The Stolen Canvas (16 page)

Obediently, she left the attic and crossed to her room. She could see Blackie crouched beneath the bed, eyes wide in the tiny face. Jem followed her; he wasn’t going to let her out of his sight. There was no chance to run or to use the phone. Sadness, anger, and regret scoured her heart. She was a wave-battered landscape after a storm.

She turned to look at him. “Jem, what would Wally think of you now?” she asked wearily.

He appeared stunned and grew silent. Several seconds passed. Then he gripped the door frame, his knuckles turning white. “He’s a choir boy!” he said derisively.

“He’s your brother. He cares about you,” she said, placing her things in her yellow duffle bag and watching him. His lips trembled. She knew she’d struck a nerve. She had seen the look of admiration mixed with regret whenever Wally looked at Jem. She’d heard the childhood stories. Wally was respected in Stony Point, a hardworking part of the community. Now his brother was doing something that would hurt Wally and his friends deeply.

“Never mind the soft soap. Hurry up. We’ve got to make tracks. The camper’s out back in the woods behind this place. We have a little trekking to do.”

She heard Blackie’s frightened meow beneath the bed. It broke her heart, but she’d have to leave him here where it was safe. Annie would see that he was taken care of. “I want to leave a note. It’ll just take a minute.” She reached into the middle desk drawer for paper and a pen.

“Sure,” he said sarcastically. “And tell her all about me? What do you take me for?” He reached to grab the pen from her grasp.

“I won’t say anything about you; I just want to say goodbye.” She bent over the desk, scribbled onto the blue paper:
I’m sorry. Thank you for everything. I’m so sorry. Tara

“Sweet,” he said mockingly. “Now, let’s go.” He picked up her heavy duffle bag, his face close to hers. He paused, stroking her cheek with his free hand. “It’s just like we planned, baby,” he said softly. “It’s just you and me.” Then he stepped across the hall and hefted the three wrapped canvases.

He didn’t see her draw two small items from her pocket and place them on the dresser—a coil of dark hair and a small beaded ring.

17

The sun was sinking low on the horizon, softening the edges of everything when Ian drove away from Grey Gables with Annie. When he’d called her earlier that afternoon and proposed a visit to Carla’s animal shelter, he hadn’t been sure she would come.

It had been less than a week since he’d been out to Grey Gables. She’d served him lemonade and oatmeal cookies on the porch while Wally worked on the pantry shelves. It seemed like a month of Sundays had elapsed.
Ah, you’re losing it, old boy
. But the truth was he looked forward to Annie Dawson’s company with ever-growing anticipation.

She had answered with laughter in her voice. “Good afternoon, Mr. Mayor, sir!”

Drat those caller-identification monitors that allowed for no secrets. “That’s what Peggy calls me, but I prefer Ian, especially when I’m not acting in my official capacity. How are you, Annie?”

“Right as rain, as Gram would say. Thankfully, the sun’s shining on Grey Gables—at least for another few hours today.”

“Speaking of Peggy,” Ian began slowly, “I understand something happened out at the shelter. She said something about an owl, and Tara finding Carla unconscious.”

“That’s true, Ian. Carla was barely conscious and running a high fever when she was found. She picked up some disease from that wild owl she’s been tending, but she’s much better … thanks to Tara’s quick action.”

He heard a note of pride in her voice; she’d become fond of the girl who’d appeared on her doorstep. Tending the wild and sick, it seemed, was something Annie and Carla had in common.

“I’d like to pay Carla a visit—to let her know that the town’s supporting her,” he said. “Any chance I could talk you into accompanying your mayor on a compassionate visit? Could I pick you up in an hour? I’ll buy you supper afterward.”

“Well …” She had hesitated, long enough to send his hopes plummeting. Then she said, “I haven’t seen her since she got home from the hospital. Do you know she arranged for a taxi to take her home, rather than ask anyone to drive her?”

“That sounds like Carla. I have something to tell her that might perk her up, though. It’s about licensing for the shelter. She might be ready for some good news.” He paused, waiting for Annie to say something, but she remained quiet. Did she think it presumptuous of him to ask her to go with him at the last minute? She probably had plans for the evening—maybe even a date. Ian realized he was holding his breath.

“I did plan to get out there now that she’s home.” Annie had hesitated, and then added, “Having someone with me wouldn’t hurt. Carla’s not too talkative—at least not around me. But maybe we’ve softened her up a bit with the flowers the Hook and Needle Club sent.”

He waited for her to make some excuse to turn him down, but maybe he qualified at least as “someone.”

“See you in an hour,” she had said decisively.

When he pulled into her driveway, she was waiting on the porch, a blue vision against the white wicker chair. It was the color he liked best on her. It brought out the green in her eyes and heightened the color of her sunny hair. As she shouldered her purse and walked out to meet him, he wondered if she had any idea how beautiful she was.

“You look especially radiant this evening, Annie,” Ian said. “I assume you still have a houseguest. Is she down at the shelter with Carla?”

