Murder Paints a Picture

by Thea Cambert

  “Whoever swapped the paintings must’ve counted on no one looking too closely—at least not until the thief was long gone,” said Owen.

  “That morning—Saturday morning—when the whole family cleared out of the house because of the supposed gas leak . . . We understand that you stayed behind?” Alice said.

  “That’s right,” said Elsa. “That was before you all arrived with Talbot. The call came in from the security company, saying they believed there might be a problem. Everyone was in such a hurry to get out of the house—it was mayhem. I was out in the far garden, well away from any danger, so I told them I’d stay behind.”

  “Mr. Astor said that earlier that morning, a man had come to make an offer to purchase the painting. Did you see him?” asked Alice.

  “No,” said Elsa, shaking her head. “He came and went while I was in the garden. I spent most of the morning out there, getting the beds ready for winter.”

  By this time, they’d arrived at the check-out. Owen hurried around to the front of the cart and began unloading groceries onto the conveyer belt.

  “And what about the man who came later—while the family was away?” asked Alice. “Who was he?”

  “A very dashing gentleman. Silver hair. Blue eyes. Carried a large satchel over his shoulder. I believe he said he owned a gallery in Chicago. He’d come to speak with Mr. Astor, but I explained about the gas leak.”

  “Ah yes. We know him,” said Owen, raising a brow in Alice’s direction.

  “Was his name Ian Foster?” asked Alice.

  “Yes, that was it,” said Elsa.

  “So, he did go to Hemlock House twice that morning,” said Franny.

  “He did?” asked Elsa.

  “Sounds like it,” said Owen, setting a large bag of fresh cranberries onto the conveyor belt. “Bernard—Mr. Astor—told us during our fieldtrip that Ian Foster had come and made an offer on the Toussaint that very morning. But we never saw Ian, which means he had to have been there before the whole gas leak debacle.”

  “And since he returned during the gas leak debacle, that means he came to Hemlock House twice,” said Alice. “Did you send him away?”

  “No, he insisted he needed to speak to Mr. Astor, so I showed him to the park area, alongside the house. There’s a comfortable bench there, and he said he’d be glad to wait. He seemed a bit nervous to me. Anyway, then I saw the young woman from the Runesville Fire Department—”

  “Lee Fairchild,” said Alice.

  “Yes—we heard all about her little ruse this morning,” said Elsa. “Anyway, I went to let her into the house, presuming she would check for a gas leak, and then I returned to the garden. The next time I checked the park, Mr. Foster was gone. I never saw him again, so assumed he’d gotten tired of waiting and left. I did put his calling card on Mr. Astor’s desk, and made sure he saw it.”

  The last of the groceries had been scanned and bagged, so Owen helped to repack the cart, and Alice and Franny both helped carry bags and load them into Elsa’s car.

  “Thank you, Elsa,” Alice said as Elsa climbed in behind the wheel. “Good luck with the baking! And happy Thanksgiving!”

  “Happy Thanksgiving to all you, too!” said Elsa, giving them a wave before pulling out of the parking lot.

  “So, if Lee Fairchild was telling the truth, and she didn’t switch the paintings, then the only other person we know of so far who came to Hemlock House that morning is Ian Foster,” said Alice.

  “And he definitely wanted that painting,” said Owen.

  “And he’s had coffee with Talbot, too, so it might’ve been him who killed Talbot,” said Franny.

  “If Elsa left him on the park bench and went out to the garden, and Lee came and went, but the family was still away . . .” Alice said slowly, “that means there might’ve been a golden window of opportunity for Ian to rush into the house, switch the paintings, and leave.” She looked at Franny, who was already dialing her phone.

  “I’m on it,” Franny said. “Ben and Luke need to hear this.”

  Chapter 15

  It was Owen’s day to help oversee the Paint A Cookie Masterpiece Kitchen, and he’d volun-told Alice and Franny they’d be on duty as well. As it turned out, the children who attended the event decided it would be far more fun to paint Owen than their cookies, and Alice and Franny really should’ve redirected the young artists, but were laughing too hard to be of much help.

