The Coloring Crook

by Krista Davis

  When I completed the call, I asked, “May I help you?”

  “I am looking for Florrie Fox.”

  His British accent clued me in. “You would be Frederic van den Teuvel?”

  “You recognized me by my voice, no doubt. I am here about The Florist. My client is very eager to make an offer, assuming the book is in acceptable condition.”

  “I’m so sorry to tell you that the owner of The Florist died unexpectedly.”

  “So I have heard. May I see the book?”

  Hadn’t I been perfectly clear with him about that? “I don’t have it.”

  “How can that be?”

  “Excuse me, but our friend has died. I don’t know where she put it.”

  “I see.” He shot me a perfectly evil sideways glance.

  Chapter 8

  “Did Orso beat me here?” asked van den Teuvel.

  Orso? I hardly knew how to respond. So many thoughts ran through my head. Could he mean the man who had gone to prison for stealing the Maxwells’ painting by van Gogh? Orso had only been out of jail for a few days. Why would van den Teuvel think Orso would have the money to make an offer for The Florist? I frowned at him. Did he mean he thought we had made a deal with this Orso or could he mean that the said Orso had killed Dolly for the book? Could Orso have been the burglar? I tried to phrase my response carefully to learn more from him. “Orso is interested in the book as well?”

  “I assume so.”

  Well that didn’t help. I stared at him in silence, hoping he would blather and spill some information.

  He flipped his palms up in a gesture of frustration. “Of course he is! You don’t seem to understand. A rarity like this is a coup. The Florist hasn’t been for sale in our lifetime. Not in the last century as far as I know.”

  “Is it worth killing for?”

  “You Americans are always so dramatic. Perhaps you can arrange a meeting for me with the owner?”

  Hadn’t he heard me? “I’m sorry. She is dead.”

  He placed a hand on the counter and his eyes narrowed. He took a deep breath and rubbed his mouth with a bony hand. He spoke slowly, as though I wasn’t capable of understanding. “She must have an heir. He would now be the owner.”

  “Possibly.”

  “Ms. Fox, I do not intend to leave Washington without this book.”

  I relaxed. That meant he hadn’t stolen it from Dolly. But he might have hired the person who ransacked the store. “Just how much are you willing to pay for The Florist?”

  He gave an ugly snort. “Are you representing the seller?”

  “No.”

  He tapped his fingers on the top of the counter. “I would rather negotiate with the seller, if you don’t mind.” He withdrew a business card from his wallet. “Have the heir phone me. I await his call.”

  He stalked toward the door but turned to face me before he left. Holding up his forefinger, he said, “Do not make a deal with Orso without speaking to me. No matter how much he offers, I can beat his price.” Holding his head high, he left the store.

  I was reeling from his attitude. Part of me thought I wouldn’t want to sell him anything. He struck me as an arrogant jerk. But it wouldn’t be my decision. Dolly’s daughter would have to deal with him.

  I felt the presence of someone behind me. I whipped around, only to find Professor Maxwell standing there, looking at the closing door. “Was that van den Teuvel?” he asked.

  “You know him?”

  “I know of him. The poster child of parasitic symbiosis.”

  I was going to have to look that up.

  Professor Maxwell smiled at me. “One organism benefits while harming the other organism. That’s van den Teuvel. He’s always ready to take advantage of people and leave them to die.”

  I gasped. Maybe I had jumped to conclusions. “Do you think he would have killed Dolly?”

  “I thought she had a heart attack. I am very sorry about Dolly’s untimely death. She was a charming woman.”

  I nodded. “Everyone is broken up. Apparently van den Teuvel has a client who is interested in purchasing The Florist.”

  Maxwell snorted. “Watch out for him, Florrie. He’d cheat his own mother.”

  “He said something about not selling to Orso.”

  “Well, well. When it rains, the worms do come out.”

  “If Orso has been in prison for almost two decades, how would he have that kind of money?”

  “That’s the question, isn’t it? How indeed?” He gazed at the group in the parlor. “Are you okay? It’s not easy to happen upon a dead person. Especially one you knew and liked.”

