August 5, 1958
J. did not show up this morning. I waited for hours, but finally grew impatient and decided to go out searching. I found him not far away, sitting in the empty lot in the center of town. He didn't seem surprised to see me. Sometimes I wonder if he even recognizes me. I waved for him to follow, but he didn't respond. I tried again several times before losing my temper and giving him a tongue-lashing – in vain, of course. Eventually, I turned back and headed for the studio. Shortly after, he followed.
October 14, 1958
J. continues to wander. I have half a mind to give him the paintings, as I grow weary with fatigue. But what of my legacy? If I show the pieces that are hidden, discredit will come to those already revealed. I cannot take the money from the newer works with me to the grave, but I can leave my legacy behind. I deserve as much.
February 10, 1959
I no longer feel safe keeping J's paintings in the cellar. He has taken to wandering more, which is, in itself, annoying. The less he focuses, the less he produces. But, more worrisome is the fear he will find the stash. I half suspect he wouldn't even know what he found, but I can't take that chance. There's no way to know what goes on in that confused mind of his – what he might recognize and what he wouldn't. How does a man go through life with a brain that simple? Yet have the talent he has?
March 9, 1959
Tally: Landscapes (212 – 216) – 5, Tribal Conflicts (233 – 236) – 4, Covered Wagons (244 – 246)– 3, Horses – (261 – 263) - 3, Bison (286 – 287) – 2, Dust Storm (293) – 1, Wolves (257 – 258) – 2, Winter Scenes (226 – 227) – 2
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Jake set the bulky canvas against the gallery wall and turned back to face Paige. “How many more do we have left?” He watched as she tallied lines down the length of a legal size paper.
“Fourteen,” Paige answered. “Three landscapes, four covered wagon scenes, one campfire, two bison groupings, one wolf pack and three tribal gatherings.” She paused, checking the list again. “Yes, that's right, fourteen pieces. Not counting the sack of painting supplies, which we need to send, as well. Lambert said the lab wants to test the age of the paint, though I'm sure it'll match that on the paintings.”
“Why would Silas have packed away the paints?” Jake stepped back from the paintings that awaited shipping and tossed the question over his shoulder. Paige watched his self-confident stance from the rear. There was something about the way he shifted his weight onto one hip and folded his arms across his chest that made his clothing fall snugly across the muscular contours of his body. She forgot for a moment that he had asked a question at all.
“Paige?” Jake repeated, uncrossing his arms and thrusting his thumbs into the front pockets of his jeans. Paige sighed. That was no better. Would she ever be able to concentrate around this man?
“I know you're focused on the inventory, but did you hear me? Why do you think Silas hid the paints?”
“I think he wanted paint that would match identically if he needed to touch up any of the paintings. He planned to come back for them, but never did. Clive said he drank himself to death.”
Paige handed Jake a painting depicting a lone Blackfoot overlooking a lush valley. The scene felt rich with possibilities. Paige ran her finger down the inventory sheet and marked off the corresponding number.
“So the paintings stored in the tunnel were all by Hollister...er...Jonas and hidden by Silas way back when?” Jake said.
Paige nodded. “That's the way it looks. The later diary pages Mist found indicate Silas accessed the hiding place from the cellar of the café building. That matches the location of the paintings I found. We'll know for sure when Lambert gets the infrared results back on each piece.”
“Well, it looks like Clive won't have any problem rebuilding the café if these fetch the kind of price that Smithsonian guy was talking about,” Jake said. He reached to take the next painting from Paige – a disarray of pots and pans falling off the back end of a lop-sided covered wagon.
“Jake,” Paige exclaimed. “Clive won't keep the money from these. He and Mist already discussed this; Clive took the practical approach, and Mist, of course, the philosophical.” Paige set the paperwork down and sighed. She stood up, stretched and relayed the discussion as best she could.
