Framed (13 page)

“Romantic letters.”

“Blackmail.”

“A lock of hair from each of them.”

“A dead baby.”

“Sue!” Elsie protested in a shocked voice. “Anyway, Abby couldn’t have kids, remember?”

“Oh, yeah, that’s right. Well, we won’t know until we get there. If there even is anything to find. It might’ve been just some allegorical allusion. And anyway, it’s been ten years. There might be nothing left. I wonder what Tom thinks about it.”

****

Tom DiAndreo, meanwhile, was trying to decide the very same thing. He’d always been intrigued by puzzles—one reason he decided to go into law enforcement was the chance to solve crimes and mysteries—but he didn’t expect much from this outing. If there were anything to find, it would probably be some tawdry lovers’ memento. Didn’t artists always have affairs with their models? He had very little experience with artists, but he shared the common misconception they were all flighty, morally questionable, and a bit mad. Take that Van Gogh guy, who cut off his own ear. What normal person would do something like that?

He yawned and stretched his long legs as much as he could while he drove. After talking to Ginny yesterday, he’d gone back to the files at the cop shop and had stayed far too late studying them. During his workout this morning, he thought so hard about what he’d found, he did too many reps on the leg lift and his muscles were aching.

The rain started to fall as they approached the Temple Mountain pass. Tom switched on his headlights and wipers and grumbled to himself. He was having second thoughts about tramping through the wet woods on a wild goose chase just to verify that a certain painting was painted in a certain place. As interesting as that might be to art lovers and historians, it was no part of a policeman’s business. So why was he going along?

He sighed. In part because he was nosy, but also because he wanted to have an investigation going when he switched over to the state police after the wedding. Although he would have to pay his dues for a couple of years in the form of highway patrol work, he planned to take every opportunity he found to become a detective. In the meantime, he intended to nose around and perhaps push the Major Crimes Unit into reopening this case.

He looked forward to the change from small-town crime and small-town politics. As a detective in the state police, he would have access to far more interesting cases and far more comprehensive facilities. He would be less limited by jurisdictional disputes—though such disputes were endless and universal. In a case like this one, for instance, he would be able use his state badge to talk to officials in Douglass, where the suicide used to live, as well as to their counterparts in Harpersville, where the bodies were discovered, and in Mill Falls, where the murder victim had lived with her husband.

Then he considered Ginny’s conviction that Berger was not a suicide, but a murder victim. Ginny Brent seemed to be a good judge of character, even though he suspected she had something of a drinking problem. He’d seen enough closet drinkers to recognize that slight skewing of the way she looked at the world. Or maybe that was just because she worked in the art field. Perhaps anyone who dealt with the depiction of reality, instead of reality itself, was just a little bit screwy. Still, Ginny seemed positive Berger wouldn’t have killed himself. So did Elsie. Both of them had known the artist, so Tom was willing to grant them some sort of insight into Berger’s character. Sue agreed with them, but she hadn’t known Berger and based her belief on an analysis of his paintings, which seemed pretty thin to Tom.

Near the top of the pass, Tom swerved to avoid hitting the parked car of one of the volunteers cleaning up the litter. Miserable bastards, he thought with sympathy. Horrible day for a job like that. But he was grateful to them for the work they did each spring and fall. Without them, the roadsides of New Hampshire would be far messier.

Ahead of him, Elsie’s jeep signaled as she slowed to make the right turn. They descended into heavier rain and wisps of fog. Another car, one of those ubiquitous small sport wagons, turned behind him and then pulled up into one of the driveways. Elsie slowed as she followed the twisting road, and Tom could see her pointing out landmarks to Sue as she drove. She waved out her window as they passed a barway into an open field and continued up the road a bit more to another break in the stone wall. Here a snowmobile sign marked a trail crossing, and Elsie parked just beyond it.

Tom pulled up behind her and trudged around to his trunk for his rain gear. “Think it’ll get any worse?” he asked as he pulled on his boots.

