by Sara Rosett
He shrugged into his coat and was reaching for his keys when his phone rang. Ivan recognized the number. It was the antique shop he’d been in earlier.
The owner’s voice came over the line when he answered. “Mr. Barrows, this is Stuart. So sorry I missed you today. Timothy informed me you’re expanding into oils, and that you’d like a landscape.”
“Yes, the painting your employee described today sounded like exactly what I’m looking for.”
A second of silence filled the line then Stuart said, cautiously, “Tim mentioned it, did he?”
“Yes. I’m actually friends with the family of the woman who painted it,” Ivan said. “I’d like to acquire it…to return it to the family, of course. I know the son, Robert, quite well.”
“I wish I could help you, but the painting is already in the process of being returned to the family at Staircase House.”
“Ah, I see,” Ivan said. “Well, that’s—good. Excellent, in fact. Glad that’s sorted,” Ivan said. “Did you see it? Did it come into your shop?”
“Oh, no. I just got the word, a text, that it had been found. Not sure where it turned up. Now, I do have a nice little Victorian oil, a seascape—”
“Yes, of course. I’ll take a look at it next time I’m in. Thank you. Appreciate the call.” Ivan hung up and paced around the room, still in his coat. In the process of being returned. What did that mean? Was it on the way back to Staircase House? Was it there already? Stuart had said it was being returned to Staircase House itself. That meant someone had to be there to receive it.
He moved back to the table and found the list of numbers he’d jotted down inside the notebook’s front cover years ago. With any luck the numbers wouldn’t have changed. He found the number for Staircase House and dialed.
After three rings, a female voice said, “Hello?”
Poppy. Instinctively he pushed the end button. Even after all these years, he could still hear her snobby tones ringing out as she called him Ivan the Terrible in a voice that carried all the way down the grand staircase and into the long hall at Frampton.
He ran his hand over his mouth, trying to come up with another way to do things, but there wasn’t any other way. He had to call Robert. There was no way Poppy would let him in Staircase House, much less let him see the painting.
Zoe was not normally a morning person. Unlike Jack who was disgustingly cheerful, she usually needed at least an hour and a few cups of coffee to become even slightly coherent. But even with the time change, she had woken at six and thrown back the covers, not even thinking of grabbing a few extra minutes in the warm bed. By seven-thirty she was walking along the cobblestoned crescent toward the Blue Door. She knew she was early, but she couldn’t help it. She would check and see if Violet was in. Violet might be an early bird type person.
But when Zoe arrived at the shop, the royal blue door was locked and the interior lights were off. A sign posted near the door showed that Violet normally opened at ten. Zoe walked on until she found a bakery where she purchased a coffee and a chocolate croissant, which she ate, perched at a cafe table on the sidewalk. She had her choice of tables. The morning was clear, but chilly, and there weren’t many people lingering at the cafe tables over breakfast. Zoe was bundled for the weather in her gloves, hat, and scarf, but she finished her food quickly and went back to walking to stay warm, heading back to the shop.
By eight, she was again back in front of the store, which was still locked. Her phone rang. Zoe saw it was Violet’s number, and her heart sank. Something had gone wrong.
“Good morning, Zoe.” Violet’s chirpy tone reassured Zoe somewhat. “Change of plans, I’m afraid. Nancy has had to delay her departure from Glasgow until later this morning. She will be here by eleven, so I’ll see you then.”
“You know, I think I should just go there.” Zoe didn’t like all this waiting around for the painting and depending on someone’s schedule.
“Oh, no need to do that. She’s already left, but she has to make a couple of stops on the way, so the painting wouldn’t even be there, if you made the trip. Just have a nice relaxing morning. See you soon.”
Zoe blew out a breath and put her phone away. Nothing she could do about it now, but the thought of this Nancy person carting the painting around central Scotland as she ran her errands didn’t fill Zoe with confidence. She should have insisted on going after it last night. Zoe shook her head. Jack wouldn’t believe this when she told him. She’d never been too timid. It wasn’t like her. She was more a barrel-ahead kind of girl than pause-and-contemplate-the-consequences kind of girl. She’d never been too timid before, but she had hesitated this time and gone with Violet’s plan. She wouldn’t let that happen again, but there was nothing she could do about it now.
