by Sara Rosett
She glanced at the empty seat beside her. The confidence she had felt about handling the recovery of the painting on her own had faded. She and Jack had been inseparable for months, working in tandem, mostly on his projects, but they’d also taken to doing mundane tasks like cleaning the house and keeping up the yard together. It felt odd not to have him beside her for this new challenge, her first real case for Throckmorton Enquiries, Incorporated. She wanted to do a good job—do Harrington proud, but as she looked at those millions of lights, the enormity of the task settled on her. How could she find a single tiny painting among that huge city? And there was no guarantee the painting was still in Edinburgh either. What if it had been moved out of the city? The trail was several days old.
The pilot came on, announcing their descent, and a flurry of movement filled the cabin as people closed tray tables and shuffled their belongings under seats. Zoe gave herself a mental shake. Sure, it would be great if Jack could be here, but he couldn’t be, so she’d just have to do it on her own—as she had for so many years before she met Jack. She’d run down a few missing things, not to mention people, by herself. She’d give it her level best shot to make it happen again.
She turned her attention back to the window and enjoyed watching the tiny cars and minuscule roads grow larger. She’d always wanted to travel, and these last few months had brought several trips, which had allowed her to see some amazing sights. One of her steadier freelance gigs had been copy-editing travel guide books for Smart Travel, and she’d always enjoyed reading about the tourist sites, traveling vicariously through her work, but now here she was in a new place. She’d never been to Scotland, and couldn’t wait to see it for herself. It didn’t matter how much you’d read about a place, the only way to truly know it was to experience it yourself.
After negotiating customs, Zoe emerged from the airport onto the slick wet pavement and signaled for a cab. It wasn’t raining at the moment, but the air felt thick and heavy with moisture. One of the neat black cabs similar to the ones she’d seen in London stopped beside her, and she gave the address of her hotel. Harrington hadn’t splurged for a business class ticket, but he had arranged for an extremely early check-in at the hotel. She gave the address and settled back to watch the city. Around the airport and for most of the drive, Edinburgh was a modern city, but a sign for the city center loomed, and then the cab moved into an area of cobblestoned streets and aged stone buildings.
Her hotel was in the heart of Edinburgh. Tall stone pillars framed the glass entrance doors, but inside, bright colors and curvy modern furniture dominated the lobby. The elevator was painted like one of Kate Spade’s bold rainbow striped handbags, and the walls in her room were painted in turquoise and violet. The bright colors and contemporary furniture seemed an odd mix with the old and historic buildings out the window. The first rays of sunrise were illuminating the rooftops. A padded envelope with her name in Harrington’s precise printing had been waiting for her at the front desk. Now that she was in her room, Zoe ripped it open.
“Wow.” A thick stack of twenty-pound notes filled the envelope. Zoe pulled out the single thick sheet of cream paper. For purchase of the painting, if needed. H.
Sending cash made sense. If she located the painting, she might have to buy it back. They weren’t the police. Their focus wasn’t to catch the thief, only to find and return the painting. She and Harrington had discussed the moral ins-and-outs of their position at the dinner when he’d asked both her and Jack to work with him.
“The culprit is not our objective,” he’d said. “It is a nice dividend. Ideally, the successful conclusion of a case would involve both the recovery of the missing item and the capture of the guilty party.”
Such a large wad of cash made her a bit nervous. After she closed the envelope and stashed it in the room safe, she felt better. She whipped the curtains closed, took a shower, and set an alarm on her new phone for noon. Her appointments to meet with the client and with Harrington’s contact weren’t until that afternoon, so she could get a few hours of rest. She set her new phone down on the nightstand and crawled under the covers. When the security consulting business began to make a little money, the first thing Jack had done was buy Zoe a smartphone to replace her rather ancient flip phone. She had argued that she didn’t need it, but Jack had insisted that it was a business expense and that she needed it. After a few months of use, Zoe had to admit that it had plenty of handy features like the alarm, and having the Internet at her fingertips was a bonus. She dropped into bed and didn’t have a bit of trouble falling asleep.
