Iced (18 page)

“You’re absolutely right. It does not.” He pointed to the mountains outside the condo. “Does anyone have the right to hog these mountains? Keep them to themselves for no one else to enjoy?”

“No.”

“You’re absolutely right again. Ten Beasleys are on display. An eleventh was owned by a connoisseur in Vail, and look what happened to him. Those of us who are knowledgeable about Beasley were surprised he didn’t paint Aspen. Then we thought maybe the missing twelfth was done in Aspen. After all, Aspen was called the ‘richest five acres on earth’ back then. If it was Beasley’s intention to capture the spirit of the times, he certainly would have come here. And then”—he smiled beatifically—“the twelfth was discovered in the barn of longtime Aspen resident Geraldine Spoonfellow.”

“You must be pretty proud of that,” Regan said.

“I am. You can imagine my shock and excitement. The minute I laid eyes on it, I knew that it was special. I could feel the mountain air, the sense of place, the authority of his brush stroke. I was transformed.
Astonished.
I got tears in my eyes, and so did Geraldine.”

“She did too?” Regan asked.

“I think she did because it was her grandfather. She didn’t really want to talk about the painting. She just wanted to cover it up. It was kind of strange. She didn’t know what she had, hidden as it was behind an old wagon wheel.
Oh God!”
He sipped his coffee to ease the exasperation.

“It sounds like you could have bought it from her yourself for a pittance,” Regan said.

He almost looked offended. “I’m not like that. That painting belongs in a museum. It’s one of our greatest historical resources. I immediately got the ball rolling with the Rescue Aspen’s Past Association. And let me tell you something, they’re not finished with her yet.”

“What do you mean?”

“She owns a lot of property around here and has no one to leave it to.”

“I didn’t realize she had much money,” Regan said.

“She hasn’t replaced a lampshade in fifty years. Her car is vintage. She shops by catalog. The vault at the bank has more than just Geraldine’s painting. It’s got a lot of her money too. She’s a fascinating character, just
fascinating
.”

“What interests me,” Regan said, “is that a lot of people were reading about Geraldine and her Beasley in your article.”

“And my follow-up article.”

“Follow-up article?” Regan asked.

“Actually it was an addendum. Do you know what that is?”

“I picked up the meaning somewhere along the way.”

“Good. About a month ago I did an article about Geraldine donating the painting to the association and the plans for the museum. I said that this was the missing Beasley and it was headed where it belonged, to the new museum in Aspen, that there was going to be a big benefit party, blah blah blah. Louis was furious I didn’t name his restaurant. Anyway, in it I did name the owner of the Beasley in Vail.” He rolled his eyes. “Maybe I shouldn’t have done that because afterward he started getting calls from a lot of museums and collectors. The people who contacted him last week and made the appointment to see him used the name of one of the most reliable art dealers in Europe when they called. They were talking about paying five million dollars for it! Of course it was all a setup.”

Regan frowned. “I wonder if they’re now after the Aspen Beasley. It’s going to be on exhibit Thursday night. It’s the only one left not under lock and key at a museum. Who knows what could happen?”

“I see what you’re saying. I
do
see what you’re saying.” Ted’s eyes widened, which made his face appear owlish. He started to laugh. “Don’t worry. The museum guard will be there. His nickname is Barney Fife.”

Regan chuckled.

“So why did you want to see me?” he suddenly asked.

Mildly taken aback, Regan cleared her throat. “As you know, I’m a private investigator. I had met Eben Bean, who is a suspect in the art thefts here in Aspen. Now they’re saying he might have something to do with the theft in Vail. He just doesn’t seem like the type....”

“Totally different MOs,” Ted interrupted. “My sources say the job in Vail was sophisticated. That it was an art ring working. Of course we all know now that Eben Bean was an accomplished jewel thief. Maybe his whole friendly bit was just a facade. If it was Eben in that Santa suit, then he obviously knew how to catch people when they’re at their most vulnerable. Who’s afraid to let Santa use their toilet,
for God’s sake
?”

“I just don’t think it was a facade,” Regan said. “Yesterday I visited Geraldine Spoonfellow. She is very upset about the robberies here in town and really believes it was Eben. I think that even if Eben has something to do with what’s gone on, he’s not acting alone. Or maybe there are two sets of thieves.”

