The Trouble With Tulip

by Mindy Starns Clark

Jo described her visit with the art professor and the information she’d been given there. As she talked, Danny sat at the computer, went online, and typed in the artist’s name and the name of the painting.

  It showed up in a number of databases, and in every case, the silver-haired fellow—he would have to start thinking of him as Simon—in every case, Simon was there in the painting, in the upper left corner, his face half hidden in shadow.

  “Maybe this was a look-alike ancestor,” Danny ventured. “The face is fairly obscured.”

  “Maybe,” Jo said, sounding skeptical. “But I still want to talk to the museum and verify whether that person is in the original painting or not.”

  When their conversation was finished, Jo hung up the phone, dropped it into her bag, and slowed her jog to a walk. No need to be out of breath when she walked into the professor’s office.

  She reached the chemistry building first, so she went inside and slid the packet of photocopied papers under her former professor’s door. The explanation she had given him over the telephone was that she’d found some old papers containing what looked like scientific formulas, but that she couldn’t make heads or tails of the data; before she threw the papers out, she’d said, she just wanted to make sure they weren’t important. He promised to get back to her on it by the end of the day.

  Simply walking through the chemistry building brought back a rush of happy memories. The smell of formaldehyde was strong throughout the halls, reminding her of the years she spent here earning her degree. Though her major was home economics, Jo had minored in chemistry.

  She exited from the other end of the building, and then it was just a little way farther to the history building. Jo didn’t know Professor McMann, but she hoped to find him inside.

  Unfortunately, his office door was closed with no light visible from underneath. Disappointed, she consulted the schedule taped to the wall, and saw he was teaching a history class at that moment in room 204. Glancing at her watch, Jo knew the hour would be up in just a few minutes. If she hurried, she might be able to collar him after class.

  The classroom was easy enough to find, and she stood in the hall waiting for the bell, listening to him teach about Patrick Henry. He sounded younger than she expected, and once the bell rang and the students cleared out, she stepped into the room to see that he couldn’t have been more than thirty or thirty-five at most. He was handsome in a quiet sort of way, with straight brown hair and frameless glasses. She tried not to smile when she noticed that there were leather patches on the elbows of his suit jacket. She supposed that with professors, that look never went out of style.

  “Dr. McMann?” she asked, stepping toward the podium. He had been gathering together his papers, and he barely looked up as she approached. “Hello, my name is Jo Tulip. I wonder if I could speak with you for a minute.”

  He tucked the papers under his arm and nodded.

  “Problems with the assignment?” he asked.

  “No,” she smiled, “I graduated a few years ago. Well, six years ago, to be exact. But thanks for the compliment.”

  He adjusted his glasses and gave her a slight perusal. Then he smiled.

  “What can I do for you?” he asked. “I’m afraid I have to be somewhere soon, but I do have a minute.”

  “May I walk with you? We can talk as we go.”

  Together, they left the classroom and then the building, walking side by side.

  “I was given your name by Dean Pike in the art department,” Jo said. “I went to see him to ask about a particular painting, and he said you recently inquired about the same one. The Nativity by John Singleton Copley? I wondered where you had seen the print and why you were asking about it.”

  He hesitated in his walking. Surprised, Jo hesitated as well, noting the strange look that came over his face.

  “Why do you ask?” he said, lowering his voice and glancing one way and then the other.

  “It’s kind of a long story,” she said. “Do you mind telling me why you wanted to know about the painting?”

  He took a deep breath, held it, and then let it out.

  “Not here,” he said finally. “Later.”

  “Later?”

  He ran a hand through his hair, blowing out a slow breath.

  “I have to advise on a dissertation right now,” he said, glancing down at his watch. “Can you meet me in, say, an hour? How about over there. By the student union.”

  Jo hesitated, wondering why he was being so weird. She knew he had to go, but she wondered if she could wait a whole hour to hear what he had to say!

  “Sure,” she said finally. She really didn’t have a choice. “Whatever you want.”

  He nodded, looking into her eyes for the first time.

  “I’m sorry, what was your name again?” he asked.

  “Jo. Jo Tulip.”

  He reached out a hand for a shake, his fingers lingering just a moment too long in hers. His deep brown eyes connected with hers, and Jo felt an instant attraction, like a spark flickering at the base of her neck.

  “Jo,” he repeated. “Okay. I’ll see you at the union at two o’clock.”

  Simon slept on the couch until well after noon, finally awakening to the sound of Wiggles slamming some pots and pans around in the kitchen. Though Wiggles was, of course, always uncoordinated, Simon had a feeling he was being extra loud in an attempt to send a message.

  Simon sat up and wiped his face with his hands, feeling about a hundred years old. Everything hurt, from the roots of his hair to the bottoms of his feet. He was wiped out—but at least the police had never shown up.

  Slowly he stood and yawned, and then he made his way to the doorway of the kitchen, where Wiggles was busy trying to cook some eggs. He had spilled some of the egg mixture down the front of the pan, and now they were making smoke as they burned away in the flames of the burner.

  “What’s eating you?” Simon asked.

  Wiggles gave him a dirty look and continued scraping the eggs in the pan.