She dug her hands into her pockets. Since she was waiting it out, she would see some more of Edinburgh. At least sightseeing might make the time pass faster. She ran through her options. She knew from her trip to the castle last night that it didn’t open until nine-thirty. She’d also learned that it closed at five. She’d missed the last entrance so she had gone to the National Gallery of Scotland instead. She’d spent the majority of her time in the Impressionist rooms, checking out paintings by Monet and his colleagues, but as she’d wandered through the galleries, she’d spotted paintings by Gainsborough, Titian, Constable, van Gogh, and even a da Vinci. It had been nice and toasty warm inside the museum, too, which was a bonus.
With the sun shining down this morning, it didn’t feel as cold as it had last night, but her breath sent little puffs of white into the air as she made her way through the city. It was early, so she ambled, stopping to browse in shop windows as she crossed the Royal Mile and continued on to Princes Street Gardens, the area that had once been a lakebed. Zoe paused at the top of a set of stairs. The ground sloped down, creating a narrow trough-like area.
Buildings, bridges, and even a train station dotted the scooped out landscape. The museum she’d visited last night was located there, on the Mound, a central area where construction debris had been dumped when the elegant lanes of the “new town” on the other side of the gardens and Princes Street were being built in the late 1700s. Last night, a Ferris wheel in the gardens had been lit up, drawing her attention to its bright lights, but now in daylight she took in the whole view, wondering if Annabel Foley had ever painted the scene at night.
She trotted down the steps and through the park to the towering gray-toned monument to Sir Walter Scott. She figured that this early in the morning it was the most viable tourist site to visit. It was hard to close an open-air monument. From a distance, the monument had looked dark, nearly black, but as she got closer, she saw that some of the stones were a golden-brown tone, and she wondered if the darker stone near the top was due to pollution or some other chemical reaction…maybe something similar to copper turning green over time. She cranked her neck back to take in all 200-feet of the wonder with its gothic arches and protruding gargoyles.
She remembered from her copyediting days that someone had called it a “gothic rocket ship,” and she agreed. A statue of Scott, seated with a book in his hand and his dog at his side, was centered up under all the architectural extravagance and looked quite humble compared to the massive enclosure. The viewing platforms were closed, but she wasn’t in the mood to climb the 287 steps. Instead, she settled into a restaurant and ordered a full breakfast. She burned enough time lingering over her coffee that by the time she retraced her steps, the castle was open.
She bought a ticket and passed through an arched entry with the sharp points of the lower edge of the metal gate hanging just in sight overhead. Zoe toured the tiny rectangular St. Margaret’s Chapel, the oldest building in Edinburgh, her guidebook informed her. She ducked her head as she stepped into the building that had been constructed in 1130, thinking what a hearty people the Scottish had been—not a fireplace in sight in the bare room. Next, she crossed the threshold into the reverent atmosphere of the Scottish National Wa
r Memorial. The alcoves with books listing the names of men who had died in battles from World War I onward saddened her as she thought of all those lives cut short by war.
She moved on to the royal palace and, while the rooms were not as opulent as some other grand homes she’d toured in Europe, she thought the low-key rooms perfectly in keeping with the image of Scotch frugality. Then she had a look at the crown jewels, which interestingly included a rough stone rectangle, which Scottish kings were seated on during their coronations until the English took it away in the 13th century. It was displayed in the same case as the crown, scepter, and sword. She would have enjoyed the whole thing more, if she hadn’t been constantly checking the time.
By the time she emerged from the gate, it was finally ten-thirty, and she headed back to the Blue Door, stopping by the hotel on the way to remove the money from the safe. A price hadn’t been discussed, but Zoe assumed she was going to have to buy the painting from Nancy. Presumably, Nancy had purchased it from the person who had brought it into her shop. Zoe figured she’d at least need to reimburse her for that expense.