  “I’m all right,” I lied. “It’s good for me to have to work and not dwell on Dolly’s death.”

  Another member of the coloring club burst through the door. “Is it true?”

  I showed her to the parlor and then helped an elderly gentleman who was looking for an autobiography by Winston Churchill.

  * * *

  Color Me Read closed at six o’clock on Sundays. Even though I did my best to keep busy, my thoughts rarely strayed from Dolly. Her death took a toll on all of us. I almost wished we would stay open late that night. But promptly at six o’clock, Bob, Veronica, and I closed the store and headed to our respective homes instead of picking up some dinner as we usually did.

  When I came home, Peaches opened one eye to look at me before flipping over and curling tight with one paw over her eye. I got the message. Go away. I had interrupted her catnap.

  I paced around the carriage house, too restless to cook dinner or do anything productive. I finally grabbed my sketch pad, tucked some pencils into my purse, and locked the door behind me. I wasn’t sure where I intended to go. Maybe one of the beautiful gardens I had spotted around Georgetown. There were lovely garden nooks everywhere.

  I ambled along the streets and discovered Book Hill Park. Broad concrete stairs led to a circular stone patio with benches. A few people sat under trees and on the lawn reading. It was surprisingly quiet, probably because of the time of day. From where I sat, I didn’t see any children’s playground equipment.

  I settled on a bench and began to sketch a rosebush with bright pink blooms that cascaded over a small stone wall and onto steps.

  It was a relief to be able to draw and momentarily think about something other than Dolly. My concentration was so intense that I jumped when I heard a man’s voice.

  “Pardon me. I didn’t intend to frighten you.” He gestured toward the bench. “Do you mind if I join you?”

  I scooted over to make more room for him. “Of course not.”

  His age was hard to gauge. He moved like someone with achy bones, somewhat slow and careful. His eyes were bright with crow’s feet so deep and perfectly spaced that they reminded me of half-spent daisies. His lips were so thin they had almost disappeared, but he had no trouble smiling.

  He sat down licking an ice cream cone. “Butter pecan,” he said. “One of the simplest things in the world, but what a treat.”

  I smiled at him.

  “That’s very good.” He gestured to my sketch. “Are you an artist or is this a hobby?”

  I told him about my adult coloring books.

  “I heard they were popular.” He raised his chin and inhaled deeply. “It’s such a beautiful evening. I never knew this park was here. It might become my favorite.”

  He reached a hand to me. “I’m Mike.”

  “Florrie.”

  He appeared surprised. “You don’t hear that very much. It means you are like a flower. Like the Roman goddess, Flora, who represents spring.”

  “That’s a lovely thought. Where did you learn that?”

  “From a book. Amazing things, books. You never know what you might learn.”

  He sat quietly for a few minutes, methodically licking his ice cream cone. “Do you believe in forgiveness?”

  His question took me by surprise. Was he trying to convert me to his religion? “Are you a minister?”

 
He laughed heartily. “No one has ever mistaken me for a man of the cloth.”

  I thought about his question for a moment. “Yes, most definitely.”

  He raised his eyebrows and studied me. “You sound so certain.”

  “I am. Most of the time, people don’t mean to hurt us. Maybe it’s a matter of degrees. We forgive little things every day. But if someone hurt a member of my family I might feel differently. Are you trying to forgive someone?”

  “A man who did me wrong. He changed my life. If I had never met him, my life would have been completely different.”

  “Better?” I asked.

  He snorted. “In every conceivable way.”

  At that moment, an elderly woman walked down the stairs I was sketching, tripped, and fell flat on her face.

  “Oh!” I jumped up and dashed over to her. “Can you stand? Should I call for help?”

  It took some doing to assist her to her feet. Her palms were bloody from putting out her hands to break her fall. “Maybe you could call my daughter?”

  “Of course.” I pulled my phone from my pocket. “What’s the number?”

  I reached her daughter, who promised to come immediately.

