The Facepainter Murders Page 3

  "Hi," she said as she showed her customers out. "Strange time of day for you. Come in and have some tea."

  "Thanks." Adam twisted his hat in his hands. "Erin, I want to ask you a question."

  "What are you embarrassed about?"

  Erin smiled up at him.

  "Ask."

  "Okay. Why did you go back to the art show in the library three times?"

  "Why? Who told you I did and why do you care?"

  Her voice rose.

  A volunteer called Chrissy. I have to check everyone who did anything unusual. Two of them were stolen."

  "And so you come here to ask me like I might be a thief."

  Erin's voice choked with anger.

  "No, I came to ask so no gossip could say I ignored it. Try to understand."

  Adam put his arm around her, but she shrugged him away. He stood in silence, watching her rigid back. Color rose on her neck, and when she turned back to answer him, bright blotches covered her cheeks and forehead.

  "I guess you had to. I went once to take art gallery members around on opening day, once to a lunch for the volunteers and once for myself. Is that explanation enough?"

  "Of course it is. Please, Erin."

  "Go, go. Talk to me later."

  Goddamit, he thought. Who cares what people thought? Why did he ask her? He would mend fences later. They fought so little that he didn't have much experience with her anger. The crackle of the radio interrupted his thoughts.

  "Adam, Pete. We got something from the police in Montreal. Are you coming in?"

  "I'll be right there."

  Pete was sitting at his desk, staring at a fax.

  "Hey, boss. Here's our man. He's an art thief."

  "The theft over at the library may be connected. Did you say this info came from the Mounties?"

  "No, Montreal. He's been operating there, but they haven't been able to arrest him. He runs a gallery that acts legit, but they suspect he fences and does some jobs, including international ones, himself."

  Adam looked at the picture. The dark hair and tight little ears were those of the dead man.

  "What's his name?"

  "John Andrews."

  "Not French?"

  "No."

  "Make some copies and try to trace him. You and Brad and Dave. I have to talk to the Captain. Give me a picture of the guy before you go."

  Jim Naismith had been Chief of Police here for twenty years. Lately, he had been spending much of his time on a plan for more efficient integration of town and county forces, leaving the day-to-day to Adam. Silver-haired, blue eyes looking over half-glasses and a powerful physique running a bit to fat: Jim was still an imposing figure.

  "Adam, what can I do for you?"

  "Do you have time to talk over this homicide?"

  "Sure. What do you have so far?"

  Adam reported the murder, the identification of the victim and possible tie-in with the thefts from the gallery.

  "What are the boys doing?"

  "Trying to trace his movements."

  "And you?"

  "I think I'll go interview Jim Trevelyan."

  "Okay, report when you can."

  That's what Adam liked about Naismith—he gave him a free hand. Failure was all his too.

  A man, leaning against the low wall that surrounded the parking lot, smoking at the courthouse doors, butted out and strode over to catch Adam as he reached his car. Ted Atkins worked for the local newspaper and covered court and police news.

  "Hey, Lieutenant."

  "Yeah? What do you want, Ted? I'm in a hurry," Adam said to the reporter as he opened the car door.

  "What's going on at Catherine's. I heard you picked up a body."

  "Where were you? I usually find you right behind the medical examiner."

  "Out of town. Who was the dead guy? How did he die? Any suspects?"

  "Not identified. Nothing further on it today. Gotta go."

  Adam climbed into his car, leaving a chagrined Ted staring after him.

  The road out to the farm called the old Scott place wound through wooded hills south from Culver's Mills. A sugarbush ran for miles on both sides of the road, interrupted by an occasional split-rail fence. In the spring, flexible yellow pipeline snaked from tree to tree, gathering the sap for the maple syrup producers. The crowns of the maple trees blazed scarlet and orange, with an occasional highlight of yellow. The ten-minute drive brought him to Trevelyan's fenced acreage.

