A Dubious Delivery (A Seagrove Cozy Mystery Book 9) (2 page)

Sadie considered whether she could give Betty another raise. She’d have to sit down and do the figures, but if she could, she would. Otherwise, some other shop in town was going to poach her right out from underneath Sadie’s nose, and she couldn’t have that. She’d have to talk to Zack about it when he came over that evening.

The next morning, Sadie came in from walking Mr. Bradshaw in an especially good mood. After going over the accounts with Zack, they’d decided Sadie could afford to give Betty a significant raise. It made Sadie feel positively buoyant. They also had talked about the mysterious painting old Mr. Dumville had collected although, strangely, Zack had seemed more interested in the oversized frame than in why the painting had been shipped with Sadie’s merchandise.

“Betty,” Sadie called as she unclipped the leash from Mr. Bradshaw’s collar, “I’ve got some good news.”

Betty popped out of the office looking worried. “There’s someone here to see you,” she said.

There was a creaking, some shuffling, and a sigh before Cyrus Dumville appeared. He also looked worried, and Sadie thought, ‘I should’ve known that painting was going to be trouble.’ She stepped forward and held out her hand for Cyrus to shake.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Dumville?” she asked.

“I’ve come for my painting,” he said. “But it’s not in the window.”

“I explained that he picked it up yesterday,” Betty said, “but he says it’s not at his house anymore.”

“I remember being here yesterday,” Cyrus said, “but my painting’s gone so I thought it must be a dream. I’ve got such a horrible headache I can’t have slept well. Are you sure it’s not here?” He turned to look around the shop, and the Sadie noticed a nasty herbal mark on the back of his head.

“The lump on your head, Mr. Dumville?” she asked. “You’ve got a nasty bruise.”

He ran his hand over the top of his head, dislodging his comb-over and exposing what clearly was a nasty blow to his head.

“My God,” he said. “That hurts like a son of a b-b-b… biscuit. Sorry, I forgot for a moment that I was in polite company. That really does hurt.”

Sadie moved into the office and rolled out the comfortable office chair with a high back and arms.

“Why don’t you sit here,” she said, “and I’ll go get some ice.” She held the chair steady as he lowered himself into it.

“I’ll get the ice,” Betty said and disappeared up the stairs to the apartment. She came back down with a plastic bag filled with ice and a tea towel.

“I called Zack,” she whispered to Sadie as she wrapped the ice in the towel and set it gently on Mr. Dumville’s head.

“Just put your hand up here and hold this steady,” she said, guiding his hand.

When old Mr. Dumville seemed steady, Sadie beckoned Betty to stand with her a few feet away. “What do you think is going on here?” she asked.

“I’m sure that painting can’t be worth more than a couple of hundred dollars if it’s worth anything at all. Why in the world would someone bash an old man on the back of the head for a cheap painting with an ugly, oversized frame?”

“I don’t know,” Betty said, “but he really should go to the hospital. What if he has a concussion?”

“I wonder if we should offer him a cup of tea?” Sadie asked. “Would that be counter-indicated for a blow to the head?”

“Think we better wait till Zack gets here,” Betty said. “He’ll know.”

“What are you two whispering about back there?” Cyrus asked. “I’m old, but I’m not senile. And this ice is extremely uncomfortable. It’s numbing my head.”

“We were just wondering if you shouldn’t go to the emergency room,” Sadie said, “and have that bump looked at. It’s possible you have a concussion.”

“Don’t you think I would know if I had a concussion, young lady?” he said.

“I simply have a bump on my head and a nasty headache. And, of course, this infernal ice bag is giving me the shivers.”

Sadie grabbed the colorful shawl from the mannequin wearing the white blouse and Flamenco skirt and wrapped it around him.

“You should warm you up a little,” she said.

Cyrus grabbed the edges of the shawl to pull it more closely around him and the ice dropped and stuck between the back of his neck and the chair.

“Yikes,” he said and batted it away, sending it skittering across the floor.

Sadie picked up the towel where it had dropped and then walked over to where the ice bag was resting. She was going to wrap it back up again, but she noticed the bag had attracted some dust, a little grime and a number of Mr. Bradshaw’s hairs. Clearly they weren’t keeping the floor as clean as she thought they were. She used her skirt to brush off the bag before re-wrapping it in the towel in taking it back to the old man.

“Here you go,” she said handing it to him. He waved it away.