This time when she arrived at the Blue Door, the lights were on inside. She heard two female voices as she pushed through the door, which jangled the set of bells. Violet’s head appeared over the top of the louvered door. “Zoe, come in. We’re back here.”
Violet made the introductions as Zoe squeezed into the tiny space, her back pressed against the louvered doors. Nancy, a woman with a pudgy figure and a short crop of iron gray curls, reached for the brown paper wrapped package, which was propped up by her foot. Zoe breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of the package.
“Here you are. Is this it?” Nancy said, handing it to Zoe.
She folded back the paper to reveal a small oil painting. The painting and the frame looked like the photograph Poppy had given her, but she handed it off to Violet as she said, “At first glance, I think it is.” Zoe removed the larger photograph and handed it to Violet. “You know Annabel Foley’s work better than I do. Would you say this is the stolen painting? Harrington said you’d be the one to ask about that.” He’d called her back last night, confirming that Violet was the person to check the painting.
One of Violet’s hands fluttered to her hair. “Harrington said that? Well, that’s kind of him.”
“Yes, he said you were the perfect person for the job, in fact.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Violet said, but her tone said she was pleased. She positioned the painting on the desk, took the photograph from Zoe, and removed a magnifying glass from a drawer then leaned over the painting, comparing it to the photo.
“I don’t know what all the fuss is about.” Nancy had picked up a teacup from the corner of Violet’s desk. She leaned back, propping her saucer on her midsection. “Nothing special about that painting. Why someone would take the trouble to steal it, I have no idea.”
Zoe thought of the botanical paintings that had bracketed it and wondered if a mistake had been made. “It has sentimental value to the family,” Zoe said. “Maybe the thief took the wrong painting.”
Nancy snorted. “What kind of thief doesn’t know what is valuable and what isn’t? Not much of a thief, or not a very good one, at any rate.”
“Who brought it into the shop?” Zoe asked as Violet continued to move back and forth between the painting and the photo.
“A man, but I didn’t see him. My daughter talked to him. She’s worked with me for years and knows that we can move a nice Victorian landscape of Edinburgh, which is what she told the man. She didn’t know about the email Violet had sent. I didn’t think of telling her.” Nancy slid her saucer onto the desktop and linked her fingers together over her protruding stomach. “He must have taken it to several shops because she said he didn’t seem surprised about the assessment. More resigned, she called it. Anyway, he said, ‘Fine. I’ll take it,’ and she paid him for it.”
“Did you get his name?”
“Oh yes, we keep records.” She removed a slip of paper from the table and handed it over.
“Bob Roberts?” Zoe read in disbelief. In Scotland, a man named Roberts would be as difficult to find as a man named Smith in the States.
Nancy’s eyes glinted with mischief. “An alias, no doubt, but it is the name he gave.”
“What about a description?”
“She didn’t remember much. She thought he was in his thirties. Medium height, brown eyes and wearing a dark wool coat and driving cap. Plaid scarf. Green and blue,” Nancy added with a nod as if that last detail would separate the anonymous man from thousands of other men in Scotland.
“Nothing remarkable about him? A birthmark? Facial hair?”
“No, I believe my daughter said he was clean-shaven, but nothing stood out. No tattoos or scars or anything. She said he looked like a prosperous, law-abiding citizen. Quite shocked, she was when I told her about the missing painting. ‘But mum, I took in one like that today,’ she said, her eyes as big as saucers.”
“Did he say how he came to have it?”
“He said it had been in his family for years, but we hear that all the time, don’t we, Violet?” Violet murmured an agreement then looked up.
“I think it is the same painting. I’m not one-hundred percent sure, but the signatures are the same, and the brushstrokes that are visible in the photograph match the painting.” She handed Zoe the magnifying glass, and they shuffled around, changing positions so that Zoe could lean over the painting and compare it to the photograph.
