Abby put her head around the door, assuming Sam had been murdered. “Sam…” she probed gently. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, I think. But, for the life of me, I cannot find a—”
In a split second, Abby had located the light switch and she looked at him oddly, as he’d removed his pink baseball cap and she’d forgotten for a moment about the violated wig stuck to his scalp underneath. She sighed.
“You’re covered in paint,” she said, matter-of-factly, as if nothing he did could surprise her any longer. “And your trousers look like a Jackson Pollock composition.”
Sam examined himself. “Er… I meant to do this?” he offered hopelessly. “Bollocks,” he said. “And these were my good jeans as well.”
Despite the state he was in, Sam was intrigued as to what had dropped to the floor, and he picked up the shattered remains — which continued to make the sound of a muzzled bird.
“It’s a cuckoo clock?” he said, baffled. “Why would a cuckoo clock be attached to the wall of a virtually empty garage?”
Abby’s attention was focussed on the table. “Well it must be Emma Hopkins that stayed here. Or is staying here. These are art supplies. She must have been using this for an art studio.”
“It’s a bit pants, though, isn’t it? Asked Sam. “An international art dealer and artist using a crappy garage like this for a studio? It hardly makes sense.”
“There’s lots of things here that don’t make an awful lot of sense,” said Abby, staring directly at Sam as she did so.
Abby picked up a brochure from the table and wiped the excess paint off using Sam’s jeans.
Sam gave her a look.
Abby gave him a look right back, which won out over Sam’s look. “Oh, they’re covered in paint already,” she scolded him. “Now look at this,” she said, flicking through the pages. “It’s for an auction in Switzerland next week.”
“So?” said Sam, already occupied by trying to rescue his jeans.
Abby paused for a moment. “Does that clock you’ve just destroyed look anything like this one?” she asked, thrusting the page in his face.
Now, Sam wasn’t stupid. Not entirely, at least. So he knew it wouldn’t be in an auction catalogue unless it was worth a few quid. He held the front of the clock in his hand and looked at it, then over to the catalogue, and then back again to the clock.
“Underpants,” he said. “That’s the one, alright.”
Abby went quiet as she skimmed the description. “Sam,” she said suddenly. “That clock has an auction estimate of three-hundred-thousand pounds.”
“Shut the front door!” Sam exclaimed. “That can’t be right. Something like that, worth that, is not going to be on the wall of a dusty old garage in the Isle of Man. No chance. Something is fishy here.”
Abby didn’t reply, as she was in agreement.
“Come on, let’s see what else is in here. You check those boxes,” Sam suggested, pointing to a stack in the corner.
Sam looked through the desk drawers — with a bit more restraint — carefully avoiding the paint which was dripping onto the floor. He pulled out an exquisite wooden box with a gold latch. He held it at arm’s length — illogically thinking it may contain an explosive device (one can never be too careful) — and flicked open the ornate clasp. The interior was as impressive as the exterior, draped in luxurious green velvet. Satisfied it wasn’t a bomb, he placed it on a dry patch of the desk. Then something else caught his attention.
“Abby, can you confirm to me that the priceless Viking cross that sold for over a million pounds… actually sold?”
“What? Yes, of course. Why?” she replied.
“Well, I’m no Hugh Scully from Antiques Roadshow, but unless I’m very much mistaken it would appear, then, that there are two of those unique, priceless Viking crosses… with the other sat in that box, just there. And which is yards away from yet another priceless artefact.”
“And another!” said Abby, unrolling a large canvass sheet. “I’m pretty sure that this is the painting Mr Justus has been so eager to retrieve.”
“That’s it indeed,” Sam confirmed. “Bloody hell, Abby, that’s worth seventy-five thousand to us!”
“It would,” said Abby, rather deflated. “But I don’t think Mr Justus is going to be overly ecstatic when he realises that his priceless painting is not alone.”
“How do you mean? Asked Sam.
Abby unrolled another canvas. “Well, his priceless painting has a twin brother.”
