Found Art (Maine Justice Book 3) Page 22

  “Fine.” I rubbed the back of my neck and sighed. “I hear you’re leaving soon.”

  “Yup. Going to Fairfield.”

  “Congratulations. I hope it works out for you.”

  “Thanks.” Terry was one of the good ones, and I knew he’d be missed.

  We went up the stairs. Eddie could barely contain his anger. “Boy, that bozo Hubble makes me mad.”

  “Maybe the lawyer will convince him to deal,” Nate said.

  I loosened my necktie. “Let’s call the M.E. and ask if he’ll send some of Foster’s blood to the lab right away, so they can try to match it to the blood sample from the doctor’s office burglary.”

  “I’m on it,” Eddie said.

  I called Jennifer’s cell phone. It rang six times, then Abby answered.

  “Sorry, Harvey. We forgot to get her phone out of the bedroom.”

  “I figured. How is she?”

  “I think she’s all right. I’ve got her in the guest room, but she wants to get up.”

  “Did you check her pulse and all that?”

  “She was distressed this morning, but she’s all right now.”

  “What about the baby? Should I call Margaret? If I call Margaret, she’ll come.”

  “I don’t think you need to.”

  “Well, keep an eye on her,” I said.

  “Will do.”

  Ryan Toothaker, of the Press Herald, had learned of the burglary at my house during his routine check of the police log that morning. He asked for an interview, and I talked to him and reporters from two TV stations. So much for my undercover work on the art case.

  When the press conference was over, Mike was waiting for me.

  “You questioned the suspect?”

  “Not much,” I said.

  “I knew I should have sent you home. You can’t do that, Harvey.”

  “You said I could stay.”

  “You said you’d keep a low profile, but here you are talking to reporters.”

  I looked at my watch. “I need to check on Jennifer, so I’m taking my lunch hour now.”

  “Don’t come back.”

  “Aw, Mike, come on.”

  “No. This is one investigation you don’t want to compromise.”

  I couldn’t argue with that. “Okay. I’m sorry.”

  He nodded and clapped me on the shoulder. “We got this, Harvey. Stay home, at least for today.”

  I took a moment to apologize to God for going off the track again and then gave my detectives some suggestions for their afternoon activities.

  “Arnie, you’re in charge this afternoon.”

  “We got your back, boss,” Arnie said.

  I drove home, eager to see for myself how Jennifer was doing. She was sitting at her computer, and she jumped up when I walked in.

  I put my arms around her. “You should rest.”

  “I’m okay,” she said. “I had to do something, so I’ve been working on my flagging program.”

  I understood that feeling. When something really bothered me, I threw myself into my work. That was one reason I felt so helpless, not being able to head up this investigation myself.

  Abby came to the study doorway. “Lunch is served.”

  “You ought to be in bed,” Jennifer told her.

  Abby shrugged. “The contractor’s here. He just drove in.”

  I looked out the window and saw a gray pickup with a utility cap on the back.

  “I’ll take care of it.” I went out, and he showed me the door he’d brought, a match to the six-panel pine door on our bedroom. He would mount that and patch the bedroom walls first, then tear out the carpet in the sunroom. I’d found some leftover wallpaper in the utility room cupboard, and I gave him that.

  Abby, Jennifer, and I ate lunch together. I told them I had interviewed the prisoner, and he had committed other art thefts but hadn’t given us his contacts’ names yet.

  “I hope you can find out who’s buying stuff from them and stop them,” Jennifer said. She stretched and yawned. “I really want a shower.”

  “Take it upstairs,” I said. “Abby can help you take your things up there.”

  Abby started clearing the table. “Just tell me what you want, and I’ll get it for you.”

  “I can do it,” Jennifer replied. “I’m not sick. Abby, you should go to bed.”

  “Honey, are you really okay?” I moved my chair closer to Jennifer’s and put my arm around her.

  “Yes, I’m fine.”

  “Is the baby okay?”

  “Everything’s fine.”

  “Do you want to see Margaret, or Carl?”