  A chill wind blew through the park, swirling fall leaves with it—some of which stuck to the sugar-coated Owen.

  “Great,” he said dryly. “Could somebody hose me off, please?”

  Of course, that only made the children laugh more.

  Franny’s mother, Pippa Brown, had walked up bringing Theo, and arrived just in time to see Owen dancing about, attempting to shake off his coating of leaves, a sight which launched little Theo into a round of giggles.

  “No doubt about it, Owen” said Franny, taking Theo from her mother and snuggling him close. “You’ve got the magic touch with children of all ages.” Then she thanked her mother for babysitting, and Pippa was joined by Franny’s dad, Albert.

  “We’re going to grab a late lunch and browse the festival,” said Pippa, taking Arthur’s arm. “Let us know if you need any more babysitting later.”

  “Sure thing, Mom,” said Franny, securing Theo into his baby sling. “Thanks again!”

  As she watched the Browns disappear into the crowd, Alice spotted Jean-Paul, walking in the direction of the park, hands in pockets, a thoughtful expression on his face.

  “Don’t look now,” Alice whispered. “But Jean-Paul is coming this way.”

  “Too late,” said Franny. “He sees us.”

  “Well, this is awkward,” said Owen.

  “I know,” agreed Alice. “Last time we saw him, he was being escorted to the police station.”

  “It’s not awkward because of that,” said Owen. “It’s because I’m standing here looking like some kind of insane fall cookie.”

  “Hello, all,” said Jean-Paul, raising a brow at Owen.

  “Don’t ask,” said Owen, rolling his eyes.

  By this time, Faith Lindor, who owned the other bakery in town—called Crumpets—had showed up for her shift at the cookie decorating kitchen. She’d brought her fiancé, Beau Boswell, who, upon seeing Owen, started to run away, but was quickly caught by Faith.

  “Good luck,” Owen said, patting Beau on the back.

  Alice, Owen, and Franny, along with Jean-Paul, left the cookie area and strolled on through the park, pausing now and again to look at the art on display.

  “I felt I should explain to you all what happened earlier, at the church,” Jean-Paul began.

  Alice felt at a loss for words. After all, the three friends now knew a good deal about Jean-Paul’s past—but he didn’t know they knew, and that was uncomfortable. Alice felt a wave of relief when Jean-Paul just came right out with it.

  “The reason your friend Detective Evans called me by another name, by Louis Margot, is because that was my given name. I changed my name because . . .” He paused for a moment before continuing. “I was, as you say, turning over a new leaf in my life, and that called for a new name.” He looked at Alice and Franny. “I must commend the police department here, and especially your husband and your fiancé. I was treated with kindness and respect, and the thing that I had feared—that they would believe I stole the Toussaint—did not come to pass.”

  “Why, um, were you afraid they would think that?” asked Owen, who had snagged a damp towel as they’d left the cookie kitchen area, and was now attempting to wipe the colorful stickiness from his hands and face.

  “Because I have a past. I was an art thief,” Jean-Paul said simply. “The police, they knew this about me, and they wanted to ask for my insight—not accuse me of anything.” He sighed, a small smile coming to his lips. “Maybe it is true that even our mistakes can be used for good, no?”

  “No,” said Alice. “I mean, yes. Most a
ssuredly they can. My granny always says we should never waste a good mistake.”

  “Then your granny is a very wise woman,” said Jean-Paul.

  “So, were you able to help with the investigation?” asked Franny, taking Jean-Paul’s arm.

  Jean-Paul smiled at Theo and reached out a finger to touch his little hand. “I believe so,” he said, nodding. “You see, it takes a very particular kind of person to steal such a work of art. The world of art theft . . . It is different from other kinds of stealing.”

  “It must be hard to get away with it,” said Alice.

  “You would be surprised, actually, that it is not always that difficult,” said Jean-Paul. “Much of the art that is stolen these days comes from private homes, like Hemlock House, rather than from museums. A sharp thief can walk up to a painting, cut it from its frame, and be gone within seconds. He can be nothing but a shadow, and can disappear into the darkness.”

