by Leona Fox
“I called Zack,” she whispered to Sadie as she wrapped the ice in the towel and set it gently on Mr. Dumville’s head.
“Just put your hand up here and hold this steady,” she said, guiding his hand.
When old Mr. Dumville seemed steady, Sadie beckoned Betty to stand with her a few feet away. “What do you think is going on here?” she asked.
“I’m sure that painting can’t be worth more than a couple of hundred dollars if it’s worth anything at all. Why in the world would someone bash an old man on the back of the head for a cheap painting with an ugly, oversized frame?”
“I don’t know,” Betty said, “but he really should go to the hospital. What if he has a concussion?”
“I wonder if we should offer him a cup of tea?” Sadie asked. “Would that be counter-indicated for a blow to the head?”
“Think we better wait till Zack gets here,” Betty said. “He’ll know.”
“What are you two whispering about back there?” Cyrus asked. “I’m old, but I’m not senile. And this ice is extremely uncomfortable. It’s numbing my head.”
“We were just wondering if you shouldn’t go to the emergency room,” Sadie said, “and have that bump looked at. It’s possible you have a concussion.”
“Don’t you think I would know if I had a concussion, young lady?” he said.
“I simply have a bump on my head and a nasty headache. And, of course, this infernal ice bag is giving me the shivers.”
Sadie grabbed the colorful shawl from the mannequin wearing the white blouse and Flamenco skirt and wrapped it around him.
“You should warm you up a little,” she said.
Cyrus grabbed the edges of the shawl to pull it more closely around him and the ice dropped and stuck between the back of his neck and the chair.
“Yikes,” he said and batted it away, sending it skittering across the floor.
Sadie picked up the towel where it had dropped and then walked over to where the ice bag was resting. She was going to wrap it back up again, but she noticed the bag had attracted some dust, a little grime and a number of Mr. Bradshaw’s hairs. Clearly they weren’t keeping the floor as clean as she thought they were. She used her skirt to brush off the bag before re-wrapping it in the towel in taking it back to the old man.
“Here you go,” she said handing it to him. He waved it away.
“I am not putting that infernal thing on the back of my head,” he said. “There’s not a thing wrong with me.”
Sadie didn’t think there was any point in arguing with him, but it worried her. He really should keep ice on that bump. She went to Betty.
“Should we call the ambulance?” she asked.
“Zack will be here in a minute,” Betty said, “he’ll know what to do.”
“You’re whispering again,” the old man complained. “I do not like being treated like a child.”
“We didn’t want to worry you, Mr. Dumville,” Sadie said. “We’re worried about that lump on your head. You really should go to the emergency room.”
“I’m not having an emergency, confound it. I just want my painting back. If my head still hurts tomorrow, I’ll go see my doctor.”
He went to get up, but the chair rolled backward, and he couldn’t maintain his balance. He flopped back in the chair with a disgusted sound. He tried again, but the result was the same and Sadie had a hard time keeping herself from laughing. It was just so comical.
“Confound it, girl,” he said. “Stop sniggering and hold this chair still for me.”
“Wouldn’t you like a cup of tea, Mr. Dumville? I really don’t think you should leave until the Chief gets here. I think your painting has been stolen.”
“Hogwash! If it’s not here, it’s most likely at home. I must’ve overlooked it. Now, would you please steady this chair so I can leave?”
Sadie was casting about in her mind for an excuse not to help him when Zack came in the door.
“Thank goodness,” she muttered under her breath as she moved to intercept him.
She stood on her tiptoes to give him a quick kiss on the cheek and said quietly, “Something’s not right here, but we can’t talk in front of Mr. Dumville.”
Zack nodded, returned her kiss and went to speak to the old man.
“Mr. Dumville,” Zack said, “what seems to be the problem?”
“The problem is these two busybodies won’t hold the chair still so I can get up and go home. It’s unlawful imprisonment, that’s what it is. And I demand you address these women.”