By twelve-thirty, Zoe was bundled in her raincoat and had her umbrella tucked under her arm along with the directions to both the client’s house and Harrington’s contact. She walked toward the Royal Mile, the cobblestone road that cut through the center of historic Edinburgh. A few hours of deep sleep, coupled with a strong cup of coffee from the coffeemaker in her room had her feeling rejuvenated and ready to tackle the day. Even though it felt like morning to Zoe, the days were short this time of year, and the sun was already past its zenith and sliding toward the horizon. Her hotel was only a few blocks from the Royal Mile, Edinburgh’s oldest street. She knew she’d arrived when she saw the swinging pub sign for Deacon Brodie’s Tavern, which depicted the dual personalities of the man who had inspired Robert Louis Stevenson’s tale of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. One side of the sign showed a respectable colonial gentleman holding keys, which Zoe remembered from her guidebook reading, represented his job as a cabinet and lock installer. Zoe walked under the sign and looked up. The opposite side depicted him masked and holding a bag of loot. Using the keys he had access to through his work, Brodie became a thief, even organizing other criminals into gangs until he was caught and executed. Zoe read the gold plaque that described how he’d been hung on Edinburgh’s gallows.
The cold wind tugged at Zoe’s hair, swishing some strands of it around her face. She tucked her hair behind her ears and turned away from the tavern with a shiver that was only partly due to the frigid air. She stopped for a quick sandwich at a pub, then followed the directions Harrington had sent her and moved up the street toward Edinburgh Castle, which loomed a head in the distance. Between the gothic arches, mullioned windows, and the many souvenir shops selling kilts, cashmere, and kitschy miniature replicas of the castle, small alcoves led from the main street to interior courtyards, or “closes” beyond the main street. Zoe found the one with a sign for John’s Close and followed the pointing arrow through the arched tunnel and emerged into a paved courtyard area with a single central light post. Houses three, four, and five-stories tall enclosed the sloping courtyard. Some of the houses were made of stucco and painted a mellow cream or gray, while others were built of brown and yellow stone.
Harrington had said, “Staircase House is the one with the turret. You can’t miss it.” The curved tower that dominated one of the smaller buildings did standout. Zoe checked the time. She was early, but she was here, so she crossed to the house. The curved turret, which was situated on one corner of the building, ran all the way from the ground floor and extended above the main roofline of the building. The turret was topped with a little spire on its roof. A door was set into the curved wall. Zoe found a bell and pressed. She waited, nodding to a few people who passed through the close. She rang the bell again and waited a few more minutes. There were a couple of windows set into the building low to the ground, in what must be a basement area, but they were barred and the interior was dark, so Zoe turned away. She’d have to return at the appointment time, in roughly an hour.
She emerged back onto the Royal Mile. The castle tempted her, but she knew better than to visit a historic monument with only an hour to tour it. She walked a few more blocks and turned onto another cobblestoned street lined with tall buildings. Shops and restaurants lined the street level on both sides of the curving street, their storefronts painted cheerful red, blue, and yellow. A balcony-like walkway ran along the top of the shops, creating another
level of stores set back above the road.
Harrington’s contact owned a shop on the main road, the Blue Door, a gallery with the trim around the windows and door painted royal blue. Several paintings along with a set of candlesticks, an ancient top hat, five antique globes, and a violin were displayed in the windows. Zoe pushed open the door, setting of a chime of bells. The shop smelled strongly of vanilla candles with a few low notes of musty, dusty things. A woman in her fifties came forward, her dark blond pageboy swinging with every step. She wore a navy turtleneck, which accented her pale blue eyes, along with a long skirt and high-heeled boots. “Looking for anything particular today?”
“Yes, Violet Buchanan. Is she here?”
She raised carefully plucked eyebrows. “That’s me. How can I help you?”
“I’m Zoe Andrews,” Zoe said, glad her “new” married name rolled off her tongue so easily now. It had only taken a year or so to get used to it. “Harrington Throckmorton told me to get in touch with you. Have you heard from him?”
