Frame Change: A Nina Bannister Mystery (The Nina Bannister Mysteries Book 5)

by T'Gracie Reese

  “You do not drink a great deal, do you, Mr. Gellert?”

  “No.”

  “Admirable.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Yes, it is. Well. Thank you for coming.”

  “I had to come. I work for you.”

  He could see the man more clearly now: his half-shrug, his half smile.

  “That will, regrettably, have to change.”

  “Why?”

  “Circumstances.”

  “What circumstances?”

  “Do I actually have to tell you?”

  “I suppose not. It’s Red Claw, isn’t it?”

  “It seems always to be Red Claw. He is somewhat of an irresistible force, something impossible to be reckoned with.”

  “What’s happened now?”

  The figure of Beckmeier was growing more clear now as Gellert’s eyes adjusted themselves to the dim light in the room. He was dressed in a dark green silken robe; and with his silver hair, perfectly combed of course, his mustache, his goatee—he could have played Mephistopheles in Faust.

  “He has apparently discovered my—my abode.”

  “You mean here?”

  A smile.

  Sulfur. Brimstone.

  “No, of course not. This is merely a stopping place for me.”

  “A stopping place? With more than a dozen priceless paintings?”

  “A place of transition. The paintings are brought here by operatives such as the ones you employ. They hang for a time and are admired by a few of my close…”

  “Friends?”

  “Acquaintances, my dear young Gellert. I have long since ceased to have friends. But as I say, they rest here for a time, these paintings, and then are transferred on to southern Austria.”

  Michael Gellert waited.

  “There, in my Castle Eggenburg, I have over the years amassed a truly impressive collection.”

  “And now Lorca Reklaw has learned where this ‘domicile’ is.”

  “So I am told by my sources.”

  “What will happen?”

  Beckmeier shrugged.

  “What always happens when objects of true beauty exist. They will become, like suns, the center of violent universes.”

  “I assume then that you’re not going to allow Lorca Reklaw simply to walk in and take back his paintings.”

  “They’re my paintings. He’s simply under the illusion that they are his. Or his people’s. He’s also under the illusion that he’s invincible. That no one knows where he is. That he himself cannot be made to disappear.”

  “And he is wrong in believing this?”

  “Very wrong. As he may learn quite soon.”

  “So a small war is going to happen.”

  “Perhaps not so very small as all that. But the hills of southern Austria are quite remote. It will be a war carried on, let us say, out of sight of the public. There are a few villages nearby. They employ constables, etc. But I also employ these people, and have for some time.”

  “You are the law of the land.”

  “I am simply a feudalistic leader.”

  “From the old days.”

  “From the better days, when the Hapsburgs ran Vienna, and the minor aristocracy ran the countryside. You know, if you visit the Franziskaner Kirche in Vienna, in the basement, where all of the Habsburgs are buried in lead coffins—you will see that the burial place of Franz Josef is covered in flowers. Fresh flowers. Brought in daily.”

  “I must remember to do that.”

  “Yes, do, dear boy. It will give you an inkling of why the people of the surrounding area appreciate—well, who I am, and how I live. But that is all mere background. Foreground is that our business has been, sadly, concluded. I shall be transporting these paintings to Austria—how I do so is not your concern. Then I shall, as I mentioned, move there myself. I’ve been home far too little. And I shall set about protecting the paintings I have, rather than procuring new ones. At least for the time being. As for you, whatever method you’ve been using for the past months—as effective as it has been––must now be terminated.”

  “I understand.”

  “Also, I must tell you—and this is not easy––”

  “Go on.”

  “No one, who’s been involved in this operation, can be considered safe. Not even you.”

  “You think Red Claw knows about…”

  “He seems to know about everything. And everyone. Look to yourself, Gellert. And look to your people. I shall protect myself, and my paintings. I’m not at all certain I can protect you. And I’m damned sure I can’t protect your operatives.”

  “You think Red Claw might…”

  “I think Red Claw does not forgive. What he does to his enemies, I can only imagine. I’ve learned one thing. A strange thing, perhaps, an eccentricity of his––but something that seems to be a pattern.”

  “And this thing is?”

  Beckmeier ran his palm carefully over his hair and then said, quietly:

  “He does not like to kill people in this country. He feels apparently that The United States was a savior for his people.”

  “The Jews?”

  “Yes. And so he does not like to––shall we say, ‘soil’ the soil here with the blood of people he takes to be anti-Semitic criminals. He ‘transports’ them. Usually with as little fuss and violence as possible. Then he––well, what he does then, no one seems to know.”

  “Nor wish to know.”

  “No. Nor wish to know. At any rate, then—look to your people. And now our interview, as our professional arrangement, is sadly concluded. “

  They both rose and shook hands.

  Beckmeier disappeared into the bowels of the great mansion, leaving Michael Gellert alone with the butler, who stood by the door holding an overcoat.

  CHAPTER TWELVE: SMALL TOWN GOINGS ON

  At that same time in Bay St Lucy, eight PM on the evening of December 3, Nina Bannister was teaching what had been Emily Peterson’s Wine and Watercolors class.