  “You are,” he said. “Our deal. You’re supposed to do the dishes. Look at this mess.”

  The sink was overflowing with dirty dishes. An inch-long brown roach scurried across the top.

  “You’re right. I’m sorry,” Simon said. He certainly didn’t want to push his luck. The last thing he needed was to get kicked out. “I had a really late night last night. I’ll do ’em as soon as I finish eating.”

  “You bet you’ll do ’em,” Wiggles said. “Or you’re out of here for good.”

  Simon nodded, knowing that Wiggles was near the boiling point. Over the years of visiting there, he had come to know the man pretty well—not to mention the time they had already spent sharing a cell. That taught you a lot about a person, for sure.

  After changing his clothes, Simon returned to the kitchen, taking juice and a package of frozen sausage from the freezer. Silently, the men worked side by side to finish making breakfast. Simon fixed the sausage in the dirty microwave, and then he slipped some bread into the toaster.

  Once the meal was on the table, they sat across from each other and ate, their smacks and burps the only sound in the room. When Simon was finished, he wiped his mouth and told his friend the eggs had been utterly delicious.

  “Thanks,” Wiggles said begrudgingly, trying to pick a piece of sausage from the front of his shirt. “I try.”

  “Remember the eggs in the joint?” Simon said, breaching their unspoken rule about not discussing their time in prison. “Did we ever figure out what made them so very, very yellow?”

  Wiggles laughed, spewing juice down his chin.

  “I don’t think they was eggs at all,” he said, reaching for his napkin. “I think they was yellow-colored, egg-flavored slop.”

  They shared a laugh, and it suddenly dawned on Simon that there were actually two people in this whole world he could count on: Wiggles and Edna.

  Somehow, he just had to get her on the phone and find out what had happened after he left Frida
y night.

  18

  Danny had a long break between appointments, so he was glad when Jo called and asked if there was any way he could come over to the campus.

  “I’ll be talking to Keith McMann, a history professor, at two o’clock,” she said, “and I’d love for you to be there. Looks like it might be important.”

  Before leaving the studio, Danny called his mother, who answered in her usual cheery voice. She said she was just heading out the door to go to the Ladies League luncheon.

  “I figured you would be,” Danny told her. “I wonder if you could do me a favor while you’re there.”

  “Sure, honey. What do you need?”

  He walked to the fax machine and placed an enlargement of Simon’s face into the tray.

  “Soon as we hang up, I’m going to fax you a picture of a man. Would you mind discreetly showing it around to see if you can get any information on this guy?”

  “What is he, wanted by the FBI?”

  Danny forced a laugh, though for all he knew, the guy could be.

  “It’s a long story,” he said. “Jo got a job clearing out the belongings of that woman who died, Edna Pratt. We need to locate this man because we found some things we think belong to him.”

  Well, it was a lie that wasn’t really a lie. They did need to locate the man, and chances are the photos and the notebook were his—or at least were connected to him in some way.

  “All right, but do it now,” she said. “As it is, I’m already a few minutes late.”

  They hung up and Danny sent the fax. Then he gathered his things and told Tiffany he’d be back in time for the next appointment.

  He couldn’t find a parking place near the student union, so he ended up having to park in the far lot and then walk a bit to get there. By the time he arrived, Jo was sitting at one of the outside picnic tables with a man of about thirty, tall and handsome and exactly the kind of guy she usually went for. Add to that he was probably quite intelligent, and it was a double whammy. Jo always was a sucker for brains.

  From a distance Danny could see her laugh and then absently slip a lock of hair behind one ear in that feminine way she had. He knew she wasn’t consciously flirting, but suddenly a stab of something painful shot directly into his heart.

  Danny had known he would have to give her time to get over Bradford before he brought up the subject of his own feelings for her. But never in his wildest dreams had it occurred to him that she might move on this quickly to someone new.

  He approached the table, trying not to let his emotions show all over his face.

  “Danny!” Jo said, giving him a smile as warm and genuine as the one she had given the professor. “We were just talking about you.”

  “Oh?” Danny asked, introducing himself to the professor before taking a seat beside her.

  “Keith heard your family perform at the town festival.”

  Keith. So already they were on a first-name basis.

  “Regeneration, right?” the man said. “You guys are great.”

  “Thank you.”

  They talked for a bit about the group and their music, and Danny found himself calming down somewhat. At least the guy was friendly—and it didn’t hurt that he was a fan.

  “Anyway, Keith,” Jo said finally, “we didn’t want to hold you up too long. We just wanted to find out about your interest in this painting.”

  “Why do you want to know? If you don’t mind my asking.”

  “It’s a long story,” Jo said casually. “We’re putting someone’s affairs in order, a woman who recently passed away. This was among her possessions, and we’re just a bit confused by it. When we asked Dean Pike for more information, he said you were asking about the same picture recently. We figured there must be a connection, and that maybe you could shed some light on things for us.”

  Jo pulled the print from her tote bag and set it on the table. McMann picked it up.

  “Yes, that’s the one,” he said, studying it.

  “And you were asking about it because…” Danny prompted.

  “I saw it and thought it was simply beautiful. I wanted to get a print of it for myself.”

