by Joyce Tremel
From the next room, I heard a drawer open, then slam shut and another one open. Doodle must be in the kitchen and hadn’t heard me come in. I headed that way and pushed aside the curtain that was hanging in the doorway. With one foot barely in the room, I froze in place when I saw that the person making all the noise wasn’t Doodle at all.
It was Candy.
CHAPTER THREE
“Candy,” I said. “What are you doing here? Where’s Doodle?”
She placed the papers she was holding onto the counter. “I have no idea where he is. I haven’t seen him.”
“What are you doing here?” I repeated. “I thought you didn’t want to come.”
“I changed my mind.”
“You should have told me that before I got the surprise of my life finding you in the man’s kitchen.” It suddenly dawned on me what she had been doing. “Why are you looking through his stuff? And why isn’t he here? We had an appointment.”
“How am I supposed to know why he isn’t here?” she said. “Maybe he had to run to the store or something. He’ll probably be right back, which means I need to stop yapping and go through the rest of these papers.”
“Why?”
“I just do.” Candy turned and opened another drawer. “I thought I told you not to come here today.”
“You did. You also said you weren’t coming, and you haven’t explained why you’re here.”
“I told you I changed my mind.” She opened and closed another drawer.
She wasn’t making any sense. As a matter of fact, this whole scenario didn’t make any sense. She had been adamant about not coming here with me and now she was neb-nosing into Doodle’s stuff. I grabbed her wrist and yanked it away from the drawer she was riffling through. “Stop. Right now. I want you to explain what the heck you’re doing here, and don’t give me that ‘changed your mind’ crap again. You’re in someone’s house without permission. You could be arrested for burglary—or least trespassing.”
“Which means you could be, too.”
“I’m supposed to be here.” But she had a point. I should have waited on the porch for Doodle to return.
Candy touched my arm. “I’ll tell you everything later,” she said. “Right now, I have to find out what he knows before he gets back.”
“Knows about what?”
Candy closed the last drawer and sighed. “There’s nothing here. What am I going to do now?”
“I’ll tell you what you’re going to do.” I took her by the hand. “We’re going to go outside and wait on the porch for Doodle and you’re going to tell me what’s going on.”
She didn’t argue with me. We went back through the dining and living rooms and took seats on the two plastic lawn chairs on the front porch. After what seemed like a long wait, although it was really only a few minutes, she said, “I guess I should at least try to explain.”
“That would be nice.”
“I thought I’d get here before you had a chance to talk to Doodle to find out what he wanted to tell you.”
“Isn’t it obvious?” I said. “He wants to fix you up with Felix Holt.”
Candy sighed. “Oh, Max. You have a good heart. The best heart of anyone I know, but I’m sure that’s not why he wanted to see you.”
“No?” What else could it be?
“I have a feeling he’s fishing for information, and not because Felix Holt is interested in me. At least not interested in the way you’re thinking.”
“I don’t understand.”
“The truth is, Felix—” Her phone rang and she reached into the pocket of her slacks. “I’m sorry, but I have to get this.” She got up and walked to the other end of the porch.
I couldn’t hear any of her side of the conversation other than “I’m glad you called” and “I’ll be waiting.”
When she finished the call, she pocketed the phone and turned back to me. “I’m sorry, but we’ll have to finish this later. I have to go.”
“What about talking to Doodle?”
“It’s going to have to wait. You’ll have to fill me in on what he tells you and don’t tell him anything about me. Not yet. Not until I know what’s going on. As far as he’s concerned, I was never here.”
Dumbfounded, I watched her walk down the street and get into her car. I was so confused. She’d gone from not wanting me to talk to Doodle at all, to wanting me to tell her everything he said. Candy was definitely going to have some explaining to do.
I waited on Doodle’s porch for another thirty minutes but he didn’t show up. The longer I waited, the more annoyed I became at both Doodle and Candy. I finally took a slow walk back to my car in the church parking lot, still trying to figure out what was going on. I was at a total loss. None of it made any sense. None at all.
• • •
When I got back to my apartment, I poured a bowl of cereal and sat down at my kitchen counter with it. Hops, my gray tabby, jumped onto the counter as I poured the milk. “Sorry, kitty,” I said. “This is my breakfast. You already had yours.”
She butted her head against my hand as I lifted a spoonful of cereal. Milk splashed onto the counter and Hops proceeded to lap it up. I laughed. “You did that on purpose, didn’t you?”
“Murp.” She had a very self-satisfied look on her face.
I rubbed the top of her head. There was nothing like a kitten to calm a person down. By the time I finished my cereal, I felt a little more normal. But I was still annoyed—especially at Candy. “What was she doing?” I said aloud. “And why did she leave in such a rush?”
Hops tilted her head. She obviously didn’t know, either. Not that I expected her to actually answer, but she was a good listener. And it was better than talking to myself.
