Prize and Prejudice Page 19

  Walter started applauding. “Thank you, Mr. Gilmore.”

  “No problem,” Wyatt said from the other side of the room.

  Suddenly, everything seemed clear, and Angie knew exactly what she needed to do…except for one thing. She still needed proof that Tabitha Crispin had killed Reed. Once she had that, everything would fall into place.

  Chapter 16

  One Last Piece of Evidence

  The customers began to sort themselves out. The casual tourists either left via the back door or returned to their book browsing. A few of them even helped Janet clean up the worst of the glass. Angie dragged the shop vac out from the back room and went over the area with it, even vacuuming Aunt Margery’s pant legs, socks, and shoes.

  Tabitha Crispin lingered in the store. After Angie had put the fires out, as it were, she came up to the café counter and said, “I’m sorry, Tabitha, you’ve been standing here for at least ten minutes. Do you need something?”

  “Do you have a minute?”

  “I do,” Angie said. “Would you like to step into the back room?”

  How she managed to say it in even a relatively normal voice, she had no idea. She hoped that she was keeping her true feelings off her face, too, but it was probably too much to ask for.

  Once in the stock room and out of sight of the others, Tabitha said, “I found something in the office.”

  Angie blinked. She hadn’t been sure what to expect from the conversation, but it wasn’t this. “What?”

  Tabitha took out a plastic freezer bag, the kind that you can press to seal. They make great evidence bags, Angie thought. Inside was a piece of paper about three by five inches. It was partially crumpled. Tabitha put it on the desk with the ordering computer and pressed it flat, then handed it to Angie.

  Name: Reed Edgerton

  Address: 33 Copley Street, Cambridge, MA 02138.

  Email…

  And so on.

  The two women looked at each other. Angie felt her veins turn to ice, which was something that she’d read about before but never really experienced. Her teeth literally chattered. But she couldn’t even begin to guess what the paper meant.

  Tabitha whispered, “I found it behind the recycle bin when I was bagging everything up to go out tomorrow morning. It’s a registration card.”

  Angie felt as though she were about to start shouting. Or vomiting.

  Tabitha said, “I put it in a baggie so it wouldn’t get any more fingerprints on it. Was that right?”

  “You should…take that to the police, Tabitha. You shouldn’t have shown it to me first. You should have gone straight to the cops.”

  Tabitha looked pityingly at her. “Reed was your friend, Angie. I owe it to you to find out what you want to do.”

  “I want you to go to the police station and turn that over to Detective Bailey.”

  Tabitha nodded. “As soon as I flattened it out I knew that I’d made a mistake. I shouldn’t have touched it.”

  “Let’s just take it to the police,” Angie said. “We can talk about this later, okay?”

  “Okay. You’ll come with me?”

  “I’ll come with you,” Angie said. They walked out to Angie’s car, which was closer, Angie telling Walter and Aunt Margery that she would be right back.

  Her thoughts were a mess. What did this mean? She could barely grasp the possibilities. Did this change everything? Or was this an effort on Tabitha’s part to frame someone else?

  Whether the killer is Tabitha or not, she thought, at least she won’t kill me while I’m driving.

  Probably.

  Tabitha was still telling and retelling her story to Detective Bailey when Angie left the police station.

  Her head was spinning. If Tabitha was the killer, why was she being so cooperative with the Detective? Why had she brought the clue to Angie in the first place?

  A vibration in her purse interrupted her thoughts. Her phone was ringing.

  “Hello?”

  “Is this Ms. Agatha Prouty of Nantucket?” said the deep male voice on the other end of the voice.

  “Yes, who is this?” She asked.

  “I’m a friend of the Baker? He said you would know who we are.”

  Angie’s fear dissipated, these were Mickey’s friends, the tech guys.

  “Yes, I’m a friend of Mi… the Baker. Do you have the information for me?” She asked.

  “We do.”

