A Whisker of Trouble

by Sofie Ryan

  After lunch of a turkey sandwich made with Charlotte’s leftovers, I went out to the porch. Mr. P. was at his computer.

  “Hello, Sarah,” he said. “How was your morning?”

  “I started working on that old cabinet,” I said.

  He smiled. “I’m sure it will be lovely when you’re done.”

  I smiled back at him. “I hope you’re right.”

  “I’m confident that I will be.”

  I held out the business card. “I think this is the man you’re looking for,” I said. I’d thought about giving the card to Charlotte and decided against it. I didn’t know why Nick hadn’t just given it to his mother and I didn’t want to cause a problem between them. “I tried the number, but all I got was a very robotic leave-a-number message.”

  “Thank you,” Mr. P. said.

  He didn’t seem surprised, I realized.

  “It occurs to me that it might be better if I didn’t ask you how you came to get this card,” he added.

  I wasn’t the only one who could read Nick’s tells, I realized.

  “You’re a very observant man,” I said, choosing my words carefully.

  The old man adjusted his glasses and smiled at me again. “Over the years I’ve discovered that being observant has its advantages.”

  “Yes, it does,” I agreed. I looked over at his computer. “I’ll let you get back to work.”

  “Thank you, my dear,” he said.

  I spent the next half hour returning phone calls in my office. I came downstairs to see how Avery was doing packing parcels just as Ethan Hall came into the shop. I’d called Stella and told her about finding the train and about Channing Caulfield’s claim on the rare model cars. She’d told me she’d talk to Ethan and promised one of them would get back to me.

  “Hi, Sarah, do you have a minute?” Ethan asked.

  “Of course,” I said, walking over to him. It was like standing next to Nick. Even in heels I felt short.

  “Aunt Stella told me about the model train,” he said. There was a day’s worth of stubble on his chin, blond, like his short hair. “Do you think Caulfield has a claim on it?”

  “Possibly,” I said. “There’s that bottle of wine that changed hands because of it.”

  Ethan blew out a breath. “Damn it,” he muttered.

  “I have an idea,” I said.

  “I hope he doesn’t expect me to pay for that bottle of wine,” he said. “I’m sorry he got conned, but so did my dad.”

  “Don’t worry about the wine,” I said. “Stella told me about Ellie needing surgery on her back.”

  His blue eyes clouded over. “Then she probably also told you that the surgery is considered experimental.”

  I nodded. “I think Channing Caulfield might be persuaded to relinquish his claim on the model train so it can be sold with the proceeds going into a fund for Ellie’s surgery.” I raised an eyebrow. “He gets to look good.”

  “And we get the money,” Ethan finished. “I might be able to convince Ellie to go for that. She has some very strong opinions on anything she sees as being a handout.”

  “We need to do a little more research into the value of the layout,” I said. I raised a cautionary hand. “And it’s not going to cover the cost of the surgery by a long shot.”

  “But it will help me.” Ethan smiled. “Thank you, Sarah. The stress from all this has been eating me alive.”

  “You’re welcome,” I said. “I wish it were more.”

  He wiped a hand over his mouth. “You and me both.”

  Mr. P. came in from the sunporch then and walked over to us. He was carrying a sheet of paper in one hand. “Excuse me, Sarah,” he said. “Would you mind if I made a copy of this?” He held up the page, which was a photo of Thorne Logan that he’d probably printed at home.

  “Go ahead,” I said.

  He patted his pockets and I knew he was looking for a quarter. Charlotte, who kept the Angels’ books, insisted that they pay for copying and printing. Arguing the point had done me no good. They’d also started paying me rent for the sunporch. When I’d tried to argue against that, Rose tartly informed me that if I didn’t take the money they’d rent office space somewhere else. I couldn’t see how that would be a good idea, so I’d relented. Every month half the money went to the Friends of the North Harbor Library and the other half to the Mid-coast Animal Shelter. It made me feel better about taking the money in the first place and since they didn’t know they couldn’t argue with me over it.