“I don’t know.” Ted shook his head. “I just don’t know.”

He leaned back, recrossed his legs and rubbed his chin. “So Geraldine has no patience for Eben, huh?” Suddenly he checked his watch. “Oh my God! I have an appointment to interview another old-timer, an Aspen descendant who is moving back to town. He got in touch with
me
. You’d be amazed how people love to read about themselves in the paper. He said he’d seen my article about Geraldine Spoonfellow and knew her way back when.”

Regan’s eyes brightened. “Really?”

“Would you like to come along?” Ted asked. “He sounds like a talker.”

This guy is full of surprises, Regan thought. “I’d love to,” she said and meant it. She was most anxious to hear about Geraldine Spoonfellow as a young girl.

37

R
EGAN CONSIDERED HERSELF a fast walker until she tried to match the stride of Ted Weems. He practically galloped down the block. In just two steps, his long legs covered a lot of sidewalk. They passed the ice-skating rink, the bus stop, and a row of designer boutiques in what seemed like seconds. Regan felt like a small child being dragged along by an impatient parent.

The small brick and wood buildings they passed were so picturesque and storybook-perfect that the place almost didn’t seem real. The little village of Aspen sometimes seemed as if it belonged on a movie lot; you had the feeling that if you opened the door of a building, there’d be nothing on the other side.

As they hurried along, Ted explained how the connection had been made. “Angus Ludwig wrote to me from California, where he’s been living for the past fifty-five years, and told me how much he’d enjoyed the articles. He mentioned that he knew Geraldine Spoonfellow when they were both young. He said he’d be here at Christmastime because he wanted to move back and would be looking for a place to live. His grandsons love to ski and he thought if he bought a place in Aspen he’d be sure to see them plenty. I thought it would make a great story—someone who grew up here coming back to live when he’s eighty years old.”

“Wow!” Regan said. “He’s eighty?”

“He sounds like he’s about twenty.”

They reached the Hotel Jerome, the grand old hotel that had been restored in recent years and was now an elegant testament to Victorian Aspen.

The living room off the foyer was decorated with oriental rugs, traditional couches and chairs, and glass coffee tables supported by stands built of antlers. There are a
lot
of antlers in this town, Regan thought. I’d hate to be a moose around here. A large Christmas tree dominated the corner, and moose heads, mounted on the rose wallpaper, stared out in different directions.

It was eleven o’clock and they went immediately to the nearly empty dining room where the tables were set with pink tablecloths and fresh flowers. A long bar ran along one wall, and draped windows that reached high up to the ceiling covered another.

Angus Ludwig stood up from his chair and waved them over.

“You guessed it. I’m Angus, the oldest dude in the room,” he said, chuckling. “Sit down, have some coffee and a doughnut or whatever it is they serve here.”

Regan smiled at him. He had a full head of white hair, a rugged face, and a hearty demeanor. He was wearing a rust-colored corduroy jacket, a white shirt, a string tie and blue jeans.

“I brought someone with me, if that’s okay,” Ted said.

“The more the merrier.”

Introductions were made and Regan and Ted sat down and ordered coffee and Danish. Ted pulled out his miniature recorder and Regan smiled, thinking of Larry.

“Mind if I record this?” Ted asked.

“Not at all.” Angus beamed. “Am I speaking loud enough?”

“Yes,” Ted said, searching in his bag for his notebook. “I’d like to take a few notes as well.”

“Are you from around here, young lady?” Angus asked Regan.

“No. I live in Los Angeles. I’m just out here for the week.”

“A California girl, huh?”

“By way of New Jersey,” Regan said.

Angus’s smile was broad. “I’m a San Francisco boy by way of Aspen. I guess that’s why we’re here today.”

Ted cleared his throat as if to take control of the conversation. “Regan visited Geraldine Spoonfellow the other day.”

“Well, I’ll be,” Angus said, turning to Regan and putting his hand over hers. “How is Geraldine?”

“She seems fine,” Regan said, commenting only on her state when they left, not arrived, at her house. “You knew her?”

