The Master’s Hand

by Diane Noble

  “Questions? About what?”

  “About your background and experience.”

  His eyes narrowed slightly. “And who are you?”

  She shot him a friendly smile. “Kate Hanlon.”

  “Look, Mrs. Hanlon, I don’t know if you’re some sort of cub reporter for the local paper or what, but you can take your questions elsewhere. I’m not interviewing for a job. I happen to be head of my own security company, Safe Keeping. It’s a business that’s reputable, honest, fair and, most important, one that pleases both our clients and the public.”

  Kate frowned as his infomercial answer to her question whizzed through her brain, then did a U-turn and came back again. “My friend—who’s head of the restoration committee—is wondering why your name and that of your company don’t come up in an Internet search.”

  “And your friend is...?”

  “Livvy Jenner.”

  “Oh, the librarian who headed up the effort to restore this Victorian.”

  Kate wondered if it was her imagination or if he intended the word librarian to stretch into something that equaled insignificant when it came to restoring old homes.

  She rose to her friend’s defense. “She did more than just head up the effort. She tirelessly raised funds and got the community—from young to old—to help restore this neglected old house. They sanded, painted, pounded nails, and searched for period furniture. With Livvy Jenner’s leadership, they turned this place into a museum the whole town can be proud of. It wasn’t easy, but the outcome, as you can see”—she gestured broadly—“was worth it all.”

  He checked his watch, obviously impatient to be on his way. He might as well have yawned. “Her son is James Jenner, right?”

  Kate nodded.

  “I hired him to help wire the house for our security system. A pretty impressive, well-paying job. One that most kids his age would kill for.” She followed his gaze as he looked past the entry hall toward the ceiling in the corner of the parlor, where a camera was trained on them, its green light on, obviously providing feed to some security person or persons off the property. “That’s one of his first jobs right up there.”

  He turned back to Kate, fixing his small, dark eyes on hers. “It seems to me his mother is turning the tables, asking questions about my credibility when I should perhaps be asking about her son’s.” He laughed then, a charming sound, considering it came from a man who looked as if he could do nothing but growl. “Her son’s credibility,” he said and laughed again. “That’s a good one.”

  Abruptly, his laughter died. “Everything checks out here,” he said to the camera, giving someone on the other end of the feed an A-OK sign. Then without another word to Kate, he spun and headed for the back of the house. A few seconds later, she heard the door close behind him.

  She stared up at the camera and its unblinking green eye and shivered, knowing only one more thing about Clive Garfield than she did before their encounter: He was a master of evasion.

  Chapter Two

  Kate made her way to the second row of folding chairs, where she spotted a couple of empty seats behind Renee and Caroline.

  As soon as Kate sat down behind Caroline, Renee, to her mother’s right, craned to look back at Kate. Every blonde hair was in place, and Kate caught a whiff of her signature scent, Estée Lauder’s Youth-Dew. Renee’s Chihuahua, Kisses, was curled in her lap. Though she was in her early seventies, as usual she dressed as though she were thirty. Kate smiled. It was part of her unique charm.

  Caroline scooted up in her chair so she could also turn to greet Kate. She was wearing a straw hat as wide as her shoulders, with a froth of silk flowers around its rim. Every bit the Southern belle, even in her nineties.

  “Did you see my Victorian streetlight?” Caroline glanced toward the street, where tall, fancy ironwork and three-bulb lamps made the rest of the streetlights fade in comparison.

  “I did. It’s beautiful,” Kate said. “Such a thoughtful gift.”

  “I bought it from an antique dealer in Louisiana. Cost a pretty penny, especially for shipping and handling.” She paused. “Always wondered what handling means. How can you ship something without handling it?” With a sniff, Caroline turned around to face forward again and settled back in her chair.

  Renee, her arm draped across the back of her mother’s chair, still faced Kate, looking as though she was settling in for a nice long chat.

  “Everyone is thrilled about Pastor Nehemiah being at Faith Briar tomorrow,” she said. “We can’t wait to hear him preach. There’s no one around who can fill your heart with God’s Word like that Nehemiah.”