“They both agree that the paintings belong to the true artist. After they're authenticated, Clive will keep any that Silas actually painted, since he's no longer living. But the ones that Hollister painted will be sold, the proceeds put into a trust for Hollister's care. He keeps returning to the area under the trestle to sleep at night, but Mist is working with him. She thinks she'll be able to coax him into sleeping inside one of the hotel rooms before long. He already comes up there for meals.”
“Of course he does. Everyone goes there now that Mist is cooking.” Jake laughed, but then grew serious. “Unfortunately, that still leaves Clive in a bind for rebuilding the café, doesn't it?”
“Yes and no,” Paige answered. “He may not get anything from the paintings. But he has an opportunity to sell his Yogo jewelry. Brandi's been having trouble getting jewelers to commit to the ads for the sapphire article. They want Yogos on hand for impulse buys by conference attendees. If they can't get the sapphires in stock, they don't want to put money into advertising. Clive has some nice pieces. Not enough to supply everyone who's asking for them, but enough to sell to a few stores.”
“What happened to the guy who hired Manetti?” Jake reached over as Paige handed him a landscape of the hills directly behind Timberton. Holding it at arm's length, he recognized the sketched outline of the older town buildings.
“Sid? He's long gone,” Paige said. “Shop cleaned out in the middle of the night. Disappeared without a trace. Must've known Manetti would sing. Susan feels terrible about falling for Sid's story. But how was she to know?”
Jake whistled. “Isn't that something.”
“Isn't what something?” Clive's booming voice came from the back office, quickly followed by the sound of a door slamming.
“I didn't know you were here, Clive,” Paige said. She marked off another item on the paperwork and glanced up as Clive responded.
“I wasn't. Just came in the back door. I had me a little business to attend to over at the hotel.” Clive said, as he emerged from his office. Paige noted a subtle change in his appearance. He looked taller, bolder and more confident than she'd seen him before. And he was smiling.
“Dinner's at six tonight,” Clive announced. “Mist is cooking up something special. Everyone's invited.”
“I think anything Mist cooks up is special,” Jake said.
“Well, that's the truth, ain't it?” Clive laughed. “But I'm just telling you what she said – six o'clock. Better be there or you might be left with no other choice but fast food. Wild Bill's not cooking any more, goes to the hotel every night. I think he's got a thing for Mist's maple-glazed sweet potatoes. Then again, it's not like he had customers, anyway.”
“Clive,” Paige said, ignoring his tangent, “You can't get fast food around here.”
“Why, sure you can,” Clive said. “You just take a left up there by the park.”
“Really?” Paige and Jake spoke simultaneously.
“Yes, really,” Clive said. “After that left, just head on down the highway about twenty-two miles and take another left when you come to a big ol' cluster of propane tanks, just after you pass over the third cattle guard. Then, about eight miles past that, there's a red barn – paint's kinda faded, but if it ain't dark yet, you'll see it. You take a hairpin turn just past that, go another five miles or so and it'll be on the right side. Best corndogs you'll ever have.”
Paige and Jake exchanged glances.
“Six o’clock sounds fine, Clive. Thanks,” Paige said.
Clive looked at the progress of the pre-shipping preparation. “How's it going, anyway? When are those art people coming to pick all this up?”
Paige couldn't help smiling.
“Clive, those ‘art people,’ as you call them, are historians from the Smithsonian Institute, and, to answer your question, looks like we have eleven packages to go.”
“Make that twelve.” A voice from the gallery’s front doorway interrupted the conversation. One of the deputies from Utica stood in the store with a dusty flour sack. Cradled in the deputy's hands, it looked like a small, dirty off-white football. Paige half expected the deputy to run back and throw long.
“Of course, the sack,” Paige said, glancing up briefly and returning to her paperwork. “That makes twelve. Though I thought….” Her voice trailed off as she turned toward a table against the far gallery wall. The rumpled sack of painting supplies was sitting where it had been placed earlier. She turned back to the deputy, perplexed.
“I don't understand. We have the sack right here.”
