“Sea glass,” said Mickey, breaking the awkward silence, “I’ve never seen a chunk that big. And look here.” He pointed to a rusty stain on the glass. “Either that’s paint, or we’ve found the murder weapon. And it doesn’t really look like paint.”
“Mickey, I…” She stopped herself, not even sure what she was about to say. She had started her day afraid that he might be the murderer’s second victim. Now she was breaking into private property with him and remembering the kind of mischief they used to get into in their teens. It must be her relief that made her feel so nostalgic, nothing more.
He smiled wryly at her, almost as if he could hear her thoughts. “You need to tell Detective Bailey,” he reminded her. “Come on, let’s go back to the car.”
Chapter 17
The Lost Monet
When the painting was finally found, it was anticlimactic for Angie. After she pointed Detective Bailey toward the cabin in the woods, and he found the bloodstained sea glass, it hadn’t taken long for Jasper to be taken into custody. Gradually, the other details of Reed’s murder were revealed. Amidst all the sensation of the solved crime, the discovery of the painting seemed comparatively insignificant.
It was December seventeenth, the anniversary of the letter from the mysterious lover promising that shat she would view the painting in secret. Locals and tourists alike gathered at the Whaling Museum to see the painting, which was now on public display for the first time.
Wyatt Gilmore stood in front of the crowd, wearing the biggest smile Angie had ever seen on his face. It made him look far younger and less jaded than usual. “I couldn’t have done it without the help of several people who live here on Nantucket,” he said. “I’d like to especially thank the staff at the Chamber of Commerce, who were so helpful throughout the search. Tabitha Crispin? You’re my hero.”
Everyone clapped politely, even though they all knew by then what wasn’t being said: that Jasper Parris had not been helpful in finding the lost Monet painting.
In fact he’d been quite the opposite.
“And to Walter Snuock, thank you very much for providing us the opportunity to search for the painting. This has been one of the most interesting holiday seasons that I’ve ever had, to say the least.”
More applause. Walter was standing behind Wyatt. He leaned forward and said into the microphone, “It has been my honor to sponsor the treasure hunt.”
“And to the staff of Pastries and Page-Turners and the Nantucket Bakery,” Wyatt said, “I couldn’t have done it without you. Your assistance, research, and personal encouragement has meant the world to me. When I arrived here on Nantucket, I was at the end of my rope on a personal level. Thanks to you, I not only have found the Monet painting, but I’ve begun a new life in Boston with the HFC Investment Group, friends of Mickey Jerritt at the Nantucket Bakery. I cannot express the gratitude that I feel at this moment.”
He had tears in his eyes as he looked around the room. And then, when he was sure that he had caught Angie’s attention, he winked.
She smiled and winked back. She was glad Wyatt had found the painting. His investigations into land ownership had led him to the same location that the Beauchamps had found. Wyatt had gone to Sconset on his motorcycle and found the painting.
The Beauchamps had disappeared. They left Angie a nice note, taped to the back door of the café, thanking her for the coffee and the support. They promised to stay in touch, and offered her a place to stay if she ever decided to visit Boston.
Wyatt’s speech went on, but she let her attention slide.
Jo was back on the island, and she now stood behind Mickey. Mickey’s skull had proved to be more or less intact, but his twin sister still worried about him. People kept coming up to shake his hand and tell him how glad they were he had helped uncover Reed’s murder. Mickey gave all the credit to Angie, but it was obvious that Mickey was touched. It was especially obvious because he was wearing his Santa-Claus suit again, although his hat was still hanging off the whale skeleton overhead.
Aunt Margery was sitting in a chair beside Mickey, surreptitiously reading a book on her phone as the speechmaker switched from Wyatt to Carol Brightwell. In the middle of the crowd, Janet sat with her parents, who had been shocked about the events that had apparently been going on right under their noses.
The big piece of sea glass had tested positive for human blood matching Reed’s blood type. The forensics lab in Boston was going to run a DNA test on several hairs that had been caught in the surface of the worn glass, and they also had the clothing and shoes that Jasper had been wearing when Reed’s body was found.
Angie had been wrong about Tabitha Crispin. She wasn’t involved in the mystery, nor did she turn out to be related to the mysterious lover. The property records for the house in Sconset showed that the family who owned the house was the Snuocks. The mysterious lover had been none other than Eliza Churchill, née Snuock.
