A Frame of Murder : A Cozy Summertime Murder Mystery (Claire Andersen Murder for All Seasons Cozy Mystery Series Book 3) Read online

  I grinned. I’d listened to Cal wax poetic about his favourite works of art before—often over coffee while I was taking a much-needed break from deep cleaning my B&B at the local café—but it never failed to warm my heart.

  Just then, the alarm panel beeped (evidence enough for me that the alarm system was, in fact, in working order), and the front door swung open, shepherding in a gust of warm summer air—and the fairly imposing figure of Sheriff Sellers.

  “ ‘Afternoon, ma’am,” the sheriff pronounced politely, removing his cap. “I see you followed your nose to the scene of the crime…”

  I smiled. “ ‘Afternoon, Sheriff,” I said. “Cal, here, asked me to take a look, and I was happy to oblige.”

  “That’s just fine, ma’am. Long as you keep yourself out of trouble.”

  I sighed. “It’s a missing painting, Arnie. I hardly think trying to track it down will lead to violence.” I only mentioned the potential of blood and gore because, the last time I attempted to insert myself into the sheriff’s affairs, I wound up narrowly escaping a bullet to the head. (The bullet hole’s still in my refrigerator door, as a matter of fact.)

  The sheriff rolled his eyes—and turned his attention to Cal. “You get on the horn with the insurance company, son?” he asked.

  Cal nodded. “Yes, sir. They’re sending an agent out later this afternoon.”

  I crossed my arms against my chest. “What do you think about all this, Sheriff?”

  He scratched the top of his balding head—the skin inside where his cap had been was a stark white compared to the beet red of his badly sunburned face and ears. It’s a well-known town tidbit that the sheriff believes staunchly in a good, long fishing trip on his cherished summertime weekends off. It’s also a well-known fact that he doesn’t believe at all in sunscreen. “…Been thinkin’ about it all day. Unless that paintin’ sprouted legs and walked out of here on its own—”

  “Couldn’t have,” I retorted. “The alarm system would have gone off.”

  Cal nodded and thumbed obligatorily toward the alarm panel behind us.

  “I know that, ma’am.” His voice raised a single decibel, frustrated at his cleverness having been overlooked. “Since it’s not plausible that the painting walked out on its own, well then … its mysterious disappearance could only be the handiwork of one man . . .” The sheriff paused for dramatic effect.

  I glanced over at Cal, stumped.

  Cal rolled his eyes. “This again,” he murmured under his breath.

  “That’s right!” the sheriff exclaimed, mighty sure of himself. “Play the Doubting Thomas all you want. But I know the facts. And the facts point to Foster Fourfingers, international art thief extraordinaire!”

  Chapter Two

  Sheriff Sellers left Cal’s gallery self-satisfied with his plan of action and in a hurry to catch the thief, with explicit instructions for Cal not to leave town. (I, for one, couldn’t imagine a concept further from Cal’s mind.) With the sheriff and his deputy hot on the trail of a wild goose chase (Foster was a wanderer at heart and, as such, never slept on any one fold-out couch for long), I felt free to pursue my own theories untethered by the burdensome constrictions of the law. No better place to start, I thought, than at my dear friend Evelyn’s place of business—though I made a quick pit stop at the Three Penny Bakery for reinforcements, first.

  “Hiya, toots!” Evelyn sang as I passed through the post office anteroom. “What’s cookin’?” She dropped the pile of mail she had been sorting into a regulation plastic bin, her nose turned up keenly at the gift I bore her.

  I dropped the tiny takeout box onto her service counter. “One of the Three Penny’s famous maple cinnamon rolls—in exchange for some much-needed information.” I winked.

  Evelyn gasped. “But Sylvia said they were all out this morning!”

  I nodded. “I know! She told me. She made another batch because there were more tourists than she’d planned for… She says she saved this last roll just for you…”

  Evelyn had already ripped into the takeaway box and torn off a sizeable piece of the frosted pastry by the time I’d finished my sentence. “Aw, Lawd!” she crooned, her mouth full. Then she kissed the tips of her fingers. “A triumph.”

  I chuckled. Evelyn had been one of the first people I’d met when I first moved to Galway, Maryland from my hometown of Brooklyn, New York. She and I became fast friends—in part because she never failed to make me laugh.