Violet pointed out the similarities, then said, “Even the frame appears to be the same.” In the photograph, she pointed to a scratch on the lower right-hand side of the simple wooden frame then touched the frame where a similar line marred the wood.
Zoe straightened and handed the magnifying glass back to Violet with a smile. “Looks like I can return A View of Edinburgh to Poppy Foley today.”
They changed places again. As Violet wrapped the painting in the brown paper, Zoe turned to Nancy. “So, how much do I owe you for the painting?”
Nancy tilted her head to one side. “If it had been one of the botanicals, it would be harder to part with, but seeing as it’s not…two-hundred and fifty pounds will cover the painting and transport here.”
“Fine.” Zoe hadn’t been sure what sort of number to expect, and she’d been prepared to argue for a lower price if Nancy asked for some exorbitant figure, knowing as she did now that the Foley landscapes weren’t worth as much as her paintings of flowers and plants. While two-hundred and fifty might be a little on the high side, Nancy had contacted Violet and brought the painting to Edinburgh.
Zoe handed over the pound notes. Nancy tucked them into a pocket on her tweed jacket. “I’ll need a receipt. Since it was stolen.”
“Of course.” Zoe borrowed some paper from Violet, making a mental note to create some sort of official receipt form before her next job, and hand-wrote a receipt for Nancy.
Within a few minutes, Zoe was out the door, the little brown bundle tucked away in her messenger bag. First, she called Harrington with an update, then she dialed Poppy. She didn’t answer, so Zoe left a message. “Hi, Poppy. Excellent news. I have the painting. I’ll drop by Staircase House on my way back to the hotel in case you get this. If not, I can return it this afternoon.”
She checked the time, then called Jack. “I have it,” she said as soon as he answered.
“I can’t say I’m surprised. So the other dealer showed up?” Jack had called Zoe last night during a break at the conference, and she’d told him about Nancy bringing the painting.
“Yes, finally. She was delayed this morning. I had to wait until eleven to pick it up.”
“That must have been rough. Waiting a whole three extra hours must have been torture.”
Zoe heard the teasing tone in his voice. “Yes, it was awful. So bad that I had to take myself to the castle to get my mind off it. I’ll tell you about it later. I’m almost to Staircase House. I’ll call you
back with all the details after I return it.”
“Sounds good. I have a session in fifteen minutes than I’m all yours.”
“I like the sound of that. Too bad we’re on different continents.” Zoe’s words echoed a bit as she walked through the tunnel arch into John’s Close.
“You’re wrapping up there and will be home soon. You might even beat me home.”
“It’s possible.” They said good-bye and Zoe reached for the doorbell of Staircase House, which looked like a modern addition to the aged house.
After a few moments, a dark-headed woman that Zoe hadn’t seen before opened the door.
“Hi,” Zoe said. “I’m looking for Poppy Foley. Is she in?”
The woman’s elegant eyebrows snapped down into a frown. “I’m Poppy. Do I know you?”
6
THE WOMAN STOOD IN THE dim recess of the stair’s landing, the contrast between the bright light outdoors and the shadowy interior making it difficult to see her, but Zoe could see enough to know that this was not Poppy.
“I said, do I know you?” The woman repeated, her tone implying that she didn’t think she did, and if she had made Zoe’s acquaintance it had certainly been a mistake.
When Zoe had pressed the bell, she’d lifted the flap of her messenger bag and she had been in the process of reaching for the painting, but she pulled her hand away now and let the flap fall back into place. Perhaps the woman had misunderstood her and thought she said something other than the name “Poppy.” Zoe had dealt with a lot of different types of people in her freelance job-juggling days, and she recognized this woman’s approach: sheer intimidation mixed with distain, a combination that probably gave her the upper hand with most people right off the bat. But Zoe wasn’t most people, and she’d had plenty of experience dealing with rather inconsiderate people. Zoe put on a determined smile and enunciated her words carefully. “No, I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Zoe Andrews. Are you sure Poppy Foley isn’t here? I spoke with her here yesterday.”