“That’s exactly the same as the other one!” said Sam. “No wonder Emma is so rich if she’s managed to get her hands on all of these priceless works of art.”
Abby rolled her eyes. “Sam, I don’t think Emma Hopkins acquired these items. I think Emma Hopkins has been using her unquestionable talent for nefarious means. The talented artist is actually a talented art forger! Now, come on, we need to get this painting to Mr Justus, get paid, and you can turn the whole lot over to your friends at the FBI.”
“I don’t think Mr Justus is going to pay us when he sees the other painting, exactly the same.”
“What other painting? Asked Abby.
“The one we’ve just… ah, okay,” replied Sam, getting the picture. “Wait, but how do we know which to give him? Which one is the original? Or are they both fakes, and the original is still hidden away somewhere?”
“We’ll hand that painting over in good faith. If the FBI should stumble across the other one, well, that’s Emma’s problem, not ours,” Abby answered.
“Hang on, but which one do we give him? You haven’t answered my question,” Sam protested.
“That your purview, since you’re the art expert. Leastways as far as abstract expressionism is concerned,” replied Abby, glancing again at his trousers. “Now grab something to set down of my car seat so you don’t create another masterpiece on my upholstery.”
Sam reengaged his master disguise (which was actually two disguises in one — the pink hat, which in turn covered up the wig — and now incorporating a third disguise as well in the form of a housepainter, by virtue of his paint-splattered trousers) as they jumped back in the car and drove away with a four-million-pound priceless artwork (or not) rolled up on the back seat.
When they were nearly at the end of the road, a head rose from behind the steering wheel of a black Range Rover which had been parked a ways up the street inconspicuously. The driver put a phone to the side of his face. “I’ve found her friends, Mr Esposito, and I’m following them now,” he said. There was a pause, and, then, “Right. Gotcha.”
The black Range Rover pulled away from the kerb, and it began a leisurely pursuit.
Chapter Eight
Justus Served
S top picking the skin or you’ll end up with a scar,” said Abby.
“But it’s sore,” replied Sam, sat at his desk with Abby stood over him.
“I can see that,” said Abby, giggling as she looked down on a perfectly red patch on his scalp that looked like a massive sunburn. “Now hold still, the moisturiser is quite cold,” she said, applying a liberal application.
“Aaah,” moaned Sam. “That feels good.”
“I’m going to miss working with Lloyd,” she told him. “You really are dead from the neck up at times, but you do make me laugh.”
“I’m gratified to know I’m of some use to you,” replied Sam. “And, perhaps when you’re done with my head, you could give my hands a haircut?”
“I enjoyed working on this case, Sam. I’m kinda sad it’s over. I mean, when are we going to get involved in something like this again?”
“The money came in?” Sam enquired.
“Sure did, seventy-five-thousand smackers are currently warming the company bank account. The old man is delighted. This keeps me and you in a job for the next year, at least.”
“Excellent, I think I’ll leave it a few more hours before I phone the FBI,” Sam answered. “I wonder if Mr Justus will leave it at that now he’
s got his painting back. Four million quid for a fake painting. Imagine how angry he’d be if he found out.”
“You didn’t give him the real one?” Abby asked.
“Your guess is as good as mine,” said Sam. “I only know abstract expressionism.”
Abby nodded as she continued to massage his scalp. “Ooh, we need to make up a case name when we finish one! What do you reckon?” And she stopped for a moment as she pondered this.
“How do you mean? And please carry on, don’t stop now,” he asked, and then implored.
“Are you enjoying this maybe a little more than you should be??” Abby asked, her suspicions — among other things — aroused.
“What?” asked Sam, looking up and then following her eye-line down to his trousers. “No! I’m enjoying it just the right amount! Precisely the right amount.” He coughed. “And that’s just my phone in my pocket — you’re not that good,” he assured her. But she was. And the phone was actually stored safely on the other side.
He adjusted his seating position. “You were saying?”
“Yes, you know, like Sherlock Holmes in the case of the whatever. We should do one. Abby and Sam in the case of the—”
“Why Abby and Sam?” asked Sam.
“What else would it be?”
