Prize and Prejudice Page 2

  Where Beauty Lies

  It had started in late August.

  In July, the owner of half the island, Alexander Snuock, had been killed. He had left everything to his only child, Walter.

  Both men were voracious readers. Which meant that Angie’s bookstore, despite being on such a small island, was always well-supported by the community. But Walter was a much nicer man than his father had ever been, and Angie had half-fallen for him during the whole horrible situation. His impressive height, wavy brown hair, deep, dark eyes, and crooked smile didn’t hurt, either. There was something about that smile, and the sly sense of humor behind it, that utterly charmed her.

  It was awkward dealing with him as the owner of her property, but not so much of a problem that she couldn’t get over it. She had insisted that Walter deal with her business just like he would with anyone else’s.

  After reviewing the will, Walter had been shocked by how much of the island he now owned. He had complained to Angie that it would be a full-time job managing everything. She had joked that he could always just give away his new fortune and responsibilities, because plenty of people would be eager to be in his shoes. He had given her a funny look, and she’d worried that she’d offended him. But then he had grinned and said, “I would, but it would be a blow to my pride if they turned out to be better at this than I am.”

  He tried to split his time between Manhattan and Nantucket as fairly as he could. Despite his heavy caseload, there had still been enough time for the two of them to spend hours together talking about nothing in particular. They discussed books, current events, Broadway shows, how to run a bookstore, how to try a criminal case, the kinds of people they had both known in college, how strange family could be, and so on. It was bonding moments like these that made for a lifelong friendship—or an enduring romance.

  Then, while going through his father’s papers, he had found a folder that contained a newspaper clipping about a famous French painting that had been lost on the island. From the rest of the papers in the folder, it was obvious that his father had been researching the painting for years. He had made some progress, but hadn’t found the painting by the time he died.

  The painting was an oil on canvas from 1864, about two and a half by three feet large, called Boats at Sunset, Saint-Adresse. The painter was Claude Monet, a French impressionist painter who was most famous for his paintings of water lilies. Monet had been known to take a small boat out onto the nearest body of water to paint boats and sunbathers. The painter’s style was so quick and full of dabs of paint that he was able to capture his impression of a scene rapidly, rather than requiring his subjects to hold still for an entire afternoon, or even weeks’ worth of sunny afternoons.

  The lost painting was supposed to be of several sailboats with their sails down on a half-cloudy summer day, the kind where the fluffy sheep clouds of the early afternoon are starting to bump up against each other—not quite storm clouds, but getting there.

  The other documents in the folder showed that the painting had definitely been brought to Nantucket.

  The painting had originally belonged to the Nouges, a French family from Bordeaux who had been among Monet’s earliest supporters. One of their sons attended the same school for the arts at Le Havre where Monet studied, and they became friends. Many years later, his grandson, Victor Nouges, arrived in Nantucket in 1918.

  The Nantucket narrow-gauge railroad was inaugurated in 1881, but by 1917, it had closed. The equipment and rails had been sold to the French, who desperately needed the metal as World War I ended. Nouges was sent to inspect the purchase.

  While he was on the island, he fell in love—with a woman who was already engaged.

  The two had a passionate affair, but they both agreed that it had to come to an end. Victor Nouges returned to France with his purchase of a railroad, and the mysterious woman went back to her life and her fiancé. It was a love that was not meant to be.

  However, in order to honor the memories of that love, Victor sent his amour a painting—the Monet. It was too valuable a painting, even then, for the woman to claim that it had been sent to her in mere admiration or friendship, so she hid it. She promised Nouges in a love letter that she had hidden it where it would never be found, but that she would be able to view it once a year on December 17th in order to remember their love.

  The last letter in Alexander Snuock’s original file was from Nouges, asking where his beloved had hidden the painting. The lady’s response? Silence.

  The painting was never found.

  On one August afternoon that was supposed to be nothing more than a harmless picnic in a park, Walter had handed her the folder.

  “Here, look at this. I found it in my father’s papers.”

  She had looked through the papers with widening eyes.

  “Walter. This is amazing. Your father never mentioned it!”

  She thought about all the books that his father had ordered, and tried to remember if he’d asked for anything on either Monet or the history of Nantucket. She realized that he had, right after she had first opened the bookstore. He had put in an order large enough that it didn’t all fit in the wire basket on the bike she used to deliver books in warmer months, and she had to carry some of the books in a backpack.

  “He did ask for several books that might have been research,” she added. “Books on Monet and the history of Nantucket.”

  She had looked through her files, tracked down the books, and gone over them with a fine-toothed comb, but hadn’t found a thing.

  Then she had asked Aunt Margery, who was not only a notable gossip, but had investigated many of the darker legends of Nantucket’s history in order to include them in The Little Grey Lady of the Sea: The Mysteries of Nantucket Island, by the pseudonymous “David Dane.”

  Aunt Margery had grunted and started looking through her old notebooks. “I’ve heard that there was a lost Monet at some point,” she admitted, “but I’d completely forgotten about it.”

  Angie had settled in to find the answer to a really good mystery—that fortunately was not a murder—and then, two weeks after the picnic, Walter had called her to explain the other half of his plan.