“I don’t know,” Annie said. A shadow of worry lingered in her eyes as they drove toward the shelter. “She was gone when I got up, I haven’t seen her all day.”

When Annie and Ian arrived at the shelter a few minutes later, Carla was at her desk, a stack of papers spread out in front of her. A huge bouquet of purple and pink blooms nearly obscured her face. No doubt these were the flowers from the Hook and Needle Club; she’d thought enough of them to bring them back with her. She hadn’t wasted any time resuming her duties. It was nearing seven o’clock in the evening, and she was still working. “Ms. Calloway,” Ian addressed her, standing aside for Annie to enter.

“It’s
Miss
Calloway,” Carla said, looking up. She glanced from Ian to Annie. “I’m still what’s known as an unclaimed treasure!” Humor or surprise edged out the caustic tone he’d come to expect from Carla.

“Hello,” Annie said, taking the initiative, to his great relief. “Mayor Butler and I wanted to tell you how glad we are that you’re better and to see if you need anything.”

She peered at them curiously. Her gray hair had been pulled back from her roundish face; stray strands softened the severity of the style. She wore a button-down smock of lavender that made her look feminine, and almost vulnerable. Annie had never seen her stocky frame in anything but dark jeans and a flannel shirt.

Annie nodded toward the great bouquet a few inches to the side of the large desk. “It is a bit overwhelming, isn’t it? But I hope you like it.”

Carla’s red-rimmed eyes, more gray than blue, moved to the flowers, and she studied them. She gave a little nod that might pass for appreciation, and then she looked down at her hands without speaking. She ran her tongue over her lower lip and looked up. “How is Tara?” Quickly she put her head down again, as though regretting an impulsive question.

“Tara’s fine,” Annie answered. “She was very concerned about you, though. Luckily, she found you and called for help. You were pretty sick.”

“Blasted bird!” Carla said. Then her expression softened. “Gomer was just doing what wild birds do, I suppose.” She paused for maybe a full thirty seconds, furrowing her brow. “The girl did all right on the website. She’s smart.” Her statements were stilted, as though she were unused to speech. “Didn’t think she’d be worth her salt at first.”

“Well, now you know better,” Annie said. “Tara’s relieved to know you’re all right. And we all have been praying for you too.”

At this Carla looked up sharply and narrowed her eyes as though trying to decipher a puzzle. Then she reached for a bottle of water that was making a wet ring on the stack of papers. “Mouth is dry as dust. Must be the medicine or something.” When she put the bottle down again, she looked at Annie and asked in a subdued voice, “Did … did she … that is, did she say anything?”

Annie seemed at a loss to understand the question and left it dangling between them for an uncomfortable length of time. Ian took this moment to add his wishes for Carla’s full recovery. “You’re doing a good job for our community,” he said. “I brought you some information from the state licensing board and the questionnaire you needed,” he said, handing her a manila folder.

She took it and set it down slowly. She stared at it as though its contents could be revealed without opening it. Maybe she was just tired, Ian thought. Most likely she had to continue at home the treatments begun in the hospital.

“We’re all glad to have you back on the job, but shouldn’t you be resting?” Ian asked.

“Got some more strays to foist on me, aye?” she quipped in true Carla Callous fashion. But the sting wasn’t in it, and Ian saw in those almost blue eyes a glimmer of humor or resignation or … what? Something was different.

He gave Annie a look to indicate that they should go to allow Carla to rest. “Let me know if you need help with any of the details,” he told Carla.

Ian watched Annie place her hands gently over Carla’s folded ones and thought how comforting her touch would be.

When they reached the door, Carla’s raspy voice came hesitantly. “Thank her for me—will you? Tell her I’m sorry.”

Her?
Did she mean Tara? And what was Carla apologizing for?

Annie turned with an apologetic smile. “I think you’ll be able to do that for yourself, but she doesn’t blame you. It was an accident, and she didn’t mind looking after things while you were away.”

Ian said goodbye to a pensive Carla and took Annie’s arm. He drove slowly toward Maplehurst Inn, grateful to have her next to him, and the promise of the evening ahead of them. She seemed quieter than usual—preoccupied perhaps with all that had transpired—but Ian didn’t press her to talk. Being with her was always easy—and special—whether they talked or not. Still, he hoped she knew he was there for her. He remembered the karaoke night at Sweet Nell’s and singing
You’ve Got a Friend
. He’d sung it especially for her, and he’d meant it with all his heart.

“They have great pasta here,” Ian said when they arrived at Maplehurst Inn. Inside the restaurant, he held her chair for her, aware of the subtle freshness of her perfume that put him in mind of beach roses and soft summer winds.

“Great for a girl’s figure, especially at nearly eight o’clock in the evening,” Annie said with a mock groan.

“Hardly a problem for you,” he said, meaning it, and liking the slight blush that crept into her cheeks. He decided to relieve her embarrassment and changed the subject. “Carla seems rather impressed with your houseguest. The venerable guardian of animals hardly talked about anything else. She chases away most of the volunteers who come to the shelter. What do you think it is about Tara that’s different?”