  She gulped down another lofty bite of cinnamon roll and reached for her thermos of coffee—which I passed over the counter. “So what’s this - information - you need?” she said between bites. She’d lowered her voice and leaned over the countertop, shifty-eyed, as if we were engaged in some sort of espionage.

  I dropped the key Cal had given me onto the counter. “You know anything about this key?”

  Evelyn picked it up, her brow furrowed.

  “The police found it over at A Frame of Mine. Looks like one of the featured artist’s pieces has gone missing, and Cal—”

  But Evelyn was way ahead of me. “I know,” she said. “He was in here this morning. Who do ya think sent him over to ya?” She winked over-dramatically, her long, heavily mascaraed eyelashes up to the task.

  I shook my head. “Of course you did. So you know all about—”

  “The alarm bein’ on?” she breathed. “ ‘Course! I just saw Arnie race by in his cruiser. I bet he thinks Foster did it…”

  “Yes! But why? Tall young man with long dreadlocks, right?”

  Evelyn nodded.

  “I know he’s a bit of a … drifter … but…”

  She shrugged. “Naw, just a free spirit! A real nice kid, too.”

  I nodded, recalling previous interactions with him (now that I knew I had the right man). “He pulled his truck over a few times to help me carry groceries into the B&B back when it was still snowing…”

  “Mmmhmm.” Evelyn indelicately stuffed another bite of cinnamon roll into her mouth, frosting amassing around the corners of her mouth. “Well he – used ta – steal real expensive – paintings.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I know. The sheriff mentioned something about that… But this case at Cal’s place? The reputation of the artist, the alarm that didn’t go off… This isn’t small town ‘nice kid’ stuff! This was a bonafide professional.”

  Evelyn swallowed. “Foster was a professional. He was one’a the guys that stole a veneer in Boston like, I dunno … ten years ago?”

  My ears perked up. “A Vermeer, you mean?”

  She nodded nonchalantly, far more interested in the swiftly dwindling remains of her baked treat. “A buncha paintings went missing. It was part of a whole heist. But Foster nabbed a real famous one himself—the one called ‘The Place’ or something? ‘The Party’? . . .”

  “Wait a minute.” I grasped excitedly at her hand. “ ‘The Concert’?” My heart was fluttering.

  “Yeah,” she said. “Like five million bucks in paintings got taken. Can you imagine?” She whispered the last part, her eyes wide.

  My mouth was agape. “More like five-hundred million bucks! Evelyn, he was one of the burglars from the Gardner Museum heist? That was quite possibly the costliest art heist of all time!”

  “Yeah so,” she shrugged, “anyway… He turned himself in and helped the FBI or whatever track down that Colgate painting everybody was all in a tizzy over—”

  I gasped. “You mean the Rembrandt?”

  “—and cuz he helped them out, he only got two years’ minimum security and then some probation. Anyway. Yeah! Good kid.” She polished off the rest of her cinnamon roll—and licked each of her fingers one by one. “Man are those good!”

  I stared over the counter at Evelyn in disbelief. “You say Foster’s a ‘kid,’ but the Gardner heist was a decade ago?”

  Evelyn wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, nodding. “Yeah. He was like … eighteen, nineteen, then? I’d say he’s late twenties now. Maybe mid-thirties… Oh! Your k
ey!” Ignoring my state of bewilderment, Evelyn swept the mystery key up and tossed it in her palm like you would a coin—then squinted at it with strained scrutiny. “You think it unlocks the place the thief put the painting?” she whispered. Her eyes darted about the empty post office once more, perhaps hopeful the aforementioned FBI were somehow involved and, no doubt, listening.

  I shook my head slowly, still in a daze at having learned about Foster’s celebrity-status criminal history. “I thought maybe it was a P.O. box key,” I muttered.

  Evelyn scrunched up her face and shook her head. “Naw. Too big and shiny.” Then she inhaled sharply. “Tell you what though! It looks like a key that goes to one’a those fancy camping trailers they rent out down in the valley! They’re rented by the old trucker motel that got converted last year? Place is a dump—kinda expensive these days, though… Don’t ask me why folks wanna pay top dollar to hole up in an ole’ truck stop for the night…”

  A lightbulb went off in my head. “Glenna’s Glamping?” I asked.