  “I’m going to set this up as a public treasure hunt!”

  “A what?”

  She had taken a little while to be convinced, mostly because she kept imagining herself finding the painting and presenting it to Walter while everyone on the island applauded her. But really, Walter’s idea was better for the island as a whole.

  The rules went like this: Every official treasure hunter had to register with the Nantucket Chamber of Commerce. It was free, although they had to provide an admin at the Chamber with a valid email and cell phone number. Anyone who wasn’t registered with the Chamber of Commerce couldn’t win the prize—even if they found the painting. And locals couldn’t win the prize either, which was disappointing, but understandable. An admin was available from eight a.m. to eleven p.m. every night at the Chamber of Commerce building. Walter had hired a couple of seasonal assistants to help, but all the regular employees had to rotate through shifts at the desk as well. The treasure hunters couldn’t register online—they could only register from the island.

  That last bit had been Angie’s suggestion. She had taken one look at Walter’s proposed plan and said, “Someone online from, I don’t know, China is going to win this.”

  “What?”

  “This isn’t going to be one of those things were the painting turns up in some random attic. It will be someone with a gigantic database who finds this, combing through random documents with a Google search.”

  His face had fallen. “But that won’t help business on the island at all.”

  “Just tell ’em they can’t win anything unless they’re here in person. Like a door prize.”

  He’d laughed and changed the contest rules.

  When the Chamber of Commerce employees found out they were stuck handling all the registrations in person, they’d
almost thrown a fit—until Walter had offered them an extra assistant and reminded them that the painting, if found, would be hung in the building—at least at first. Then they’d fallen all over themselves supporting him.

  One hundred thousand dollars in prize money over a one-point-five million-dollar painting. They had discussed the possibility that someone might find the painting and steal it, but in the end, Walter had decided that the potential benefits for the island outweighed the risk of losing the painting to a thief.

  If the painting was never found, then the plan was to buy a reproduction and hang it in the Chamber of Commerce anyway, with a plaque explaining that it was an important part of Nantucket history (even if it was a fake).

  Then, after Walter had done an immense amount of work to prepare his plan for implementation at a big celebration just after Halloween, he had disappeared back to Manhattan and his legal work.

  Angie, who had been soaking up the luxury of being spoiled by a thoughtful, kind, and charming multimillionaire, was suddenly left in a thoroughly single state.

  It was unpleasant and annoying.

  Theirs was no passionate love affair a là Victor Nouges and his unnamed lover, but it was a sane and wonderful thing—especially when compared to Angie’s previous romance. Doug McConnell, an investment guru in Manhattan, had dragged her around to every fashionable restaurant as if he were proud to be seen with her on his arm. Meanwhile, he had taken all the credit for her work as an analyst, and to add insult to injury, had slept around behind her back. Yes, the more grounded nature of her relationship with Walter was one of its perks, in her opinion.

  And just look at those lovers, anyway. Their passionate affair had led them exactly nowhere. Victor Nouges had gone home to France and his lover had probably married her fiancé. They had been left with fond memories of each other, and a painting.

  Not a life together.

  Angie’s father was what was locally known as “Wandering Proutys,” or the kind of Proutys who stayed put on the island to have kids before packing up and taking off for parts unknown. Her parents were currently still in Florida, which was “weird enough to keep them interested for a while.” Angie was the other kind of Prouty, the “Staying Prouty,” who left the island for a few years, then returned to settle down. Her family had been on and off the island for over a hundred and fifty years. Walter’s family had been around for a similar length of time and were supposedly just as well known. Every local predicted that Walter would be one of the Snuocks that was known for his generosity and leadership. Not like his father, who had been one of the more selfish Snuocks, using wealth to control people instead of build them up.

  But did that mean he would stay on the island or not? Nobody could say for sure.

  Chapter 3

  Time Enough at Last

  Angie crashed that night when she finally arrived home. She lived in a shingle-sided tiny house near downtown with a bright teal door and about a million bookshelves stacked with mystery novels inside. Aunt Margery had already abandoned ship, and was sitting up in one of the comfortable chairs in the living room with a mug of cocoa by her side. It had started to sleet at some point, and the roads were slippery, but Angie had made the short drive home just for the sake of getting off her feet.

  “How is it?”

  “Everything’s covered with ice,” Angie said, unwinding the wool scarf from around her neck. “But it’s not that cold. It’ll melt.”

  “Tomorrow is going to be another busy day,” Aunt Margery said.

  Angie was too tired to care. “What are you reading?”

  “The Girl Next Door, by Ruth Rendell,” Aunt Margery said with relish. Aunt Margery tended toward darker crime novels. She was a huge fan of Truman Capote’s In Cold Blood, and Gillian Flynn, Daphne du Maurier, and Patricia Highsmith were among her favorite authors. Angie was more of a puzzle-mystery reader. She liked tracking down clues, sorting out what kind of information was valid and what wasn’t, and examining multiple possibilities.

  It made sense. Angie had been a financial analyst for a high-powered Manhattan investment firm. Aunt Margery had been the town gossip.

