The Stolen Canvas (14 page)

14

Jem forced himself to walk and not run as he left the loading dock, past the lumberyard, and into the shel- ter of trees. He wouldn’t look back, though he could feel Wally’s eyes on him and hear the soft whine of the dory’s outboard motor. He straightened his shoulders and held his head high, anxious to reach the stretch of woods where he could disappear from those accusing eyes.

Blast it all!
He’d been so careful. When he stepped into the service station and found the cash drawer open, he’d slipped the bill out from under the drawer without touching the others neatly stacked on top. It was a fierce temptation, but he fought against taking more.

“Tell me you didn’t steal that hundred-dollar bill from the Gas N Go
.
”

The charge rang in his ears, and he felt the heat rise up his neck like a creeping flame. You’d think he was a serial killer or something. The town was flush with tourists spending their wads. What were a few bucks? No big deal. Besides, he’d only taken what he absolutely needed. As it was, he’d maxed out his credit cards and could no longer afford a hotel.

He had to sleep in his camper, a jerry-rigged van he’d gotten at an auction. No wonder he hadn’t looked fresh as a daisy when Wally saw him. It was hard to look well groomed under such conditions, but he was careful to keep the thing out of sight. It didn’t exactly decorate the landscape, and it was important to look successful. He couldn’t let people see him driving around in that monstrosity, so he’d rented a car until his credit card had hit its limit.

He’d left the camper at the far end of a rundown trailer park and paid a few dollars for use of the facilities, which, he realized, he needed right now. His shoes were dull and worn, and he hadn’t noticed the frayed hems of his pants. He’d have to get some new threads and soon. But he needed the hundred for food, especially now that he would probably be unwelcome at Wally’s.

When did Wally turn into such a choir boy?
“The kid’s being blamed
.
His mother’s sick and depends on him
.
”
And he had looked at him with those critical eyes, half puppy-dog and half she-bear. The boy’s name was Skeeter, Stretch, something like that. He’d seen the spiky-haired kid with the goofy grin pumping gas and wiping windshields. Well, the fool kid deserved losing his job for leaving the register standing open for anyone to pilfer from.

Wally probably believed he was guilty, though Jem hadn’t confessed to anything. And he wouldn’t rat on him anyway. Would he? They’d been buddies once—two orphans trying to hold things together.
Blast!
He needed to keep on good terms with his brother, to keep his connection to Grey Gables and the valuable canvases. But Wally would be watching him now.

He paused at the edge of town. He was tired, really tired. It was all that traipsing after Tara, and then scrambling down the bank when Wally had called. Drat those binoculars! He hadn’t slept well, and his stomach was pleading for attention. What he really wanted was a drink. Wally used to be good for a few beers before he’d turned into another small-town groupie. They’d turned him into one of them, praising him for his fine carpentry and his handcrafted toy sailboats that everyone couldn’t get enough of.

“We think a lot of him around here.”

Annie Dawson had beamed fondly at Wally, and he’d turned pink around the edges. All because the rich lady of Grey Gables threw him a bone or two now and then! She was using Tara too. Getting her to scrub and clean like a washerwoman. She’d been all sweaty and messed up the afternoon he found her cleaning the stupid chairs on the porch like a common maid. His beautiful Tara with her smooth cheeks and soft lips. And Tara was falling for it. She was eating it up. It was all Annie’s fault.

“She’s been good to me, Jem. Please, can’t we just forget about the canvases? I’ll have money by Friday. You can have it all. Only, I can’t do this, Jem.”

She’d pushed him away as they stood under the trees like he was some monster or something. It was a simple thing he asked of her. Just locate a few of those handworked canvases the old lady had stitched—the ones that were bringing those fancy prices at auction. But she was backing away from him, pleading for him to give up their plans. He was doing this for her too—to give them a fresh start together.

Somehow the people of Stony Point had turned her against him, especially that Annie Dawson with her high and mighty ways. Jem dug his fists deeper into his pockets.
Tara, Tara!
After all he had given her. He’d befriended her when she was all alone and bought her pretty things. He was nice to her. And now she was backing out of their deal.

He kicked at a stone in his path and felt its sharp contours against his toe. He felt suddenly like crying. He wanted to bawl like a hurt child. He thought of Tara’s soft arms around his neck, her wild curls crushed against his chest, and he felt the pain all the way down to his sore toe. They were good together, he and Tara; they had good times. She would always be his, wouldn’t she? He thought of her lips, gentle against his own, of the way she cared for him when he was sick or tired. And yes, when he was drunk.

