“No, I mean, yes.” Clive slid a black pair of reading glasses down his nose and peered over them at Paige's confused expression. “It's the only Wheeler painting I have now, but I had more at one time. Well, they weren’t mine. Silas let me sell a few others for him on consignment. They didn't bring in enough to please his ornery self, so he took the last ones back. Pretty much told me where to go.”
“Yet he let you keep one,” Paige pointed out.
“Hardly,” Clive said with a snort. “I found this one in the basement of the café when I was fixing the place up for Mist.” He removed his glasses, set them on the desktop and rubbed his eyes. “There was a whole stash of junk down in that basement – easels, brushes, torn up sketches –along with odds and ends from other tenants that rented the building in-between. Seems people used that basement as a catchall. Or a toss-all and never look back, is more like it.”
“Were there other paintings in there when you cleaned the basement out?”
Clive shook his head. “No, that was it. If he had others, he must have taken them with him. Who knows where they'd be now. Silas is long gone. Moved up somewhere around Kalispell when he left Timberton some thirty or thirty-five years ago. Heard he hit the bottle pretty hard and died when his liver gave out sometime in the ‘80s.”
“He must have been a terribly unhappy man,” Paige said. The anger in the diary entries matched Clive’s description of Silas. More and more, Paige was convinced its author and the painter were the same person.
“Well, I don't know about any of that psychology stuff,” Clive said. “But he was sure good at making other people unhappy, that much is certain. I never knew anyone who liked him. Certainly none of the old-timers around here did, back when they were alive and kicking. They're all six feet under now.”
“So, who bought the paintings that sold?”
“Tourists picked them up when passing through town, the few that sold before Silas took the rest back. They'd come in looking for a Yogo sapphire, and when they didn't find one, they'd leave with a painting, instead – the ones who were willing to put the money out, that is. Silas always wanted too much for them. Just couldn't get it through his head that he wasn't the artist that Russell had been. Bitter man, that Silas.”
Paige looked toward the jewelry case at the front of the gallery. “I imagine you did better selling the jewelry, anyway. After all, people come in here looking for gems, not artwork.” She walked over to the case and looked at the assortment.
Clive nodded. “That’s exactly why I built up that collection. Even if a visitor finds a small stone while sifting through the gravel, it can be tempting to buy something larger. Still, I haven't sold as many pieces as I’d like. This past summer was disappointing. You know, the economy and all that. I built up a pretty good stash, too, not just what you see out here. Could've been sitting pretty if we'd just had more people passing through. Don't go blabbing that around, mind you.”
There were very few pieces in the case to begin with, and she doubted he had more than a half dozen others. They'd be locked in his back safe, anyway. “Your secret's safe with me. Doesn't seem like a high-crime town, anyway. I'll bet your crime rate is almost nothing.”
“You're right,” Clive said. “We're proud of that, too. That time back when my gems were stolen was pretty shocking to the whole town. It's a small community, and we watch out for each other.”
Paige nodded, not even tempted to explain how exponentially different the situation was from that in New York City.
“And you've got Sheriff Myers around, so that's probably enough to dampen someone's enthusiasm if temptation strikes. He seems to be everywhere.”
Clive laughed. “Yeah, big ego, big badge. He's new, just started a week ago. Won't be here long, I guarantee it. Every now and then the county sends someone down. Give the guy a month or two, and he'll be transferring out. The fire was a fluke, but once that investigation is over, he won’t have much to do. A few months later they'll send down a new guy. It'll be the same thing. At least they don't come down too often, so we don't feel like we have someone breathing down our necks all the time.”
Paige smiled. “Well, guess it came in handy to have him here when the café burned down. At least he could help keep people back. Gave the firefighters more elbow room.” Bending forward, she took a closer look at a particular pendant that had caught her attention.
“That's true,” Clive agreed. “Good timing there. By the way, not to change the subject, but….” Clive slipped a smooth hand under the latch to the display case and opened it.