“I am not putting that infernal thing on the back of my head,” he said. “There’s not a thing wrong with me.”

Sadie didn’t think there was any point in arguing with him, but it worried her. He really should keep ice on that bump. She went to Betty.

“Should we call the ambulance?” she asked.

“Zack will be here in a minute,” Betty said, “he’ll know what to do.”

“You’re whispering again,” the old man complained. “I do not like being treated like a child.”

“We didn’t want to worry you, Mr. Dumville,” Sadie said. “We’re worried about that lump on your head. You really should go to the emergency room.”

“I’m not having an emergency, confound it. I just want my painting back. If my head still hurts tomorrow, I’ll go see my doctor.”

He went to get up, but the chair rolled backward, and he couldn’t maintain his balance. He flopped back in the chair with a disgusted sound. He tried again, but the result was the same and Sadie had a hard time keeping herself from laughing. It was just so comical.

“Confound it, girl,” he said. “Stop sniggering and hold this chair still for me.”

“Wouldn’t you like a cup of tea, Mr. Dumville? I really don’t think you should leave until the Chief gets here. I think your painting has been stolen.”

“Hogwash! If it’s not here, it’s most likely at home. I must’ve overlooked it. Now, would you please steady this chair so I can leave?”

Sadie was casting about in her mind for an excuse not to help him when Zack came in the door.

“Thank goodness,” she muttered under her breath as she moved to intercept him.

She stood on her tiptoes to give him a quick kiss on the cheek and said quietly, “Something’s not right here, but we can’t talk in front of Mr. Dumville.”

Zack nodded, returned her kiss and went to speak to the old man.

“Mr. Dumville,” Zack said, “what seems to be the problem?”

“The problem is these two busybodies won’t hold the chair still so I can get up and go home. It’s unlawful imprisonment, that’s what it is. And I demand you address these women.”

“That’s a nasty bump you got there on your head,” Zack said. “You really should get some ice on that.”

“I had ice,” Mr. Dumville growled, “about froze the top of my head off. Ended up with this embarrassing shawl.”

He went to pull the shawl off his shoulders, changed his mind and pulled it tighter. “Well, the shawl is not that bad, but now my head is cold as well as sore. And, this infernal headache won’t go away.”

“Why don’t I take you down to the hospital?” Zack said. “I can get your statement while they are checking you over. I’m sure they can give you something for that headache.”

“Chief Woodstone, you are normally a sensible man, so why you jumped on the hospital bandwagon is beyond me. I’m not the sort of man who goes to the doctor for a headache, and I doubt these girly girls could convince you to go either.”

Sadie watched as Zack bit back a smile. She carefully didn’t catch his eye, because if she did, she knew they’d both end up embarrassing themselves. Zack looked at the ground and cleared his throat, and Betty excused herself and walked quickly from the room. The door to the alley slammed, and Sadie thought she heard snorts of laughter.

"Mr. Dumville," Zack said with a perfectly straight face.

"Call me Cyrus," Mr. Dumville interjected.

"Cyrus," Zack began again, "if you could see that lump on your head you might change your mind. I really think you should get that cleaned out and stitched up."

"You can't take me without my consent," Cyrus said.

"Of course not. You are a competent adult, but I still need to take your statement, and we could kill two birds with one stone."

He paused and Sadie thought he was assessing Cyrus's mood. But Cyrus's face remained set, and Zack walked into the office and came back with a chair. He set it in front of Cyrus and pulled a tiny notebook from his pocket.

"Start from the beginning," he said.

"Well I woke up this morning, and the painting was gone," Cyrus said. "And I came down here because I thought I must have dreamed it."

"Hold up," Zack said, "what painting are we talking about?"

Sadie explained about the mystery painting that had come in her crate and how Cyrus had come to get it the day before.

“And how did you know it was here?” Zack asked.

“I saw it in the window?” Cyrus said.

“You don’t sound very sure about it.” Zack looked at him closely. “How did you know it was here? And who sent it?”

“I had it sent,” Cyrus said, but he didn’t sound overly confident.

“There are a lot of unanswered questions here, Mr. Dumville,” Zack said.

“And you don’t seem overly sure of your facts. I think it might be best if you come down to the station where I can record your statement.”

Sadie looked at Zack sharply, but he was keeping his face expressionless.

“I thought you were going to take me to the hospital and have my head checked out?” Cyrus snapped. “I could have a concussion.”