  Angie sat down on the curb right there and pulled out her notebook. She took furious notes as the man talked. The conversation was a flood of information, and Angie couldn’t sort it out as he talked. She would just have to analyze her notes later.

  As the conversation ended, Angie thanked them for the help. “I can’t tell you how grateful I am for the help. This whole world of forging and stealing art, I’m all very new to this.”

  “Well Ms. Prouty, even the thieves like us are artists in a way. It’s like Picaso said: Good artists copy, great artists steal.”

  Angie’s head almost exploded as puzzle pieces started falling into place her head.

  The lost Monet probably wasn’t a fake after all, but there was definitely a forger on the island.

  She needed to get to the hospital. Now.

  When she arrived, she flew past the check in station, and took the stairs two at a time until she got to Mickey’s floor.

  “Mickey, thank goodness you are okay,” she said between gasps.

  “Angie, of course I’m okay. Better than okay, they are discharging me any minute now.” Mickey smiled and waved a cup of green Jello at her, “No more Jello!”

  His smile faded as he realized this wasn’t just a friendly check in.

  “Ang, what’s wrong?”

  “Mickey, I spoke to your friends, the internet guys.”

  “The internet guys?” he repeated with evident amusement.

  “You know who I mean. The hackers. They were very helpful.”

  “Glad to hear it. What did they say?”

  “You know that Reed had all kinds of information about forged paintings in his briefcase right?”

  “Sure.”

  “Turns out a lot of art changes hands on the black market. In fact, many mafia families deal in art, especially ones with ties to Europe. Through the mafia you can get stolen pieces or original art without paying taxes, stuff like that. Interestingly enough, many of the so-called legitimate paintings in circulation now are actually forgeries. The mafia buys forgeries and passes them off as real.”

  Mickey nodded, but was clearly not following.

  “Wouldn’t people come after the mafia once they found out a painting was fake?” he asked.

  “Sometimes, but according to your friends, the forger always takes the fall. If a painting is discovered to be fake, the mafia finds the forger, or their family, and serves them up to the buyer on a silver platter.”

  “So why would anyone sell a forgery to the mafia? If they know they are going to get found out…”

  “Why does anyone deal with the mob? Desperation. Money. If you forge a painting that’s not in circulation, you might get away with it. According to your friends, the profile of someone who sold a forged painting to the mob is someone who was artistically gifted, desperate for money, and has a family that’s easy to leverage.”

  Mickey’s eyes went wide.

  “You know, I heard the nurses talking about a patient here who drew the most amazing pictures. They said they had never seen anything so beautiful on a napkin…”

  “…or a tie perhaps?” offered Angie.

  “Jasper!?” whispered Mickey.

  “Let’s get you out of here and go find out.”

  She left Mickey in the discharge lounge awaiting his paperwork. He was his same goofy, charismatic self even after his head injury. He had already promised the hospital staff cupcakes in the shape of the island, and then he’d started cracking jokes with the other patients. By the time Angie slipped out, Mickey had the whole room laughing.

&n
bsp; She needed to see Jasper one more time, just to be sure. He was only one floor up, and she promised herself she would be quick.

  She spotted a book on one of the tables in the waiting room; on an impulse, she picked it up and took it with her when the nurse told her that Jasper was ready to see her.

  Her hands were shaking. She glanced at a bathroom mirror as she walked by—she was as pale as a ghost. She’d only put on a little bit of lip gloss that morning. Her lips were almost the same color as her face.

  She knocked on the frame of the Jasper’s door.

  “Come in.”

  He was in bed, still dressed in a hospital nightgown.

  “Did you bring me more books?” he asked.

  She held up the book in her hand and noticed, with horror, that it was an old Reader’s Digest Condensed Books edition leading off with a Dick Francis novel. Dick Francis was a wonderful writer, but as a bookseller Angie could never have brought a condensed edition to anyone as a gift. Completely out of character.

  Jasper reached for the book.

  She had to say something, quick.