“I don’t know,” she said reflectively. “They seem to have some kind of bond. It’s very odd. Tara says it’s been like that from the start. Carla has always been gentle with her. She’d be giving someone all sorts of grief on the phone, but to Tara she’d be all sweetness and light. Sometimes she’d stare at her like she was trying to read her mind.”

“Or maybe she was watching her like a hawk to make sure she wasn’t sleeping on the job,” Ian suggested.

“Imagine Carla thinking Tara would be upset with her for getting sick and having to leave everything in her hands. Wanting me to tell her she was sorry. I just can’t figure out our Miss Calloway at all.”

“Nor can I,” Ian agreed. “I’ve never known her to apologize for anything.”

“You know,” Annie said, twirling her water glass in her hand, “Tara told me that while she was cleaning up Carla’s room after the EMTs left, she found an old newspaper clipping by the bed. It was about a young girl visiting Stony Point who stole some guy’s car. She took it for a joy ride and wrapped it around a tree. She wasn’t hurt, but when her mother was coming to get her after the police phoned her, she was killed in an automobile accident.”

“Tragic,” Ian said. “Did it say who the girl was?”

“No, but the newspaper reported the name of the guy whose car was stolen—H.T. Simmons.”

Simmons. The name was familiar, but to his knowledge there were no Simmonses around Stony Point any more. “I think there used to be a Simmons connected with Stella’s family.”

“Yes, so we discovered. Stella wasn’t delighted at the prospect of being connected though.”

“I can imagine,” he said. “Well, it’s a mystery.” He wiped his lips with his napkin. “And speaking of mystery, has anything turned up about Tara’s mother? That’s why she’s hanging around, isn’t it?” He hadn’t meant it to sound derogatory, but he caught Annie’s quick frown. She was touchy on the subject of Tara.

They steered clear of Annie’s houseguest for the remainder of their supper and drove to Grey Gables after dessert, which for him was chocolate cake. Annie ordered a more sensible raspberry sorbet. Her plan was for him to pick up a canvas for the auction in New York, which Stella had arranged. Stella’s cousin, who ran the auction, had showcased other Betsy Originals with good success, and this one would benefit the animal shelter.

“It’s a quick business trip,” he said after parking the car. It was dark as they walked toward Grey Gables; only a handful of stars winked over the house. “I’ll take the red-eye tonight and be back late tomorrow. I’ll drop the canvas off at the gallery for you.”

“Thanks, Ian. The last one netted almost $3,000. I can hardly believe it! Gram wouldn’t believe it either. But I think she’d be pleased to know her work is benefitting the community.” Annie turned the key in the lock. “Miss Boots has deserted me. She’s usually here with the welcome mat out,” she said. “She doesn’t like prowling around after dark like a common Tom. But she’s been acting a little weird since the advent of Blackie.”

Ian followed Annie inside and shut the door. “Blackie?”

“One of the abandoned kittens Mary Beth found. It’s Tara’s kitten actually. She treats it like a princess and keeps it in her room when we’re away.”

Her room
. Was Annie carrying hospitality a bit too far? Was she setting herself up for disappointment? She had no good reason for mistrusting Tara, but something about her just didn’t ring true.

Grey Gables lay in silence. Apparently Tara Frasier, who’d been gone all day, had still not returned. At the worried look on Annie’s face, Ian felt quick vexation. The girl hardly expressed appropriate behavior toward a generous hostess.

“Come on up,” Annie said. “The 24 x 36s are on the shelf in the attic. I wrote ‘Country Meadow Fantasy’ on top so it would be easy to identify for you. It’ll just take a minute.”

Ian switched on the light and guided Annie gently by the elbow as they climbed the stairs. The skirt of her blue dress swished softly as she moved, and Ian felt breathlessness not related to stair climbing.

“There you are!” Annie called as she opened the attic door. Boots leaped out, preened around Annie’s legs, and stood looking at her with a disdainful expression.

“How’d you get in there?” She scooped Boots up in her arms and handed her over to Ian. “Talk to her while I get the picture.” Ian sat down in the small settee in the hallway and stroked the cat’s fur.

Suddenly he saw a tiny black shadow dart out of the bedroom adjacent to the settee—the girl’s room. The door had been left partially open and the kitten had escaped. Boots hopped off his lap and gave chase. “Blackie’s broken out and the National Guard’s going after him!” he called to Annie, amused and hoping Boots’s intentions were benign.

When Annie didn’t respond, he returned to the attic doorway and saw her scrambling among boxes, pushing crates aside. She paused, her hand on the rungs of the ladder from which she’d just descended. She stared up at the shelves.

“Problem?” he asked, stepping inside. One look at her stricken face, and he was no longer amused by animal antics. “What is it?” he rasped.

“They’re gone—the four pictures I put on the top shelf!” She’d turned as white as his Sunday shirt, and her eyes were filled with shock and hurt. She stared at him, her lower lip quivering. “Gram’s beautiful needlework. It’s gone!”