  The class took place in O’Doul’s Restaurant and Bar, which was a relatively new Irish pub in Bay St. Lucy, and which, partially as a community service and partially to get known and attract a bit more business, had offered some of its downstairs space to be used one evening a week for the new devotees of painting.

  “I’d make the red a little deeper.”

  “You don’t think it would be too much??

  “No, I think it makes the thingies on the mill wheel—what are those called?”

  “Paddles?”

  “That doesn’t seem right. But the thingies are more dramatic when they’re dark red, at least to me.”

  “Ok, Nina. You’re the expert.”

  “Oh, not really.”

  “How many painting have you sold now?”

  “I don’t really know.”

  She had sold twenty. One just this afternoon.

  Which she, of course, knew exactly.

  She moved on to Patricia Smithson’s easel.

  “Patricia, I think for this one, the base of the mill…”

  Etc. Etc.

  They were all gathered on the downstairs floor of the bar, and next to one of the large picture windows.

  Tables had been moved around so that they were in a semi-circle.

  On each table sat propped an easel. Just in front of each easel, lying flat, was a paper plate, and within that plate were eight quarter-sized puddles containing acrylic paints.

  Blue, red, green, white, black, and an indeterminate color which one of the students—Esther Ryerson—said was ochre, and another of the students—Margie Mason—said was mauve.

  No one was quite sure.

  At the front of the room, was a large easel. The canvas was bare and ready for Nina to start

  Upon each easel was a canvas, blank at the beginning of each class. Affixed to the top of each of the students’ canvases were miniature copies of Nina’s original.

  The students, for their first act of the eveni
ng, were to subdivide this canvas into four separate parts, as the copy had been divided.

  They would then draw with pencil the various features—mill wheel, base, trees, storm in the background, cart parked in front—of the painting.

  Nina grabbed her brush and instructed them to start with the background (it would take longer to dry; leaving space for the penciled-in features.) They would then add colors, to their liking.

  Also, they could add other things—dogs, cats, children, cows, animals, lightning bolts—again, to their liking.

  The painters could also order wine as they worked, and were urged to do so by the managers of O’Doul’s, who enjoyed both the art of watercolor painting and the sound of the cash register.

  “You don’t think the base is too big?”

  “No, Patricia, I don’t. I mean, it’s got to hold that entire mill thing.”

  “How about the background colors?”

  “They look fine to me, except maybe the sky is too pale.”

  “Well, I was planning on putting a thunderhead in the background.”

  “Oh, I see. So you want some contrast.”

  “Exactly.”

  “That’s fine then. Oh, can I get you another glass of wine?”

  “If you would.”

  “Sure. What are you drinking?”

  “Merlot.”

  “One Merlot, coming up.”

  She walked to the bar, feeling quite comfortable being both bar maid and painting instructor. She put in the order, and was joined by Emily Peterson herself.

  “Nina, this is just going wonderfully.”

  “Well, I hope it is.”

  Everyone is learning so much!”

  “I’m glad. I’m just painting what I see and trying to offer any tips I can.”

  “Well you’re doing splendidly. So splendidly, actually, that someone is here to write about you!”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, here!”

  A young woman stepped forward.

  Nina had never seen her before, but she was perky and blonde, and she had both a strong handshake and a good smile:

  “Ms. Bannister?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m Elaine Grogan. I’ve just been hired as a Special Features Editor for the Bay St. Lucy Gazette!”

  “Oh, how nice to have you in town. Do you like Bay St. Lucy so far?”

  “Love it.”

  “I’m not sure there’s a great deal to write about. We’re a pretty quiet little village.”

  “Well, there’s you to write about. Everyone seems to be talking about your talent, and the paintings you’re selling.”

  “Oh, I don’t think we should make too big a thing of it.”

  “Nonsense,” interrupted Emily. “Anybody who has real talent ought to show it off!”

  “Exactly!” echoed the young woman. “I have to tell you, I was in Elementals today when the lady bought that painting of the old oak tree. What was it called?”

  “Old Oak Tree.”

  “Yes, that one. She was so knowledgeable sounding. I have to write about what she said when I do the article.”

  “She did seem enthused.”

  “I’ll say she was enthused. I took notes on some of her comments that I overheard when she was raving about it to you. She said it had ‘a laminating viscosity’ and an ‘ephemeral vibrancy.’”

  “I think she was just being kind.”

  “Well, anyway, she sounded quite expert. So, anyway, I want to get as much background info on you as I can, find out how you fell in love with painting, how you developed your talent, and what your sources of inspiration are.”

  “I’ll tell you whatever I can, but…”

  “And, of course, there’s one thing even more important than that! We have to get a group picture!”

  “Here, here!” said two men sitting at the bar, who were not in the watercolor class, but who were drinking wine anyway.

  Here, here!” said Emily.

  “Here, here!” said all of the students, simultaneously.

  So Elaine Grogan got out her pocket camera.

  And everyone got together in a tight group.

  And they raised their glasses.