I set my bowl in the sink, then picked up the cat and put her on the floor. I had several hours before I had to be at my parents’ house for Sunday dinner. Jake wasn’t picking me up until one so I had plenty of time to try and figure out what exactly was going on. I grabbed my cell phone and parked myself on the sofa.
The first thing I did was listen again to Doodle Dowdy’s voice mail that he’d left for me yesterday. I was glad I hadn’t deleted it yet. His message said, There’s something very important I’d like to talk to you about. I don’t want to discuss it over the phone, but if you would call me back as soon as possible, maybe we can make arrangements to meet somewhere. He hadn’t mentioned either Candy or his friend Felix at all. But when I called him back yesterday, I remembered he had told me it had to do with “what happened last night.” Had I misunderstood? He hadn’t come right out and said he wanted to fix Felix up with Candy. I had assumed that’s what he wanted. Maybe Candy was right after all.
That didn’t explain what she’d been doing in Doodle’s house, however. She had to have had a good reason to be rooting through his stuff. I trusted Candy and I knew she’d tell me eventually. I just wasn’t all that patient and didn’t like waiting. In the meantime I’d try and get ahold of Doodle and find out why he wasn’t home this morning.
I called the same number I had the day before and his voice mail picked up. I left a message that I was sorry I’d missed him somehow that morning and if he still wanted to meet, to let me know.
• • •
When Jake picked me up—along with Hops in her carrier—I told him about what happened that morning. He was as puzzled as I was about Candy’s behavior. “She’s usually so straightforward about things. It’s definitely not like her,” he said.
“I know.”
“She said she’d tell you though, right?”
“Yeah. I just don’t like waiting. My curiosity is killing me.”
Jake laughed. “Forget about it for now and think about how my team is going to beat your team in this afternoon’s game.”
We played touch football with family and neighbors just about every Sund
ay in my parents’ backyard. Along with Sunday dinner, it had been a ritual for as long as I can remember. Dad was a detective with the Pittsburgh Bureau of Police, and on the Sundays he got called out, we played without him. With five older brothers, I was something of a tomboy and had enjoyed playing as much as they had. I remember once when I was about ten years old, my brother Joey made the mistake of telling me football wasn’t for girls and I should be in the kitchen with Mom. Suffice it to say, he never told me that again. At the moment, I was on my brother Mike’s team and we usually won, but Jake’s team had beaten us the last two Sundays in a row. Mike and I had already discussed strategy over the phone, though, and we expected to go back to our winning ways. “Not a chance, Lambert,” I said. “You’re going back to being a loser.”
“Ouch. That hurts.”
I leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Just on the football field, of course. You’ll always be a winner in my heart.”
“That’s much better,” he said. “But you’re still going to lose today.”
It turned out that he was wrong. The next-door neighbors who usually played with us were away for the weekend, but fortunately we were able to round up some new players. Philip Rittenhouse and Marcus Crawford had recently moved into the house across the street, and it didn’t take much convincing to have them join in. Philip and his partner were on opposite ends of the spectrum as far as appearances went. Marcus was bulky and muscular with sandy hair and brown eyes. His skin was deeply tanned. Philip, on the other hand, was tall and slim, and he didn’t look like he spent much time outdoors. His eyes were a bright blue and his hair was prematurely gray. If I had to guess their ages, I would say they were in their early forties.
Philip played on Jake’s team with Dad, and Mike and I took Marcus under our wing. Mike was thrilled to find out that Marcus had played college ball.
“Nice game,” Jake said afterward when we moved to the patio. “I didn’t know you’d have a ringer on your team, though.”
“I didn’t know, either,” I said. “Honest.” I began pouring a round of beer from a growler filled with the last of my summer citrus ale. I was going to miss this beer, but it was almost fall and time for a heartier brew.
“Sure you didn’t,” Jake said.
Mike plopped into the seat beside him. “All’s fair in love and football.”
Jake laughed. “Just wait until next week.”
“Don’t count on it, loser,” Mike said with a grin.
“Maybe Marc and I should switch teams next time,” Philip said, taking the glass of beer I handed to him.
“Now that would be fair,” Jake said.
I finished passing out the beer. “He has a point, you know.”
Mike said, “You’re only saying that because he’s your boyfriend. What happened to family loyalty?”
I grinned. “Actually, I’m saying that because Jake needs all the help he can get.”
That got a big laugh out of everyone. I headed inside to help Mom and my sister-in-law Kate finish dinner preparations, and check on Hops. I found her in the living room sitting contentedly on the lap of my niece, Fiona, who had just turned three years old a week ago and liked to make sure everyone knew it. They were on the sofa beside Fiona’s older sister, Maire, who would be five in December. Maire was reading to them from a picture book. I told them dinner was almost ready. Hops’s ears perked up at the word dinner, and she jumped down and followed me back to the kitchen. I fed her and she curled up on her blanket in the spot she had declared was hers in the corner of the kitchen.