  “No.” She leaned over and kissed me. “Please stop worrying. I admit, it was a shock. When I woke up, I didn’t know what was going on.”

  “I’m sorry. I was afraid if I woke you up, they’d hear me, and I couldn’t get the drop on them.”

  “Well, you sure did.”

  “Yeah. At least you jumped off the bed when I told you to.”

  She laughed. “I almost crawled under the bed.”

  “That’s what you should have done if I went down.”

  “Don’t say that. Seeing that guy’s blood was bad enough.” She looked toward the sunroom, where blood soaked the carpet under the Van Gogh print, and the smears extended toward us as far as the kitchen doorway, where I’d scrubbed the linoleum.

  “Maybe you should have just yelled at them and scared them off,” Abby said.

  I looked at Jennifer. “I suppose that might have been better in some ways.” I hated that I’d put her in more danger.

  “No,” she said firmly. “You needed to catch them. We’d have both been furious if they got away.”

  The truth was, Foster was in the shooting mode before I yelled, but I figured replaying it wouldn’t help Jennifer. I squeezed her. “Let’s go in the study.” I didn’t want her to be able to see the bloody rug. She went with me and sat down in her desk chair. I wheeled mine over close and sat down, reaching for her hand. “You know, I was so mad at him. When you told me he grabbed your ankle, I just wanted to go in there and shoot him again.”

  “Oh, baby. But you didn’t.”

  “No. I didn’t. I made him drop the gun.”

  “He had the gun when you went in?” Jennifer searched the depths of my eyes.

  “Yes. He’d gotten to it and picked it up. I told him if he didn’t drop it—” I broke off. She didn’t need to hear that either. My next words came out before I’d really thought them through. “And then I stood there while he bled to death.” The stark words lay between us for a moment.

  “Come here.” She pulled my head down against her shoulder and stroked my hair.

  My lungs constricted. “I didn’t know he would die before the ambulance got there.”

  “Things happened really fast,” she said gently.

  I sat up, and she looked up at the poster of me in the body armor. “God is good,” she said.

  I pulled in a ragged breath. “Maybe I ought to take a day or two off.”

  “Mike would let you.”

  “He’d love it. But we’ve got Hubble. I can’t ease up on this case now. I’ll stay home this afternoon, but unless Mike locks me out, I’ll go back in the morning.”

  She put her hand up to rub my scratchy cheek and smiled. “I’d love to have you take some time off, but if you don’t want to, I’ll understand. I’m going take a shower now.”

  “I guess I’ll be in here on the computer.” I kissed her, and she went upstairs.

  I got up and looked into the bedroom. The new door was on its hinges, and the contractor was smoothing joint compound where the hole had been in the wall over the bed.

  “Hey, I lifted the corner of that rug out there,” he said when he saw me. “You’ve got hardwood underneath. Were you going to get a new carpet, or do you want the oak?”

  “I don’t know. Let me look at it.” I went to the patio door, where he’d loosened the edge of the carpet and pulled it back. Benea
th the rug and the padding was a fine oak floor similar to the one in the dining-room-turned-study. I went upstairs and told Jennifer.

  Her reaction was, “I wonder if there’s a good floor under the living room carpet, too.”

  I went down and told the man to pull the carpet out and, if it was all good, leave the wood floor bare. “Tell me if it needs refinishing.”

  I went to my computer, mulling over my conversation with Hubble. A picture of a ship. Had he meant the Turner print Jenny and I had shown Dore at his gallery?

  I was able to check the crime updates remotely via my home computer. Hubble and Foster showed up in O’Heir’s report. I glanced through it again, and stopped at the list of items stolen from our house. The Murillo print. I went to the art auction sites I’d bookmarked and looked for it. After a half hour of browsing, I took out my phone.

  “Eddie?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You know that picture in our living room? The Divine Shepherd?”

  “Huh?”

  “You know, over beyond the fireplace.”

  “Oh, Baby Jesus with the sheep?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What about it?”

  “Hubble and Foster took it.”

  “You got it back, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, but, Eddie, it’s valuable.”

  “I didn’t know that. I thought it was just a copy.”