Wally was right about one thing. He had to go easy on the booze. It made him a little crazy. Once he’d shoved Tara so hard that she’d fallen against a table and cut a gash in her arm. He could still hear her cry of pain and see the hurt in her soft brown eyes. She hated it when he drank, but a man had to do something to forget. He had to find the strength to face the world. She’d always understood before, even when he’d struck her without thinking. He never meant to. She had to know that.

But she was turning against him now. Just like everyone else. Ever since he was a kid, people had shut him out.

“Didn’t you ever think about me?”
Wally’s sad voice as they drifted in the borrowed dory echoed in his ears.

Yeah, he’d thought about Wally and about the weak old man who’d wrecked his fishing boat one stormy afternoon near Butler’s Lighthouse. He thought about old Homer Swenson and the stinking hay he had to pitch all summer long in the heat of the sun. Swenson pretended Jem was getting off easy working like a dog in the August heat—all for one falling-down old barn. Oh yes, he thought about them all more often than he cared to admit. But they’d all shut him out.

People said kids are tough, that they get over things, but they didn’t know how a small heart could break and how it could be replaced by something hard as stone that weighed down every step you took and never eased up.

“Your ma ain’t coming back
,
”
Pop had said, slurring the words. He’d been half drunk, and his eyes were red-rimmed.
“You might as well face up to it like a man
.
”

His mother was dead. Alive one moment, the next propped up in her coffin. He was ten years old, and he didn’t know what a man should feel like. Wally used to hear their mother’s voice calling to him on the water. Jem had never heard anything but the gulls mocking him as they swooped overhead, screaming for bread.

As for Pop, all he really wanted was a set of arms to help haul his traps. When things went wrong he always took Wally’s side—the baby brother. Jem hated lobsters—those scraggly, creepy things with their beady eyes and hairy feelers. He hated the tourists who spent a fortune for them. He wasn’t going to spend his life depending on lobsters for his livelihood. He’d show them all! He’d make a name for himself and come back with enough money to buy the whole town.

He didn’t have the money yet, but he would. They’d beg him to come back to Stony Point. Maybe they’d even make him their mayor instead of that haughty Ian Butler who acted like he owned the whole town. Had Butler recognized him that day at The Cup & Saucer? He sat there drinking tea with Annie Dawson and watched everyone in the diner like they were his personal property or something!

He walked on, approaching Petersgrove and the trailer park. He was glad for the growing cover of darkness. He wanted to get inside his camper where he could think. He just had to play it smart. He had to get what he’d come for and be on his way. He thought he’d keep a low profile and maybe hang around Petersgrove for a little while. But then, he had to keep an eye on Tara. He seemed to be losing control of her now, and he wasn’t sure what she would do.

Her words needled him.
“Showing up at Grey Gables like that wasn’t smart.”

Sure, he hadn’t been to college like the high and mighty Ian Butler, but he was smart enough. He gotten this far—stayed alive—because he had brains. He’d show Wally too. His resolve wavered as a thought flashed across his mind. Wally had already made a name for himself; he’d found a pretty wife who loved him, and he had a child who looked up at him like he was some kind of god.

“God gave me a second chance, and I don’t want to mess it up!”

He recalled Wally’s startling words, and the way his voice sounded all polite and proud at the same time. What did Wally know about religion? They both used to laugh at the good citizens filing out of church on Sunday mornings. Then they’d discuss what might be in the offering plate and how to latch onto it. The only chances you got in life were the ones you took. It was like everything else—you had to take what you wanted or someone else bolder than you would!

He frowned up into the darkening sky where one lone star winked at him in a kind of mocking way. Yet, his eye was drawn to it, and it made him sad somehow. Wally had a job, a family and the respect of friends. What did he have? At nearly forty he was alone—still on the outside—wondering where he could get a clean shirt and a new pair of slacks. Worse yet, he needed a meal.

How could he spend that hundred-dollar bill in the small village of Petersgrove without raising eyebrows? Everyone around there thought he was a rich tourist spending a few weeks of holiday. Still, it shouldn’t be difficult. He just had to think!

“Jem, come back with me!”
Wally’s words echoed in his mind. He imagined him as an awkward little boy holding a tie rope in his hands. Once when they’d been fourteen and eleven they’d found a fishing boat drifting in the bay. Jem knew it belonged to the Butlers, but he’d rubbed out the fleet number and planned to hide it in the brush behind their house. As they approached shore, he saw the old dockhand waiting, a scowl on his face. Jem jumped into the water and swam away before they reached shore. He’d left Wally—holding the tie rope—left him to face the music alone.