  A new electric gate, outfitted with an intercom, blocked the road into the property. Odd, Adam thought, not much of this kind of security around here. Wonder what he had to protect or hide? Adam pushed the big green button and waited. Nothing. He pushed again.

  An angry, elderly voice came from the speaker.

  "Who is it?"

  "Police for James Trevelyan."

  "How do I know you're police?"

  "I'm Lieutenant Adam Davidson of Culver's Mills Police. You could let me in and look at my identification or call the station."

  "I'll call the station."

  A long five minutes later and the intercom spoke again. "They say you should be here, so come up, but I've got a shotgun."

  "Are you threatening me, Mr. Trevelyan?"

  "No, but if you aren't who you say you are, I'm warning you."

  Adam put the red police light on top of his car and went through the gate, letting the siren announce his arrival. A long lane through the trees led to a two-story white house. Boards covered all but two windows on the ground floor. Trevelyan stood on the porch, at the top of the few stairs, the shotgun cradled in his arms.

  "Mr. Trevelyan, I'm not walking up there with you pointing a shotgun at me. Now there's been a theft and a murder, and I need to talk to you. Put the gun down."

  Indecision played over the old man's face until he propped the gun against a pillar and sat down on one of a pair of ladder-back chairs pushed against the house wall.

  Adam walked up to him, his hands away from his body, one holding his identification. The old man peered at it, took his glasses off, wiped his eyes with a voluminous red handkerchief that he took from the pocket of his baggy pants, and told Adam to sit down.

  "Why all the security, Mr. Trevelyan?"

  "Well, son, I've had a lot of trouble in my life, and now that I have a little property and expecting some more, I don't want anyone to take it from me. You said something about a theft and a murder. What's missing and who's dead and why are you asking me?"

  "A man called John Andrews is dead. The two pictures you were most interested in at the library gallery have been stolen."

  "What." The old man's face turned an alarming purple, and his neck swelled. "Those are my pictures. Who took them?"

  "I don't know. Why do you claim them? I thought they belonged to the owners of Evan's."

  "Ha. They found them in the house they bought. The house, the contents, the pictures are all mine. I have the will, and I inherit everything."

  Now he was pacing up and down the porch, thumping his cane with each angry step.

  "Could you tell me all about this?" Adam suggested quietly, hoping to calm the agitated old man.

  "I'll show you. Come in. Come in."

  He stomped into the house, forgetting the shotgun. Adam carried it inside. Hooks over the stone fireplace suggested where it ought to go. After shaking out the shells, he hung it up.

  Trevelyan had disappeared. An old pine table gleamed in the afternoon sunshine, and an assortment of maple and pine chairs cramped the room. Adam flicked a wall switch. No electricity, so the oil-lamp on the table wasn't part of the décor. Odd, electricity to the gate but none in here, he thought. He sat at the table and waited.

  The florid-faced old man wheezed as he sat down beside Adam, clutching a folder of papers.

  "Here they are."

  "Mr. Trevelyan, are you all right? Do you have some medicine you should be taking?"

  "No medicine. I'll be all right. Read, man, read."

  H
e thumped the documents with one gnarled fist.

  The folder held a photocopy of an old will and a chart that Adam recognized as a family tree, as well as birth certificates, marriage certificates and what seemed to be several death records.

  "I take it you claim to be descended from Samuel Hall."

  "I don't claim it, I am. Can't you read? Look at the will."

  Trevelyan's hands shook as he shuffled through the papers, putting first one and then another in front of Adam and as quickly snatching it away.

  "Here it is. See. The will makes it clear."

  Ornate lettering on a fragile, yellowed parchment proclaimed it to be the last will and testament of Samuel Hall, 1825. The paragraphs that followed, in antique prose and faded copperplate script, held that all the possessions of Samuel Hall, goldsmith, including a house, contents, portrait, and silver objects, were bequeathed to his sister, Charity, wife of Alexandre Leclerc, of Culver's Mills. In it, Adam read, he also wished her a long and happy life and forgave her for her conversion to Roman Catholicism.