“That’s a nasty bump you got there on your head,” Zack said. “You really should get some ice on that.”
“I had ice,” Mr. Dumville growled, “about froze the top of my head off. Ended up with this embarrassing shawl.”
He went to pull the shawl off his shoulders, changed his mind and pulled it tighter. “Well, the shawl is not that bad, but now my head is cold as well as sore. And, this infernal headache won’t go away.”
“Why don’t I take you down to the hospital?” Zack said. “I can get your statement while they are checking you over. I’m sure they can give you something for that headache.”
“Chief Woodstone, you are normally a sensible man, so why you jumped on the hospital bandwagon is beyond me. I’m not the sort of man who goes to the doctor for a headache, and I doubt these girly girls could convince you to go either.”
Sadie watched as Zack bit back a smile. She carefully didn’t catch his eye, because if she did, she knew they’d both end up embarrassing themselves. Zack looked at the ground and cleared his throat, and Betty excused herself and walked quickly from the room. The door to the alley slammed, and Sadie thought she heard snorts of laughter.
"Mr. Dumville," Zack said with a perfectly straight face.
"Call me Cyrus," Mr. Dumville interjected.
"Cyrus," Zack began again, "if you could see that lump on your head you might change your mind. I really think you should get that cleaned out and stitched up."
"You can't take me without my consent," Cyrus said.
"Of course not. You are a competent adult, but I still need to take your statement, and we could kill two birds with one stone."
He paused and Sadie thought he was assessing Cyrus's mood. But Cyrus's face remained set, and Zack walked into the office and came back with a chair. He set it in front of Cyrus and pulled a tiny notebook from his pocket.
"Start from the beginning," he said.
"Well I woke up this morning, and the painting was gone," Cyrus said. "And I came down here because I thought I must have dreamed it."
"Hold up," Zack said, "what painting are we talking about?"
Sadie explained about the mystery painting that had come in her crate and how Cyrus had come to get it the day before.
“And how did you know it was here?” Zack asked.
“I saw it in the window?” Cyrus said.
“You don’t sound very sure about it.” Zack looked at him closely. “How did you know it was here? And who sent it?”
“I had it sent,” Cyrus said, but he didn’t sound overly confident.
“There are a lot of unanswered questions here, Mr. Dumville,” Zack said.
“And you don’t seem overly sure of your facts. I think it might be best if you come down to the station where I can record your statement.”
Sadie looked at Zack sharply, but he was keeping his face expressionless.
“I thought you were going to take me to the hospital and have my head checked out?” Cyrus snapped. “I could have a concussion.”
“If you’d like,” Zack said, the corners of his mouth twitching.
“But before we go, tell me, what makes that painting so important? Why would anyone want to steal it?”
“There was money buried during the Holocaust, and the painting says where it’s buried.” He touched the back of his head.
“Can we go now? I think I have a concussion.”
Sadie bit her lip to keep from laughing
and helped the old man out to the patrol car.
“Do you want me to come along?” she asked as Zack maneuvered himself into the driver’s seat. He was a big man, more suited to his jeep than the compact sedan.
“No, I think we’re fine,” Zack said. He gave Sadie a look that said he’d relay the pertinent facts when he had them.
She watched them pull away and then went inside to see what Betty had to say.
2
Betty didn’t have any better idea than Sadie about what was going on, so they went back to work. But Sadie couldn’t help but wonder what had become of Cyrus’s painting. Zack said there were a lot of unanswered questions, and she’d put money on the odds that she had a whole set that he hadn’t thought of.
They were questions such as, ‘Why and what was a painting of the Seagrove Bay doing in Italy in the first place?’ Had a tourist bought it here and taken it home to Italy? It seemed unlikely. And what were the chances that money was buried here? And if there was money, why would it be Holocaust money? The picture was of the beach and the bay. Anything buried out there would have washed out to sea long ago. Who had painted it, and why had they sent it to Cyrus Dumville? Sadie wasn’t convinced he’d had anything to do with its arrival in her shop.