“Oh, yes.” Her expression, which had been the shopkeeper’s polite veneer changed and softened at the mention of Harrington’s name. “He said you’d stop by. I didn’t expect you until later.” Violet’s voice had a trace of a brogue to it, but unlike Zoe’s interaction with the taxi driver—Zoe had smiled and nodded at what she hoped were appropriate times—she could understand Violet easily.
“I had time, so I figured I’d stop in now, if that’s okay.”
“Yes, fine. Come this way, please. We’re not busy right now. We shouldn’t be disturbed.” She motioned for Zoe to follow her through the narrow shop. She pushed open a pair of swinging louvered half-doors, holding one open for Zoe after she passed through. The doors closed off a small office area from the main part of the shop. Violet indicated a wicker chair tucked into a crevice between a wooden desk and the wall, and Zoe slid into the chair. Violet offered Zoe something to drink, but Zoe said, “Thank you. I’m fine.”
Violet took a seat in an antique rolling wooden desk chair and removed a folder from a vertical stacked file in front of her. The stacked files and a calendar blotter were the only items on the desk. Zoe studied the expanse of polished wood in awe. Jack had moved his office downstairs to one corner of the kitchen, but Zoe continued to use the kitchen island as her desk, which was usually covered in a scatter of papers and her laptop, as well as miscellaneous bills and junk mail.
Violet used one finger to flip the file open. It contained a photograph of the stolen painting, the same photograph that Harrington had sent to Zoe. She picked it up. “A View of Edinburgh.”
“Do you recognize the painting?” Zoe asked.
“Not this painting specifically, but I am familiar with the artist, Annabel Foley. I hate to make unequivocal statements without seeing the actual painting, but I believe she painted this quite early in her career. Have you heard of her?”
“No.”
Violet swiveled and pulled a book down from a shelf. “She was born in 1830 in London. Her family was quite wealthy, and she traveled extensively through the British Isles during her early years. She never married. She painted her whole life, beginning with mostly landscapes. She went on to focus on flowers, painting them in nature as she discovered them. They’re exquisite.” She handed the book to Zoe, open to images of botanical paintings on facing pages. Both paintings were of a magnolia blossom, but one painting showed the flower as a bud, while the other showed it open in full bloom. The paintings were incredibly detailed. Each petal, leaf, and even the veins in the leaves were meticulously recorded. But the paintings weren’t simply anatomically exact, there was something more that the artist had managed to capture. “They’re so…vibrant.”
“Yes, exactly. Foley is famous for the energy of her canvas. For instance, these magnolias seem to sway in the breeze.”
“And it’s interesting to see the flower at different stages,” Zoe said, her gaze skipping back and forth as she looked at the similarities and differences.
“Annabel frequently painted a series of the same object at different growth stages or in different seasons. It was her trademark.”
“Like Monet’s paintings of the haystacks or the cathedral.”
Violet nodded. “Exactly. Quite forward thinking for her day. She was the same way with the materials she used. She painted in oil at a time when ladies were supposed to paint in watercolor. Thank goodness she used oil. Watercolor doesn’t endure as well as oil.”
Violet turned back to the photograph of the landscape. She tapped the edge. “I didn’t even know this painting existed. Female Victorian artists have been sadly overlooked in the past. It’s only recently that they’ve been appreciated as much as their male colleagues. There’s not even a complete catalogue of Foley’s work.” She paused and gave a rueful smile. “Bit of a hobbyhorse of mine, under-appreciated women painters from any era, but especially from Victorian times.” She pointed to the photograph. “It’s Edinburgh, of course, painted from the top of Arthur’s Seat, I’m guessing. Do you know it?”
“Yes, I’ve heard of it. Haven’t been to the top, but I’ve read about it.” Zoe had read up on the park near Holyrood Palace. Its highest point was a dormant volcano called Arthur’s Seat.