Good little Wally, who’d always stood by him. Even though he suspected his brother was a fraud and a thief, Wally was still reaching out to him, inviting him to his home for dinner. Something in Jem folded inward, threatening to crush him.

No!
He jerked his head up. Had he said it out loud? He straightened his shoulders and tucked his shirttail inside his pants. No—he didn’t need Wally’s charity! He didn’t need handouts from a two-bit village like Stony Point, and he didn’t need Tara. They’d all pushed him out.

Outsider. Outsider. Nothing had changed. He’d handle things on his own … just as he always had. Wally wasn’t going to help him; no God was going to come down from heaven to bail him out. He was alone. And the winking star seemed to follow him, laughing—if stars could laugh.

15

Alice hopped out of her Mustang, wearing white capris and an aqua blouse sprinkled with tiny white flowers. As she approached Annie, she shut her cellphone—a constant appendage on her ear—and climbed up onto the porch. “Your message said that Carla Calloway was taken to the hospital. What happened?” She’d been gone all day to a Divine Décor convention in Wiscasset and was catching up.

She flopped down on a chair and laid her sunglasses on the table. Her turquoise and silver bracelets clinked together as she leaned forward and peered at Annie questioningly.

“You look better in person than on the phone,” Annie said, gesturing to a chair. “Sit down,” she offered expansively. “Oh, you are down. Well, never mind.”

“Never mind the humorous banter! Tell me what’s been going on. I leave town for a day or two, and everything falls apart!”

Annie had brought two coffees out onto the porch. She pushed one toward Alice. “Well, it seems that when Tara arrived at the shelter yesterday, she found Carla nearly unconscious in her bed. Apparently, she’d been fighting a cough over the weekend that turned into pneumonia—or something like it.”

“What do you mean? Something like it?”

“She got it from an owl. I never heard of it before. Ornithosis or something like that.”

Alice frowned; she made no move to touch her coffee. “An owl?”

“Carla rescued it out on the property somewhere. It had a broken tibia and crushed toes. The authorities quarantined it, of course. She kept it in a cage in the hallway, named it Gopher or Gomer or something like that. The doctors said these wild birds can carry diseases that can be transmitted to humans. They call them zoonotic diseases. Good thing Carla kept the owl out of the waiting or examining rooms, so the other animals should be OK.”

“I never heard of such a thing!” Alice said.

Annie shrugged. “Well, I guess the bird bit her. Carla said it was nothing, but she was a pretty sick puppy. She had a high fever and was nearly delirious when Tara got there. It’s a good thing she came when she did. She called 911, and then she called me.”

Alice blinked, absorbing the information and shaking her head. “Is Carla going to be all right?”

“She should be, now that they know what’s wrong. It’s a disease caused by the bacteria an animal carries and it shows up usually a week or so after exposure. The infected person experiences respiratory symptoms, but serious cases can result in hepatitis or even inflammation of the heart muscle.”

“Wow! Taking care of animals can be downright harmful to your health,” said Alice.

“I guess so. I bet Carla thinks twice before taking in wild birds again.”

“For sure,” Alice agreed. “By the way, where is Tara?”

“She stayed quite late yesterday at the shelter, helping Vanessa with the animals, but I heard her stirring about earlier.” Annie glanced through the kitchen screen, recalling how unusually quiet Tara had been since Carla’s illness. If she hadn’t acted quickly to get help for Carla, things could have turned out quite differently. But finding her had obviously been a shock for Tara.

As though she’d been summoned, Tara appeared at the screen door in her signature jeans and the same top she’d worn at her first Hook and Needle Club meeting. She traveled light, Annie realized, and made a mental note to offer some additions to her wardrobe.

“Good morning! Bring your coffee and come on out. Alice is here.” Some of yesterday’s tension had faded from Tara’s thin face, but a haunted expression lingered in her eyes.

“Hi, Tara,” Alice called, making room at the table.

Tara settled in a chair across from Annie and greeted them rather soberly, the shadows beneath her eyes pronounced in the sunlight.

“I called the hospital this morning,” Annie said, reassuringly. “Carla’s better. She’s responding to the treatment, but the hospital will probably keep her another day or so.” She paused, studying the face across the table. “Now, what about you? You look a little peaked today.”

“I’m fine,” Tara said, bringing the cup to her lips. “I didn’t mean to sleep so long.” An apologetic smile touched her lips, but it only heightened the melancholy that lingered there. Vanessa had been staying with her father for a few days and was unable to help, leaving the brunt of the work for Tara. She wasn’t strong and likely had overworked.

“I should go out to the shelter this morning,” Tara said, addressing no one in particular.