  Mr. P. found the twenty-five cents and held it out to me. The photo slipped from his grasp. Ethan reached out and caught it before it could hit the floor. He glanced at the picture and frowned. “Wait a minute,” he said. “Do you know this man?”

  “Do you?” Mr. P. asked.

  Ethan nodded. “He contacted me a couple of weeks ago. He wanted to buy a bottle from my father’s wine collection.”

  “Just one bottle?” Mr. P. said. Like me, he’d noticed that Ethan had said “a bottle.”

  Ethan glanced at the photo once more and handed the piece of paper back to Alfred. “Yes.”

  Mr. P. and I exchanged a look. “Why did he want a bottle of wine that isn’t worth anything?” I asked.

  Ethan swiped a hand across his mouth again. “Because he thought maybe it was.”

  Mr. P. and I stared at him.

  Ethan shrugged. “I mean he was wrong. Ronan talked to some other contact he had and whoever it was agreed that the bottle was a fake.” He exhaled loudly. “Just like all the other bottles in the old man’s collection. I don’t know why he did that to me.” It was impossible to miss the edge of bitterness in his voice. Then he shook his head and gave us a wry smile. “I don’t know how people can sleep at night, taking advantage of someone who’s old.”

  Mr. P. tipped his head back and regarded Ethan thoughtfully, it seemed to me. “There’s an old saying,” he said quietly. “What goes around comes around.”

  “Well, excuse me for hoping you’re right,” Ethan said.

  Mr. P. nodded and started up the stairs. Elvis was on his way down. The old man stopped for a moment to stroke the top of the cat’s head. Elvis made a soft murp and came purposefully down the rest of the steps. He eyed Ethan through narrowed green eyes, walked around us in a wide curve and headed for the workroom.

  “Ethan, do you have Mr. Logan’s contact information?” I asked. I’d tried the number on the business card Nick had given me. All I’d gotten was voice mail.

  He made a face. “I’m going to sound like the stereotypical absentminded professor, but I don’t. He contacted me. After I told Ronan about the phone call, he took care of it after that.” He smiled. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not a big deal,” I said. “The police are looking into the fake wine angle as far as Mr. Quinn’s death is concerned.”

  “Well, I can tell you that Logan is a reputable dealer. At least that’s what Quinn said.”

  The phone rang over at the cash desk and I saw Charlotte head over to answer it.

  “I’ll let you get back to work,” Ethan said. “Will you let me know what Caulfield says about the train set?”

  I nodded. “I will.”

  “And would it be a problem if the wine collection stays where it is for now?” he asked. “I moved everything into the kitchen so Quinn could go through the bottles.”

  I smiled. “We can work around them for now, but it would be nice to have the space for the sale weekend.”

  He pulled his keys out of his pocket. “I’ll talk to Detective Andrews. If the collection is evidence of . . . something, maybe she’ll want to take all of it to the police station. Otherwise I’ll just have to find a way to dispose of it.” He sighed softly.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  Ethan headed out and Elvis came back from wherever he’d gone. He rubbe
d against my leg and I bent down and picked him up and went upstairs to my office. Mr. P. was just turning off the printer/copier.

  I picked up the original photo that he’d just copied and studied it. Elvis poked his head around to have a look as well.

  “We’re not wrong,” Alfred said.

  “No, I don’t think you are,” I said slowly.

  Elvis meowed his agreement. “It’s unanimous,” I said. “Ethan said Ronan Quinn told him your suspect is a reputable wine broker.”

  Mr. P. hiked his pants up a little higher under his armpits. “Reputable is as reputable does,” he said, raising an eyebrow at me.

  Chapter 15

  I walked back downstairs with Mr. P. “Sarah, what exactly do you know about Ronan Quinn?” he asked.

  “Well, he was extremely knowledgeable about wine. He had the designation of Maître Sommelier from the Union de la Sommellerie Française. And he’d been an expert witness in several court cases.”