  I turned back to look at Mike, but he had disappeared. His ice cream cone lay on the bench, dripping onto the stone floor.

  At the sound of footsteps, I expected to see the woman’s daughter, but it was Jack Miller.

  “Hi. How’s your head?”

  “Florrie Fox! My head is great, thanks to your expert nursing care.” He took a long look at the woman. “Need help?”

  “Her daughter is on the way. She didn’t want me to call 911.”

  He smiled at me. “Do you always turn up when someone is bleeding and in need of aid?”

  Why wasn’t I quick with quips? “I try.”

  The woman’s daughter arrived and started to fuss over her. “Good grief, Mom. What have you done now?”

  “Do you need help?” I asked.

  “Thanks. I think she can walk to the car. But I might swing her by the emergency room.”

  She helped her mom to her feet and as they walked away, the daughter turned back to me. “Thank you so much!”

  Jack winked at me. “Another successful rescue. See you around.” He ambled off.

  The sun had begun a slow departure from the sky. I returned to the bench to retrieve my sketch pad.

  On the top page was a quick sketch of my face.

  Chapter 9

  Peaches purred nonstop when I came home. I cuddled her until she couldn’t stand it and leaped from my arms. It wasn’t late but the lack of sleep the night before was catching up with me. After changing into the nightshirt that looked like a green crayon, I made a ham sandwich for myself and scooped duck cat food into Peaches’s bowl. She snarfed it and ran to me meowing, determined to have a taste of my dinner. I gave her a pinch of ham to try.

  I settled on the sofa with my sketch pad intending to draw Lucianne Dumont, but as I began to sketch, the face that I couldn’t get out of my head was that of Frederic van den Teuvel. I’d thought it was his skin dipping under his cheekbones that gave him a dour expression, but as I drew, I realized it was his mouth that made that impression. His lips were very thin and turned downward at the edges. Worry lines rippled across his forehead just above his eyes. He had a sizable nose, but it suited his face. I sat back and examined my drawing. I didn’t trust the fellow one bit.

  I set aside my sketch pad and pulled out the iPad to look up Orso. There was precious little about him that I didn’t already know.

  In spite of myself, I fell asleep on the sofa.

  At four o’clock on Monday morning, I woke with a start. Dolly’s face and The Florist kept me from dozing off again. There was no point in fighting it. I got up and showered. Peaches was overjoyed to be up early. She chased a toy mouse around the bedroom while I pulled on shorts and a T-shirt. I walked downstairs and put on the kettle for tea.

  Normally, I would have taken my tea out into the lovely walled garden behind the carriage house, but the darkness outside the French doors didn’t beckon me. I longed to be able to call someone to talk about Dolly, but it was just too early. Instead, I peered in my refrigerator for something to bake.

  Plump indigo blueberries were just waiting to be used. I took out butter, eggs, and pecans for a blueberry crumb cake. If nothing else, it would be a delicious breakfast. I preheated the oven.

  I considered using the food processor, but this morning chopping the nuts with a cleaver appealed to me. They wouldn’t be as fine, but there was something very satisfying about mincing the nuts with a giant knife, while I contemplated the extremely rude Frederic van den Teuvel and aggravating Lucianne Dumont.

  Peaches zoomed around underfoot. She batted her toy mouse under furniture, retrieved it, and batted it across the room again.

  The carriage house had been built by John Maxwell’s second wife. Originally a true carriage house, it had been part of the underground railroad, helping slaves escape to freedom.

  An author, John’s ex-wife Jacquie had created her dream writing space while preserving parts of the ancient carriage house. The kitchen, dining room, and living room were all one large open space. The inside wall on the side toward the mansion was covered with bookshelves that displayed not only my favorite mysteries, but some of my artwork and my clock collection. A stone fireplace flanked by giant columns was at the end of the room. On the other side, a line of French doors opened to the tranquil garden. One bedroom and the bathroom were upstairs. I never could have afforded anything this wonderful in Georgetown. But my boss, Professor Maxwell, had been in a bit of a pickle and needed a tenant fast.