“I know the animals need to be fed,” Annie said. “I’ll go and give you a hand. That way you can be done in time for the meeting. You’re making such progress. Before you know it, you’ll be a champion knitter.”

Tara nodded, but she looked distracted. Perhaps she was simply tired. She had kept busy designing flyers for the benefit and helping Annie with the cross-stitch canvases. In the evenings she would disappear into her room; Annie had missed their conversations over tea.

****

Annie and Tara arrived only minutes before Mary Beth called the Hook and Needle Club meeting to order. Mary Beth came in from the back of the shop carrying a large, high-sided box. Apparently, the first order of business would have something to do with the mewling, wiggling contents of the box. The kittens had outgrown the basket, from which they might easily have escaped.

Mary Beth drew the kittens out one by one as Kate quickly recoiled. “We’ll get them out of here soon, Kate. I promise! Now, friends, it’s time for each of these darlings to take up new residence. I hope some of you able-bodied ladies are willing to provide some of them a home, or help me find them one. You can pick up your kitten after the meeting.” She cuddled each one and held it up for inspection before returning it to the box. The last kitten she brought out was the black runt of the litter.

Tara rushed over to Mary Beth, her eyes lighting up. “He’s so sweet and so small!” she said softly.

Annie was glad that the kittens had taken center stage and deferred the inevitable questions about Carla that were sure to come. She watched Tara take the black kitten from Mary Beth’s hands and hold it close to her cheek, stroking the soft fur.

“I’ll take the little black runt,” Annie said quickly, with a wink in Mary Beth’s direction. What had she done? Boots could eat it for lunch! She’d have to keep a close watch until Tara left and took it with her.

Gwendolyn Palmer, who had once rescued two kittens and was a great supporter of animals, couldn’t resist taking on another. Peggy chose a ragged black and gold female for Emily, whose birthday was only a couple of days away. Annie imagined the excitement on the little girl’s face when she saw her present. She’d probably put a tutu on the poor thing and teach it to dance!

Only one kitten hadn’t been claimed by the time the oohs and aahs were over, and the box containing the delightful little allergens had been removed to the back room. Everyone returned to their projects, buzzing with enthusiasm. Stella Brickson, who had barely paused in her knitting, viewed the proceedings over her rimless glasses. “Well, I guess that’s one we’ll have to consign to the dragon lady.”

The others turned silent. Tara frowned and busied herself with the contents of her newly acquired tote bag. Annie realized that Stella had not heard the news about Carla’s accident.

“Well, she’s not breathing fire right now,” Gwen said with a knowing look and a slight toss of her elegant head. “She’s in Stony Point Hospital. She picked up some disease from that owl she rescued.”

Stella drew her lips together and clacked her needles with renewed vigor. The others began buzzing about Carla Calloway’s mishap and how Tara had called 911.

“It must have been real scary for you,” Peggy said, leaning over and touching Tara’s hand lightly as she walked past.

Tara only nodded, frowning and drawing back from Peggy’s spontaneous touch. Of all the members of the group, Peggy seemed most likely to elicit Tara’s shyness. Odd, since the two of them were probably the closest in age. Annie watched Tara study the doggie blanket she was Mary Beth had been placed next to her, having been assigned to guide her progress. On the other side of Tara was Stella, who worked her own project with intensity.

Mary Beth leaned in to correct a stitch that had slipped off Tara’s needle. “There, that should get you back on track,” she said. Then, pausing, she added in a rush of curiosity, “What’s she like? I mean, no one’s gotten to know Carla or visited her house. I hear she lives in the back part of the old Bergner place and uses the rest for the shelter.”

“Yes,” Tara confirmed shyly. “She has a small sitting room and a kitchen and a bedroom in the back. I—I only saw it because …” She broke off, her frown deepening. “I went to find her because I saw that the dogs hadn’t been fed that morning. She was just lying there, moaning, and she looked awful. Her arm was all red and sore looking …”

“Tara acted quickly,” Annie put in, wanting to ease her tension. “She called for help, and then she and Vanessa took care of things at the shelter.”

“I straightened up her room a bit, and put her sheets in the washing machine,” Tara said, looking into the distance. She said no more but began stitching with studied intensity.

The others realized Tara didn’t want to say any more and took up other subjects as they worked. Gwen and Peggy went to get coffee. That left just Alice and Annie at the table. Stella sat quietly to the side of Tara, perhaps feeling rebuffed for her comment about the hapless Carla Calloway.