That made Walter the probable owner of the painting. He had said that if it did turn out to be legally his, then he would officially donate it to the island of Nantucket in perpetuity of something-or-other trust. The legalese made Angie’s eyes glaze over. At any rate, a hunt for any heirs on the Churchill side was still ongoing.
Other people still had work to do. But from Angie’s perspective? It was over. Well, almost over. She still had one last story to collect: Jasper’s.
Detective Bailey had taken over the investigation and even thanked Angie for her help. That didn’t stop him from asking the thousand and one methodical, inevitable details that he wanted in order to finish off the case, but Angie was happy to comply.
Jasper was in jail.
Once Detective Bailey had confronted Jasper with the evidence from the cabin, Jasper promised to admit to the murder and explain everything on one condition. He wanted his ex-wife and children in witness protection before he said a word.
Detective Bailey had agreed, and Jasper had told him everything, but he hadn’t told Angie.
One last story.
Angie went to visit Jasper in jail, bringing several books with her. Another Dick Francis book, a couple of Inspector Montalbanos, some Mary Stewarts and a Mrs. Pollifax, because why not? She hadn’t had the stomach to bring him a romance. The books were still being processed and hadn’t been given to him yet.
“Hi Jasper,” she said to him. They sat at a plain-looking fold out table in a small room. There was a window where a guard watched their interaction, but it felt almost pleasant compared to the rooms she saw in the movies.
“Hi Angie,” he said, “thanks for coming to see me.”
“Well, detective Bailey said I should hear your side of the story.”
“How did you first know it was me?”
She smiled faintly. “A picaso quote. You mentioned it when we spoke at the beginning of the treasure hunt. You said, good artists copy, great artists steal. I heard that again from one of my sources, and it made me think of you. Once I had information on how the world of forgery worked, it all started to add up.”
“You know, I wanted to be an artist when I was growing up,” he said with an answering smile and a hint of sadness in his eyes. “I made it to my second year of college and realized that I wasn’t going to make it. Not only is the market for art terrible unless you’re already famous and the beloved of some art movement or another, but I lacked that spark of creativity that every true artist needs. I had technique without originality, so all I was ever really good at was copying other artists.”
He looked off into the distance over her head.
“I moved on with my life,” he said finally. “I had some small victories, I earned admiration for my ties, and I got a position that allowed me to use my background in the arts for the greater good. I like to think that I did more good than harm in life. I had a few secret victories”—he smiled at her—“but it was a case of too little, too late, and I couldn’t tell anyone anyway. Do you know who I sold the forged painting to?”
; “I certainly have an idea.”
“Someone in the Mafia.”
“That’s what I thought. But Jasper, why?”
“Truthfully, I was young, and stupid, and poor. I met some guys in the North End of Boston, and they knew I could paint, and then the whole thing just got out of hand. Once I sold it, I wasn’t that worried. I never considered what would happen if the real painting was ever discovered. Then I got married, had kids, and I mostly forgot about this huge secret. But when Walter came up with the treasure hunt idea, I got worried. I promised myself I would do anything to protect the secret, and keep my family safe from the mafia.”
“But why Reed? He was such a nice man.”
“I don’t think he suspected me before he got to the island. When we met, we immediately got into an argument about art. Turner versus Monet, as you know. He mentioned off-hand that he was hunting a forger, and was only registering for the treasure hunt so he could go snooping around. I almost lost it. I'm not sure if he knew right there that I was a forger, but I think he suspected.”
Angie nodded, but couldn’t bring her self to say anything.
“I followed him down to the beach. I didn’t have a plan, but I was scared. Scared for my life, for my kids’ lives. Angie, I know it doesn’t make it better, but I didn’t feel like I had a choice. If Reed exposed me as a forger, there’s no telling what they would do. I saw the piece of sea glass on the beach, and fear just took over. I guess you know the rest.”
Angie felt a range of emotions. Anger at Jasper for the murder of her friend. Grief for Reed who had died at the hands of this man. And also sorrow for Jasper, and his family, who had an uncertain future ahead of them.
“I don’t expect to live long,” he said cheerfully. “I have a bum ticker, and the mafia is likely after me. But I think my family will be safe, and that’s what’s important.”
“Thanks for telling me. I see why Detective Bailey wanted me to speak with you,” she said.
Jasper nodded.
“Good-bye, Jasper,” said Angie as she walked out.
“Good-bye, Ms Prouty.”