  Evelyn nodded feverishly. “Yeah. Place by the lake, right?”

  I nodded.

  “Kinda gives me the creeps… But the twenty-somethings with cushy trust funds all seem to like it!”

  Evelyn dropped the key back into my outstretched hand.

  I sighed. “Sounds like I’m paying the place a visit.”

  She smiled. “Want some company?”

  “I’d love some! But before we go sniffing around in search of an internationally-renowned art thief…” My train of thought faltered. I still couldn’t believe it about Foster! “…I promised Rupert a walk.”

  Evelyn dropped her empty cinnamon roll box into a wastepaper basket and then turned her attention to the plastic bin of mail. “Perfect,” she said—already recommencing her sorting. “I clock out at 4:30 today. And how’s about I drive? Been meaning to take ole’ Baby Blue out for a ‘walk,’ too…” She grinned up at me—and handed me my stack of today’s mail. “How’s that sound?”

  I stuffed Cal’s key into my pocket and turned to head toward the post office door. “See you then!”

  * * *

  The late June afternoon air was perfectly balmy, a lovely breeze floating up into town from the sapphire river winding below. Songbirds flitted about happily, and monarch butterflies chased one another in and out of the creek beds. A bald eagle circled high overhead in search of prey. Every now and again, a bout of wind would balloon with the rich scent of lavender (which I still hadn’t managed to locate out on the walking trails. Or maybe it was rosemary I was smelling . . .).

  I trekked the short jaunt to my old, imposing Victorian—lost in thought and enjoying the lavish amenities of Appalachian summer, a small stack of mail tucked underarm. Rupert—my bloodhound mix—was waiting for me at the front door, his leash at the ready.

  I’d only harboured in Galway for about half a year, but it already felt like home. Walks with Rupert were almost always bursting with familiar local activity—the kind Lady Elaine might encounter in Mr. Roger’s neighborhood of make-believe. Today, we were fairly accosted by Kay Ridgehorn, who wanted to be sure I’d purchased a satisfactory number of tickets for this year’s upcoming Fourth of July raffle (but actually she wanted to pry for gossip in re: Cal’s gallery); sweet old Millie Harwood stopped us in the middle of Main Street for a chitchat about the pleasant weather and how much it reminded her of the summer of 1968 “before the trouble started,” a dialogue perhaps better described as an epic monologue (it had taken a few months for her to warm up to me, but now that she had, I found I needed at least five “well, I should really get going” ’s to extract myself from her soliloquies); and then there was little Jerry who, these days, trotted down the hill upon seeing us from his front yard to throw Rupert a busted-open tennis ball he’d found under his house. Rupert never even tried to catch the ball from Jerry—not once—but that wouldn’t stop Jerry from trying.

  A swift loop around the block (which somehow managed to take over half an hour), and we were back in view of my front porch—where a pretty young woman smartly dressed in a black-and-white pinstripe pantsuit was standing next to a roll-aboard, her eyes glued to her iPhone, her stiletto-clad toe tapping impatiently.

  “Hello there! May I help you?” I asked assertively as Rupert and I approached my stoop.

  “Are you the lady of the house?” she asked, barely lifting her eyes from her phone.

  “Yes! I’m Claire.” I opened up the front door to let Rupert in. He bounded back toward the kitchen like a puppy, probably expecting an early dinner. “Is there something you—”

  “I was wondering if you’d happen to have a block of rooms available for the next two nights.” She swiped at her cell phone’s screen absently. “I can’t believe that girl thought that atrocious place would do…” she mumbled under her breath (as if to her handheld gadget). “She said she was familiar with the area, but clearly…”

  I wasn’t sure whether I should answer the question she’d asked me or not. Sheepishly, I made an attempt at human-to-human communication: “Well, I may have two rooms available through the weekend … and it’s possible there may be another cancellation … but I’d have to go back to my records to check.” I was holding the door open for her, but she wasn’t paying me any mind. “…Would you like to come in?” I urged.