  Kate wanted to say, What about Paul? He certainly fills hearts with God’s Word, Sunday after Sunday. But instead, she smiled in agreement, wondering if she would ever get used to Renee’s nettlesome ways. Renee meant well; after all, Nehemiah Jacobs, the retired longtime pastor of Faith Briar, was beloved by all those he’d shepherded through the years. No one would ever take his place in their hearts. Paul wouldn’t even want to.

  Even Paul couldn’t wait to get together with his mentor, the man who’d turned Paul’s life around and influenced him to go into the ministry decades earlier. He’d left early that morning to pick up Nehemiah from his assisted-living facility. Kate and Paul had invited their longtime friend to stay with them while his apartment was being repainted and carpeted.

  Livvy came down the center aisle just then, checking her watch as she bounded up the porch stairs to the makeshift stage. She shook hands with the mayor, then searched the crowd. Judging from her anxious expression, Kate couldn’t tell if she was looking for James, Clive Garfield, or the guest of honor, Davis Carr, who also seemed to be missing. For that matter, after a quick scan of the crowd, Kate realized Garfield was nowhere to be seen either. Though it didn’t surprise her. By this time he’d probably finished with the tapping bit and was monitoring his video cameras.

  “Who’s Livvy looking for?” the ever-curious Renee wanted to know.

  “Maybe Davis Carr,” Kate said. “We can’t begin without him.”

  Caroline turned in her seat again, the flowers on her hat bobbing. “I saw copies of the paintings in the Chronicle. I wasn’t impressed with what he chose for us. I hear he’s got over a hundred valuable paintings in his collection. I’d have preferred a Miró, or perhaps a van Gogh.”

  “They wouldn’t go with the decor, Mama,” Renee said. “Can you imagine an abstract Miró with its primary colors in this old Victorian with its frilly pastels?” She rolled her eyes. “Besides, the paintings he’s putting on exhibit here are new to his collection—specially chosen by somebody important at some English gallery. I read it in the Chronicle.”

  Caroline shrugged. “To each her own,” she muttered as she turned around to face forward again. “I still prefer Miró. Give me bright and happy any day.”

  Renee shrugged one shoulder, then turned back around.

  Livvy, now talking with the mayor and his wife near the podium, still looked worried and scanned the crowd every few minutes.

  Then, from around the side of the house, walked Garfield and James. Garfield threw back his head and laughed at something James said, and James looked up at him and grinned in return. They were still chatting amiably when they took their seats in the first row of chairs on the opposite side of the aisle from Kate. She had a clear view of both. James was too busy talking with Garfield to even glance at his mother.

  Before Kate could guess the dynamics between the employer and employee, a loud exclamation rose from someone sitting in the back row of folding chairs. Others craned, and then the crowd seemed to gasp as if with one voice.

  “Oh my” came from people in at least three different rows.

  Then came more sighs of awe as a sleek stretch limo, deep navy blue with darkened windows, slowed and then came to a stop in front of the Victorian. It seemed every eye in the place was trained on the vehicle as the chauffer got out and walked around to the rear door.

  A
moment later, a stocky man in his sixties slid from the backseat. There was no doubt as to his identity. The gray-blond comb-over was a dead giveaway. Davis Carr, a wealthy businessman of almost celebrity status, who, Kate suspected, tried to emulate other tycoons of the day. He was dressed in a business suit, but his shirt collar was open, and he didn’t wear a tie. He nodded to the audience, still agape as they watched, then he stood by the open door and held out his hand to help another passenger exit the limo.

  A stunningly beautiful woman seemed almost to float through the doorway from deep inside the limo. Taking Davis’ hand, she placed one elegant shoe on the pavement, quickly followed by a second, perfectly positioned. Standing, she then swept from the limo, her colorful, gauzy animal-print garment settling like a jungle mist around her.

  She was almost as tall as Davis, who was of average height. But she was considerably younger, with sleek, boyishly cut hair—and startlingly beautiful in a bohemian sort of way.