  “I don’t suppose Nicolas has said anything to you about the man?”

  “Where are you going with this?” I asked, leaning back and studying him. He might have looked like an unassuming little old man, but there was a sharp intellect underneath his mild expression.

  “I’ve just been thinking, what exactly do we know about Mr. Quinn’s character?”

  “Are you asking if he was like Caesar’s wife?” I teased.

  His eyes twinkled behind his glasses. “Above reproach?” he said. “Yes. I guess that is what I mean.”

  “You’re thinking maybe he wasn’t?” We were stopped in the middle of the store.

  Mr. P. looked thoughtful. “I’m not exactly sure, my dear,” he said. “So if this sounds off-the-wall, I won’t be offended by you pointing it out.”

  “I somehow doubt anything you’re going to say will be off-the-wall,” I said. For the most part Alfred could be counted on to be the voice of reason, especially when Rose got her mind set on something. “What are you thinking?”

  “We know that Mr. Quinn was also a broker, a dealer who sold wine to collectors.”

  “Yes.”

  “And we know that he was investigating the con artists who had defrauded Edison Hall and other people.”

  I nodded.

  Mr. P. cocked his head to one side. He reminded me of an inquisitive baby bird. “What if everyone is wrong about Mr. Quinn?”

  I rubbed the space between my eyes. I was beginning to get a headache from trying to follow Mr. P.’s reasoning. “What do you mean by wrong?”

  “Well, not to speak ill of the dead, but what if he got involved in the fraud investigation to protect himself? Do you see where I’m going?”

  I reached over and straightened the pillows on the nearby tub chair. “I do,” I said. “You think that maybe Quinn could have been part of the original con. That maybe he was involved in some way with selling those fake bottles of wine.”

  Mr. P. nodded. “We’ve all been assuming he was completely aboveboard.” He held up one veined, wrinkled hand. “And maybe he was.”

  “But maybe he wasn’t,” I finished. I pointed to the photo Alfred was still holding. “So how does Thorne Logan tie in to this? You do have a photo of him talking to that woman who seemed to be promoting exactly the kind of thing Edison ended up losing his money in.”

  “What if Mr. Logan is the one in the white hat?” Mr. P. asked. “What if he was talking to that woman because he was trying to get more information about the con? What if he wasn’t part of it at all?” He held up the photo. “What if he was trying to catch the people who were? He was at Feast in the Field twice and he tried to buy a bottle from Edison Hall’s collection. We’re just assuming he’s part of the con. That doesn’t mean he is.”

  It didn’t seem like a good time to point out that I hadn’t assumed anything. “I don’t know,” I finally said.

  It was far-fetched. But there was also a vein of logic that ran through the old man’s reasoning. I pulled a hand over the back of my neck. The headache had crept up over the top of my scalp. “I can’t tell you you’re wrong.”

  “I think it’s worth doing a little more digging into Mr. Quinn’s background,” Mr. P. said.

  I let out a slow breath. “I think it is.”

  He smiled. “I’ll let you know what I find out.” He headed for the sunporch, moving quickly like a man with a purpose, which in fact he was.

  Charlotte walked over to me. She held out a blue message slip. “Someone from Seaward Properties called. They want some measurements off the chandelier from Doran’s.”

  She was referring to the chandelier that Mac and I had brought into the shop. It had once been the focal point of the Portland department store. I’d bought it back in the fall along with several mannequins and a few other things. It had almost been sold twice.

  I held up my crossed fingers. “Maybe third time’s the charm.”

  “Oh, I hope so,” she said. “I hate to think of that beautiful old piece ending up out of the state or even worse.”

  “Not going to happen,” I said. “I think Mac’s made the sale, but if we can’t find a home for that light here in town, I’ll twist Sam’s arm until he lets me hang it down at The Black Bear.”

  Charlotte laughed. “I think a chandelier is just what that place needs.”

  I went up to my office and called the Seaward office. We set up a time for someone to come take some measurements.