“If you’d like,” Zack said, the corners of his mouth twitching.

“But before we go, tell me, what makes that painting so important? Why would anyone want to steal it?”

“There was money buried during the Holocaust, and the painting says where it’s buried.” He touched the back of his head.

“Can we go now? I think I have a concussion.”

Sadie bit her lip to keep from laughing and helped the old man out to the patrol car.

“Do you want me to come along?” she asked as Zack maneuvered himself into the driver’s seat. He was a big man, more suited to his jeep than the compact sedan.

“No, I think we’re fine,” Zack said. He gave Sadie a look that said he’d relay the pertinent facts when he had them.

She watched them pull away and then went inside to see what Betty had to say.

B
etty didn’t have
any better idea than Sadie about what was going on, so they went back to work. But Sadie couldn’t help but wonder what had become of Cyrus’s painting. Zack said there were a lot of unanswered questions, and she’d put money on the odds that she had a whole set that he hadn’t thought of.

They were questions such as, ‘Why and what was a painting of the Seagrove Bay doing in Italy in the first place?’ Had a tourist bought it here and taken it home to Italy? It seemed unlikely. And what were the chances that money was buried here? And if there was money, why would it be Holocaust money? The picture was of the beach and the bay. Anything buried out there would have washed out to sea long ago. Who had painted it, and why had they sent it to Cyrus Dumville? Sadie wasn’t convinced he’d had anything to do with its arrival in her shop.

“Do you think someone told old Mr. Dumville to say there was Holocaust money?” Betty asked.

She came around the corner of the office. “Because it just doesn’t make any sense, and he’s not a man to suffer fools.”

“All I know is this whole business is fishy,” Sadie said. “From the picture in one of our crates to him coming back today looking for it. It’s confusing, and it doesn’t make any sense.”

“We are missing details,” Betty said. “There has to be a reason to send that painting to Seagrove. We just don’t know what it is yet.”

“You are probably right,” Sadie said.

She put down the sales catalog she’d been reading and got up. “I’m going to take Mr. Bradshaw for a walk and clear my mind.”

On hearing his name, Mr. Bradshaw jumped up from his cushion under Sadie’s desk and headed for the front door. Sadie clipped on his leash, and they crossed the street into the park. She let him run, and he spent a few minutes sniffing around the base of trees and barking at squirrels. When she felt he’d had enough exercise, she called him to her and clicked the leash back on.

They walked down Main Street, Sadie looking in the windows and Mr. Bradshaw sniffing the flower beds that lined the street. She did a double take as she passed the local artist co-op and peered through the window. She swore there was a painting by the same artist as the one that went missing from Cyrus’ house. In fact, it looked almost as if it was the same painting. She looked again. No, the frame was wrong. The frame on the painting in the shop was less than half the width of the one that had been on Cyrus’ painting. But frames could be changed.

“Come on, Mr. Bradshaw,” she said, “we need a closer look at that.”

She opened the door and, not seeing a sign prohibiting Mr. Bradshaw from entering, led him into the shop. It was set up as a gallery, mostly empty in the middle except for a few paintings on easels. Looking around Sadie identified a number of different styles: impressionist, cubist, abstract, realist, and then several more styles she couldn’t identify at all. One painting looked like a huge green blob. It didn’t resonate with her, but that was the great thing about art, there was something for everyone. She was quite sure someone would be enchanted with the green blob and take it home.

The shop assistant was talking on his phone, and Sadie pointed to Mr. Bradshaw and raised her eyebrows. The young man waved his hand in a manner that said that dogs were not a problem and turned his back on them. Sadie didn’t know if that was because he wanted to keep his conversation private, or if he felt that dogs in the shop didn’t count if he couldn’t see them. It didn’t matter to Sadie one way or the other.

Mr. Bradshaw walked obediently at her side as she approached the wall where she had seen the picture like the one she’d found in her crate. Now that she was closer it was clear this was a different painting. The subject matter was the same, but the canvas was a different size and shape. And there were striped canvas changing huts in this picture instead of the wooden hut with steps leading to the sand that was in the other painting. She peered at the signature. Roger Orwin.

There were other paintings in the same style, and she checked the wall labels to see if there were others painted by the same man. There were, and they all were of the same bay. They were painted from different angles, but they were unmistakably the same beautiful and familiar Seagrove Bay. And none of these paintings were dwarfed by a gigantic, gilded frame. These all had slim frames in neutral colors that didn’t detract from the paintings. There had to be a reason for that hideous frame, but she couldn’t say what it was. She’d have to take a good look at it if she ever saw it again.