  Kate searched her memory bank for what she’d read in the series of Chronicle articles about Davis Carr and his companion. The name came to her. Dr. Celine Diamante, an art historian from London who was on staff at the Tate, a very prestigious gallery.

  Dr. Diamante took Davis’ arm and waited purposely at the picket gate, as if expecting someone of lesser status to open it. By now Mayor Briddle had descended the steps with his wife, Lucy Mae, and they walked toward the limo as if the visitors were foreign dignitaries. The mayor opened the gate and stepped back for Davis and Celine to enter.

  After exchanging a few words, the mayor and Lucy Mae then escorted Davis and his companion to the stage. Once they were standing by her, Livvy cleared her throat and tapped the microphone, which immediately quieted the audience.

  After introducing Davis Carr and Celine Diamante and commenting on their extraordinary contributions to the new museum, Livvy thanked everyone for coming to the grand-opening ceremony, with special thanks going to those who had worked so hard on the restoration. She then turned the microphone over to Mayor Briddle, who stepped to the podium.

  Before Livvy could take more than a couple of steps away, the mayor asked her to stay. Surprise showed on her face as the mayor said in his most dignified voice, “I want to thank Olivia Jenner for heading up the restoration project. She has done an exemplary job in working to protect the history of the Victorian era in Copper Mill.” He held up a framed document, smiling at the audience and then at Livvy. “This is a letter of commendation for Mrs. Jenner, from our governor and signed with his seal.”

  After he read the letter and presented it to Livvy, the audience clapped again as Livvy left the stage to take her seat next to Kate.

  “Congratulations,” Kate whispered, leaning toward her friend. But Livvy didn’t seem to hear her. Her worried expression was back in place, and her focus was on her son as he and Garfield slipped from their seats and rounded the side of the house.

  “Now,” Mayor Briddle said, “I would like to introduce our guest of honor, Davis Carr, who has so generously lent three extremely valuable Victorian-era paintings to our new museum.”

  The mayor asked Davis to join him, and the stocky man smiled warmly as he stepped to the podium.

  “Thank you, thank you,” he said, nodding as the audience again applauded. Then he held up a hand to quiet them. “Please,” he said with a humble expression, “what I’ve done for Copper Mill and this beautiful Victorian museum is simply to repay an old debt. You will probably agree that you can’t put a price tag on life-changing experiences from your youth.”

  Kate sat up and leaned forward. What was he talking about? She’d read that he spent time in Copper Mill with relatives as a youth. But a life-changing experience? Nothing in the Chronicle article mentioned anything about that.

  He gazed out at the audience, as if he could read Kate’s mind. “Many of you are probably wondering why these particular paintings, why Copper Mill, and especially, why this Victorian museum.” He walked around to the side of the podium, glanced at the front door, took in the hanging ceiling lamp, touched the new banister, then looked back to the audience.

  “I spent the summer of 1949 in this very house,” he said. “It’s a summer I’ll never forget. I was from a broken home, lived with my mother; my father had taken off months before. No siblings, and my mother worked long hours in a laundry in Nashville. When she brought me here, I was only eight years old. Looking back, I think she hoped my uncle would take me in”—his voice softened—“and perhaps keep me, adopt me. But no such luck.”

  Kate noticed that a few of the Copper Mill old-timers in the audience looked at each other quizzically, then shrugged and turned again to listen to Davis. A mockingbird trilled in a neighboring yard as Davis stepped to the opposite side of the podium, smiling gently as if thinking about some distant memory. For a moment he didn’t speak, and then he said, “But enough about my family life. Let’s talk about this house and what it means to me.

  “Through the years, as I thought about this house, I remembered what I experienced here—stability, warmth, laughter, and love—things I hadn’t experienced at home.”

  He gestured around the room. “Whenever I think of Copper Mill, even all these years later, I think of happy times. A small traveling circus came to town and set up tents on the Town Green. There was a corner soda shop where my cousins and I devoured ice-cream sundaes. We bought penny candy at the Mercantile and comic books at the newsstand. We pretended we were Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn down at the creek...”