Sam shrugged his shoulders. “Well it could be Sam and Abby. You know. For instance.”
“Abby and Sam rolls off the tongue better,” she said, correcting him. “But, anyway, it’s a cool idea, right? We could put it on our website under the ‘Cases Solved’ section.”
“It’d be pretty lonely,” Sam remarked.
“What would?”
“The ‘Cases Solved’ section. There’d only be just the one.”
“I know,” said Abby. “But we had a good result with this one, and, with a bit of advertising, we can get some more juicy cases to get our teeth into.”
“Yes, but I’ve got a feeling that this case isn’t over,” said Sam, self-possessed. “Not quite yet.”
“What?” said Abby. “Mr Justus has his painting back, we’ve been paid. End of!”
“And what about Emma Hopkins?” asked Sam.
“She’ll be long gone, I expect. Probably selling dodgy cuckoo clocks in Switzerland. The Isle of Man will be a distant memory for her.”
“Abby,” Sam replied, leaning forward as if he had something very grave to relate. “Emma Hopkins is looking at me through the front window.”
“You’re done,” announced Abby. “And don’t be daft, she can’t possibly…” she began, drying her hands on a tea towel to clean off the last bits of excess moisturiser. And, then, “Oh. She is,” she said, as the bell tinkled as the front door opened and Emma stepped in.
“The game is afoot,” said Sam.
“What if she’s armed, and come to even the score with us for handing the painting back?” Abby whispered. “What’ll we do?”
“She wouldn’t know, would she? Unless she’s spoken to Mr Justus,” Sam responded.
“Well, go and attend to her and find out, then,” said Abby, taking a cautious step back and clearing the way for Sam.
Sam couldn’t look Abby in the eye. “I, em… I probably shouldn’t stand up at the moment. It’s not a good time for me,” he mumbled.
Abby shook her head. “Oh, that’ll be the mobile phone again, will it? And by the looks of it, you need to invest in a bigger one. It may be time to upgrade?” she said.
“Hey!” Sam protested. “That’s not very—”
“Don’t worry,” Abby cut in. “I’ll take care of this. You’ll probably just cock things up anyway,” she said, stomping through to the reception area.
“Emma, I thought you’d be long gone by now,” said Abby, with just barely hidden contempt, as she attended to Emma.
Emma removed her sunglasses, and it was clear that she was visibly upset. “I don’t know where to turn,” she said, her voice trembling. “They’re going to kill me.”
Abby’s scorn softened as she stepped aside, allowing Emma to enter the office. “Please come in,” she offered.
Sam was now unobstructed and able to stand. “You’ve met Sam,” said Abby. “Please, take a seat.”
Emma couldn’t take her eyes off Sam’s red, raw head — which was in its current state glistening due to the sun coming through the window and reflecting off his heavily moisturised bonce.
“It’s glue. From my wig,” explained Sam, attempting to maintain a tone that said this was all perfectly normal and not at all cause for concern.
Emma, decorum intact, extended her hand to Sam.
“I can’t,” said Sam. “Shake your hand, that is. My hands are, well…” he said, trailing off, and waving one of his hands with a these-aren’t-the-droids-you’re-looking-for flourish.
Emma’s nerves were not being settled by her introduction to Sam, from the expression on her face, and it appeared as if she were uncertain she’d come to the right place seeking help. She looked at Abby for assurance, like you’d do with a dog owner to make sure their very-questionable-looking pet was of a safe enough disposition to approach.
“Also, from the wig,” explained Sam, again, as if this were not at all unusual.
“Anyway…” said Abby. “I must admit that we’re a little surprised to see you here.”
Emma had her hair tied back tightly and looked exhausted, with black circles under her eyes. “I need your help to get off this island,” she said, drained.
“We’re not exactly travel agents?” said Sam, not unsympathetically.
“I know,” replied Emma. “But I don’t know what else to do.”
“Could you not, say, forge a plane ticket?” asked Abby, with slightly less sympathy than Sam.
Emma’s head dropped. “Ah. You know about that, then.”