“Do you think someone told old Mr. Dumville to say there was Holocaust money?” Betty asked.
She came around the corner of the office. “Because it just doesn’t make any sense, and he’s not a man to suffer fools.”
“All I know is this whole business is fishy,” Sadie said. “From the picture in one of our crates to him coming back today looking for it. It’s confusing, and it doesn’t make any sense.”
“We are missing details,” Betty said. “There has to be a reason to send that painting to Seagrove. We just don’t know what it is yet.”
“You are probably right,” Sadie said.
She put down the sales catalog she’d been reading and got up. “I’m going to take Mr. Bradshaw for a walk and clear my mind.”
On hearing his name, Mr. Bradshaw jumped up from his cushion under Sadie’s desk and headed for the front door. Sadie clipped on his leash, and they crossed the street into the park. She let him run, and he spent a few minutes sniffing around the base of trees and barking at squirrels. When she felt he’d had enough exercise, she called him to her and clicked the leash back on.
They walked down Main Street, Sadie looking in the windows and Mr. Bradshaw sniffing the flower beds that lined the street. She did a double take as she passed the local artist co-op and peered through the window. She swore there was a painting by the same artist as the one that went missing from Cyrus’ house. In fact, it looked almost as if it was the same painting. She looked again. No, the frame was wrong. The frame on the painting in the shop was less than half the width of the one that had been on Cyrus’ painting. But frames could be changed.
“Come on, Mr. Bradshaw,” she said, “we need a closer look at that.”
She opened the door and, not seeing a sign prohibiting Mr. Bradshaw from entering, led him into the shop. It was set up as a gallery, mostly empty in the middle except for a few paintings on easels. Looking around Sadie identified a number of different styles: impressionist, cubist, abstract, realist, and then several more styles she couldn’t identify at all. One painting looked like a huge green blob. It didn’t resonate with her, but that was the great thing about art, there was something for everyone. She was quite sure someone would be enchanted with the green blob and take it home.
The shop assistant was talking on his phone, and Sadie pointed to Mr. Bradshaw and raised her eyebrows. The young man waved his hand in a manner that said that dogs were not a problem and turned his back on them. Sadie didn’t know if that was because he wanted to keep his conversation private, or if he felt that dogs in the shop didn’t count if he couldn’t see them. It didn’t matter to Sadie one way or the other.
Mr. Bradshaw walked obediently at her side as she approached the wall where she had seen the picture like the one she’d found in her crate. Now that she was closer it was clear this was a different painting. The subject matter was the same, but the canvas was a different size and shape. And there were striped canvas changing huts in this picture instead of the wooden hut with steps leading to the sand that was in the other painting. She peered at the signature. Roger Orwin.
There were other paintings in the same style, and she checked the wall labels to see if there were others painted by the same man. There were, and they all were of the same bay. They were painted from different angles, but they were unmistakably the same beautiful and familiar Seagrove Bay. And none of these paintings were dwarfed by a gigantic, gilded frame. These all had slim frames in neutral colors that didn’t detract from the paintings. There had to be a reason for that hideous frame, but she couldn’t say what it was. She’d have to take a good look at it if she ever saw it again.
The longer she looked at Roger Orwin’s paintings, the more whimsical they seemed. Little details kept popping up in places she swore she’d already looked. Like the crab peeking out from under one of the canvas changing rooms – the second time she looked it was holding an ice cream cone that she would have sworn wasn’t there before. And the seagull carrying a woman’s pocketbook. At first glance she had thought the pocketbook was a cloud.
“Tricky,” she said aloud, “and very cool.”
She decided she liked Roger Orwin’s paintings. They made her smile.
She looked at the price listed on the label next to the closest painting. Two hundred and fifty dollars. Not inexpensive, but not outrageous either. She’d think about it. There might be a spot somewhere in her apartment that would be brightened by a whimsical painting of a local landmark.