  I had been lucky to be able to move in. Only blocks from the bookstore, my life had simplified considerably. Plus I loved the atmosphere in Georgetown. It was an upscale historic area with a wonderful mixture of students, academics, diplomats, and families. I wasn’t involved in the active nightlife, though. I wasn’t much of a clubber. I never had understood the beauty in standing around with a bunch of strangers and drinking.

  My mom and sister made fun of me for that. It was okay with me if they thought that. At twenty-nine, I was old enough to pass on social conventions that didn’t appeal to me.

  As I beat the butter and sugar in my fire engine–red KitchenAid mixer, my thoughts returned to Dolly and The Florist. If there really were people interested in paying a lot of money for it, and Maisie could find it, then life would change for Dolly’s daughter. I was only sorry that Dolly wouldn’t benefit from it herself. Dolly had been a lovely woman, warm and fun, but life had been hard for her. I couldn’t think of many people who had deserved a break like this more than Dolly.

  But I couldn’t help wondering if that break had led to her death. Was it possible that she would be alive today if she hadn’t found the book?

  Frederic van den Teuvel still bothered me. Somehow news of Dolly’s discovery had made it all the way to antiques dealers and opportunists in less than a day. I supposed that thanks to social media, that wasn’t an impossibility. Every post on Facebook or Twitter had the potential to be seen almost anywhere in the world instantly. Still, among the millions of Internet users, what was the likelihood that the right person might have seen it this fast?

  I added the other ingredients, watched them spin, and then poured the batter into a rectangular baking dish, scattered the blueberries on top and sprinkled the pecan streusel over them. Just as I slid it into the oven, there was a knock at my door.

  I looked at it in fear, as though the mysterious Frederic van den Teuvel had managed to find my home already.

  I scolded myself for being ridiculous. I was still jumpy from the murder of Professor Maxwell’s nephew earlier in the summer.

  Still, I approached the door with caution, flicked on the outside light, and held my breath when I peered out.

  “Miss Florrie? Is that you? Is everything okay? If someone is holding you captive, knock once.”

 
I burst out laughing. I could only see the top of Mr. DuBois’s head, but I certainly recognized his voice. I swung open the door to Professor Maxwell’s butler.

  The wizened little man lurched inside on crutches. He waved one around and whispered, “Shall I call the police?”

  I closed the door behind him. “That’s not necessary. The only other person here is Peaches.”

  He glanced at my sweet kitty and shuddered. “I fail to understand why anyone would adore a creature who cares about nothing but itself.”

  “Peaches is very sweet. You just have to give her a chance.”

  He swung toward me. Having broken his leg earlier in the summer, he was quite adept with his crutches. “I smell a cake baking. What are you doing up so early? You have completely destroyed the structure of my day.”

  Little did he know that I saw him as someone I could talk to about Dolly and van den Teuvel. “May I offer you a cup of tea?”

  “English Breakfast?” He raised one eyebrow.

  “Of course.”

  “Hmpff. There may be hope for you yet. One teaspoon of sugar and just a splash of milk. I hope you have decent milk.”

  “Two percent?”

  Both eyebrows rose. “Not in some garish mug with a saccharine saying.”

  I opened a cabinet and withdrew a breakfast-sized teacup and saucer made of porcelain and painted with roses in pinks and reds. “Will this do?”

  He sighed. “I find it highly annoying when people exceed my expectations.”

  Chapter 10

  While Mr. DuBois made his way over to the sofa, I put the kettle on again and made him a cup of tea. I carried tea for both of us over to the coffee table on a tray.

  He graciously accepted his cup and sipped his tea, nodding his approval. “So?” he demanded. “What nature of life crisis prohibits you from sleeping?”

  “The untimely death of Dolly Cavanaugh.”

  He nodded. “Yes, I heard something about that. A heart attack, I believe?”

  I told him about Dolly’s stroke of luck in finding the book and the demands of Lucianne Dumont and Frederic van den Teuvel.