“Yes,” Sam confirmed. “We had the pleasure of seeing your temporary art studio.”
“Fuck, you were at the house I was renting?” she asked.
Sam nodded, startled at the sudden vulgarity. “Yes, and we saw your handiwork.”
Emma pressed her hand against her forehead. “Mr Esposito has had someone watching the house. If they saw you, and I’m sure they must have, then I’m afraid the both of you are in danger now also.”
“Okay,” responded Abby flatly, unsure she believed Emma to be telling the truth. “Don’t you mean Mr Justus?”
“No. Mr Esposito. Mr Justus is a nasty piece of work, but compared to Esposito he’s like a kitten.”
“Mr Justus is gone, at least,” explained Sam. “All he wanted was his painting, so he’s out of the picture now.”
“Please tell me you didn’t give him the painting??” asked Emma, panicked.
Sam looked at Abby and then back to Emma. “Yes,” he said. “It was his, after all?”
Emma stood. “Did you see there were two paintings almost exactly the same? Which one did you give him?” she asked desperately, darting her eyes back and forth between the two of them.
“Sam?” Abby deferred.
Sam tried to think. “They were the same… I don’t know, em…”
Emma slapped her hand on the desk, hard, startling Sam out of his wits. “Did you give him the one that was in the crate or the one near the table??” she demanded.
Sam pulled his thoughts together. “The one… to the left? In the crate. Why?”
“Oh, fuck!” cursed Emma again.
“What?” Sam asked, confused. “Was that the real one?”
“No,” she explained. “The original of that painting is somewhere in Japan in a private collection. We chose to copy that one because we knew it was unlikely to ever be seen publicly, but I made a mistake when I was copying it. We’d already taken his money when I realised that one of the shades I’d used wasn’t exactly right. I couldn’t hand it over, so I had to go into hiding until I’d had a chance to fix it. Or make another one.”
“Wait, so they were both fakes?” asked Sam, trying to work it all out. “And I gave him the w
rong fake?”
“Yes. And because I went into hiding, he had already thought I’d stolen his money. But now—”
“Well you have, technically,” interrupted Sam. “Stolen his money, I mean. Any way you look at it. Right? I mean, you’ve sold him a painting that’s worth what, fifty pounds, either way? For over four million. That’s not a bad day’s work. You must have made an absolute fortune from ripping people off. We know you sell counterfeit paintings and Viking crosses. What else is there?”
“Don’t forget the cuckoo clocks!” said Abby.
“Oh yes, the clocks,” said Sam. “Oh, by the way, I think I broke your clock. Sorry. I suppose you can just make another one?”
Emma’s eyes glazed over, and her bottom lip trembled like jelly a millisecond before the waterworks arrived. “I didn’t mean to get in this mess,” she said sporadically between emotional gasps of air. “I wanted out.”
Sam’s right eyebrow took flight. “You wanted out?” he said. “That’s exactly what I said to Abby. Didn’t I, Abby? I said — whilst I was walking around your temporary art gallery — this looks like someone who’s retiring from the forgery business.”
Emma’s shoulders convulsed as the tears flowed freely, and Sam knew from the look he’d just received from Abby that is was time to let up.
“Take a seat,” offered Abby. “Can I get you a drink of water?” she offered, relaxing the mood in the room. She gave Emma a moment to compose herself before continuing. “Emma, you can understand why sympathy is a bit thin on the ground? How do you mean you wanted out?” she asked.
Emma gave Sam a half-smile as she took a sip from the plastic cup of water he handed her. “I wanted out,” she said. “But, unfortunately, Mr Esposito had other ideas.”
Sam exhaled in frustration. “You’re going to have to help us out here, Emma. Who exactly is he, and who is Mr Justus? Also, since when did people think it was acceptable to call themselves Mister such-and-such? If I all-of-a-sudden announced my name as Mr Levy, everyone would take the piss. Abby, you’d take the piss?” he asked.
“Absolutely,” replied Abby.
The Seaside Detective Agency_The funniest Cozy Mystery you'll read this year Page 8