The longer she looked at Roger Orwin’s paintings, the more whimsical they seemed. Little details kept popping up in places she swore she’d already looked. Like the crab peeking out from under one of the canvas changing rooms – the second time she looked it was holding an ice cream cone that she would have sworn wasn’t there before. And the seagull carrying a woman’s pocketbook. At first glance she had thought the pocketbook was a cloud.

“Tricky,” she said aloud, “and very cool.”

She decided she liked Roger Orwin’s paintings. They made her smile.

She looked at the price listed on the label next to the closest painting. Two hundred and fifty dollars. Not inexpensive, but not outrageous either. She’d think about it. There might be a spot somewhere in her apartment that would be brightened by a whimsical painting of a local landmark.

“What do you think, Mr. Bradshaw?” she asked, but the terrier was looking out the window.

Sadie followed his gaze and saw that Justin Ives was outside the shop looking in at her. She beckoned him in, but he shook his head and indicated she should come outside. So she did.

“You should come inside and look at these paintings with me,” she said, back out on the sidewalk.

“They really are something else.”

“Umm, I don’t think I’m welcome in there,” he mumbled.

“Why ever not?” she asked, curious but not really surprised. Professor Justin Ives had the worst luck of any person she ever had met.

“I had a little accident and knocked over a couple of easels last time I was in there,” he said, as an ugly red blush began covering his face.

“I swear it wasn’t my fault.”

“It never is, is it, Professor Ives? You really have the most unfortunate luck.”

She looked up at him. He really was much taller than he looked behind his desk. She’d forgotten how small she felt standing next to him.

“What did you want to talk to me about?”

“Oh, I just wanted to say ‘Hi!’. I was walking past and saw you in there with Mr. Bradshaw.” He reached down and petted the terrier gently on the head.

“Mr. Bradshaw is always glad to see me.”

“Mr. Bradshaw thinks you’re a fine human being,” Sadie said. “Are you interested in hearing about the latest mystery in my life? We could go to The Bakery and have some coffee.”

They walked away from the center of town back toward Sadie’s shop, which was next-door to The Bakery. The Bakery was owned by Thomas Baker, who made the best coffee in five counties, which is why Sadie ate breakfast with him almost every day. They sat at the one remaining table and Sadie let Mr. Bradshaw off his leash. He trotted around the room and politely said hello to the customers who knew him. As it turned out, there wasn’t one person in the room who wasn’t acquainted with Mr. B. He was a very busy dog and liked to keep his paw on the pulse of the town. He was generally well-liked, and no one complained about a dog being loose in the bakery.

Tom brought them each a coffee and a pastry and Sadie started another story.

“The crates from my trip to Italy and Spain showed up the other day,” she said.

“And while we were unpacking we discovered a painting that none of us had purchased. I put in the window to get it out of the way and the next morning old Mr. Dumville came in and claimed it. He was a bit evasive, and wasn’t able to say why his painting was in my stuff, at least not a rational explanation, but we gave it to him, and he went away. That was the end of that.” She took a bite of brioche and sipped her coffee.

“Until...” Professor Ives prompted.

“Until he showed up the next morning looking for his painting again.” Sadie shrugged.

“He’d been bopped pretty seriously on the back of the head and his painting had disappeared. When asked by The Chief why anyone would steal this painting, Old Cy said he thought the painting was some kind of map to where some Holocaust’ treasure is buried. Which doesn’t make one bit of sense.”

“You’re right,” the professor said, “it doesn’t make any sense. No treasure is buried anywhere in this area, at least no Holocaust treasure. There might be a jar of quarters, or two, buried in someone’s back garden, but certainly not anything that qualifies as treasure.”

“And you know this how?” Sadie asked.

“I am a history professor, Ms. Barnett,” he said.

“I’m sure I’ve asked you 100 times to call me Sadie,” she said.

“And when you call me Justin, instead of Professor, I will. Until then, you will be Ms. Barnett.” He smirked a little and Sadie thought he was mentally chalking up a point in his favor.

“If I call you Justin before you call me Sadie, then the power skews unfairly in my favor,” she said.