  “It is, but the print itself is old.”

  “Like Mike’s that you took to the gallery?”

  “Yes. His is worth eight hundred bucks or so. The Murillo is worth five times that.”

  “Wow. Where did you get it?”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Bailey had it. When he moved out, Mr. Bailey left it for us, and he told me it was a wedding gift. He left a lot of stuff, but that was special, I guess. I knew it was nice, but I never tried to find its actual value.”

  “Pretty decent wedding gift.”

  “Yes. I’m wondering now if that was on Foster and Hubble’s list.”

  “Hold on, Harvey.” A moment later, he said, “Terry called up here. Foster’s effects just arrived from Augusta. You still want to see them?”

  “You handle it,” I said. “Mike told me to stay home.”

  “I’ll call you,” Eddie said.

  I went to the kitchen and heated up leftover coffee. Twenty minutes later, Eddie called me back.

  “Okay, Nate and I made a list,” he said. “You ready?”

  “Yeah. What did he have?”

  “His wallet, a pocketknife, cigarettes, a lighter, keys, penlight, contact lenses, wedding ring, and a chain with a metal arrowhead hanging from it.”

  “What’s in the wallet?” I asked. I could hear him and Nate talking to each other, then Eddie came back loud and clear.

  “I put you on speaker. There’s a little cash, some store cards, and his driver’s license. Oh, what have we here? Three business cards, all from art dealers.”

  “Where are they located?”

  “Uh, South Portland, Boston, and Dover, New Hampshire. And there’s a piece of white paper off a small tablet.”

  “You guys see what you can find out about those three art dealers this afternoon, without scaring them,” I said. “What’s on the paper?”

  Eddie said slowly, “Landers still life, N. C. W. nautical sketch, Braden abstract.” He paused just a second. “Harvey, this is weird.”

  “What’s weird?”

  “It has your address.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No, I’m not. One-three-seven Van Cleeve Lane. That’s you.”

  I felt like my heart stopped for a moment. “Take a picture of it and send it to me. Have Nate do it right now.”

  “Okay.”

  Less than half a minute later, the photo came in on my screen. I squinted at it.

  “Look closer, Eddie. That’s not a three.”

  Chapter 20

  “You’re right,” Eddie said. “It’s an eight. The pen skipped a little or something.”

  Nate said, “Captain, Landers is one of the artists we studied from another burglary.”

  “A-plus,” I said. “Braden is a living artist, too.”

  “Who’s N.C.W.?” asked Eddie.

  I looked at the photo again.

  “Oh, no.” I looked across the room, remembering Jennifer saying, ‘Mrs. Harder has several nice paintings.’”

  “What?” Eddie asked.

  “They broke into the wrong house.”

  “Who lives at 187 Van Cleeve Lane?” Nate asked.

  “Our neighbor, Mrs. Harder. Jennifer told me she’s got a Wyeth illustration.”

  “Andrew or—” Nate stopped short in recognition. “N.C. Wyeth.”

  “Right. Andrew’s father. That must be the ship picture Hubble said they were after. I thought he meant the Turner from Mike’s office, but they had a list of Mrs. Harder’s artworks. I’d better talk to her.”

  “Want us to come out there?” Eddie asked.

  “No, I’m close. I can go see her as a neighbor.”

  “Okay, Nate and I will check on these art dealers.”

  “Call me if anything turns up.” I stopped by the bedroom and said to the contractor, “I’m going down the street for a few minutes, but I’ll be right back. If my wife needs anything, please tell her to call me.”

  “Got it,” he said.

  *****

  Mrs. Harder’s forty-something niece came to the door. “Miss Hutchins, isn’t it?” I asked. “I’m your neighbor up the street, Harvey Larson.” The toy poodle sniffed at my pantleg.

  “Oh, yes, Mr. Larson. You had some excitement at your house this morning. One-thirty-seven, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Is Mrs. Harder in? I really need to see her right away.”

  She looked puzzled, but was well-bred to a fault.

  “Won’t you come in? I’ll tell my aunt.”