“What do you think, Mr. Bradshaw?” she asked, but the terrier was looking out the window.
Sadie followed his gaze and saw that Justin Ives was outside the shop looking in at her. She beckoned him in, but he shook his head and indicated she should come outside. So she did.
“You should come inside and look at these paintings with me,” she said, back out on the sidewalk.
“They really are something else.”
“Umm, I don’t think I’m welcome in there,” he mumbled.
“Why ever not?” she asked, curious but not really surprised. Professor Justin Ives had the worst luck of any person she ever had met.
“I had a little accident and knocked over a couple of easels last time I was in there,” he said, as an ugly red blush began covering his face.
“I swear it wasn’t my fault.”
“It never is, is it, Professor Ives? You really have the most unfortunate luck.”
She looked up at him. He really was much taller than he looked behind his desk. She’d forgotten how small she felt standing next to him.
“What did you want to talk to me about?”
“Oh, I just wanted to say ‘Hi!’. I was walking past and saw you in there with Mr. Bradshaw.” He reached down and petted the terrier gently on the head.
“Mr. Bradshaw is always glad to see me.”
“Mr. Bradshaw thinks you’re a fine human being,” Sadie said. “Are you interested in hearing about the latest mystery in my life? We could go to The Bakery and have some coffee.”
They walked away from the center of town back toward Sadie’s shop, which was next-door to The Bakery. The Bakery was owned by Thomas Baker, who made the best coffee in five counties, which is why Sadie ate breakfast with him almost every day. They sat at the one remaining table and Sadie let Mr. Bradshaw off his leash. He trotted around the room and politely said hello to the customers who knew him. As it turned out, there wasn’t one person in the room who wasn’t acquainted with Mr. B. He was a very busy dog and liked to keep his paw on the pulse of the town. He was generally well-liked, and no one complained about a dog being loose in the bakery.
Tom brought them each a coffee and a pastry and Sadie started another story.
“The crates from my tr
ip to Italy and Spain showed up the other day,” she said.
“And while we were unpacking we discovered a painting that none of us had purchased. I put in the window to get it out of the way and the next morning old Mr. Dumville came in and claimed it. He was a bit evasive, and wasn’t able to say why his painting was in my stuff, at least not a rational explanation, but we gave it to him, and he went away. That was the end of that.” She took a bite of brioche and sipped her coffee.
“Until...” Professor Ives prompted.
“Until he showed up the next morning looking for his painting again.” Sadie shrugged.
“He’d been bopped pretty seriously on the back of the head and his painting had disappeared. When asked by The Chief why anyone would steal this painting, Old Cy said he thought the painting was some kind of map to where some Holocaust’ treasure is buried. Which doesn’t make one bit of sense.”
“You’re right,” the professor said, “it doesn’t make any sense. No treasure is buried anywhere in this area, at least no Holocaust treasure. There might be a jar of quarters, or two, buried in someone’s back garden, but certainly not anything that qualifies as treasure.”
“And you know this how?” Sadie asked.
“I am a history professor, Ms. Barnett,” he said.
“I’m sure I’ve asked you 100 times to call me Sadie,” she said.
“And when you call me Justin, instead of Professor, I will. Until then, you will be Ms. Barnett.” He smirked a little and Sadie thought he was mentally chalking up a point in his favor.
“If I call you Justin before you call me Sadie, then the power skews unfairly in my favor,” she said.
“And if I call you Sadie before you call me Justin then, according to my mother’s rules, I am disrespectful and rude. We are at a stalemate.” He crossed his arms over his chest.
Sadie looked at the young man in exasperation. “I’m sure I’ve called you Justin more than once,” she said.
He shook his head in denial.
“Well then,” she said, “we just will have to agree to switch to first name status at exactly the same time. That way I can’t charge you with rudeness, and you can’t charge me with power mongering. Shall we start right now?”