  "Do you have documents that go back from you to Hall or his sister?"

  "Neither. I haven't traced it all the way with documents. My grandmother told me the story from her grandmother. I will prove it."

  Agitated, he was pacing now, his limp more troublesome, and his wheezing louder.

  "Perhaps I could take your file with me to show to a genealogy expert who is visiting Culver's Mills?"

  "No."

  He clutched the folder and glared at Adam.

  "No one can have them."

  "She wouldn't keep them. She would help you."

  "No. Maybe I could bring them to her tomorrow so she could review them."

  "Okay, come to the courthouse at ten. I'll ask Dr. McPhail to be there."

  "Doctor. I don't need a doctor," he said.

  "She knows about this genealogy stuff. Anyway, she's a children's doctor," Adam said.

  "All right. I'll come tomorrow but now get the hell out of here."

  The old man sat down at his table, sorting and caressing his documents. He didn't look up when Adam closed the door. Adam considered Trevelyan's potential as a killer. He was certainly capable of anger, but if the shotgun was his only weapon, he didn't kill Andrews. Ballistics had reported that he had been shot with a small caliber pistol, likely a Derringer DS22, not a common weapon in Culver's Mills. Trevelyan had seemed surprised and outraged at the missing art works. Placing Andrews at the gallery and Erin's was next. Possibly Chrissy could identify the picture if she had noticed the "plain guy's" face. Erin would. She had a good memory for faces.

  Erin. He had better stop to talk to her. He took one of the two parking spaces behind the shop and walked around to the front. He held the door for a customer who was leaving with a small tapestry-covered footstool in hand. Inside the door, he paused to let his eyes adjust to the lower light level and looked around for Erin.

  She sat, surrounded by invoices and statements, in an overstuffed chair that had square arms and back. Fuzzy wine-coloured material upholstered the piece. A free-standing ashtray, all gleaming chrome with a horse mounted on the handle, blond coffee-table and end-table completed today's ensemble. Erin's head jerked when he spoke.

  "Adam, I didn't hear you come in. Sit down."

  Adam stayed standing where he was, turning his Stetson-style hat over and over.

  "First, I'm sorry, Erin. I shouldn't have questioned you."

  "Yes, you should have. I'm sorry I was so foolish. Sit down."

  She held out her hands to him and pulled him down into a long embrace.

  At length, they began to talk again.

  "What is this stu—furniture, Erin?"

  "1950's. I think it's the next thing. Do you like it?"

  "It's comfortable and big, so yes I do. But 1950's isn't antique, is it?"

  "There's a market for well-made furniture from any time. Some people are talking about anything over fifty years being antique, but I won't sell it that way, just as collectable."

  "Will you look at a picture for me?" he said as he took it from an envelope.

  "How gruesome is it?"

  "Not. It's a picture from Motor Vehicles."

  "That will be gruesome," she said. "Sure."

  She examined the face in the picture.

  "That's John," she said, "The fellow who was interested in my paintings. Is he the one?"

  "Yes. Do you know where he went from here?"

  "I told him about the show at the library and a few paintings in the capital building in Montpelier. I imagine that he went to the library the next day because it was too late when he left here."

  "Did he say where he was staying?"

  "No."

  "What do you think the values of the painting and the sampler are?"

  "The sampler is easy. About eight thousand dollars at auction. The painting is more difficult. It's a very good Belknap, but it doesn't have children in it, and the ones that do are the most popular. On the other hand, the colors are well preserved, and it's decorative. In 1995 a Belknap sold for one hundred and eighty-six thousand dollars. I would think maybe seventy-five thousand for this one as it is the most elaborate Belknap I have ever seen, but it depends. It could go for six thousand."

  "Seventy-five thousand dollars. I didn't know anything as valuable as that was there. We're supposed to be informed. Were the rest as valuable?"

  "No. The rest were by lesser-known or amateur artists."