  “And then what?” asked Alice. “Say a thief steals a painting successfully—but then, what does he do with it? Everyone knows it’s stolen. If he sells it, he’ll surely be caught.”

  “Ah! That is the rub,” said Jean-Paul, nodding. “The thief must already have the buyer lined up, you see—before he steals the work of art. Otherwise, he may try to sell it, but very often, the buyer will turn out to be an undercover officer of the law. That is the way thieves are caught.”

  “Maybe that’s what will happen with Woman at Café with Book,” said Franny hopefully.

  “Perhaps it may,” agreed Jean-Paul. “But I do not think so.” He frowned. “You see, that Toussaint was worth, say, a million dollars. In the world of fine art, not worth the risk. Yet too famous to slip quietly under the radar. Only a wealthy collector could buy it. And whoever bought it would have to hide it or be caught with a stolen painting. So, you see, even though it is fairly easy to steal a painting such as this, it is nearly impossible to, as you say, unload it.”

  “So . . . someone would have to want that painting very badly to go to the trouble of stealing it,” said Alice.

  “Exactly,” said Jean-Paul.

  “Do you happen to know Ian Foster?” asked Owen.

  “Mr. Foster, yes,” said Jean-Paul. “We are both gallery owners. Both fond of the impressionists. And Toussaint.” He chuckled. “Back when it was on auction, when Mr. Astor purchased it, Ian Foster wanted it, too. He tried to win it, but Bernard Astor outbid him.”

  “Bernard had more money to spend, I guess,” mused Alice.

  “And more passion for the painting,” said Jean-Paul. “His wife loved it dearly, and he would not fail to get it for her. And this supports my point, that the acquisition of art is about more than money. It is about passion for the piece. For what it represents, for the hand that painted it, for the period in which it was created . . . and something more, too. Sometimes a painting resonates inside the heart of the viewer, and this takes hold of them. When that happens, they would cross hell or high water to possess the piece.”

  “You sound like you speak from experience,” said Owen, smiling.

  “Oh yes,” said Jean-Paul. “But these days, I do not let myself go down that road. I am just as happy to stand in a museum, or a place like the Astors’, and admire the art without needing to own it.”

  “I’m glad,” said Alice. “And glad your mistakes have not been wasted.”

  “As am I, Ms. Maguire. As am I.” Jean-Paul reached out and shook Theo’s tiny hand, said his goodbyes, and was off. But before he left, he turned back and said, “I do know that to some, a painting can be such an obsession . . . It can be worth killing for.”

  He gave a little salute and was gone.

  “So, Jean-Paul had nothing to do with the theft or the killing,” said Owen.

  “And Lee Fairchild didn’t either,” said Franny.

  “It’s looking more and more like Ian Foster did the deed,” said Alice. “I wonder if Ben and Luke are drawing the same conclusion.”

  “I have an idea,” said Owen. “Let’s go down to the Memphis artist group’s booth and ask Lee if she saw Ian when she was inside Hemlock House.”

  “Brilliant,” said Alice. “They’re up Main Street. Let’s go.”

  They left the park and headed up Main Street until they came to a booth with a banner above it that read Memphis Masterpieces. Mia was standing at the counter, and gave them a wave when she saw them.

  “How’s it going?” Owen asked when they got closer.

  “Better,” said Mia. “Oh—meet my fellow artists.” She turned to the three other ladies in the booth. “This is Samantha, Amy, and Mona. Ladies, this is Owen, from my photography class. And this is Alice and that’s Franny.” She smiled at Theo. “And who is this beautiful little person?”

  “This is Theo,” said Franny with a smile.

  The ladies took a few moments to fawn over the baby, and then Owen took Mia aside a bit.

  “Where’s Lee?” he asked.

  “She’s back at Cozy Bear, taking a rest,” said Mia quietly. “She’s still pretty shaken up by what she almost did.” She brightened a little. “But live and learn, right? We’re all going to be just fine. It’s a beautiful day, we’re selling lots of our artwork, and tomorrow morning, we’ll be on our way home to Memphis to celebrate Thanksgiving with our families.”