“The unique flora there would have interested her greatly, I imagine,” Violet murmured. She took out a magnifying glass and leaned close over the photograph. “She would have painted it sometime after 1844 as the Scott Monument is complete,” she said, touching the gothic monument that towered over the city skyline. I might be able to narrow it down to a more exact date by examining the various buildings, but that would take some time.”
“I don’t think you need to do that, at least not at this point,” Zoe said. Violet was taking a purely academic interest in the painting. Zoe was more worried about the whereabouts of the painting, not where it fit in Foley’s catalogue of artwork. “Harrington said you would have some possible leads on the location of the painting.”
“Yes, that’s the interesting part.” Violet propped her elbows on the desk and leaned forward. “I checked with the police, and they’ve had no report of it being stolen.”
“The family wanted to keep it quiet,” Zoe said quickly.
Violet immediately straightened. “Oh, don’t worry. I didn’t tell the police it was missing. I have a contact. He works in a civilian capacity at the police force and can check these things for me. Very discreetly, you understand.”
I hope so, Zoe thought. “So no leads with the police? Anything else?” Zoe asked a bit doubtfully. Violet didn’t look like the type of person with connections on the seedy side of Edinburgh. If it had to do with a cocktail party or a gallery opening, Zoe bet Violet would be all over it, but shady art dealings? Zoe didn’t think that was Violet’s scene.
“I’ve contacted two people who are in that…” she waved her hand in a little circle, “area of the art trade. I don’t toy with things of this nature myself.” She touched the photograph. “But the art world is small. If someone has this or knows about it being taken, I’ll hear something.”
“How soon do you think that might be?”
“By tomorrow, at the latest. I made it clear that I needed to know as soon as possible. Now,” she pulled a cell phone from a drawer. “Let me have your mobile phone number. I’ll call you the moment I hear something.”
Zoe exited the shop a few minutes later and called Jack as she walked back up the steep street to the Royal Mile. It was early in Houston, but she knew he’d be awake. Jack was not someone who lounged around sleeping in. He answered on the first ring. “Hey. How are you?”
“Making the rounds. Do you have a few minutes? I can’t remember your schedule.” A light mist filled the air, but it wasn’t heavy enough for Zoe to bother with the umbrella. She was glad she’d pulled her long hair into a ponytail before she left the hotel. Humidity made her naturally curly hair coil even tighter than normal, but with it off her face, it could frizz away. She’d figured Scotl
and was not the place to flat iron her hair.
“Sure,” Jack said. “I just finished setting up for my presentation. It doesn’t start for thirty minutes.”
“Okay, good. I met with Harrington’s contact. I don’t think she’s going to be much help.”
“Really? It wouldn’t be like Harrington to send you to someone who doesn’t know their stuff.” Snatches of conversation and other ambient noise came over the line, making it hard to hear Jack.
Zoe pressed the phone harder to her ear. “Oh, she knows her stuff all right. She knows Victorian paintings and could tell me all about the artist and her career. She says she’s put the word out about the painting, but I don’t think I should count on hearing anything from her. She’s an elegant woman. Cocktail parties and fundraisers for art causes seem more her line. I was thinking of calling Masard.”
Henri Masard was an art dealer Zoe and Jack met in Paris who had helped them out of a scrape. He had a laissez-faire attitude toward the art that came through his shop, contacting the police now and again. Zoe thought he probably walked a fine line, staying mostly on the legal side of things and straying into more murky territory occasionally.
After a beat of silence, Jack said, “He might be helpful. You’ll have to tell Harrington the whole situation, float the idea of contacting Masard, and see where he wants you to go from there.”
“I know.” Zoe blew out a sigh.
The ambient noise faded and Jack’s voice came in stronger, his tone concerned. “What’s wrong?”
“Harrington didn’t send me here to follow a checklist and then report back to him and await my next instructions. He sent me here to get the painting back. He likes the innovative way I do things. He’s told me that. It’s one of the reasons he offered me this consulting job. I need to…I don’t know…come up with some way of tracking the painting on my own.”