  I stepped into the entry and glanced around as she left me. It was right there, at eye level. A detailed pencil sketch of Hornblower’s ship, the Indefatigable. It was framed and matted under glass. My chest tightened, just looking at it and knowing what might have happened last night.

  “A study for a book jacket illustration.”

  I turned around to face Mrs. Harder. Her white hair was swept back, and her blue eyes twinkled at me. Her face had some wrinkles, but she was still attractive at seventy-five.

  “Yes, ma’am, my wife Jennifer mentioned it to me once, and I recognized it just now. A fine piece of art. I love the Hornblower books, and I’ve always admired Wyeth’s illustrations.”

  “Yes, I think some of his finest work was done for boys’ books,” she said.

  I smiled. “I have an old copy of Treasure Island with his paintings in it.”

  “Did you come to see the Wyeth?” she asked. “My father purchased it a long time ago.”

  “Actually, ma’am, I need to speak to you about something else. It’s indirectly related to the sketch. Maybe your niece should be there, too.”

  “Please sit down.” She passed into the living room and sat on the sofa. I followed and sat in a chair facing her.

  “Min, would you join us?” she said to her niece, who stood in the doorway to the kitchen. Miss Hutchins came in and sat down in a recliner.

  “Mrs. Harder, I’m not sure if you’re aware of it, but I’m a police officer.”

  “Oh, yes, I’ve seen you on the news. I felt so safe when I heard you were moving into the neighborhood.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “And you heard that our house was broken into this morning.”

  “Yes. Terrible. Just terrible. Min and I heard the sirens. Were you at home?”

  “Yes, ma’am. My wife and I were sleeping, and two men came into the house.”

  “How awful,” Mrs. Harder said.

  “Is she all right?” asked Miss Hutchins.

  “Yes, she’s fine. And that’s taken care of now, but I have reason to believe they were working for someone else
. Someone who trades stolen artworks.”

  Mrs. Harder’s eyes widened.

  “Ma’am, the burglars broke into the wrong house. The address they had on a piece of paper was yours. They misread the number and broke into our house instead.”

  She put one hand to her lips and stared at me. “Oh, dear.”

  “Yes. Do you have an alarm system?”

  “Yes, but I hear they aren’t always a deterrent to professional thieves.”

  “Well, they’re a big help, but these two have bypassed alarms in at least two cases I know of. And they had a list of items they were looking for.”

  “Sort of a shopping list?” her niece asked.

  “Yes. The Wyeth sketch was on it, and a Landers still life, and a Braden abstract.”

  Mrs. Harder gasped.

  “You own a Landers and a Braden, ma’am?”

  “Yes. That’s the Landers, right behind you.” I turned around and looked at it, then stood up and went closer. It was about three feet long and two high, a potted African violet, a ship in a bottle, and a pocket watch, together on a windowsill. Through the window, a rocky shore was visible. “I like it.”

  “Thank you. So do I,” she said. “The Braden is in the dining room. I also have several other pieces I enjoy.”

  “Only the three were on the list,” I told her. “We’re not sure how they knew you had them.”

  “Could someone who’s been in the house have seen them and hired someone to steal them?” she asked.

  “It’s possible. Or someone may have told them what you had. It may have been purely innocent. For instance, you told my wife you had a Wyeth, and you don’t know us very well.”

  “Oh, dear. You’re saying I talk too much. But your wife is so sweet and good, and you’re a policeman. I wouldn’t tell just anyone.”

  “But you never know, ma’am. Jennifer might casually say to someone else, ‘Yes, my neighbor has a valuable painting that is just wonderful,’ and never think about what they might do with that information.”

  She was thoughtful. “That oil is worth quite a bit as well.” She nodded toward a landscape over her stone mantle. “If someone came in here and saw the Landers, they’d have seen it, too. I’ve kept it there for years. But it wasn’t on the list, so it must have been word of mouth, as you say. What can I do?”

  “Just be very careful what you tell people, and don’t let strangers into the house. Maybe install a few more deadbolts, and think about upgrading your security system. Does your dog bark when people come around?”