A Crossworder's Delight (6 page)

“Did Fuller do anything at all?” Rosco asked.

It was Morgan who responded. Despite his defense of the police department, and his stated unwillingness to call in a private investigator, he was clearly as troubled about the situation as his brother. “Basically, he just looked over our security system—or lack thereof—and then criticized it, suggesting that nineteenth-century locks can be easily picked, which, of course, is true. He also berated us for not having sensors on the windows or motion detectors.” Morgan turned to his brother. “I told you we were walking on eggshells, here, Mitch.…”

“Well, hopefully the insurance will—”

“And what happens to our premiums, then, Mitch? Or our antiquated locks, or these wonderful old doors? Do you have any idea what the cost of upgrading—?”

“So the poem was insured?” Rosco interrupted.

Both men were silent for a moment. “Yes …,” Mitchell eventually offered, “for twelve thousand dollars.”

Rosco let out a low whistle. “That's a nice chunk of change.” He walked over and studied the wall where the poem had been hung. “It looks like it took a fair amount of effort to remove the frame. It was screwed in place, I gather?”

“Our father did that back in the 1940s; it hasn't been moved since,” Mitchell told him. “You can see by the discoloration of the surrounding area that we've been painting around it for some time now.”

“Did Fuller question any of the guests? Or the folks doing the decorating?”

“I don't want the guests questioned,” Morgan said with some asperity. “Some are return customers and would feel insulted. Our first-timers would also. The same goes for the decorators—many of whom have been participating in the competition since its inception.” Then he attempted a smile accompanied by a more jocular attitude. “I seriously doubt that Newcastle's most civic minded citizens are suddenly turning to lives of crime.”

Rosco responded with his own small smile. “There's a chance that the very reason a customer—or a decorator—might
return
to the inn, Morgan, is because he or she saw something they liked and decided on a repeat visit in order to steal it. Whoever got your poem had to bring a screwdriver. Not an item I go on vacation with, but I'll bet your competitors had easy access to them.” He glanced at his watch again. “Have any of your guests checked out since the poem went missing?”

“No,” Morgan told him. “And none are scheduled to leave until Sunday.”

“Who discovered the theft?”

“E.T.,” Morgan said.

Rosco turned to face the two men. “E.T.?” The obvious reference to
extra-terrestrial
jumped to Rosco's mind, but he knew it wasn't the time for jests.

“He's a local boy who shovels our walks for us in winter, and cuts the grass in summer,” Mitchell offered.

“Can I talk to him?”

“He's just a twelve-year-old kid,” was Morgan's discouraged response. “What can he possibly tell you?” Then he again gazed pointedly at his brother. “Of all the weekends for this to happen … We've got most of Newcastle here, and a newspaper photographer due this afternoon. I told you no good would come of keeping all this valuable stuff on such prominent display, Mitch. Think of what this is going to do to our reputation.” Then he walked from the room without bothering to wait for his brother's reply.

Rosco found E.T. sprinkling rock salt on the wooden steps that led to the inn's kitchen entrance. The boy was clearly impressed with Rosco's credentials.

“Wow, a private detective … That's way cool. The police have already been here.”

“I know. Sergeant Fuller.”

“Fuller? That's a good one. He sure was a lot
fuller
after he left. He spent more time in the kitchen than the parlor.”

Rosco laughed. “I understand you were the first one on the scene?”

“Yep,” he said proudly. “I reported it directly to M and M—that's Mitchell and Morgan; the Marz men; the Martians.”

“That must have been pretty shocking news for them. How did they take it?”

E.T. folded his arms across his chest and gave Rosco a calculating laugh. “Yeah, I get it.… You're thinking the M and M's stole the poem themselves … for, like, the insurance money or something. And you want to know if they acted surprised when I told them it was gone. That's way, way cool.” Then he thought for a second. “The problem is, I was the one who was upset. The M and M's both kept telling me to calm down.… I guess I got a little hyper. I do that sometimes.… I mean, Mr. Mitchell was nice about it, but Mr. Morgan … well, I don't think he likes me very much.”