Sue stuck her head into a poncho and then, to his surprise, pulled an umbrella out of her backpack. She noticed his reaction and shrugged. “I know, it looks silly to walk through the woods with an umbrella, but it works. At least, on a clear trail it does. I wouldn’t use it to bushwhack or on a steep trail where I’d need both hands to climb. Up Mt. Monadnock, for instance, or on some of the trails in the White Mountains. Snowmobile trails are usually wide and pretty well cleared, though, so this should be okay. Elsie says it’ll only take about twenty minutes to walk in to the rocks.” She grinned at him with a twinkle in her eye. “I’ve got a thermos of hot tea for when we come back. Maybe I should have brought something to spice it up!”

Elsie had donned her own rain gear and was getting the dog out of the crate. He strained to be free of the lead and put his head down to sniff. “Mac, heel,” Elsie ordered. He whined but obeyed, sitting down at her feet. They all pressed against the truck as a vehicle sped past, sending a spray of water against them.

Sue laughed. “Well, we might as well start out wet.”

Tom frowned. Was that the same sport wagon that had followed him onto this road and pulled into the driveway? He hadn’t paid much attention to it at the time, and it was gone too quickly for him to note the plate. Probably nothing to worry about. He didn’t mention it to the ladies.

Elsie led the way across the road and onto the trail. The dog nosed around at the end of the leash, excited by all the woodsy smells. He scared up a few frogs who weren’t much bothered by the rain, but that was all. Even the chipmunks and the squirrels were snug in their dens in the stone walls.

The rain grew heavier as they slogged on. The trail became muddy in some places, and once or twice they detoured around deep churned-up areas where the snowmobiles had disturbed the forest duff. Sue complained about the destruction they created.

Several times Tom, bringing up the rear, stopped and looked behind him. He couldn’t see very far through the young leaves. It was raining hard enough now to cover the sounds of their footsteps. The dog didn’t seem to be aware of anyone except the three of them. Tom took some comfort in that. Then again, he reminded himself, Mac was a bird dog who was doing his duty in earnest. When they reached a meadow Elsie released him from the lead with a wide, sweeping gesture. “Mac, find a bird. Find a bird,” she said, and the dog took off.

Waiting for Mac and skirting mud puddles took up a bit more time than planned. It was just over half an hour before they reached the pile of boulders Elsie remembered. The rain had slowed again, but the fog was thicker, lending a kind of otherworldliness to the scene. They could barely make out the pond in the distance. “I wonder if that’s the heron rookery I’ve heard about,” Sue murmured. “I’ll have to check it out sometime.”

They circled the rocks several times before they were sure that this was indeed the site of the Berger painting. The artist had changed the perspective and altered the appearance of several of the stones, notably the one with the strip of quartz in it. The real-world stone was much smaller and the resemblance to buttocks was far less pronounced. Sue made a disappointed sound, but she didn’t say anything.

Elsie pulled a photo out of a pocket. The three of them consulted under Sue’s umbrella.

Tom looked from the rocks to the photo and back. “I think you’re right. I think this is where the painting was done, or at least this was the setting. I can’t imagine making someone pose nude in here. She would’ve been eaten up by mosquitoes and black flies in no time. This is a regular bug factory with all the water all around.”

Elsie made a wry face. “Mac likes it. He’s supposed to be a bird dog, but he’d much rather chase frogs.” She called but the dog was out of sight. She shrugged. “He’ll come back soon. At least he’s learned that much.”

Sue held up the photo at arm’s length, trying to gauge where Abby had stood. She handed Elsie a camera. “I’ll have to climb up there. Tell me when I’m in the right place.”

Elsie took the umbrella and set it aside, then watched as Sue clambered around the rocks. “A little more to the right,” she called, when her co-worker had reached the top. “That’s it!”

Sue leaned against a boulder and struck a pose. “The rain gear makes the picture, doesn’t it? Can’t you just see someone wanting to pose nude here? What a lark!” She studied her surroundings and extended a hand. “Is this the way she’s pointing?”

Elsie and Tom studied the picture. “I think so,” Tom said. “Just past that rock under your hand. That’s it. Like she’s pointing into the bushes there. Wait, I’ll get a picture.” The camera flashed.

Sue bent down to look at the ground. “Where does the line of red go? Tell me when I’m close.”

“Warm,” Elsie cried, as in the old children’s game. “Warm, no, cold…okay, warmer. You’re getting close. It disappears for a bit, then it comes out near that bush.”