Since they were new to the neighborhood, my mother had invited Philip and Marcus to join us for dinner. My brother Sean, the pastor, had left for his annual Labor Day retreat after Mass that morning so he wouldn’t be joining us. Since it was a holiday weekend, Mom went all out with picnic-type food—coleslaw, baked beans, and ham barbecue made with Isaly’s chipped ham, of course—a Pittsburgh staple. Kate brought a strawberry pretzel salad for dessert. Dinner was set up buffet style, so we all fixed a plate and headed back outside.
Jake and Mike were already talking sports with Marcus, so I took the seat in between my mom and Philip. Kate sat across from us with the two girls. I asked Philip how he liked the neighborhood so far.
He smiled and his eyes crinkled at the corners. “I love it. It’s a wonderful place. It’s not all that different from Brooklyn, where I used to live. A little less hectic is all. Your parents have been so nice to us.”
“We’re happy to have you in the neighborhood,” Mom said, then to me, “Philip is the new owner of Gallery on Ellsworth in Shadyside.”
“That’s an art gallery, right?” I asked, feeling kind of stupid that I didn’t know.
“Yes,” Philip said. “I worked in a major gallery in Manhattan for ten years but was in the market for a place of my own. There’s a lot of competition there and I couldn’t find anything that was affordable for me. When this gallery came up, Marcus and I discussed it and decided it was perfect. We were both ready for something new, and here we are.”
I smiled. “Welcome to Pittsburgh. I’ll have to stop by your gallery soon.”
“Maybe we can fix you up with some art for your brewpub,” Philip said.
I couldn’t imagine anything I’d find in an art gallery would fit with the pub décor. Besides, one wall had a large window to show off the brewery and the other wall was brick. There were always the restrooms, but I didn’t think Philip would appreciate that. I probably couldn’t afford anything he sold anyway. “What kind of art do you sell?”
He wiped barbecue sauce from his hands with a napkin. “Anything and everything at the moment, although I’m trying to pare down our selection to bring in some more serious pieces. Museum-quality pieces. That’s what we dealt in where I worked before. I just facilitated a purchase for a client I met in New York that I’m very excited about. It’s a Vermeer.”
The name sounded vaguely familiar and I tried to place it.
Mom said, “I take it it’s not Girl with a Pearl Earring.”
Now I knew who it was.
Philip chuckled. “Not exactly. The one I’m acquiring is one of several of Vermeer’s works that appeared on lists several centuries ago, but never surfaced. They were all assumed to be lost. The fact that three of them have turned up recently is astounding.”
I asked him what the painting was like.
“It’s one of Vermeer’s early works, only known as Face by Vermeer. From what I’ve learned, it was most likely painted around 1660, several years before the famous Pearl Earring. As a matter of fact, Pearl Earring is believed by experts to be modeled after this painting. The subject in this painting is just as lovely.”
Dad had been trying to keep track of both the sports and the art conversations, but now moved his chair closer to ours. “How did the seller manage to obtain paintings that had been lost for that long?”
“So far I only know that they came from an old estate in Austria that was in the process of being demolished,” Philip replied.
“Austria?” Mom said. “Wasn’t Vermeer Dutch? Austria’s a far cry from Holland.”
“It’s possible the paintings had been in Nazi Germany and somehow made their way into Austria. No one really knows at this point,” Philip said.
“How do you know it’s really a Vermeer?” Dad asked. “Have you met the seller?”
Philip shook his head. “I haven’t met him, which isn’t unusual in this business—it’s more the norm. Our contact has been via e-mail since he lives out of the country. The painting was delivered by courier and I wired the funds to his bank after I received documents that verified the authenticity. He had lists of the experts he used in the process, including tests that were done on the painting. It seems to be the real deal.”
“You said there are three paintings?” I said.
Philip nodded. “According to the sell
er, the other two are in the process of being vetted. Once they’re authenticated, he plans to put them up for sale as well.”
“It sounds like you’re being thorough,” Dad said.
“I am,” Philip said. “The buyer wants to take possession of it as soon as possible, but I’m still double-checking everything the seller gives me. And there is additional independent testing being done as well. It’s too large and too important of an acquisition not to take the greatest care.”
“I don’t mean to be rude,” I said, “but shouldn’t paintings that important go to museums?”
“Technically, yes,” Philip said with a smile. “The seller apparently offered them to several, but they couldn’t pay the price he’s asking. With budget cuts, many museums don’t have the funding for acquisitions like that. Some have generous donors, so maybe eventually the paintings will end up on display somewhere. They shouldn’t be locked away where no one can see them. My client has agreed to let me display the painting for a short time, so I’m happy about that.”
The rest of the evening passed quickly. It was filled with interesting conversation ranging from Philip’s gallery and how Marcus went from being a linebacker in college to bank vice president, to the brew house and Dad’s police stories. By the time Jake dropped me and Hops off at home, I was exhausted.
I got the kitten settled, then got ready for bed myself. I was just about to turn out the light when I remembered the battery on my cell phone was low and thought I’d better plug it in and let it charge overnight. I slipped out of bed and went back to the kitchen, where I’d left my purse on the counter.