Clive adjusted his stance and stood tall. Paige was amused and impressed. Only a master salesman could slide a discussion about a sheriff straight into a demonstration of shimmering jewelry in ten seconds flat.
Paige leaned over the open case to look at the jewelry more closely.
“This pin is beautiful. Is that the Timberton Hotel?”
“Yes, it is,” Clive said, “with Yogos above it to represent a night sky. That’s a special piece, one of a kind and not for sale.” He pointed out another piece.
“I designed this one, too,” he said, lifting out a pendant. He dangled it in front of her. A ray of sunlight hit it at an angle, sending prisms of blue and gold outward from the piece. Not only was the sapphire breathtaking, but the intricate setting around it was unlike any design Paige had ever seen.
“I wanted to tie the beauty of the Yogo in with the natural surroundings of the area. At the bottom, you have rolling hills. Above that, the moon rises above a landscape of sagebrush and trees.”
“A single Yogo,” Paige murmured, “a blue moon, rising above the Montana landscape.”
“Exactly!” Clive said.
Paige felt spellbound, but managed to pry herself away. She had an assignment to get back to. Clive picked up on the unspoken shift in subjects and set the pendant back in the case.
“Maybe another day,” Clive winked. “Can't blame a businessman for trying, right?”
Paige laughed. “Right,” she called on her way out.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“I've given Mist a room downstairs,” Betty said. “I can use help in the kitchen, what with all these folks looking for food. And she seems lost without the café.”
Paige had returned from the gem gallery to find Betty arranging calla lilies and baby eucalyptus for the front lobby. She was relieved to hear the hotelkeeper would have extra help.
“Cooking is art to her.” Paige had watched Mist the few times she'd prepared meals since the fire, hands moving gracefully, almost reverently, as she arranged food on plates. “She channels her creativity into cooking the way she channels it into her paintings. It’s as if food is her paint; the plate her canvas.”
Betty laughed. “I heard Bill exclaim the other day that he didn't know how to eat anything she placed in front of him. Said it was too perfect a picture, and it was easier to chow down food that was just slapped on a plate.”
“Like he serves it, I take it.” Paige had managed to avoid Wild Bill's since arriving in Timberton.
“Exactly right.” Betty acted out her impression of Bill tossing food haphazardly on a plate, holding the imaginary dish out to Paige. Holding up two hands, Paige played along, refusing the food, then pulled a stool up to the center table and leaned forward, placing her elbows on the counter.
“Clive's talking about selling that painting he has hanging on the wall in the gem gallery, hoping it'll bring in a little money to help rebuild the café.”
“Ha!” Betty’s eyebrows rose. “That old thing he found in the basement when he was cleaning out the café for Mist? He won't get much for it.”
“It was painted by a local artist, the way I hear it. Maybe it’s valuable,” Paige said, ever optimistic.
“Don't count on it,” Betty said. “If Clive wants to raise money with painting, he oughta throw some paint on the front of that ugly building of his. Might bring some customers in, rather than scaring them away before they ev
en step foot inside.” Betty's lips pressed firmly together. Paige could have sworn the hotelkeeper's posture stiffened up.
“Have you and Clive always jousted like this?” Paige couldn't help asking. It was clear this was a running routine between them.
“No, not always,” Betty said, her expression guarded. “There was a time….” Her words trailed off. Paige tried to keep herself from prying but, as often was the case, failed.
“A time when things were different ….?” Paige verbally nudged Betty for more information.
“It was a long time ago.” Betty clipped the last of the greenery with a sharp snip, tossed the cutting shears back in the drawer and slammed it shut, ending the discussion.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Betty sat down in the tapestry-covered chair alongside the windowsill of her room. A chilly stream of air brushed across her face. She reached out with a flat palm and held it over a crack in the window's weather stripping. Sure enough, it was the source of the inward leak. She'd need to have it sealed or the heating bills for the hotel would show the damage. They were high enough as it was. Each month it became more of a challenge to pay the bills. Even activity at the height of the recent tourist season had fallen short of previous years. She'd heard people say the economy was improving, but her bank account said otherwise.