  Elvis had come back upstairs while I was on the phone, settling himself on my desk directly in front of the phone so that when I went to hang up I had to reach around him to do it.

  “Mrr?” he said in what seemed—at least to me—to be an inquiring tone.

  “If this newest development proposal actually goes ahead”—I held up my crossed fingers—“we may finally have a home for that big brass chandelier.”

  His response was to yawn.

  “You may not be impressed, but I thought I was going to have to coerce Sam into hanging it down at the pub.”

  I looked at my watch. “Mac and Rose should be back anytime now,” I said to the cat. His ears twitched and he lifted his head to look around.

  I wondered what Rose would think of Mr. P.’s new line of inquiry.

  Then in some kind of unexplainable thinking process, my brain lined up the last things I’d said to Elvis. When I didn’t immediately say anything, he nudged me with his furry head.

  I reached over to stroke his fur. “I’m stupid,” I said to him.

  He murped softly.

  “Thank you for the vote of confidence,” I said, “but I am. We could have called Sam.”

  Elvis blinked his green eyes at me. He had no idea what I was talking about.

  Sam knew everyone and he ran a bar. The odds of him knowing someone who knew someone who could tell us more about the two wine dealers had to be good. I didn’t know Ronan Quinn, but I wanted the person who had killed him caught. And I wanted the person who had scammed Edison Hall caught. I wanted whoever it was to pay—hopefully financially so Ethan’s wife, Ellie, could have that operation she needed. I liked it when the world was fair, when the bad guys got what was coming to them. Even though it didn’t always happen, I wanted it to.

  Sam answered the phone on the third ring. “Hey,” he said. “What’s up?”

  “I need to pick your brain,” I said. I leaned back in the chair and Elvis took that as an invitation to climb down and settle himself in my lap.

  Sam laughed. “Whatever I have is yours.”

  “What do you know about wine?” I asked.

  “Box or bottle?”

  I laughed. “Very funny.”

  “I’m more of a beer guy, but I like a good California merlot,” he said. “Does that help?”

  “I was thinking about something a little more high-end,” I said. I explained about Rona
n Quinn.

  “That’s the guy whose body you found at Edison Hall’s old place.”

  Elvis laid his head on my chest and I began to stroke his fur. “That’s him. We’d like to know a little more about him. Do you maybe know someone?” I didn’t finish the sentence.

  “We?” Sam said.

  “Stella Hall hired the Angels to look into Quinn’s death. She thinks it might be connected to all those bottles of wine that Edison bought that turned out to be worthless.”

  “So you’re in the detective business again?”

  I could picture him behind his own desk in his office, feet propped on the corner of the desk.

  “No, I’m helping, that’s it,” I said. I leaned back a little in my chair and Elvis gave a small sigh of contentment. “I like Stella.”

  “So do I,” Sam said. “I can think of a couple of people I can call. Can you give me some time?”

  “Take all the time you need,” I said. “I appreciate this. Thank you.”

  “Hey, I’m happy to help.”

  I pictured him smiling because he was the type of person who really was happy to help anyone.

  We said good-bye and I leaned over and hung up the phone.

  “Sam is on the case,” I told Elvis. He started to purr, which probably had more to do with the fact that I was scratching behind his right ear than his enthusiasm for Sam’s help, but I decided to rationalize it as the latter anyway.

  I spent the next hour downstairs in the shop helping Charlotte with customers. We sold another guitar, a wooden rocking chair and a bread pail. Charlotte spent several minutes explaining the bread-making process to the young man who bought the pail, even writing out her favorite recipe on a piece of paper.

  I put my arm around her shoulders once we were alone in the shop. “I’m so glad you were here,” I said. “The only thing I could have told him about bread was to read the best-before date on the little plastic tag before you buy it.”

  Charlotte shook her head, smiling at the same time. “You can’t use that ‘I can’t cook’ line anymore. Your gravy last night was very good.”