  She looked up at me with dull seafoam green eyes and blinked. Then she shook her head, as if breaking a spell her phone had placed on her (at no fault of her own). “Oh! Yes! I’m sorry… I’m a little … scatter-brained today…”

  I smiled—and pried the door open a bit wider as she scooted inside awkwardly with her (by the looks of it) hefty luggage.

  I led her down the hallway toward the kitchen, where I put the kettle on—and then ducked around the corner to my makeshift phone booth, where I stored all my up-to-date business affairs. I quickly found the present weekend’s docket of reservations. “…Right, so!” I called out. “As I said, we only have two rooms available, right next to each other. I’m otherwise full through Monday.”

  I rounded the corner back into the kitchen, where the young woman was standing next to my island—again next to her roll-aboard, again enraptured by her cell phone.

  “Hello?” I said meekly. “…Miss?”

  She came-to once more. “I’m so sorry! I’ll just…” she clicked her phone to “off” and shoved it briskly into the pocket of her sleek pinstripe pants “…do this.”

  I chuckled. “Probably a good idea.”

  “So you said you have…” she scrunched up her nose “…how many rooms?”

  “Two rooms available through the weekend. No more than that, I’m afraid…”

  She breathed a palpable sigh of relief. “Okay. Let’s do it. I’d like to book them until Monday morning.”

  “Done.” I scratched a note into my docket and then walked over to the center of the kitchen, reaching into my cupboard for two tea cups. “Can I offer you a cup of tea?”

  “Oh, no, I should probably get back to…” she trailed off. “You know what? Yes. I’d love a cup of tea, thank you very much.”

  I smiled. “Rough day?” I asked gently, gesturing for her to pull a stool up to the island.

  “Oh you have no idea…” She collapsed dramatically atop a stool, her elbows propped up on the island countertop, her hands mussing her glossy onyx-coloured hair.

  “I’m sorry—I didn’t catch your name out on the porch…”

  She smiled. With her iphone safely tucked away, her light green eyes were suddenly piercing and spirited. “I’m Fannie. Fannie Francesca.”

  “Ah!” I breathed. “Mr. Muchesco’s right-hand man.”

  “Mmmhmm. His much overworked and underpaid right-hand man.” She rolled her eyes—all in good humor, it appeared at first glance.

  I nodded. “I know how that is. I worked in Manhattan for many years in a male-dominated industry—the worst.”

  “You lived in New York? Me too! I mean, I’m there about
half the time now…”

  “You work at one of the galleries in Soho?” I bustled around my kitchen acquiring a tray full of tea accoutrements.

  She shook her head. “No, but that was my dream as a girl…” Her eyes widened. “Instead, I lucked into an internship at the Guggenheim after art school—well, a few years after art school... After that, I got a job there as conservator. Judd—Mr. Muchesco, I mean—helped me get the job.” She blew a strand of fashionably-long black bangs out of her eyes.

  I poured the now-boiling water into two tea cups. “A conservator…” I said, thinking. “So you’re in charge of preserving paintings? Making sure the climate and lighting is ideal—that kind of thing?”

  “Sort of! I headed up ephemeral art at the Guggenheim. So in my case it was more like … making sure the flowers were watered, making sure the ashes stayed in the sandbox, cooking rice and filling it into sandcastle moulds—that kind of thing.”

  I must have looked confused. “Ephemeral art? So that’s more like—conceptual art?”

  She smiled the way Cal smiled when I grilled him ignorantly about his aesthetic interests. But I could tell that, like Cal, she could happily talk about the art world for days on end. “Ephemeral art can be conceptual—but really, it doesn’t have to be. Or maybe all art is conceptual… It just depends on who you ask, I suppose. My specialty is transient art.”

  “So then … the tasks you mentioned earlier—those are all part of upkeeping a particular work of art? So what were those art pieces like—I mean, as final products?”

  “Let’s see—” she nodded as I offered her a vat of crème “—we had a to-scale model of a neighborhood in L.A., reimagined in miniature buildings which doubled as poppy planters… And there was one piece based on Santorini after the Minoan eruption—basically an entire civilization built, in this piece’s case, in ash… And then a sculpture of rice paddies fashioned literally out of rice. That one was rough, because the rice would mould and rot after a few days…”