  He grinned and shrugged. “I could go on and on, but I won’t bore you with the rest of our antics. Let me just say that when I heard about the restoration of this old house in Copper Mill and how you had decided to turn it into a museum, I had to do something as a way of saying thank you for the best summer of my life.

  “At first I thought of lending paintings from my own collection, but none fit the house as I remembered it. So I decided to shop”—he used air quotes—“for the perfect Victorian artist, the perfect paintings for this house. Later, they’ll be added to my collection. But their American debut will be here, on loan, for as long as the museum wants them.”

  A few in the crowd cheered, nearly everyone clapped, and several people called out “thank you” to Davis, who nodded graciously.

  “That’s where Dr. Celine Diamante, an art historian based in London and a first-rate artist herself, comes into the story. I contacted her through the Tate museum to find some specific paintings by Waterhouse.

  “Dr. Diamante will tell you more about this talented artist in a moment, but suffice it to say”—he paused dramatically—“my people were here last night to check on the placement of the three paintings, and we saw right away that the choices that Celine and I made are magnificent. Color, size and, most of all, the spirit of the paintings. None could have been a better match. We will unveil them later, then have them professionally placed into position in the museum on Monday. I invite all of you to return to see them in all their magnificence.”

  He paused again, and then with his hand on his chest, said, “Copper Mill is more than a place on the map; it is a town with heart. I found that out in the summer of 1949, and I venture to say it is still true today.”

  The audience clapped and cheered, and then, gradually, a few people here and there popped up from their chairs for a standing ovation. Kate and Livvy stood politely, as did everyone else in their row.

  As Kate clapped, the unsettling feeling that someone was watching her made her turn toward the street. An older man leaned on a crooked walking stick outside the picket fence near the streetlight that Caroline had mentioned earlier. His clothing was tattered and worn, his skin the shade of leather. He wore a frayed and faded denim coat and a slouch hat. He reminded Kate of a hermit from back in the hills somewhere.

  What struck her, though, was the vivid color of his blue eyes against the sun-bronzed skin. She followed his gaze just long enough to see Caroline, who had turned toward the man, give him a bro
ad smile and a little wave of her fingers. The man grinned and nodded, then moved his gaze to the podium, his eyes now fixed on Davis Carr.

  In that nanosecond of connection, Davis seemed to freeze in place. He visibly drew in a deep breath, and when he lifted his hands to quiet the still-applauding audience, his expression was strained.

  A slight movement of a lace curtain in the second-floor window of the old Victorian caught Kate’s attention. The face behind the curtain belonged to Clive Garfield. James Jenner stood beside him. He was looking down at his mother, his face a mix of fear and worry. But Garfield was intently watching something beyond the audience. Beyond the picket fence. Kate turned. It was the old man who’d been standing by the lamppost and was now making his way down the street, leaning on his walking stick with each hobbling step.

  As he disappeared around the corner, Kate moved her gaze back to the lacy-curtained window.

  No one was there.

  Chapter Three

  When Kate arrived home after the grand opening, Paul and Nehemiah were sitting at the kitchen table, a laptop computer open between them. They were so intent on trying to figure out something on the machine that they didn’t look up as she came through the door.

  She put her keys and handbag on the counter and, with a grin, cleared her throat. Looking embarrassed, they both started, grinned at each other, then stood to greet her. Nehemiah’s eyes twinkled as he reached for her hands in greeting. She was struck again by how fit he looked for a man nearing eighty.

  Kate laughed. “Please sit down. I know what it’s like to get lost in the world of technology.”

  “Especially when one doesn’t know what one is doing,” Nehemiah said. “I know just enough to be dangerous—and that I learned from your local computer expert.”

  “Someone from Copper Mill?” Kate asked.

  Nehemiah nodded, his gray eyes sparkling. “Yes, but it was a serendipitous kind of house call. He stopped by to see me with his mother just after I got the computer.”