome #21 and said, “Ah!”
“A-ha!” said her sister and colleague.
“Wonderful.”
“Beautiful.”
“Stunning.”
“But is it insured?”
“Um, no, actually it’s not,” said Tex, a little sheepishly. Both women tsk-tsked freely, and took a seat on the sofa, offering a great view of the painting of the grinning gnome.
“First we need to ascertain its value,” said Miss Johnson. “Isn’t that right, Iris?”
“Absolutely right, Mira.”
“Do you have any idea of its value, Dr. Poole?”
“Actually, I do. Apart from the emotional value, which is considerable—”
“Obviously.”
“The artist is a man named Metzgall. Jerome Metzgall.”
“Ah, the famous Jerome Metzgall,” said Iris, nodding like one who knows.
“You’ve heard of him?” asked Tex, well pleased. It was the first time anyone acknowledged what he’d known all along: that he’d made the right choice when he’d sunk a large chunk of his savings into the painting.
“Oh, of course. In our line of work it’s important to be well informed,” said Mira.
“How much did you pay for it?” asked Iris, taking a more direct approach.
Tex licked his lips, then darted a quick look in the direction of the living room door. The price he’d paid was a sore point between himself and his wife. Marge hadn’t approved of the purchase, and had told him he might as well have put their money on fire. “I bought it direct from the artist. A real bargain.” He cut another glance in the direction of the door, then lowered his voice. “He took twenty-five thousand for it. And when you know that some of Metzgall’s paintings now go for a hundred thousand on the specialized sites…” He let his words trail off, but raised his eyebrows meaningfully.
Mira and Iris Johnson needed to hear no more.
“A real bargain, Dr. Poole,” said Iris. “A genuine Metzgall for that price? You are a very lucky man indeed.”
“Very lucky,” said her sister, nodding seriously.
They both openly admired the painting, and it warmed Tex’s heart to such an extent, after the distinct froideur with which his own family had welcomed his purchase, that he actually got up and asked if he could offer the ladies coffee or tea.
They both declined, however, and he sat down again.
“Now imagine a flood, Dr. Poole,” said Iris.
“Or a house fire,” suggested Mira, just throwing it out there.
“Or, God forbid, a burglary.”
“Your painting—your precious Metzgall—would be gone.”
“Poof!”
“Destroyed.”
“All of your money lost!”
“That would be terrible,” said Tex, swallowing with some difficulty as he gazed at the beloved portrait of his beloved gnome.
Iris took a sheaf of documents from her briefcase and placed them on the coffee table. “Johnson and Johnson has a solution for you, Dr. Poole.”
“A plan!” said Mira.
“For a small price you can insure your painting so you’ll never have to worry again.”
“Never have to think about that flood, that house fire—that devastating burglary.”
And as both women launched into their sales pitch, Tex found that he’d already made up his mind to take them up on their offer. They were absolutely right: why spend twenty-five thousand dollars on a painting and then cavil over a measly couple of hundred bucks for the insurance?
“Done deal,” he said finally, even before they’d finished outlining paragraph 16 of their policy and stipulating contingency 623 and exceptions 1022 through 2025.
It was only after they’d left, and Marge walked in and found the documents he’d signed with a flourish, and heaved the exaggerated sigh of the much-put-upon wife of a rabid collector, that he wondered if he’d done the right thing.
But then he looked at Big Gnome #21’s smiling face and he was strong again.
Yes, he’d done the right thing.
A real collector took out insurance.
And he was a real collector. A collector all the way.
21
“But I’ve got nothing to do with the whole thing, Marlene—you’ve got to believe me!”
Jerry Vale had used his one phone call to call his ex-wife, and much to his surprise she’d actually picked up. Then it turned out she’d already seen the local news about his arrest, and wanted to hear from the horse’s mouth what he’d been up to this time.
“That’s what you said last time, Jer. So forgive me for not taking your word for it. Why did you do it? Stealing that poor Mr. Hodge’s drawings. You know I’m a big fan.”
“Just like I’m a big fan—I would never steal from Mort’s Molly’s Mort.”
“Oh, Jerry. You know the best thing I ever did was file for divorce. I saved myself so much trouble.”