Angus leaned back in his chair. “We both grew up here. When I was eighteen I went to college back East. She must have been thirteen when I left. I wasn’t back much at all, taking summer jobs in different cities because Aspen was so quiet then. I came back to live at Christmas when I was twenty-four years old. It was 1938, and things were starting to happen here. Ski races and the like.” He paused, a faraway look in his china-blue eyes. “It was a beautiful day, everyone in the Christmas spirit, and there I was, sitting in the barber’s chair when she walked by the shop. The prettiest nineteen-year-old you ever saw! Geraldine Spoonfellow was all grown up! I wanted to run out in the street but my hair was all wet and I thought”—he raised his eyebrows—“it wouldn’t make too good of an impression anyway. So I”—he paused and looked at Ted—“is the microphone picking all this up?”

“Yes, sir.”

Angus leaned back and crossed his legs. Regan hoped that Ted had brought enough tape.

“. . . I went over to her grandpa’s saloon right after my hair was cut to see if she had stopped by. Her grandfather was there but no Geraldine. I asked him if maybe I could call her for a date.”

“What did he say?” Regan asked and then realized she should maybe let Ted do the questioning.

“He didn’t say no but he didn’t encourage it either. He said that they had just come back from a vacation and it had been a long journey home by train. They wanted to get back to be with the family for Christmas and were both a little tired. He said maybe another time. I was hoping I’d run into her around town, and sure enough, at church I saw her, looking like an angel. But she looked so sad.”

“Did you ever go out with her?” Ted asked.

“No. I just stared at her across the pews of that church. I must have looked like a lovesick cow. There was a New Year’s hayride I wanted to take her to, but she wouldn’t give me a tumble. Funny part is, I could tell she kind of liked me. But she just couldn’t be bothered when I went up to her after the recessional hymn and everyone was walking out. Here it was Christmas and she was a pretty young girl and I was a handsome rascal.” He made a face. “I was, you know! But she wasn’t interested. From what I read in Ted’s articles, I guess she never got interested in anybody.”

“She told me she had a boyfriend last year,” Regan said.

“She did?” Angus sounded indignant and then quickly tried to cover his reaction. “A few months after that I had to go away on a business trip to California. That’s when I met my Emily and I never came back to Aspen to live again. We got married, I went into Emily’s father’s business, my folks retired to Florida, I enlisted in the service, and all of a sudden Aspen was a memory. Until now.”

“Geraldine is donating a valuable painting to the museum. It’s called
The Homecoming
,” Ted said.

“I remember that painting.” Angus’s fist rapped the table.

“You do?” Regan and Ted said together.

“Heck yeah. That was hanging behind the bar in Mr. Spoonfellow’s saloon. The day I went in there panting after Geraldine, her old Pop-Pop was taking it down to make room for a little Christmas tree on the counter. He must have gotten ideas on decorating from his trip to New York. You know something? He never did end up putting that painting back up before I left town a few months later. Now here it is, famous as famous can be. I should have tried to buy it from him back then!”

“Now,” Ted said, looking down a this notebook, “would you say that you had a longing to come back to your roots?”

“You could say that if you wanted to,” Angus replied. “The fact of the matter is that after Emily died last year, I felt lonesome. My kids were raised and were scattered all over. I didn’t want to be a burden to any of them, but I knew I wanted to move somewhere else. There were too many memories where I was. So one day in the paper I read your article”—he slapped Ted on the back—“and it gave me a good kick in the pants. Why not go back? I said to myself. This place is where all the action is now! It’s got the advantages of a small town with all the activity of a big city. I always missed the snow and the mountains. Emily always said she wasn’t a cold-weather person, so we never came back. But my grandsons are such good skiers, I figured why not see what this place has to offer? I’m going to be looking at a few houses this week. It’s expensive around here! But there’s a house outside of town that needs a little fixing up. The lady at the real estate office thinks it might be just fine for someone like me. I like to tinker around with a house anyway.”

Ted looked alarmed. “So it’s not definite that you’re moving back?”

“Are you kidding? After being here for one day I feel alive again. I’ve been so blue since Emily died. She had been sick for a while, but once she was gone there was this great big void and I didn’t know how to fill it. When I stepped off that plane the other day, I just felt I was home again.”