  Danny felt Jo kick him lightly under the table. Surely there was more to the story than that.

  “Where did you see it?” Danny pressed.

  “At a history lecture I was giving. It was on display there, and I thought it was magnificent.”

  Danny wasn’t sure what to ask next. The coincidence was just too great not to have more of a story behind it.

  “A history lecture?” Jo said. “Where?”

  “At a women’s club.”

  Danny tried not to show any reaction.

  “Tell us more about this women’s club,” he said.

  The guy hesitated and then spoke.

  “Well, it started a few months ago. One day a man came up to me after a class—like you did today, Jo. He said his name was Simon Foster and he was in need of an expert in history.”

  Jo glanced at Danny and he gave her a slight nod. Now they had a last name for this Simon fellow. Foster. Simon Foster.

  “He had a few photographs he wanted information about, historically speaking,” the professor continued. “We went through the pictures, and I identified them for him. He had a shot of the Civil War and one of some depression-era farmers. A mid-twentieth-century Olympics. Things like that.”

  “Emma Goldman?” Danny asked, earning a quick glance from Jo.

  “Yes. On a street car.”

  “So how did all of this lead to your interest in the painting?” Jo asked.

  The professor looked from side to side, a red blush inexplicably creeping into his cheeks.

  “He asked me if I would come to a women’s group and give a short lecture about the photos. I wasn’t interested until he said he’d pay me two hundred dollars. Two hundred dollars—for a half hour’s work! He said he would have the prints put into PowerPoint and all I would have to do is show up and speak about the era that each of the photos represented. It sounded easy enough to me. I can talk American history in my sleep. And I could always use a few extra hundred bucks.”

  “So you went?” Danny asked.

  “Yes,” he said, no longer making eye contact. “The meeting was at a lady’s house, very lovely, with tea sandwiches and punch.”

  “Was the meeting at the home of a woman named Edna Pratt?” Jo asked.

  He coughed and then shook his head.

  “I don’t think so. It was on Lagnaippe Street. Chutney was the name, I believe.”

  “Chutney?” Jo asked. “Iris Chutney?”

  “Yes, I think that was it.”

  Danny and Jo knew Iris Chutney from church. She was an older woman, a widow who lived alone in a big house in one of the town’s most exclusive neighborhoods.

  “Anyway,” McMann continued, “I gave my lecture. It went fine. I collected my check.”

  “And the painting?”

  “The painting was there on display that night, a print like this one. I fell in love with it. Something about the lightness of Mary and the baby, contrasted with the shadows and the darker clothing on the people around them. And that moon through the window. When we consider the Nativity, we always think of the star of Bethlehem, but this artist chose to feature a full moon instead. That intrigued me. I’m very in tune with the different phases of the moon.”

  Danny sighed, sorry to learn that beyond getting the last name of Simon, this interview was going to be a dead end. He felt that this guy was holding back something, but he wasn’t sure how to find out what it was.

  “Okay, so what is it you’re not saying?” Jo asked, surprising both of the men. Danny was impressed she’d had the nerve to ask.

  Keith McMann put down the print and put his hands on the edge of the table, leaning forward. Sure enough, the blush had spread to his whole face.

  “I think I was a pawn in some elaborate joke,” he said softly. “In fact, I’ve been so embarrassed about it,
I haven’t told a soul what happened.”

  “What did happen?” Jo asked breathlessly, also leaning forward. Danny thought she was leaning in just a little too close.

  “About halfway through the lecture,” the professor said, “I looked up at the screen, at the shot of the farmers next to the sugarcane. It struck me that there was something odd about the picture, something different. I continued with the lecture, but when it was over and Simon Foster was distracted, I went to his computer and ran through the presentation slides. The photo had been altered. The whole lot of them, actually. The man had inserted himself into every one of the pictures!”

  This time, Jo gripped Danny’s knee under the table with her hand.

  “What did you do?” she asked.

  “I didn’t want to embarrass the guy, but I was quite confused by it. The more I thought about it, the more it bothered me. The next day, he wouldn’t return my calls, so I went to the address that was listed on his check and confronted him.”

  “And he said…?”

  “He just laughed and apologized. He said he and a few of the other ladies were setting up an elaborate practical joke on Mrs. Parker. He said it was hard to explain but that if I wanted to come back the following night to her birthday party, all would be revealed at that time.”

  “So did you go?”

  He shook his head.

  “No,” he said dismissively. “I believed him. Never thought of it again.”

  “But you still pursued the painting.”

  He shrugged.

  “I couldn’t get it off my mind. When I tried to contact Simon Foster again to study the print more closely and possibly get the name of the artist, again he didn’t call me back. So I approached Dean Pike instead.”

  Jo and Danny looked at each other, both obviously wondering the same thing.

  “So where does Simon Foster live?” Jo asked. “We’d like very much to get in touch with him ourselves.”

  Jo wanted to go there right away, but Danny asked her to wait for him. The address wasn’t exactly in the safest part of town.

  “I just have a few more appointments and then I’ll be free,” Danny said, looking at his watch. “Why don’t I pick you up when I’m done?”