“But baby.”
“Don’t call me baby. I’m not your baby anymore.”
“You will always be my baby, baby,” he said, suddenly feeling sentimental. It wasn’t like him to go all teary-eyed but lately, and ever since he and Johnny had started working for the Jehovah’s Witnesses, he’d been more prone to stormy emotions than usual. “Look, can you arrange a lawyer for me? I think I’m gonna need it.”
“Arrange one yourself, Jer. And next time when you decide to rob an old man of his life’s work, maybe don’t do it.” And with these harsh words, she hung up on him.
He slumped a little, and as he was escorted back to his cell he thought how unfair it was to be accused of a crime he didn’t commit. It was bad enough to be arrested for the ones he did commit, but this simply wasn’t playing fair and square.
Johnny glanced up from his metal bunk. “And? What did she say?”
“No dice,” said Jerry. “She thinks I did it.”
“Well, I’m starting to think we did it, too, Jer. Are you sure we didn’t rob those people? Maybe in our sleep or something?”
“Yeah, I’m sure, Johnny.”
“That cop looked pretty convinced.”
“Cops are always convinced. Until you convince them otherwise.”
“They even took my Bible, Jer,” Johnny lamented. “And my copy of The Watchtower. I feel kinda naked without my Bible and my Watchtower.” He held out his hands to show his friend what he meant. They looked empty without his trusty reading material.
“Oh, to hell with your Bible and your Watchtower,” Jerry growled, getting a grip on himself. He was turning into a mushy crybaby and he hated it. “We gotta get out of here. I’m not going to sit in prison for a crime I had nothing to do with.”
“You mean… escape?” asked Johnny, his already cow-like eyes widening even more.
“Sure! We got rights. I’m not going to sit here paying for some other goon’s crime.” He glanced around at the cell they were confined to. “There’s gotta be a way to spring this joint.”
“I tried the window. Those bars are pretty solid, Jer.”
Jerry walked over to said window and gave those iron bars a good yank. He had to admit his partner’s words were as solid as the bars: they didn’t budge.
He sank down on his own metal bunk and gave himself up to thought. And soon his little gray cells were buzzing with ideas.
Ted Trapper happened to be passing by his neighbor Tex’s house when he happened to be glancing in through the window and happened to see his neighbor take a large painting off his wall.
It was a painting of a gnome, an
d Ted blinked as he caught a glimpse of the smiling impish figure, immortalized in vivid gorgeous color.
Before he could stop himself, he was stepping into the front yard and moments later his nose was plastered against the window, watching Tex maneuver the painting this way and that, until finally he became aware of being watched and looked up. He walked over to the window and opened it, then directed a pointed look at the smudge his neighbor’s nose had made on the pane and frowned censoriously.
“Ted?” he asked. “What are you doing?”
“Is that… a Metzgall?” Ted asked, his voice slightly choked with emotion.
Tex’s frown deepened. “What do you know about Jerome Metzgall?”
“Only that he’s the most accomplished painter of gnomes in the universe,” said Ted, inadvertently licking his lips at the sight of a real Metzgall only a couple of feet away.
Moments later he was inside and holding the painting in his hands, admiring the artistry, the vividness of the colors, the play with light, and the artist’s impeccable technique. “It’s gorgeous,” he announced unreservedly. “Absolutely gorgeous, Tex.”
“Got it from the master himself,” said Tex. “Paid a fraction of the price. Metzgall said he could sense I was a real gnome fan, and decided to slash his regular asking price.”
“Amazing,” said Ted, and he meant it. The mild-mannered accountant was, just like his neighbor Tex, a big fan of garden gnomes. He had them in all shapes and sizes. He had big gnomes and small gnomes, fat gnomes and skinny ones, even pretty ones and ugly ones—though to him all gnomes were beautiful. He’d been dreaming of a Metzgall for years, but the price was a little too steep for his budget. Plus, his wife Marcie would probably kill him if he even considered spending their hard-earned money on a real Metzgall. And even though he liked gnomes, he didn’t think he’d enjoy being bludgeoned to death with one.
“Do you think I should go and see him?” he asked now.
Tex’s sunny mood darkened to some extent. “You want to get one for yourself?”