“And if I call you Sadie before you call me Justin then, according to my mother’s rules, I am disrespectful and rude. We are at a stalemate.” He crossed his arms over his chest.

Sadie looked at the young man in exasperation. “I’m sure I’ve called you Justin more than once,” she said.

He shook his head in denial.

“Well then,” she said, “we just will have to agree to switch to first name status at exactly the same time. That way I can’t charge you with rudeness, and you can’t charge me with power mongering. Shall we start right now?”

“Certainly,” he said.

“Go on,” she said, holding back a laugh, “you can say it. Certainly…”

“Certainly, Sadie,” he gave in.

“Finally,” she said. “It’s a done deal, Professor. Uh, I mean Justin.

She felt herself blush a little. “But we may have to forgive ourselves for slipups. So putting that aside, what do you think of my little painting problem? Oh, and one more thing, it’s got the most huge and hideous gold frame dwarfing it. It’s ghastly.”

“And the painting is contemporary?” he asked.

“I believe so. There were other works of his in the art co-op. I believe he has to be a member to have his paintings there.”

She tried remembering the rules put in place when they had opened the store for artists who worked in the big abandoned building she’d helped to reimagine as a working studio for local artists. She was pretty sure you had to have a current membership to sell your work on Main Street.

“Why would a contemporary artist paint a picture that was a clue to buried treasure?” Justin asked. “If he knew there was treasure was buried somewhere, wouldn’t he just dig it up and bank it?”

“I don’t know,” Sadie said crossly, “It’s not my story. But maybe he was traveling and someone told him about it. You know, they heard he was from Seagrove and told him the legend of the treasure buried here?”

“I suppose so,” he said. “But it seems unlikely at best. The bigger mystery, at least to me, is why it was packed into your crates. How did he even know you were having stuff shipped?”

“I don’t know,” Sadie mused. “There is far too much about this that doesn’t make sense to me. We’ve started noticing missing pieces to this puzzle.”

“What’s this I hear about a puzzle?” Tom said from behind Sadie.

He grabbed a chair, flipped it around and straddled it, resting his forearms on the back.

“I like a good puzzle,” he said. “Tell me about it.”

So Sadie told him the story. Tom sat quietly and listened intently nodding on occasion but never interrupting. He sat quietly and when she finished, his eyebrows knit together in concentration.

“I bet someone was lying to the old man,” Justin said.

“It does all seem very improbable,” Tom said. “Like a setup of some sort. I’m going to keep thinking on this. I’ll let you know if I come up with anything.”

Sadie was vaguely disappointed when she left The Bakery with Mr. Bradshaw. She’d had a fleeting hope something in the story would have sparked a memory of an historical happening here in Seagrove, but clearly it hadn’t. Tom was interested, too, but no solution had come to his mind, either. She walked into her shop to find Betty and Lucy chatting over a cup of tea.

“Any new clues?” Betty asked.

“Only that there are paintings by the same artist in the Artist Co-op. Actually, I’m thinking about buying one.”

“Why?” Asked Lucy. “Are you going to take the paint off to see if there’s another painting underneath?”

“No, I’m going to hang it on my wall because I like it,” Sadie said. “I didn’t notice how whimsical those paintings were until I took a really good look at them. Then again, it’s possible that painter left the whimsical details.”

“What do you mean by whimsical?” Lucy asked.

“Well, in one of them,” Sadie said, “there is a crab eating an ice cream cone and a seagull flying away with a woman’s purse. That’s kind of whimsical.”

“They sound absurd,” Lucy said.

“Yes, they have a lovely kind of absurdity to them. But they are so cheerful, and I loved discovering the crab eating ice cream.”

Betty got up and came back with a white board on an easel. “Trying to chart the facts,” she said brandishing a dry erase marker.

“What do we know about that painting?”

“That none of us bought it,” Lucy said, and Betty wrote ‘mystery buyer’ on the board.

“It’s of Seagrove,” Sadie said, “so it could’ve been painted locally.”

Betty wrote down ‘Seagrove’ and then farther down on the board ‘painted locally?’ “What else?” she asked.

“I hate to be contrary,” Lucy said, “but it also could have been painted from a photo, or from memory.”

Betty wrote ‘or not’ after ‘painted locally.’

“We know a crazy old man claimed it was his,” Betty said, “but he’s not sure of his details.”

“Not being sure his details just could be a function of being old,” Lucy said.

Betty wrote ‘Ugh’ on the board.