  "What did the picture look like?"

  Adam wanted to know, but he also liked to look at Erin when she talked about her subject. He loved the glow of excitement on her face.

  "The subject was Samuel Hall, a goldsmith. He stood before a federal mirror overhanging a fireplace. His arm was stretched along the mantle, pointing at a plain pair of silver candlesticks and a silver spoon. In front of him, calipers and a small hammer lay on an exquisite Federal table. Tools of his trade, I would think." Erin frowned and went on. "Oddly, there was also an open letter, propped up on a tiny easel. I'm not sure what that was about. As with many of these paintings, the colors had faded somewhat, but there was lots of blue, which lasts well. It's unusual to have so much backdrop. Most of the artists used a stock background and added the current subject. This looked like a custom job to me."

  "What was the subject of the sampler? Ada told me how it was made."

  "The family genealogy."

  "Genealogy again."

  "Do you want to stay? There's pasta for dinner."

  "No, thanks. I still have a lot to do. I'll see you tomorrow."

  The doorbell's jangle interrupted their good-byes as a customer came in.

  Adam's last chore of the day was to talk Anne into helping him. He thought she was likely back at Catherine's.

  The porch lights glowed, turning Catherine's house into a beacon on the otherwise dark street. Adam parked in the driveway behind Anne's rental.

  "Hello, Adam," said Catherine when she answered the door. "Come in."

  As they walked down the hall towards the kitchen, she asked if he would like to stay for dinner.

  "No thanks, although it does smell tempting. I have to ask Anne for a favor."

  "A favor?" Anne smiled as she put plates and cutlery on the table. "Not to do with your job, I trust."

  "Actually, yes. I need your genealogical knowledge. It's about the paintings that were stolen from the library."

  Anne and Catherine exchanged puzzled glances. Clearly, the town gossip system had passed them by this time.

  "What paintings?" Anne said.

  "The portrait of Samuel Hall and the sampler."

  "Those were the ones that I didn't see. Were they stolen here?"

  "Yes. We think so. Dummy boxes were sent to Brownsville. When they opened the boxes in Brownsville, they found blank canvases in old frames."

  "So they were stolen here, substituted en route, or stolen there, and the dummies put in their place."

  "Looks like those a
re the choices."

  "Where does genealogy come into it, except for the subject of the sampler?"

  Adam told them James Trevelyan's story. "To get a look at those papers, to understand them, and decide if the paintings could be his, I need your help."

  Anne sat and stared at Adam for a few moments. Not again, she thought. What if it happened again, and she got drawn in?

  "Only the papers? Nothing else?"

  "Of course."

  "All right. I'll come in tomorrow. About what time?"

  "Ten. Thanks, Anne."

  When Adam had left, Catherine shook her head slowly at Anne.

  "You should have said no. He could find help somewhere else."

  "I'll spend a day, and it won't be dangerous this time."

  Chapter Four

  The mid-morning gossip session was in full voice when Anne stopped by Lil's on her way to the station. She outmanoeuvred a pin-striped businessman and a yellow-jacketed electrical worker for a stool at the counter.

  "Hi, Peg," she said, as she grinned triumphantly at the sandy-haired woman behind the counter.

  Peg's face had filled out a little, but the elegant cheekbones she shared with her Beauchamp relatives still defined her attractive face.

  "I need coffees for Adam and his crew at the station."

  "You passing the time of day with them?"

  "A little genealogy research."

  "Don't let them take up all your vacation time."

  Peg gave Anne the tray of cups and a bag of creamers and sugar packets.

  "I won't. See you later."

  Near the door, Anne nodded to Nancy Webb, the librarian, whom she had met and disliked. She crossed the square to the steps of the courthouse.

  Climbing those stairs again was harder than Anne had imagined. She felt a little dizzy at the sight of the pockmarks the bullets made in the wall, bullets that came uncomfortably close to her head. Telling herself to get a grip, she pushed open the door.