“Okay.” Sue scrambled between two stones and half-slid down to the base of the pile. “I can see the way water would flow through here, so I guess that’s how blood would go, too. Right under that alder bush.” The others joined her as she poked among the red-brown stems of the alder.

Tom scuffed at the mud with a boot. “I wonder if they buried something here. After ten years, it’s hard to tell.”

Sue said, “I’m thinking about those stories in the newspaper, the ones I looked up. What if Jerry and Abby came back here? After the painting was done, I mean?” Tom looked dubious and she hurried to go on. “Or maybe it was just Jerry that came back. What if he found out something he wasn’t supposed to know and wanted to hide the evidence?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Something about Mike, maybe?”

Elsie stared at her. “And then he put that red stuff on the painting as a clue? Does that make sense?” She examined two of the photos side by side and then moved deeper into the thicket. She poked with her foot, moving mud aside. A few minutes later she gave a cry and held up a small stone between her fingers. It bore traces of red paint.

Sue hurried to her side. “Are there more?” She dug around with a foot. Tom broke off a branch and began probing the soil. He hit several stones and roots, and produced more red-painted stones. He sought out a flattish rock and started to dig seriously, moving the mud aside.

“The ground is awfully soft here,” he muttered. “Wait, ladies. Stand back and let me dig.” Before long he had a wet hole about two feet deep. His rock scraped against something metallic. “Ah,” he sighed and set aside the rock in favor of scooping with his hands. With a long sucking sound, an old cash box appeared. “Somebody get a picture of this. Get several. I’m going to open it. Let me have the umbrella.”

The box yielded to his efforts and revealed a package wrapped in some kind of oilcloth and sealed in a plastic bag. Tom opened the bag and folded back the cloth to reveal a stack of papers. “They look like receipts or something,” he said.

“I’ll take that,” came a loud but shaky voice.

Jemmie Demarais stood behind them. The gun in his hand didn’t shake, and it was pointed straight at them.

Chapter Seventeen

Back at Brush & Bevel, Ginny congratulated herself. She had used the quiet day engendered by the rain to catch up on some paperwork, and then without much hope she tried to find a current phone number for Matt Baldwin, the previous owner of Cap’n Billy’s. Without knowing his address, Directory Assistance couldn’t assist her, and she didn’t think she’d get anywhere if she called the liquor distributors or the local licensing boards. Then she recalled Sue’s suggestion about using the Internet.
Well, why not;
she typed the outdated number into the virtual Yellow Pages.

Bingo. The old number yielded Baldwin’s address and armed with that she tried Directory Assistance again. She bypassed the automated response and spoke to a live operator, who read out the new phone number as if he’d waited all day to do just that. Ginny dialed it, her heart beating hard in her chest.

Six rings, seven, eight. She resigned herself to talking to an answering machine and was already rehearsing her spiel when a smoke-roughened voice croaked, “Hello?”

“Am I speaking to Matt Baldwin?” she asked as politely as she could.

“What’s it to ya?” It came out as a cough.

Ginny decided on a direct approach. “My name is Ginny Brent. I own an art gallery in New Hampshire. I’m looking for information concerning a painting that used to hang in Cap’n Billy’s. There may be a reward involved.”

She could almost feel the man’s attention snap to her. “Yeah, this is Baldwin. What painting?”

“Do you remember the one of a woman among some rocks?”

His answering cackle grated in her ear. “Ah, yeah, the big ass. What about it?”

The need for careful handling was obvious. “That painting was done by a well known artist, Mr. Baldwin. I think I could guarantee you a reward if you can help us find out how it got to that bar.”
The “us” was a nice touch
. Well, it wasn’t a complete lie; she was sure the Rudolphs would be interested, as would Jerry’s sister and brother.

“Humph. I dunno, it was a long time ago.”

“Well, I know you sold the bar about three years ago. Are you enjoying your retirement?”

He grumbled deep in his throat. “Hell, no. Time I paid off all the creditors, there warn’t two coins to rub together. I been scrapin’ by on odd jobs and cussedness ever since.” He coughed again, a nasty rasping sound. “I might be able to help ya out fer a thousand bucks.”

Ginny laughed. “He’s not that famous a painter. Two hundred.”