The deputy nodded. “Yes, ma'am. Everything from the tunnel is here. Except for the sack I'm holding, that is. We missed it when we unloaded the trunk of the patrol car. Apparently one of the picture frames pushed it into a back corner. It fell into a slot behind the spare tire. We found it late last night.”
Paige sighed and started toward the deputy. More paint to add to the inventory list. Silas had certainly played it safe, stashing away two batches of supplies. How much touching up had he thought he'd have to do? Paige reached for the sack, only to have the deputy hold up one hand to stop her.
“I think Clive might want to open this one,” the deputy said.
Paige wondered if she imagined the faint smile on the officer's face. She turned to Clive, shrugged her shoulders and motioned him over. Clive raised his eyebrows and casually grabbed the sack. He headed to the worktable, setting it down under the bright lights. As the others gathered around, he emptied the contents.
In all the years Paige had visited the Atlantic shoreline on bright, sunny days, she'd never seen a sea of sparkling blue that matched the one that splashed across the worktable when Clive emptied the sack. Like cornflower blue stardust, the sapphires tumbled against the golden grain of the wood surface, flashing as brightly as fireworks. Paige had to blink just to focus.
Clive dropped the empty sack in shock, leaned against the edge of the table and tried to breathe. Jake let out a long, low whistle. Paige continued to blink, unable to pull her thoughts together. And the deputy stood by, waiting for someone to speak.
“Are these...?” Clive's voice cracked and squeaked like an adolescent boy’s. He paused before trying again. “Are these...?” Again, he stopped. It was too much to put into words.
“You're Clive Barnes, is that correct?” The deputy leaned forward and tried to look at Clive straight on, attempting to get the shaky gallery owner's full attention. Clive lifted glazed eyes from the sparkling gems and simply nodded.
“Well, all right then,” the deputy said, “these are yours, Clive.”
“Is there any way this could be a mistake?” Paige finally managed to speak.
“No, ma'am,” the deputy said. “When I found these last night, I went back through every old theft report I could find, decades of them.” He faced Clive.
“Clive, when you filed your report way back, you turned in a detailed copy of your inventory – every single stone, each style, cut and size. These match that report exactly. Some of the smallest stones are missing, but the rest are all here.” He pulled a folded paper out of his pocket and handed it to Clive. “There's no way anyone else is the rightful owner.”
With a tip of his deputy's hat, he left, pausing only to advise Clive to put the sapphires in the gallery safe.
Clive sat down in the closest chair. He looked back and forth between Paige and Jake, shaking his head in disbelief.
“So these were squirreled away with all those paintings – all these years?” Clive asked. “We've been walking right on top of them?”
“Seems to be the case,” Paige said. “Looks like Silas stole more than just Hollister's paintings.”
“Must be why he left town when he did,” Clive mused. “Figured he'd bury the sapphires along with everything else and come back for it all later. He just never made it.”
“Clive, if you've gotten your wind back, you need to pack those up and put them in the safe,” Paige said. “Jake and I'll finish checking the last of the paintings while you do that. Then we can all go over to the hotel.”
Clive nodded and stood up. “It won't take long to lock these up. And I do believe my nerves have drained enough energy to build up an appetite.
“Oh, one more thing, you two,” Clive said. “If you could hold off saying anything to Betty or Mist about this right away, I'd appreciate it. I've got a few things to arrange.”
CHAPTER FORTY
The blended aromas of garlic, butter and rosemary greeted Paige as she stepped into the lobby of the hotel. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. What else was mixed in there? A touch of fennel? Lemon, maybe? Shallots? Whatever it was, her mouth was watering before she even closed the front door.
“Is that you, Paige?” Betty's voice came from the direction of the parlor, where Paige found the hotelkeeper arranging contrasting heights of snipped spruce branches in canning jars. The room's velvet couch and overstuffed armchairs had been pushed against the walls. A half dozen card tables filled the center space, surrounded by folding chairs and covered with mismatched tablecloths. A few early birds had already claimed their places. Mist had seated Hollister at a corner table.