“I take it you didn't see anyone walk out with the artwork, or act suspicious in any way?”

“Nah. None of the guests took it, that's for sure.”

“You sound awfully certain.”

E.T.'s face assumed a serious and adult expression. He pointed to a small parking area. “See those cars over there? They belong to the overnight guests. No footprints in the snow. No one's opened a trunk or car door.” He then pointed to the another lot. “Now, those vehicles belong to the people who came in this morning to do the decorating. Look at all the footprints. I think we should get them all to open their trunks. I'll bet that's who stole it; one of them, anyway.”

Realizing the twelve-year-old could be a good ally, Rosco said, “I like that theory, E.T.; you're very observant. But you know, a guest could have just taken the frame straight to a bedroom. An employee living in the building could have done the same thing.
Or
, our culprit could have been someone who snuck in during the middle of the night and left long before you came to work.”

“Culprit,” E.T. echoed. He appeared to enjoy the sound of the word. “Is that from, like, culpable?”

Rosco chuckled. “You'd have to ask my wife. She's the crossword editor of the
Crier
, and she spends her days parsing language.”

E.T.'s eyes grew huge. He looked not only delighted but also awe-stricken, as if Rosco had just mentioned he were married to a famous actress or pop star. “You mean, Belle Graham? That's your wife?”

“None other.”

“Way cool …” Then E.T. grew suddenly shy, which he masked by standing straighter and returning to the subject of the missing poem and his own role of self-appointed investigator. “Well, we can't make everyone open the trunks of their cars, because Mr. Morgan doesn't want to make a big stink.”

Rosco nodded. “No … I have to go on the premise that it's already left the property. The sooner I can get autograph dealers apprised of the theft, the harder it will be to sell it. But I'm going to need someone to keep an eye out for suspicious behavior here at the inn.”

E.T. puffed out his chest. “I'm your man, Mr. Polycrates.”

Rosco handed him a business card and winked. “Call me Rosco.”

Reading the card, E.T.'s face grew serious. “I guess you chose your alias because roscoe's slang for a gun.… How come you didn't call yourself Rosco Sten … or Gat … or Barker? Those words mean gun, too.”

E.T., Rosco realized, was going to make a good match for Belle one day. “I'll give it some thought … but for now, let's keep our eyes peeled for a
culpable culprit
.”

Seven

T
HE
storefront of the Olde Print Shoppe in downtown Newcastle was as picturesque as any tourist could wish: an old-fashioned floor-to-ceiling bay window bisected by mullions painted a glossy black. In summer, a dark awning and pots of red and pink geraniums completed the pleasing scene, but in the middle of a new snowfall, the enterprise looked almost too cinematic to be real: wisps of dazzling white drifting along the shiny panes, or, like frosting, lapping the base of the building and curling up the front steps—while the interior cast out a warm, pink light beckoning passersby to stop in for a relaxing perusal of its handsome and pricey artwork.

As Rosco parked his Jeep and crossed the street, he almost believed he'd spot stagehands and a snow-making machine, or actors awaiting their cues while clad in Victorian cloaks; the men tipping tall glossy hats to the ladies in snow-dusted bonnets. The red Jeep, he decided, was a definite anomaly; a horse and carriage would have better fit the bill.

He entered the shop and was greeted by the owner herself, a tall, broad-shouldered, exuberant woman with a booming voice, as well as a scattered manner that didn't match her physical presence. Her French-English name mirrored the duality of her nature: Coco Barre; and she was well-known for being both a romantic idealist and an exacting businesswoman. If she didn't consider a client worthy of a piece of art, she wouldn't sell it no matter how much money was offered. However, those collectors who met with her approval could run up large tabs without fear of being cut off. What was all-important to Coco Barre was that the prints and drawings and manuscripts in her shop found appropriate homes.

“Welcome! Welcome!” she called out, pushing strands of graying hair back into what was obviously a lopsided bun. The hair escaped; she shoved it into place again, and again lost the fight. “Are you looking for a gift? Or might you be here to choose something for yourself? I have a very handsome Charles-Lucien Bonaparte folio that just arrived only this week. It includes fifty-five hand-colored lithographed plates devoted to various species of pigeon.” Clearly Rosco had passed her acid-test on looks alone. Despite her age, she hadn't lost an eye for members of the opposite sex.