  And they shouted as one: “To Nina!”

  And thus, the craft of painting was celebrated in O’Doul’s Bar and Pub in Bay St. Lucy Mississippi.

  The class lasted until ten o’clock.

  By ten fifteen, Nina was home.

  Just as she walked in her door, her cell phone rang.

  “This is Nina.”

  “Nina, this is Patty.”

  Patty Brewster owned The Stink Shoppe, a boutique several blocks from Elementals.

  “What’s up, Patty?”

  “Well, probably nothing. But…”

  “Go ahead—what’s wrong?”

  “I was just working late tonight. Have you just been in Elementals?”

  “No, I’ve been teaching the Wine and Watercolors class.”

  “Well, when I was pulling out of our store driveway, I saw a light on in one of the windows.”

  “Really?”

  “And I thought, that’s funny, because Nina never leaves those lights on.”

  “No. I don’t.”

  “Anyway, I went back into The Stink Shoppe for something I’d forgotten, and when I got back to the car, the light had gone off.”

  “Curiouser and curiouser.”

  “So, you might want to check it out.”

  “I do want to check it out. Thanks for calling, Patty.”

  “No problem. Good night.”

  “Good night to you.”

  And she flipped the cell phone closed.

  “Carol?”

  “Yep?”

  Carol was curled in a corner of the living room, reading.

  “Somebody saw a light on down at Elementals.”

  “That’s funny.”

  “It’s a little funny, because I locked up at four thirty today, and I’m pretty sure I turned them all off.”

  “You want to go check on things?”

  “Yeah, I probably do.”

  “Shall I come with you?”

  Nina shook her head, and walked to the closet to get a windbreaker.

  “Don’t worry about it; it’s probably nothing.”

  And, so saying, she walked outside.

  She paused at the foot of the stairway and looked up at Bay St. Lucy’s sky.

  It hung, slate and sullen, over the city like a shroud.

  She unlocked the Vespa, donned her helmet, got on, started the engine, and pulled out of her driveway.

  She turned onto Breakers Boulevard, listening, as somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed in mournful harmony with the outgoing tide, which was going about its business some fifty yards to her right.

  A light on?

  What was that all about?

  Should she call someone?

  The police?

  No.

  It wasn’t that important.

  She’d probably just forgotten, and left the thing on.

  But then, when Patty had looked a second time, Elementals was dark.

  Maybe the light had burned out.

  At any rate, it almost certainly was not worth bothering Moon Rivard.

  She tried to think of other things, and succeeded.

  Her paintings, which were still selling.

  Her travel plans with Carol.

  How much money did she have now? Well, last week, the statement had read…

  …but no more of that for now, since the outline of Elementals was looming in front of her, and she was dealing with the risky job of slowing her vehicle from a dozen miles an hour to six miles an hour to three miles an hour to nothing.

  She cut off the engine and dismounted.

  All of the lights were off.

  Nothing seemed wrong.

  She walked up the stairs, peered into the cylindrical Bannister Canister and saw neither mail nor messages nor flyers nor small a
nimals, reached into her purse, withdrew her key, and inserted it into the gleaming silver lock.

  The door swung open easily as she pushed upon the key.

  The shop was unlocked.

  “Huh.”

  A strange thing. Nina was nothing if not a creature of routine, and she always locked up upon leaving. Which she had done a little more than five hours ago.

  Oh well.

  She stepped inside the darkened shop, reached to her right, and flipped the light switch.

  Everything was as she’d left it. The hanging ferns over to the right, the row of paintings on the street-side wall—none of hers were hanging now, but a spot stood ready for Owl, which she would finish probably day after tomorrow—the cash register directly in front of her, the displays of silverware on tables in the middle of the room, several clay pots standing like dusky-brown fat soldiers behind them…

  …no, nothing had been changed.

  So she crossed the room and walked up and down the various aisles and crannies and semi-nooks and hallowed spaces that made up the store.

  An urn by Amy Phillips. A display of books about backpacking in Mississippi. An embossed punchbowl.

  She looked up at the ceiling light; a large, doped-up fly was buzzing around it.

  Have to kill it tomorrow.

  But, other than that, everything seemed to be in place.

  So she turned, walked to the door, opened it, and walked outside.

  No sound from anywhere in winter-sleeping Bay St. Lucy.

  She got on the Vespa, started it, and pulled away.

  Ten seconds later, she’d gone about fifteen yards down the street.

  And the bomb went off.

  Carol Walker heard two things almost simultaneously: the first was what seemed like a sonic boom that came from the direction of downtown Bay St. Lucy; the second was a knock at the door.

  She opened it and saw standing before her, a beaming Tom Broussard, dressed in dungarees and a battered black sports jacket.

  “Did you hear a noise?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  “Yeah. Sounded like a jet broke the sound barrier.”

  “Are there any military air stations around?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Huh. Well, anyway, hi Tom!”

  “Hi yourself. Nina around?”

  “No, she had to go into town. We got a phone call, and––well, it doesn’t matter. How’s Penelope?”