  “Listen, Mia,” said Owen, as he, Alice, and Franny stepped in a little closer. “You told us that Lee had seen a man arrive at Hemlock House while she was there Saturday morning, and that Elsa showed him to a bench in the garden. I know this is a sore subject and you’d all like to put it behind you, but did she happen to mention whether the man, by chance, ever came inside the house while she was, you know, checking for the pretend gas leak?”

  Mia thought about this for a moment. “I’m not sure,” she said. “But I can find out. Let me text her right now.” She pulled out her phone and tapped at the screen. Within seconds, a message came back. “Lee says the housekeeper let her in, and that even though she had decided not to steal the painting, she still wanted to see it. She wandered around, found it, and was standing there looking at it when the man came in and asked her what she was doing there. She told him she’d just checked the house for gas leaks, and that everything was in order, and got out of there as quickly as she could.”

  “Could you ask her what the man looked like?” said Alice.

  “Sure,” said Mia, texting Lee. The phone dinged again. “Silvery-gray hair and striking blue eyes,” Mia read.

  “Ian Foster,” said Alice. “Thank you, Mia. And thank Lee for us, too.”

  Alice, Owen, and Franny stepped away from the Memphis Masterpieces booth and walked on up Main Street.

  “So, let’s piece this together,” said Alice. “Ian Foster wanted that painting, even back when Bernard bought it.”

  “And he went to Hemlock House early Saturday morning and made an offer,” said Owen. “But Bernard turned him down.”

  “Right,” said Alice. “Then he came back to the house a bit later. Maybe to make another offer.”

  “But when it turned out that the family was away and the house was empty, he say his chance. He went inside and took the painting—swapping it for the forgery in his satchel,” said Franny.

  “He thought he’d gotten away with it until the next morning,” said Alice. “He saw the photo of the original in the paper and realized the mistake with the signature. Then he somehow found out that Talbot had spotted it in his photos as well. So, he confronted Talbot, killed him, took the evidence—”

  “And went back to Hemlock House, and managed to steal the forgery,” said Owen. “Because it was Sunday morning and no one was around. So, his timing was insanely lucky for a second time.”

  “And that was the first time the family realized the painting had been stolen,” said Franny. “Even though it was actually the forgery that had been stolen. So, they called the police.”

  “Right,” said Alice. “And then Ian fixed the signature, snuck back to Hemlo
ck House during the night, and left the painting with the note of apology.”

  “But it was just the same fake painting that had been on the wall when we were there Saturday morning,” said Owen. “The real one had been gone since . . . I’ve lost track. Do we even know when the actual painting was stolen?”

  “It had to be when Ian was there the first time, that morning, when he tried to buy the painting from Bernard,” said Alice.

  “So where is the painting now?” asked Franny.

  “Ian must have it,” said Alice.

  By this time, they’d come to the corner of Main and Phlox.

  “The police station is right there,” said Owen, pointing right. “Let’s go make sure Ben and Luke are on the same page.”

  Chapter 16

  It didn’t take long for Ben and Luke to obtain a warrant and rush over to the Valley Inn, where Ian Foster was staying. And surprisingly, it took even less time for them to discover the Toussaint, carefully wrapped and tucked behind the antique wardrobe in Ian’s room. Ian, however, was nowhere to be seen. Luke called Alice to tell her the news, and said they were trying to locate him at the moment and would arrest him as soon as they found him.

  Meanwhile, Alice, Owen, and Franny headed to Whitman’s Grocery Store in Owen’s SUV. Normally, they’d just walk the half-block to get there, but with only one baking day left between now and Thanksgiving, they’d be buying quite a load of groceries. Owen parked along the roadside next to the park, because the lot at Whitman’s was clearly a madhouse already.

  “We can buy everything we need and take it straight over to Luke’s cabin,” said Alice.

  “And after that, it’s back to my house for some late-night pie baking,” said Owen.

  “Can we eat some of the pie tonight?” asked Franny, who was struggling to pop up Theo’s stroller while Alice gently bounced him, trying to sooth him.