  “How’s your prognosis? Are you busting out of here anytime soon?”

  “I should be fine to go in a few days,” he said. “I’m fully hydrated, anyway, and that was the part they were most worried about.”

  “Hydrated?”

  She still hadn’t given him the book.

  “Yes, it puts a strain on the heart. Along with all the caffeine I was taking.”

  “Oh, no,” she said, putting the book down on a side table and taking his hand. “Was it the coffee from the bookstore?”

  “No, no. Don’t worry about that. If it wasn’t all the NoDoz I was taking, it was the energy drinks. Or the stress.”

  “But what if—”

  “Don’t worry about it,” he said firmly.

  “Okay,” she said. “I’ve been working on not taking too many burdens onto my own shoulders. I will not blame myself for your collapse from stress and too much caffeine.”

  “That’s good,” he said. “Now, please? The book? I’m desperate for something, anything to read.”

  She wished she had something clever to say that would prove him innocent or guilty in one witty line. But she didn’t. Sighing, she handed over the book.

  “It was a last-minute thing,” she said. “I mean, I realize that—”

  He smiled broadly at her. “I remember these! My grandmother had a hundred of ’em.”

  She winced.

  “No, seriously. I love them! And it starts out with a Dick Francis novel, too…I haven’t read that one. Thank you. You knew that I couldn’t keep up with anything heavy right now, didn’t you?”

  She couldn’t say a word. Not a single word.

  Jasper Parris practically hugged the book to his chest. “Thank you,” he repeated.

  “You’re welcome. I had no idea it would go over so well.”

  “Someday, when all of this is over, I’ll paint you a scarf,” he said. “What would you like on it?”

  “Turner,” she said. It hadn’t been on her mind, exactly, but as soon as she said it, she knew it was the right thing to say. “Something by J.M.W. Turner. To remind me of Reed. That’s how we met—over one of Turner’s paintings.”

  “Turner,” Jasper said. “That old curmudgeon. People like to say that he was a predecessor of the Impressionists, but I think he was just losing his eyesight and painting from memory, face pressed up against the canvas.”

  It was a harsh statement, and one that Angie hadn’t expected.

  “If you’d rather not—” she said.

  “No, I’ll do it. One in the style of Turner, and another one in the style of Monet. Then you can see what a real master looks like. Even on a scarf.”

  She smiled. “Thank you. That sounds even better. I’ll wear the scarf when the painting is found.”

  “Oh? Are there any updates about the painting?” Jasper asked eagerly.

  “Nothing yet,” said Angie, “But I’ll let you know.”

  “Thanks, and I won’t forget about those scarves.”

  “Me neither,” she said. She gave him a thumbs up and then hurried out of the room.

  “Are you sure it was Jasper, Angie?” asked Aunt Margery?

  Mickey and Angie had blustered into the bookstore to regroup after Angie’s revelation. Aunt Margery had shushed them, and then she had corralled them into the back room to get away from the sharp-eared treasure hunters. Mickey was sitting on a table, dangling his legs and listening to Angie explain everything to Aunt Margery.

  “Jasper is incredibly artistic. Have you seen those ties? Imagine what he could do with real paint and canvas. He keeps a low profile, and his family wasn’t wealthy—it’s possible he needed the money.”

  Aunt Margery nodded. “It’s true. The Parris family wasn’t wealthy, but they have been around the island for a long time. They do own some land though.”

  “I didn’t know that. I thought Jasper rented the apartment down near the wharf. What land are you talking about?” Asked Angie.

  “Over past the giant oak, they have a small cabin. Jasper goes there sometimes to think, paint, at least he used to when he was younger.”

  “Aunt Margery! Why didn’t you tell me before?”

  “Sweetheart, you never asked before, and until today, you didn’t have a reason to.”

  “I’m going to check out this cabin while Jasper is still in the hospital. If there’s evidence there, then I can tell detective Bailey, and we can finally find Reed’s killer!”