  And a writer of local ghost stories and legends, Angie reminded herself. Don’t forget that.

  “What about you?” Aunt Margery asked.

  “I’m too tired to read,” Angie yawned as she started for the stairs.

  Aunt Margery’s eyes widened, and she put her book down, one finger tucked into the spine. “Agatha Mary Clarissa Christie Prouty, one always has time to read.” Aunt Margery exclaimed.

  Angie snorted. Her great aunt was one of the only people who ever called her by her full name. And it usually happened in instances like these, when Angie’s priorities got a bit tangled.

  “I did hire an assistant,” Angie retorted.

  “Have you thought about two?”

  The next morning, Angie arrived at the store at six a.m. as usual and assessed the damage. It wasn’t as bad as she had thought when she’d locked up the previous night. The floors weren’t covered with trash, the windows only had a few smudges on them, and she still had enough espresso to make it through a busy morning.

  And Aunt Margery had done the books last night.

  “Bless you,” Angie whispered as she realized it.

  A weight lifted off her shoulders, and suddenly everything seemed ten times better than it had a moment ago. She ran a vacuum brush over the wood floors, wiped a few of the worst prints off the front door, scratched Captain Parfait to his heart’s content, and made herself a macchiato, swirling a snowflake pattern lazily into the foamed milk.

  Janet wouldn’t be in until one. Angie was on her own for the morning shift.

  She double-checked the pastry case. It was empty, clean, wiped down. She checked the fridge again, then went into the stock room to see if Janet had left the leftover cupcakes anywhere. She couldn’t see a single one.

  She must have taken them with her. Why not? Hungry college-age girls would eat anything, even fruitcake.

  Josephine arrived a few minutes later in a small brown Toyota. It was still too cold and icy to venture outside on bicycles, which was also Jo’s favorite form of transportation. The trunk popped on the back of the car.

  Jo had gone through several hair colors since July and was currently sporting red and green stripes in her mohawk. She said the kids liked coming into the bakery and seeing the different hair colors.

  “You’re not going to dress up like an elf, are you?” Angie had teased.

  “I just might, smarty-pants.”

  Despite being an excellent baker and a sharp businesswoman (far more practical than her twin Mickey, that was for sure), Jo still had a wild side. Angie loved her for her directness and honesty.

  “Sweets to the sweet,” Jo announced as she came through the door. She had a single jingle bell tied to her Doc Martens, and her thumping boots sounded more like the Ghost of Christmas Past than a merry little elf as she walked.

  “More cupcakes?”

  “How did the other ones go last night?”

  “I think they sold well. But it was so busy that I didn’t notice, honestly.”

  Jo stuck her lower lip out. “You wound me.”

  “There weren’t any leftovers this morning after Janet cleaned up. But I think she took whatever was left with her on a girls’ night out. I’ll ask her when she comes in this afternoon.”

  “I’m so glad you hired her,” Jo said.

  “What about the two of you?”

  “It’s busy,” Jo admitted. “I should be asleep at three in the morning, but I have to get up to go to the bakery. At least when we run out of stuff to sell, we just close. So most of my work is done by ten a.m.”

  She yawned.

  “Coffee,” she ordered.

  Angie laughed and made her a mocha with a few sprinkles of chili powder on top of the whipped cream. There was only one person in Nantucket who liked her coffee that way, but Jo was her best friend, so of course she stoc
ked chili powder just for her.

  “All right, I’m off,” Jo announced. “Call if you need more product. Because the sooner it gets moved out the door, the sooner we can close for the day, and I’m wiped.”

  Angie finished her preparations, turned on a CD labeled “Flapper Jazz” on low, and unlocked the front door at six-thirty for her early risers. These tended to consist of retired gentlemen who wanted a newspaper and a cup of coffee while sitting in the café area by the window. Secretly, Angie thought of them as old tomcats like Captain Parfait, who generally avoided customers, but could be found at the front window most mornings until the tourists started coming in.

  That morning, the assortment of customers was a little different than normal. First off, Jasper Parris, the director of communications for the Nantucket Chamber of Commerce, was waiting outside the front door as she unlocked it. He wanted to know if he could borrow an insulated coffee pot full of coffee—or more accurately, he wanted to borrow the coffee pot and buy the coffee.

  She had a couple of extra coffee pots, so she loaned him one. Apparently the coffee machine at the Chamber of Commerce had died first thing that morning, and everyone in the building was in a state.

  “If we run out before we get a replacement?” he said.

  “How about I open a tab for you?” she asked. “Send one of the assistants over. That way you won’t need to authorize them on a credit card.”

  He sighed in relief, his broad shoulders slumping. He was a fairly tall, well-built man with blond hair, round wire-rimmed glasses, and a mustache. He had an amazing collection of hand-painted silk ties. Today’s tie was black and gold, with a black ear of wheat on the gold side and a gold ear on the black side.

  “Where do you get all your ties?” she asked.

  “I make them myself,” he said, pulling the end of the tie out of his coat and flipping it back and forth. “I order white silk ties and hand paint them in my workshop. It takes forever, but it’s a labor of love.”