“No one's dining on the front steps tonight, I take it,” Paige said. Seating had been haphazard since the café burned down, but townsfolk had always managed to find a spot to sit and balance a plate.
“Mist's orders,” Betty said. “It's been fine having people come through the kitchen and grab a meal the last few nights. But if the hand that feeds you tells you to sit down, I figure you'd better sit or go hungry.”
“Sounds like a wise decision,” Paige said. “Let me help you with those,” she added, taking two of the evergreen arrangements. Once the quaint jars were in place, she made a beeline for the kitchen to see if Mist needed help.
Mist shooed all new arrivals to the kitchen out to the parlor. The improved seating arrangements were popular with the townsfolk, who found their spots around the room. Wild Bill took a place next to Ernie. The candy storeowner joined Sadie, who had nabbed a table near the front window. Clayton and his crew of firefighters fell into chairs on the far side of the room. They leaned forward to exchange viewpoints on a brush fire they had extinguished that afternoon, but sat back abruptly when the fragile, folding table shifted under their weight.
Jake entered and threw a jacket over the back of a chair, claiming three other seats as reserved for Paige, Betty and Clive. He knew better than to reserve one for Mist, who would insist on gliding around to attend to everyone's needs.
“Clive will be here after he finishes up at the gallery,” Jake announced.
“Men,” Betty huffed under her breath. “There's always something.” In spite of her reproachful tone, Jake caught her sneaking a look at the parlor mirror to check her appearance.
Paige emerged from the kitchen with baskets of dinner rolls balanced in her arms. As she set one on each table, the warm scent of freshly baked bread filled the room.
By the time Clive showed up, salads had been pushed aside, replaced with generous servings of roast chicken and garlic mashed potatoes. He sat next to Betty, picked up a knife and fork and emptied the dinner plate in record time. He followed that with seconds and then stood up.
“I have a speech to make,” he said, tapping a spoon against his water glass. “I've run into a bit of good luck. Now, I'm not going into any details, but something I lost many years ago has been found. It's gonna give me a little windfall to help with some things around Timberton.”
Cheers went up around the room. Paige caught a twinkle in Mist's eye as she passed by the table. Was something up? Or was Mist simply entertained by Clive's sly understatement? “A little windfall” hardly ca
me close to describing what Clive had recovered that day.
“Now, hold on, everyone.” Clive tapped his spoon against the glass again to settle the crowd. “Let me explain. First of all, we’ll need to wait until next spring, but we’ll get Moonglow rebuilt.” He waited for a round of applause to subside.
“In the meantime, I think we oughta fix up the hotel here and get a temporary restaurant going for the winter. And, personally, I say we start with some sturdy tables and chairs,” he said. More cheers erupted, this time from the firefighters' table.
“Why would you want to build the café here and then have to do it all over again in the spring?” Betty said. “That's not too practical, Clive.”
“Well, for one thing, we have to eat somewhere. It might as well be here,” Clive said. “I can't think of anywhere else we'd want to go.” A few people turned to grin at Bill Guthrie.
“And for another thing, Betty, I've got something to ask you,” Clive said. He shifted his weight back and forth, looking like a nervous schoolboy called to the front of the class. Paige watched, half expecting him to run for the door, but he stood his ground.
Betty braced her hands against the table. “Now, don't go scaring me like that, Clive. I've got my hands full enough around here without you causing trouble.”
A voice from the firefighters’ table carried across the room. “I'm not sure what kind of trouble that is, Betty, having him fixing things all the time.”
“What’re you talking about, Clayton?” Betty said. “You’ve been helping out around here for as long as I can remember.”
“No, ma’am,” Clayton said. “Just keepin’ your fire extinguisher up to date and pullin’ Sadie’s cat out of that tree behind the hotel now and then. You know it runs away from the Curl ‘N Cue every time a hair dryer turns on.”
Paige MacKenzie Mysteries Box Set Page 40