It was everything she could do to keep the inside of the hotel inviting. The exterior had long ago fallen into disrepair, and the landscaping retained none of its past charm. It was too much for one person, even with Mist’s help – handling the reservations, keeping up the rooms and arranging special events for guests.
Even more daunting was coordinating needed repairs, some planned and some popping up without warning at the most inopportune times – for example, just before guests arrived. Occasionally, just in the nick of time, a problem would seem to fix itself. This didn’t fool Betty. It was a small town, and people watched out for each other, not always taking credit for impromptu good deeds. There was a good chance Clayton and his crew were sneaking in a few repairs when she wasn’t looking. And she wouldn’t put it past Mr. Hodges to play handyman once a week, even with his bad hip. But it was still a struggle to keep the hotel running smoothly.
For a long time, Clive had been telling her it wasn't realistic for a woman to run a business that size by herself. Some days she secretly agreed with him, but there wasn't a chance in tarnation she was going to give him the satisfaction of admitting it. Why should she? He'd had no problem with a woman running the place when Abby was still alive. Sweet Abigail, everyone's favorite. It's just how it was. Abby had been the social sweetheart of the town. Older by two years, Abby was always the more extraverted of the two sisters. Prettier, too, though no one said so aloud, of course. But it was obvious from the way men always flocked around her. And Clive had been right there in line with the rest of them. Probably would've asked Abby to marry him if she'd been around longer.
Betty had been the sister who stood in the shadows. A little plainer, a little plumper, she was always the one reading a good book in the corner chair. Or she was out in the garden, planting a rainbow of annuals each spring. When Abby's battle with cancer began to drain her strength, Betty stepped in and started picking up chores around the hotel. In time, Abby was gone, and Betty was left on her own with the hotel.
That was a good twenty years ago, and the town had changed in so many ways. Tourists had come and gone, and she’d always managed to make ends meet. But time had taken its toll on the property, and the list of needed repairs was ever growing. Although Betty's pride had always prevented her from hiring help, now the money just wasn't there. And there was no older sister to step in and lend a hand.
Now she would have help. Others might assume she was bringing Mist on board to help the girl recover from the loss of the café. But Betty knew that she needed the help as much as Mist did.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“Clive is talking about selling a painting he has in order to help rebuild the café.”
Paige leaned forward over the writing desk in her room, splitting her attention between the cell phone pressed to her ear and the scribbled notes in front of her. She needed the article outlined before she called the office in the morning.
“Sounds like a decent idea,” Jake said.
Paige could hear papers shuffling. Jake was multitasking, as well. The ranch cabins were getting a slow start, considering he'd purchased the property a year before. With winter on the horizon, most of the supplies coming in would need to be stored in the barn until spring.
“I'm worried he doesn't know what he's doing.” Paige tapped her pen against the desk's surface as if she could focus Jake’s divided attention better. “He has no idea how much it's worth. Silas Wheeler, a student of Charles Russell, painted it. Wouldn't that make it valuable?”
“Maybe yes, maybe no. Has a nice ring to it, unless Wheeler was a lousy painter, in which case it might be worthless.”
“True. And that was Russell’s opinion.” Paige agreed. “Which reminds me, I checked the old hotel registers. Silas Wheeler stayed in this room when he was living here. I’m almost positive that diary I found is his, and his staying here explains why the diary was hidden in this wall.”
“Maybe you were meant to find that diary and this story after all since it got you interested in that painting,” Jake said. “Clive should have the piece appraised before he sells it,” Jake said. “There's no other way to know if it's worth anything.”
“That’s what I told him,” Paige said. “But he seems reluctant to let me send it all the way back to New York. I snapped a photo, but it won’t be enough.”