“Don’t mind them,” Annie said gently when the others left the room. “They’re naturally curious about the way other women live. We’re each a bit of a busybody, you know.” Looking down she saw that Tara’s hands had stilled. She was chewing the inside of her lip thoughtfully. Two stitches dropped off her needle. “Are you all right?” Annie asked softly.

“Oh, it’s just …” She let the needles and the purple doggie blanket fall onto her lap. “I was just thinking …” She stopped and began again. “When I was cleaning up, I found something Carla must have dropped. It was an old newspaper clipping, all yellow and crumbly. And a curl of hair dropped out of it. I know I shouldn’t have, but I read it, and … I just can’t stop wondering about it.”

“I heard Carla’s not the neatest pin in the pack,” Alice said lightly, shrugging to indicate that no malice was intended. “My mother used to save newspaper clippings too and put them in her scrapbook.”

“What bothers you about it?” Annie asked, watching Tara closely.

“I don’t know exactly.” Tara’s eyebrows drew together in concentration. “It was from
The Point
here in town. Just a small notice about some teenager stealing a car and her mother coming to get her.” She paused and added, “Her mother was killed on the way.”

“How awful,” Alice said softly.

“There was something inside the newspaper,” Tara said, dark eyes widening. “It fell out. It was a curl of hair and a ring made out of beads—red, yellow, and blue.”

“How curious,” Alice murmured.

“Do you remember what the clipping said exactly?”Annie asked.

“I do remember,” Tara said. “I’ve been thinking about it ever since …” She broke off, and then began reciting in a monotonous voice: “An unidentified teen was arrested earlier this week after stealing H.T. Simmons’s car.” She looked up at Annie. “It happened on Ocean Drive—near where you live. Do you know a Mr. H.T. Simmons?”

Annie searched her mind but nothing clicked. “No, I’m afraid I don’t, but I haven’t been here long, you know. But then, Carla is new to Stony Point too.”

“Did you say Simmons?” It was Stella Brickson whose clacking needles had stilled. She peered over her narrow glasses in Tara’s direction. “What were those initials again?”

“H.T.,” Tara repeated. “That’s all it said. H.T. Simmons.”

Stella pursed her lips and was quiet for a moment. Her penetrating gaze went beyond the small circle of women, and then returned to focus on Tara. “My cousin on my father’s side was named Simmons. Herbert Thorwald. He only lived here in Stony Point for a few years—had a passion for cars, the faster the better. I believe he headed for the Midwest—Indianapolis to be specific. Why, I haven’t thought of H.T. in years. We weren’t close, you see, but …” She broke off and cocked her head. “Why, imagine that woman saving a clipping about someone in my family.”

The three other women stared at Stella, who’d returned to Stony Point late in life after many successful years showcasing artists in New York City. What could Carla Calloway have in common with Stella’s cousin? Annie turned to Tara. “How old was the clipping, Tara?”

“I don’t know. I looked for a date, but it wasn’t there. It was just a circled paragraph, and around it was some stuff about the weather and upcoming events.” She stared at Stella, still nibbling the inside of her cheek.

“Well, it has to be thirty or forty years ago,” Stella said. “H.T., rest his soul, passed in 1990, but he was a young man when he left Stony Point. He took off for the Midwest well after I went to New York. I don’t think he ever came back.” She paused, searching the halls of her memory, and then returned to her knitting. But the frown etched in her forehead lingered.

“That’s odd,” Annie said. “Perhaps the two knew each other.”

“Did your cousin have curly black hair?” Tara asked. “I mean … really curly, like mine?”

“Certainly not,” Stella said. “He was a towhead. His hair was so blond it was almost white, even as a teenager. Mind you, when he took off for the Speedway he’d lost most of it. The Simmons men were prone to early baldness.”

“Well, then the hair couldn’t be his, but maybe he gave her the ring. Maybe the two of them were …”

When Stella glared over her glasses, and Tara didn’t finish her sentence, Annie said, “You never know. History has an odd way of twisting and turning. Thirty or forty years is a long time. Stony Point must have all kinds of secrets.” She gave Tara an apologetic glance. “Sadly, we haven’t learned much about your mother yet.”

“Well, I’m going to go through some of the Simmons archives,” Stella said, pursing her lips once more and whacking away at her knitting. “I’m sorry that woman’s ill, but I can’t imagine what she has to do with my deceased cousin.”

Annie rolled her eyes at Alice. Stella was a proud woman, as she supposed all New Englanders were, and it was no doubt natural that she wouldn’t appreciate learning about her family from some outsider like the prickly Carla Calloway. But Annie knew Stella’s straightlaced demeanor covered a heart as tender as rose petals. She’d throw in her share when they ordered flowers to be delivered to Carla’s room.