  “I’m going with you,” said Mickey, in an authoritative tone that Angie almost didn’t recognize.

  “I’d tell you not to,” said Aunt Margery, “but what good would that do?”

  The cabin was secluded, to say the least. They navigate a series of branching dirt roads and managed to get lost only once. Then they parked one the side of the great oak tree Aunt Margery had mentioned and walked from there. 100 yards down a small foot path, they spotted the cabin.

  It was a small brown building that looked at least 100 years old. They didn’t see any cars parked outside, nor was there any light from the windows, so they deemed it safe to investigate.

  As Angie walked up to the cabin, she tripped on an exposed root and started to fall. Mickey swooped in and caught her. For a moment she was frozen in his embrace, peering up at at the charming face that she had come to take for granted. There was something impish about the way his eyes danced, and something deeply endearing about the laugh lines that were just beginning to show around his mouth and at the corners of his eyes. She had forgotten how to look at this face and see more than a friend, but she was remembering now.

  And this was not the time for it.

  At least Mickey seemed oblivious to her thoughts. “You okay?” he asked.

  “Yeah, I’m fine.” Perfectly fine. Blushing? Who was blushing? Not her.

  He put her down and made his way to a cabin window. Right. They had come here for a purpose that had nothing to do with revisiting old feelings. She joined him at the window, and then drew in a quick breath.

  “B-I-N-G-O,” sang Mickey.

  Angie agreed.

  In the cabin was a small wooden table covered with paint brushes, painting knives, and a canvas. More tables containing paint tubes, additional canvases, and stacks of glossy paper bearing indistinct images lined the edges of the room. Above them, the walls were covered with printouts of the lost Monet. Arrows were drawn on each print to indicate important parts of the painting. The cabin looked like a forger’s paradise. It wasn’t quite a smoking gun, but it would give Detective Bailey a place to start, at least.

  Angie pulled out her phone to call him, but there was no cell signal in this remote part of the island.

  “Mickey, I want to take a closer look, do you think we can get inside?” said Angie.

  “Yeah. Probably. Are you sure you want to?” as he asked he already knew the answer. He walked around the cabin and fo
und a window that looked like it might be open.

  “This window,” he said, “Is too high for either of us, but I can probably put you on my shoulders and you can get in.”

  Angie smiled. “Okay, let’s do it.”

  Mickey crouched down and she jumped on his back. After a little wobbling, they managed to steady themselves next to the window.

  “Think you can get in there, Agatha?” as he asked he gave her legs a little squeeze to show he was joking.

  “Sure, Baker,” Angie teased. “What kind of code name is that, anyway?”

  “An accurate one,” Mickey chuckled. “Now stay focused. I’m not carrying you around for my health.”

  Angie’s smile faded. Considering that he had just been discharged from the hospital, letting her climb all over him probably wasn’t doing his health any favors. She turned her attention to the window and pushed it open. Then she climbed through it and half-jumped, half-fell into the cabin. She just barely landed on her feet.

  She hurried to the door and unlocked it for Mickey.

  “Wow. Look at this place,” he said as he entered.

  There were not only painting supplies all over the cabin, but little notes Jasper had made for himself about the different details of the lost Monet. The stacks of glossy paper turned out to be print-outs of other paintings, most of them by Monet. A clear plastic bag containing bundles of white silk ties occupied one corner of the floor, and in another, Angie saw… something.

  “What’s that?” she asked, pointing at the large, bright blue object she had just noticed on the floor.

  They both bent down to inspect the object and knocked heads in the process.

  Mickey hissed softly and rubbed his much-abused head. “Sorry, Angie,” he said, and then his expression changed. Their faces were incredibly close, and for a moment, all they could do was look at each other. Mickey slowly reached out to touch her forehead where it had collided with his. An additional apology, or a gentle rebuke? Angie didn’t know. She blinked once, then felt her cheeks heat. Again. Goddamn it. Then she thought of Walter, and quickly turned away.