“Pigeons?” Rosco asked. All he could imagine were the annoying gray variety that made a mess of city streets and park benches and statues.

“No, I see I'm mistaken about the Bonaparte, exceptional as it is. You're not a bird enthusiast.… In fact, on second glance, you look like a collector of maritime works. Would a two-color lithograph concerning whale hunting be of interest? It's a highly dramatic scene entitled
The Capture
and was published in 1862. It would make a very attractive addition to any office decor, but I would suggest a discreet frame so as not to detract from the bold vitality of the work, itself.… If not
The Capture
, I have many other nautical and marine—”

“Actually,” Rosco interrupted before the gallery owner could roll out additional examples of pictures he couldn't afford, “I'm here to solicit your expert opinion. Some say you're the best in the business.”

Coco Barre smiled, obviously flattered. Instead of turning coquettish as some women might, she seemed to grow in stature until she almost towered over Rosco. “Yes?”

Rosco produced his business card, and she read it in silence. “Has something been stolen, Mr. Polycrates?” she asked. The dreamy side of her personality was nowhere in evidence; the woman was wholly professional now.

Normally, Rosco would have questioned this quick assumption, wondering if the person he was interviewing had prior knowledge about the case, but the owner of the Olde Print Shoppe seemed far too forthright to be able to lie successfully. “The inn's signed copy of Longfellow's
Paul Revere's Ride
.”

“Oh, my goodness,” was her stunned reply, and her expression replicated the perplexed and astonished faces Rosco had encountered when he'd interviewed Mitchell and Morgan: a robbery at such a well-beloved spot couldn't—and shouldn't—happen. “But the Longfellow's been hanging in that front parlor for decades.… The Marz twins' grandparents renamed the inn for the poem when they purchased the property during the twenties.”

“So it must be pretty valuable?” Rosco prompted.

Coco frowned in thought as she fiddled ineffectually with her recalcitrant hair. “Valuable enough, surely, but hardly worth stealing.… Well, no, that's not quite true. A theft can be for monetary gain; it can also be inspired by covetousness. Famous paintings go missing from museums on a regular basis. A case in point is
The Scream
by Edvard Munch, an incredibly well-known image that would likely bring seventy million dollars at auction. It was swiped in broad daylight in Norway and joined the list of over one hundred fifty thousand missing treasures: Picassos, Rembrandts, van Goghs, Renoirs, to mention some of the biggies. What happens to the pieces? Obviously, a criminal reaps a reward, but so does the collector who purchased it on the black market.… But then he or she must keep the object secret. It's not my idea of displaying favorite artwork—where only one selfish person can gaze upon it.… There's also the issue of theft for ransom … a form of extortion, really. I'm afraid the darker side of the art world is far more sinister than people imagine.”

Rosco considered this information as he made notes of what she'd said. “What do you mean by ‘valuable enough,' Ms. Barre?”

“I'm ashamed to say I haven't given the poem more than a cursory glance for some time, so I can't attest to what kind of shape the paper's in, how well the signature has survived, if there's light damage, etc.… There certainly has been a lot of traffic through that room over the years; and as I recall the parlor was designed as a gentlemen's smoking area up until the 1960s, which doesn't make for an ideal climate. Who knows how well the display was sealed, and so forth …? But I can tell you that we're not talking about a framed manuscript. For instance, I have a poem here by A.A. Milne, handwritten and signed, that sells for ten thousand dollars. Milne's English, of course; Longfellow's quintessentially American, but both authors have achieved a kind of cult status. If the print at the inn had been a hand-penned manuscript, it would be worth a good deal of money.” Her frown deepened. “I'm sure Mitchell Marz would have had the piece insured with other fine arts at the inn; the policy would require an appraisal performed by someone certified in the field.”

Rosco nodded. “Obviously, you didn't appraise it.”