The forensic scientists in Boston reported that Reed’s time of death had been close to six p.m., not eleven as the original examiner had guessed. Detective Bailey reported drily that there would probably be a training class coming out of this as punishment for the screw-up. Nobody liked training classes.
They also reported that Jasper’s coffee hadn’t been poisoned—a question that Detective Bailey had asked them long before Angie had thought of it. Reed’s luggage was found eventually, and Reed’s cell phone company was able to track his phone to somewhere out in the Atlantic. The current had carried it away.
Jeanette had been upset that the paperwork she had so painstakingly culled from Sheldon’s files would come to nothing. At least, until Aunt Margery had asked to review it all as research for her next book, The Lost Monet: The Island of Nantucket and the Painting that Time Almost Forgot. Jeanette, assured that she would be mentioned in the book, immediately became her normal, cheerful self again.
Angie finally tried a fruitcake cupcake, but only because Jo literally shoved it into her face while Mickey watched, giggling helplessly. It was pretty good.
She finished the Louise Penny book while huddled in the back of the stock room for an hour. It was excellent, and she felt much better.
Then Detective Bailey called to say that the phone company had also gone through Reed’s phone records and discovered…that he hadn’t called or messaged anyone else on the island. There was no secret “special friend.”
It had hit her hard. Reed Edgerton had been a solitary yet wonderful man. He shouldn’t have had to die alone like that.
When she went to Reed’s funeral in Cambridge, she realized that alone was not a word she could use to describe Reed any more. The funeral was, not to put a fine point on it, packed.
She sat in the middle of the throng, surrounded by people who had known him longer than she had.
They all seemed to know her, too.
“Angie Prouty? You’re the bookseller from Nantucket, aren’t you? Reed mentioned you! He said you were such excellent company at art shows!” And then a laugh. She must have heard the same things a dozen times at least, with multiple people all nodding at the same time. Reed’s sister Heather had been one of the ones to say it the loudest.
His casket was surrounded by flowers and prints of his favorite paintings. She recognized Turner’s slave ship painting, of course, and most of the others present. The one that had stood out to her, though, was a painting of a woman standing on a hill above the viewer, holding a parasol. It was a sunny day, and the wind had caught the ribbons of her bonnet, drawing them across her face. Behind her was a boy, looking less than enthused.
Woman with a Parasol – Madame Monet and Her Son, dated 1875. It was by Monet. How strangely appropriate.
She had brought with her a printout of the new painting—or rather the one that had been recently rediscovered—Boats at Sunset, Saint-Adresse. She had been shocked when she first saw it in person. It was so much more vibrant and alive than she had anticipated. It was a genuine pleasure just to look at it.
How anyone could have stood to keep it hidden for so long, she would never understand.
She tucked the printout in his casket.
Walter hadn’t gone into the funeral with her—he had never met Reed in life, and felt like he’d be intruding—but he was waiting for her when she came back outside. He wrapped his arm around her and walked her back to his car. She might not know exactly where she stood with him, or what would happen to them in the coming months, but she was learning to live with a little uncertainty. And ironically, given recent events, she was gradually learning how to put her trust in others, and most importantly, in herself.
Christmas was just ahead, the bookstore was going to be busy. Honestly, she felt nothing but gratitude at the moment.
By the time they made it back to Nantucket, it had started to snow, and all the Christmas lights were twinkling in the dark.
I can do this, she told herself, and for once she wasn’t just trying to reassure herself. I can do this. She and Walter were standing at the rail together, watching the island slide by. She lightly bumped shoulders with him in a companionable way, and he leaned down to kiss her.
“Merry Christmas,” he said.
“Merry Christmas.”
Thank You!
Thank you so much for reading Pride and Prejudice! Just like baking the perfect cake, the process of publishing this book required inspired prose chefs, delightful literary ingredients and lots of patience. It was not quite easy as pie but we feel that the final product really takes the cake. We hope you agree.
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Pride and Prejudice is book 2 of the Angie Prouty Nantucket Mysteries, book 1 is available now! Get Crime and Nourishment from Amazon today.
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- The Team Behind Miranda Sweet
About the Author
Miranda Sweet is a collaboration of authors, writers, editors, creatives, and cozy-mystery lovers. Miranda Sweet novels can be relied upon for classic cozy themes, settings and characters. Her books are best enjoyed with a hot beverage and a pastry.
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