“If he’s at all willing to have it checked out, he wouldn’t have to send it that far. I can send it up to an appraiser in Cody who specializes in western art.”
“They have art appraisers in Cody?” Paige laughed, but bit her lip as soon as the words spilled out. Big city snobbery was not attractive.
“Yes, they do,” Jake said matter-of-factly. “You'd be surprised at the culture you'd find out here. Your visit to Jackson should have taught you that the Old West is more than a string of saloons and ranches.”
“I'm sorry,” Paige said. “Of course you’re right.” She felt herself sink lower in her chair.
“I’m teasing you, Paige. We've got an excellent museum complex in Cody – The Buffalo Bill Historical Center. Five museums right there.” Jake paused. Paige could hear him ruffling through paperwork.
“Anyway, I know someone who works in their research center....”
“They have a research center?” Paige sat up a little straighter.
“Yes, believe it or not.” Jake paused again. “The McCracken Research Library, home to archived photographs, manuscripts, family papers and rare books about the West.”
“And you know someone who works there?”
“Sure do. Doc Lambert. Not the kind of doctor who fixes broken arms, but the kind who spent crazy amounts of time in universities. I'll call him tomorrow and see if he's around. Maybe he can take a look at that painting. You'll have to send it out to him.”
“I’ll talk to Clive about that.” Paige hoped Clive would be willing to send it to Cody. Without an appraisal, he ran the risk of selling it for too low a price. That is, if the painting had any value at all.
“See if Clive wants to have it appraised, and I'll see if Lambert is available. Can't hurt to ask. And I have a hunch you're just going to worry if you don't get some sort of official opinion.”
Paige smiled. Jake knew her at least well enough to know she wouldn't let it drop. She was already too attached to the people of Timberton.
The rustling of paperwork on Jake's part paused. His tone softened. “It would be nice to see you again while you're out here.”
“It would be nice to see you, too.” The sudden shift in conversation surprised Paige, but she didn’t mind the change in direction. The idea of seeing Jake again sent a fluttering sensation through her.
&n
bsp; “How soon will you be going back to New York?”
Paige mentally ran through her calendar. She really should be able to wrap up the gem article soon if she focused. But the unanswered questions in Timberton begged for more time. There was a chance she could add a few extra Montana days in before heading back east.
“I'm not sure, but I may be able to talk Susan into a few days off after I finish this piece. I'd like to help Betty and Mist sort things out at the hotel. And I like your idea of getting Clive to have the painting appraised. If I linger, I might be able to nudge him into doing it.”
Jake laughed. “Paige, if anyone can nudge anyone into anything, it's you. Your middle name is probably Persistence.” A pause followed. “What is your middle name, anyway?”
“Kathleen.” Paige had always loved her middle name, which she owed to her great-grandmother, Kathleen MacKenzie. A feisty ancestor by reputation, Paige had always suspected she'd inherited some of those traits along with the name. At least, she liked to think so.
“Paige Kathleen MacKenzie.” Jake tumbled the words around a few times. “I like the way that sounds. Very dignified, sort of like royalty. Like someone famous.”
“Very funny.” Paige wasn't sure if Jake was teasing her again or not, but that uncertainty evaporated when a sudden commotion exploded downstairs: shrieks of panic and the sounds of metal crashing.
“I have to go; there’s some kind of emergency,” Paige said, ending the conversation abruptly. She dropped the cell phone on the bed and raced downstairs where she found Betty frantically attempting to retrieve half a dozen pots and pans from the kitchen floor.
“What happened?” Scooping up a frying pan that almost tripped her as she entered the room, Paige looked around at the scattered cookware.
“My clumsiness, that's what happened.” Betty leaned back against the sink counter, out of breath. “I lost my balance hanging a pot on a hook and it fell. That started the dominoes going.” A weary swing of her arm indicated a disarray of pots and pans. Paige picked up a saucepan and set it on the center island.
Paige MacKenzie Mysteries Box Set Page 29